if my life was scripted by a guy ritchie
or a tarantino...
oh god: it would happen so smoothly:
i would never:
but always fake it as an n.p.c. -

ol' grandfather died and i finally resolved
to never ever like writing:
and this pain is a crease:
i wish it was a goosebump...
but as b.c. socrates said it:

find yourself a good wife...
and you'll be happy...
ol' grandpa didn't find a good woman
in my grandmother...
he became a philosopher...

my luck lies with prostitutes...
now the sketch, sketching over a sketch...
i tried that path once:
the gamble...
invested in being swept under
a carpet with the bugs and dust...

now i approach the song i heard
at an open mic night in edinburgh
once... neil young's old man...
and only recently:
      cumberland gap: hence the reference
to guy ritchie...

there are instances of dementia patients
living out their last best preserved
in care homes...
3 months...
blitzkrieg shock a day before
he died: ****** gwandm'ah calls
up...
who does that?!

             i apparently own a phone
i can only make calls with:
i am not to receive them!

"my god he loved that woman!"
beside a god
the mythological sophia:
patriarch ***** of abraham:
but what of this mythological woman?
this mother this sister
this grandmother this ****-buddy...
this word-on-word 69er...

it's hardly a mystery:
it's not like death played poker with me
over the debate of 3 months:
such is family...
once upon a time...
before the subsequent diadems
would disperse -
before the little town was swallowed
by: dying and the nomads it spawned...

no luck with women:
my father is the only exception...
which probably implies my mother
is the exception too...
but even now my father is being strained...
and as ever: i'm mediating some flimsy deal...
but i guess luck with women is
hereditary...
promise me the one in a blue moon
lover!
promise me none of such "things"
just a horse with stirrups!

pain as a numbing sensation from:
it's impossible to feast on details...
and i will not rhyme, rhyme...
i will write my heaving lost...
   i have no more...

but if my life was scripted...
oh... i just imagine the litany
of the omni- god being true: of a god not
taking sides:
how we're still not landlocked
by a reference to the 20th century
sheep-count for the slaughter:
how now, only now...
just as ever: we hear the heroism
of some marcel marceau...
who was never going to be one of
these newly converted readily waiting
for the gestapo max jacob types...

i sometimes wish i would have
invested in that siberian banshee that
st. petersburg's doll and buggy and trolly...
esp. after i heard her: ways...
obviously as toxic as it might
have taken turn:
i'd compete with bottle and brothel
as she would have skidded off
for some m.d.ma. and some buckle &
friendly ****...

thank anyone for this morning
how the newspaper was brought home,
then the muddied walk through
the bower wood...
that my feet take me walking
and i obey: a dog of chess...
   and then back for coffee and a revision
of morning going out
again for some buns...

by the afternoon i found a new walk
and will undertake it come tomorrow...
at the entrance: a couple were looking
formidably anti-
        a forwarding of feet onto it...

come: let us steal the moon as
the scythe it appears when it reaches
its sharpened crescent slit of a gaze!