Peacock with your feathers so bright,
So blue and beautiful, so full of might,
You stand up tall, proud and bold,
You have so many adventures yet to be told.

Peahen you’re so shy and demure,
Something about you feels unsure,
You don’t know what you want just yet,
You will find out soon, there’s no need to fret.

Was with  a salacious witch
      with amazing quick silver tongue,
Confidence personified
   she challenged me to chase her,
If I so wish, not in words.
 Her liquid eyes and gestures,
made me mad with pleasure
by the time we reached the peacock hill.
Peacocks, big  blue eyes painted on feathers,
   each, was in love with her, it seemed.
Danced vying with each other,
 to please her, while she winked at me.
As if to say"They'll **** each other
  to get my glad eye"wouldn't I feel jealous?


Helpless, I did surrender to her spell,
 like others in the line, in my front and back.
When just one touch of her index finger,
  would evoke magic, I'll get
Transformed to a young peacock
 of  exquisite beauty, with blue green plumes
none have ever seen before,to flaunt at
others of the ilk, on seeing it they'd back out.


Such a witch is one of a kind,my mind
    whispers, it's she who assures me this,
On the full moon night, due in a week
    we'll fly to the far away  hill where
She'll be with me helping to build a nest,
turning to a peafowl herself,
She'll lay a dozen eggs,
yes, in  to my ear, she says, this is only later,
h
When, she with index finger will
   gently touche me and proclaim, thus:
"This is the peacock I enticed and  
   with my witchcraft ,bound  for life"

A falling feather on the breeze,
lilting like the Seraphim
songs of Mephistopheles,
lured her drunkenly to him.

Lilting like the Seraphim,
she drank his iridescence. He
lured her drunkenly to him,
enraptured in naivety.

She drank his iridescence. He
befouled her virtue, was the air.
Enraptured in naivety
no more, would Eden hear her prayer?

Befouled; her virtue was the air
he stole away, a hunched-up thief.
No more would Eden hear her prayer -
the echoes howling his motif.

He stole away, a hunched-up thief,
a fallen feather on the breeze;
the echoes howling his motif -
songs of Mephistopheles.


Footnote: Passages from folk lore:
Hindu - the peacock is said to have angels' feathers, a devil's voice
and the walk of a thief
Chinese - a girl who looks at a peacock could become pregnant
Islamic: the peafowl carried Satan into the Garden of Eden after consuming him

and you sometimes try to get over a tobacco hangover...
so that means: excess phlegm...
you apply quasi therapy to your
neck muscles and massage the
cavities beneath your forehead
(internal nasal lines equipped
with two furry caterpillars -
otherwise known as eye brows) -
and this ****** of a headache
is going nowhere... you coughed
for about an hour,
     took a **** to alievate the mental
pain of a throbbing brain,
that keeps bashing like a hammer
against the insides of your skull:
mainly through being awake for several
hours and not bothering to
empty your bladder (which by now
is the size of a watermelon);
but stashing a **** in your ****?
                   that's what a homosexual
tongue feels like in your ear...
you listen to it, and listen to it, and when it
stops: you go to the bathroom and
sit on the throne of thrones and relax
for a bit... some fetishist cat will want to
take in the experience with you...
        "i think" i'm at the meditation phase
of this reflection... cats and human excrement...
never knew the two went so well together...
like oysters and lemon juice...
but given that cat **** has a stench so foul
it could usurp the scent of sulphur from
the "depictions" of hell (scents are hardly
depictive, so... description of hell)...
        lucky *******, oysters... i once dated a girl
that thought it was funny to pour
salt onto snails...
                        but i can beat that!
back in poland, in the most obscure place
imaginable... two boys... a frog smeared with
lipstick and a packet of matches...
              boom! a dancing prince on fire;
which is why i rely on memory, or (ars memorandum)
rather than take to imagining harry potters:
it gets you the money... but doesn't give you
a hard-on to just sail... enya: sail away sail away sai
that haunting celt-elf type of mmm...
       lost for words: or just plain lazy because
digression, really requires speed,
         and the speed it requires has to (also) include
punctuation marks.
    it would have been easier to just cascade and write
boom!
boom!
boom!
               but not right here... what was my original
point? oh yeah, a typical tobacco "hangover" (yes,
because it's more like getting rid of excess phelgm that
has built up inside of you): but please!
please! someone find me a poet that writes about
the experience of harbopuring a tapeworm: i'd love
to hear from them in verse.
           so you cough and you cough
   and the three piglets live their "happily ever after"
in the first "house" they built (wigwams or igloos...
of just hiding under a mammoth sized wig;
scalp that ****, right down to the base, where a hoof
ought to be!)
seriously though: you take a **** and you refill your
sharpshooter round of ***** and ms. coca
            and you ponder the **** once more:
          death-bed regrets? why didn't i shove something
"else" in there? don't know, i was keen to compare
it to animals and the duty: she cats?
they're almost always ******* about the act,
that look in their eyes that could put oliver reed's
hellraiser antics to shame: given the look in their eyes
while doing the ***** bits: ****** come out!
      ****** come out!
                                  male cats? they're almost smiling
while doing it...
                (i think this is the part where you
can mutually acknowledge that i think my writing
is ****... comparing over drunks?)
               tobacco "hangovers"... you finally end
them, by harking...
          a bit like barking, but what you're really doing
is spitting the excess phlegm in your nose
      out of your mouth... disgusting, i know,
but what can you do... turn peafowl?
                                but you really do have to go
through this process every day (never mind
the headache: brain throbbing **** of skull:
thump thump thump... thump thump thump...
hammer sickel, hammer sickel)...
oh wait, that brings me onto my original prompt:
  a video (big fan, you tube, we channel),
and it's nothing like i might actually write a comment
in the "description" section (or simply add to it)...

tara mccarthy - laura southern:
how feminism hurts women.

                      i'm just a sucker for the drool... or nasal...
or whatever you like to call american linguistics...
          zombie oogh?         hooh?  ** ** **?
                             now i really feel like a viking, pillaging
people's punctuation styles and reminding myself (cognitively)
how it sounds in reverse... on paper... in script and not
in conversation... and it probably sounds a bit like this:
         and article in the times newspaper (editorial section,
just after the opinion section of journalists... like some
quasi reincarnation of dialectics)...
   the video's content? right-wing women cry valkyrie:
left-wing women respond: cut off the genitals and it's a community
founded on christian heresies unearthed in 1945, in egypt,
when the world was almost going to end (nag hammadi)...
                boy cry wolf, eh?
                                        so that video...
and the "anonymous" writer of the article
   seedier media (subplot): social networks must recognise
         their responsibilites and crack down on hate speech...
the two outlets go hand in hand...
         if mccarthy (the real one, the homosexual)
was alive today, he'd be like... perfect:
    the whole concept has automated itself via digital
human connectivity, now i can go to the beach
and bounce my beach ball and get suntan lotion
applied to my back by my boyfriend Fred;
                yeah, that mccarthy; (joe).
                    
i've had worse days, but they usually end with:
i start to write thin, and then get bulges that don't seem
to fit, totally anti paragraph...
                          (too much american media,
too much american alter media, matthew, i'm seriously
going to punish you for this)...
split conscious alternative realities?
      ******* talk without a well paid narrator
to create consent of any art form to begin with.
   second deathbed confession?
how to write a poem that would eventually lead
to a neat conclusion on form, i.e.

| begins here






                                                   ends here |

and all the line breaks are |
                                            |
                 ­                           |
                                    ­        |
                                            |
|
|
|
|
|­
               behaviour-wise... alas... but at least i managed
to get a sneak-peek into what inside out (pixar)
would look like... it was a three way conversation...
3/5 (three out of five)... i'm missing anger and i'm missing
disgust... oh **** me: so 1. joy, 2. sadness, 3. anger,
4. fear, 5. disgust...
                                 to be honest i'm seeing all of them
and writing pointless fractions concerning
                    ethnic correlation to something that looks
like that thing i, also am.

There she is my ******,
Carry my dream as an African queen,
Her words are very sweet, soft, and delicate as honey,
So I feel boom! Blessed to be her only son
She is my shield in the middle of the sunny zone,
I have got nothing much to pay,
Here and there, everywhere I’ll  say;
Have seen none like my queen

I’m blessed with her long way,
She guides me in a better ray,
I appreciate, duplicate, her effort, every day
I dedicate that her love never deplete,
Dynamic, and never lead me astray.
On her side tho’ blue turn grey,
Among four am her beloved kid,
She never gave up on me,
I mean she has never been mean,  
She gives all of her to me, and always there for me        

She forgave me for all I did,
She is my pride song, and  gives me  all I need,
My peafowl, society remarkable,
Rose flower, and society reliable
Do you wonder who is she? My honorable?
She is she, not he, but family dependable,
She’s who she is, even tho’ you cease who she is according to the bible,
There she is, my beloved Mum who makes me loveable and feel cherishable.