Back to the Speedway,
The gas is $1.91
The food is cheap

Where my daddy
Buys cigars to chew on

The cashier
Is so high
He forgets what day it is

And wishes us a 'Merry Christmas'
On July 31st.

"Neuro Speedway"



is there
no way out of the need
for sprinting go-carts
travelling at breakneck
nuero speedway around
in circling minds
the world revolves
stationary nailed down souls
don't understand grand central
kaleidoscope distraction
*** yearns
hunger burns
chocolate dilates
blood vessels sensation
seems important we stop
on a dime for one
one hundredth of a second
and almost cease of boredom
move and spin     spin and grin

In my house the men
wear breastplates for fun, and
the women race heavenly
on the speedway, the soles
of their feet caking with sand.
Yes, my house has a speedway.
If you close your eyes for a moment
it feels like a beach minus the tangerine
minus the birdcalls

minus the summer spit
frying old skin.

Maybe it's not meant for this
Driving for miles and miles
Stuck in the same intersection
Indecisive on the turning point

Speedometer at 10
Not able to go faster
Down the yellow brick road
To have the curtain torn away

Or maybe the compass is pointing North
Going down a curvy road
Confused and alone
But maybe that is inaccurate

I wonder if other people see death like I do.
I do not mean in a faux-macabre way,
a sad tween way.
Picking through the 3 isles of candies at
Speedway, I sometimes catch
a whiff of
death and
I don’t mean to, but I know that
my eyes must fill with him &
I wonder if the cashier
sees
anything,
,

Have you caught the glimmer
of an adult-to-be coming to terms
with the conflicting emotions
around death,
the desire, the fear,
the terror after horror,
the longing that subsides only
with time

sample size excavation:

urbanity forsake the village-metality
of the undisclosed biological
credo...
                     urbanity became
a pawn & pauper in a "clues",
which replaced facts...
                         i am more mushroom
than reptile or genital mutilation
grammar asking...

              finally! cricket has come home!
well... in between watching
roland garros,
and the ICC?
             even i can agree...
of all the h'american sports?
  baseball... sure...
ice hockey... sure...
     basketball... sure...
   h'american football?
esp. when watching rugby?
  i don't get it...
         scuffling in the middle...
pass back... one throw forward...
a decent runner...
         ball hits the deck...
"regroup"...
      reinforced rugby-esque scrum
drama...
    play-stop-play-stop...
ad. revenue interlude...
   start-stop-start-stop...
             doesn't it get boring, ever?!

i had to turn to cricket!
oh i'm enjoying the cricket...
it's like chess + braille + bridge
dynamic of tactic... sure...
it's not baseball...
       it's cricket!

   international test matches...
50 overs...
         50 x 6 = 300 throws of the ball...
1 over = 6 throws...
no other sport was so much
beautiful jargon,
so much stat.,

             and so many idiosyncratic
terms...
what do they call english
cricketers? tourists...
west indies (the carribean team?)
the windies...
          
          349-8 (349 runs...
         8 wickets)...
              
                   imagine a sport...
where it lasts so long that it errodes
your attention span like
a Tolstoy novel...
      come morning,
it finishes in the early hours of
the evening...

                cricket... quintessential
Dickensian replacement narrative...
and i've never seen more
laid back referees (umpires)...
what's a 4 to a 6
in terms of body language?

you have tactic akin to bowlers
throwing spin-accents...
so there's a minimum of a 1-2 1-2
runs... rather than 4 or 6 worth
of smackers...

            cricket isn't the worst
of games... by far h'american football...
that's the worst game, ever...
then, golf...
             **** me... table tennis
beats those two games,
even without all the glamour...
but itching chinese pretending
to be fast paced insect-esque
reaction time automatons...

                 i mean two female sport
events make complete sense...
tennis and gymnastics...

i don't even know why i enjoy cricket...
after all,
i am not exactly english "born and bred"...
bred from the age of 8...
hybrid mongrel...
i would still like to appreciate
the sports celebrated by the land
of my birth...
        żużel (speedway) and
(szczyptarze... almost a googlewhack...
2 results)...
                 hand-ball... and volley-ball...
greek wrestling...
      archery...
             sport is so under-represented
these days...
        only the major sports...
and at times, the monopoly associated
with their funding, their subsequent
traction of spectator numbers...
  it's so boring!
             it becomes too tribal!
totteham hotspur f.c.: born and bred!
there are so many other sports...
that do not entertain tribal ergonomics!
most of the olympic sports, for starters!

  today i was watching pakistan take
on england in the ICC world cup...
             ****- beauties all round...
      and then... for some "weird" reason...
the shadow of Rotherham...
     the cube didn't fit into the square
hole a gorilla was supposed
to push the prism through...
            
       there are just so many underrated
sports! it's not even worth criticising
sports per se...
         it's the sports that appeal to
the masses, that elevate the sport beyond
the sport per se, and craft trivial and
tribal affiliations that bothers me!

           i still think h'american football
is the dumbest sport available...
considering it as, rugby: devolved.
there's as much sense of passing the ball
backwards, imitating a charging wave
against a coastline of defence...
as there will ever be any sense found...
in scuffling in the middle
like some pretend boxing match...
allowing only one pass backwards...
and one runner maneuvering past the pointless
scuffle in the middle...
pass back, one throw, one catch...
                       run Forest! run!

o.k. even i found cricket a bit *******...
asparagus... ****... asperger syndrome
with its overt analysis...
   but even cricket looks better
than that ******* irish pub brawl
take on boxing that h'american football
represents...

bloated egos in armour...
           sorry, even ping pong looks
more appealing...
the ******* sumo diet worthwhile
to compete with...
        it's the cricket world cup...
and the time it takes to play out
100 overs?
    maybe chance upon a 6 run...
   8 wickets...
                      elsewhere
handball is pop, as is volleyball...
ski-jumping...
          
        sport per se isn't the problem...
it becomes a problem when
sport becomes tribal,
and the initial per se pleasure
of the spectacle of a sport is drained...
when people have to take sides...
when the sport per se cannot
be appreciated...
            hence the "concept" of the sport,
the logic of behind the sport is lost,
lost in the fact that it is lost to
it being monetized...

              when sport, resembles....
the kind of live performance,
akin to Heilung - Alfadhirhaiti...
while i am left, bound to the greater desires,
of moving to Greenland...
or the Faroe Islands...
        because even the English summers...
are starting to resemble
Indian summers more and more...
**** being your atypical English
sun-worshipper who "miraculously"
moved outside of London...

                         not, far, enough!
give me Greenland, give me the Faroe Islands,
give me Alaska!
    i can't stand this surge in
the creeping Summer heat about
to grind England to a halt!
                   however long it will take,
i wish to plan my escape to these lands...
i don't want a year's worth more,
in this little saudi land of the north,
with pubescent saudi ******* racers
bragging their diesel lamborghini *******
down Knightsbridge!

My most persistent friends
have become six hours of jetlag
and the fading buzz of airline coffee--
as black and unforgiving as our red-eye flight,
as we wander German streets-- Füssen,
where the air is always crisp
and graceful, even awkwardly emerging
from an ugly winter.
Neuschwanstein castle sits mockingly
in the horizon-- the locals pass it by,
as I, some baffled foreigner
from Nowhere, Ohio,
where the streets bear gas stations
and the shameless scars
of recent construction (always
building, nothing built)
stand in disbelief.

Our thirst brings Jenny
and I to a Getränkeladen --
I sip on my first taste
of Apfelsaftschorle
as a roaring crowd
of local teens barge in,
with the violence of
a tornado we'd see in Xenia...
They speak in a crude,
indistinguishable slang
that Frau never could have
taught us
in room 322

Jenny hovers mindlessly
by the door-- contemplating
a bottle of Coca-Cola,
as the teenage stampede
shoves her off to the side--
fleeing out the door,
having bought nothing,
as the storekeeper sighs in disbelief.

They tore through
such a quaint little shop
with such an aimless recklessness,
one wouldn't think
a centuries-old castle
looms nonchalantly in the distance...

I was thirteen years old
and clueless--
Ben, who I believe is now
in juvie, and Ryan
stand on either side--
dumpy teenagers
in baggy clothes,
speaking in a crude,
brutal slang
that was invented in its usage.
We loitered every street
that would tolerate us,
in these exhausted Ohioan
suburbs, we tore through sidewalks
bearing unremarkable houses
in a sleepy neighborhood
with no grand castles nearby.

Our lazy strides, our ******
banter-- from Füssen, Germany,
to Who Cares, Ohio--
whether there's Neuschwanstein
or a Speedway to conquer,
there's never anything to do at home.

*So wie ist das Leben...

Donald J. Trump:
Say what you will, but
He’s the only guy out there
Asking the obvious questions,
Common sense questions like
“Why don’t Japan, South Korea &
The House of Saud, pay the USA for
Defending them militarily?”
We sustain their political status quo,
We put boots on their ground, &
We provide them gold-plated munitions of
Mass Devastation
(like Mass Destruction only worse.)
What do we get? Bupkis, as in
“Bupkis Mit Kaduchas"
באָבקעס מיט קדחת
Translating roughly to
“Shivering **** *****.”

The 2016 election truly highlights
A profound social shift taking shape,
A demographic division, similar to what
The 1960s called the Generation Gap.
Trump is anathema to most of our
Over-indulged, Millennial offspring;
Our privileged kids, a cohort of Americans children
Reared by blue-collar but college-educated parents,
Those of us who busted *** for our
Bourgeois lifestyle & discrete charm.
We were the Flower Children of the 60s.
We left Yasgur’s farm on a
Hallucinogenic carpet high but rudely
Crash-landed, a consequence of
Altamont Speedway,
Gasoline queues & shortages, &
Years of bipolar economics,
Replete with spinning gerbil wheel of
Double-digit inflation.
We went to work.
We got our **** together.
We settled down.
We gentrified.

Our kids?
They tell their friends they are house sitting,
But the place is the house they grew up in &
Their parents still live there.

The stroll took place around 7.30pm
Pathway narrows off coming to its end
Tarmac river escapes to the other side - push on or go back?

Step out with trepidation, speedway of death growling
Clear head, open ear – to carry me

Uneven ground takes over the direction
Poppies swaying among tall strands of gathered grass

Almost removed from my skin
An alsatian leaps and barks – introduction or warning voice?

The undergrowth moves and cracks
Sky light continues overhead, securing me

A passer by greets me and continues on
It is strange to be acknowledged in this way

A small group of adolescents takes their turn also
I am encouraged from this monosyllabic stage of life that they would even bother

Reaching the tunnel of sounding motorway transport, it echoes
I notice homes not seen before in swift passing

Branches bathed in green, stretch out blocking
As though reaching to connect  

Pushed aside, I continue
My head freeing up

My most persistent friends
have become six hours of jetlag
and the fading buzz of airline coffee--
as black and unforgiving as our red-eye flight,
as we wander German streets-- Füssen,
where the air is always crisp
and graceful, even awkwardly emerging
from an ugly winter.
Neuschwanstein castle sits mockingly
in the horizon-- the locals pass it by,
as I, some baffled foreigner
from Nowhere, Ohio,
where the streets bear gas stations
and the shameless scars
of recent construction (always
building, nothing built)
stand in disbelief.

Our thirst brings Jenny
and I to a Getränkeladen --
I sip on my first taste
of Apfelsaftschorle
as a roaring crowd
of local teens barge in,
with the violence of
a tornado we'd see in Xenia...
They speak in a crude,
indistinguishable slang
that Frau never could have
taught us
in room 322

Jenny hovers mindlessly
by the door-- contemplating
a bottle of Coca-Cola,
as the teenage stampede
shoves her off to the side--
fleeing out the door,
having bought nothing,
as the storekeeper sighs in disbelief.

They tore through
such a quaint little shop
with such an aimless recklessness,
one wouldn't think
a centuries-old castle
looms nonchalantly in the distance...

I was thirteen years old
and clueless--
Ben, who I believe is now
in juvie, and Ryan
stand on either side--
dumpy teenagers
in baggy clothes,
speaking in a crude,
brutal slang
that was invented in its usage.
We loitered every street
that would tolerate us,
in these exhausted Ohioan
suburbs, we tore through sidewalks
bearing unremarkable houses
in a sleepy neighborhood
with no grand castles nearby.

Our lazy strides, our ******
banter-- from Füssen, Germany,
to Who Cares, Ohio--
whether there's Neuschwanstein
or a Speedway to conquer,
there's never anything to do at home.

*So wie ist das Leben...

Will Big Halo go crazy, freak out?

Like a ****** on wheels rolling down the Alps?

***** Tiny Youth’s brave be under the pavement?

We huddle for position as eyes form a circle,

On the grounds of the ‘Imperial’ two feared ***** meet.

Shells will settle this war.  Smoke!

The Tiny Youth draws:



“Your half mast pants waiting for a flood?

And your shoes are holy like the Bible.

Are they four stripe trainers, rip one off!

Then they might pass for Adidas.

Your neck collar is ***** like a **** star.

Is that a sheep bursting through your old padded coat?

So home take your smelly **** and stitch it up…”



“Me await a flood?  Yeah, your’e right.

Though the nylon gathering at your feet

Shows it long passed.  Your tight nylon pants

Stuck up your cheeks – Barry Sheene skids in your brief!

Your brief ‘s skiddy and dangerous like an ice rink!

So skate your brief home and scrub Daz in the sink…”



“Your head is tough like a coconut.

And that hair is rougher than a ghetto!

Knocking out teeth on afro-combs, and

Your skin bumpier than gravel stones!

Your face is dark like Darth Vader.

And did Moses part that gap in your teeth?

I smell the cesspit pooling from your mouth

Take your scent to the sewer

Where your bad breath belongs…”



“On your head sits a drenched black poodle.

And your skin is tougher than Bruce Lee.

That face is rounder than a full waxed moon and

Your skin is dry like sand.  Your teeth resemble

Mouldy cheese and your breath is even badder

Than ******!  So take your moon face camouflaged

As an eclipse and hide on the dark side equator…”



“Your mother is *****, paid every Tuesday,

The post man drops the wages in her sack.

And your father is a dosser, lazier than dole,

Drinks beer, forces farts with remote

His all day role!  And that shack you live in is dusty.

Dustier than a speedway track.  So take your

Double-barrel nostril nose and go do some hoovering up…”



“There are cracks in my shack, on the ceilings, on the wall,

I will fill them with polyfilla, when I see your mother -

Scraping that cake off her wrinkly crinkly face.

And your bald headed father reminds of a Buzzard!

Searching for carcass on the African plains!  Your’e

Soft and boring like porridge.  So in your lunch box

Pack your cheesy snack lyrics

And go hold down your snake of drool – fool!”



The circle stays silent.  We dare not laugh!

At exploding shells on full hardened *****.

Mr Brown, adjudicator, judges – and declares!

Slowly raising the arm of the winner who bops

And breaks the circle, fifty pats on his back.

The shelled **** leaves with Jack.

S...ensationally charged atmosphere.
P...erfectly mannered fans.
E...xceptional riding skills, no gears, no brakes, no fear.
E...xcellent rapport between riders and the crowd, fans like to cheer.
D...angerous sport, injuries kept minimal, within reason.
W...orld Champions crowned at the end of the season.
A...bsolutely awesome fights on the track.
Y...outh riders, coming through, watch out Tai they're at your back.

G...reat day out for the family,  lots of fun.
P...oland, Sweden, Germany, Cardiff , stadiums galore under cover or open to the sun.

I guess it's time for dinner, cause my paranoia is hungry
My emotions unhinged, thoughts racing like a speedway
It eats me from the inside like a bacteria disease
I shake like a tremor, cold sweat embedded upon my skin
My heart sinks to my stomach like an anchor
All I can do now is wait, that's all there is
It's like a prison more than anything
My emotions flow like a river, a fast stream
Carrying all these bad thoughts and flowing them in my head
Filling them up, is there an off button
The only way out is to die but I don't want to do that
It controls me like a robot though
My heart beats faster and faster
I feel like I'm going to throw up
I feel sick to my stomach
But what can I do
Thoughts of you invade my mind
and they won't escape
they won't escape
I wish I could escape
I wish

my thoughts are stars
I cannot fathom into constellations
my thoughts are speedway cars
they wont pace themselves consistent
my thoughtless days are like my self control
nonexistent

"REST IN PEACE JEREMY"

gettin to this money in a jiffy like how when i got a ****** not on no gay **** thats my **** a ***** an blunt for drinkin the next case away...

sittin in a unrealed owners name lamborgini makin money 10 babies 1k horse power between my legs an a job to do...

5 milly in a day vp money across this nation top 100 business in the world i fly in jets not legal yet they says its a payed to me test...

now im speaking a language i ain spoke in a minute because anywhere i go standing on top the biggest buildin everything i see is mine...

they always been on my **** since birth i dont know why on ****** on my life seen death shed a tear moved on never looked back since...

i know im the best because of what ive written when an why an what happend right after that in 100 years you might find out...

jiffy widda sticky blicky on the dome keep my name out ya mouth im from the north east an south the real west central...

my boi terror spittin out a new whip his speech a precident makin you ****** competit an go extinct...

i dont give a **** what color you are the money around me turn you to a jew an im the ferror out chea...

z-pac

What has come of me?
Everything is changing.
What shall be?
Life rearranging

My heart on a mountain range
My mind racing the speedway
Never felt so strange
Everything changing day by day

Do I have a passion?
Or am I just lost
In life's transaction.
Has everything been tossed?

Nothing makes sense
Not anymore,
Everything intense
Where is my call?

Where shall this end?
One day I'll know.
For now these wounds I tend,
One day I shall go.

But until then
I'll do what I can.
I will not bend
I shall ascend

The image of you stuns me, freezes my breath

The taste of your lips draws me deeper

As I lay and feel your heart beat steadily through your chest


Your eyes are memorizing

They change as your affection lingers for depth

Pointing towards my direction, I wait paitently until my desire is fulfill

For I crave your sensation

Come a little closer so I can convey in your ear all my secrets

I'll lead you down a mystical speedway

A place to escape when you've reached your darkest hour

An embracement of happiness to cap a hold of

My finger tips push back your hair

A sense of calmness runs down your face

Cold chills spread down your spine

Your muscles start to contract

A gentle kiss to the neck

The night carries on

I long for your body, your taste

You move me, where I am hypotize

I gasp for a breath of air every time Im in your presents

My body contracts with every movement you make

Swiftly adjusting, as you take me away

Your fingertips which softly passes the base of my body

Draws deep sensation

I crave more affection from a man who steadily stole my heart

Time ticks, yet with him everything seems endless

I'm in a state of mind, where I discover a new life

My desire is hotter than fire burning to ashes

Stronger than any substances of addiction

My body shuts down in despair

Lost a sense of direction which once led me some where

Taunting me as if my arrival was near

I'm not quite ready to surrender my will

I contain some strength left within my soul still

This war craves for a revolution

A obstipate solution

Which is hidden within the wounded soliders that lie on the battlefield

Anert and numb

No sensation to wither to or from

A silent prayer whispers in the wind and blows calmly through each tree

Revealing the truth behind every lie

Still struggling to find, another one's mind

The last shot released

The last soldier that falls

A picture touches the ground of his love that he will never get another chance to be around

For he sacrificed his life, not only for his country but a wife he devoted his life to

He dies and deceases away

Years pass his love carries on

A flash back hits her thoughts of her husband holding her in his arms

She loses control of the steering wheel

Another car collides

She gracefully shuts her eyes

The image that is expose is her husband taking her hand to Heaven

A once upon of time

There exists this place within myself that is deep and unknown-
Yet it is filled with peace.
Star gazing - Mars gazing-
I watch them dance to a beat of their own
And change colors like passing cars on a speedway.
What do they dance to?
Do they dance all night?
If I stare long enough - the sky begins to close in on me -
Like an elevator door migrating to the millionth floor.
My eyes become heavy and my feet begin to tingle.

Is it my circulation or the energy penetrating the souls of my feet and the sockets of my eyes?
The energy that sits so still in the night sky -
Yet moves at the speed of light.
I close my eyes - tuck my red robe collar close around my neck and let the pull of the night sky and the beat of the night earth, layer into my whole self.

30 feet off the ground and i can still feel the cold, damp, strong roots of the earth pushing and pulling every inch of me.
A draft crawls up my legs that are covored in silk.
My body shivers and turns into itself.
It is then that i listen.
I listen to the voice on the other end of the receiver -
Yet i dont hear the things hes saying,
I hear the things he is not saying.
They are screaming so loud - yet his voice remains calm, monotone, methodic almost.
I feel his peaceful pull between reality and perception.
I wait.
I wait for the quick temper to emerge- to unravel itself like a traveling, unraveling ball of yarn.
So yearning to become its colors.
And then all goes still again..
Yet moving at a pace only he can create.
Moving at a pace that wont be allowed to be changed by anything or anyone - but maybe, just me.
The observation of human doings - wait - arent we suppose to be human beings?
Why do we believe that to do will bring us further and better than just being?
Than just being.
I am ready to just be.
I am ready.

Night raids on Salt End
were legendary… It were a
giant chemical works with ship docks,
silos, storage tanks, fuel dumps,
an ideal 'drop off point' for Gerry…

But Salt End plant’s night raids
on Hedon Road
weren’t gonna daunt our lot,
they lived a mile or so down the lane to Preston
and seemed unafraid of gerri’n shot.

But they built a shelter across’t main road
in a field… On the outside It were a haystack
within the walls, six foot thick… proper beds
on hay bails to the front and back... cosy.

Down the middle was a ‘lounge’ with chairs,
lights, a radio - electric run from’t big ‘ouse
It’s better than being at’ome our Charlie used to say
For the eldest (and the architect) he’d not much nowse.

Me mam (then 19) told me she bussed it into Hull
“****** the Doodlebugs” She needed Jitterbugs…
and they still danced at City Hall.
******* to Gerry and his mates.
Margie & her pal René,
dauntless, they had a right ball!

Last Bus to ‘Withernsea’ from town
dropped her off at the junction
by the Speedway on Hedon Road.
Just as her way was lit by fire bombs - all about
when Gerry dropped his final unaimed load
Maybe ack-ack’d sort him out.

She was 2 miles from home… every few seconds another blast.
Scuttling …dodging whistling incendiaries,
running fast, whippet like…
any second could’ve been her last
anything too close she’d have to jump in't ****.

She couldn’t mek it t’t shelter or house so picked
the coal shed - instead… threw herself down
on coals…noise lifted - silence dawned… all clear
heavy breathing - not hers -  she wan’t alone
What if it’s one of them - a downed ***** airman.

Nervous, terrified more like she let out a little shudder
a gentle cough… to test her nerve
“Is that you Margie?… You daft ******!”
It were brother Tom… He’d been t’t Nags Head
and he’d run the opposite way from the village instead.

Seize the speedway.
Try going outdoors.
For at the end of the day
This day was yours.

Oh there's something about
being out when the sun has just recently
risen.
The way the air feels and smells
when it warms up for the first time
all year.
Making a Speedway coffee,
three vanilla creamers and tons of Splenda,
that reminds me of you.
I'm pretty sure I lived on coffee that summer.
It makes me feel young,
and free and alive.