on the tier of £110 an hour with a fence
of £10 fee of entry for the brothel,
at £110 an hour you don't get *******
actresses; you get reality / basics,
one ******, ONE, with a bulgarian *****
after she echoed ow for millennia,
after the chubby puerto rican one
took to being aloud with ******* screams
with the window open
in amsterdam looking at the wind
gazelle like for a face of a lover remoulded,
asking her small afro pageboy to get more beer for me
and ******* into a tarnished bowl -
no ***** actresses on the £110 tier of enslaved bodies
like catacombs of ancient egyptian everyday
i wish to absolve history of study;
i learned the etymology of the ethnic categorisation
word of SLAV my own way, and i wish it upon
no other creature.*

supermarket oddity,
here goes,
an audacious thief returns to the same
place twice, but the villagers mind
the second time - the first time a rural
populace becomes an urbanity
that borderlines a natural circumstance of
anonymity;
i went in,
on the menu five bavaria beers
and a 70cl of whiskey,
i usually keep the receipt in my wallet
or in my pocket,
i went in, german army shirt and hood,
black trousers
and green matching shoes,
to the self check out automaton of
pre-recorded voices
i almost felt i was on the serpent
that said 'mind the gap' between the echoing
twirls of iron between liverpool st. and bank
on the central line;
i gave the a.s.b.o.s. tagged bottle of whiskey
for the person minding self-service,
took the crossword basket back to the stack,
came back;
i remember the 5 pence charge on utilising
elongated plastic bags...
hence my backpack...
but the receipt i also remember dating of late
the 12th of january last...
i don't remember buying the five beers i
drank while walking in the wind chill of minus
five degrees, or the whiskey...
i'm just bewildered in a cartesian sense of
that sense of coupling thought with doubt
rather than denial,
but the odd thing is that i felt like i felt stealing
queens of the stone age album from w. h. smith
and then returning it...
but the odd thing is, is that that i stole it in full
view, the sigma fifteen pounds and thirty pence
under supervised eye, paranoiac in me created
a rebellious worker for a corporation,
a real tight blue collar worker, and honest,
above all honest; but the reply to my goodnight
sounded odd; and that's hardly an artist's fascination
with the orbit of mars: it just takes a supermarket;
i glorify such days, where no philosophy is invested in,
but simply an ingenious act of theft -
where the thief is doubtful of the theft, rather
than idiotically denying it.

p.s. you heard of natural selection, beauty in the eye
of the beholder, cloning true on paper with identical
genes, but untrue in fact because of historical events
that would never provide a clone's re logic of the disparity
of events sculpting a different identical you,
so too with this weird, this weird emergence of
natural memorisation, fed schooled memorisation
of pythagoras, typhus and python,
but memory comes back, modelled upon the
unconscious / automation, it's its own self,
selective memorisation, where the child despised once
more speaks, and even though conscious of thought,
certain memories come back, to orientate thought
of one's self in a different darkening: or should
there be one akin to narcissus, as he who fell in love
with his shadow, and instead of a metamorphosis
into spring's fluctuating bloom, instead into abstract
of geometry?

Beneath the silver snow which has gathered
And gathered for days and days
Between a dream and waking in
A cold purple January dusk. Beside the tender
Tongues of root far below the cold silver
Snow which gathers and gathers--
Sleep the soon to be moths
Of summer, those murky wings of midnight
Sleep with no sound gracefully in the warmth
Of the earth among the beginning of a
Million single sexless flowers (which
One day will guide them on the forsaken
Path of desire) deep beneath the lascivious
Warm moon will make love and love.

Down the hill along the cow path
We stumbled like fawn shaking off
The heavy fog of sleep the gray
October day unfolding its onerous
Wings through the gate which we
Were always so careful to close behind
Us past the silver slender ash trees
Between that old stone house and rotting
Garden toward the barn where the swallows
Lived up the ladder to the hay where we
Could swing all day if it wasn’t for
Those dreaded chores which came
So natural to you, in the silo
With those pitchforks trying not to
Slip down into that spiraling lascivious
Mouth of metal (death), where outside the
Silver bearded god watched as
We staggered out like mice from an
Old and rusted tractor into the
Soft polished air of first snow, laughing.

She  smiled bravely in the fields of nettles
the threads of straw  a lost memory.
Her heart  injured
like the fey light bulbs
that never shone.
Having walked from the station
to a  lost place
where she made a  pitch for  her soul,
promising not to fall for the  dark dour suitors
who leaves their dusty shoes on tables.

I want to say I love you
But I'm afraid the cars motor
Is too loud.

Afraid that you'll say
What?
And you'll ask me to say it again.

I want to reach out
And touch you,
But I'm afraid I'll do it wrong.

I'm as loyal as an Ace of Spades,
But you're the wild card
In the hand I was dealt.

They keep telling me
To write about
The sky,
The way the sun sets and what it looks like,
How the colors swirl like sherbet or cotton candy  

But I keep thinking about
What happens when it hails.

They ask me to write about
The flowers,
The way they reach up from the soil,
And emerge with the hopes of spring

But I keep thinking about
Their petals fallling.

winter
encases lakeside plants
in thick layers
of frozen white time,
preserving them
for a thousand ages
until spring.