it's raining, i outstretch my hand in an akimbo pose on a windowsill, capture some rain on the hand, and then, lick it off.

i always seem to word the world in better guise,
when i can encourage a minute or two,
faking being blind,
closed eyes, deaf or rather
  deafened by headphones,
       cackling, trying to make a hyrbid
of fox and hyena in me attempting
a shy laugh...
          i forget when my admiration
for ****** hair began...
probably after i neared November,
and own, started to agitate the wind,
i.e.it started to be brushed by it,
like a long-haired tangle....
          the oddity of experiencing
your ****** hair made real by the wind...
there are
the falcon sheds his wings
to dive for his prey...
                   as any angel might
to caste a magic of embodiment...
the falcon imitates
an arrow, slicing, thriving,
cutting through, reestablishing a
genesis... a let's begrudge an unnecessary
             beginning...
prior to wishing being a father,
prior to asking for a son,
prior to attaining a woman,
i am conscript of metaphor,
              i abhor the literalism
of an egyptian prince, comedy of
the overtly literal *******...
            what i hate deserves hating...
mort poetica is, not, an, answer!
             there was no talking serpent
to begin with,
  there was only your labouring poetry...
ever heard  of *nuance of joke?
   if making life difficult was your answer,
you pillock, numb-whit,
   fine! fine fine!
                        plonkers r us...
tragic!
                   our safe-haven of
class A hillbilly window-cleaners!
     Delboy is my new Goebbel Hoffhessen
trap of a treat...
you quasi cockney squat!
laugh all you want,
i wanna the bending of the 'nee -
                   surds g, anmd the k,
and then the pucker asks:
                w'ah wit dame cockney
                               n' the lost feather....
you playing me potters'?
                             'ucking bride to be
wishy-washy lost oasis mods...
         jerkers off in the trans fannies...
farking bunnies...
calls them the southern bunnies,
quips us better sorter than
the gimmick muzzies of herr mah mah med;
******* dollop of a plonker.
you get bistro nostalgic on me
i'll get holiday happy to be honest,
over hanover,
i know a german loving a gormnan
when i see 'un.
                  last time i told this tale
i was tying a string to a paper tail,
an aeroplane in the the form of
origami...
                    i'll **** one off,
if you ask me nicely, you
******* ire, shh shh,
gingerbread man's worth of a
******* celt pleading for both
ginger & luck...
flip a coin...
  call it a shamrock;
then demand less than the lesser
of all possibles lessened:
the perfectly poured pint
of Guinness... ye' *******
scab of waiting intervention...
   you f'acking kanyan scabbed
sun-stroked-mastering-
of a paint-brush...
       in aiming for a crumb
dedicated to a loaf.
         it's almost funny watching
commentators of today
being so dismissive of poetry
in biblical writing,
   their literal interpretation
of biblical verse is
beyond funny...
                 it's just plain sad,
before they make fun of
the language of an ancient egyptian
prince, i suggest they read
some words of
  ambiguity / poetry...
             who is not to write
imagery, in order to not gauge out
the eyes of readers?!