You said you aren't tickly
It's all inside the mind
I took it as a challenge
But my heart quickly declined

You took my hand
And sapped my nerve
All at the same time
Invoking me
Imploring me
Our fingers intertwined

You've got me hook and sinker
But it's such a fragile line
Feel it snap
When I'm with you
I get a tickly state of mind

The Tickly Monster's coming
To tickle you off to bed
He'll tickle you on your tummy
He'll tickle you on your head
He'll tickle you on your tosies
He'll tickle you on your thumb
And when his tickling's finished
He'll say that its just begun

The wallet where the hidden secrets are to be believed

The boy, a lap climber of some renown,
Age, could have been six or seven,
Had a favorite cliffside to ascend and ride,
When done, down to earth, slide.

Up he would go, on a treasure hunt,
A game to play, called pickpocket,
On a forest of a man of coffee smells and a tickly goatee,
Hamburg born, a man who actually wore
a homburg hat on his head.

First the glass case, the snappy kind,
From the snap, crackle and Pop days.
Inside a cloth, good for emergency cleaning of
Runny noses when it was crying time.

Into the crevices and pockets, he dug and delved,
Jangly keys guaranteed to somehow disappear,
A silver and gold fancy pen and pencil set,
A money clip, folded papers he didn't understand.

But the bonanza, the jackpot was the wallet,
Finding pictures of himself, asking the goatee,
Slyly, smiley, all grown up likely, kiddingly
Who's that?

Between the pictures of him and his sisters,
Was a weird discovery, five twenty dollar bills.
His money was in a clip, so these twenties
Had no earthly purpose being there.

There is nothing more unstoppable than the curiosity
Of children under the age of ten,
So a grand inquisition of nagging began,
Centering on the age old torture tool,
Why?

Goatee said someday you will see men,
Lying on the street, some with hands outstretched,
Some, hands beneath, hidden neath their legs.  
They won't smell as good as you,
They may even be a tiny bit *****,
with no bathtub to play in.
When you should see such a man,
If he asks or not, our job is to give him
One of those special notes.
When its your turn to have wallet,
You will understand better.

Dissatisfied was the explorer,
The words did not fully explain,
Why this money was different from all others?
Upon these five bills, were hand written bold
Three words, which he could read.

God Bless You!

Goatee smiled and hugged me that hug,
Where you can't breathe and its a-ok,
But please be quiet now young one...

This poem a total fantasy.

Someday Izzy and Alex will be forward scouts,
Investigators and detectives with prying frying fingertips.

If they get to Poppy's wallet,
Between the pictures of them and the West Coast team,
There just maybe, five folded twenties,
Magic marker signed, but not by a Treasury official,
With words of a similar ilk.

If they should inquire what's the point,
Poppy might answer them with one particular
Poem.

We walk along the beach at night,
Arms entwined and hearts entwined,
Waves lapping 'gainst our feet,
Pebbles scurrying like sand ***** 'twixt our toes.
  
Talking about *****, we are both
A little tickly in the naughty bits department,
As the gentle summer breeze
Wafts through our matted ***** hairs.
  
Just a brief hour or two ago,
We were strangers at the Pier disco,
And now our histories are to be
Inextricably linked by fate.
  
I do not know that, in a month or so,
I shall need to send you
A little yellow contact slip
From the Margate Hospital special clinic
  
Informing that you have been exposed to
A most unpleasant social disease
Which, with a bit of rotten luck,
Could easily rot your insides.
  
But, for now, our thoughts are far away
As we laugh and joke together
In our new found post-******,
Youthful lovers' camaraderie,
  
Not wanting to speak too loudly or disturb
The copulating pair by the nearby breakwater
(Not that they'd be put off by a thunderclap
Seeing as how he's on the short strokes by now).

Fiery sun glimmered
From mornig till noon.
Then it drizzled all night
When came watery moon.

Environment was conducive,
Soaked and sunned was mud.
Mystical & magical moment!
Came into bieng tickly bud.

But something went wrong,  
Frail being never bloomed.
Scarce water or poor light ?
Bud wilted and was doomed.

Something subliminal
in the way a man smells;
his odor, his  pheromones,
his testosterone seeping from under his skin
massaging my nasal passages
making me dreamy and sleepy
and tickly inside.
There's a unique quality
so pure and primitive
in the movement of a muscle
accidental
not for show
so private, the tension in a bicep.
It acts without the knowledge of being watched
and would move if no eye were there to witness,
but sometimes
we do
and we see the knobs of strength pulled tightly under skin,
dying to burst through flesh
and reveal masculinity to the sun.
Some kind of trivial beauty in the sweat on a face
after a long day outside
building a fence
cutting grass
tackling an opponent;
the liquid rolls down limbs
out of pores
drips
onto ground, nourishing the grass,
enticing
a nectar caused by labor and struggle,
grunts and power
energy.
Something so simple
in the sight of a male,
sturdy, like a house
a home to be enveloped in,
protected from the elements trying to rust our joints.
The testosterone fuels the movements, the thoughts,
and desires.

a note before i end the pending poem.

i know i'm not writing anything "in the groove"
or whatever urban tonguing i should use to invent
the new form of glue: to stick with the trends.
                    when people read candyfloss
literature i read lead literature,
  that's how it goes, i find too many poets
angry shouting down other people's throats,
i find them in positions where they think
they empower people: but rarely do.
   i write for the sole purpose of a demographic,
a democracy of sorts, i never want to hear
my voice regurgitated back at me,
i find it prickly, apart from the half-digested content
i am actually opposing being fed it...
  i can't explain why i don't entertain,
write one poem every two years either, apart from
the fact that: well, writing a poem and then
performing it? performance doesn't really do much
for what's an ongoing voyage, performance to
the art is like a Moby **** moment:
   you get to tell the adventure of a shipwreck,
rather than the proof that the earth is not flat.
the additional benefit, you get to see how your
thinking interacts with symbols, and how these symbols
will never betray the tongue that doesn't speak them...
   you get to do x-ray upon x-ray and find that
stuff like this: is actually equivalent to a bone in your
tongue. as with the moment: when artists are quoted
as having said: words are meaningless...
     i guess there comes a time when, with that said:
punching someone dead means more.
   oh this pithy sentiments that only empower politicians
and the media... i might have said
    a baby's gluttonous gaga drool and you'd be like:
yay! happy days upon us!
                      when poetry isn't performed it continues
into the nether region of thoughts: it's not jeopardy
of suddenly fizzling out into a state of a stale champagne
bottle... the residual power is confiscates from speaking
it retains a close proximity of actually writing it,
on the basis that it becomes prolonged, and more concentrated,
it cannot be allowed to diffuse into the open,
into a crowd, for a democratic hurrah on we go.
  i wanted to simply see poetry as an optical exploration,
rather than a vocal necessity of the art,
      philosophy was clogged up in too many truths
and untruths, and basically too many paragraphs,
   i wanted to make frank the medium that abhors paragraphs,
and by the looks of it: punctuation marks.
well, it's all about pedantry to be honest,
               but then i never desired the urban lingua
of keeping with the zeitgeist... i see how keeping up
with the times is enshrined with materialism and how
fickle it all eventually becomes... you can never reach
a status of cool reaching for the obscure,
but that's what all attempts at fame end up being:
a quiz show, trivia, obscure knowledge, 0 points
means the best points available, and after that, the realisation
that all is empty, and that attempts at fame
become questions in a quiz show where the aim of
the game is to: name the most obscure answer possible...
oddly enough the same show invites celebrities to
take part in the quiz for charity... *pointless celebrities,
first word, yep, that's the name of the show.
oh no, i don't shun television, i do admit that watching
a brick wall is more entertaining drunk than television,
but the sober me has to do something from time to time.
so poetry: a medium that's opposite of vocally necessary,
a medium to explore the bone inside the tongue
that writing invokes: ****** stalemate...
      would i care to say why every word has a meaning?
unless you can speak hundsprechen i'd say only this,
that sort of reasoning is dangerous...
            we wouldn't get anything done is units of language
was meaningless... (hold on, i'm going to create
a crescendo for this point)...
you can say language is meaningless when you're
singing... vocalising language from these depths of
what would otherwise be known as the graveyard of surds
on the pure basis of optics and all cognitive parameters...
      sure, from these depths into an angelic gospel choir
you can get a meaninglessness: because it's so ******
    pleasurable... you can't deny a good song, you
can't compare the use of language in singing to the use
of language in lecturing some obscure topic by simply
talking... for thus words are sounds, and not the dreaded
pluralism of conventional talking: i.e. meanings.
              unlike the Chinese who have a certain capacity
to remember about 3000 ideograms, we have a much
bigger capacity, but our words are shrapnel and what we
don't have that the Chinese do have is:
                 a capacity for the multiplicity of meaning.
i can't imagine any ambiguity with Chinese ideograms
in the range of 3000 symbols... but there is clearly ambiguity
in our system...
                      obviously we can say words are meaningless
at times when rules of using language are lax given
the lies of politicians and the media roulette:
the fact that media is not state owned is even worse,
shadow brokers and a tarantula venom disorientating people.
   singing is an escape route from the socio-political
conventions of using language, hence the ambiguity trail
of what's deservedly called: socially-acceptable mode
of conduct, something that doesn't receive the ****** frown
of what would probably look like a lemon smiling.
  yet, if language doesn't give you a chance to see a labyrinth
then you have the shallows of singing... mm, yeah, mm, boo...
         ye-ha! ******* cowboys the whole lot of them...
but it's what it's supposed to be, something to be sung
for someone else to hear... it's not something written
down for someone else to see... and subsequently maybe
think about... oh how dreaded that statement seems in
English, a bit like denken scheiße / shy-se!
          people only make statements about the meaningless
of language when they sing... but that's the point:
you're making sounds, akin to the rhythm of my heart,
hence i don't think and subsequently go into a moshpit
or nod my head with some pigeon-like "cool" approval...
language is a bit like Shrek talking about onions...
it has layers, "spooky" other dimensions, oooh oooh...
Casper asked for a weener so he could invert necrophilia
and ghost-**** that ***... it has layers...
         somewhere between the Antarctica and the Arctic,
perhaps in the tropic of Capricorn, but who knows?
but i'll tell you one thing... it's not a white guy thing...
i finally understand why i don't like rap...
a bit like saying: a crowd shouting at a football match
is not an onomatopoeia of whatever is **** sapiens worthy...
   i think that classification actually predates
the expression of it... it's out there, but on the fringes...
         it's like this standard of protestantism with the concept
of predestination: we might just get there by Sunday
in the year 2099, but who knows?
        now i do understand why i don't like rap...
never liked it... couldn't stomach it...
   then i come across a beauty... so all those things i said
before, it culminates into this...
    Akua Naru, ring a bell? probably not,
3mil is nothing in today's celebrity cut-throat backstabbing...
     http://tinyurl.com/lt8ayhg... now that's entertainment...
that's what i love, how every instrument is
actually heard... the bass kicks in to set the tone
with the tickly percussion accents...
                       she's baking a cake...
she's layering...
  it's unlike that ****-culture music of pounding pounding
overly rhythmic and for every band these days
   it's one guitar = 20 violins of an orchestra's worth...
                  this is the new-jazz, or what John Coltrane
insinuated with the words: a love supreme, a love supreme.
            i don't know if it's poetry...
                                   a weak message on a stage might
always require a backing band, like a weak voice
might require a backing band... but this little critique doesn't
necessarily mean i can appreciate it,
   and is the reason why i don't understand rap, and never will.

Trickle down
Rain rainy rain
Trickle poppers
Slippery membrane.
Slippy tickly beard
Prickly pear hair.

\last time i checked the mainstream narrative, i thought people were looking for neo-nazis?! some sort david attenborough style anthropological *******?! and god, and the uninhibited self... because you're really going to hear about terror attacks in poland; that feral land... you can always try... then again, the strong pull of mob rule might dis-satify your amibitions; we just call them ****** membrane imitations.\

/if **** germany produced heidegger? best read him... because let's face it, kant was hardly german, prussians are second cousins, twiced removed from the saxons, which is esteemed as the heartland (herzland) of, "our", modern, europe. could eat a meal with a skin-head, slap him silly on the shining exposure (best to ask me, but i am serious about an extra N added to the project, simply to disassociate it from shy); as the saying goes... there are people, and there are, people.

oh ****,
i'm into neo-****
music...
        notably:
wumpscut's - soylent grün
(umlaut on a U?
**** me, must be terrible
at diacritical arithmetic -
       must be the one
writing pool,
  instead of pöl -
    ******* little german
version of the continental
tongue that's english) -
die krupps' - nazis auf speed...
and one's: strafbomber....
nachtmahr's - tanzdiktator -
  cherry on top?!
    feindflug's grøßenwahn....
   tickly little ******
with the morph of the OE grapheme...
spreschen norge...
tickly tickly:
look at y'ah: 'ow cute!
                mein herr -
                  you want to *******
abstract the pronoun category further
misrepresenting
pluralism?!
               well, with english
desiring surd usage,
           yet invoking a: happening...
no wonder a militant jew ronin
will arise...
                  funny that...
just had idea concerning
the famous hungarian psychiatrist,
introduced
as dr. zaz...
                 could be sas...
the YZWZ confunsed them...
              shash... or rather szasz...
          sheesh-kebab!
sorry: shīsh kebab...
         there, ployed to reinvent the
ottoman land-grab...
   because are you sure
that diacritical mark abote iota
is static, not moveable (i.e.
    immovable?) -
  better luck next time..
             because you write it in
order for it to appear pretty...
i get it,
             orthography is a distant
form of aesthetic...
           but you can't exactly
fake the application,
  when all you're running on
is a surd application to I and J...
  makes no difference,
might as well chop the heads off...
    sh- sh-, shoo!
the most effective use of a broom.
ą, ę spawned
            œ reinvented... or rather ø...
the softest aspect of the german
tongue...
          soft pouch...
                a sense of:
curling the zunge...
                  approximated by the word
new...
                  yet never matching
the accurate encompass...
             there's a tail on that
*******, mind you...
            as to why and i are
so approximate...
                 h'wen of the far right
ditto heads...
                  h'ounce and h'once...
you through to U through to
yew...
            and a yawn...
              i like exploring
these dungeons,
        keeps me neat on my toes.

@First Movement

Flash blue, breezes and gentle touches where he is her favourite dancer.
Twitchy tickly itchy movement, likewise violin trembled string
Autumn arrives with butterfly wings. He is a dancer. Fainted @

Noon sun ray. He says “Hi… Give me a Five”
Shine or silver, day to day. It all turns to grey.

@Second Movement

Life in a day where there are knots in every skein. The moment of whispering
And the surprise gifts of the Year. Look. Rains and showers flushed into her skirt.
Autumn lands with a giant painting brush. She is a painter. Arrayed in

Gold and red, twirling canvas panels with leaves upon her ankles.
Their intense autumnal melancholy embittered

@Third Movement

life wonders’ bedroom window. Of oscillating thread
that winds between the living and the living we thought were dead.

Autumn falls with hymn choral from spider’s web. He and she reunions
Soul to soul, pole to pole with blesses with increase and life,
They are gross and simple creatures, jointly servant of the Will.

She spoke up in class
"Just why does this work?"
Peers giggled, such a nerd
wondering about things with her mind and her thoughts
"Good question," frazzled teacher replies
students make ****** jokes about student and frizzy-bearded teacher.
She couldn't get a guy her own age
her coldness gave males de-rections
but not the teacher, oh no
he loved her.
After classes, late at night
the two would walk the campus watching stars watching them
smiling, those stars giving the two permission to hold hands and give shy glances
darkness allowing the two to feel tickly inside and not feel guilt.
"This works like anything else: simply, once practiced enough."
Boys in the back row roll eyes, take notes, try to ignore the big-brained girl and her too-old boyfriend.
"Why don't you show me, then?" - met with surprise, looks from other students
discomfort rippling throughout the classroom
eyes looking at watches, the clock, cell phones
to decide how much longer the suffering of a publicly performed private romance must last
they weren't stupid kids
they just knew when they knew things
and kept questions to themselves.

Heaps of her across the deserted plains, oily fingers reaching up and over the horizon until all of the numbers fill her pockets, her father worried, and her muses covered with goat-head's thorn. Where does she start to fuse her needs with the weapons in their suburban corolla of lilacs and wanton redolence? It's the opacity in her finger nibs and the dozens of names she felt closing over her legs sideways, until she awakens in the night to take the blood dripping cotton tissues off of her face, off of her bed-side dresser table. She can't even paw forward or undress her wetness in haiku. Everyone she knows doesn't know her. Everything she's seen, doesn't seem to be there for her anymore. That's the trade they told her to barter for, the golden seals and vitamin needs she's gobbling up by the palmful every morning by seven.

Seven for the circus or the mimes, seven for the cloves hanging from the door and seven for the queries that strike back her abcesses and cost her seven by the quart and seven for the plastics. Seven dancing backwards towards a rook or a *****, seven inside her chest playing guitar with David Bowie, seven at the doggerel, and seven for the stitch and the obtuse- only a creature of seven might go for her, in a spot of doves, crank, and soda it is poison, seven is her ***** line, her sexuality, her sinfulness, and her latitude over and over again. Seven makes her want for tomorrow, seven takes tomorrow and throws itself up against the wall, pledging a game in the summer, seven to a trip of caramel and dukes, seven for the prince and the painting of the two of them, seven for the winter, and for the shadows that stretch curiosity past the breath of a summons', seven for the day and seven for the evening, seven scratches her ears and pulls out her hair, seven is the ring and the blue phantom buried somewhere far, far away, green is what's left, but seven knows which way the rain comes and who is going to follow it through.

There is a numbness that radiates on the fringe, a tickly discomfort not even a narrator could let out or down to a name on the mountains near the **** plateau that conquers her nuance, and shakes the both of them to core of the fight. This is not a flag that costs us in coins or in dollars. This is the worry chiseling our shapes and our buttery hips, a stacked set of crazy in a photograph off the leash of only a few. And it calls them to the night when it's only three of us left, until every cord is untied, until every verb is set in its caste, or ringing out to the tremolos of rapture, and the musicianship of pepper-jacked sneezes in the ambers and umbers that although startling, we've all learned to convert our averages in order to swing under the storm, and baby each of us with an elixir of myriad captures, images, and violent abuse.

While the words can yield, and the festivities can hoard each of the simple new experiences against travels of women, and pictures from Mussorgsky riling up soft drinks and evocations towards the center where all of us sometimes will let ourselves, let loose. Something horrendous and cold plugging into the sugars, something quiet, nearly a friend of reminders, crustaceans and ocean making this top-down beach of faces for all to shake and roll with or set forward a cacophony of abuse. Until in a breath she calls for the infinite intuition sheltering her and our window from the pain of misuse.

That is the photograph where we have been looking to live, here is the memory we spent our minds trying desperately to relive in the shade and in the snafu, against the bark and the piano keys treating our rise. Within our skin and our pupils, our silver bookends and/or the mammals we don't use names for but for whom we've been introduced to.

Let's have some fun! Let's go to the Gynae!
If you bleed a lot or have a tickly *****
Or if you have more spots down there
Than the walls in your local Indian restaurant
Or if you pong like a smoked salmon sandwich
It's off to the Gynae! Off to the Gynae!

The Gynae will ask a lot of personal questions
But he's not a pervert really (usually)
He's only doing his job but always bear in mind
He chose this specialisation out of many and
You have every right to wonder why
Anyone would ever do such an odd thing...

Strip off your clothes, put on a hospital gown,
(but be suspicious if it has a "see through" rear
or is of the Lithuanian "open crutch" design);
Then relax on an examination table
And hum along to Abba on the Musak,
Then get your feet up on the jolly stirrups.

Now open your legs so that the quack
Can get a total eyeful of your love-crack;
Don't be shy, he's seen hundred like yours
And some in worse condition too (I expect!);
You may ask to cover your feet with a sheet
If you feel they are too smelly for modesty's sake.

On with the surgical gloves, out with the speculum
And a liberal slathering of K-Y
And we're into the good old Gynae action!
Now lie back and enjoy two gloved fingers
Groping you like Crazy Frog on ******!
He's hunting for lumps and bumps, yee-ha!

Don't feel embarrassed, oh no, oh no,
Why not ask your boyfriend or hubby
(or girlfriend if you're a hairy ****)
To sit in with you for the occasion?
Wow! With a bit of luck, just a little bit,
You might end up with a hot swinging session.

It has been a year
Exactly one year to the day
When we decided to say
I do, again, forever, together.

And never a day goes by
That I don’t try to hold you
And tell you again how much
You mean, your voice, your touch.
The only things that matter
Are these smatterings of moments
Like hugs and kisses good morning
And the same at bedtime at night.
These things are right and the best
Better than all the rest in life
Worth any strife, any price,
Several steps beyond nice
They are what fuels my hopes
And my peaceful dreams.

It seems that sometimes quickly
There are tickly moments to bear
Like a bolt out of somewhere
That must be suffered through
But as I do, there are you
Smiling saying it will pass
And just that fast, it does.
What it was is then a memory
And no longer vexes me
Because what is important is us
And not a sorrow that once was.

So, here is yet another toast
To what matters most, you and I
Learning from what has gone by
And building toward a great future
That is the two of us together
And never a regret that we are
Who we are, not wishing on a star
But accepting and reveling
In what we have now
And happy with how
Things can work out for two
Like me and like you.

Time and again emotional you get.
My dear friend unnecessarily you fret.
Don't give too much stress to heart.
Using brains at times is such an art.

For woman's right you speak and say.
'Equal' doesn't mean 'identical', I say.
Wife became pregnant and you whiled.
Fair man why not you delivered the child.

Behind Veil a woman oppressed you see.
Respected, protected she appears to me.
Freely she walks about to work and study.
Not stereotyped, not just known for body.

Clothes so scanty and no effect on you.
Go to doctor, you are amongst the few
Your body should burn like sun in may;
If you are not impotent, saint or gay.

It is sad, tis man versus woman you think.
Wrong idea, instead both are interlinked.
A woman is like delicate, tickly flower.
Their guardians and protectors men are.

If you think lesser the garb more she is free;
Then oblige me, earnestly I request thee;
Bring your moms and girls in-front of me.
And show me how much they are free.

Its funny how a single notion of you can make my day
Its not as though you ever intend to, or that you even care that you do
But the very idea of you brings such a warm tickly feeling and smile to my face, You’re one of the few things that makes me comfortable being happy

Sometimes I chide myself for being so vulnerable to someone so daring
I catch myself staring, taking in your eyes, your smile,
And most of all that ever-present contagious light that you worry so much is overbearing
It makes it even harder to see when that light dims down

I want to be able to fuel you, in the way that so few can do for you
Forgive me, I’m trying my best
For all the bads, I promise I’ll give you all the good I canYeah

reading does, the radio plays
hymnals, sacred sleeping music.

investigated, is it tickly, chesty,
do you seek production,
yes just look how much it costs now,
no, not if you are driving, this one
will not make you drowsy.

neither will you get the top off,
it is 100 percent proofed.

i looked for pins, 20 p a bunch,
a better deal for fixing things,

nicely.

sbm.

I feel as though I wade through the sickly gait
of butter
mind cast deep into the sea,
searching for a coast covered in fog
barely able to make out
the craggy blades of rock
of that world I forgot

It is imprisoning,
stuck aboard a cork of reality
suspended above a chasm of inconsequentiality
that dives unfathomable below
into sickly dark secrets of dreams and
excitable interactive equations
that lead me towards some inevitability

Maybe this is the special sauce,
that radioactivity
that racks my skull
pushes me beyond the world
and into the dreamland of poets

"Dream, dream until you sleep,"
but I have so much to see,
someone to meet,
you told me!
Why lie?
Why die!?

Maybe its all unreal
maybe its all a sheen
a fake shear curtain
so thin,
impossible to see

White and fuzzy and tickly
down my spine
my lower back
my spleen
my scrotal sack
its everywhere
and I don't know what you are
God, help me

I am getting angry
devil is taking the wheel
and wants to drive me off a cliff
or into some abyss
of mind
and I want to let it
I want to be normal again
only a week ago
maybe never
but my god when do we ever feel healthy?

I haven't seen a soul I love
in far too many days
sinful attitude pushing me deep into the drift
and current events that carry me
into pools of vengeful rage
Take me out deep
among those glittering distant seas
Guide me into salvation
to comfort beyond sleep

It came out
All tickly and far
Until people started pointing
And this is exactly why
You don't pick your nose in the car

Gently part my almost see-through skin with a scalpel
As I watch your trembling hands cut deeper into my torso
Take my bones and open my delicate rib cage without breaking
Where my trapped heart is welcoming worms, beating weakly

And I'll caress your cheeks twitched in disgust by what you see
Rotting mess inside my body, just pull it out and wrap it in a cloth, put it in a jar
Stuff my chest with your pieces, wishes and expectations
Only to be disappointed in me and my love again

For I gently tug at your sleeve and ask in a small voice
If you could make me dead and numb for a while, so I could rest
Because I wasn't born for warm and tickly feelings inside my tummy and chest
For loving in the way romantic books portrait and movies make standard

And I try to laugh it off whenever I don't feel so well from what you've put into me
So you won't scar my ******* but you find out and do the procedure anyway
But I never say anything, though it makes me sad you hate your art
I guess it can't be helped if the person you love is dead no matter how hard you tried

Can you hear my bones softly crying in summer breeze as they're healing
And can you feel my fear whenever your fingers trace my neck
Still continue to pick perfect heart in exchange for mine
That you buried to hide and I dug up without you knowing

“Fixing me” is your explanation, no hint of sorry in your eyes to be seen
But I was never broken in the first place, so what's there to fix in me?
You took me apart, stuffed like a teddy bear and sewn together so I could be torn apart again
Though you're always failing, you keep trying to find a way to make it work

Everytime I see red streams flowing from my wounds you assure it's alright
And that you'll try your best tomorrow to find my love in the Valley of the Dead for I lost it there
But why would you do it if you love me the way you say you do
Why would you put me through the things you put me through

I'm the one to believe my crows when they say that they saw
You tried to **** my heart so there's no going back, happened many times before
But you can't **** anything that's already dead
So keep your so-called necromancy tricks to yourself

If your love really was like necromancy, I wouldn't need a different heart to know
The pureness of another human's feelings they adore me with
That cause my chest to blossom and throat to sing freely
If your love really was like necromancy, I wouldn't feel so cold and barren in my own skin

alternative to what's expected, i.e. counter nocturnal musing.

i never noticed it, the subtelty,
   the milimetre's worth of
deviance from
a standard beer...
and there are as many
as one could wish for -
   the cheaper palette riddles,
not something akin
to *hoegaarden
or leffe, or an ale that might
give off a cheaky hint of
   grapefruit...
or the king of stout,
     boor mc guinness...
   iron tooth paddy mc guinness -
if ever a romance, then just about now.
  no, pils beer is subtle in its
deviation from your:
reg. pint eff lager...
    oi! flint-off! (remix, born slippy,
nuxx) -
       shouldn't it be dubbed
lagger... to not say it much bigger,
otherwise posh tosh and...
        sudden realisation:
    a minor point about an added -g-.
never mind...
   pils beer:
        it's as fresh as champagne,
quirky, summery,
        fresh, i'd say even more
carbonated, definitely less heavy
than your regular lager...

...it's only 20 to 5 and already a party...
and to think:
i laughed more, i cried more (
tears of joy, say, the sea waves splashing
  against the coast in Kenya,
voughan william's fantasia on the theme
of thomas tallis)
   by myself...
than with anyone else...
  ah... alas, not a theory akin
to solipsism but the beckoning,
pulverising hive like reality...
         not even confused or dreary
with a movie franchise
    we know everyone is citing...
saying only one truth
is better than attempting to say
too many "wise" observations...
   a simple version of the grander
"quest"...
talk of beer,
    and the accent of snow in the air,
a crow perched on a lamp-post,
the bountiful grey sky above essex...
  and how ***
can never really have the status
of a kiss
    in Cinema Memory...
       nope, this cinema is subtle,
i go to it how often i can,
   all i need is a few static things
and it just comes on with a most
pleasing movie...
   that movie:
a boy and girl meet in a crowded place:
a tool gig in glasgow...
they're giving out water and passing
it into the crowd,
boy gives girl water,
       boy puts his arms around
the girl and pushes the zombie
chant chant brigade aside,
girl breathers, girl drinks,
girl turns around,
   the music fill the otherwise necessary
dialogue...
boy and girl kiss...
     after the gig, girl waits for the boy...
boy sees girl...
     passes her by...
                    that's the zenith...
there's no butcher, no flesh-dough kneading...
   a standard investment in
Cinema Memory...
             nothing to boast about...
the music is still there...
       and a respect for memory,
to give it a cinema status...
     however could brick walls and wintry
shrubs be so entertaining anyway?
    why isn't *** all that memorable
(unless you paid for it with
a *******)?
             it's too mechanical,
there's nothing ethereal about it,
nothing to actually boast about,
    maybe that's why so many
people resort to filming it...
      it's so, so unmemorable...
   don't get me wrong:
          who am i to prescribe any
better release?
           but this is Cinema Memory,
and what's the most frail,
most butterfly like that gives
this cinema its movies...
    well: i say moments that extend
into forever...
          
...and that subtelty of a pilzner beer,
    light, unlike a Bud (too much
rice extract in that ******)...

...not as heavy as your stndard beer,
definitely more fizzy, tickly fizz.

.
It's like the long lonely shadows on an arid land sunset that dance and wander over the ups and the downs of the dunes,
when the escapee feelings creep in and out of me.

There they sneak and catch me upon the back of my shoulders like long melenki pale boney fingers all tickly and cold and sharp and tip toeing like needles and nails up my neck and into the locks and dark curly strands of my hair with all the ants and the spiders that follow along to make the shivers of ghost go through me.

A smokey dark grasp on my guts and in my breath and in my eyes that be made of all the things from every other else where and made of the lights that shine into my eyes but lights are only for looking way way past.

Its the cold blue white chill creeping up from my ankles to quicken my exiting steps and the comfortable familiar suffocating air that awakens me to the drowning in my surroundings.

At that time,
when be we all of me here,
then at that time,
it may be the beginning of yellow paves and ruby reds - to oh so slowly go - out to the there and back again.

there's actually
                             a concept of money,
hindering the affair
of two naked bodies entrenched
in prostitution?
   like i buy a hammer and
pretend it's
      a ******* *****-driver?
or did i miss the point
                      that genitals are
beside the point?
                  hell, not many can
claim to have
snogged prostitutes and listened to
them talking about their children...
    i didn't expect that either...
     a "slave" having
her feet kissed by that odd-e-eating
connatation of a slav...
  germanic just shy of germs,
                 no?
sometimes you start
to build up this...
ratty-wanting-to-nibble-at-something
itch...
   teeth get all itchy...
there is never a concern for
relief...
        ****'s sake:
    even teutonic monks
   of marienburg frequented
a public house...
                      the sort of: "relief"
inclusive of ***** and latex
    usage?
            too drunk to play the sober
cardinal...
              sorry, there are rules,
and married men and men who only
dated over cheap coffee
don't know the necessary toying
with a leash of a sleeping
monster when
               ... having that hour
        of bypassing social constraints...
talk **** all they want,
but if they never
     became lost in an hour with
               paying for the least?
          kissing is the new oral ***,
  apparently, from where i'm sitting...
oh don't worry,
    she'll be more
comfortable spending the 110 quid
i gave her than i would fathom
   in continuing a collection of books...
but men who've never
been...
            can speak **** all
  for the next drunken sailor feeling
no need to make a concern for:
    the practices of anchoring in Amsterdam...
  it's a relationship without
   an exact explanation:
   since there is no heartly investment...
but...
  apart from the odd handshake...
   it's nice to lie ****-naked next to someone
      and listen to prokofiev;
                       i still prefer händel though,
               it's like an úber fetish...  
church-bells ringing at midnight
                                     sort of: tickly...
      now, dating?
   unfathomable territory...
                did that once, speed dating
at university...
      taking a **** somehow compensates
for extracting more pleasure from
   such experiences to later
         compensate with comparison...
                           or vacuuming drunk...
short-cuts...
                              or at least
                          a tin-can for a heart...
because there's
   a morality for not paying for
               whiskey in a supermarket?
            so what's the "moral" conundrum
   of not ******?
           i'm too shallow
   and stopped liking the hide-and-seek
         game of maturity to mind
   what us, rats, feed on.
             last time i checked:
               poles are equivalent to rats,
****-****-*******...
                                     nibble: fist...
since it's hardly going to be
identity politics:
           kiedy kurwa przemawiam, tym:
                          co, żre!
romanian *****?
   as provided by the turks?
                                quiet a luxury...
i'm pretty sure the spanish
italian / greek fantasy has
                      these girls covered;
well, what?
                not anything akin to oops?
- you should find her out
though...
   the one i lost my virginity to...
    isabelle...
             third year psychology
exchange student...
                           from grenoble...
         dry pit...
                                     afterwards...
got tired of sign language
    imitating deaf
   and angel with my replica of ****.