i. the beer:

of all the drugs available for legal consumption,
well illegal too,
   i love how alcohol is the only
with a credible, even a romantic story,
take today, as an example,
  i took a gamble (the english really know
how to craft "flat" beers - namely ales...
in terms of lager? ******* can't beat
the central europeans - carling...
    that's all they can summon) -
but this one i came across today was a gem,
crisp and i am a sucker for crisp,
but not enough body of a typical ale,
body? flavour...
                  **** me, having a chemistry
degree i should be brewing...
     ah, but i do have enough vine
      for about 12 bottles every year,
but the dream? well, with music shops
doing the dodo march... i guess the ever
present ambition is to brew beer
(and yes, ***** is brought about by
the fermentation of potatoes);
   but i just love how every bottle has a story,
take this one for example:

               sharp's (rock, cornwall)
  (and yes, cornwall is bue -
            quiet unlike the rest of england,
  they even pretend to be
   "basque" separatists -
  goergie goergie - poachy poachy -
            king john the **** -
raise the black flag with a white cross
to invert the teutonic banner of
             black cross upon a white flag!)

aye ****, d'er beer:

           *doom bar
(est. 1994 - exceptional amber ale)

but like i said: not much body in it -
if a budweiser is the "king" of lager -
then this is certainly a "king" of ale.

the story? verbatim:

    'at the mouth of the camel estuary in rock,
cornwall, lies the trecherous doom bar
sandbank, the inspiration for this
exceptional amber ale.
                the sandbank is revered as a
formidable nautical challenge that
should be approached with respect and
nagivated with skill.'

well **** me, i'm off my rockers, i get a beer
and* a story... bargain,
                            at un' poond und aye-tee!

ii. lactose intolerance / constipation /
             a 4th of the "horsemen of the apocalyspse":

of the four "supposed" horsemen of the apocalypse?
i greatly admire but one:
                                          daniel dennett...
and for what, if not the virtue of being
humbled, awe-stricken, and not much of
a sophist -
                    i.e. a rhetorician.
the other three?
                to me, just a trio of pompous
*****... but daniel dennett?
now that's the bearded fellow i can admire...
he's the humpty-dumpty of the lot,
  he's like the epitome of the socratic method,
translated from ancient times
   into modernity - i.e. not the dialectician:
but the mediator.
      
   and when he mentions lactose intolerance
in humanity beyond the years of man's
"instinct"... i approach a well-known woman
to me (after all, i shared her body as
a foetal "parasite") -
  and she's tried all the could to alleviate
her constipation...
            i walk down the stairs with a bright
idea:
             how about you start drinking
raw milk?
                      maybe raw milk would ease
the constipation?
                           she replies:
not even if i had raw milk with a cherry...
worth a try, i say,
given that i've never seen you drink raw
milk...
        me? i still drink the raw fluid ivory -
better drinking that,
       that shooting rhinos for sport...
for some reason i can't get enough of it...
  cheese beckons?! not really...
but give me a pint of milk, and i'll drink it
in one worthwhile summary:
   concluding in an empty pint glass.
maybe milk will ease the constipation?
   who knows, worth a try.

but of the four "supposed" horsemen,
   i have respect for but one...
      yes yes, hitchens sycophants out there
than have their carnival of mumbles
and ooh and ah's... and a-ha's...
          yes, eloquent to the highest degree,
but a pompous ****** the name came to be;
only on the death bed, was he ever
earnest to curb his sophistry -
       and as said:
              nearing the abode of death,
              man stands undressed,
              in mind and body,
              the unlikely foetal kindred -
              naked, in the fluid of change -
              readied for the onslaught
              of the forever eternal flux.

iii. the three animals (laika, albert jr.,
&, why of course: dolly):

funny, isn't it...
           if there was a soviet darwin,
the soviets would have sent an ape into space...
but instead they sent a dog...
  
seems hard to find people with ape pets,
domesticated in the allign of a zoo -
    probably just as hard to keep a domesticated
money, as it is to keep a pigeon take
to a return roost...
hence the romanticism of space exploration
residing with the soviets, over the americans...
the world will forever remember
  a laika than an albert jr. (originally albert II,
but lets not allow aristocracy into the domain
of the lesser mammal) -
  and laika will always burn an imprint
into the mind, a dog always overcomes
the monkey in the here & now
                                 (dasein evolution):
but that's space taken care of...
what about time?
         none other than "alice", i.e.
     dolly the clone sheep... cloning
explores time... and dolly was the first
explorer of time, or the perpetuation of said
artefact...
                   do i sense a "humane" obstruct
being imposed?
         the frankenstein phobia?
               oh i think i'm right on the money...
with so much knowledge and so much
power at our hands, the collective man seems
only orientated around the carnal dynamic
of perpetuating itself around a dynamic
of pains and ills...
                       never the broad shoulder
giant looking toward the western continents
from the shores of portugal...
                by now we realise we're not
standing on the shoulders of currently-temporal    
giants... but on the shoulders of:
midgets!      
               as i a child i conjured up the idea
of the other A.I. -
nothing technological...
                  i actually thought of
insemination - and if auschwitz would still be
open, i might have joined ol' joseph in
the experiment,
but like a true scientists: beginning with animals,
i.e. impregnating a dog with human *****...
or a monkey with human *****...
obviously jo mengele would have
preferred the reverse, i.e. impregnating
a woman with the ***** of the already stated
examples...
                       well... in the dark aeons of
*******... hasn't anyone noticed the crude
representation of a white woman,
******* the phallus of a horse?
     ah... you weren't internet savvy in the early
00s... what with rotten.com.

+
A bed-sits high and dry,marooned on a sandbank of night.
As  radio 4-casts its nets to isolated ships like me that rudderless drift on into the light.

Still dark outside,no sounds,save the distant echoing bark of a hungry fox ----streets away.
Another dawn ripped blackbin bag of a day creeps and ouzes in

Heavy unfocused lids fogged in the steamy smokeyness of tea and a first ***    
plenty of time            plenty of time.
Time before the world wakes to the morning pips and its flushing, brushing, rushing sounds

A greyness gathers just beyound my pained curtains, as with a silent sigh a roosted blackbird clears its fasted throat.

Then as if by magic I 'm carried, scimming high above and beyound this mooring set in a silvered sea,on a welcomed mantra known to all.

As if a calling pray at day break,following each word in a moment subline
               Un angle vole                                                          un angle vole.

Rockall - Malin - Hebrides
         Humber - Fisher - German bight
               Thames - Dover - Wight.

Each single secert understood and noted only by a few as I glide over in paced, pausey surf rolling words

North northeast - 994 - Falling slowly - Low pressure moving away - Gales 8 very poor - Backing 3-4 later - Mainly good - Becoming variable - Syclonic later - Increasing 6-7 mainly west - Swally showers for a time - Fair - Good.

Oh so good, each pure English comforting sounds heard over lapping waves of air.

The bushy wet nosed fox sulks and cowers away from the breaking sun, as the blackbird draws a dewdropped breath though golden nib and tapping gently, call a hidden choir into song just for me.

Reminding me of the things I'd for gotten I care about.

Sharp timed unwelcomed pips flood the ears to prise open sticky eyes from promised dreams and spoon-cuddles warm
As I set forth on wetted pavements, ready to decline into my charted day.  

Yet smiling as if blessed and no longer alone
            But filled with early morning salty thoughts of strangers
        
                  I
                     have
                                yet
                                       to
                                            meet

Alice and I were fudged fruiting inside Falstaffian freakish fleur–de–lys:
She inside a quack–aztec–tattooed tank,
Me inside a pendulous magenta harness with polydactyl–perverted plumes bespattered into it.  
In the ****** **** of that kaput flophouse
We creosoted our conks all the cockatrices of the gorge–de–pigeon,
Inside crotches, Jacuzzis and homocentric Action Men.  
Alice, with the pornographic bend sinisters in the teeth of her poltergeistish fajita crocodile,
Smacked of the plug–ugly poofter of a south–south–west by south sackful sandbank.  
I cemented the jaundiced dangler of an ostrich to my *****.  
With that and my uncut fiddlestick of knobs
I was the idiosyncratic and wholehogging sadomasochistic slapper!

We banged the bush streaming proboscis in tentacle
Through smorgasbords of hermaphrodites and high muck–a–mucks
While Ravi Shankar’s idioglossias and cockchafers juddered our titbits.  
Our Moonies were classically cracked flabelliform by the time we disinterred them.  
Alice managed to fornicate incognito white elephant on behalf of myself
And we were passionately on the back of the dingdong, naked as our Moonies.

We kept one’s pecker up wrapped up in the shadowgraph
Athwart ever-strangling girdles of formaldehyde, ozone, fomenter and widow’s weeds,
Athwart polytetrafluoroethylene–pricked precipices and then down to the butts
Where we both came to a sticky end on our jockstraps and leered at the ballet dancers
That we then penetrated rhythmically by elongating tumescent our gang banging tentacles.  
Through comfortable French knickers I burped, “Thank you for ****** me everywhere, Alice”.  
In the soporific honeypotspunk, aped on the ooze,
I could smell that her **** had made her ******* type soap flakes break the sound barrier,
Splashing out a ***** whale seed skirting her jowls.  
“You’re fragrant, flypaper”, she rapped.

The Government gabble that little green men who hammer out the sexagenarians weren’t on board.  
Inside spleen of the spliffs, inside spleen of my gangrenous Pollyanna, I will over one’s dead body evacuate.  
I will over one’s dead body evacuate.

There’s a lagoon in my head separated from the fierce ocean of confidence by a low sandbank.
The sand dawdles to diminish its size, with melancholy waves halting its ruckus,
Water was never that loquacious, only cooing hastily on the salty air
Quaint grains of mushy rutabaga make it hard to finagle,
Because the sirens beautiful song entices me to sink
So I flounce hysterically, unable to calm my mind.

Her fair face freckled with sand gleams with odes of despair,
Adding to the mournful steps of the receding tide.
Waters once at a healthy level, wisp the fresh sea foam away.
Jagged rocks now poke out from the depths,
The vibrancy of her seaweed hair messy and curly, shrivels.

The timid sand portrays such reserve in its frantic company,
The waves crash on cue with such force,
Predictability is only her turquoise concealment
Ephemeral brine absorbed by desire,
Encapsulated by the beige powder,
That cannot dissolve.

Sounds swarming
But quite alarming

College babes
Like_ Slimfast
Drink fast
Loves never last
Dorming ****
X box Assassin Creed
Video gifts Elfering
Twitter  featuring
The Rattlesnake
*******

My sweet
surrender
Sangria
stuttering

Big mistake
The sangria
Clever mastering
The place was
bugged
That Drunk
No comedy act
Ben Stiller

All  Gigs **** her
GIF ruff stuff
Gold digger bluff
Hangover cliff
Her bedroom eyes
Tonight the
Holy water
I phone Maria
Sangria suits him
Just the ring fighter

Ratfinks website
White being
creamed
Drink Kahlia

I won't
My dream drink
Sangria
Saint
My love, you ain't

He is singing
Maria
Strong hangover
with mudpack
Malaria

Drink playmate
All geared up
Generous Gina
Montezuma revenge
The Saint lounge
Competition
How she flaunts
her drinks inferior
Writing a poem
missing
some fonts
((His Tatoo))
the bomb drinker
Pineapple chunks
Bayou
water ripe ripples
Leftover drunks
Mon Cheri *******

Acting like a Saint
Terri spiritual Rumi
The drink scruples
relationship
sandstorm

Riders of
Morrisons
Heirs of beer
At the dorm

The ((Psychic Alarm))
Your drink woke
you up
****** humor
potential
Sangria
Someone was singing
I just met a girl
named Maria

((Harry Potter Hogwarts))
San Antonio
Met Maria
What a belly wash

Drinking up
Alcoholic Darts
Sanguine
Difficulty
pregnancy
Two lovers
liking Maria

Optimistic
Smoothing in
Sangria
He has
a Margarita*
Mexican
Cancun
Margaret
upbeat
down to her
last drink

Sangria tank
Egyptian Army
buddy drinking
Like a
sandbank

Computer
Clickbank
Lions and coins
sandblasting
Morons
multitasking
Bermuda sounds
Sandpipers
And globetrotters
My Saint
of Sangria

Barcelona
Goddess
On her drenched
Sangria
mattress
She could
have done
his Bio

((That SanAntonio))

((Hostess)) Gia
Lollobrigida
Tony was singing
out to Maria

Her wings
of liquor
The Saint moves
quicker_

Cabaret stripper
Natalie let me
entertain you
Surprise the
sanitarians
Flipping homes
Drinking up
Their Sangria
My Saint
Bella
Mama Mia
You arrived invite
your friends
No Maria_!!
Drinks on me
Schools out
But Sangria
Stays in we party
Way out

My mind seems to be at a blank
Not being able to put pencil to paper
And not having an idea to thank.

A picture of a raging tank?
It all seems to waver,
My mind seems to be at a blank

Ideas waiting in swank,
My mind beginning to taper,
And not having an idea to thank.

A picture of a beautiful sandbank
Seems not to come any clearer,
My mind seems to be at a blank.

A picture of a cliff with an overhanging plank
Is not becoming any brighter;
And not having an idea to thank.

My thoughts seem to be minuscule and lank
Making me seem like such a dreamer.
My mind seems to be at a blank,
And not having an idea to thank.

At the foot of the fountain where all life begins, underneath glass umbrellas while above the world spins or in ships out at sea on a cold Northern trade where deals, if not sunk are made.
We played those games at times in the past, but the fountain dried up and the umbrellas got smashed and the ships were all grounded on some sandbank, they say, games that we played then, back when the day had begun.
They run on a loop that goes around in my head, not really gone and certainly not dead, but in another place on a different plane, in a different space, it always interests me that we can still all see the past as a living thing, some bring to mind kinder deeds and it feeds the collective super-consciousness.
as we get older we get younger and hunger for what's been and gone and we go on to the fountain where all life begins, underneath the glass umbrellas while above the world spins, sailing back through the memory we all knew before life wrapped around me and got trapped inside you.

The sea runs through me and
it follows that the tides are a part of me,
then the oceans too must also run through me
so
who am I to deny the soothing serenity of
a deep blue sky?

Summer is and will always be
a piece of this ocean
the depth of this sea.

Alfred out fishing

Alfred the pianist, who insists he is not my father,
And I went out fishing, we caught a few and when I gutted one of them
We discovered a ring which Alfred said he had given to my mother Olga in Ankara
before the war. It was an expensive ring –
Gold was cheap back then- and it fitted his *******.
We didn't feel like eating fish after that, and I gave them to an elderly seal
resting on a sandbank, it lived on what other seals gave it.
When my father Alfred was very old he gave me a ring I to give Olga
my mother who refused to believe I was her son, she had never
seen the ring before and refused to take it, so I gave it back to the sea
and the forgotten tragedy of someone drowning alone; mind it is
rare that someone holds the hand of the ones who drowns.

Blind Pew ran aground on a sandbank
and gave thanks to the Lord,
saying,
salvation
was my destination and it looks like
I've finally arrived

and what was Blind Pew doing in a canoe?

Falling's exciting
an adventure to delight in
until
you reach your stop.

Piracy like poetry can be random
and some.
of the two which would you
prefer?

The Holistics of the ethnonym of Heles was saved by Vernarth and Etréstles, when the flood of Helén that came on Heles was shuffled. Here the inquisition is connected with the gravity potential of the elapsed time with the gravitational hydro of the bottom of the Marmara. The mechanics were marble dust that fell through the timers to the Seventh Heaven, inverting the one-way urns that were already being destined for Heles. This double urn symbolized by the laurel of infinity over the finite, it mechanized the fall of the origin of heaven in the court of the angels, from where they had horologists to pay for the urn for Heles, but as this was rescued by Vernarth, the urn it would finally be awaited in the depths of the dreams of the Marmara. Here the longitudinal precision of the marble sandbank that contained Heles defragmented was necessary, to later materialize it in the second Urn under the fold of the sea where his horology was synchronized with the sane cries of Nefeles, which Vernarth could not bear when he saw that his body it was turning into red blood cell marble. Heles, seeing his mother like this, inverts the receptacles of condensed air to emit and separate the red blood cells from the marble of the urn of Heaven, and then transfer it to the marble urn of Marmara.

After 1500 microseconds, Heles grabs Alikantus's tail and jumps onto Kanti's back, who was waiting for her to surface. She was dressed in white marble chaff adhering to her silhouette, remaining totally safe with her index fingers on Alikantus's forehead at the end when she just opened her limestone eyes.

Vernarth says: “in the Codex Raedus, I made the twelve hours of Carlo Magno's clock tangible, near Compostela. I have only kept prudence facing Heles with Etréstles from the bottom of the sea, leaving the bulbous granules, after his soul regenerated away from the marble oxide in the tin gap that could take it to the real quantum future, far from the receptacle that was emptied to arrive at the enteric complement of his organic and admirable Hellenic body, exchanging and measuring the countenance of the Akashic field, where the locality of the Strait of Dardánelos tacitly was upset with that of the Hellespont. For what it meant that the globality of Heles was followed by the torrent of water in the middle of the colonnades that brought it to the surface, where Hellespont already shone with another name of the Cosmic Sea "

The places and times, the characters, and fantastic animals were rooted in the mention where all things were induced towards a theoretical foundation, based on the love of quantum entanglements or (entanglement basis), to give ballast that binds the particles that are to it. own from where the independent particle persistently comes, which will drag the names of Heles and Helén for thousands of millennia, through this intertwining of two colonnades that represent the duality of Kanti and Alikantus, with Vernarth and Etréstles. They made the macroscopic purpose of the Kairos tunnel, where the pre-Helladic anticipated the revolutionized time of the Kairos when the Hellenes already carried the visionary overtaking factor in their genes, to help this sponsorship of Vernarth's Romantic Submitology in the Hellespont, from Vernarth's home run where the stars and Kafersesuh's Lepidoptera straightened up.

In January there is a glow so gold that the bleak post-summer sky turns white
The Sun squints through stretches of clouds that hang over the Indian oceans
The Atlantic seas where the carp shiver and the trout bloat like flattened pufferfish
They sit between the edges of costal towns, like a hanging curtain pinned down by old wooden sea ports
Splintered and bruised by the ocean’s fierce love
By the fisherman’s tools
By the many boats of history, present and future
By the weary ropes that curl, like snakes, into spirals on the deck.
In January there is a glow so familiar and unchanging, like
Water finding the foot of the sandbank
Over and over and over.

Waking up
On the edge of a sandbank
stinking
and pulling stink bugs out my hair.

Waking up in the desert
sweating
and letting scorpions build a lair
in my tent
and in my boots.

Shooting hares and ravens,
for meat.
For a thrill.
It's not with it to go through it.
But still I ****.
I knew..
It would hurt but I would live,
but not in peace.

Living.... with a shiv in my ribs made of the bones of all I hurt.
I'd rather nerf my brain a brain and build hut made of dung
A yurt padded with bad memories, and hurtful lovely beings.