470

I am alive—I guess—
The Branches on my Hand
Are full of Morning Glory—
And at my finger’s end—

The Carmine—tingles warm—
And if I hold a Glass
Across my Mouth—it blurs it—
Physician’s—proof of Breath—

I am alive—because
I am not in a Room—
The Parlor—Commonly—it is—
So Visitors may come—

And lean—and view it sidewise—
And add “How cold—it grew”—
And “Was it conscious—when it stepped
In Immortality?”

I am alive—because
I do not own a House—
Entitled to myself—precise—
And fitting no one else—

And marked my Girlhood’s name—
So Visitors may know
Which Door is mine—and not

Two, of course there are two.
It seems perfectly natural now——
The one who never looks up, whose eyes are lidded
And balled¸ like Blake's.
Who exhibits

The birthmarks that are his trademark——
The scald scar of water,
The ****
Verdigris of the condor.
I am red meat. His beak

Claps sidewise: I am not his yet.
He tells me how badly I photograph.
He tells me how sweet
The babies look in their hospital
Icebox, a simple

Frill at the neck
Then the flutings of their Ionian
Death-gowns.
Then two little feet.
He does not smile or smoke.

The other does that
His hair long and plausive
*******
******* a glitter
He wants to be loved.

I do not stir.
The frost makes a flower,
The dew makes a star,
The dead bell,
The dead bell.

Somebody's done for.

so there on the window sill
i sat perpetrating my crime,
one had outside the window denoting the mentally ill
and the other inside the compartment of
a room denoting terrorists,
then i switched hands and opinions...
and then two bright objects of fire appeared
on the skyline... then another two... a perfect rhombus that
traversed the night sky.

i mingled *r.d. laing with the saint benaiah ben yehoiada today...
what a miracle of the slow approach,
i was so desperate for paper i even wrote on a sunday times news review page,
god help me, i feel the need to speak over people in writing.
testament to modern *******: the modern trans-gender phenomenon
is primarily found in st. thomas’ gospel
as entrée of r.d. laing’s **** of paradise artistic spontaneity
away from rigid theory so numerous in the exampled situation
of the lisp acquired on the psychoanalytic couch...
it speaks of turning left to right... up to down... man to woman...
a bit like a sat nav giving directions... you end up in a kingdom
that’s a ditch and the king is adorned not in crimson cardinal
or purple bishop... but pain... this is 1967... no wonder the hippies
died off after people started to dot dot dot post-1967
with the excavatio in translatio to remould western, christian, societies.
that text, says it all! david bowie and alice cooper and marc bolan
with the lipstick and 8 o’clock eye-socket shadows...
but things are picking up / getting serious...
the young ones are on it... post-colonial details i might have you add...
it was bound to happen... vietnam and the daddy longlegs starving man of africa...
built in processor 5.6GB of memory and an iphone...
what?! i’m translating my slavic soul... we fed the mongrels and mongolians
with crusader ***** in the baltic... we disappeared for a few centuries
and came back... blackmailing the airlines for an unsafe crash landing
somewhere in belarus, with the state banquet officiated, of course.
you see.. i’m the silent eager satyr from such paintings by matejko
like hołd pruski and stańczyk... expression beaming with: yes... go on...
spur me on... i’ll gallop to status of stallion with laughter!
all the catholic canonical saints are for people who prefer images
to words.
so there’s laing in 1967 allowed the ancient deciphering of
quasi-egyptian text... and then all hell breaks loose in the now, present...
i’ve got two left hands and two right feet... i think i’ll transverse
in walking like a crab... sidewise... out of here...
you go along with your daily “historical” bullying...
i like my place... outside the post-colonial continuum...
so much so that i even have a theory for the experience:
HE WASN’T THINKING IN HIS MOTHER TONGUE,
THE NATIVITY OF THE SOUL TOOK FORM FROM THE POLLEN
OF THE BODY, MANY IRANIANS AND EGYPTIANS...
HE THOUGHT COLONIAL, HE ACTED COLONIAL...
PREVIOUSLY HE MENTIONED POLAND LENDING AEROPLANES
TO EGYPT... HE ACTED LIKE AN ENGLISHMAN TO A ******...
NOW I SEE HIM LIKE A PENGUIN WITH CHEETAH FUR...
A WORD OF LISP I GATHER...
I WAS THINKING STUPID TRUST... WHILE
A SINGLE WORD OF THE MOTHERTONGUE RESONATED
TO PURSUE CREATIVITY THUS EXPRESSED
UNABLE TO FIND THE 0,0 COORDINATE IN THE
NORTHERN TRANS-EUROPEAN MILITARY COMPLEX.
this is how integration happens in europe: acquire the native tongue
acquire native psychology... don’t acquire the latter
define the former with exactness of body...
conclusion? i did stupid via trust... he did stupid via a blood-thirst
and a michael jackson trick of bleaching the soul
but leaving the body oddly mongrel-like... not so complete
like africans from the caribbean losing the tongue
due to jamaica’s great weather, then moving to england
and starting reggae rap... god knows how those two fitted for a size 12
perfect matching: quick-slow, quick-slow...
slow-quick rat ah rat ah regina duck in dumplings... bewildering
that i didn’t turn grey but turned ginger over the years.
you see this theory? it makes the mongol horse pale in comparison;
dad said: a jew did it! a jew did it! a ******* mid-******* just said: you
(double emphasis, the colon and italics... well i was there,
and this poem is proof that i was there, with her).
then this poem in the background with added photogenic approach...
titled: on ******* who create art.
ahem... napkin for the torero and rare steak to suite:
there they are the geniuses and the mediocre,
sitting in abodes of aspirational peace of the living -
half-dead many of them almost to the core of rotten apples,
with arsenic in apple seeds the last remaining life -
a poisonous mechanisation of activity on the breeding continuum
curtailed (is that implying cut-short?),
horrible ******* to live with,
they sitting knitting words together that make no cardigan fit,
or they’re making 2d rooms with the odd splash of colour
that will never obey the cube but the rectangular canvas,
no use of a poet’s pen in the solace of a quiet pension spaced,
the usurpers of peace among the living among the twins of sabbath,
these ronin of the fountain of solace found in t.v. and slippers...
who let them in?! can you hear poetry with a hammer?
can you hear it on a construction site, or an art gallery or a library?
so there they are, the *******, choosing the most importune of places
to do their craft... in the living spaces of plumbers and electricians...
hardly the place to craft their art when there’s no pulpit to
exercise their crafty practice with the end remark.
why then the plumber the safeguard and incubator nest of home,
and why the cold chill of aqueduct syringe at home for poet?
does no friendliness reside in stressing or not stressing certain words anymore?
perhaps the coalminers will tell me?
they say i am in a coal-mine by the sheer whiteness of disposable white
of canvas... and only among them in solidarity of a brotherhood
by excavating with them the coal that’s their amber burnt at home
and my solitary ink expressed in the library of their darkness of having
bulged forearm forceps of the bicep and no patience for reading... but digging,
i’ll know my orientation in those mines once more...
where the safe and understood route has has not yet been written...
and all that is seen... is the whitened darkness of the blank canvas of
what i peer into stumbling with the inverse... the flashlight of words
against the darkness of the canvas... me and my blind horse.
god i hate live editing... but then again... it keeps me
drunk and soberly paranoid to scrabble in revisions before i doze till morn.

Go to sleep—though of course you will not—
to tideless waves thundering slantwise against
strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray
dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind,
scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steady
car rails!  Sleep, sleep!  Gulls’ cries in a wind-gust
broken by the wind; calculating wings set above
the field of waves breaking.
Go to sleep to the lunge between foam-crests,
refuse churned in the recoil.  Food!  Food!
Offal!  Offal!  that holds them in the air, wave-white
for the one purpose, feather upon feather, the wild
chill in their eyes, the hoarseness in their voices—
sleep, sleep . . .

Gentlefooted crowds are treading out your lullaby.
Their arms nudge, they brush shoulders,
hitch this way then that, mass and surge at the crossings—
lullaby, lullaby!  The wild-fowl police whistles,
the enraged roar of the traffic, machine shrieks:
it is all to put you to sleep,
to soften your limbs in relaxed postures,
and that your head slip sidewise, and your hair loosen
and fall over your eyes and over your mouth,
brushing your lips wistfully that you may dream,
sleep and dream—

A black fungus springs out about the lonely church doors—
sleep, sleep.  The Night, coming down upon
the wet boulevard, would start you awake with his
message, to have in at your window.  Pay no
heed to him.  He storms at your sill with
cooings, with gesticulations, curses!
You will not let him in.  He would keep you from sleeping.
He would have you sit under your desk lamp
brooding, pondering; he would have you
slide out the drawer, take up the ornamented dagger
and handle it.  It is late, it is nineteen-nineteen—
go to sleep, his cries are a lullaby;
his jabbering is a sleep-well-my-baby; he is
a crackbrained messenger.

The maid waking you in the morning
when you are up and dressing,
the rustle of your clothes as you raise them—
it is the same tune.
At table the cold, greeninsh, split grapefruit, its juice
on the tongue, the clink of the spoon in
your coffee, the toast odors say it over and over.

The open street-door lets in the breath of
the morning wind from over the lake.
The bus coming to a halt grinds from its sullen brakes—
lullaby, lullaby.  The crackle of a newspaper,
the movement of the troubled coat beside you—
sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep . . .
It is the sting of snow, the burning liquor of
the moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packed
with dead leaves:  go to sleep, go to sleep.
And the night passes—and never passes—

328

A Bird came down the Walk—
He did not know I saw—
He bit an angle-worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw,

And then he drank a Dew
From a convenient Grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the Wall
To let a Beetle pass—

He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all abroa—
They looked like frightened Beads, I thought—
He stirred his velvet head

Like one in danger, Cautious,
I offered him a Crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home—

Than Oars divide the Ocean,
Too silver for a seam—
Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon,
Leap, plashless as they swim.

oh but my face is recognisable,
it's recognisable because
without adventure,
without adventure entrapped
in plato's cavern depth
of thought and shadow,
and upon no promise of release,
kept chained, with no chance
to look sidewise and write,
but look backtracking the first trek
and make a fulfilling life doubly worth
a book's worth of shiva destroying
vishnu's english middle class homes...
no adventure, only skull heads as heady tombs,
no adventures upon our way
into the cold, less ore upon a bench
than bicep keen on the paddle
if lessening be keen to think,
where the adventure? where?!
what, you mean juggling tomato, potato, tomato
between english and american accents?
that the couch, that the potato?!
you farting out the canned applause too?
i bet you are... and they will say...
it's norway... it's norway!
but they vetoed european membership
because half the voters were post colonials...
vegan hindus voted no... pakis voted no...
minority rabbits in general voted no...
to be honest i'm with them,
if john paul ii was black smoke i'd applaud,
if the iron curtain never disassembled i'd be home,
i wouldn't have to listen to western democratic
brown-nosing affairs...i'd be home, and happily to
be there... rather than in the glorified west of
fake saints trying to introduce dialectics
from a standpoint of youth, given old age
didn't bother, so eager for the eager ******
mid-life in crisis of a family to be never had.
i'd stay, yes, i'd stay behind the iron, curtain,
i'd rather stay there than be all "liberal,"
peddling on a bicycle pamphlets of the solidarity movement,
they said solidarity, they said hawaii awaits
and mass emigration,
then asking capitalism to regroup and sell atheism,
of late,
to group atheists, to collectivise,
like the grouping economy of insects
of exclusion - termite mounds and spider webs -
which would be communism -
but then the predatory lions and tigers
bundled up for dodo fates:
while we conceived a complete fake ***
nationalism of being forged by the now sepia
of history long gone: we learned being
english due to irish racism;
something to do with ***** count
and pints of Guinness: a ja to wiem:
bo anglik zbyt wielki... to na polaka!
patrz gdzie ten królik pędzi bracie,
bo wraz z czymś innym co widisz cie zabierze
w pogrzebanie ćmy z cieniem.

Tracks of rain and light linger in
the spongy greens of a nature whose
flickering mountain—bulging nearer,
ebbing back into the sun
hollowing itself away to hold a lake,—
or brown stream rising and falling at the roadside, turning about,
churning itself white, drawing
green in over it,—plunging glassy funnels
fall—

And—the other world—
the windshield a blunt barrier:
Talk to me.  Sh! they would hear us.
—the backs of their heads facing us—
The stream continues its motion of
a hound running over rough ground.

Trees vanish—reappear—vanish:
detached dance of gnomes—as a talk
dodging remarks, glows and fades.
—The unseen power of words—
And now that a few of the moves
are clear the first desire is
to fling oneself out at the side into
the other dance, to other music.

Peer Gynt.  Rip Van Winkle.  Diana.
If I were young I would try a new alignment—
alight nimbly from the car, Good-bye!—
Childhood companions linked two and two
criss-cross:  four, three, two, one.
Back into self, tentacles withdrawn.
Feel about in warm self-flesh.
Since childhood, since childhood!
Childhood is a toad in the garden, a
happy toad.  All toads are happy
and belong in gardens.  A toad to Diana!

Lean forward.  Punch the steerman
behind the ear.  Twirl the wheel!
Over the edge!  Screams!  Crash!
The end.  I sit above my head—
a little removed—or
a thin wash of rain on the roadway
—I am never afraid when he is driving,—
interposes new direction,
rides us sidewise, unforseen
into the ditch!  All threads cut!
Death!  Black.  The end.  The very end—

I would sit separate weighing a
small red handful:  the dirt of these parts,
sliding mists sheeting the alders
against the touch of fingers creeping
to mine.  All stuff of the blind emotions.
But—stirred, the eye seizes
for the first time—The eye awake!—
anything, a dirt bank with green stars
of scrawny **** flattened upon it under
a weight of air—For the first time!—
or a yawning depth:  Big!
Swim around in it, through it—
all directions and find
vitreous seawater stuff—
God how I love you!—or, as I say,
a plunge into the ditch.  The End.  I sit
examining my red handful.  Balancing
—this—in and out—agh.

Love you?  It’s
a fire in the blood, *****-nilly!
It’s the sun coming up in the morning.
Ha, but it’s the grey moon too, already up
in the morning.  You are slow.
Men are not friends where it concerns
a woman?  Fighters.  Playfellows.
White round thighs!  Youth!  Sighs—!
It’s the fillip of novelty.  It’s—

Mountains.  Elephants ******* along
against the sky—indifferent to
light withdrawing its tattered shreds,
worn out with embraces.  It’s
the fillip of novelty.  It’s a fire in the blood.

Oh get a flannel shirt, white flannel
or pongee.  You’d look so well!
I married you because I liked your nose.
I wanted you!  I wanted you
in spite of all they’d say—

Rain and light, mountain and rain,
rain and river.  Will you love me always?
—A car overturned and two crushed bodies
under it.—Always!  Always!
And the white moon already up.
White.  Clean.  All the colors.
A good head, backed by the eye—awake!
backed by the emotions—blind—
River and mountain, light and rain—or
rain, rock, light, trees—divided:
rain-light counter rocks-trees or
trees counter rain-light-rocks or—

Myriads of counter processions
crossing and recrossing, regaining
the advantage, buying here, selling there
—You are sold cheap everywhere in town!—
lingering, touching fingers, withdrawing
gathering forces into blares, hummocks,
peaks and rivers—rivers meeting rock
—I wish that you were lying there dead
and I sitting here beside you.—
It’s the grey moon—over and over.
It’s the clay of these parts.

957

As One does Sickness over
In convalescent Mind,
His scrutiny of Chances
By blessed Health obscured—

As One rewalks a Precipice
And whittles at the Twig
That held Him from Perdition
Sown sidewise in the Crag

A Custom of the Soul
Far after suffering
Identity to question
For evidence’t has been—

By-the-why, Joker
I know your gaming.

Making sidewise rules
You waggle the stakes.

Shame, shame on your head
And to your careless smirk.

You’ve gnawed and ground  
Until my outline’s blurred…

Sisters, pull me up!  
From this deathly fairground.

Tracks of rain and light linger in
the spongy greens of a nature whose
flickering mountain—bulging nearer,
ebbing back into the sun
hollowing itself away to hold a lake,—
or brown stream rising and falling at the roadside, turning about,
churning itself white, drawing
green in over it,—plunging glassy funnels
fall—

And—the other world—
the windshield a blunt barrier:
Talk to me.  Sh! they would hear us.
—the backs of their heads facing us—
The stream continues its motion of
a hound running over rough ground.

Trees vanish—reappear—vanish:
detached dance of gnomes—as a talk
dodging remarks, glows and fades.
—The unseen power of words—
And now that a few of the moves
are clear the first desire is
to fling oneself out at the side into
the other dance, to other music.

Peer Gynt.  Rip Van Winkle.  Diana.
If I were young I would try a new alignment—
alight nimbly from the car, Good-bye!—
Childhood companions linked two and two
criss-cross:  four, three, two, one.
Back into self, tentacles withdrawn.
Feel about in warm self-flesh.
Since childhood, since childhood!
Childhood is a toad in the garden, a
happy toad.  All toads are happy
and belong in gardens.  A toad to Diana!

Lean forward.  Punch the steerman
behind the ear.  Twirl the wheel!
Over the edge!  Screams!  Crash!
The end.  I sit above my head—
a little removed—or
a thin wash of rain on the roadway
—I am never afraid when he is driving,—
interposes new direction,
rides us sidewise, unforseen
into the ditch!  All threads cut!
Death!  Black.  The end.  The very end—

I would sit separate weighing a
small red handful:  the dirt of these parts,
sliding mists sheeting the alders
against the touch of fingers creeping
to mine.  All stuff of the blind emotions.
But—stirred, the eye seizes
for the first time—The eye awake!—
anything, a dirt bank with green stars
of scrawny **** flattened upon it under
a weight of air—For the first time!—
or a yawning depth:  Big!
Swim around in it, through it—
all directions and find
vitreous seawater stuff—
God how I love you!—or, as I say,
a plunge into the ditch.  The End.  I sit
examining my red handful.  Balancing
—this—in and out—agh.

Love you?  It’s
a fire in the blood, *****-nilly!
It’s the sun coming up in the morning.
Ha, but it’s the grey moon too, already up
in the morning.  You are slow.
Men are not friends where it concerns
a woman?  Fighters.  Playfellows.
White round thighs!  Youth!  Sighs—!
It’s the fillip of novelty.  It’s—

Mountains.  Elephants ******* along
against the sky—indifferent to
light withdrawing its tattered shreds,
worn out with embraces.  It’s
the fillip of novelty.  It’s a fire in the blood.

Oh get a flannel shirt, white flannel
or pongee.  You’d look so well!
I married you because I liked your nose.
I wanted you!  I wanted you
in spite of all they’d say—

Rain and light, mountain and rain,
rain and river.  Will you love me always?
—A car overturned and two crushed bodies
under it.—Always!  Always!
And the white moon already up.
White.  Clean.  All the colors.
A good head, backed by the eye—awake!
backed by the emotions—blind—
River and mountain, light and rain—or
rain, rock, light, trees—divided:
rain-light counter rocks-trees or
trees counter rain-light-rocks or—

Myriads of counter processions
crossing and recrossing, regaining
the advantage, buying here, selling there
—You are sold cheap everywhere in town!—
lingering, touching fingers, withdrawing
gathering forces into blares, hummocks,
peaks and rivers—rivers meeting rock
—I wish that you were lying there dead
and I sitting here beside you.—
It’s the grey moon—over and over.
It’s the clay of these parts.

*******...

   ever look... i can't believe i'm
doing this...

ever notice the

   .
              .
                        .
              .
  .­            

                 constellation?
  
when i'm in a good mood,
do i seriously need to
be listening to the bangles
and reading

  a dolly alderton
        article?
   reliving this 1980s
feminism death-trap of:
anything but useless professions?

guess not...
     i'll be entrenched for 30 years
before my student debt
is written,
and i'm not expected to
work the supermarket
shelving troop
   when i could be working
a chemistry plant job
up in Scotland...

            sidewise lambda...
or a V...
  which makes W
a double-u...
not a double o -
and certainly not what
it looks like: vv...

                     cheap choke joke...
what does BMW stand for?
Black Man's Wagon...
      funny, eh?

i didn't think so either...
   USNA!
   USNA!
          **** it... might as well
revive the old USSR...
united stastes of north america...

figured...
     for me USA! USA! is a football
chant...
      i'm liking this
new acronym pause...
with the added letter...

                  ****... you have to think
of something with the long lost
USSR long gone, dusted and buried...
plus it's befitting...
with that's current happening...

Silicon Curtain:
a little of censorship here,
a little censorship there...
              
   happy campers...
all the way!

like i said before: i'm star-gazing:
you have to be,
******* me!

/                                                    so...

    gravity is a vertical

powerhouse...

  while magnetism

is a horizontal equivalent...

i get it,

     well, not really...

a fear of the night?
    
  counter a fear of open space /
large crowds...

   can the two never, ever,
be synonyms?

        but there's a sensation
replica akin to magnets...
  
  and the sensation doesn't express
itself sideways,
but within the confines of a copernican
up and down        \/===....

sideways? nothing,
up and down,
like my neighbours playing
my nintendo,
and almost experiencing
an itch, on the tip of my fingers...

you can't get this if you're
not a one child policy artifact of
chinese politics...
            enforced "solipsism" type of:
oh, look at you!
    not in my boat?
not a giraffe?!
          comes the time when
you tell a ******: overboard
with 'im!  ****...
bypassing: walking the plank...
he'll either giggle with the dolphins...
or look dark eye with the sharks...

but you can sense a magnetism
with a naked hand,
eased away, or rather, lost to the night...
there's this obstructive force
you entertain with north-north
facing magnets...

      sonny corleone type,
akin to the nonchalance: hey! a pizza!
        no biggie!

            what's gravity sideways?
yes, copernican, gravity horizontally?
police academy joke...
             what's magnetism vertically?
what's east, left, right, west,
up, south and down-trodden centre
                       (north)?
                        
     i thought flat-earth implied that:
you could actually navigate a car
past the rhine spaghetti of

duisburg, düsseldorf,
                  essen, dortmund...

you want a flat earth?
it's there...
   reading a printed map,
navigating a car like
      competing in a rally race...

3D earth is about useful
on this navigational crux of
travelling to poland from england,
like an ice-cream on a rolly-polly
shoved up a dead turkey's ***
on the 4th of july.

no one questions the facts
at this point,
   but somehow it's worth unquestioning
the copernican genesis
with a bundle, unfolded,
and stressed as: ably read;
i.e. what the metallurgy professionals
demand a technical drawing to
be...

      i still don't know whether gravity
is allowed a, sideways, a throw,
a horizontal aspect of existence...
  rather than increments, of up,
shying away from a jamaican 100m,
or the somali 5000m
                       for a sip of water...

maybe the heatwave, coupled
with: maybe the fasting...
            but magnetism is akin to
a sensation of numbing...
       sure as **** gravity doesn't
express itself sidewise...
             and magnetism is
left right up down and center
equally, being the same:
nodding approval...

                   magnetism and
a numbing sensation of obstruction
on the tips of your hand...

   gravity is too objective
at this point...
              it has exhausted itself
as a subject matter with einschtein...
and whoever roman polanski was...

             magnetism and the skeletal
unravelling...
   a numbing sensation on the tips
of your fingers...
   since... what's west of nowhere
when there's the universe that
is a one dimensional proportionate
aspect of "space", confined to a "time"?

a sensation avert to falling,
bound to encompass even
the sameness of such expression within
dreams...
an up, to a north, a down,
to a south...
           but then... regressing
to defame pluto as a planet...
  outlier moon... ice, thingy majig...

    magnetism! in the palm of my hand...
a numbing sensation
on the tip of my fingers, and then as
the entire hand outstreched...

   the concern for understanding
magnetism, will be,
what the 19th and the 20th century was
concerned, within the confines
of electricity.

I may not be the best friend
My presence is seasonal
I skinny dip in chaos time and time again
Coming out stronger. Sharper.
Tempered by my own humility

I may not be the best friend
I forget to call and check in
Knowing you’ll find me when you need me
For my hearts radar is always pinging
With possibility of real connection

I may not be the best friend
Social cues go largely unnoticed
Preferring my sidewise reality
To the ingrained cattle calls of
Lemmings marching ever on

I may not be the best friend
For shallow waters and empty hearts
Hiding behind strangling walls
You feel are your protection
Keeping you in, and life out

I may not be the best friend
For my warning label does not read
Fragile! Handle with care.
It simply declares in red bold letters
‘Bravery Required’

**** me sidewase-- sidewise apparently,
i can't get a word in between these red dots and
Red snakes biting at my letters's ankles
At least when I'm pen ning I have the option to ignore that im an *******

You **** gobbling weak kneed slack jawed fool

Alright Alright let's take it easy I'm simply trying to help
No one would ever doubt your genius
But your spelling can certainly take a little
Critazisms?
Is that how you
Spelt?

Dont patronize me **** it

Spectrum reflection
A blessing disguise
What's out is what's in
Swivel sidewise

Molehill mountains
Storms in teacups
All muss and fuss
A far off close-up

A wing and a prayer
A chance and a dance
Face and Embrace
The mighty expanse

I remember my own Conceiving,
Stridulation of a loosen springs
Of jalopy parked somewhere in the rear
Of an upper level of a parking on the
Skirts of town forgotten by me but
Remembrance still is vivid as if I am
Creeping on my four to to the shaking
Out of tune a little vehicle with lights out
Both rear and front and litters of used Condoms with ***** filling and leaking
From its rubber carcass and butts Smothered though some flickering still
In the darkness of night on the skirt of
The forgotten town where misty and Panting glass was to and fro to and fro
Up and down and sidewise with a chance
Limb or feet splattered against sideways Windows leaving a print of sole with
All its interlaces and wrinkles and crinkles
And toes with torn flannel out of passion
Or just lost on the skirts of the town
Forgotten by Everyone but me where I am standing
Watching my own conceiving by monster
Of a doubled backs back in the car in the
Town where lights of out but reek was
There as if inherent in the very concrete
And all blocks and bricks and levels and
Tiers and I remember there my own
Conceiving as I was standing there on my
Own four and creeping up to swaying Lizzie and getting on my hind double
And approaching the panted and misty
Window with my both eyes reflecting
And glancing back at me at which a
Moment ever I arise with sweat
A-dripping down my temples and back
And cheeks and arms and breast
And wall in front of me in the dark
Town forgotten by everyone but me in the
Car where I remember was my own
Conceiving

I want movies of Ava Cherry with no clothes on, lounging softly &
luridly, pulling me with Afro curly-cues on a **** trimmed torridly

She ***** in her favorite bathroom with something that burns & rots
'cause her head's sidewise & her jungle bed's hidden under 443 pots
because her neck goes sideways & her jungle bed's knotted in knots
as she's ******* ******* monkeys on monkey-******-fir-strung cots
while she ***** ******* monkeys in monkey-******, fur-strewn lots
where gun-shot-off limbs litter lots with limbs shot off by gun-shots
so as to forsake Mafia parentage & a father's bearing by no-dad tots

The Lord commands from heaven
and flowers bloom in the green garden.
Morning birds chirp again and again
They sing the songs only to Him
from hearts without any hesitation.

The clouds shower rain down by the order of God
and greenness comes back to the yellow grass
All praises to the Creator of the universe!

The dawn smiles by the touch of God
The daylight follows His mind
and the dusk looks to pray to Him.

The river flows with the babbles
The salt and freshwater stream sidewise
But they don't mix it up with each other!

The winds flow randomly
As if that's so intimate to earth
It talks to the green forest.

The galaxies and stars obey whom?
Who turns the day into night?
All the heads bow to Him!

We sit in each other's fancy underwear waiting for the clock to stop
while Edie Falco digs a bullet out of her hip in a vo-tech wood shop
cocked slipshod sidewise up to her grimy under-lips in pig-**** slop
Edie's **** is rough & resilient, like tiles underlain for concealment
A ******'s an easy mark when he's asleep in ****-**** Wiggle Park
Puked milk curdles for its 2nd appearance 'twixt teeth where there's
teal-green-buck-tooth-gapped Deliverance movie-themed clearance
A ******* hormone pill makes Bruce Jenner ******* hormonally-ill

We sit in each other's fancy underwear waiting for the clock to stop
while Edie Falco digs a bullet out of her hip in a vo-tech wood shop
cocked slipshod sidewise up to her grimy under-lips in pig-**** slop
Edie's **** is rough & resilient, like tiles underlain for concealment
A ******'s an easy mark when he's asleep in ****-**** Wiggle Park

the wind chafes the manacle
clank born maniacal, sidewise Wednesday-
stuck where the chemicals calm down
the real things-
stuck to your windshield.
something like a varmint
in between
doing nothing at all
and being so dead
it can’t be a
miracle.

but the going keep going when the staying is a vacancy
as wide as the dark side of the Truth.
you can go there with your strawberry eyes
but not all of you, see too much
until you do… with all your candles
out of mind.

and all your utter lack of proof.

I trace your Nordic-loving *** sidewise across Conneaut Lake when
I'm 3% sober, from January the twenty-third to the ninth of October