Accountancy
Sunday I was driving around and had my camera handy
but I was not in the mood, the plain, my little savannah
was and has always been a flat piece of land between
two hills that look as belonging to a desirable queen’s
bejewelled *****.  So I didn’t take any photos instead
I counted trees. When fifteen I worked in an accountant
office, this mainly because my mother wanted me to go
to work in a suit. It was boring work and to relive it
I made individual numbers into people; I was fired and
the suit I had bought on credit was handed back to
the second- hand shop. I went back to school and became
a cook, which after two years bored me too. Back to school
and I became the officers who do the books.
200 bushes and trees before the bridge
My job is superfluous now ships has a few crew and they
are normally  badly paid, Technology it is called.
From the bridge to the village of Benafim I counted 400
olive trees, 245 almond trees and sixteen Carob trees.

I like you.
I think I’ve liked you since the first time I saw you.
Don’t get me wrong, though. I don’t love you.
Saying I love you would be silly.
I don’t know you that well.
I just know your name.
And the course you’re taking.
Who your brother is.
What year you’re in.
So, you see? Saying I love you is preposterous.
But I like you.

I like you.
But my friends don’t.
They call you arrogant.
But I think you’re just confident.
I keep that information to myself, though.
I like you, but my friends don’t like you that much.
So I pretend that I don’t like you either.
That’s why when we see each other around campus I ignore you.
But please don’t think that I don’t like you.
Because I do.
I really do.
I’m not in love with you, though. Just so we’re clear.

I like you.
I like your eyes.
I like your wavy brown hair.
I always wonder what it would feel like to run my fingers through it.
I like your hands, especially your fingers.
Long and thin like a pianist’s.
I want to hold your hand and lace our fingers together.
I like your lips and the way they hint at a smile whenever you see me.
Or maybe that’s just my imagination. But still, I like your lips.
I’d like them even more if they’re pressed against mine.
Sorry, please ignore the line above this one.

I like you.
I know because my hear flutters every time I see you.
Sounds silly and cliché, I know. But it’s true.
You make me feel weird. But a good kind of weird.
I like you.
And I want to know more about you.
Like why take up engineering?
Why not accountancy like your brother?
I want to know you more.
Can you sing? Do you dance?
And why did you choose number 7 for you jersey number?
I’d like to get to know you. But I know it’s impossible.
Well, maybe not impossible, just outside the realm of probability.

I like you.
And I’m saying it here.
Because I can’t tell you. I can’t tell my friends.
But now I’m telling everybody.
I like you.
But I don’t love you.
Because you’re a stranger.
A beautiful stranger but a stranger nonetheless.
One day we’d see each other and maybe I’d smile.
Hopefully, you’ll smile back.
But until then, I’d be harboring these feelings of mine.
And I’ll watch you. And like you from the sidelines.

.ah ****... i almost forgot... abdullah (the name of muhammad's father) - song: lucifer in starlight... another name you should know... in case some Islamic terrorists attack and ask you for the names of muhammad's wives... just mention... well... think of Stephen Vizinczey's novel - in praise of older women... then say the magic word: Khadija... who... being an older woman, kept the reins on the Batman (orphan)... she really did keep him in check, did all the accountancy... and was probably the person who wrote the first Surahs... given that... muhammad couldn't read jack-****! i, acknowledge the writing of the Quran to Khadija... for me... she's what overwhelms me to not succumb to the "******" Mary.

i found the cause of my "erectile dysfunction"
when i first visited a *******...
would you believe it?
        i was there for what i was paying for...
i can vaguely remember on instance
where my little Richard had more brains
than i had...
               ****** just would stand on point...
hindsight... actually, some jokes are
only funny with hindsight,
esp. the Donald Trump jokes back in...
whenever it was...
           but lil' richard was whispering:
don't **** this girl, she's trouble,
she's a nymphomaniac...
          which boils down to:
there's no delusion (i hope) with men
watching *******...
  yes, most of these men will not ****
the women, because the women are:
nymphomaniacs (just watch
the lars von trier movie)...
                    although no problem with
my first love...
the problem boils down to the Freudian
concept of: the madonna-***** complex...
it's not my "erectile dysfunction"...
why would i have no problem
with a *******, but when it comes
to the free woman of the west
i'm all: american woman by the guess who?
ah... now i remember...
talking...
   i remember the first time my first
love performed *******...
   just before engaging in the act...
she said the words:
     imagine what my daddy would think...
what?!
   i'm surprised i didn't get a limp ****...
honest to god...
    i remember how with a *******
you didn't need to talk,
there was not need to have little
bad boy, daddy's naughty girl insinuations...
just basic *******, like any animal might...
obviously culminating
in an onomatopoeia of what could
be words, in syllables of ******...
i've learned that:
                    the more talk there is during
***... it's like:
   the hugest turn-off...
  why bring God (in the beginning
there was the word, and the word was god)
into the church of Satan
      (i.e. ****** *******)?!
works just fine with prostitutes,
but when it comes to the free women
of the western world...
   problems arise...
                might as well turn around
and **** a goat or something...
  sorry... i don't need god to be present
when i ****...
                      he's far better off
in the synagogue of my thought,
away from my tongue that might will
to usher in a prayer,
just after performing floral exfoliation
or slurping down an oyster,
on a ****.

p.s. die sonne satan: dismal chant...
for the love of god,
i do not know where or how
i'll ever buy the copy of this album.

You had given up by the 1970s,
Just as I realised the 'art'
in accountancy is to reveal the beauty
in the numbers; and later,
writing contracts for a living,
that 'art' is in the beauty of the words.
Thank you for your verse:
Poetry is in everything,
including business documents,
that captures our imagination.

“The function of education is to teach one to think intensively and to think critically. Intelligence plus character - that is the goal of true education.” - Martin Luther King, Jr.

I remember the first day of my class, when my teacher taught degree is part of your bright future!
I wonder how sheet of paper could define my life
How 3 hours of exam tells me who am I?
I wonder why life is all between GPA and Grades

I forget to laugh, Things left unsaid,
Experiences not lived,
Friends not much made.
Incomplete!

Class were between accountancy and theory,
Derivatives to Risk
Is all what I had supposed to believe?

Again I was puzzled,
Difference between a classroom and a plantation of time
Struggle between patient and constellations
Aspiration to Inspiration
Trying to connect the dots
After dots
I was failure

When my teachers taught in the classroom about calculation
Mom she was there saying me son failure are huge success of engine of innovation


Each day that passes
I only see more darkness

Too many feel the need to suppress
Anger, lies and distress

Seasons never change
this cycle comes with age

Here's to a new beginning
Pasts don't matter

Become who you want to be
Leave it all behind

Go live your life
Go find happiness
Be what you truly want to be

But don't forget
Generation with Generation needs us with Education is no equalizer
Raise your voice
Sky is not the limit. It is only the beginning.

I daily commit to being negatively capable
one might even say it’s the defining spark
of a life spent loving and hating
the art and accountancy
of the modern teacher’s grins and grind

So here’s a mellowly fruitful glass raised
to comrades and fellow sufferers
who dwell in uncertainty and decreasing circles
while those, as sure as idiots
forge ahead

For as long as it takes to make what it takes
I'll be breathing it in,

exhale and I do.

this is a fine line that cuts through my sanity to mark out eternity and call it my enemy?
I do,

a long time coming has been no friend to me.

It's a principal sum that makes accountancy run,
I'm just an extra
an added ingredient on a steep gradient
going down.