i just want to live a little: drink a little
ms. amber and most definitely
spill some of her on some pretend mahogany...
like i might be toasting
with the dead...

         all this life: so thoroughly
uncomplicated: sustained by uncomplications...
slyly smoke one cigarette...
perhaps two... at most three...
and still tell the white lie:
yes, i've quit smoking tobacco...

insert both snigger and a giggle:
but i love the taste and the momentary
****** of carbon monoxide
into the brain...
so, yeah: i probably might quit...
when i see a blue moon
or an u.f.o.
         "problem" i have seen the latter
and... it was all squid lile
and phosphorescent
and piccadilly circus esque neons...
i had no phone to take
a picture with...
at best... i could have shouted
at it or thrown a beer bottle at it...
for jokes...

hell: back into the life of...
mediocre...
                 into the general area of
prescribed grey...
into sitting on a couch
and not feeding goosebump
sensations of a roller-coaster...
it's enough that a main ****
luvvie-dubby is willing
to snuggle up to me...
for reasons i am trying to understand:

why do animals... like...
certain people...
why are children inquisitive about
this lineage of frankenstein...
i don't know what i would have
to get up to being given the graces
of a dorian grey outlook...
if i were handsome and generically
pristine...

i just, oh: i just don't know...
i couldn't feed mining for both coal
and idiosyncrasy -
this is me...
    jumping trains: just pretend...

a poem a day keeps the psychiatrists away...
and the priests and the prostitutes...
or so i hope...
given that i have had dealings
with all three...
it's not wonder that i want
to exhaust a need to rekindle interactions
with these assorted lots of toothpicks...

how ******* bogus it must sounds:
my soul hurts...
pose that question to any
atheist or proto-materialists
and the remedy would be what?
synonym counter of asthma?
my soul ache...
                         an itch i cannot scratch...
blessings these concerning
toothaches...
i finally appreciate...
a need for toothaches...
a toothache allows me a gratitude
for three-dimensional orientation...
i've leave this ol' oyster of a tongue
behind: to prove the point...

- so that's why i will never write
a novel!
i abhor lying: i like being robotic...
plain monochrome and at best
two-dimensional when i use words...
to lie to write fiction -
bold underlying essence of
imagination...
but it's hard when you are
curated for outlets that don't
allow imagination to be detailed
with a willingness on your beset
exhaustion of will...

      the detail in the symptom of:
negated ease...
let's just cut corners and write
a proper cipher...

yes... this evening...
i will settle for all these words of truth...
truth can be shortened
and can't be faked...
i'll take the swagger with
the freely available whiskers of whiss and key
and... doing some cliche
"queer" - ahem - "thing"...

some the smiths
or some
                 placebo... covers...
hell.. the gun club - or some fugazi...
something that allowed itself
to age...
            after a morning listening
to bbc radio 3... i don't exactly shake
with inheritance to repay
a life of bach or schumann or schubert
or... prokofiev...
the freely available material
had all the overtones of
      giving out governmental relief...

so that's how it feels: to beg...
              come to think of it...
when art can be settled as a solitary project...
when an oeuvre can be reached:
it's there a procrastinating absentee
horizon's worth...
  this goo this google this custard:
this fudge-brain sloth...
                        accenting out a replica
Kandinsky...
this is enough: this is most certainly enough...
i can still retain pride
and i can still retain "honour"...
because what i've written didn't
take much: it rarely should...
i will settle for the lazily done so...
and put all my energies
on glug-glug-glug
   and the ears propped up to the smiths...

to write fiction would be
what has to be so impossible for me...
to lie: it's not that i abhor lying:
i just find myself incapable to do it...
and if fiction is not lying:
then it's probably, at best...
imagining oneself as lying...
    i have been grieved with
symptoms that stress:
some things you will rarely want
to imagine...

              to be alone in a house
where sometimes you hear a murmur
of a cat waking from one
sleeping session
beckoning a second...
and there' a pristine vacancy
of a talk outlet reaching your...
meta-hearing...
meta-ear...                   it's all a jargon...
but if you know what words
to be equipped with...

                   for all its worth...
a feast of a day... and i didn't force myself
to remember Paris from circa 2004 - 2007.