the "talent"... the "genius"... it comes as freely as
freely it goes... such words are not... rhetorical:
zoological keepers...
and then: ****! gone!
because... you and i and
we all can forgive rhyme into extending its...
welcome presence... because:
i'm thinking about... peeling tangerines...
i'm thinking about peeling
grapes... akin to a diana krall new york
episode... i'm thinking about...
eating spaghetti bologanise
while also eating canned peaches...
when feeding a nostalgia
oyster when watching *******
***** of hollywood
via lethal weapon II...
sharp objects - and led zeppelin's
in the evening...
what pristine sort of love
is my sort of love?
conversational love story that...
is forever anonymous?
this is supposed to be my sort
of love story...
the non-very-usual the-anonymous
new yorker fatigued with
urban literature of the quickened
i.q. scoop...
it's one of those billy joel
typo type o' moments of...
elsewhere beside a york,
an old york a new york:
most certainly outside a 7pm friday sloth
and all that cry-baby yogurt tomorrow
whipped up from...
if the concrete isn't lava...
then the forest isn't aloud with a flush
of wild fires!
some call it a Hudson,
some call it the Thames...
some call it...
the bog, the standard throne of thrones...
and some even dare call it...
Beckton central...
where all of high-flier *******
filled **** that kills the eels is
filtered along with the more:
basic quests of us... made complete...
easy as easy is loitering around
C# (c-sharp) when the whole world becomes
a zoo... of a people not diling telephone
numbers... calling it: the hashtag"blues"?
let's call it calling it...
the cul-de-sac and let's call it...
anything other than what it was
already...
the pine never dared to knock-knock-joke
into a forest of oaks...
as i would never ask for
furniture beside...
what became of the armchair in the eyes
of diogenese of sinope:
a cloud for the mind to care for the sky...
in that... the armchair was always to become
oyster shell...
and the armchair was
always going to become
a harem sofa... the dirt associated with
the priting press... and the distorted ink
that was always going to run dry
or inflated in pavlova berry miser-mix-up...

piano keys played over the worth of
slices of loaf / bread...
and that grand sleeper gang...
because... the swinging pawtee was...
slap-sticking themselves to give out
freebie clues...
and i was... my usual mundane self...
less travelled... because...
even if it was a viagara-fuelled trip
to Moscow St. Petersburg...
there was a Cracow... there was Edinburgh...
there was a Paris and a Venice...
solo yob... sighs from Mombasa...
and catching macaque
with bags of sugar for the ooh ooh applause
and shock-value antithesis selfies!
well...
               blonde-beast: that's also me...
not catching sand in a ****...
or a zephyr from... a surah of a quran...
that's also moi, whittle moi...

- and then give it a name:
a penny-for-the-wise...
for all that... would never would never
be spent...
loitering around sinatra's bank-account
madman use-by-date come
post-mortem and: those pennies
and those raindrops...
because it's always going to be:
******* forever h'americana...
and always the iraqi blues and...
the saudi: hush hush...

long live bad *** cowboy h'america...
and long live the antithesis...
wehrmacht hugo boss: to boot!
long live pure good...
love live pure evil...
long live the sächsisch sohn...
love live the preußisch vater...
long life... to any future...
naive... imbecile... and... coat of:
arms... the pressured combined:
loitering gestures of a sordid clown;
prischtine schpelling
quirks and notations of...
exemplifying exceptions!
or more or less...
the gravity of furniture...
for the love of furniture...
because whether it's a spoon,
a fork, a knife... or just the base
superstition hiding behind
chop-sticks / tooth-picks...
call it the fork or the spoon
or the knife...
when all you have left is...
your 10 digit bishops and the 32 cardinals
of ivory for that one tongue of pope...
or a bowl... tilting...
and no spoon... but a slurping sound...
which is: no spoon necessary...
so much for any worth surrounding
the status gentleman...
or barbarian... to grieve a would-be...
gimmick...
it's one of those kind of celebrations
that's reserved for the per se.