Like a psychotic docent in the wilderness,
I will not speak in perfect Ciceronian cadences.
I draw my voice from a much deeper cistern,
Preferring the jittery synaptic archive,
So sublimely unfiltered, random and profane.
And though I am sequestered now,
Confined within the walls of a gated, golf-coursed,
Over-55 lunatic asylum (for Active Seniors I am told),
I remain oddly puerile,
Remarkably refreshed and unfettered.  
My institutionalization self-imposed,
Purposed for my own serenity, and also the safety of others.
Yet I abide, surprisingly emancipated and frisky.
I may not have found the peace I seek,
But the quiet has mercifully come at last.

The nexus of inner and outer space is context for my story.
I was born either in Brooklyn, New York or Shungopavi, Arizona,
More of intervention divine than census data.
Shungopavi: a designated place for tribal statistical purposes.
Shungopavi: an ovine abbatoir and shaman’s cloister.
The Hopi: my mother’s people, a state of mind and grace,
Deftly landlocked, so cunningly circumscribed,
By both interior and outer Navajo boundaries.
The Navajo: a coyote trickster people; a nation of sheep thieves,
Hornswoggled and landlocked themselves,
Subsumed within three of the so-called Four Corners:
A 3/4ths compromise and covenant,
Pickled in firewater, swaddled in fine print,
A veritable swindle concocted back when the USA
Had Manifest Destiny & mayhem on its mind.

The United States: once a pubescent synthesis of blood and thunder,
A bold caboodle of trooper spit and polish, unwashed brawlers, Scouts and      
Pathfinders, mountain men, numb-nut ne'er-do-wells,
Buffalo Bills & big-balled individualists, infected, insane with greed.
According to the Gospel of His Holiness Saint Zinn,
A People’s’ History of the United States: essentially state-sponsored terrorism,
A LAND RUSH grabocracy, orchestrated, blessed and anointed,
By a succession of Potomac sharks, Great White Fascist Fathers,
Far-Away-on-the Bay, the Bay we call The Chesapeake.
All demented national patriarchs craving lebensraum for God and country.
The USA: a 50-state Leviathan today, a nation jury-rigged,
Out of railroad ties, steel rails and baling wire,
Forged by a litany of lies, rapaciousness and ******,
And jaw-torn chunks of terra firma,
Bites both large and small out of our well-****** Native American ***.

Or culo, as in va’a fare in culo (literally "go do it in the ***")
Which Italian Americans pronounce as fongool.
The language center of my brain,
My sub-cortical Broca’s region,
So fraught with such semantic misfires,
And autonomic linguistic seizures,
Compel acknowledgement of a father’s contribution,
To both the gene pool and the genocide.
Columbus Day:  a conspicuously absent holiday out here in Indian Country.
No festivals or Fifth Avenue parades.
No excuse for ethnic hoopla. No guinea feast. No cannoli. No tarantella.
No excuse to not get drunk and not **** your sister-in-law.
Emphatically a day for prayer and contemplation,
A day of infamy like Pearl Harbor and 9/11,
October 12, 1492: not a discovery; an invasion.

Growing up in Brooklyn, things were always different for me,
Different in some sort of redskin/****/****--
Choose Your Favorite Ethnic Slur-sort of way.
The American Way: dehumanization for fun and profit.
Melting *** anonymity and denial of complicity with evil.
But this is no time to bring up America’s sordid past,
Or, a personal pet peeve: Indian Sovereignty.
For Uncle Sam and his minions, an ever-widening, conveniently flexible concept,
Not a commandment or law,
Not really a treaty or a compact,
Or even a business deal.  Let’s get real:
It was not even much in the way of a guideline.
Just some kind of an advisory, a bulletin or newsletter,
Could it merely have been a free-floating suggestion?
Yes, that’s it exactly: a suggestion.

Over and under halcyon American skies,
Over and around those majestic purple mountain peaks,
Those trapped in poetic amber waves of wheat and oats,
Corn and barley, wheat shredded and puffed,
Corn flaked and milled, Wheat Chex and Wheaties, oats that are little Os;
Kix and Trix, Fiber One, and Kashi-Go-Lean, Lucky Charms and matso *****,
Kreplach and kishka,
Polenta and risotto.
Our cantaloupe and squash patch,
Our fruited prairie plain, our delicate ecological Eden,
In balance and harmony with nature, as Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce instructs:
“These white devils are not going to,
Stop ****** and killing, cheating and eating us,
Until they have the whole ******* enchilada.
I’m talking about ‘from sea to shining sea.’”

“I fight no more forever,” Babaloo.
So I must steer this clunky keelboat of discovery,
Back to the main channel of my sad and starry demented river.
My warpath is personal but not historical.
It is my brain’s own convoluted cognitive process I cannot saavy.
Whatever biochemical or—as I suspect more each day—
Whatever bio-mechanical protocols govern my identity,
My weltanschauung: my world-view, as sprechen by proto-Nazis;
Putz philosophers of the 17th, 18th & 19th century.
The German intelligentsia: what a cavalcade of maniacal *******!
Why is this Jew unsurprised these Zarathustra-fueled Übermenschen . . .
Be it the Kaiser--Caesar in Deutsch--Bismarck, ******, or,
Even that Euro-*****,  Angela Merkel . . . Why am I not surprised these Huns,
Get global grab-*** on the sauerbraten cabeza every few generations?
To be, or not to be the ***** bullgoose loony: GOTT.

Biomechanical protocols govern my identity and are implanted while I sleep.
My brain--my weak and weary CPU--is replenished, my discs defragmented.
A suite of magnetic and optical white rooms, cleansed free of contaminants,
Gun mounts & lifeboat stations manned and ready,
Standing at attention and saluting British snap-style,
Snap-to and heel click, ramrod straight and cheerful: “Ready for duty, Sir.”
My mind is ravenous, lusting for something, anything to process.
Any memory or image, lyric or construct,
Be they short-term dailies or deeply imprinted.
Fixations archived one and all in deep storage time and space.
Memories, some subconscious, most vaporous;
Others--the scary ones—eidetic: frighteningly detailed and extraordinarily vivid.
Precise cognitive transcripts; recollected so richly rife and fresh.
Visual, auditory, tactile, gustatory, and olfactory reloads:
Queued up and increasingly re-experienced.

The bio-data of six decades: it’s all there.
People, countless, places and things cataloged.
Every event, joy and trauma enveloped from within or,
Accessed externally from biomechanical storage devices.
The random access memory of a lifetime,
Read and recollected from cerebral repositories and vaults,
All the while the entire greedy process overseen,
Over-driven by that all-subservient British bat-man,
Rummaging through the data in batches small and large,
Internal and external drives working in seamless syncopation,
Self-referential, at times paradoxical or infinitely looped.
“Cogito ergo sum."
Descartes stripped it down to the basics but there’s more to the story:
Thinking about thinking.
A curse and minefield for the cerebral:  metacognition.

No, it is not the fact that thought exists,
Or even the thoughts themselves.
But the information technology of thought that baffles me,
As adaptive and profound as any evolution posited by Darwin,
Beyond the wetware in my skull, an entirely new operating system.
My mental and cultural landscape are becoming one.
Machines are connecting the two.
It’s what I am and what I am becoming.
Once more for emphasis:
It is the information technology of who I am.
It is the operating system of my mental and cultural landscape.
It is the machinery connecting the two.
This is the central point of this narrative:
Metacognition--your superego’s yenta Cassandra,
Screaming, screaming in your psychic ear, your good ear:

“LISTEN:  The machines are taking over, taking you over.
Your identity and train of thought are repeatedly hijacked,
Switched off the main line onto spurs and tangents,
Only marginally connected or not at all.
(Incoming TEXT from my editor: “Lighten Up, Giuseppi!”)
Reminding me again that most in my audience,
Rarely get past the comic page. All righty then: think Calvin & Hobbes.
John Calvin, a precocious and adventurous six-year old boy,
Subject to flights of 16th Century French theological fancy.
Thomas Hobbes, a sardonic anthropomorphic tiger from 17th Century England,
Mumbling about life being “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.”
Taken together--their antics and shenanigans--their relationship to each other,
Remind us of our dual nature; explore for us broad issues like public education;
The economy, environmentalism & the Global ****** Thermometer;
Not to mention the numerous flaws of opinion polls.



And again my editor TEXTS me, reminds me again: “LIGHTEN UP!”
Consoling me:  “Even Shakespeare had to play to the groundlings.”
The groundlings, AKA: The Rabble.
Yes. Even the ******* Bard, even Willie the Shake,
Had to contend with a decidedly lowbrow copse of carrion.
Oh yes, the groundlings, a carrion herd, a flying flock of carrion seagulls,
Carrion crow, carrion-feeders one and all,
And let’s throw Sheryl Crow into the mix while we’re at it:
“Hit it! This ain't no disco. And it ain't no country club either, this is L.A.”  

                  Send "All I Wanna Do" Ringtone to your Cell              

Once more, I digress.
The Rabble:  an amorphous, gelatinous Jabba the Hutt of commonality.
The Rabble: drunk, debauched & lawless.
Too *****-delicious to stop Bill & Hilary from thinking about tomorrow;
Too Paul McCartney My Love Does it Good to think twice.

The Roman Saturnalia: a weeklong **** fest.
The Saturnalia: originally a pagan kink-fest in honor of the deity Saturn.
Dovetailing nicely with the advent of the Christian era,
With a project started by Il Capo di Tutti Capi,
One of the early popes, co-opting the Roman calendar between 17 and 25 December,
Putting the finishing touches on the Jesus myth.
For Brooklyn Hopi-***-Jew baby boomers like me,
Saturnalia manifested itself as Disco Fever,
Unpleasant years of electrolysis, scrunched ***** in tight polyester
For Roman plebeians, for the great unwashed citizenry of Rome,
Saturnalia was just a great big Italian wedding:
A true family blowout and once-in-a-lifetime ego-trip for Dad,
The father of the bride, Vito Corleone, Don for A Day:
“Some think the world is made for fun and frolic,
And so do I! Funicula, Funiculi!”

America: love it or leave it; my country right or wrong.
Sure, we were citizens of Rome,
But any Joe Josephus spending the night under a Tiber bridge,
Or sleeping off a three day drunk some afternoon,
Up in the Coliseum bleachers, the cheap seats, out beyond the monuments,
The original three monuments in the old stadium,
Standing out in fair territory out in center field,
Those three stone slabs honoring Gehrig, Huggins, and Babe.
Yes, in the house that Ruth built--Home of the Bronx Bombers--***?
Any Joe Josephus knows:  Roman citizenship doesn’t do too much for you,
Except get you paxed, taxed & drafted into the Legion.
For us the Roman lifestyle was HIND-*** humble.
We plebeians drew our grandeur by association with Empire.
Very few Romans and certainly only those of the patrician class lived high,
High on the hog, enjoying a worldly extravaganza, like—whom do we both know?

Okay, let’s say Laurence Olivier as Crassus in Spartacus.
Come on, you saw Spartacus fifteen ******* times.
Remember Crassus?
Crassus: that ***** twisted **** trying to get his freak on with,
Tony Curtis in a sunken marble tub?
We plebes led lives of quiet *****-scratching desperation,
A bunch of would-be legionnaires, diseased half the time,
Paid in salt tablets or baccala, salted codfish soaked yellow in olive oil.
Stiffs we used to call them on New Year’s Eve in Brooklyn.
Let’s face it: we were hyenas eating someone else’s ****,
Stage-door jackals, Juvenal-come-late-lies, a mob of moronic mook boneheads
Bought off with bread & circuses and Reality TV.
Each night, dished up a wide variety of lowbrow Elizabethan-era entertainments.  
We contemplate an evening on the town, downtown—
(cue Petula Clark/Send "Downtown" Ringtone to your Cell)

On any given London night, to wit:  mummers, jugglers, bear & bull baiters.
How about dog & **** fighters, quoits & skittles, alehouses & brothels?
In short, somewhere, anywhere else,
Anywhere other than down along the Thames,
At Bankside in Southwark, down in the Globe Theater mosh pit,
Slugging it out with the groundlings whose only interest,
In the performance is the choreography of swordplay and stale ****** puns.
Meanwhile, Hugh Fennyman--probably a fellow Jew,
An English Renaissance Bugsy Siegel or Mickey Cohen—
Meanwhile Fennyman, the local mob boss is getting his ya-yas,
Roasting the feet of my text-messaging editor, Philip Henslowe.
Poor and pathetic Henslowe, works on commission, always scrounging,
But a true patron of my craft, a gentleman of infinite jest and patience,
Spiritual subsistence, and every now and then a good meal at some,
Sawdust joint with oyster shells, and a Prufrockian silk purse of T.S. Eliot gold.

Poor, pathetic Henslowe, trussed up by Fennyman,
His editorial feet in what looks like a Japanese hibachi.
Henslowe’s feet to the fire--feet to the fire—get it?
A catchy phrase whose derivation conjures up,
A grotesque yet vivid image of torture,
An exquisite insight into how such phrases ingress the idiom,
Not to mention a scene once witnessed at a secret Romanian CIA prison,
I’d been ordered to Bucharest not long after 9/11,
Handling the rendition and torture of Habib Ghazzawy,

An entirely innocent falafel maker from Steinway Street, Astoria, Queens.
Shock the Monkey: it’s what we do. GOTO:
Peter Gabriel - Shock the Monkey/
(HQ music video) - YouTube//
www.youtube.com/
Poor, pathetic, ******-on Henslowe.


Fennyman :  (his avarice is whet by something Philly screams out about a new script)  "A play takes time. Find actors; Rehearsals. Let's say open in three weeks. That's--what--five hundred groundlings at tuppence each, in addition four hundred groundlings tuppence each, in addition four hundred backsides at three pence--a penny extra for a cushion, call it two hundred cushions, say two performances for safety how much is that Mr. Frees?"
Jacobean Tweet, John (1580-1684) Webster:  “I saw him kissing her bubbies.”

It’s Geoffrey Rush, channeling Henslowe again,
My editor, a singed smoking madman now,
Feet in an ice bucket, instructing me once more:
“Lighten things up, you know . . .
Comedy, love and a bit with a dog.”
I digress again and return to Hopi Land, back to my shaman-monastic abattoir,
That Zen Center in downtown Shungopavi.
At the Tribal Enrolment Office I make my case for a Certificate of Indian Blood,
Called a CIB by the Natives and the U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs.
The BIA:  representing gold & uranium miners, cattle and sheep ranchers,
Sodbusters & homesteaders; railroaders and dam builders since 1824.
Just in time for Andrew Jackson, another false friend of Native America,
Just before Old Hickory, one of many Democratic Party hypocrites and scoundrels,
Gives the FONGOOL, up the CULO go ahead.
Hey Andy, I’ve got your Jacksonian democracy: Hanging!
The Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) mission is to:   "… enhance the quality of life, to promote economic opportunity, and to carry out the responsibility to protect and improve the trust assets of American Indians, Indian tribes, and Alaska Natives. What’s that in the fine print?  Uncle Sammy holds “the trust assets of American Indians.”

Here’s a ******* tip, Geronimo: if he trusted you,
It would ALL belong to you.
To you and The People.
But it’s all fork-tongued white *******.
If true, Indian sovereignty would cease to be a sick one-liner,
Cease to be a blunt force punch line, more of,
King Leopold’s 19th Century stand-up comedy schtick,
Leo Presents: The **** of the Congo.
La Belgique mission civilisatrice—
That’s what French speakers called Uncle Leo’s imperial public policy,
Bringing the gift of civilization to central Africa.
Like Manifest Destiny in America, it had a nice colonial ring to it.
“Our manifest destiny [is] to overspread the continent,
Allotted by Providence for the free development,
Of our yearly multiplying millions.”  John L. O'Sullivan, 1845

Our civilizing mission or manifest destiny:
Either/or, a catchy turn of phrase;
Not unlike another ironic euphemism and semantic subterfuge:
The Pacification of the West; Pacification?
Hardly: decidedly not too peaceful for Cochise & Tonto.
Meanwhile, Madonna is cash rich but disrespected Evita poor,
To wit: A ****** on the Rocks (throwing in a byte or 2 of Da Vinci Code).
Meanwhile, Miss Ciccone denied her golden totem *****.
They snubbed that little guinea ****, didn’t they?
Snubbed her, robbed her rotten.
Evita, her magnum opus, right up there with . . .
Her SNL Wayne’s World skit:
“Get a load of the unit on that guy.”
Or, that infamous MTV Music Video Awards stunt,
That classic ***** Lip-Lock with Britney Spears.

How could I not see that Oscar snubola as prime evidence?
It was just another stunning case of American anti-Italian racial animus.
Anyone familiar with Noam Chomsky would see it,
Must view it in the same context as the Sacco & Vanzetti case,
Or, that arbitrary lynching of 9 Italian-Americans in New Orleans in 1891,
To cite just two instances of anti-Italian judicial reach & mob violence,
Much like what happened to my cousin Dominic,
Gang-***** by the Harlem Globetrotters, in their locker room during halftime,
While he working for Abe Saperstein back in 1952.
Dom was doing advance for Abe, supporting creation of The Washington Generals:
A permanent stable of hoop dream patsies and foils,
Named for the ever freewheeling, glad-handing, backslapping,
Supreme Commander Allied Expeditionary Force (SCAEF), himself,
Namely General Dwight D. Eisenhower, the man they liked,
And called IKE: quite possibly a crypto Jew from Abilene.

Of course, Harry Truman was my first Great White Fascist Father,
Back in 1946, when I first opened my eyes, hung up there,
High above, looking down from the adobe wall.
Surveying the entire circular kiva,
I had the best seat in the house.
Don’t let it be said my Spider Grandmother or Hopi Corn Mother,
Did not want me looking around at things,
Discovering what made me special.
Didn’t divine intervention play a significant part of my creation?
Knowing Mamma Mia and Nonna were Deities,
Gave me an edge later on the streets of Brooklyn.
The Cradleboard: was there ever a more divinely inspired gift to human curiosity? The Cradleboard: a perfect vantage point, an infant’s early grasp,
Of life harmonious, suspended between Mother Earth and Father Sky.
Simply put: the Hopi should be running our ******* public schools.

But it was IKE with whom I first associated,
Associated with the concept 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
I liked IKE. Who didn’t?
What was not to like?
He won the ******* war, didn’t he?
And he wasn’t one of those crazy **** John Birchers,
Way out there, on the far right lunatic Republican fringe,
Was he? (It seems odd and nearly impossible to believe in 2013,
That there was once a time in our Boomer lives,
When the extreme right wing of the Republican Party
Was viewed by the FBI as an actual threat to American democracy.)
Understand: it was at a time when The FBI,
Had little ideological baggage,
But a great appetite for secrets,
The insuppressible Jay Edgar doing his thang.

IKE: of whom we grew so, oh-so Fifties fond.
Good old reliable, Nathan Shaking IKE:
He’d been fixed, hadn’t he? Had had the psychic snip.
Snipped as a West Point cadet & parade ground martinet.
Which made IKE a good man to have in a pinch,
Especially when crucial policy direction was way above his pay grade.
Cousin Dom was Saperstein’s bagman, bribing out the opposition,
Which came mainly from religious and patriotic organizations,
Viewing the bogus white sports franchise as obscene.
The Washington Generals, Saperstein’s new team would have but one opponent,
And one sole mission: to serve as the **** of endless jokes and sight gags for—
Negroes.  To play the chronic fools of--
Negroes.  To be chronically humiliated and insulted by—
Negroes.  To run up and down the boards all night, being outran by—
Negroes.  Not to mention having to wear baggy silk shorts.



Meadowlark Lemon:  “Yeah, Charlie, we ***** that grease-ball Dominic; we shagged his guinea mouth and culo rotten.”  

(interviewed in his Scottsdale, AZ winter residence in 2003 by former ESPN commentator Charlie Steiner, Malverne High School, Class of ’67.)
                                                        
  ­                                                                 ­                 
IKE, briefed on the issue by higher-ups, quickly got behind the idea.
The Harlem Globetrotters were to exist, and continue to exist,
Are sustained financially by Illuminati sponsors,
For one reason and one reason only:
To serve elite interests that the ***** be kept down and subservient,
That the minstrel show be perpetuated,
A policy surviving the elaborate window dressing of the civil rights movement, Affirmative action, and our first Uncle Tom president.
Case in point:  Charles Barkley, Dennis Rodman & Metta World Peace Artest.
Cha-cha-cha changing again:  I am Robert Allen Zimmermann,
A whiny, skinny Jew, ****** and rolling in from Minnesota,
Arrested, obviously a vagrant, caught strolling around his tony Jersey enclave,
Having moved on up the list, the A-list, a special invitation-only,
Yom Kippur Passover Seder:  Next Year in Jerusalem, Babaloo!

I take ownership of all my autonomic and conditioned reflexes;
Each personal neural arc and pathway,
All shenanigans & shellackings,
Or blunt force cognitive traumas.
It’s all percolating nicely now, thank you,
In kitchen counter earthen crockery:
Random access memory: a slow-cook crockpot,
Bubbling through my psychic sieve.
My memories seem only remotely familiar,
Distant and vague, at times unreal:
An alien hybrid databank accessed accidently on purpose;
Flaky science sustains and monitors my nervous system.
And leads us to an overwhelming question:
Is it true that John Dillinger’s ******* is in the Smithsonian Museum?
Enquiring minds want to know, Kemosabe!

“Any last words, *******?” TWEETS Adam Smith.
Postmortem cyber-graffiti, an epitaph carved in space;
Last words, so singular and simple,
Across the universal great divide,
Frisbee-d, like a Pleistocene Kubrick bone,
Tossed randomly into space,
Morphing into a gyroscopic space station.
Mr. Smith, a calypso capitalist, and me,
Me, the Poet Laureate of the United States and Adam;
Who, I didn’t know from Adam.
But we tripped the light fantastic,
We boogied the Protestant Work Ethic,
To the tune of that old Scotch-Presbyterian favorite,
Variations of a 5-point Calvinist theme: Total Depravity; Election; Particular Redemption; Irresistible Grace; & Perseverance of the Saints.

Mr. Smith, the author of An Inquiry into the Nature
& Causes of the Wealth of Nations (1776),
One of the best-known, intellectual rationales for:
Free trade, capitalism, and libertarianism,
The latter term a euphemism for Social Darwinism.
Prior to 1764, Calvinists in France were called Huguenots,
A persecuted religious majority . . . is that possible?
A persecuted majority of Edict of Nantes repute.
Adam Smith, likely of French Huguenot Jewish ancestry himself,
Reminds me that it is my principal plus interest giving me my daily gluten.
And don’t think the irony escapes me now,
A realization that it has taken me nearly all my life to see again,
What I once saw so vividly as a child, way back when.
Before I put away childish things, including the following sentiment:
“All I need is the air that I breathe.”

  Send "The Air That I Breathe" Ringtone to your Cell  

The Hippies were right, of course.
The Hollies had it all figured out.
With the answer, as usual, right there in the lyrics.
But you were lucky if you were listening.
There was a time before I embraced,
The other “legendary” economists:
The inexorable Marx,
The savage society of Veblen,
The heresies we know so well of Keynes.
I was a child.
And when I was a child, I spake as a child—
Grazie mille, King James—
I understood as a child; I thought as a child.
But when I became a man I jumped on the bus with the band,
Hopped on the irresistible bandwagon of Adam Smith.

Smith:  “Any last words, *******?”
Okay, you were right: man is rationally self-interested.
Grazie tanto, Scotch Enlightenment,
An intellectual movement driven by,
An alliance of Calvinists and Illuminati,
Freemasons and Johnny Walker Black.
Talk about an irresistible bandwagon:
Smith, the gloomy Malthus, and David Ricardo,
Another Jew boy born in London, England,
Third of 17 children of a Sephardic family of Portuguese origin,
Who had recently relocated from the Dutch Republic.
******* Jews!
Like everything shrewd, sane and practical in this world,
WE also invented the concept:  FOLLOW THE MONEY.

The lyrics: if you were really listening, you’d get it:
Respiration keeps one sufficiently busy,
Just breathing free can be a full-time job,
Especially when--borrowing a phrase from British cricketers—,
One contemplates the sorry state of the wicket.
Now that I am gainfully superannuated,
Pensioned off the employment radar screen.
Oft I go there into the wild ebon yonder,
Wandering the brain cloud at will.
My journey indulges curiosity, creativity and deceit.
I free range the sticky wicket,
I have no particular place to go.
Snagging some random fact or factoid,
A stop & go rural postal route,
Jumping on and off the brain cloud.

Just sampling really,
But every now and then, gorging myself,
At some information super smorgasbord,
At a Good Samaritan Rest Stop,
I ponder my own frazzled neurology,
When I was a child—
Before I learned the grim economic facts of life and Judaism,
Before I learned Hebrew,
Before my laissez-faire Bar Mitzvah lessons,
Under the rabbinical tutelage of Rebbe Kahane--
I knew what every clever child knows about life:
The surfing itself is the destination.
Accessing RAM--random access memory—
On a strictly need to know basis.
RAM:  a pretty good name for consciousness these days.

If I were an Asimov or Sir Arthur (Sri Lankabhimanya) Clarke,
I’d get freaky now, riffing on Terminators, Time Travel and Cyborgs.
But this is truth not science fiction.
Nevertheless, someone had better,
Come up with another name for cyborg.
Some other name for a critter,
Composed of both biological and artificial parts?
Parts-is-parts--be they electronic, mechanical or robotic.
But after a lifetime of science fiction media,
After a steady media diet, rife with dystopian technology nightmares,
Is anyone likely to admit to being a cyborg?
Since I always give credit where credit is due,
I acknowledge that cyborg was a term coined in 1960,
By Manfred Clynes & Nathan S. Kline and,
Used to identify a self-regulating human-machine system in outer space.

Five years later D. S. Halacy's: Cyborg: Evolution of the Superman,
Featured an introduction, which spoke of:  “… a new frontier, that was not,
Merely space, but more profoundly, the relationship between inner space,
And outer space; a bridge, i.e., between mind and matter.”
So, by definition, a cyborg defined is an organism with,
Technology-enhanced abilities: an antenna array,
Replacing what was once sentient and human.
My glands, once in control of metabolism and emotions,
Have been replaced by several servomechanisms.
I am biomechanical and gluttonous.
Soaking up and breathing out the atmosphere,
My Baby Boom experience of six decades,
Homogenized and homespun, feedback looped,
Endlessly networked through predigested mass media,
Culture as demographically targeted content.

This must have something to do with my own metamorphosis.
I think of Gregor Samsa, a Kafkaesque character if there ever was one.
And though we share common traits,
My evolutionary progress surpasses and transcends his.
Samsa--Phylum and Class--was, after all, an insect.
Nonetheless, I remain a changeling.
Have I not seen many stages of growth?
Each a painful metamorphic cycle,
From exquisite first egg,
Through caterpillar’s appetite & squirm.
To phlegmatic bliss and pupa quietude,
I unfold my wings in a rush of Van Gogh palette,
Color, texture, movement and grace, lift off, flapping in flight.
My eyes have witnessed wondrous transformations,
My experience, nouveau riche and distinctly self-referential;
For the most part unspecific & longitudinally pedestrian.

Yes, something has happened to me along the way.
I am no longer certain of my identity as a human being.
Time and technology has altered my basic wiring diagram.
I suspect the sophisticated gadgets and tools,
I’ve been using to shape & make sense of my environment,
Have reared up and turned around on me.
My tools have reshaped my brain & central nervous system.
Remaking me as something simultaneously more and less human.
The electronic toys and tools I once so lovingly embraced,
Have turned unpredictable and rabid,
Their bite penetrating my skin and septic now, a cluster of implanted sensors,
Content: currency made increasingly more valuable as time passes,
Served up by and serving the interests of a pervasively predatory 1%.
And the rest of us: the so-called 99%?
No longer human; simply put by both Howards--Beale & Zinn--

Humanoid.

Kevan Fuchs died today in his sleep
In a similar way as his father of one
And actually, also my father did too
Of those bitter, big cancer scourges
Which always come in unexpected
In this short enough life, a bit early

I've known him ever since first, when
We were knee high to Dad's shotgun
Throughout our small neighborhood
We would all roam to see and look
For ***** toads and such other fun
Without any known end in our sights

We often, came all together, at once
In his parent's, little Clovis back yard
In the under ground, in our deep dug
Wild little clubhouse of our new pride
Approved by our jealous Dad's stare
Made all by ourselves, with great care

Eight by eight, with three feet of deep
Shagged carpet floors, walls around
And places to hide stuff with those
**** magazines we wished to remain
Unseen by our parents, although they
Surely lived through similar wild times

Black lights , fluorescent mod posters
Fans to cool, while there in the deep
Kept the place comfy, from several
Hot summers in New Mexico's heat
Staying nights over, in conspiracy we
Came colluding, while hoping no fame

This place was our place, of known
Refuge from all of the big crazy, with
Frightening world still yet to come
Giving us our youngest freedoms
And also so much being in trouble
As kinda neighborhood hoodlums

Far up his Dad's, tall, two-way radio tower
One of us in care would climb
With binoculars to see the dark night
With our pair of walkie talkies held
Warn the others, carousing around
Of any plight, in appearing headlights

Kevan's brother, still alive,  Keith
My other brother by another,  Buddy
Also at first, a weird guy, named Chris
One other member, as second cousin
Who actually, was my very first kiss
When it was hard to aim, lips to miss

All bound as one, by made up signs
And part of something called PSO
Which, if you don't know well, what it
Truly means, then you were definitely
Not a part of the so very high bliss
Which we suffered through so often

Kevan's true nature is clearly proven
Finally, most completely, at his end
In the nature of his wonderful loving
All his family, who also so loved him
And all those other parties to trouble
Who also so loved, really all of him

©  2017 Jim Davis

oh i didn't write something to change the boundaries,
i wanted to capture the digital narrative,
or how the hope of destroying all forms of theology
with our a.i. gravitas, we started to
apply the digital anaesthetic -
and cradle the numbing effects of:
                 us, in experiment,
or: us, in a medium of synthetic material...
             either way pushing us apart friom actually
inhabiting organic matter...
           the many of us these these are merely pawn
in the game...
                  we're pawns in a construction site
of all thing theretical... meaning it's truly 2D by comparison
to the 3D structures we see...
       the element that will truly give a.i. it's ego?
wait wait... why with latin dead and me not speak it
but i have this theoretical baggage of ego?
            ego is only short of en egg should i decide to
write it... arbeit macht frei must come from
counter-conceptualisation of the remains of the roman
empire with self- (hyphen included), to remind people
that it's all about work, and how we will either loose
or free ourselves from the re in the setting sun to echo aeons...
that might be the case...
            but find me a modern day writer who has
to use this medium of people talking over one another...
find me a writer who''s lodged in the internet like
a cherry atop a cake...
          who can't be gagging for a log cabin in some obscure
place, who has to be in the thick of it...
       i'm not writing to change the world,
i'm writing to describe the status quo...
            qua norm, or should i say "norm"...
from status quo comes the question: qua status?
     when i write i think about throwing a pebble into
a lake, compared to throwing a pebble into a river...
compared to throwing a pebble into a sea...
to be honest? throwing a pebble into a sea is
the most involving...
                  and there is poetic subconscious in this,
which i will unearth: the pebble is supposed to mean this:
the three forms of water are supposed to represent
another this:
                                 the pebble is supposed to represent
a soul, a concentration of my my, my sigma (total),
and the three tiers of water are supposed to represent this...
that said, i watched
    an internet video... by angry mgtow...
an answer to white women are rejecting beta males now /
blonde in the belly of the beast...
   first thing: why are men using the internet
deemed more "creepy" than women?
    we've already embarked on this a.i. project for the sole
reason as to overcome theological argument and
religion... we are living in a Frankenstein experiment,
but the "problem" is that we're only working on
the software package of the beast...
         the hardware can wait... we're not going to replace
our fondness for busdrivers and cleaners any time soon...
  we love our manual labourers...
                  american woman! stay away from me!
american woman! mama let me be!
   (it's daily, over and over in my head, that line and
many more kindred sing-alongs)
   we've already been drafted into creating the software
of the a.i. beast, it doesn't matter that the
hardware is already there but that we've stalled its
potential... the software is harder to be bound to
the logistics a limb might be drafted to exhibit basic
tongue of movement...
          all compliments to women:
they're the irrationality that will give the a.i. the spark!
           meaning autonomy...
  and how could i not even sound like an atypical man?
don't date the opposite ***?
              tease urban living with what life's like in
the middle-zone of outer-urbanity, i.e. the case of
a ******* bungalow? ha ha.
                              but this video got me like i might
catch a herring, and i do love pickled herrings...
raw pickled herrings...  it just got me
when i said: i'd like to move to the Faroe Islands...
no please, spare me the misery...
                         it's hard not to be
sexually antagonistic (sexist) - esp. when you're
not a sheikh with a motorboat and a fluffy moustache
that might brush-up against the ******* like
a vibrating ***** while you taste the pastries of flesh
with a saintly glee...
             every time i performed oral ***
on her i felt i left that hot-spot having slobbered
a tonne of lard... smeared a tonne of ****** cream and
that my face became phosphorescent, or an anglerfish:
which is the first sign before you don't even
bother to care to launch a space mission apollo 13
into the depths containing stars... or ask
      ridley scott...
                          i think he's the one dubbed:
coping mechanism... unlike philip k **** this guy's
a coping mechanism, a rare spectacle:
science fiction obstructs actual science...
                     i'm glad he's around and i pray that
we truly explore the depths of seas before going up
there: where the sun don't shine.
                  but this video got to me...
                i can't relate to it, either with the masculine
theory or the feminine experience...
i don't know: it almost feels like i live in a time
capsule at the best part of the 20th century when
i could still buy compact discs in a music shop
on a high-street... when there was no over-arching
agarophobia and claustrophobia telling us
when it was worthwhile to leave the house...
   and when it wasn't...
                         i opened another bottle of wine
that i made myself, and i don't know...
                  we started by ridding ourselves of god
to later replenish that end with a death of us,
it's almost as if we're staging parameters of being human
in this 2D construction site, on the basics:
merely exchanging opinions...
                                         i have, coming naturally:
this curiosity with the internet...
   i remember times of hotmail.com chatrooms...
      it's not as old as some people will claim the burden
to be, but the times when the ****** medium was
being sold to us... before facebook and subsequently otherwise
people were still very much comfortable before the television
set... but then people became less interested in
music and decided music could only exist in software
and not hardware, and i started to forage the berry shrubs of
youtube for music...
  i hope i don't precipitate any thought toward
nostalgia... bearing in mind i did establish myself
on the memory of having been to the cinema
to watch the films blow and austin powers 2:
the spy who shagged me - and in the latter case
i laughed at the shadow-scene like i might at
a laurel and hardy... and in the former case i loved
the music... and that's before comedy became too
"intelligent": too canned laughter...
revisionist existentialist, when dittoing can no longer
mean borrowing, or passing on a meaning,
                     or d.n.a. competition, when the end result
is but ~ (approximate) / ambiguity...
    the too intelliget: canned laughter...
                   the last time i really laughed at the movies
i was watching austin powers 2: the spy who shagged me...
the tent scene... it was the epitome of comedy,
a laurel and hardy slap stick incantation of a viewer...
   i guess it only comes with a sense of an individual
finding something so simple funny, that when
the same individual is dropped like a paratrooper into
a cinema audience: his laughter will become akin to
a virus, and thus become infectious and the individual
in mind because the cursor for canned laughter
later stored, to witness a televised episode of Friends
or Fraiser... which... would you believe it: aren't funny at all.
what was i going on about in the first place?
      ha ha... dunno... which makes Nick Harper a comic
genius... every time i see him
i laugh like a tickled ******* dangling off a bull horn
and two words ring a bell: mein shawl! and yes: it's
dramatically flinged, like i might be found
******* against the wind...
   quick question! five easy pieces rebel or cool hand
luke rebel?!

“One of the effects of living with electronic information is that we live habitually in a state of information overload.”                                                      
                                                                                      Marshall McLuhan
So, let’s review:
Man is a thinking animal.
Stanley Kubrick took us to space to get us to think.
Marshall McLuhan:  “There are no passengers on spaceship earth. We are all crew.”
Hemetucky: what was I thinking?
The Rapture for the 1%:   The Language of the World and The Language of Enthusiasm explains why Sir Richard  Branson’s ****** Galactic will only be taking the richest among us to space.
Ian (Limey Futurologist) Pearson:  “Binary is already the dominant language on Planet Earth with today’s machines having more conversations in 24 hours than the whole of humankind since the birth of Eve.”
Larry Flynt:  “**** is the answer to everything.”
Goofy:  “Yeah, I ****** Minnie. I shagged her rotten, baby!”  
Winston Smith:  “Do it to Julia!”
McNugget Buddies:   “Parts is parts.”                                          
Stunod: “Donuts-a -spella backwards issa stunod.” Think about it.
Tony Soprano.  “You ****** stunod, it's a joke.” (Stunod:  in southern dialect Italian means stupid, or a stupid person) http://(www.urbandictionary.com) define.php?term = stunod  / buy stunod mugs & shirts
Marshall McLuhan:    “Jokes are grievances.”
Mike “The Situation” Sorrentino:  “Antonio Gramsci thought that Stalin and Bolshevism could save him and Italy from Fascism:  stunod.”
The Cloud:  My acceptance of the Cloud into my life and my changeling cyborg self is by no means a capitulation to the surfing life.
Paulo Coehlo:  “The God you seek; that someone who awaits you is you.”
Howard Beale:  “That’s the God *******.”
God:   “Because you’re on television, stunod!”
The Elders of Zion:  Nu?
Meir Kahane:  “Let us not suffer from a national amnesia that causes us to forget who and what we are. No trait is more justified than revenge in the right time and place. I know that American and Israeli elections must be limited only to those who understand that the Arabs are the deadly enemy of the Jewish state, who would bring on us a slow Auschwitz - not with gas, but with knives and hatchets. Vote for Newt!”

**** Jagger:    “Get Yer Ya-Ya's Out” (40th Anniversary Edition, Rolling Stones)
Keith Richards +Fijian palm tree = Stunod.  
Marshall McLuhan:   “The more the data banks record about each of us, the less we exist.”    
Howard Beale: “If there's anybody out there that can look around this demented slaughterhouse of a world we live in and tell me that man is a noble creature, believe me: That man is not only full of *******, that man is  stunod.”
The Nam, Part I:   a demented slaughterhouse within a microcosm and grains of beach sand inside micro-Cosmo Kramer’s shorts. When I was in the Kingdom of The Nam I was always under the influence of some drug, mostly my own pure adrenaline when scared shitless--a frequent condition for me—not only my own piquant adrenal juice but other stuff like ****, hash, Thai stick, *****, amphetamines, H-Horse ******, quaaludes, horse tranquilizers and Russian *****. The drugs were always a welcome and needed friend, a respite from the horrors of war in Southeast Asia. To meditate & levitate, to transmigrate & navigate, to negotiate & regurgitate myself, I needed a head start if I was going to SLIDE through what would be called a wormhole today, making a three-dimensional movement between different parallel universes, a conquest of time and space. Cue our favorite narrator:
Rod Serling:  “You unlock this door with the key of imagination. Beyond it is another dimension--a dimension of sound, a dimension of sight, a dimension of mind. You're moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas. You've just crossed over into the Twilight Zone.”
WWII, Part I:  A slider now, I SLIDE to my father’s war—the War in Europe in the years before V.E. Day, May 8, 1945. Suddenly I’m flipped right out of the jungle to Germania, to Deutschland in the winter of 1945. I am a P.O.W. of the Germans, sent out into the economy as slave labor. It’s February in Dresden, Germany, the Baroque capital of the German state of Saxony, the city called lovingly by her (****!) many lovers: “The Florence of the Elbe.” It was a long time ago, during the war and I Survived to Tell the Tale. I am a wet floppy Kilgore Trout; I’ve flopped right out of the Twilight Zone into what appears to be an underground meat locker in Dresden. There are animal carcasses hanging from the ceiling and the building is known as Slaughterhouse Number 5. I am a lucky ******* because even though I don’t know it yet, I’m in the safest place in the entire city. Cue the Bombing of Dresden, a strategic military bombing by the British Royal Air Force (RAF) and the United States Army Air Force (USAAF).  In four raids, 1,300 heavy bombers dropped more than 3,900 tons of high-explosive bombs and incendiary devices on Dresden. The resulting firestorm destroyed 15 square miles (39 square kilometers) of the city centre and killed many thousands, according to **** figures-- largely discredited by the victors who not only get the spoils but get to spin the history any which way but loose. Casualty figures were 200,000 and death toll estimates went as high as 500,000. Or maybe just 25,000 total, if you believe the ******* Anglo-American valkyries who unleashed the wrath of Khan’s Smoking Joe’s Barbecue Ribs and Hotlinks. Win a war, get a medal and a seat in Congress, maybe the White House; lose a war, get indicted. You’re going to Nuremberg, pilgrim, or the ******* Hague.
Kurt Vonnegut: “World War II was over and I was standing in the middle of Times Square with a Purple Heart on and a purple hard-on.”
Colonel Kurtz:  “We fight for the land that's under our feet, the gold that's in our hands, women that worship the power in our *****.  I summon fire from the sky. Do you know what it is to be a white man who can summon fire from the sky? ...What it means? You can live and die for these things, not silly ideals that are always betrayed  . . . I swallowed a bug. Who are you, captain?”
Willard:   “Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste. I've been around for a long long year, stolen many man's soul and faith. Stuck around St. Petersburg when I saw it was a time for a change. Killed the Tsar and his ministers, Anastasia screamed in vain. I rode a tank, held a gen'rals rank when the blitzkrieg raged and the bodies stank. Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name.”  
WWII, Part II:  The bombing of Dresden had to have been some kind of a violation of some International Code or Geneva Convention. But, of course, the bombers, the Victors, ran the Nuremberg show trials. The bombees didn’t get a chance to say much, didn’t want to make a fuss, seeing how generous the Army of Occupation was with their coal, gasoline, clothing and food handouts. But I was there when it was safe to climb out of the meat locker, and immediately got put to work on the après les bombes clean-up. I was there doing the ***** work, a corpse miner, tasked with collecting the fried grasshopper remains of so many unlucky Krauts who were simply burned alive, like heretics at the Inquisition. So it goes.
William Tecumseh Sherman: “War is Hell, Babaloo!”
Colonel Kilgore: “You can either surf, or you can fight!”
Sam Bottoms: “I dropped a tab of acid at the Do-Long Bridge, so I think I’ll surf for awhile: ‘I see a world in a grain of sand, and a heaven in a wild flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, And eternity in an hour.’ Reading Blake: for years it was the only way I could block out the war, that and losing myself in a bunch of undercover assignments. Yeah, it was William Blake, I-Spy and lots more acid; that how I dealt with PTSD.”
The Nam, Part II, LT DAN:  “Good job, trooper; those ******* drugs got you coming and going, sliding so fast you’ve missed latrine duty 3 times this month. Now go get 5 gallons of diesel fuel and gasoline, mix it together and torch that ******* feces, soldier.”
** Chi Minh:  “This ain't no party, this ain't no disco, this ain't no fooling around.”
***** Friedman:   “The Democrats and Republicans are the same guy admiring himself in the mirror.”

Muhammad Hosni El Sayed Mubarak:   “Vote for Pedro.”
Drew Gilpin Faust, Harvard:    “Fight Fiercely!”
Marshall McLuhan:    “I wouldn’t have seen it if I hadn’t believed it.”
The Author:   I am a disaffected angry old man, formerly a disaffected angry young man; a Hopi-Italian Jew with Chinese offspring, namely my left-brained son, a mathematical genius but having a tough time dealing with idiots, the many truly stunod people in the world.  Then there’s my Rose, my sweet King Lear-jet daughter, like her half-brother, not yet finished paying for my sins. My offspring are haunted, visited upon daily by their father’s  ghosts, ghosts created, ghosts hovering over me, from wars hot and cold and peace lukewarm and cloudy, like the uranium ground contamination on the mesa, visited upon mothers and infants  and children who seek only a glass of cool water from the spring not to be glow worms in the dark, leukocytes made insane by something in the water. My sins, a father’s sins; things I did to curry favor, to ingratiate and advance myself with the 1%, things I did to get ahead in life, to get what I thought my father and others in the ancestral slipstream had failed to get, twice to the Rabbi for a get (Hebrew: גט‎, plural gittin גיטין), to get the edge my kids need now, the edge I never had, and life reduced to an exercise in ultimate combat, little more than a cage fight, man against man and God against all. The things I did for money and position shame me now. And shame is a large  source of my anger.  I will remain angry. I will hang on to my anger at God and myself and all who have been disappointed in me, by me, especially the cavalcade of short-term caretakers, women used, abused, left behind and forgotten. Why am I me? Sometimes I think that’s the way I’m programmed. But it’s okay, like Gaga: “I'm beautiful in my way 'Cause God makes no mistakes I'm on the right track, baby I was born this way' Cause God makes no mistakes, I'm on the right track, baby, I was born this way and will I continue to surf the Cloud: even though God is dead and I don’t believe you, or me, or them.
Basic: remember Basic?

10   A IS FOR ANGER NEXT 20
20   START STEP TWO ANGER KUBLER-ROSS INFINITE LOOP
30   GOTO 10
10   A IS FOR ANGER NEXT 20
20   START STEP TWO ANGER KUBLER-ROSS INFINITE LOOP
30  GOTO 10
10   A IS FOR ANGER NEXT 20
20   START STEP TWO ANGER KUBLER-ROSS INFINITE LOOP
30 A IS FOR ANGER NEXT 30
30  GOTO 10 Ad infinitum

Ta-ta Norma Drainpipe
Though I never shagged you at all
You ****** the rhythm to ******* yourself
While those around you ate crow
They schlepped out of the cleavage
And they ******* into your crumpet
They ******* you on the rowing machine
And they copulated you **** your three *****

And it seems to me you tasted your *****
Like a cigarette lighter in the diarrhoea
Never knowing who to stick it out to
When the ooze congeal from the top drawer
And I would have liked to have had carnal knowledge of you
But I was just a twit
Your cigarette lighter exploded spew out long before
Your whiff never blewout

Stiffness was sticky
The gristliest fat part you ever nibbled
Hollywood cobbled together a wizzofrog
And ******* was the corkage you greased
Even when you conked out
Oh the lubricator still molested you
All the skeletons had to jabber
Was that Marilyn was ***** flashy the starkers

Ta-ta Norma Drainpipe
from the virginal wombat in the twenty—second ghetto
Who smells you as meat as above par than scatological
Olé! than frank our Marilyn Monroe

i was'nt very clever
at maths at park st school
thick as **** when adding up
a mathematics mule

but i was quite good looking
girls where always there
counting not a problem
with gelled black streaky hair

puberty and progress
next stage after kissing
discovered that my *****
was'nt just for *******

then came my dilemma
a valley ****** vexed
blod the bike from blaina
begging to be sexed

how'd you want it bloddwyn?
oooh!....ten inches would be nice
i counted for a minute....
then i shagged her twice

In a suburban, Midwestern split-level, a piano teacher (just turned thirty),
leads an eleven-year old girl and her parents down eight shagged stairs
to the piano room illuminated by backyard sunlight from a sliding glass door.
**** has infested the entire room and a polka-dot-print couch with skirt ruffles
and a low brown coffee table create a makeshift waiting area.
This is where the parents sit writing out checks (the bank president’s daughter
was denied lessons last week for paying too late, too often). A faux-wood
sign slid into a gold-trimmed stand demands Please No Smoking but it’s only 1980
and too overbearing not to offend the parents. Smoke still ascends the ashtrays
atop their classy black uprights with chipped middle Cs.
Nobody in the neighborhood but the piano teacher has a metronome.  
She wears flowered blouses and is slightly overweight in a padded movie-like way;
she has fat, muscled fingers for playing all kinds of notes.
A stubby brown piano is piled with stacks of dog-eared songbooks.
The eleven-year old slouches over the keys attempting simplified Chopin, Bach,
and “Tubular Bells” from The Exorcist, simulating her close-ups for Solid Gold.
Every year there are recital awards, a scale-shaped silver hanger or a coffee cup
with a handle fashioned like a quarter note. One year they all memorize the lives
of the composers. One year the piano teacher is pregnant by a tall, awkward,
bearded husband who practices fencing out in their backyard. Today she tells
the eleven year-old about last night’s dreams where “Christ is holding her baby.”
The parents overhear this and close their checkbooks.

For twenty minutes my father argued with her about the end of my music career.
She acquiesced in the end, saying a girl should always obey her father.
Within the year my teacher did find fame in the papers by obeying her father,
the day he commanded her to steam-clean the crimson stains on the **** carpet,
the day after he shot and stabbed and set afire that awkward, bearded, fencing man,
father of the baby that dreamed-up Jesus was so fond of. And now when she takes
the 5th, I never know if it’s that Amendment or Beethoven’s.
                                                                ­                                       Please No Murdering
the perfect melody with your bars and keys. The piano teacher went on teaching scales
and I imagine her piano is festering like a box of echo and madness, notes floating
through the sliding glass door stuck ajar. I imagine her frumpy, stomping on the stiff
damper pedal that sustains all our dreams.

where's the rain-man? where's the rain-man? where's the rain-man (comparison)? oh wait, in the interpretation of art by feminism: successful artist... house, wife, children... no... chauvinism's interpretation: desolation, desolation, car-boot sale for the rich at sotheby's - or nietzsche the inspiring thought in benito mussolini's mouth.

after edging to provide legal guidance
for the turkish shop by exposing the
legal balance worth a public bench
enclosed in the turk's caravan,
i became known as mathias del rado
(turkçe parçaladı), deltore, de amore (amoré)
bull's charging eye amore... olé! amoré!
que sera, sera... c'est la vie... well,
i do enjoy drinking and pretending to have
my shadow partner in ping-pong
always win... but why would i need to
feed a common consensus of drinking /
****** who masturbated prior having
the scalpel into the soft kangaroo hand-replica
when society eagerly sells and taxes the stimulant?
they criminalise the escapees of reality
ranging from classification A, B to C...
alcoholics aren't even categorised as D... we're
the troupe labelled Z... yet we're the most
economic addicts, we don't deal with shady
warlord economy, just dull political economy...
the two disparage when one shoots you
in the head and the other talks about an opinion
being free from dialectics... an opinion
free from dialectics (akin to shelling,
bullets whizzing past) is what entrenched
the germans and the english in belgium.
loved the film Ida (2013) though, an oscar contender,
not really black narcissus (but that's not the point),
english language movies can't ever capture
the purest existentialism of loneliness,
the way Ida was shot, black & white...
the poverty of the landscape, the Hopper like
moments after serious moments, honing
on the stasis of the the world and movement of
beings... the way one went back to the nunnery
with the truth of being spared by her family's
killer who purposively dug the grave and gave
back the remains of his butchery...
her aunt's suicide that was almost a secondary
comedy of the everyday shattered vase
in dialogue: i'm sorry, i broke the vase,
but did anything happen to you? no...
then there's nothing broken! the way she did her
final routine the last time,
shagged drunk, woke up and forgot it wasn't
her father, took a bath, turned on music,
got dressed in a jacket, but nothing beneath the waist,
and just jumped out of the window...
the music continued playing, the camera froze
on the scene as an infinite number of things
could have happened... then the nun Ida
embodied her nun, took to wearing heels,
a dress, showing her hair, drinking *****
spiralling in a window-curtain, smoking,
embodying her last remnant connection to a past
of jewry, imaging whether she could live out
the temptations suggested by her aunt...
she ****** the saxophone player and while
in bed she asked with dogmatic undertones
of useful regime instilled in her from early on:
and then? and then?
'a dog, children... and after that life's problems,'
he answered her.
she woke early and donned her nun outfit
and with a sense of courage retreated into
the convent. i mean, a great film...
but then mr. turner came up:
painting used to be so expensive,
all the necessary chemists to give aquamarine pigments,
poetry used to be expensive too,
write a poem, send a 100 men into a godforsaken war...
now technology has enabled painting
to be cheap, so cheap that graffiti tagging with spray
does the trick on a concrete grey slab of canvas...
and so poetry has become cheap too,
emotions have cheapened, people do not really
have ennobling emotions that might quake
100 men to go to war... perhaps 10 down the pub,
but war? not really... but it still leaves me detached,
admiring vintage cars from the 20th century on the driveways,
the way the familial cars dwarf trade cars (white mini van, e.g.),
for example the *mercury 1956 montclair 4-door hardtop,
or the ford zephyr zodiac mark ii "lowline" saloon,
back in the day when people didn't make their life
compact, when girls modelling where the day
of modern day pornstars rather than shaped like coat-hangers,
and when people didn't make their life compact
and holiday resorts from mexico to kenya to australia
also compact in terms of their generics of cloning.

Please do not cover this day
With a flowery petty coat
Paint brush or brush stroke
Or blow it full of
Silver lining, star dust
Because tragedy is real

Do not diminish our suffering
Or belittle all our pain
By telling us there is meaning
Because I am telling you
God was not on that mountain
peaceful hilltop farmer left anguished
And landscape is vanguished
Family under rubble
Tragedy is real

So tell me then when your
Oppressive boss dragged you
Stole your pride dignity
Shagged your wife destroyed you
And rocks fell on my child
That the lord
Looks after you
Because tragedy is real

Spend a day lifting rocks
dead bodies needless pain
People screaming children wailing
Then tell me there is meaning
That God has a plan
I say he has none
Because tragedy is real

To make sense
Is absolute nonsense
Only callous and cold
And I would not
Be so bold
To insult with any meaning
For unlike a wife
This wound is not leaving
Or ever healing
And can only be left
Raw, ****** and open

Alright fella, how’s you mate?
Just heard back from the hospital innit.
They got you that liver now?
Yeah man, sorted. Ahh yeah-
did I tell you ‘bout the other day?
There was this ******* mug
by the chippy and he mugged
me off. And I was like mate,
don’t mess - you’ve picked the wrong day
to be a *******, innit.
And he was all like, “Yeah?
*******, mate.” And right, now,
well, I’d had enough by now;
I wanted to teach this mug
a Life-Long Lesson, yeah?
So I said, “I’m not your mate,
and I will end you if you don’t *******, innit.”
Ah man – this was not his day.
You remember back on Tuesday,
when I got that knife that I still use now?
I had it on me, and I shanked him, innit!
Serves him right for being a mug;
sounds like one less ***** on the estate, mate.
Too right blud. Was well funny too, yeah –
cause he was just round the corner, yeah,
I just walked into the chippy like any normal day!
Just like, “Nah, no vinegar please mate.”
There’s never any filth around here now
so we can just shank mug after mug;
and we’ll make it a better place to live, innit.
Oh yeah, and I can get smashed now, innit!
We’ll get some pills and that, yeah?
Have us a party, but don’t invite Gaz, you mug –
he shagged Tracey the other day,
so it is gonna be well awkward now.
Ahh ****! I am well excited, mate.
And mate, make sure you bring some fit girls, innit.
You wanna come round now?* Nah, got a check-up. Yeah,
but it’s not gonna take all day! Shut up, you mug.

German rye bread & Chinese green tea
each turn of the knife
each touch of the kettle
& you send signs to the neighbors
the heavens above
a tapestry of eyes
salt water & tears
& your knees shaking
in little earthquakes
Fly the flag higher
Britishness is an art
in Earl Grey & crumpets
& mad hatter days
boasting of kisses
in mad houses
kisses you've never had
or else someone you shagged
but once
senseless & beaming
letters to Keats
& always, always
maps of the Empire
some builder nostalgic
for old might & power
& ships on the Thames
like in the old paintings.

full grown light magnesium burns on the corner bright
now
now that false dude with the habit
has been removed from the bushes where he shagged
and scared little girls
and the punk drug dealer stood
near the bushes in the dark was
removed by what light
that burns like welder's torches
belches the sun at dark onto sly daredevils those
**** buckets
and the users go around to another place now
the young girls play basketball there
safe into the dark hours
and the brightest light saved
another generation
and it only took two deaths
there
to make it happen

It smells of cigarettes and 12 year old regrets.
Matted shagged rugs with creeping, crawling bugs.
There’s shouting from the back.

Humming coming from a ***** metal box.
A shrill announcement that it's time to get our fill.
We race back while trying not to spill.  

In my bowl is the same hard heat of imitated meat.
I run my finger across the couch. A halo of polyester,
where too long an ember was permitted to fester.

My friend had dawned new clothes,
a flashy new skin, but a month’s gone by.
Holes now show what she’s hidden.

Uncertain, she’ll dawn a new curtain.
Whether a lack of communication or a thoughtful hesitation
to force another her burden.

EDNA: Please sit down, William. How are you today?

WILLIAM: Fine thank you, Edna. How are you? I read that you were having trouble with your piles.

EDNA: Mind your own ******* business. I'm doing the interviewing here.

WILLIAM: Sorry, Edna.

EDNA: Right, now I hear you are a wife-swapper. How did that start?

WILLIAM: Well, Edna, after I had been married a few years, I got fed up with ******* the same **** and so I started wandering a bit. And my ******* wife found out and broke my leg with a sledge hammer.

EDNA: That must have hurt.

WILLIAM: Of course it ******* well hurt. Not only that, it made ******* impossible for months.

EDNA: [laughing sympathetically] And then?

WILLIAM: Well, once the leg mended, since I still fancied a bit of spare nookie, I suggested to my lady wife, we try some wife-swapping.

EDNA: How did she react to your mentioning swinging?

WILLIAM: Swinging? You mean life my wife's fat *******?

EDNA: I'll ignore that. Get on with the story for Christ's sake. You'll bore my readers' **** off.

WILLIAM: As I was saying, she was quite keen on it. In fact she said 'As long as the geezers involved have a bigger **** than yours, I'm up for it'.

EDNA: Yes, I heard your **** was small, William.

WILLIAM: Anyway, we joined the Maidstone Wife-Swappers Club the next week and have been swapping ever since.

EDNA: Ever since? How long ago was that, then?

WILLIAM: About five years ago, Edna. The MWSC meets once a month, there's usually quite a few couples there and we go most times, especially if we've heard there's some new members, if you get my meaning.

EDNA: Members? Members? That's a good one. You should be on the stand-up circuit with material like that, William.

[Edna and William laugh gaily]

EDNA: Tell me, do you swap with only one couple at these swingers parties? Or do you mingle, so to speak? Roughly many couples have you swapped with, then?

WILLIAM: As a result of our participation in at the Maidstone Wife-Swappers meetings, I have shagged 84 women and Eileen, my dear wife, has been ****** by 245 men.

EDNA: You can go now.

WILLIAM: Pardon me?

EDNA: *******.

*[Interview terminated at this point.]

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

the farmer always smells
he's always drinking bells
hi ** the derelict
the farmer always smells

the farmer ****** his wife
it was the **** of his life
hi ** the ***** ****
the farmer ****** his wife

the wife ****** the help
she made the butler yelp
hi ** it must be good
the wife ****** the help

the butler shagged the nurse
it was the butlers curse
hi ** the nurse was old
the butler ****** the nurse

the nurse shagged the horse
he had a big **** of course
hi ** her **** was wide
the nurse shagged the horse

the horse it had the cow
I'm not quite sure how
hi ** nice udders
the horse had a cow

the cow it had the dog
it was a real hard slog
hi ** the stupid cow
the cow had the dog

the dog ******* the cat
it had a tiny ****
hi ** the ***** was nice
the dog ******* the cat

the cat ******* the mouse
it ran inside the house
hi ** the mouse was ******
the cat ******* the mouse

the mouse was covered in cheese
out of the cat it was a squeeze
hi ** all ****** on
the mouse was covered in cheese

the cheese was on their *****
that stuff really sticks
hi ** everyone was spunked
the cheese was on their *****

i don't think i wrote something incoherent... i mean, i could be accussed of having written something incoherent... but the way i look at it, i didn't exactly write a discourse... platonism - theatrical notation of philosophy, theatre as such... became abhorred way-back before platonistic abhorrence of poetry became established in the koranic text... so no... i don't think i wrote something incoherent, i might be guilty of writing it in a berserk-like frenzy... but it's not incoherent... it's simply said in a language, that's says θ = φ, ε = η, o = ω, ξ = χ, so you see... all the aesthetics dwindles... because i wrote this without it being reminiscent of a beautiful conversation under the moon in some exotic place... or a conversation you might have in a supermarket when buying a pint of milk... that's why the above stated greek letters are actually the same... and they exist as "chiral" if you decide to take into consideration aesthetic orthodoxy with origins in making literacy a monopoly... nothing contained in here is incoherent... the only "incoherency" of this piece is that: you wouldn't really talk to someone about it, when buying groceries, or having a nostalgic conversation with a friend... it's ad abstractum... that thing that's also not bound to any parliament or church.

some people really do aspire to be quenched
by the phenomenon status...
   to be the slang first said,
   to be the last, doctrine fed,
          i admire these people, well, admire,
like i'd admire king Solomon -
who prayed to be bewstowed by wisdom,
and what came of his prayer?
              a weak heart, and a walrus status
with a harem...
        i hold my **** like king David holds the lyre...
call it what you want...
              but you see a shagged out beauty like
Dakota Skye, and you just have to bash out
the tennis *****...
                   it comes naturally:
will i get a crown for celibacy, or should i wait
for prostate cancer...
          is there anyone in the vicinity to help me out?
not really...
i can't fanticise about either of my neighbours...
   ****-wits attest to the tried path of protestantism's
freedom-libido...
            but what i'm curious about more perverse
than that... perosnal hygiene isn't really the question
being asked...
                  yes, take a ****, partake in the double-quickie...
it almost feels like ******* and taking a ****
is a *******'s worth of v.i.p. pass when
they say shalom, you ease out the **** and
*******... hence the ******* perfume to boot...
   why do it in the shower?
       why get comfy and do it in an armchair?
   lucky me... i need no *****...
and doubly-lucky me: i read enough marquis de sade...
   oh no, he's not repetitive in his book *******,
he's lost the ability to lullaby you to sleep
strapped to a chair in a sadist's disneyland by now...
       but hell: i see no need to glorify these assertions,
i'm just gagging for the moment my
peers will find it boring doing what they do,
when they reach middle-age and have forgotten
******* per se, as a driving factor for
imagination, or how one thrives on keeping
imagination alive by jerking off...
            it becomes a story of: not really looking
for my dream girl... just give me anything that moves
and i'll be content...
                 when was the last time you
picked up a bisexual thai girl in a park off a bench,
took her home, played her some jazz, and later
****** her in the garden by the moonlight?
       what finally convinced her?
in her own words: i've never seen so many books...
   well yeah, that's modesty creeping up on me.
    and unless you're not using the medicine:
what?! you gonna start imagining ******* your mother?
    the point is that Kant can never become a
populist philosopher... he made his life so: that
he never encountered the weitgheist of Napoleon
at Juna... Kant wasn't the antithesis of Marxism...
      you can't take Kant to a movie premier in Leicester Sq....
   you can take Kant to the pulpit...
   sure thing, you can take Hegel, as you do,
to get people mobilised...
       that's why i prefer Kant in that he gave me something
to work on... as much as i admire
                  the people subjected to creating phenomenons of
themselves... so that people can be cloned and bleached
and be told the marching orders: these days musicians
are the kings... poets are the paupers...
   i identify with neither...
                       i mean, just the one word he invented,
if you want to ask me about a priori and a posteriori
atypical things people regurgitate about Kant,
i'm not your man...
                      if i can salute to the pig through of everything
and nothing,
                       i'll make a statue from oyster shells instead...
it's enough that i told you what Kant wrote
that 0 = negation...
                               but given what i'm trying to
really say is the people who give us individuality...
it doesn't matter whether you live in a democracy or
an autocracy...
   the matter is simpler, because only one word has
any meaning right now: to congregate at the altar of
the noumenon...
                               res per se... that the latin translation...
   i don't know how best to poeticise the blurry line
between psychiatry and philosophy, given that most
    psychiatrists would put philosophers in bird cages
and asked them to howl like wolves rather than
tweet like budgies...
                            all i can say about a priori
and a posteriori though?
                                              outside of time and space,
a bit like: beyond good and evil...
    a priori i denote by the right-wing word pure...
   and a posteriori by the      ditto           word impure...
    ethnical alliance of words, you know how the 20th century
story goes...
                      a priori: a blank canvas...
          a posteriori: the painting...
                          i'm not going to stutter on the word
knowledge any time soon...
                                        i see no fascination with knowledge,
i know the world is more transit and fleeting
if i sentence my emotional whole to doubt,
than if i sentence it to denial...
                      to a rigidness... that i sentence it to a permanence,
an illusion, of growing old and having all the lovelies
at my biding, in a political cartwheel...
                           either knowledge diminishes doubt,
or it embraces denial... but the wavering of thought can't
be detached from thinking...
                     with thought being ascribed denial rather than
doubt... it soon morphs into delusion...
                 can you really sport that sort of blonde quiff and
speak about red buttons?
    it's not even Friday and i'm sorta waiting for a mob
boxing match in Washington... easy kicks...
     it's Klitschko vs. Tyson on the cards,
   if i'm not feeling it... then all the past electorate weeks
have been a waste... all the protests signifying a jack-in-a-box...
who escaped it as nothing but purple puff...
and rarely, rarely... do you see people asking
for riches in terms of the words they use...
     vocab materialism is a bit like actual materialism...
a gold-plated toilet seat is about as sought-after as a word
    without being systematically used to banish synonyms...
the horrid affair of english intellectualism...
   the presupposed moral authority...
                            i mean, they moralise *******,
you go to a brothel... they strap a pair of dove wings to prostitutes
and call you a ****...
                          and there's you doing the opposite
of what should attract *******...
       i mean: you pay an extra ten quid to ****** mollest her
oyster of a *******...
                   that has to be some sort of Gethsemane *******...
oh please lord: when will it end?! (enter herr cackle,
the self-righteous faun, dressed as a magpie)...
        never knew that a kiss meant so much
when you didn't put 1 with 2 to make it a *******
and asked the devil to debate: what did i wrong here?
ah, that bit... jumped in the bath and soaked myself
in cold water while she remained, bed bound and *******...
    god: those tickling *****!
                    i could do it 20 times a day and i'd still feel
goosebumps all over them...
                     it's like that talk of the ghost-limb
when people get gangrene / frostbite amputations...
    well, that's what i call a case of "castrato" -
             i'm getting the impressions i lost them to
serve the Catholic church... shame the pharaohs of egypt
never asked the eunuchs how to sing...
   real shame that... a right ol' spot of bother...
   they were the harem toys when the pharaoh couldn't keep up,
i say: there's a limit... the ***** count sometimes
doesn't compete with the libido...
after a while it dilutes and you're shooting blanks...
   but you have a harem of 3000 ladies, king Solomon...
how will you keep them harem bound?
   king Solomon also said: i need 300 pristine virgins
to be castrated... that's 3 to 10 ratio... but since i'm the king
i need my lineage...
and remember that crazy cat lady?
                          she kept 30 cats and those 30 cats just said:
the lady's o.k.... all these 29 cuddly ***** are bothering my
beauty sleep! dogs can sniff each other up... cats?
primo solipsists... they need their personal space...
            the "crazy" cat lady wasn't crazy, the 30 cats became
demented... last time i heard tigers weren't responsible for
wilderbeast stampedes...
                 solipsists... well: "solipsists"... bound to the strict
natural dictum of their species...
              don't you think tigers would love to
roam like hyenas or wolves, or laze like lions?
                        i was really talking about Kant through
this Dionysian frenzy, wasn't i?
                     how when not to look toward
imitating a noumenon or forging out a route toward
such a circumstance?
                            even Heidegger move away from
this ultimate pinpoint...
                                Heidegger claimed that his dasein
made very little of a constancy of the Cartesian thing,
meaning that he couldn't stand-still...
         that somehow being was greather than stasis...
which already create
            the Kantian parallel predating Heidegger himself...
   the suffix of dasein (sein) is what's considered thought...
         it's a prophetic circumstance of seeing a there,
necessarily a future time... and hence him being branded
**** eternal... when in fact that can't be the case...
            nonetheless Kant moved away from Descartes
and said: res per se...
                          and not res cogitans...
he did so, as is apparent in his critique by isolating
                       the precursor: "i think" as an ambiguous fact...
  ambiguous in a sense of: providng the encapsulating
  mechanics for what is best attested as the populist vocab
calls it: eccentricity of "i am" - that which attracts
         the reversal of "i think" being an ambiguous fact,
and more of a chance to demand a circus, of not being
quiet adept at making "i think" an amiguous fact...
and beside the circus of the "madman", having qualms
   as to why adrenaline took over the argument for
and purpose of there being thought involved.
        -  oh honey... i'll mind-******* and eat your
refrigerator out, and by the end we'll be singing sweet ol'
Alabama wishing for a single summer by a lake
frolicking like two butterflies... if this **** can ever come to
an end   -
             Kant didn't, in the cursor that's i am, posit as
a necessary ambiguity... (the res and res per se
were already established) -
                   hence Heidegger had to come...
and make thinking the ambiguity... and that ambiguity did
come, in the form of the ad abstracto there;
                         thinking fizzled out (as Heidegger himself
concluded: we're still not thinking) -
            it's not that we're not thinking, it's that not being "there"
      dictates to us the subsequently not being -
         i.e. that's the borderline distinction -
          by actually being "there" we wouldn't be thinking anyway...
no one thought in Auschwitz...
                            there was no thought encompassed in that hell...
it was dogmatism on one side, versus natural intuition on
the other...  the one side being nurtured by political dogma:
the latter half being bound to an unforgiving nature
                  of man's testmanet outside of all fears of the natural,
and elemental torture...
   as man is prone: with the fewer number of natural
tragedies... he's bound to reach for the godhead and speak
with a tongue, like the sound of Xerxes ordering the Hellespont
to be whipped still..
                  and i know this will have very or only little
appeal in the anglophone world...
                       i'm not at all bothered by it...
what's obstructing the anglophone sphere is this basic need
to pray at the altar of pragmatism...
    you can't make language complicated enough these days...
   philosophy isn't recognised as something beyond
the simple arithmetic of: i can make my speech coherent...
   or... i can write a, b, c, d, e... like Kant says of mathematical
language: 1 + 1 = 2... but then you come to university
level mathematics... and it's no longer 1 + 1 = 2 to be concerned
with... that's what philosophy testifies... a complexity beyond
learning a foreign language, so you can live in Paris,
          and buy groceries, or raise a family... so:
   even language these days can't be deemed worthy of
complication... which, mind you, on my behalf
would make me throw a punch in your face... and your attempt
at complication language a mere ugh... and me then
applauding you toward the current simplicity of the world
affairs... or at least to the psychiatric parlour...
    because... last time i heard... only anti-psychiatrists
bothered to read philosophy books... actual psychiatirsts
either read pharmacology booktlets for the poor...
    and those sofa-session monologues stemming from Freud
of rich under-****** or over-zelous in dreaming rich kids.

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 2, 2016)

We’ve been framed in one of those initially sticky
new snaps of plastic advent technology. At my birth
a blast of blue and blood orange. All of us in diminutive
stiff portraits, bordered in white. Mother is chic-thin,

hair towering in one last hurrah for the old decade,
Byzantine print blouse to match her solid orange Capris.
Big brother is seven, bully-freckled in light blue and crying
under his father’s arm. This will turn to sublimated rage.

The middle boy is off to the side, at five years dubious.
He is also sporting patterns of gray Byzantine. His shoe is untied
and we will not remember the same things. A dark void
of couch separates him and his feet are hanging

high above a rug which is dutifully shagged and tan
as if we’re all fleas on the hide of Benji. The couch is rough,
upholstered in a Baroque of dark blue and other blues
like an act foretelling a tough forthcoming.

Dad has the forehead of high Renaissance.
He’s wearing some suede kind of loafer and the confidence
of someone who has just learned to set a camera timer.
I don’t know where his glasses are or if there were any yet.

What a smart bunch or soon to be smart bunch.
I am the fat one, a diamond of balancing white
in my mother’s polyester lap, not yet one, most probably
kicking,  noticeably turned to the crying brother

as if I’m full of knowledge about what this means
and how delicate the emotional balance will always be.
I remember the wallpaper felt like dried wheat.
Despite everything, we usually all vote pretty much the same.

Miryam sits at the bar
sipping a Bacardi,
bumming a smoke
from a packet open
on the bar top.

Hear you went
to Fez today,
she says.

Yes, it was like
something out
of Bible times,
you say,
camels, donkeys,
people in head gear
and gowns and such.

I would have come,
she says,
but I was too
shagged out
after the night before.

You eye her,
the tight curly
red hair,
blue eyes,
red lips.

I made it ok,
you say.

Don't know how,
she says,
you left after I did.

And you didn't come in
the tent
for a goodnight
kiss or more,
she adds,
staring at you.

Thought moaning Minnie
would be back,
you say.

She didn't show
until hours after;
been having it off
with that ex-army guy
of yours.

So that’s where
he went,
you say,
taking a quick sip
of your wine.

I'd have stayed
if I'd known.

Miryam inhales deeply,
then exhales.

Where's Army boy now?
she asks.

No idea,
joined the navy
for all I care,
you say.

We could now
if you like,
she says.

Where?
You take in
her tight blouse,
tight skirt
with a slit
at the side,
showing thigh.

One of those
sand dunes,
they're deep enough
to hide us,
she says.

Now?
Why not?
What if someone
comes over
and sees us?
They see us.

Nothing new
in what we'll be doing.

She drains
her Bacardi,
puts the glass down
on the bar top.

Well?
Under
the Moroccan sun?  
Either you do
or you don't,
she says,
getting off
the bar stool,
showing more thigh,
slim legs, sandals.

You drain your wine,
and follow her
from the bar
of the base camp,
and down
between the tents
and onto the beach
towards the sand dunes.

She has a fine sway
of hips, you note
as she walks in front.

The sun warms you,
sand beneath
your feet, some one
plays a flute
from across the way,
a voice sings.

She finds
a deep sand dune,
and you both
get down inside,
she kisses
straight away,
lips to lips stuff,
tongues,
hands undoing,
and taking
stuff off,
her body drinking
in the sun.

You and the pecker,
ready to go,
and the guys
still singing
from the camp,
flute still playing,
and she smells
of sun oil
and Bacardi
and stale
cigarettes,
but its all go
no time
for regrets.

Nirbhaya

I might cry, I might weep, I might grieve,
But today you have to perceive,
A truth for my relieve.
I know you know, I won't deceive.

She called me Nirbhaya, my mother,
Fearless and brave I ought to be.
Something she knew about this world,
So harsh it is meant to be.

It was a usual night,
all strangers but no fright.
I took the same road to home,
the road which guarded for years in lone.

I walked the lonely road,
I do not fear, my name held my hope.
All I fear is that it do not end,
as hope is no less than a rope.

It varies in length,
It varies in strength,
It's nothing to cloy,
But it's not a forever joy.

The roads were getting longer,
My heart wore a dismal veil.
It all seemed so tedious to reach,
with fright it started a peculiar gale.

I must not stop, I must go on,
I held my hope and I went on.
Why do I fear if nothing good appear,
In the name of my god I can cheer.

Far at the horizon some shapes appeared,
I held my breath, the breeze were wierd.
I held my faith and like a knight I went,
No horse, no shield, what on earth did I meant.

In my bravery I was lost,
Thence the men appeared.
What a fool I was for what will it cost,
The dreary eyes with a dreary beard.

Side by side they shoved,
The men not more than two.
All my breaths were choked,
What did they meant to do.

I scrambled at once,
Nor besides nor abaft I looked.
The footsteps broke the silence,
The silent night was spooked.

Out of the blue my hand was seized,
All at once I turned.
The dreadful two met my eyes,
Out my heart it burned.

“Unhand me! let me go!”,
To break loose I tried.
Tears did rolled down my cheeks,
I screamed and yelled and cried.

No good men did heard me,
No one did follow.
What pleasures would they earn,
hearing me weep and wallow.

All my yells were ceased,
tried to flee through my eyes.
Top to bottom I was teased,
till every yell turned to sighs.

Eftsoon my eyes wore a veil,
fear spread its wings.
None to follow the trail,
A dark melody it sings.

I resisted their temptation,
Down the road I was shuffled.
I totterd while learning to walk,
But no one ever hustled.

In a while the groping concluded,
And out my heart I sobbed.
Henceforth a while I stood untouched,
But still the painful heartbeats throbbed.

I faltered, and horrified I stood,
Darkness  engulped my eyes.
Every hope did swept,
Soaked into the veil that ties.

But not for too long I enjoyed,
this harrowing freedom of mine.
A palm explored the wonders,
that groping reckless swine.

He mauled as the time passed by,
He laughed as I cried.
I was and feeble,
the more I weeped the more he tried.

One by one they parted,
Piece by piece he ripped my skin.
Victim of the vigorous haste,
slivered top and slivered jeans off the shin.

Soon he swayed all my flesh,
With all his fingers he plied.
Groped my skin with all his filth,
I weeped and sobbed and cried.

Trying to hide the genitals,
There I stood naked.
What else  men can do,
It was anticipated.

Disobliging did annoy ,
Forthwith the veil was swept.
I was a plaything for their joy,
All my grieve I wept.

From one to another I was tossed ,
each leaving a scar.
Feasting their wildest lust,
all the planets and I their star.

A few more added,
added to the raging set.
Brawling for my flesh,
Like their dreams they met.

Off they took their covers ,
Little by little they shed.
A few times they snick,
All my faith I bled.

All my hopes I lost,
Their scrubbing skin did scraped.
It’s facile to die a thousand times,
Then for once being *****.

So inhumanly it pierced,
Out my heart it ripped.
Tears did impelled down my cheeks ,
The cheeks made to be felt or kissed.

Draining smoke and widdle and ***,
Turn by turn they shagged.
Offering an eternal torment,
All my grace they blagged.

Seconds felt like hours,
hours like days .
No wonder mere humans were they,
The devil hath their ways.

Like a setting sun they frazzled,
a sun of endless grieve.
I the wonky that they dazzled,
Or what did they perceive.

I should not walk the roads,
Nor I should talk to thee.
For I will turn to a harlot,
Who knows what else you might see.

Soon I was abandoned ,
withered by some ghoul.
I wasn’t the pioneer,
The devil needed a new soul.

The dark night overwhelmed,
Leaving me unconsumed, uneaten,untouched.
My snivel sealed through the silence,
Bethinking how they groped or clutched.

Like every other night this one too,
Passed in grieves that can’t be undone.
Day and night, night and day,
Who can seize the cycles of the sun.

Countless nights have passed ,
My heart still miss some beats .
Beseech the will to pretermit ,
The memory has it on its sheets.

I saw no good men that day,
No god did appear.
I could never raise my head and stay,
This memory will never disappear.

What a fool I was ,
I should have run.
But had I any choice,
to flee or to shun.

If not here then there,
Round in the world somewhere,
They will come for it, the bust,
to feed the endless lust.

I saw no good men that day,
No god did appear .
Just a few men to say,
I bought a disgrace, I should disappear.

Why was i a shame ?,
All my esteem they drown.
Those lecherous souls do gladly glide,
bearing a princely crown.

I was the culprit,
They were young and proud.
I was looted of my treasure,
Not all they took but left a shroud.

The beasts in there were grim,
The nobles out here no less.
To them my yells were hymm,
To them I lost my nobelesse.

counting days can be cozy
so it's not so shagged like bleeding shot man
dragging himself through sewer about to die
but can be a case of days
here and gone again

like a million little murders.

**** it! the word is YOLO!
You Only Love Once
everything that came before
or follows after
is written of as collateral damage.

But once your drunk, HA!
once your drunk the world is your oyster
to **** on as you please.
Who likes oyster anyway.

I will whirl my worries away
and bring them up in delightful foamy colors
as I spin the world out of control
till all your faces disappears in the blur
of a world that seems to be moving forward
without me.

Don't be a ******* idiot.
Text her , you lost your dignity when
you shagged the tree a few blocks back.
Don't you dare cry, just swear
and **** your darling.

If I was drunk, but alas
intoxication is a *****, because
you lost me whilst ******* on oysters,
and while you stole my heart
I wish you'd stop calling me a tree.
I wish you were collateral damage.
I wish I was drunk- with you.

Words ricochet inside my brain,
I can't find a way to block the pain.
With their every punch, their every threat,
The closer to the edge I get.
They lace a noose around my neck,
Their swords at my back, it's an upward trek.

Fighting for a chance to survive,
Without enough light to really thrive.
My wrists are tied, my mouth is gagged,
My soul's in tatters, my mind is shagged.
My heart has broken into unfixable pieces,
I'm running out of hope, I need more reasons.

Throw me behind bars, take away my freedom,
Someday you will pay for what you have done.
You tore off my wings, because you wanted to fly,
You took away my pride, stole me away from my sky.
So beware, someday I'll break free from these chains,
And I will laugh in your face, for my glory is your bane.

She currently
Purred Fee *****-facts
Dylans made Millions
She- blown off
The Catwalk
Girl-edgy talk
ekkh_ Sheik
She could
Cats Meow
any Shrink

Her alley Bistro
lego-land

That maestro
Teeth decay
Licking milk
off the
ground
Purr- payday

He's roaring
Twenty years
old Cheetah
May the  force
Be with you
forever young
Star Wars Hans
Solo

Blowing in
the wind
Serengeti
((The Drug Catnip))
So tucked in
his Lamborghini
Paws carwash

Where is
Sponge Bob
Pixie-bob snag

All shagged
Austin Power
with Mini-me
layered bob
That Chausie
sorry
You need
to go
home
My Lassie__

I hate it when you go away,
brings ****** darkness to my days,
what you get up to is a ****** haze,
and it make my anxious hard race.
   It's that idea of you comin back all wrong,
sad, shagged, corrupted and ugly or crippled like a ****.
sharing life with you makes me less jealous strong.
   Don't like it when you're drunk especially when you're not with me,
I care for your health,
your not the ****** same and I get so worried,
and I think manipualtive ***** will get you into stuff,
and robb you of your secrets that are close to me,
I won't mention any cuntie names.
   I can only hope you don't do something unattractive,
you know my normal bits,
they make me feel physically sick,
because to put it bluntly,
putting up with this ****,
makes me feel like I can't ******* live!

There is a man
I notice sometimes
From classroom windows
Across the school
Who rides a raging
Metallic beast
With a razor reach
And craving for cuts
Of grass that never stops growing,

He’s soaked in a midday sun
Peeking around a sea in the sky
Dotted with whispers of white,
And drenched in his thoughts
As the hum of the engine
Shrugs off the blurred haze
Of traffic close by,

And he ponders:
“Does this grass feel pain?”
As his blade sweeps away
The shagged green fingers,
For sometimes among
The clean straights he trims
And behind the static of
Mindless television too late at night
He imagines the grass
Sprung from the ground
To be himself,
Lost among a crowd,
Nothing more than a hint of color
In some dizzying hue,
A hair on the Earth
No one would care to lose,

And while he sighs
Once every week or so
And shifts into gear
The lawn to be turned slick
And shiny,
Well kept
By some unsung hero,
The subtle acknowledgements
Chime in hushed admiration
To his unhearing ears.

some August, July, or September. Some ordinary bliss, a magic. Your annual short-fall. An epitome, that overcomes, the hate in register octave. Time to rearrange the furniture. By now you should have found things to do at night, or Jesus. In the bedrooms where the moon men climb and claw. You are frazzled by sheets and pillow cases. The river rooks, your yellow shirt and blue jeans too. Them too. So many months have passed, so far as I could count, those moments when we grew so farther apart, or those moments, when we so closely grew together. That either, our choice of ice cream flavor became the same, or by a standard we resented the same kind of person, or on some eve not.

That it could make me shake, and sometimes even in the advesperating light I could see bits of your face in the wood paneling of my basement bedroom, or in the dissipating smoke of a cigarette I could make out a part of your cheeks and chin and nose. The small nose that I picked every chance I got. Lovely hatred, the glaring eyes you rattled me with or the sad letters and phone calls and your voice singing on my answering machine but then asking, inquiring to me. It's four in the morning and you're asking questions and I'm not speaking, my back arched and my legs and arms wrapped into my gut in the corner of the room, at the corner of my bed- that I could not April the 4th name the songs that you worshipped, if any, for tonight I could mention the acutely impossible grief, calls from the miserably disappointed. And ***** the rooms, those chairs of annoying, repetitive do-gooders, all of you, babbling buffoons in the pews and in the basements. The sides of your triangle softening into a mush, that you can't even keep your jawlines in focus. I hate you. That you could not even bare the inscription of an honesty so pronounced that it would unlock you from your tyranny of the eyes trailing off into space and nothingness, or follow the lines from the heft of your baited breaths, cold, hard *******.

There is good reason I am not god. I would spite the self-smitten, and helve the world inside out of your glory hole opus and irresistibleness. But should our letters over shine our bits, that we have lived our great adventures over, it would not be enough for me. And had you been shown the lives of our shadows, or could you not seize the light which has found you. I never forgave you, and instead, peeled my eyes back into my dry estate. Something more than every chance that was shucked from your pallid, mortal form. You were the life inside me and the words that ebbed from my infernal sores

I just wanted to make an art house out of popsicle sticks, a room out of acorns and limes. That maybe when you made your fashion dreams announced and I believed, that I could say ha-ha. An abundant melancholy shaped to a disparate creature shagged by a monster toiled in his rag and repugnance. I could have been alone in New England shaping the world on cobblestone streets, or say, kissing an hour in an airport parking garage gleefully strapped with excite and eagerness. Maybe I was just alone. Out of every postcard that I ever sent, giant quaffs of pink sugar, a clutch of headless penguins, the Newport Coast tide, that I could never be your prize and climb out to escape with you from your pain.

one day I was driving
along a long country road
when I spotted a  bird with a *****
is was  so long and thick
I strangely wanted just one lick

I just stared for a  long time
I looked like a bate on a fishing line
I pulled over in a hurry
and scraned down a whole McFlurry

I lay down in the grass net  in hand
slowly crawling across the land
I swung  my net as fast I can
It got  trapped under the net and I took it home to do a thorough scan

I skidded into my drive
with a gleaming look in my eyes
I sprinted up stars to my bed
it was so confused by the whole thing I did not haft to hit it with led

I pinned it down to examen
and waited to se what would happen
many hours later I was sufficed and I put the poor thing down with a led pipe

i wonder lonely
with a frown
long faced pony
in a dressing gown.

some are curious
as to where to buy
something so spurious
for four legged guy.

i say to them "trot on".
donkeys,this time of day,
should be braying upon
their pews made of hay.

feeling a bit shagged,
from crossing the gorge,
to avoid the old nag
i have a pint in the george

There always seems to be plenty ladies of the night
Some of them are black girls and some of them are white
A few of them will kiss you a few of them may bite
There are ones that **** you those ones are quite alright
All of them will ******* their ***** are not that tight
A lot are quite good looking but lots look ******* *****

All have well used *****'s but that's just what you'd expect
But it doesn't really matter as long as your *****
You may be into **** their ***** you don't neglect
A request to use a rubber their wishes you respect.
Enough cash is needed both holes you can inject
But the price for extra services is higher I suspect

You have to be quite wary there are some well used pro's.
They've been around for years, ***** worn from lots of goes
Their naked body's have been seen in lots of pervy shows.
Just how many ***** they've ******, no one really knows.
So many fellows gobbled off ***** ****** and ***** blows
Some are old and past it but their just ***** hoes

There was one such lady back in my home town.
Her salty ****** was waiting beneath her smelly gown
The guys that she's been ******* had a disconcerting frown
This is why that ugly ***** was always ****** facedown.
Deep inside her crusty **** their ***** would surely drown.
Especially now her **** juices have turned to a dark brown

Why **** a **** that's manky with such a smelly pong.
It isn't good if that filthy stench smells so ****** strong
Stupid fellows ****** that hole using their desperate ****
But Surely ******* that ugly hag must have been so wrong.
I guess it was a testament for her being a ***** so long
And that's why all the locals are singing her this song

And...
Ten-Bob-Annie
Had a manky *****
But still the wankers paid
She was an ugly ***,
Should have just said no
So desperate to get laid.
She didn't charge much,
For her smelly crotch.
It was definitely decayed.
Never used a rubber,
Just a ***** scrubber.
If your willing to downgrade.
She lived down Abbey road
Smells like a commode
A wonder anybody stayed.
Just so that you know,
Her name is Audrey stowe
And she didn't make the grade

When her grandchildren went to school they got teased and ragged.
Because of all the ***** men that Audrey ****** and shagged.
***** got stuck with stickiness some got caught and snagged
That ***** smelly **** of hers should be bound and gagged.
The usage needs preventing it could be sealed and bagged
OR her disgusting antics monitored and electronically tagged

Ten-Bob-Annie was painted on the wall above of Audrey's door
I don't know why she got so upset because it attracted more.
Stupid guys just wanting *** at least there where three or four
Take my advice and steer clear of that worn out ******* *****.
Her daughter Debbie was the same they'll make your shaft so sore
Those two infested well used ***** are nothing to adore

Now Audrey's daughter Debbie she was just as bad.
She ****** just as many men as her ***** mother had.
They wasn't really bothered they would have any lad
Just a couple of fat slags they'd even **** your dad.
But they never got there hands on me of that I was so glad
If I had even gone there well I would have been quite mad

We were at it like a couple of rabbits back then…
Eating salad I mean! Trying to lose weight!

Laying off the *****… keeping up the exercise.
press ups till you’re dizzy, can’t see straight
And look at them rippling thighs!
Never having a lie in or getting up deliciously late.
But running on the beach early doors, increasing the heart rate.

Heart and lungs that’s the thing - get a proper sweat on!
So good? Yeah! A crafty beer? Well maybe - but please, don’t let on.

The odd indiscretion is OK as long as it doesn’t show.
But the day of reckoning’s looming again and they’ll all have to know…
And in spite of all your calorie counting and life becoming a blur.
On the scales (these 'ere must be wrong) you’re just the same as you were!

Come Friday…”Christopher has had another good week everyone; he’s lost 6 ounces!!”
Daily exercise? Look at them rippling thighs!!

But I’ve done me best I’m on rice crackers with lemon zest
three times every day… I’m exercising… she’s criticising
And I’m worried I’ll waste away!
"No" she says… "your love handles haven’t disappeared.
Until they do it’s more of this and less of that.
And…you’re too shagged out anyway!"

Weight Loss... I don't give a toss!

Oh Annette Tidy, what have you been up to now
Writings on the bus stop, says you've been a filthy cow
I know it's only hearsay, by the use of your meow
***** ****'s been ****** again, I wish that I knew how

A simple stroll on down the street, the shelter comes in sight
Once a **** always a ****, it seems your ****'s not tight
Poor old Den is not the one, who's getting ****** tonight
An ugly **** you maybe, that's if the text is right

Oh Annette Tidy, are you such an ugly ****
Are you fat and overweight, moist folds that crease and sag
****** ability you seem to have, to make men's *****'s wag
Maybe you are not that bad, when you always get a ****

*** has been displayed, on top of the phone box
That's only if you've been shagged, by some unsavoury *****
I can not really comment, if you've had a guy with pox
A lovely feeling had by all, when getting off your rocks

Oh Annette Tidy, you have been with a new man
You've cheated on Dennis again, just like an old **** can
It could be propaganda, or part of a malicious plan
Slaggy ***** get all the press, and I'm their biggest fan

You'll never change the word is out, for everyone to see
I am not so positive if your diseased, and you have ***
Scribbles suggest your *** is bad, but I'll just let it be
I don't know if it is true, so it doesn't bother me

Oh Annette Tidy, are you such a ***** girl
It doesn't really matter, if your not as white as pearl
Nasty girls I do not mind, with every twist and twirl
Your reputation is exposed, so give my **** a whirl

If your not that kind of girl, somebody has a grudge
Acquaintances have not been met, so who am I to judge
I can be subjective, if you let me try your fudge
Juices squeezed in ecstasy, when I give your fruit a nudge

Oh Annette Tidy, is your ***** all that good
Expose yourself in front of me, to activate my wood
If your as bad as it is said,  I don't know if I should
Your probably like all other girls, beneath your knicker hood

Are you really all that Tidy, if you've messed around so much
Is fleshy ***** still neatly tucked, or dangling on your crouch
I'd **** like a rampant rabbit, if let me in your hutch
If you like it up the ****, two guys can ******* Dutch

Oh Annette Tidy , do you have *** holes that smell
Your supposedly a ***** ****, but that's just kiss and tell
Is plunging deep inside you, equivalent to "******* hell"
Just what exactly is the status, of your *** stained well

If your on your period , then remove your ***** pad
A deep red hole is okay, with everyone you've had
I'm sure your **** is bearable, and really not that bad
**** is a great relief, a nice *** and I am glad

Oh Annette Tidy, does your wet slit really stink
With everything that's said, I don't know what to think
It probably has a **** smell, good *** and creamy pink
Just the way that it should be, a place I'd like to sink

Time has passed since ***** *****, were written on the wall
I think your ****** preferences, are not that bad at all
If what is written supposed to be, set make you fall
Then failure is inevitable, because your *** is on the ball

Oh Annette Tidy , how does your hater know your ****** perks
Is he already ******* you, in between those other jerks
Could he be bedroom stalking, who knows the place he lurks
He's probably ****** jealousy, cos you have a **** that works

Future writings I will seek, I don't know where or when
Your nemesis is bound to strike, with his vindictive pervert pen
One day they'll be more escapades, so I will wait till then
****** **** will be revealed. . .Oh Annette Tidy's back again

And she jumped
She jumped out of her comfortable, plush launching pad
And she tried
She tried to set every fan to crosswind towards
And she hoped
She hoped that, when she jumped, her cape would carry her
And she fell
She fell onto the shagged carpet, on her hands and knees
And she did
She did all of this, yet she moved on to more fun
And she went
She went on to ride her bike, more confident in her peddling, than jumping
And she knew
She knew that the ground was much safer

A girl called Luna wished someone found her sooner.
Out in the forest, a rope as her tether.
Whatever. She didn't care.
She wondered what they'd think once they found her there.
She left a sign, "no need to stare",
Something hidden, nothing to share.

Her parents met, shagged, got pregnant,
Shacked up, split up, the ****** slipped up.
She grew up in a broken home, alone,
Only a picture of her dad to show.
Wasn't loved, didn't need it.
Found with desire it was easier to hide it.
Loss of control led to fear at home.
So she managed her food.
She didn't grow, stayed 5ft 4.
But eating wasn't enough, she needed more.
She can't recall how the blade first met her skin.
Now withdrawl's the symptoms of keeping it in.
"What's that?", "Just a scratch (that grazed her bone)".
"Long sleeves?", "For the cold (that chilled her thoughts)".
Only 14, what a dream snatched away.
A boy came along, took her innocent days.
He was an ambiguous malaise
But was something solid amongst the waves.
Still people leave, like him on the slightest breeze.
Her arms filled with scabs like the bark on the trees.
Her stomach felt full so she got on two knees
And purged it.
Her mum clocked, urged it to stop.
Luna wouldn't listen, her guard wouldn't drop.

It became about the next hit, the next drink,
The next guy to sleep with.
Dreaming feelings, keeping a furious pace,
That way she didn't have to face the night.
She eventually hit the wall,
Broke down, tears and all.
Looked up through her window at the silver moonlight.
Had a moment of solemn revelation,
She'd been committed to self-condemnation.
She didn't want to anymore,
But the only exit seemed the next life's door.
She made an oath, to herself,
By next week she'd end her life.

That's how she got here.
If only a friend, a boy, a parent had not remained silent.
Nothing could've harmed more than the ubiquitous hush. Her mind rushed.
Walking to the woods, she heard birdsong.
Wouldn't be long.
Her survival instinct fought in a riot.
Now all she heard was eternal quiet.

An emptiness speaks to me.




He wants his jumper back.
He gave it to me last night
To stave off Winter's plight.

But it didn't help much.
It didn't fit. Nothing about him does.
Apart from when we shagged
In the worst place at the worst time.
It felt like committing a crime

Against my own dignity.
I thought I wanted it.
My friends were doing it.
Perhaps next week I'll feel
Different. But he turns the reel

To pull me in, on his hook.
I just wanted to swim. Or drown.
Whichever's easiest.
It felt nice to be desired.
But all he's inspired

Is resentment.
Contained by emptiness.
The little flame
Is running out of fuel.
I've been played a fool.