Tuesday night and it’s Baked Beans AGAIN! Does she ever stop talking.
I used to fool myself that her snore was musical like a sweet sounding flute,
Now it’s just a snore. Too loud, all too familiar.
What would happen I wonder if I took that tin of Baked Beans on the table
And battered her to death with it.

They found the ****** weapon in the cupboard on the top shelf,
Next to a quivering can of rice pudding.
It didn’t look overly angry or guilty, it looked (for what it’s worth)
Like any other tin of beans.
However it had blood and hair around the rim.

“BAKED BEANS ****” the front page of The Sun would say,
Amnesty on all tinned goods called for, as the masses
Started taking ‘tin(g)s” into their own hands.
All over the country, partners dying at the hands of Heinz,
Or possibly cans of spam or pear slices.

The Army may catch on, a major new part of SAS training,
Close quarter baked bean tactics.
The wail of sirens as Police arrive at an incident
“Put down the weapon or we shall be forced to fire… tinned pineapple”.
A can of alphabetti spaghetti could spell death.

“Let’s not have Baked Beans tonight my love… Chinese?”

Coming home from a fair,
cusped between your lap
a globe of darting eyes,
your hands rested atop
the thin film of a world
as you endlessly peer in.
Are you scrying over
your future career?

Here a tungsten bulbous
body, a chunk of flame,
swills itself in spins
and mindless dances,
as you think you could
be so careless like them
to live hazily in a framed
bubble of treasured youth,

fed by some divine fate
looking over you. Golden
scales make your skin,
binds you as if you were
a chocolate in a wrapper
for people to circus over–
every flicker being edible.
Or maybe you're like

those tinned peach slices,
posing in a cage for all  
as a marvel to feast with
until you end up rotting,
there in your tomb-space,
muttering an open mouth,
“help me” before they serve
you up on a silver-lined dish.

I assure you, you'll forget
these childish thoughts
of aspirations and dreams
sooner than you think:
no matter how much
you think they want you,
I'll bet they'll let yourself
drown in coming weeks.

i.

my writing is truly one thing, my life another - not
that's a statement clouded in excuses and guilt:
just the claustrophobic macabre -
and so it happens, that every few days i reach
the limit with wrestling the Minotaur -
the time comes when the liver k.o.s the brain
and the brain then starts punching the liver -
it usually stars in the afternoon, e.g. yesterday,
at 3 in the afternoon, a burrowed sense of guilt
comes over, cigarettes are rolled and chain-smoked...
a promise of not painting the front of
the house is the overpowering weight on the heart -
as is an ably bodied father: who, i might
as the source of my writing capacity: the silence -
but the day flows through... the excess nicotine
adds to the shakes, the detox period begins
with a big meal: chinese pork belly in five spice
and other additives, peppers, spring onions
until a thick goo sauce is cooked slowly to thicken...
served with 'it's called egg fly lice, you plick!'
(Uncle Benny, lethal weapon 4) -
the meal is ate as if a ****** ****** - this is
really the point of critically approaching the
concentrated detox - binge of television,
drinking orange squash and smoking -
playing some stupid video game between watching
an even worse movie - before the saga of
x files begins... at 5 a.m. with the most annoying
feline opera by the most annoying ginger cat
begins... the shades are drawn and the hours between
5 a.m. are spent in a quasi somatic state -
the pain in the brain is too strong to allow you
a kipper without the sedative being dragged from
the body: taking sleeping is avoided -
the blinds in the room don't have blackout plastic,
by 6 a.m. a t-shirt is rolled up and put against
the eyes, the eyes adjust to the light until 7 a.m.,
the body gets up and goes downstairs for more
orange squash, but this time breakfast is stomached,
yesterday's leftover rice, fresh eggs scrambled
and mixed with spring onion -
                                                     cigarette, and a daytime
news channel - Victoria Derbyshire -
the main topic of concerns? only 12% of Paraolympic
Rio tickets have been sold, a charity having raised
about £25,000 wants to sponsor Rio's children
to join in the fun... housing shortages in England,
Redbridge council buying social housing in
Canterbury (once a military base) - 7 people living
in one room (the Romanian standard is
14... you have to remember night shifts) -
oh i seen houses like that, i remember one Jew renting
out his house to 20 / 30 Poles before the Union
expanded... paid of his mortgage... no new reality
here for me... the major misdiagnosis of heart attacks
in women on the N.H.S.: a woman ate a curry,
thought it was only a heartburn... boom, two days
later drops in agony... in between the real
results of the detox... sitting...
not ******* out whiskey yellow ***** when there
are barely any toxins in the body... diarrhoea...
up to about 8 times on the toilet - more orange squash,
more cigarettes... then onto the piece the resistance...
the x files... which last up to about the twilight zone
hour of having reached the 24 hour mark of being
awake... one last **** and then shower, and
then doing the laundry (on a sunny day like this,
it would be a shame not to)...
                                                   at noon
tinned mackerel in sunflower oil... brown bread,
all the oil drank... but by the twilight zone hour
a realisation: ****! my headphones are broken!
i've been walking around these streets with those
very depressing sounds of vrroom vrroom...
i know how the old complain about the youth
and their headphones... yes, but you probably
grew with about 10 cars per hour passing your
house back in the day... and too the birds could
be beautiful, and the sound of children's games
and golden laughter... but all the other sounds...
so off to the shop for a very respectable £1.50 pair...
and then the moment when all the sights
on the streets are no longer synchronised with
what i'm hearing, my eyes sharpen and i dance
past the cars and people never bothering to press
the crossing lights on streets: ease the traffic,
ease the traffic... then into the supermarket and
the detox ends... i can go back to sleeping a decent
night... a bottle of Stella... the only thing sexier
on a hot summer's day on the street... good old,
good cold Stella Artois...
then up to another shop for two more beers and
tobacco...
                        after that? magic...
as the title suggests: on a park bench with Ernie -
something more grand than Beckett's waiting
for Godot... i.e. something resembling a scene from
Patriarch's Ponds, an encounter with
Mikhail Alexandrovich Berlioz (editor of a highbrow
literary magazine, abbreviated MASSOLIT)
and a young poet Ivan Nikolayich Poniryov -
a few clues to the less knowledgeable parties:
Behemoth ***** and chess, a book that makes
sense of the world interrupted by Herr Woland's
wonderful delights (among many), such
as the notable pandemonium at Ivan Savelyevich
Varenukha's Variety Theatre -
yes very much akin to Hector B.'s:
symphonie fantastique: dream of a witches' sabbath.

ii.

sincerest apologies... the sedative hasn't been bought
yet, and a patient father's invoice for work
done on the construction must be written in tangible
English - in ref. to the uttermost sincerity -
Polski nadal w mej duszy dudni,
                            taki ogrom organów i
                                         bębnów twki -
           że strach pomyślec - czy to wir zamkniętej
historii ludu: czy poczatek gorszych prwad o świecie?
   bo co o zamkniętej historii (skrawku) ludu?
      to przeciez moj dziad'ek w Partii uslugi dawal!
      a kraj podziekowal - i co Prawda to Walesa
   na Florydzie z lwa w zlota rybke sie zamienil.   (comp. diacritic
                                                       ­                                 pending)

iii.

as i knew, i should have finished this poem on
the principle of ensō - all in one piece -
thus i would have staged what happened on the bench
with Ernest -
                        but after walking to the supermarket
minding my own business and the jokes ensued
about how no one notices, how they know my name
as it's their mascot -
                                   after walking into a world
i found chaos; indeed if i wrote the poem on principle
of ensō, i would have included the phantasmagorical
details of something so simple you could almost cry at it...
the simplicity of it, the fluidity of almost 2 hours
spent in conversation... about what? i'm not telling,
and how was it spoken? i'm not telling either -
let's just they laughed at Ernest's bike, because
it was proper oldie...
                                     i mean, i won't mention the odd
details, but the essence? forget it man!
after writing my father's invoice, and how cut money
on the construction site, blame it Romanians but only
have themselves to blame with their model
of profiteering and that ****** fetish they have
Che's socialism of guerrilla warfare...
                            and the comments in the supermarket,
it just stuck with me about Ernie's bike,
nothing in comparison to the Tour de France's racers
doing up to 50kmh...
                                      it just made me happy to make
a clean bed... and prevent 36 hours awake threshold
glitches of abstraction: black strings and random
square objects popping out of nothing with me in a
variation of nervous startles... Ernest's bike?
an antique, a 1950s Raleigh...
- hard leather seat beneath that modern overcoat?
- yes; no one would even take it if i left it
  outside a shop, they'd probably sell it for parts.
- well, unless someone is smart enough to notice
  a vintage, and tries to restore it,
  buy the vintage green paint and cover the rusty bits.
oh **** it, i can't keep my own company to suit
being happy by saying: ooh, doesn't know a joke,
the happiest he felt after walking out with a stone heart
was making a bed... but to be honest?
psst... i haven't made it in over a month... last night i
was getting cold-heat shivers in the idea of it being *****
enough though i shower everyday... ok, every other day
sometimes, my socks have holes in them, and my
shoes are ripped.
but there's more to this... the bicycle is a pun
of a Heidegger maxim: man is born as many men...
but dies as a single man... imagine how many
influences are entombed in us, the education reformers
to begin with, motherhood tips, cot deaths...
but we die as individual men... so when Ernest said
about the bicycle being only worth spare parts,
i said what Heidegger meant: but i'd take the whole thing
as one.
- how many gears?
- three at the back, one at the front; you see this thing?
- the long tube beneath the seat?
- yeah, when charged it would power up the front
   and back lights.
- oh, i'm used to seeing that thingy-madgit that you'd
   press against the front tire and the principle would be
   the same.
- a dynamo.
- yeah, a dynamo, forgot the name of it.
it started so innocently, i just sat on the bench with my
earphones and two beers and started rolling a cigarette.
- may i invade the bench?
                                               (earphones out of the ears)
- sure.
                and we just sat there, i asking if he minded me
smoking.
- i used to, loved it, esp. after dinner, gave it up 15 years ago.
  then conversations about dogs, family,
                                         and children's games,
          i said
- i'm finding it hard to find people of my generation with
even friendly dynamic of the body: eye contact is gone!
- it's all the fidgeting on those ****** tablets and phones,
when we were kids we used to play marbles,
conkers, hopscotch, so many...
- and we used to draw a racing maze, fill bottle caps
with plasticine and flick them through the maze
(i can't remember if we threw dice to see how many
moves we could make).
  by the time we started talking about the dogs we liked,
and compared them to the dog walkers passing us
   we already forgot who died today: it was Gene Wilder...
the world is mourning him, and we sat there
and the best i could come up with was Richard Pryor.
- dumb animal luck...
- you know how i managed to train my dog to run
  around the park, but come back to me? i used a whistle
  to get the dog to come back and i'd give it a treat.
  until it got the hang of it, i sometimes wouldn't give it
  a treat... other times i would, the point being was
  to teach it both obedience when nothing was given
  and double obedience when something was.
- ever heard of Pavlov? he basically did the same thing,
  but your experiment had coordinates, it was three-dimensional,
  Pavlov's was just two-dimensional, instead of a whistle
  he used a bell... just to stimulate two senses
  as coordinated, the sound of a bell created saliva
  in the dog's mouth, poor dog received treats
  but in the end Pavlov put him in a car with closed
  windows in the middle of summer outside
  of Parliament square; obviously the dog died.
- German shepherd though... i had a friend, naturally
  obedient.
- could walk a German shepherd through Manhattan
  without a leash.
- exactly, not even half a metre away, and when the
  master stops, the dog stops.
(i started thinking, what a great way to invert theology,
in this way from dogs to gods.)
well... i guess there was more, but if i write more
about it, when i'll reflect upon this chance meeting of
complete strangers as more insightful than it
already was...
                         he managed to climb back on his bike
with a slight problem after his hip-replacement
operation... at 74 such things break... and he rode off
and i sat there trying to think about what the hell
i was thinking after watching the x files to find
something insightful...
                                        well, i got one thing,
i mentioned it before... i could never have believed
that adults created the most nightmarish version
of hide (negate) & seek (doubt) -
                   i thought it was just as bad as
  truth & dare with religion - with that motto:
          the Koran: this is the truth, and the only truth...
so truth or dare? i dare you to deny it!
                    can i just doubt it? you know, not be
a definite unbeliever, but an indefinite quasi-believer?
well doubt in the stated quasi-believer is wavering,
isn't it? the two of the most beautiful games of
innocence, morphed into these gargantuan abominations.

A Tale of ****** Excitement by Herr Barty Maulwurf

Often **** tales of my past I am writing and sometimes they are a little rude and porny but now I will try to be only slightly profane at request of new friends I am making everywhere. This tale very sensual story is, told by master storyteller (which is me). Filthy bits included. *Danke sehr.

Although I so much hate repetitive to be, Barty Mole must as always apologise for his occasionally slight errors in English-writing as he writes the English language not so very top-class (but he ***** English girls' tongues lots and likes them his tonsils to wipe so good). I (me, Barty) am German person but special type of that because as I are half-and-half black/white (not striped or even top half white, bottom half black, but mixed-up goldene-brun colouring), by this I must explain mein Papa was black US soldier in Germany who did enormous number of bouncy-bouncies with various ladies including meine Mutti (note to monoglots: this means my Mummy) - who was part-time Lili Marlen type tarty number, great **** and much-used **** - for tinned milk, coffee, ciggies, silk stockings and comfy underwear with soft non-scratchy gussets for once instead of unlined which tickle *****-*****, also she was a major sort of a ****** in her day so combined business with pleasure, and why not, we got these bits under our ******* so use them or they dry up (so thinks der Barty.). Also please you will remember black market utterly rampant in post-war period because the kind ****** Allies smashed my beautiful homeland (Germany) to little bits and then guess what even worse Russkies came and stole anything leftovers and did mass rapings of anyone with two legs (or less, in fact easier as poor tarts can't run away), but my Mutti ran and avoided Ivans, she not any kind of idiot, not going to give it away for free, and not liking cheap rotgut ***** anyway. Also Russkies never wash bottoms-hole so not much fun in the sack with smelly-bummed Ivans.

Nowadays Barty (that's me) am not so young, indeed now out of work living in Hamburg (home of inventor of hamburgers, Herr Wendi McDonald-Burgerkoenig) but I remember some super **** going-ons from mine mis-spended youth and middle age, my God I was a right goer, make no mistake about that, I had more lady friends than most people have hot luncheons mainly because I inheritated huge lovepole (23 centimetres, well over 9 inches in UK/US measurement style) from my dear Poppa, God rest his swindling soul. And ladies like the big bronzed stick as ramrod lovepole, you bet your fat wobbly ***, dear reader, 100% sure.

As often I say to my multitudinous readers, I never accept that it is only top-class ***-event to make love-humpings between male person who is in all one piece (full complementing legs, arms, naughty pieces etc etc) and lady who in similar state of repair (2 legs, 2 arms, 2 boobos, back and front naughty areas also) so I shall now recall romantic interlude with one-legged groupie I am meeting at rocking Konzert in Berlin with famous German group DIE TOTEN HOSEN (this means "The Dead Trousers" look them up on Google you think I am joking? no, German musicians have great sense of humour and also almost for free get to **** a lot of birds).

This story are total true, swear it on Mummy's honour (big joke, what honour I hear you said out of side of mouth, but watch your manners please or I smash you one in your effing gob) this not so explicit as usual so much apologies to filthy pervies wanting cheap smuttings, you come in wrong place (*******).

So now here we go with telling of how I got on good and ***** with one-legged lady I meet in bar of Grosse Konzerthalle in Berlin after we go from Konzert by Toten Hosen - noise so fickende loud we not able to hear each other talk as we total deafened for at least 1 hour, so just wink over bar to each other and Robert is dein Onkel.

I digressed - when I saw really pretty girl at bar with **** three-inch bolt through her lips and I think, WOW, if she got so much metal in her face, what the Fick she got in her *******!!!!  I notice she leaning against wall, I think she a bit drunk but I find out she only got one leg and it's because she has only one leg she would go falling over if not lean on walls. Never mind, I think to myself, I'll try this out for size, in for a pfenning (penny), in for a pfund (pound), except now it's in for a cent, in for a euro which sounds naffs. So we have several dozen beers and a couple of schnapplis and she is good fun, laugh at all Barty's filthy jokes and innuendos and then, out of blue, she says with naughty giggling, "The night is young but we're not so effing young and when you have any more beers you don't stand up, fall flat on handsome face, and not able to get great big ****** up me to shove it", WOW I thought, this is some forward one-legged piece of work. So no more further ado and we jump in taxi (pay 50:50 as Barty is gent and refuse to allow her pay whole fare) and go to her place.

Hildegard is her name and she was pretty good looking bird, great booboes, narrow very **** waistlines, very cute botty sticking out like great big pair of rubber footballs, but let's be frank, liebe Freunde, her main claim to eternal fame in Barty's immense ***-memory bank was the leg-stump, only one of them she had. She tells me missing limb result of accident with vicious bacon-slicing machineries at LIDL and I not like to probe too deeply, because I leave the probing up to my 23cm (9 inch) lovepole instead.

Thus we had many love-makes that night and I got to find her stumpy-thing quite **** in weird kind of way, very smooth skin on it and odd colour (purplish) too. Only problem of was hard to do it Alsatian-style as she topple off bed and me with her, especially since we have many more beers down hatches by that time. Never mind, make up for this with very high class (FIVE STAR!) "neunundsechzig" (German for 69 just in case you not understand)! WOW she utter hot stuff in oral department store. Her tongue like starving St Bernard guzzling the bowl of nice fresh spring water on hottest summer day in century! Swallow everything, stray hairs and all.

Also Hildegard very noisy lady when she does the comings, which Barty likes very much indeed. Like demented demon being bashed around her head with three-metre long metal crowbar every single time she gets one off, she screamed. "Ooooooh, ich komme, ich komme, ach, ja, ja, ja, ja," she shrieks GOOD & LOUD like fat Wagnerian heroine with immensely red hot poker up backside-hole (which not far off the truth when Barty gets stuck into his fabbo ***-rhythm, like whirring up and down piston on Mitsubishi motor tricycle). Even allowing for drunken prematured senilities lapse, I happy to recall seven times for me that night and maybe twenty for her, WOW, what a filthy one-leg hornbag!

We meet a few more time for repeat bonky session but never so good as first time round, but that's because Barty sober next times, nothing new in the history of love there which is very philophical pensée. Also Barty's interest in the leggy-stump waned a bit after a couple of weeks.  But Barty has good live-action photos to keep his memories warm, WOW, they are some totally hot ones! I know Hildegard must have the equal happy memories of old Barty, bet she never saw such a big ***** as his ever again (NB: 23 cm lovepole)!

Mit freundlichen Gruessen
von Ihre
Bartholomew Mole (=Maulwurf)
(23 cm brown lovepole)

Tax the poor and reward the rich

This line should be reversed

But, the politicians always use this line

It's a line they have rehearsed

As soon as they are voted in

They give themselves a raise

When we question what they did this for

They just sit there in a daze

They use all sorts of doublespeak

To tell us all their reasons

For taxing poor and elderly

The rich are out of season

A few cents here, a nickel there

No one will notice that

While our old folks sit at home

Sharing tinned food with their cat

Tax the poor and reward the rich

This line should be reversed

But, the politicians always use this line

It's a line they have rehearsed

As soon as they are voted in

They give themselves a raise

When we question what they did this for

They just sit there in a daze

The veterans they  are targets too

Their pensions get rolled back

They hit those who can't defend themselves

Or are too poor to fight back

They give out tax cuts to the rich

Big business gets the most

While our working poor are stuck at home

Finding new ways to serve toast

They sell our jobs and tax our lives

Until we're better dead

But then we can't afford to die

We've no place to lay our head

They sit in ivory towers

Looking down on those below

Wondering how to get more money in

How to make their pockets grow

The parties not in power

Try their best to make a change

But to do that, we need lots of help

Parliament must rearrange

The way the parties govern

The way they ***** the meek

There must be changes at the top

To help strengthen the weak

There's people on the system

Who worked hard and did their part

Now they can't afford an apple

Let alone the apple cart

Tax the poor and reward the rich

This line should be reversed

But, the politicians always use this line

It's a line they have rehearsed

As soon as they are voted in

They give themselves a raise

When we question what they did this for

They just sit there in a daze

So, at the next election

Don't just vote because you should

Go and vote for something different

Go and vote for something good

Because your parents vote one colour

And you choose to do that too

Is not a true democracy

You've a choice in what to do

If you're voting for the first time

Think real hard before you pick

All their promises look tasty

Until you give them a good lick

Remember how your grandpa

Said "It was much better when"

"We were treated fair and equally"

And it can be done again

So if Tax the poor and reward the rich

Is the motto that you choose

I hope that you'll rememer this

When you can't afford new shoes

The time to change what's wrong is now

Start giving money back

To those who can't afford to lose

The one's who fall between the crack

So tax the rich, reward the poor

Take the tax cuts all away

And make our seniors equal

Don't make them be the ones that pay.

.                       .                          .
    .             .          .               .
       .    .    .     .     .     .     .    .    .

     i     stare  at  a  docile  ocean
  
           waveless   sun   accosted
           dark and shadow edged
           tinned with men's brave
           history of misconception     i

                                   'Dragonne'.    
           'Colossuus'.    
                                   'Cetaecean'.
          
                           

           - Leviathan  ?



                       As sure as hope setting sail  -
                       Past shoal, past shallow,               
                       So each chase begins.
                       Lines parsing out,  
                       Expectations coyly
                       Embroidered,
                       Entwin-ned.


                       -  Leviathan  ?



                        Pray please this narrative be drawn :  
                        Truth for sake of safe harbour;
                        Stillness without caution;
                        Softly ripening dawn;
                        Jupiter and Venus descendant,
                        Celestial promise anon ?
                                               

                        -  Leviathan .




                Violence
         the casual violence of life
             the worst kind
    not casual really   but whats violence anyway
      few knew why    why ask why    the few
     once  the  dice  flipped  get
       its         a flying             a mind            a dunzo game
             gravity responds  we hope              hope together sake
                             to    gether

we   short the freaks   short em all   them freakin freaks      freaks
           i want you I want yours
             i want to take  you over
                  take control  take over
                        29' k         kontrol        all night                                                        day
­                             long             time                                                                end  time

                  everthing happens forfurfor                                      fit                         ­ ur
              once and done     nature                                           forfeiture
                     reason                  or ur other        or ur another                         or ur a altogether reason
                                                          ­                    or simple GP          drunkworld
                                          ­                                                            reason                               nurture


                        surprise my ripest faither                                                          ­                     less
                             5 rise  10 run                                                   huh
                   up the                   down and dumb
            dumb  ber                   right left        left                                                            right thum ber

                             number one                                                 number
                                                          ­                                      numb   ber
                                   one                       ­                                     ones
          
            ­    
                               another                                                                      
                                come
              ­                  under                           
                                 the
                               ­   ~                                                                ­          
                                  .
                            ­  
                     



All Rights Reserved.
James R. Morse, NYC  2013.

Shrivelled Strawberries are all juiced out.
The fields are to long they block out the streams.

Save yourself from the grains then dropped to many blind mice.
Mines a fried egg , in demand for a content Sunday morning.

Existing for your touch and picture in a frame.
There will be nothing left yearn for but the nest in virtual gain.

Never warranted, never examined.
Dripping taps and a head full of sour *****

Get born again and have the hourly flap jack.
What’s the reason? Give another slip.

I saw this coming, the brand new exclusive six hour clip.
Loaded in a dangerous weapon of peace.

Embrace the floor, thought it shallows the soles of boundless feet.
Inherit the soul that squeezes.

There are the strawberries in a picnic in the middle of winter.
Call us callous and homeless with bitter springs.

Must I follow gutless, mute kings?
I ate the dinner and the news does stink.

You must forgive, you must forget.
This demon sinister is hell bent.

No better to speak the truth.
Jockey full of **** will coil, shake and drain the juice.

Much love and strawberries thought the mouths are dry.
Much prefer a leg of lamb.

Near Apocalypse and blessed is the tinned spam.

Our faithful black Labrador, who was an old lady when I was just a boy, had six pups and despite the grey on her muzzle, produced enough milk for them all. She would take her bowl to the sink when thirsty, tinned-meat to the can-opener when hungry. When tired, she would sprawl out on a rug before the coal fire, on occasion, licking her master’s feet before falling asleep.
     Sometimes, I would rest my head upon her chest, listening to her breathing. In her dreams she would sometimes yelp softly and I would soothe her nightmares away by stroking her sleek black coat.
In our garden, during the pleasant sunshine of a warm afternoon, we used to play together. Throwing a tennis ball that she would chase then fetch back and drop in my waiting hands for me to throw again. This was by far, her favourite game.
     Some considered that she ran out in front of the School Teacher’s speeding car deliberately. “Because of her age,” they said, and “her inability to cope with the pups, only just turned two weeks old,” — that my mother reared, against all predictions.  
     I never accepted this nonsense. At the time, such a thing never crossed my mind as I looked at her, sprawled across the roadside verge. Her eyes were open, but through my tears I could see they were sightless. I also saw the muddy tyre-print across her unmoving ribs and how her legs twisted at an unnatural angle. I could not help my crying, but I felt no shame: none at all.  
     The sad regret I saw in the School Teacher’s red-rimmed eyes did nothing to ease my pain.  If anything, her sorrow made me feel even worse. I felt guilty because I wanted to hate her. Perhaps I did hate her! I can barely remember now. With the passage of time the pain and the hate, if indeed there was any hate, has faded.
     Whenever I pass our old house, where Moss is buried in the garden in which she played, I recall our times together and give her good thoughts. For good thoughts are all that I have for our faithful black Labrador, who was an old lady when I was just a boy.

Imagine the first rumor. The first grunt of gossip
The first finger-point of prejudice. It was probably
like noticing the sunset for the first-time. How it
stretched out across the entire scope of your vision,

peeled back into a city that wasn’t the one you were in,
like an orange peel, one skin at a time. Eventually,
the world rounded, the ice melted, ****-sapiens
grew taller. Our voices deepened, bodies thickened.

We learned to survive the cold, the floods,
the irrational wars, and crescent-mooned nights
underneath tinned roofs. Then came the enlightenment,
the evolution of speech. The first cousin of Germanic

languages; the second cousin of Romantic languages.
And then the first rumor. The first appraisal of good
or bad actions of people hardly known. I imagine
my ancestors, 1.9 million years ago, grunting

with raised brow in her partner’s direction. Pointing
at two men crouching behind a large, fallen boulder.
Pointing at a man who belongs to her neighbor,
crawling out of a cave that doesn’t belong to him.

They are probably turning over in their bone-filled
graves as I think of what to say next, laughing at how
far we haven’t come from the ghouls of gossip,
discussing how out of all the occupations in this world:

bricklayer, lawyer, educator, their descendant chose
this noble profession, this calling up of events.

The rain came down.

I sat on the doorstep,
eating tinned peaches,
and the rain fell.

Walking out, into the city,
life falls in one-two beats;
being nothing and comfortable,
the architecture stows straight lips,
moves on, the rain falls.

Freight rolls, wet tracks northbound,
over-bridges exuding fine china,
two fishermen idle away remaining hours;
concrete bunches the rain into shallows.

How hollow the sea, that home,
the crooked lines of the inland peninsula;
how strange, this routine, in
how so very full of emptiness I have become,
like the rain, having fallen upon ebbing tides.

The rain no longer falls.

Try as you might,you can never disguise
The pain that paints the dark lines underneath your red rimmed eyes.
Lies you can tell
Tell all that all is well
But we know.

You can be stoic,can be curt but it's got to hurt
And hurt a lot.
Sit upon your shooting stick and take a shot
Another rabbit for the ***.
One more stew where you,
can lose the plot,forget what you've got
Pretend all's okay
After all tomorrow is just another day,
It will not come and like yesterday, for some they don't exist
Today is what is missed..today is all that's real
And the ink that draws the lines underneath the heartless times will congeal and set
We will get what we deserve
A serving up
Heads on the block
We might as well just lock the doors and open up the gas jet
Bet you never saw that one coming.

But I won't disguise that I despise this world of hate
This world of pain and wait,there's something more
I despise it even more each time I open up my eyes.

Let me die,go to my rest,the best has gone before
Stolen by the ones who know the answers to the test they set
And they will also get what they deserve
Revenge is but a sweet preserve,
We spread it light
And When the time is right
We'll spread the lot against a wall and shoot them down.

Underneath your brown eyes,black
With powder fumes
Your face consumed with hate
I will wait 'til you decide
If I can come inside.

We're all a sin
We all begin to pray but not tomorrow
Nor yesterday
Only today is real.
Let's spit,shake hands and make a deal
The devil is also real
Let's play.

If I could recreate reality
I'd soften the finality
Of your forced farewell.

I'd make it so
That I can peel
Your every kiss-shaped memory
From my skin
And keep them in a tin.
So that when I miss
Your goey lips
Against my cheek or chin
I'd simply take them out
And let them kiss themselves
Onto my skin again.

If I could recreate reality
I'd lessen the enormity
Of my endless emptiness.

I'd sew a song
Into the you-shaped hole
Of longing your life left
Imprinted on my soul.
A never-ending
Heart-mending singsong
To fill me and
Fulfill me.

But wait...

If I could recreate reality
I'd have no use for tinned kisses
Or pointless paltry poetry
Or stitches in my soul.

Because you'd be here.
And I'd be whole.

SMELLS
WET WOOL
HEAT
BREWING TEA
YEAST AND WARM ROLLS
TINNED MEAT
DAMP WOOD
MOLD
OLD
RAIN

OLD MEN WITH MUSTACHES
AND UMBRELLAS,
SITTING IN CHAIRS
EMPYING DINING ROOM
GRAND STAIRCASE
FADING RED STARRED CARPET
HOTEL RUSSELL
BLOOMSBURY

a friend posed the question
there is a first world
and there is a second world,
but where do you find the
second world?

and sadly i think i know the answer.
the second world lives is
the hidden shadows of the
first.

and is populated by....

.....those who live in the shells
of architect designed houses, with no power running
water,

..or worse live in cars or
couchsurf.

....it is those  pensioners who
exsist on tinned cat food
and  teabags re-used  
seven times.

....old people who wear their entire wardrobe in the winter
cold.

....children with bad teeth and chronic health issues
un-attended because they
can't afford a doctor

...it is the man,
who died the other day.
hit by a train,
while his children watched,
retrieving some dropped groceries,
he got from,
a food drive van.
...it was the first food
they would have had in 48hrs,
the child stated for reporters.

this .....
is the second world!!!
right here ....
mostly hidden from sight
not even reminded by sad
tv ads
only when abject utter tragedy
happens
do we see a glimpse
of the second worlder's
desperate plight.

it usually takes about 20 hours of fasting,
then this, thing, walks into the kitchen
at 3 in the morning and is like:
i need something to eat...
and there he is standing, hunched,
slobbering over scraps...
he first eats a can of macrkel in tomato
sauce and adds worcestershire sauce
to it thinking it's bolognese spaghetti sauce,
he gets all beavis and butthead
with the fork while he toasts two slices
of bread... then he gets onto tinned
   sardines in sunflower oil, which he also
dashes some worcestershire sauce into...
he creates a radish out of tiny plum tomatoes;
and he's standing there growling and frothing
at the mouth... because the cats he owns had
more food than him over the past day...
   he's walked a 2.5 liter marathon of 6.6 miles
worth of walk to with the symphony of glugging
down beer, and he's angry like
    any anger that might be contained and pacified
by simple pleasures...
   so this thing writes a "poem", or rather an ode
to youtube video editing practices...
     tinned fish, who would have thought:
apparently it doesn't get much odder than this.

Turn on

I
This is the BBC news at 1 o'clock.
A rambling diatribe,
lost boys, a lost war.
The falling cost of stamps.
'What do you think of the deficit,
Graham from Newquay?'

II
Some bald man
holds a cadaverous gaze.
'She don't want me no more Pauline.'
The ware and tear
of Albert Square
immortalised
in one ***** stare.

III
Ella looked into the eyes of
the African children with bloated
stomachs, scooping up brown water
she wouldn't even dip her toe in.
For a moment, they were face to face.

VI
Margret! Margret!

Look what they're...

Check the cupboard,
have we still got...

uh...

tinned peaches and caster sugar.

V
Our hands, in every listless waft,
wander through an electric soup,
thick as frog-spawn.
Spermatozoa of information.
A gentle fuzz of creation,
our atmosphere is
pregnant with
separate universes that
embed themselves
inside our own.
We broadcast
our noisy planet
to the skies.

VI
'I've seen what's going on,
you don't have to tell me!
I know what they're doing.'
The walls are closing in,
as each breath from her
dusting lungs is getting tighter.
'Besides, my eyes won't let me, or
my knees these days, It's all i'm
good for'  
She wheezes.
'I can see all I need from here.'

VII
Click
I swear 400
*******
channels
And there's nothing on

VIII
As I approach the blue glare
of the living room, I know
she's in there. Not even
watching,
she's on her
iPad. We don't talk.
We went to the
Maldives
once,
after the wedding.
she couldn't keep her eyes off me.

IX
Dead square.
Silent pixels.
Nothings watching.

X
We crept down in the morning - my sister
and me, before anyone else was up and squabbled
what loud cartoon violence would take our attention.
Nightie, pyjama cotton siblings, sewn in to the 7 to 9 o'clock schedule,
we were as vital to each other as sleeping bags and cereal.
Our building blocks stood in a castle,
we were unaware that one day,
they would be strewn across the floor
as we grew up.

XI
We're not going out tonight.
I just want to slip my hands down your
pants and touch you while
we watch game of thrones...
Deal?

XII
Smoke rises behind the mosque
in an arabesque twirl.
The blinding sunlight behind the minaret
crashes on the lens, like a flash bang.

The call to prayer is empty bodies, iconographic art,
cars hollowed, alien tongues, history, a melting *** culture,
cockroach romances, squalid graves, body hewn tunnels, little cuts on
trigger fingers, trained monkeys, orphans, marble carvings,
the stench of petrol, jobless drug habits, brickwork, wiring,
forbidden love, lust, teenagers, plastic explosive, god, work,
prayer, tears, life and death    

and briefly the box is the world in our homes.
We must see who's behind it.

you stopped visiting the ocean after your brother died
so we drove inland, instead, that day
and found the pit of old bunkers
left to decay
        from a more actively
                                  apocalyptic age
and, inside, the
      eschewal vision of
                                      tinned food,
                                                           concrete pillars,
   liquid flesh
warm comfort in disintegration,
    emerald concavities that lace the sky

we considered stealing some ****, but just drove on back instead,
  leave history to history


if you stack the boxes, there will be more space, you-
   yeah, just like that.
    the chairs have no back, sorry, so you'll have to be careful.
sorry, i just have to deal with,
  yeah, the drain pipes broke again,
   it now decants into the living room, all
  dammed up with paper mache and static

so uh
   make yourself some tea if you have to
   -ah, no, sorry, i didn't mean to be curt
it's just,
there's no time
    but stay, anyway, please

it gets lonely at night
                  all boarded windows and
                                                     old casements
till in the end you're just
              embracing a
                               damp ****** guilt
just to pass the time
           with a forgiveness complex


do you think you'd do it?
they make you wear their shirt, and take a photo,
but they give a free ice-cream at the end.
i mean, it doesn't cost you anything,
                         nothing palpable, anyway


remember that time we drove inland?
   and found that petrified forest,
                        buried in basalt and pumice?
we walked among treetops, near the old crater lake
    and
                         skipped stones

only when i know i'm being overly cruel; for some reason some of us have a conscience and are willing to execute it; a bit like stomping on a mouse... give me a cow to butcher, i'd do it... i remember this once instance, when people when phobia-prone to killing animals on a farm... oddly enough not all of us came from the "privileges" of an urban environment; a part of my family (cousins, aunts, etc.) remained in their original setting of the rural world. i visited it once, and saw with naked eyes how a chicken gets butchered... chop to the neck... and the thing is... the other chickens rushed to the stump of wood on which the "execuition" took place, and started pecking / drinking the blood of their "comrade", while also pecking the head that had all the matrix-movie-slow-motion expressions... that wasn't the horrible part though... the horrible part was plucking all the feathers from the body and... the stink was impossible to stomach... i can't believe i actually ate the: poached-chicken soup... but then adding a few vegetables to the soup helped my sense of smell.

and why are all soups in england without
any clarity? they're all goo...
    creamy... baby food pap...
                      i mean, i was a fan of heinz's
tinned tomato "soup" once,
        it had a certain sweetness about it...
    but it's so mundane sometimes to not be able
to peer into a bowl of soup like you might
look into a glass of water, and see the bottom of the bowl...
that poached-chicken soup?
        the jews will say they invented it, i've heard
it before... it's called *rosół (rho-soow) -
but you won't say the H in ρ... and you're bound to
imagine the W as a branch with many other branches
that get plucked and then the branch turns into
a bow, i.e. that it becomes bent... kinda like a ł...
         or for lack of a better phrase: hard to find
a V or an X or a Q in slavic languages.
where was i? oh right... drinking ***** in england:
is a complete nightmare...
               you can't do to ***** what the english do to it,
they're incompetent with *****...
      for ****'s sake, i've seen them drinking it in
an orange juice mixer... a ****** mary i can
understand, with a rhubarb stick or a celery stick
plopped into the glass... orange juice?! seriously?
and they don't give it enough tenderness,
or... let's just say knowledge.
                         whiskey? sure, you can drink it
with ice, soda, ms. pepsi, or as the puritans do in
scotland... warmed by the heat of your hand holding
a glass: pure, slightly warm, to infuse
    the idea of burning amber, warmth, coziness,
brandy?
              ***** though? the english are incompetent
with *****... you go to any nightclub here
and the ***** isn't stored in fridges along with the rose
wine... it's hanging up there on the bar wall
along with all the other spirits...
                         dead man's ruse in jerusalem...
mr. vod molotov, please come down and... ****...
don't even stand in a fridge... head to the refrigerator...
and that's the beauty of a good shot of *****...
you need to get it to resemble a syrup...
    and since ethanol has a lower freezing point
to water... keeping a ***** in sub-zero temperatures
makes it pleasurable to drink, on its own...
     and you can actually manage it...
                            i once had a warm shot of *****
and i could swear i experienced alcohol poisoning...
it's like filtering water... you filter water because
you don't want to drink tap water that can also
be found in your toilet...
                                  freezing ***** gets rid of
all the impurities that might be in it...
                   which is why you prefer to eat a cooked
piece of beef rather than a steak tartar for fear
of a chance of a tapeworm embryo...
                                  in conclusion the english don't
know how to drink *****...
                          oh god, this one time, at band camp -
no no, just ******* with you...
               2004... new years eve, Posen (Poznań) -
vanilla absolute ***** (swedish brand,
also comes in cherry? definitely lemon,
blackcurrant?) - anyway... what a memorable night...
only because it was served coming out
of the refrigerator... not a fridge, not room temperature:
belowing the freezing temperature...
                              because that's what you do with *****.

I love the vintage crackle
Of a passive microphone.
Each warm hum captured like
Our campfire in a Polaroid.
Every lethargic pop sounding like
The raindrops on our car roof.
I am swirling and lost in your skin.
Your voice glides through the current-
Distorted and tinned.

I am drowning in the static.
It started with gentle waves
Nursing on my pruned feet.
But they soon tugged me away
From the sand beneath you and me.
I am soaked from the ocean!
I am burning from the fire!
The hiccups and coos of your voice
Is something I no longer admire.

My time was consumed
As I swallowed each lotus flower.
I forgot all that I needed to do.
I forgot all that I wanted to happen.
I burned all of my bridges
because you made me believe
you were my only dream.
But I’ve awoken from my hypnosis,
and it is too late to repair who I once was,
because all I have become
is the vintage crackle between your words.

Hello Alfred where ya bin?
Cruising aisles of memories tinned, a good deal
thinner when you last checked in.
Back slapped worn, born of songs between
your ears, evenings out are scrims on which
you show your friends what is what and what they fear.
Oh you pickled miscreant.
I dare you.  Eat me.  All up.

the new gillette ad.,
******,
please,
DON'T SHAVE...
no Lenin stasi,
not alt.
to whatever left
or right in
copernican
terminology is...

"culture war":
basically,
warring with ronin...
or no factions...
or no shogun
to, mind the matter...
stop shaving,
what is the worst
that could happen,
your face looking
like a 1970s
gyrating *****
bits...

SLO' 'N' GRO'.....
a beard:
which doesn't imply:
any more
of the worth of man,
but a man's worth:
nonetheless,
like Gump Forrest Gump
said:
i know what love is,
Jenny...
  and i know
what a ******* ice-cream
berg-that-sunk-the-Titanic
looks like like: Steward.
none of us are
leaving this *******
being, the either
to either suit a cosmos
of choice: ever
the two smart ones
apart...
savvy?

you're are dumb as
chalk contra brick...
and i am cheese
with an adjective's worth
of of chalk...

lookie 'ere:
a humming camel!
**** me...

i said: *******...
can you even imagine...
i tortured that oyster's worth
of an excess of skin...
in terms of genitals...
parody of 242...
and i ate and ate and ate
that ****...
no praise...

       i recovered my mouth
and the mandible jaw
only when i looked
like:
   having just eaten a slab
of tinned mackerel...
   ugly: born the 4th of july
family fwendy antics
sort of picture...
  all: oily...
like...
my body was dipped
in sea,
but all my mouth was
alright with the religious
procedure of:
mouth dipped in oil:
a messiah is born!

oh don't get me wrong:
i much enjoyed
oral *** performed on
women...
one amsterdam *******
informed me:
laughing...

    you know what
oral *** is like,
misnomer
the canvas of
                prostitutes?
kissing...
i spent an hour kissing
one,
only because i forgot
to trim m'ah... boosh...

i'm bored:
so what's not new?
gillette ad.....
****, that's old:
stop shaving...
yes,
every time i pick
up one of those
thai misnomers of ***
in the park,
and i search beneath
the drowning-line...
and there's no ****
assurance...
trans-phobia?
    
  gay: love beard...
the *****-suprise,
what?
with a sports-bra?!
did i just buy a chicken
breast or was that
a pork's chisel
worth?

         i was arachnophobic
for a while...
the spider was still there...
i employed the tactic:
forget it's, "there"...
the ****** was still
sitting proud like
a painting of some artist
in the national tate...

Heidegger...

        irrational fears were
fun...
or at least:
that was the basis of
them being subject to
emphasis...
      not like this...
not like this though...

                    come the bataclan
incident:
   and they slaughtered
and ate the genitals
of the men shot dead...

   i: dodo:
english: dodo project -
pidgin english...

               scuttle though:
baron mis-brain
      alias:
       and whatever
   dumb-do-dumb-better-be
is noorm...
      
cannot the protest
averting the gillette ad.
be nothing more than:
don't shave?

        hell...
i'm all loser, all beavis & butthead
& beck & radiohead
ready...

               what i supposed
to be... a solo lone creep
actor readying for
the apocalypse of
              what has become
the glory-hole
  contra latex
                    fetish riddles
of...
    the remnant man?

yeah...
i'm trans-phobic...
in that:
i could never fathom
anything coming
in, rather than out,
of that 'ole of
prostate massage
sitting's worth...
but being a faked face...

enough for the worth
of a bearded Beatrice
to suffocate my
limp's worth of:
the sort that requires
an insomniac *****...

i'm trans-phobic,
in terms of
being allocated
the pretense of
having to experiences
a thai surprise...
which is basically
a bisexual girl
picked up in a park
off a bench,
donning a sports bra
and a short-hair
cut...

   what's the difference
between a trans-phobia
and a thai-surprise?

and what isn't?
          - i could never find
a crop of short hair on a woman
unappealing;
every ****** has a tom-boy
haircut...
and what isn't nabokov:
will certainly not be
a john williams novel: stoner...

the really people
of the seriousness literature
of novels...
well... being a, "poet"...
i'm the tabloid gnat's
worth of person,
in the economy of selling
toilet paper...
with **** smear's worth
of content to boot...

'appy as i am:
one of belzeebub's
apostles:

        galileo! galileo!

the worth of the most
uneventful life:
encapsulated
in... a riveting... chance:
rather choice...
of words...
  to make...
                it a life...
almost worth living...
or at least allowing
a... posthumous scan
worth of print.

The day we roared with infinite jest the
larder packed tight with provisions burst.
So much canned meats, tinned, pemmican
hardtack we had stored knowing our
journey north would be sufficiently trying
that sustenance would prove difficult.

The slog.  The slacking day when you rolled
off the sled, creviced.  Your voice booming blue
crystalline as we see, no escape.  Trapped and
the cans I hurl into the hole.

Hours I read to you lipped, curled into a
snail, a shell, a crocus of yellow
a dread of
finishing the story and saying to you there is
no
more.  So you cannot tell, when the pages have ended
I make up confabulate truth and fiction
embellish.  
Pretend the story line marches
forward decades and we are in the Amazon;
You’ve discovered
that the water
that seemed
guileless is crocodile filled.
They bite hard and
you can imagine.

All primary colors on the
floes, all glacial movement, slow to melt, fast to burn through
the colors of our arctic rainbow.
I had primed the lamp the last night, before that dawn, before
the ride in which you fell.  
The wick trimmed and each
consequential action of the day I placed
hanks of hair
neatly side by side into banks of snow.  
Under my cracked tongue is
a bump that rolls
mole like cyst.  

Partner of my travels to this cold realm, your self shelved.
Below:  Did you hear me whisper?  Asking why today
have I become.  
The whispered promise of holding
upright against the dark.  I thought.
It would be magnificent.  

Not even fanfare.  Or aurora borealis.  Or flight.
Yes dreams of flying.  
Yes dreams of ahah so it is after all.
I thought I would recognize the moment of unleashing.  
What makes the special now?
If I whisper Abandon I might hear you echo in the ice.  I might see your
boot, attached to.  A glove alone, unpaired.

The story they lived, the story they tell is one of each husky,
one by one, no longer.  Starvation and then there are none.
But we are in the Amazon, and it is a scorching hot day and there is
much to be explored until you fall into the river and get bit.

I take it all back.  
You laugh because I add flying monkeys which is
us pretending that we’ve explored
this terrain which looks like a bed
in a room and a chart.  
They cannot
stop your bleed, and so we begin again.

it's just that, you have a fine evening drinking
beer, watching cats and foxes,
and the frenzy of foxes on a monday night,
and these bin-bags,
  scattered once finely bound...
      it only begins with an aphorism,
and states: you ought to throw stone...
       thaat it would be safe enough to do such a thing...
you want to throw it, you're actually one
of the "herd",
  and how it will all make sense,
if you do throw the stone...
and join the riots...
     it would make sense,
it would actually make a lot of sense,
but, frankly, it doesn't...
             father crux, mind my son dangling
son... lo! behold! we're in business...
   how god chose the tribe of jews
and how jesus made judaism pop,
and how pop-judaism paid back a status of
pop culture, created a pop culture,
and was like huh? donning sunglasses...
and how it ended jn ash... and enforced cremation...
and Auschwitz holidays...
  yeah, sure, i'm the sick one...
who hold account of holocaust deniers
when i live in the 21st century with
existential deniers, that cat food tinned
speaks more to your, ******* *******?!
you want to vox? i'll vox... i'll ******* vox
the **** out of you,
i'll give you plums for eyes and human
rights for children you'll never, ever, have!
isn't that what we do, pretend to
eavesdrop on people?
pretend they don't exist, and if they do
they are involved in ghost media of fictions
and writing books for profit?
i just read heidegger's aphorism no. 195
and i just, think, of throwig stones...
  gladness be, a memory, that i share
with nobody...
   it's easier to abuse drinking...
i'm waiting for the blood skull and bits
to make testament...
   i think that if you get struck my lightning and die...
you won the lottery...
aphorism 195 is all about the will,
throwing, or scalping,
     something that is into: which is:
that conjunction word muddle,
beginning with that, and supposedly ending
with ergo...
           what moses felt,
and if ever: held account to have a heart...
just about as apathetic in tone
as an english-woman can be...
                 i heard prostitutes talk sweeter
things in my life...
      prostitutes... bulgar women,
ukranian women...
            british women talked the talk,
walked the walk...
   and then it was all or nothing...
that i am, a boor predicting a reality...
              but i can't help giving grace
to numbers, that they somehow have to be
coerced...
  of man, thus said, to complicate
the matters further...
   aphorism 195 is nothing but the modern
case of otherwise not throwing stones
at authority... a fortiori through Christianity...
i just look at it and see:
a bunch of kids throwing stones,
how's that going to work,
where's a justification of an "argument"?
it's that demand for Greece,
ancient, and so boringly quasi-kleptomaniac
in keeping it, and the yellow-brick road...
i already said a-, before saying
a priori; i meant to say: a-h (hence the hyphen
and a subsequent loss of ha),
so a beginning without a beginning...
like i will also state with a fortiori...
and i will also say: from a strength to a weakness...
or some would say: as foretold...
   it seems the strong are weaker than the weak...
just like the original case of aristocracy,
you need healthy people to rummage,
to make things work, and you need
a sickness at the top,
you always will provide the sick to rule the strong,
that's how humanity works, the sick rule
the strong... because the sick can
and the strong are ladden with a guilty plea of
stating empathy... it's just plain sad,
since they didn't encourage us waiting in line
to meet the guillotine... so who's who's Stockholm
syndrome bargain? the times i met death,
i'm surprised i didn't write a harry potter novel!
it's breaking my heart, and its almost numbing
my *****... i will recover having read
heidegger's aphorism 195 from ponderings ii - vi...
but it will take a while...
   it's going to be as hard as an actual
break-up... but i'll manage...
   real break-ups attract too many
bothersome gnats, known as fiction writers
and i don't won't these...
those ugly ******* can disperse and earn their money
and never return; or in Hindustan
as parasites, their worthy form to be repeated
and immersed in; guess what?
my **** is tickling, how about you **** it?
******.
and yes, punctuation is a different sort of
arithmetic... it's scenery, it's danish,
it's not custard thought, more of a mood setting,
but then again, the english,
bankers of the world; they don't really get
not needing to sell a twig,
when they can't appreciate a carpenter's effort
in having made a front-door...
   pragmatism doesn't really leave you
all sparkles like it's new year's eve... does it?
  neither does 1 + 1 = 2,
  or                 wait... nope, it isn't you.
language per se is no basis for being equipped with
a dichotomy to mathematics...
      rhetoric or rubric, it doesn't matter,
you spend so much time, complicating
the mathematical pucntuation marks,
that you leave actual punctuation marks to ducks,
that gobble them, as niave as they are,
glutton on mushy-pond-soaked-bread
as you do reminding us that politics is real...
    + is as complex as a comma...
                 hyphen is more than mere minus...
it's apparently called acting...
but you know, being a "poet" you sort of realise
you're not giving "adequate" prompt...
if ever, that's what the 20th century existentialists
did, they tried to reinvent punctuation,
to give punctuation the status of arithmetic...
after all... **** acting on stage gets a cabbage thrown
at it, yes? the times when theatre was no merely
and solely applause, when people threw rotten
fruit and veg and those emotional scumbags with
the audacity to fake it.

For The Record**

The clouds and the stars didn’t wage this war
the brooks gave no information
if the mountain spewed stones of fire into the river
it was not taking sides
the raindrop faintly swaying under the leaf
had no political opinions

and if here or there a house
filled with backed-up raw sewage
or poisoned those who lived there
with slow fumes, over years
the houses were not at war
nor did the tinned-up buildings

intend to refuse shelter
to homeless old women and roaming children
they had no policy to keep them roaming
or dying, no, the cities were not the problem
the bridges were non-partisan
the freeways burned, but not with hatred

Even the miles of barbed-wire
stretched around crouching temporary huts
designed to keep the unwanted
at a safe distance, out of sight
even the boards that had to absorb
year upon year, so many human sounds

so many depths of *****, tears
slow-soaking blood
had not offered themselves for this
The trees didn’t volunteer to be cut into boards
nor the thorns for tearing flesh
Look around at all of it

and ask whose signature
is stamped on the orders, traced
in the corner of the building plans
Ask where the illiterate, big-bellied
women were, the drunks and crazies,
the ones you fear most of all: ask where you were.

The look in your eyes
hooks me,

taking me back to the days
of my grandfathers, dark
whiskey in hip-flasks kept close
to their chests, eating tinned fruit
and singing to warm themselves up
on cold nights

I remember the sound of their voices,
thick and throaty, as if forty
cigarettes a day had eaten
into their chords

I wear their blazers sometimes,
Over a red dress, imagining myself
before they thought of me

wondering if they felt the rain fall
on their face as blood washed the
souls of their shoes

I know that your green eyes
are searching my face for signs and
similarities, the past threatening to
seep through the open pores
of my skin

I am corrupted

The lighthouse man doesn't want to know anyone
He sits in solitude
Staring at the swirling seas
Wandering up and down the endless stairs

Fingers and thumbs fat with muscles
Salted sweat on skin
Working on the light fixtures
No word he utters

No visitors today
None scheduled for tomorrow
Steam boils off the kettle
More tinned food in fine fettle

Time stands still here
No interruptions
He meditates on his soul
What there is, he controls

No knowledge he shares
Turning on the light
To ward off danger
To ward off strangers from his world

i actually took to taking heidegger seriously,
i don't know why, it just happend,
i like the fact that i only have a sketch of him,
being & time and ponderings ii - vi
don't account for much... but it's worthwhile
ground to begin sketching oneself,
how, or more precisely why writing
is self-absorption, until there is no "self"
for others to ask about, that's utterly fascinating,
people ask the question when people fall out
of line in the dimension of morality,
if they ever do, in all honesty.
             but sometimes, it just so happens
that the heart says what it wants to hear
and the brain doesn't have the barricades against it,
for all its reasons it just remains a ****
encompassed in a cranium...
            on the basis of understanding the
categorical imperative... categories...
             brain is primarily fat...
                           what can poison the brain
or simply "eat" it are hostile proteins...
                  so where is the true account of what
ails?                 i'd understand a parasitic instance
to account for tapeworms, but the idea of
      hostile proteins attacking an ***** that's
primarily fatty seems as much as
           prescribing people with omega-3
in tinned fish...
              we know too much to then speak the truth...
the point of pragmatism is to lie,
our safety is bound to lie, we lie to avoid
rubbing the jinn-bottle to conjure something that
many other will disagree with...
       akin to enlarging a phobia so it's massive...
hell, by comparison to heaven: is tiny...
but then heaven enlarges itself and mars descends,
that fake hope of finding like on mars?
that died, when earth was born
   and the sun went through its secondary cycle...
oh there was life on mars, but mars is
a quasi moon, hello and welcome to radio lemniscate,
but sure, go ahead, find me martian bacterium
while i watch an oxfam advert of people starving...
i'm just going to take a very, very long bow
from this circus... drink a great deal and write
as much ******* as i can...
  i think all of this began with: a real great respect
for books... how you're not supposed to treat
books as you might, in my case, deal prostitutes...
caress them, use bookmarks, fiddle the pages
as if touching trees... taking the sleeves off hardback
editions, reading the book in hardcover,
then putting the decoration sleeves back onto them
and the shelf...
        i don't have a populist culture-effective view
of ******, i just have heidegger...
            what he wrote in the 1930s resonates as
it did back then... after going to university i felt
limbless, i was almost actually but more so honest
akin to dante's depiction of bertrand de born,
a ******* dentist had more bones to a body than
i had, thinking it was only a case of me chewing
meat / vegetables...
            universities these days represent
**** germany in the 1930s...
            i'm waiting, and i'm waiting, and i can't see
anything being born...
                          more crass on crass than
criss-cross... usually it's something you do and then
you get to forget about it... clearly people are
reading into history as this need to brush-up on
their arithmetic... me? i don't remember how
the alphabet goes, but i know a word or two,
i have respect for certain sciences...
           like abacadus?
     abecadus? 3 results (0.59 seconds),
so near to a google-whack! ****!
                            http://tinyurl.com/go9g3b8,
that "alphabet" of numbers! what's it called?
                         oh right... an abacus....
          similus non similiis qua abecadus -
but the algorithm understood it...
               but university has become that sort
of magnet of failure...
                in the earliest past of the 21st century
the labour government allowed too many of us
to access this medium...
                      what we should have been taught
was how to not be bored from a boring / repetitive
environment... i'd gladly learn that course /
unless of course that thing is self taught?
  funny enough to also state: surgeons don't
have these problems, as butchers don't have them,
it's the buddhist territory of the middle
    that gets the most spank of oink huh?
             then poetry gets agitated because people
start throthing into its gob of worth with some
obscene content, and poetry is like:
call papa phi pho lee... so people can see how
pointless their argument will eventually be,
and they can go along the route of scuttling past like
scared rats... which in this language, makes perfect sense,
given they branded western slavs as vermin...
                thank you, i'll just stick to me
aphorism no. 34 (ponderings iii) and be on my way
to stage an "islam",
                         or what most would claim to
be defeat (there really is an interpolation between
ditto and italics, or at least a symbiosis,
for what could never improve punctuation,
let alone spelling)...
                        i really have lost my "christian" / western
sensibility of indoctrinating darwinism on people,
i lost my mojo / atheism-drive of "zeitgeist" vogue...
i lost the need to indoctrinate darwinism on people,
there's too many of them, and what i see is
    "zen" libido, or at least tao libido...
i think i'm going to call it tao libido in all earnest...
well... an asian paradigm if anything...
or why the west is obsessed with fame but that fame
results in a billion chinese / blue indians that...
simply don't give a ****...
       the first rule of tao?
                   to keep a world at peace is to ensure
you forget the world, and the world forgets you.
    by this point there is no dasein,
                               there is no "happening"...
or what compulsory thought patterns suggest:
there had to be a darwinism and there had to be
a big bang, for per se reasons,
    the democratic totalitarian obliteration
                                 of the individuation process;
at least in islam we are bound to disagree...
here? we agree to annoy, or we are agreed upon
toward a zenith of annoyance that translates
into subverting violence, or micro-violence...
or: that our past be no burden on our future tomorrows...
we really are living in times that history
will later define as merely a blame game,
   after that.... people will reflect and state
the unimportant content given the context,
            and then vice versus...
   then **** sapiens will suddenly fizzle out of
existence and **** schizoi will establish his rule,
to what was naturally teasing man:
                           tell a lie, write a history;
or that "metaphor" of eden.

the old dock silent in winters cold embrace
such it would be all day
save for the logistics race
to the moaning of a ship in slow decay

seagulls hover high above on ***** wings
her tumor of rust and fallen pride
they heckle her, the filthy things
on winds of scorn they ride

she should have been allowed to drown
to end her reign with stern held high
but profit must in books be noted down
for her tortured hull, no end is nigh

in her hold now; fresh water, tinned fruit and frozen meat
drums of oil and parts for the engine to spare
to keep this crew, her carers on their tired feet
and make her next long trek easier to bare

alone on the dock he watches her leave
once more, like in times of old, she raises her sail
wishing the sea to offer her reprieve
for a reef to shatter her old tired hull, so frail

the world ended in february; it is getting difficult to remember
a time before humanity, ephemeral in the end,
slipped into the gaps between evolution’s gnashing teeth;
i saw the first ghost outside my window
stumbling in the distance from the chapel garden,
walking about the streets with curling fingers,
reaching out to touch warm skin, and i,
behind thick locks and boarded windows,
dared not leave my house for days; in march i sat trembling
as i counted empty jars in my cenotaph pantry;
after eating cat food and the cat i
carried nothing on my back when i fled my home
in search of a safer haven; in april, i stood
on the tops of hollow buildings and looked down at the street
to see faces shining red, ravenous and without mercy in the ash,
i watched a man open up another’s ribcage
like the doors of a hostel, unsealed at the edges
as if just another canned good from a looted grocery store; in may
i caught glimpses of children catatonic in their skin,
orphaned by pestilence and rotting after
their first death and their second, i witnessed
my mother’s apostasy, saw her gnawing on the bones of the vicar
with a king james tattered at her feet; in june i saw my sister
huddled in the corner and clutching a revolver,
white-knuckled, one bullet,
staring down the barrel as wounds bled and hands shook,
and the seed of acedia—germinating in her chest
beside that vile malady—kept her finger twitching just beyond the trigger; i
lamented the absence of the swallowed sun, forgot what apples tasted like,
stopped telling the difference between samaritans and corpses and
observed that which was once called love turn into a hungry fire
as old and primal as leaning stones, carnal and hard and ugly
and spoiled like all else; in july
i noticed my hands had begun to shake every time i heard my name, and i
trudged through another fallen city, broken eyes watching me as i passed
with a shopping cart of tinned pears, the weight of all their hunger tied around my ankles,
marching towards the end beneath a black and starless sky
i felt it, coming closer as i ran,
and crawled, and prayed, and walked. and walked. and walked. and walked. and
in january,
(before i began to fear the human silhouette
and you started holding my hand to keep you sane,)
we drove nowhere on the highway at dusk,
headlights illuminating the obsidian road, moon trailing your truck,
a sacred ghost, omnipresent, neon signs blinking their greetings
for diners and motels and gas station stops, dissonant music laced with static
pouring out your dashboard radio, the two of us
in contented coexistence, wordless,
the world alive and well.
and in february,
in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, the terminus began,
the planet shook for a final time and brought to pass
that which is written—o death,
where is thy sting? o grave,
where is thy victory? the dead shall be raised
incorruptible, and us?
we shall be changed