The burr shaking in a
Bohemian Awakening
(Long) vintage stare how
her words were spelled
out snake tongue (Short)
The Death
Whats Up* Chap of a sport
Whats Up Doc
Going tick tock Mr. Rick
Don't trick this document
Oh! where did it drop
What!! He made the drop
dead gorgeous dress?

Born to die last lip of the spoonfuls
Cut to the chase with my chap lips
More deaths on the rise to deliver 
 
How love was the
mind controller
Hands out of the grave
couldn't hold her
Like the Boulder Chief head
Hothead on her shoulder
The better herbs of medicine
His racing car hot flame
gasoline

The Rapsody of her melody
holding on to her life
What a unique wife
Until time changes her moods
Opening up her world of flower buds
A different silence of home goods
We do believe we can be

The Champions

But the fallout of promises
Or jobs never big advances

Oh! Christ
Her chapped lips needed some
time to heal where is her next meal
The heat catching a death of cold
But staying alive the second
wind hot Ferrari Italian drive
Feeling deathly-sick faking
your death was no trick

Who disappeared never
really certain
if it was truly their
Building the fire mountain
Don't keep complaining
where the time went
Death of a cold wishes
not to die
where is our youth
Only takes one amazing birth
Lips kissing the fountain
The fortune teller booth

Who would want her chapped lips
Baby Ruth crunchy bar
down the mountain
The love confused her the
death would be
faster going once or twice up
Guilty trip or the graveyard shift
Hangover ski lift with her
Beeswax for chap lips
Taxman on the number rise flirting
What a good chap
In her coffee cup a little Robin birdie
told you

You made your own grave
time on my side or hanging
by a thread of stitches
Hats off up and away
Getting a green facelift of witches
You lived so far the good life
Feeling so wanted
he cooked your meals
He cleaned up your mess wearing
The Chef Apron 
 *He's Wanted the sign
All over the world,
his face is wanted
The fool lips the fuller up lips
The heart went out of touch a deathly cold
She is wearing her heart-shaped lips
Doing what she is told
How the world has been
smudged with
rules
Noone knows where here

All her cracks of her lips
The cute button nose
Not Rudolph the Reindeer
The hunt for the ****** nose
Up close and personal
Lip to his lip journal
Such odds of numbers
So many even deaths
like tumblers
Through the loopers
Love and resentment
The world is a village commitment
Mcdonald Man beef and the
melted lady
cheese
whooper
You got an alert notice
The cast of spells the
fire went high
You couldn't even put it out
The death of a Salesman novice
Papercut snip computer nasty chip
The charcoal grill felt like it burned you
The fires new hires of California
The peace sign
Imagine people with no

Holy water
Whose mind is in order
The Dementia patients
Your own flame so many hot flames
The rest of the world caught a death
of a cold like an old flame

*The Goddess of Venus
The darker edge his cool hummer
Going on a shoot with chapped lips
Who is really keeping tabs

There was nothing to believe in to hold
To restore how do we balance the world
But we are not Gods
Chapped lips caused
such an alarm
All things take time then
it's in harm's way
Someone will understand to pay
Like a settlement
Deathly gray hairs on the pavement
Getting hurt but the best Godly soil
is still their like dirt
There was no reception hell broke
loose riot
Everything was naked sound
No time to sing a duet to
feet on the ground love couplet

That snow drift fall on your face
Who will be where you are in
the next century place

Perhaps your last picture
before you die
How the singer live on
to be remembered
  Why are we not discovered
Can we be saved from redemption
Like you have been squirted on
Like Heinz Ketchup did you catch up
To get his kiss did he feel your death of cold
But never to exist
What is on our bucket list?

Poundin' my taxman's door f'dear life
Kickin', screamin' and wavin' my knife
He took all my money
my house and my hunny
But hell, why won't he take my wife?

it's a common theme, a pastoral even... a sing-along with the words: when i was in Rotherham... i was never in England... when i was a Rotherham i was never going to imagine myself eating falafel. yes, it's that ****** ugly, which is why i'm hardly a premature ejaculator into assembling myself as bulldog Brit - use the language: well, obviously... but assemble the other bits and bobs? can't happen... it's like asking: tell a Jew to not be a Jew by sitting in one place for a long period of time... the nomad in him will evidently counter that proposal and say: **** it! see you on Mars! and to think that i could have actually invested my life into a diameter that's Poland... people still find it a bit odd: oh, wait, are they back on the map? that's us, Jews of the north... can't believe we're being blamed for the failure of the treaty of Rome: all because the English stopped flirting with the idea of Turkey being in the union: even though they dabble in a lamb kebab after binging on *****... but hey, no one want to be a hypocrite these days... that's of course provisional given your Jose Mourinho relationship: is as special as you suppose with the lady and the trump; someone tell Disney to stop writing those ****** scripts! how thoughtful of a prophet-merchant (merchant of Mecca, Shakespeare should have written that one) to have encouraged the sigma-bleaching-project: one world, one book, one something or other: either the telescope or the microscope answers: otherwise evolving into ****-naked baboons and elsewhere furry Gucci to strut the feline ****; it's not like i want to go back to the past, but i certainly don't want to experience a Monday in the year 2086 either.

i wouldn't have been one of them, their services required
a nobility, which i can partially claim,
but partially discredit as:
a family squabble, where the Eden
project would have flourished -
because of the lies -
         but you know, no biggie,
or the notorious -
one part of my family actually did
settle in america with my seven
tongued great-grandfather *sprechen güt
it's necessarily applied here:
hence it's not gút: miracles!
                     who would have thought
that trigonometry bit into the *****
of those pixy, foxy whatever clot in the
English department....
that's the thing with immigration and
integration and ethnic cleansing:
when i write,
    the desk is as rickety as a bed when
i **** a *******
and she tells me i'm a decent chap -
and says a variant of awe because i paid
£10 extra to pucker her floral arrangement
and she feels ashamed at having had
an ******: and all the feminists are
out there, in the cold, with their banter
     slogans that reach Zeno via
turtle, as snail, to compete with Achilles:
yeah, that hurt, because you enjoyed it
on the hobnob you call a job.
******* pretty enough for you now?
   well: two ***** and a smoking ****** later:
it better be!
               people think that you can just
"integrate" into a foreign land...
they coerce a foretfulfulnes that you
sometimes practice etymology -
        and find yourself a bit like a Jew
but more of a Slav, feeling at most romantic about
the land that is cleft to your ***** in terms
of language patriotism still leech-like,
because you can't forget the asking
that's already there: from the Baltic Sea
toward the Black Sea: our commonwealth was,
and could have been!
          globalisation is so Emi ******* M -
you bleach throughout, and so suddenly,
people get bothered -
         like a Cluedo but unlike who did it?
who's who?
             i write this on a rickety table,
like i might **** an Amsterdam dame of the credo
in all that's left: red -
       baby, that brickwork with your chub
layers does it for me: always a Puerto Rican to
have a laugh with...
20+ years in England and the roses are still
roses, but nettles in some obscure Greece island
designated for offshore debauchery -
hey, no one is a saint: but give a little -
   have at least the remote humanity in you
to breed the ******* Beatles rather than an antiquated
variation of Breivik.
                obviously not to be.
i payed because i wasn't getting any:
hands up, sycamore! so scythe so more -
i just feel uprooted and Jew -
  dispositioned like i have to have an inferiority
complex tattooed on my **** designated for
halal butchers -
           there's a problem though...
i have patriotism with regards to the tongue:
but to the people? a true Conrad (minus the Joseph)
would sell you out, like you already
have: to the highest Saudi bidder -
           ethnicity reemerges - strangely enough:
even after all that ethnic cleansing that's politely
called globalisation: because English cultural
emphasis is plain said: ****!
                      a bunch of fairies say i can't feel
a certain way because it will hardly become economised
and benefit an inbreeding:
so i outsourced you there,
   Dover Monsieur without his Turk and Mongol
invaders -
                   you could call it romantic:
but i'm not writing from an ivory tower within
framework of the land that needs tilling by
a familiar hand,
                 the last time i spoke to a Pollack -
it was in a shady alley at night, debating the clues
to making a living on Ebay -
                  so much for the romantics -
fair game in learning the tongue, but to attack
ethnicity? you have to be ******* me...
they call it the exotica in England:
all that coconut milk went to their heads -
   Baltic coconuts? sure... once you start eating
the pickled herrings like us: quasi-Scandi devils.
     so ******* twinned with Israel:
they said Amsterdam was the Venice of the north
they said Edinburgh was the Athens of the north
they might as well call it Tel Aviv Warsaw
and Jerusalem Krakow - too little to be said
otherwise.
             you could say Moscow and St. Petersburg:
oh sure, seen a bit of the world: ought to be
a *******...           really?
       does the world need another Golgotha
congregation? i just don't see why i require
to give more than linguistic acumen -
i'd never sing god save the queen
because i'd probably sing queen save the taxman...
and it really is a shame i can't engage in
any sort of nationalism - whether over there
or over here, it's a true shame...
           well i do have a grand history to aspire to,
variously interpreted with what gets my heart
thumping:
          ogniem i mieczem - hussaria ginie
(with fire and with sword - winged hussars die) /
          krzesimir dębski:
which i also translate in feeling within
the framework of Górecki's (3rd symphony?
fun-*******-tastic reassembling jazz's double
base, or bees, or other variations of humming
drones: anti-thesis of the crescendo)
three olden pieces, no. ii -
and yes: without cinema classical music would
be dead... the only classical music these days
is cinematic transcript -
                 the complexity of a Liszt or a Chopin
is frowned at, what has remained and endured
is a Satie yawn - a brushing of a piano like
a dustmaid: a sort of accenting the silence -
nothing with a technical claustrophobia of
smug finger litanies of the abacus:
that swamp women's feelings with eerie ahs
and yesses in would be marriage proposals.
   i wish i could be a lazy Welshman
or a Scot that forgot Celtic in order to glorify
a Glaswegian idiosyncratic-syllabalisation
    of wee, as in small: high off my rockers
on the Afghani thought train that's *****.
  i wish i were that ****** lazy...
  as to simply let go of where i was and where
i wasn't...
       as someone in Cardiff once said:
never been to London -
or as someone in Glasgow once said:
           a banch of ****** all with the Edinburgh
Judases.
              i don't think i could ever
have enough lost self-respect to not play the ethnic
joker card without a romantic agitation -
but it's still the piano that truly survives in
the modern world of pop **** trance i-wish-i-were-shot,
any other name from american beauty -
once again: the minimalism is self-explanatory.
no, i don't think i could ever fully integrate:
and happy are those who have their
lives filled with the existentially trivial:
never moved home, never descended a class below
or rise a class above their parent's status -
what a grand scheme of lotto!
                    i love these squamish pixies -
i love them so much that i experience nausea when
hearing about their lot in life...
  after which i turn to a lullaby, handpicked,
christopher young's - something to think about
from the hellraiser franchise, or as i like to call it:
i like these sort of tracks, these life infuriating
   chattering:
              like throwing yourself into either
nouns or onomatopoeias:
                           and yes, art is difficult:
because it's supposedly lazy -
                   oh the plumber in me that never was,
oh the roofer of industrial sized roofs in me that
somehow was, but then wasn't...
            the part of me that writes like Joseph Conrad
but actually wants to scream:
                       zzé skury odrzeć! (variant: ob-      +
-drzec)    to strip the skin.
                 a z tym: nadać ducha gniew alter solo
wbrew temu co mówi, czyli: razem;
                    nawet katedra św. piotra nie jest
                   minimalizm zwany: Golgota.
              (and with this: give the ghost's anger
alter solo, against that, which says,
namely: together; even st. peter's cathedral
                 isn't the minimalism of Golgotha).

Now the working day got me blue again
and the taxman takes all profit from my sanity,
lining the pockets of the rich in this top-heavy system.
I fell to the delusion that the left is always right
in this fight for centralised power,
but now the working day got me blue again,
and I'm tired of watching the news at ten.
I'm tired of seeing the human race **** each other,
so I turn off the television, and I try to live again.

Try to live past that working day,
past the need to keep artifacts from yesterdays
that can never effect the here and now.
Try to live past the event horizon,
the Great Electron in the sky;
the awful weight of uncertain futures-
but the working day got me blue again,
and those twelve hour shifts **** my strength
before I can punch through the wall that separates
you and I, from the happiness we earned,
the tears we cried.

The working day got me blue again,
and I've been quitting smoking for five years now,
But bad habits accumulate when you have no time
to file all the information that passes your way-
like dust across a construction site, when they promised
things would change. Though I've been breathing since birth,
I still turn to cigarettes as if they were the only thing that will calm me
in this sea of high expectations, sugar and caffeine; an isolated reality.
The working day got me blue again
and only music seems to talk above timesheets
and all those titles given to fools that you must obey.

I try to live past this humdrum panic,
this commonplace, day-to-day emergency.
I have been waiting for the paramedics,
for a team of experts or an expert lover
to frame all my fears into words, into diagnoses,
into myths and fallacies that tell me everything will be okay.
Everything will be okay, despite the finger on the button,
despite the chaos in my brain.
The working day got me blue again,

the working day got me blue,
and so all I can think of to do is to
fall into the grooves, into the static sheet of familiar melodies
on midnight walks, only my headphones and a cloud of smoke
to keep me company. The constuction site is always under new management,
the disabled are always ****** over by the government,
and its a surprise the fire service can still afford the price of running water-
double the price of Coca-Cola, and all the sheeps left to the slaughter.

I try to live past the bitterness that kills invisibly
like Carbon Monoxide; a fog, a cataract, that occludes the vision
so steadily, so incrementally,
that you cannot see the Scrooge in you,
until you find yourself alone in your room,
when only yesterdays remain, tattoo on your skin
in a series of callouses, of scars; photographs of guilt or all those better lives
lived by better men. Better women: better blades of grass and ameoba.
We stare into our phones in some punch-drunk hypnosis,
glowering at the world that distracts us from distraction.

The working day got me blue again,
and so I fall into a retreat. Into a fox-hole of self-delusion,
of puppetry in the world through my ugly words
and solemn verse; as if being clever with my tongue,
as if being cursive at the microphone is enough to save the world-
or at least, to save myself. You see, I've been a beacon of poor mental health,
I've been a victim of my own crimes for too long,
but the working day got me blue again, and before I find that strength
to punch that wall, or to make a change,
the working day got me blue again,
the working day got me blue again.

I try to live past the elevator jazz, as I stand on hold
for a company that would just as quickly drop me,
despite the smiles on their logos, despite their slogans of delight.
The lights went out a while ago,
and so I'll work another weekend,
I'll fix up my future pay, I'll sing sadly into my guitar
after a twelve hour shift, my ode, my unrequited love,
my poetry for Saturday.
You see, the working day got me blue again
and though I've spent my time saving up,
putting in the hours to fill my cup,
the working day got me blue again,
the working day got me down.

and yes, very much a niche concern, my laptop broke down
   and i'm forced into the box room, albeit not ramped
out with Nabokov's Switzerland lodging:
at a hotel in the Alps catching butterflies and Lolitas -
i've finally matured in my likings -
but let me tell you, it has been painful
adjusting to the upright sitting:
lost the slouch and the quickie
crow-on-a-windowsill with a whiskey
sharpshooter and then a tornado cascade
into the lesser concept of a blank page and that famous
nothing of philosophers... i love the lesser critique
of Heidegger, my grandfather bought me
a 25 volume worths of interest,
and Heidegger stood out foremost,
primarily because of a peculiar surname,
i later learned that he was the German
that would eventually make Wordsworth
pointless in picking up the lyre,
with so many books i had to realise that
i needed a partner akin to walking through
Dante's epic,
              i could have chosen Ovid, but esp.
Horace, but i didn't choose Virgil or Homer,
a blood German peasant... but also
a pheasant, which means auburn peacock...
oh sure, you get familial ties with people
of the world, people who made either their
forenames or surnames akin to the nouns
as familiar as stars chairs and smoked ham rumps...
perfectly akin to everyday familiarity of use...
i wasn't worn in Warsaw or Krakow -
if i were, i probably wouldn't have left the natives,
but living on the outskirts of that great capital
doesn't necessarily impress:
in all honest edict contraction: i feel debased
travelling into London (central), ***** and ******
out my mind...
       i guess this means two more years rereading
Heidegger's being and time
                               after purchasing his ponderings ii - vi
from the years 1931 - 1938;
yes, my family was directly affected by **** Germany,
not in concentration camps, on the frontline,
so why would i be sopping over a **** familiar
in the realm of philosophy?
       a. public intellectuals don't exist in England,
    English doesn't like philosophy,
         proof
                  ?    b. Shakespeare - peer in on shaking
a pear and
                      the dancing of a retired circus bear dancing.
     c. that's Pythagoras, we leave him in the Pascal gambit.
i just think it's a shame that i have this massive
democracy in my room, and i'll end up with something
akin to a Quran -
                              again, why Heidegger?
i don't know, it could have been that Czech Kundera -
     or Kafka, it could have been Seneca,
              but all these writers are city dwellers,
Heidegger was a quasi-villager pseudo-city-dweller,
i find foxes and deer and dead badgers in my little
promenade escapades, also Satanist black masses
with the framework of in excelsior satanis! -
and lightning that strikes but no thunder is heard...
less for the sons of thunder: the 12 hot-air balloons,
it's very much Germanic in Japan with
feng shui or otherwise known in the peninsula as qi
     kee.
                      then there's the **** of the haiku
by the west and me answering: let's make ensō -
smoothed out narratives, ecstatic variation from
     thinking and away from moral decisiveness
in that activity of perpetuated choice-making -
                how clearly thinking extends into narration
rather than the Cartesian
                 precipitation of thought into being -
nope: from thinking into narration
          juiced-up enclosure of "zoological" tightening
with ensō: beefy haikus.
          but what i really find problematic?
the interpretation of Heidegger's concept of dasein
as coupled with ecstasis.... our ex-stasis...
                  with da meaning there
               you can pretend to be "happy" about protests
across the world, and wars and other turbulent
activity...
                   what i am proposing is what Nietzsche
prompted with sum ergo cogito,
         in that the real ecstasis is concerned with being
allocated to a here, and therefore a hesein -
the interpretation posits the ecstasis there
when Heidegger originally posits concern there,
     or as he encodes: "concern"
                       meaning the dittoing puts him in a safety
of the here, it's the ecstasis of not being there,
but here in the present as the ecstasis, and there
     of some abstract venture as being beyond his command
of attributed dynamism of being involved,
for he's not involved. give me an hour and i'll be
in the countryside: we have that weighty countryside mentality,
farmers talking ******* when stacking hay
and laughing with the grammar Nazis when
    people go to the gym but teach their brains
the flab that the brains actually are: primarily spongy fat -
     apart from typos, it's the case
                                           (it is the case that)
   i don't (do not)
                               much concern myself from English
slang of piano (Joanna)
           and the outright **** (Pakistani),
               cos there was no sine                  when people
overacted toward the tan of me swallowing vowels and
replacing them with shortcuts to prop'ah Cockney,
oi oi, ******, bruv! brush up! this bus to school is
mingy with the throng!
                          who ordered the sardines?
        Stendhal is still the love of my life... i can write
enough complexities with Heidegger, but my love
resides with Stendhal... who would have thought
that a film adaptation would make me eager to read the book
(the scarlet & the noir)? Peter Jackson knew, as did J. R. R.
but it comes from the musings,
          once i do the Kantian critique a one over
the missing yawn and what's actually the most underestimated
arithmetics of wording rather than number circus
         or replicas of taxman rubrics:
after enough chemistry, favouring the organic and
later becoming endowed with a palette for Indian cuisine
well: philosophy books are the worded versions
of mathematics in terms of jumping the burning wheels
of 1 + 11 = 12        and          i contemplate
                                            but what's the = and the 12?
it's so ****** open, i could have invited a hundred thieves
to porose a car-boot sale at my house.
but all this, which might seem like self-love,
    it's not about that...the French intellectualise
and have them public because they talk beautifully -
                  the English?
they sing...
                               the Germans are morose and silent...
        the Spanish are simply the onomatopoeias of *******
and the Italians are seen and heard licking their fingers
after enough basil is added to tomatoes...
   i'm still banging on about the apathetic interpretation
of dasein, rather than the ecstatic version popularised
by the scholars...
                                 the version that reads:
if a tree falls in a forest and there's no one to hear it fall,
does it make a sound? that's my interpretation of
dasein / being there / being "there"....
                          a.                          b.
                       concretely            in abstract,
we already know that the abstract of being is nonbeing
or that things are abstracts of nothings with identifiers
of being used, without actually being touched:
i can say that i see a chair without actually having
to sit on it.
                    i was thinking simpler though -
olly murs' heart skips a beat and someone of the major
tracks by one direction...
             when i reference myself to these tracks
i'm being ecstatic, in the dimension of hesein,
                  like da, shortened purposively from the
authentic hier / here in german....
              why am i ecstatic in the here?
   because i don't have to be concerned in the realm of da /
there, where my opinion "might" matter...
                   but really doesn't...
                             which is why i don't understand
this interpretation of dasein meaning ecstasis -
                           or ex status quo....
                                               as already suggested -
our moral obligation toward language is to provoke
a Minotaur to become an architect of our venture in
using language, away from the market place...
into forests, into depths that have no justification
for being imagined, or as such diagnosed as ever being
there and established to planning permission and norms
of established caricatures and cleanly undertaken
shallowing and hollowing out from them being furthered.
i should be sad having trodden such a path
for myself, but i feel a kinship with this German,
come on, what consolidated the Kantian
dichotomy of a priori and a posteriori as in
   or must not philosophy a fortiori poeticize beings?
should not be conversed with from a wholly
anti-intellectual dynamism suggesting a personal
historic aversion of what's otherwise ethnically ******
without suspicion in terms of cultural tact?
again: nothing - which is higher and deeper than nonbeing(s)
(i ensure the ambiguity of the plural, if only
due to the fact that nothing is
    kindred of a definite article - the -
                          and ensures a translation as nonbeing,
while nothing in a quality as in nothingness
            kindred of an indefinite article - a -
         and ensures a translation as nonbeings, the plural,
ambiguity and throng -
   perfect offshoot that's already known as a-
           and -the         with a missing -ism).
yes, language ought to resemble something less
instructional, certainly less capital / monetary,
and more of a preservation of ambiguity and subsequently
myth... or what otherwise concern themselves with
in the hustle and bustle of a public life: integrity,
                                ulterior of the personal sphere of interests:
the person per se;
       and the apéritif (a'per-teeth)?
                 for lack of diacritical insurance, the English
are constantly in need of a tongue-map for waggling it
prop'ah:
                    the Chelsea y'ah
or the Cockney wa'er                - t t t.
                mind you, that's related to the trilling of the R
(originally intended as a trill) and subsequently lost
in the Germanic ethnic cauldron: hark the French and
cipher the English curling the tongue making the R curled
rather than trill - my idiosyncratic fascination aged 8.
  i thought i ought to end this with a thought about
what's a universal maxim in psychiatry
  in England in terms of a standard prognosis:
patient A has lost touch with reality...
      that's the prognosis, the diagnosis: dialectics of Gnostic
teachings? anyway, that's the standard,
that a person has lost touch with reality... what a great swindle!
     y

Beatle Bomb  (a tribute to the Fab 4)

I should have known better, but if I fell, can you tell me why?
I'm happy just to dance with you, anytime at all,
you can't do that, if you love me do,
I want to hold your hand, and your bird can sing too,
said you was a taxman, it was a hard days night,
you can drive my car, but you wont see me,
I'm looking through you, but you're nowhere man,
had  a ticket to ride, eight days a week,
it was only yesterday, when I met the day tripper,
we can work it out, with the paperback writer,
we called Eleanor Rigby and Penny Lane,
and now it's getting better, with a little help from my friends,
You say “Helllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllooooo­oooooooooooo”
I say “Goodbye”,  
You say “Helllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllooooo­oooooooooooo”
I say “Goodbye”,  

I was living in a glass onion with Dear Prudence,
I said help! Lady Maddona, won't you just let it be,
Martha my dear, took her Blackbird and Piggies
while Rocky Racoon and Bungalow Bill had wild honey pie
Julia and **** Sadie  had honey pie for their birthday
while there was a revolution back in the U.S.S.R
it was helter skelter but everybody's got something
but I'm getting better, fixing a hole, using Maxwell's silver hammer
and mean Mr Mustard was chasing Polythene Pam  
so she came in through the bathroom window
guess it is time to just Let it be

You say “Helllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllooooo­oooooooooooo”
I say “Goodbye”,  
You say “Helllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllooooo­oooooooooooo”
I say “Goodbye”,  

Gomer LePoet...

An acid raindrop
Burning the last of the crop
Dusty barren soil
Marks the end of the millenial toil

Work until your hands are cracked
And you're crippled and broken backed
You work to pay to be free
The new whips of slavery

Mr Taxman comes to your door
His theft I do deplore
All I have to spare is change
And he acts as if deranged

A continent fractured for greed
A little more ivory is what we need
While sickly babies wail and perish
Without a moment of life to cherish

But do you shed a single tear
No, only hate and fear
You are an enemy
To my country and to me

As atomic rainbows cross the sky
In warring peace, we all shall die

Ya gotta be proud of ya country
When ya wear it around on ya sleeve,
Ya gotta be proud of ya people
When they really know how to believe,
Ya gotta feel pride in ya product
when ya fashion & craft it with care
..and ya gotta repulse all the *******
when the rest of the world won’t share.

For man, as a species is poisonous
and God threw the towel in for sure,
When adam  & Eve ate the apple
and threw up all over the floor.
They broke all the rules at the outset
they muddied the waters so bad,
that confusion and greed ran in tandem
and mankind was fast going mad.

Eruptions of steel fly in carbombs
in the streets of Iraq every day,
Ethiopian babies are buried
before they are graced with a name,
and the great wheel of life turns in circles
and the rich play golf with the brave
and who gives a ****
that we’re stuck in the muck
Just so long as that mortgage is paid.

The Parlimentarian’s lying
The coppers are taking the graft,
the oilmen are creaming us all now
and the banks are so rich..they just laugh!
Society’s falling asunder
and we all stand around ******* beer,
can our kids now be blamed
when they all get inflamed
and inhale and inject and turn queer.

Our taxman’s making a killing
he’s fleecing the populace bare,
the small businesman’s plunged
cos he’s chucked in the sponge
and there’s nothing but vacuum left there.

There’s the segment that run high and lofty
their ideals are as white as the snow
for abortion’s as black & the **** is as slack
and GE and PC are go
The fingers are pointed at others,
the hands, lily white, seek refrain
sanctimonious soul seeks  unseekable goal
and the whole lot gets flushed down the drain.

Our PM is staunchly unchallenged
she adjusts her adjustments just so’
her manouvers adroit ‘
the election’s in site
and Labour is flush with the dough.
Minorities step up beside her,
the lesbians snap to their feet
and the marraigeless mothers
and **** ups and others
all cluster to be so discreet.

But the weather is turning up roses
the exchange is bullish so far
and the girls are as pretty
as the **** in the city
and the door to the future’s ajar.
Perhaps there’s some system to it.
Maybe I’ve missed the great plan
for religion has zeal and Christ made a meal
of repairing his mess with elan.

So you see I’m reconciled to it.
I’l glide along for the ride
It’s futile to fight the humungous great might
in it’s institutional slide.
So I wrap myself in my solace
embalm myself with my pride
for in my little world
this old flag is unfurled
.. and Kiwi I’l stand by your side.

Marshalg /Mangere Bridge /Christmas 2005

When we were young and beautiful,
We would so gallantly bathe in glorious sunlight.
So that when dawn would break, the black ravans would flutter and float into the dying of the dark like swollen embers from a marmalade campfire.
I can not recall such bliss and happiness.
Seconds go by.
Happiness.
Minutes taken away.
A gratitude for life.
Hours gone by.
Its time to go in.
Days go by.
The moment of bliss slips through our fingers like dusty sand.
Weeks whizzing by.
Taxman coming down on us.
Years torn up like wasted paper.
You are dangling by your neck.
Decades crumbling down like collapsing buildings.
I my elderly self rests in my shallow presense enjoying the antique memories of what a happy life looks like.

The taxman owned a share of him,
To another he owed rent.
His ex-wife and her attorneys
Had a say in how he spent.
When food got more expensive
He switched from Steak to bread.
The rising cost of health insurance
left him prostrate, nearly dead.
He worked all week at several jobs
In an attempt to make ends meet.
The reward for all his efforts
was to be taxed like the Elite.
He was star in his own tragedy;
a tortured leading man.
Today he is a Free man.
He died at his own hand.

i still feel that people are under-engrossed
in the simple statement they took to mean
rubric, and i took as me own, i.e.:
    just... because... i sorta feel like it...
          i really decided that
hollywood was a bit *******
and shallow, a bit dandy,
i mean: just a bit sad...
if you but a pistol against my
temple, i probably might feel something....
but hey! there comes a saving
repirsal...
i call them the alt-left
i.e. those who said: thanks for displacing
our great barrier reef
   bound by eastern europe....
a billion chinese....
    you chong that cha cha and later
spreak qua chi?
       i evidently didn't want to be an exile,
i didn't want to be a patron saint
of exile... rotting in england...
  that fertile ground of what's to come
in america...
   all you get is my laughter:
when homosexuality just spelled
out: a right of opinion,
when homosexual forgot being artists
and instead started to gear i.v.f. children,
when all the waste came back
without an Eddy Gein to talk
giving the leather-face abstract...
   very few of us could scale
such heights, yet the majority of us
became castrated by supposing we had to
do as the anti-analogue suggested:
oh sorry, too many words?
better me than the taxman checking
your bank-account...
how low can you go, seriously:
  the i.v.f. / test-tube argument was spawned
by children living in mono-*** households....
i'm just watching the clock when they
start to fall off into the proclamation of rights:
America is funny, and i am prone to
laugh...
      it's the argument you'll hear from
the science abuse of: those who can't reproduce,
and therefore raise no children...
not with a mannequin scientist telling
them: yes, you, can!
well, apparently they can...
      two protons make a neutron akin
to an electron dynamic...
     i can't help but see the fault with
the brain being the source of thinking...
i can't help thinking about it...
i could care to make the brain
the source of thought, and the delusions:
soul, god... had i found out that the brain
is as degenerate as a heart...
what, can you convince me with Alheimer's?
   it's really there, was it ever only there?
i find claim to find the origin of thought
as solely brain-orientated...
and there you go off with your neuroscience
*******...
          at least yoga teaches that
a person exists: meaning the whole body
is involved... not some itemisation part-counter-part...
i can't believe fat thinks,
and how the brain degenerates
by the verse of acne via protein equivalent
attacking it, when brain does what people
suggested: does the brain power,
compares the function of the brain to gym...
i.e. you can ever do
crosswords, and other "enigmas"
      and easily escape the moral question....
yes, i've been to prostitutes...
but it's what i did with them that matters,
not that you suddenly think to be superior levitating
above me having gone through
3 marriages... feel superior now?
probably not...
               i am really thinking
about piercing your gob and tugging it
into the pig-trough... so i can see you say
the words manure with oats....
        boring, as ever...
snowflakes that never reach the construct of
a snowman...
                  where the donkey, and the carrot?
it's certainly not a carrot-donkey story
where one's imaginary and the other
is motivated...
        i could have claimed homosexuals once,
even championed them...
about the same time
that art became boring, and they
   decided to do the standard heterosexual
thing of starting families...
    i got bored when one really became
the man, and the other really became a woman...
and there were kinds involved...
and there was no **** coercing the androgyny -
about the time when androgyny died...
when it became less and less confusing
and more cohort...
  that's when i did the one best thing
i could ever do with res vanus -
i turned cogito = mars...
   and yes, the concept of thought incorporated
into a deity from the ancient yore of
a polytheism emerged as: no gods really do...
because once you take to ennabling
a single god from the pantheon to thought
rather than being... you **** all the gods...
and each of the pantheon as alike in
thinking... huh?
     we introduced no more than omni-
to the gods of the greeks...
we did the averse-Prometheus...
upon stealing fire from Olympus,
we dragged thought into Olympus...
  prior to this: the concept of a thinking god
made no sense to be human...
    it's only with a thinking god
  or what's to be called, the basis of omni-
        that we became, slightly dislodged...
        a thinking god is the basis for a god
circumstanced out of the omni- prefix...
that's... that'sthe power of thought...
     thus with a god capable of thought
i can be but an empty thinkg (res vanus) -
and whathever violence comes my way...
with whatever violence i'd like to translate
as arm, stone, throw... i'll keep contained
as merely violent thought...
   nearing the telepathic adamancy...
but that means: a god... not a republic
of gods... which means a thinking god...
   which means that i can't think if
there's an omni- suggestion of being...
  meaning there's no evil genius or akin
given the cartesian res cogitans -
     and how the brain as an ***** is prone
to be degenerate akin to kidney...
    meaning that cogito ergo sum
isn't the right fact, just that res cogitans is...
i am empty, a thing of emptiness,
a res vanus, and i am impregnated by thought,
or by a pseudo-dasein... a being there:
that translates as rioting...
                     and all because
of the concept of a thinking god, and the prefix omni-.
man gave way to the prompt of
the gods not becoming non-existent,
but toward a prompt of merely thinking...
  and now man questions why he is how he is,
and why he behaves as he behaves,
and why there's even a case to question
being as an antidote to non-being, yet nonetheless
seeing the thus: of abhorred content and
a much greater take on what's to be abhorred.
    the omni- prefix concept only came
about when we decided that gods ought to think
after having acted like a pillaging Mongolian
horde akin to Zeus morphing into swans
to ******* **** a few demigods along the way...
the fact that there is a "god" with the given
omni- prefix standards...
  wait a minute... i lost the plot!
  over-stating the points included in this
statement over-and-over again won't work...
           i already said what i wanted to say...
trying to clarify the points as simply as
1 + 1 = 2 will not really help...
       i can't achieve a clarity of 1 + 1 = 2
no more than Kant could in his critique of pure reason...
it's language... you're writing a book...
   if it was staged to a mathematical simplicity
as 5 + 7 = 12... then i'd simply write the zenith
as a + p + p + l + e = apple...
hiding behind a mathematical zenith
while writing out the Hades using directly
confrontational optics to sound symbols
              rather than optics to thought symbols
will not help...
          the next tier of language is exploration
beyond 1 - 9, i.e. Δ -
       that's really the Pythagorean genesis...
they are bound to say delta...
       and beyond a - z...
   well: nothing you can exactly internalise...
fist, foot... stone... stuff of protests,
and farming a field of potatoes... donning
Lenin's goatee, while pretending to
play the violin, akin to fiddling with it
as a Rasputin might.

I hate to break this to you
But I've got some awful news
Seems our parents as we grew up
Weren't telling us the truth

Life is not the party
The older that you get
Adulthood's gonna **** ya
If it hasn't already yet

Never once was mentioned the fall out
Starting with the hair and teeth
I'm not sure they even would have told us
If they hadn't first lost their memory

Or that the ache
When you first awake
Will be the best
That you feel all day

And what the taxman doesn't take
The undertaker will
That is if you have anything left
After a lifetime of paying bills

Yes, never did they tell us
As we were quickly on our way
That we'd live every waking moment
With some sort of stabbing pain

Or that if and when we make it to the end
We'd lose all our self respect
Having strangers bathe and change us
In our state of drooling mess

I'm sure they thought it funny
Those wild old crazy coots
Keeping age a secret
And us out of the loop

Not sure I could ever forgive them
For all the lying that they did
I guess the only option is
Not to tell our kids...

I-Can
U-R Loved
2-B my man

Did
you
ever
mingle
2-C
Army or Navy
Amy is my baby
Bermuda shorts

The sign (All sporty)
Love certain

Never
so
clearer
the 3
misses
So clever

Look!!

Behind
the
Deep-sea
Me
curtain

Front page
Eyes engaged
Never again

Villa number 4-Me
Quite the target
5 people-C
Death wishes
13-D

D- Deceased
Crossword
Puzzle
dazzle me
crowd

But all buts.  .  .
The tantalizing
temple People
  Big Dimple
drink's

It never
Sips money
green_
50 shades
smiling
snap
anyone's
Snapple
The ending
battle
*   *   *   *   *
Bermuda
triangle
Just
beginning
Squared Inn
Beguiling
Making
round's
Never stones
Summoned on
Scarlet fever
Not giving a ****

Lady stays
up (Yes Nam)
Higher cheekbones
But all these buts
in between remarks
When
the
sunset
goes down

Going up >  >  >
Sword-like
Biblical Ancient
Bermuda town
That
kiss rarity

((Flattercalls)) Tipping over
her hand
((Waterfall-Gals)) laying over
Hearing her
moans of
sounds

I but... I need it
Let's mingle
we are
all talking
the same
language

Cafe...steams me
The hub or hubby
Bermuda
tropical
place
It rings *
But always a but
I never
want
to see
you  butwith her
Drinks Bondmen
Showcase stirs
Taxman

No buts
Oh! Sir
Or quite the Mr.
Burr Bermuda
Red tape
everything
on
((Google))

Never to
mingle with
ladies wanted
Goodbye waves
Ads
Never curves single

(Millionaires Harmony)

Suntan Bermuda bikini's
and buts_
Here it is
the buts.   .  .
But did
you see
that??
How I need that
My Alladin man

He gave me
The time
of
my
life

(Debutante all Detailed)
To be wed
The Peacock
Ladybirds
triangle
Fan

Spiritual
Traveling to never- landing

Applique Peachy tree's
Dressed 777
Thousands
the millions
someone's
breaths
Terrible two trillion
  
Her Bermuda
vacation so jaded
Check to check
Foreign kissing
remarkable
69 lips sipping
Ending up
with Skittles

The rainbow food
Hill of the Monk
Fish
Seven Fishes
of wonder
Sea Bass
Her summery
Bermuda shebang
* Icely but pricey
chilled bur $-$-$
tang

I swear some mornings,
I can see the Tv snow Playing
On the back of my Eyelids.
I'm Auto-writing,
on Automatic,
This show comes on at Ten O' Clock
P.M.,
Eastern Standard Time.
I'm early morning only late at night.
Welcomed back into the Static Noise
When the sun comes back around.
This man don't rise with the roosters.
I'll be not a slave to circadian rhythms.


PSSSSHHHHHHHH!!!
An alarming blare
Breaks news in dreamland.
The fields need plowing,
Barbarians are at the gate,
The taxman cometh.
There is work to be done.


Half Lidded I sip
The Proletariat's Breakfast,
As the Stars Gently Fade Into Sunrise.
Transport arrives at twenty past six,
And the trains must always run on time.


look me in the eyes and ask me,
Who am I to be angry?
ungrateful?
Skeptical of the Great Society?
Who are we to be Disenfranchised?
Disengaged?
This work only means bills and coins,
purchasing power,
And another month's rent.
150,000,000 jobs,
buying time between Disasters,
or till the future makes
the majority of us obsolete
To the whims of the elite.


This doesn't even feel like surviving.
In fact,
I feel I'm being farmed.
Domesticated.
I keep daydreaming of
a stone shack in the woods,
limestone pulled up out the earth
by my own bare hands
and stacked into a home.
It's Six twenty-five A.M,
and the bus is always late,
and these in-ear headphones
blocks out the rumbling
of a city waking up for work.


I'm still asleep.
I'll call you tonight...
If we wake up.

it doesn't have to mean
anything.
sometimes I just need to
draw something.
something about the way her
hair falls into her face
when she laughs.

something about that crow on
that wire that keeps
yelling my name as if I've
hurt his feelings and he wants me
dead and in Hell.
something about the way I've never
heard anybody say they
love me in her western dialect
before.
I melt whenever she does.
hey, I melted the first time
she said she liked me.

that's all there is to it.
it doesn't have to mean anything.
just like dust, rain, chest pain,
a cracked windshield, a hole in
your sock or a letter from the
taxman.

it's just poetry, mum.
just little
somethings.

He, growing, is nearly asleep but his psyche keeps fast to the tale
He hears:   The world at end, too many fights, ugly bites
                    They never knew or tasted peace, the blast on close
                    Rights, mere words.

He wakes, jarred by certain fear, praying the bubble at the end
Is big enough for enough
(Enough of the right people).

If the world should end this year and a select handful could make it out
Inside a scientific bubble, hidden in a volcano
(There is talk of super rich buying off tracts and strips
Away from when the crowds go mad........)
Will we need preacher or agriculturist, who will grow the crop?
Is an artist of importance or how about the taxman?
When this big, blue ball's reduced to rubble, do we need accountants?
The cave age beckons, folks and Lard knows, it seems not far off
Not the way groups take turns to hack away humanity.

Stockpile the water, canned food, save a let or two
And leave sentiment at the door, the bubble cannot hold us all
(Wait, where'd I leave my cell? Oh, there won't be electricity, no charge.)
No meat to eat, but hens to lay
Save the flint and remember: keep the secret.

.currently? the european fencing championship is taking place (alice volpi, what a beau!), as is the european football woman's champion, which am i watching? the fencing... i once said: what is the most ****** aspect of a woman's body... i'd settle for the thigh, but the hand wins it, every, single, time... she's missing a knuckle, such petite geisha hands, such chihuahua detail: the mandarin have a "proverb": everything that is small, delights... women fencing, fully clothed in their gear: well, it's not latex, but it does expose the one hand... who the hell needs catwalk models when you have such classics as alice volpi? i can't watch woman's football, sorry, no, tennis i can appreciate beyond the male competition... some sports are better done by women... gymnastics... fencing is another... but football? n'ah ah... i'm a sports fan, an eclectic fan... but one thing is for sure: i'm no ****** fanatic... when i watch a football match i always root for the underdog, i don't "have" a team... to me sport doesn't translate into a religion passed down by generations of horses donning blinders... i like table-tennis, archery, i still don't know why baeball will become an olympic sport: while squash is denied... sqaush? probably the most fun sport in existence... rubber ball which you have to warm up, if i remember correctly: 3 tiers of hardness... rubber: so you have to warm the rubber up to let it give out a good bashing... my favorite game plan? strike on the side walls... get the corner... confuse the "opponent" / flat-mate... mind you... "confusion"... " ": hardly a misnomer, hardly a metaphor, more or less an insinuation bracket... the quote of the quote of a "quote"... oh look at you pwetty whittle bwit... tarantula bite you on the tongue? lost the trill, have you on the R? let's sharpen it with the rune ᚱ... well... not as bad as the frankish hark of the rattle-snake... more: tongue-numbed bound to wobber and the wipple effect enclosed into a "lisp"... i hate people with a phonetic encoding akin to R, that do not trill, who, have, "lost" it... talking about runes...  wanna see something, fun?! akin to the Rod of Asclepius? what were you expecting, the Sword of Damocles? did you know... that violin bows, are made using horses' manes, yes yes, the hairs... for the miserere mei deus (Bach)... and this sword, hang over the Sicilian tyrant by only one thread of the mane... never mind... the Rod of Asclepius... Asclepius being the father of Hippocrates... eh, mortals, *******, ****-buddies, ******* sons, geneologies... what a carnaval! see any similarities, "elsewhere" in the x-ray of language? oh, but i see one... i present to you... the runic grapheme that wasn't a grapheme... a homosexual birth... when ᛊ & ᛊ  merged together... the two suns merged, and gave birth to ᛝ... Yngvi... ŋ, a subtle grapheme, mingling n and ȷ... nȷern: near... so what will it be: pwetty bwitish boy: stop trilling the R, hark it like a Frank? last time i checked while talking to Isabella of Grenoble: the Franks used to trill their R... until they "evolved"... at least they hark, you, mon ami were bitten by a ******* a tarantula, you're numb and both as ready as a lisp cwusade-r/w... ***** is my first name, drunk's the second... my prime addictions are: sleep, and... vocabulary... on a side note... thank god i was not circumcised... i can at least ******* in peace... since? the "bad" thing is not that you visisted a *******: it's that you didn't behave like Jacky Boy'oh:  the Rippler... let's just leave it at: giving you enough ambition to steal a kiss from one of these ladies... that's enough... i already kissed the throne of Bulgaria with these women i was with... Bulgarian... they said: they said they were Bulgarian women... but... eh, funny... they uttered a Russian sounding word... Хорошо: okay... last time i checked... Romanians were proud of their history as being part of the Roman empire... so they wouldn't have applied the Cyrillic alphabet... Bulgarians have applied the said alphabet... darker skinned, raven black hair... who the **** is going to be picky a *******?! slightly old, young, chubby etc. the details do not matter... there's nothing bad in seeing one, modern society prescribed us the 3Ps: priests, psychiatrists, prostitutes... i tried all 3, the last gave me the most enduring stamina... but it's what you do in the act that matters... the act itself is irrelevant... i quiet like their company... beats having to write a ******* sing-along for the taxman celebrating the beatles... oh yeah, i'm royaly ******, but not as ****** as some of these saudis with slavic wives... seeing one documentary: i'm still surprised as to why these camel-jockey sand-******* are no castrated... muhammad would do a stalinist sweep-up with these modern saudis... he'd castrate three-quarters of them... such are the graces of decadence: first comes degeneracy, then comes weakness, after that: sheltered confidence, which implies a second tier of weakness; oh, and bangladeshi slaves.

this is why the english could never, really,
                  ever manage existentialism,
or even fathom it, or, let's say, conjure it up,
which, might add up to a 35 hour working week of
the french, who could... while the english faked being
as efficient as their german ancestors,
who... well... were addicted to working?
summary of english existentialism (based on darwinism):
    and we descended from the trees!
             and walked into the caves!
and then we left the caves!
                            and conquered all the species
hostile to us!
       and then we built mortgaged caves!
     and then the snakes came, once more...
                             and suckled at our incomes!
we're talking thousands of years, as some suggest
even millions...
                      i have to fold that into my puny brain,
like also lodging into: can't read a map...
   but i can tell you... copernicus was right...
  the earth... it ain't flat.
                                              the ******* on about?
darwinism erases history as it goes along...
they call it natural selection...
        they could also call it: finicky historicity...
a penny sweats arcade... like the muslims are doing...
        and all this mantra from women reducing men
to apes... hopefully i could aspire to be a mozart...
but no... i'm just supposed to say: ooh ooh pikachu!
but even aspiring to a gorilla is hard...
           the ****** could rip my hands off!
     what's the point of writing history,
when darwinism, simply erased, pretty much all of it?
natural selection... sure... and then came selective historicity...
and then the hide & seek of: hide: doubt, seek... deny;
if there is, such a thing as english existentualism,
it's a bad joke... sure, modern commentators
think that the original french and german existentialists
were boring sods...
      no... i can't think of any good idea to construct
an existentialism in english...
                         if it could be done... it would probably just sit
along a chimpanzee, in a zoo... fiddling with its thumbs:
yes, like? no, no like? yes, like? no, not like?
i could have sworn, that i chatter to louis xiv,
or edward, the confessor;
       it's still hard to believe, i was only talking to a bunch
of monkies... and not all the sub-genus kinds...
odd... just chimps...
                     not the gorillas... not the macaques...
           not the lemurs... just chimps... weird, huh?
                           i still think i'm descended from eskimo
rather than ****** africa; come on! the ice age movies!
              what would be the point of moving north...
to freeze your *** off?! oh yeah, and shedding your fur would
really make sense by then.
orangutans? monkeys with down syndrome.
         if sloths... yawn... i'd rather be in their genus (family).

among the dead, two heroes, Octavian, and Philip Augustus
(from the house of Capet)... to all hopes of a revived Hollywood
encircling them, fermenting as many credible names -
strange people, poisons that smell like perfume - what?
lord anthony is dead - is that how one says it?
simply as that... mark anthony is dead -
the soup is hot, the soup is cold - anthony is living, anthony is dead -
SHAKE WITH TERROR WHEN SUCH WORDS
PASS YOUR LIPS... FOR FEAR THEY BE UNTRUE
AND ANTHONY CUT-OUT YOUR TONGUE FOR A LIE...
AND IF TRUE... FOR YOUR LIFETIME BOAST
THAT YOU WERE ABLE TO SPEAK HIS NAME
IN HIS DEATH... A DYING OF SUCH A MAN
MUST BE SHOUTED... SCREAMED!
IT MUST ECHO BACK FROM THE CORNERS OF
THE UNIVERSE!
ANTHONY IS DEAD! MARK ANTHONY OF ROME
LIVES NO MORE!
i know of only two men be worth a taxing memory,
a taxman's assertion worth of bookkeeping...
that one was Octavian, and the latter remnant of Charlemagne,
namely Philip Augustus, father of the Magna Carta...
beyond the celebrated procession of Westminster Abbey...
there the minded tear...
they binding i admire most... keen puppeteers,
such that i too suffer sufficing to be with the smallest army of
exercise in the demand of owning land bereaved
from ever being lost, as sufficient demand for
posthumous reenactment of the up-kept bibliography.

We all have a choice to free Will
He starts off locked in a cage
You might choose to just chill
Or you may embrace your rage

Paralyzed you can remain still
But Remember this is your stage
It's truly only your time to ****
Choose your fate, turn the page

You fell asleep and woke to see
Under the bottom rock lay a key

I wonder, Was it even locked?
Perchance,Is this all a dream?
A blunder, yet they knocked
Romance, A Jehovah scheme

A paradise of the utmost ultimate utopia
A paradox, of thee immaculate dystopia

We chase and climb as we proclaim the divine
As Robert weaves tightropes and walks the line

A friend indeed to help Will Succeed to not
blindly bleed and pay the taxman's greed

It's only your life to lead, or perhaps throw away
Why not nurture the seed, and extend your stay

Please open your eyes and decide your path
Boldface the lies and regret's dreadful wrath

The future is here, prepare for a great surprise
I'm going to end this poem's life, with italicize

Down on the South side watching all
the wide boys,
plugging in on Electric Avenue
watching the streets and who
walks by, who stands there waiting and
wondering why.

Brixton,
easy on the eyes,
sifting through the lies they told as
worlds unfold before me,
Starbucks and coffee,
skimming news in the 'Standard',
just because it is free.

Taxman?, relax man
the money's in the post,
this is South West Nine and
there's plenty of time
for all that.

The silence was sinister, as if, sound had lost its vocal chords,
the days arrived and sunsets painted the sky in crimson
and gold leaf ensembles of artists dreams.

While they sat around a table, document drivers ran around
pushing agendas, translating armageddon scenarios
if the other side raised a finger or pulled a trigger.
So the sulky diplomats sat like doormats where
the national feet were wiped upon and trust was invested
in their stupidity. Harvard education, pin-striped suits
with loud aggressive neckties announced their status
to TV crews and intrepid journalists, hanging on every word
like guillotines, to ravage the leading newspaper stories.
Headlines were deadlines. Diplomats drummed
up side angles for photographic faces  to appear firm
and responsible to the taxman's money.

Here they gathered
with their policy whisperers awaiting for a signal
to open their loaded dialogues of positions and
policy shifts. Yet no one said a word.

The silence, for once, kept all the mouths shut
( one wished permanently!)
no one said a word for 3 long hours,
but they sipped chilled water, took notes of nothing
glared at each others sides and took notes
again of what was not said.

At the stoke of two, when the clock belted
a twang and the echo bounced through
many empty heads, the diplomats rose
to call it another day of negotiations.

The cold war had just had its 9th meeting.

Author Notes
The Revolution says little, but the war take sides. Diplomats are busy 'discussing' how to end the war, and find a solution. Their policy positions are so entrenched, that little happens. The silence is as loud as could be. Meanwhile, the guns boomed and little childrens playgrounds were pock-marked with cluster bombs. Lines of refugees, walked up the mountains seeking shelter in neighbouring towns. The cold war complemented the heat war that was raging on the battlefields of doom. Please stay indoors.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Feeling the "Earthquake" not really knowing who your lover
really is. All spies like a Jupiter Ascending
love ammunition how it got you there is no pretending

          X
        Flex
         Trix
          Mix
    Boo Botox
     Net Flix
Does the letter
           X
Solve our problems
       On a Fix

My X bigger bridges
Brooklyn hug sorry
(The Braggart)
hurry
Mr. Humphrey
Home of Ophrey
Supermarket X-play
game
Spoiled to
the very flame

life "X"  sport betting
X-Files hurt-playing
The book
**** and Jane
SPOT
pooping and
cleaning up
Keep talking
to never
shut up

Marks the spot
X-Men cup
Where's your other
X husband?
Did he get bruised
Tossed
Nutcracker
So wounded by
another lover

Tight B-fit
Treasure chest
packer
The pinch cheeker
Tried to heal him
I heartfelt his
wound
Drummer beat
me to it
band-aid

Computer Bugs
Ladybugs of aids
Teddy hugs maids

Judy red  Grape
ruby slippers
Her Garlands
Singing to the bank
Man-Tipper
Disney-land
Epcot
The farmland
Dot .   .   .   .   .
Are you down
on your

__
  $
  $
   $
X's_
She's highlands
Over the rainbow
  Oz only
Spellbound in
your sleep

Z   zzz  Z  zzz

Buzz-zzz Beeee
Mover trucker
Hoarder Fed Ex
So Wed-Dexter
X-Her
Did you see the
yellow
tape of
surveillance
The French
waitress
The *******
Raise her mattress
Don't hock my
X design
She is wanted
X-signs
Upgraded
Up Up and away
Need an update
Her calender Girls
Bikini X=style cups

Those braggarts
Bring on nuggets
** -
Xylophone
II
The bragger
Smartphone
The true lover

Bulleye
He darts me
Twin Tigers eye
Lined and framed
X-Spy
Valentines Day xoxo
Laying hearts on
the line
He's playing darts

He circled me
tic tack toe
Smartypants

XOxOxO  X0XO
Zany Zorro
1 0  0 0 $ Extra
Mantra
  ** The Taxman  
Oh! Why Y Y

down to
Zero Conman
  Singing the blues
Holiday Miss Billie
Let one X be my hero
Just X me 4-A
appointment
tomorrow

Of Spies per day
The Wolfine
Another X boyfriend
Time machine

Love conquers all
Another try

The old testament
The new Xtra
dividends
To be speared
The spearmint
Jupiter Ascending
in the future

Black magic or the
Goldmine
Told her X its time

Bloodline getting
approval
More enemies
of your rival
The good
versus evil


Halftime marked
No time adjusted
The real-time
everyone's birth
Arrested
Crying movie
Xtra needing
one bad

Pinch cheek warm
Looper fine Cooper
Halfheartedly
Spies coming to me
X   X   X   X
Snooper

The love forever
But not willingly
Oh!   0  0   0

Like you were both
Marked to die

Organic minerals
Meeting X-men
Generals
Good time of currency
love potency
Highland to my fancy

The even exchange

He's X I am $

What would you prefer?


More TimeSquare
Love me not

Last City token fare

The math equation
         X
Likewise silver teaspoon

Lovers measurable swoon
X men on the lagoon

Of the lord

The human state
X
Do you mind

Losing some stripes

Oh! Yikes making amends

People on the inside

Flattered by the energy
    X boast_
Heavenly encounter above
Name of a title 2 for X

Foremost another
Spy of
a toast
((To Be)) the most
Mark me and I promise
You will see
Jupiter Ascending
Her Floppy disk
In Gods love
commending

The future we may never know

But all the love in the world

"Love Is The letter"
If your happy and
you know it
Clap your X- hands
No pretending just
move to
your destinationHome

THREE CHEERS FOR MODERN LIVING
 
 Ah, what a life,  a dreadful life
Too much angst and too much strife
Credit card and mortgage bills
Piling as tall as the mountains and hills.

Better be a primitive man who was happier
In the cave or on the tree, never a money-worrier
Nature lets none down, food is for the picking
The river provides the water for drinking

The breezes provide the air-conditioning
Music is sent by the birds that are gladly singing
No cars, no problem parking
No supermarket-queuing

No upsets, no arguing
With the recalcitrant who are seeking
A quarrel with fists threatening
Isn't it a punishing?--this modern living

But I am not done yet with this writing
There's also the taxman who is watching .

They tell you it’s a game and then they toy with you, they say that life is to be taken seriously and they make a joke of you.
They say that this is the way that all life works yet they don’t share the troubles you do.

It’s a savage mockery of a cash-on-hand ruling class that plays make believe with our “opportunities” I’m starting to feel as if they’ve made a fool of me.

They say that life is yours then they occupy your time, they push you for more hours and less pay as if it were sublime and at the end of the day the taxman takes some away, it seems like its all just savage mockery.

We ride the Ferris wheel of change and our ups are always followed by lows and we end where we started, both feet firmly planted on the ground and the fun is suddenly over.
We’re actors and clowns, we’re tightrope walkers and high flyers, dreamers, screamers and make-believers but it’s all an act, it’s a show and we dance for entertainment because once the pretty lights stop we are back on the road, tired, broke and always feeling used.

Exploited.

If only we could change, yet we just don’t know any other way.
This is the way we’ve been told the way that life is since birth and those lucky few who have managed to find a new sideshow to join have found they themselves must answer to the people above them.

It’s savage mockery and it always drips down, so abuse rolls down and we all fall victim to someone.

We’re Generation lied to
Absorbing fake news
We don’t trust a soul
So rare is the truth

We’re Generation pollution
Pretending we don’t care
No one will be laughing
When we’re gasping for clean air

We’re Generation priced out
Forever burdened by debt
They don’t care you’re hungry and freezing
The taxman has come to collect

We’re Generation depressed
My mood swings like a rope dangled from a tree
I keep picturing a silhouette sway lifeless from a noose on the end
I can’t help but imagine it’s me

We’re Generation false hope
Promised it all
How highly you built us
How fast did we fall?