when I was a kid
it was after the war
i know as they talked of it a lot

sometimes would hear a car coming
and would run to the gate to watch

it and the dust man’s lorry
one driving
two to run and carry
i think

not much traffic then
like now

on a solitary day i may climb
the graveyard wall
stand high and watch it here

like to see the bus , mansel davies

and especially the rock lorries
from up the quarries

helping on the sea defences

king canute

I like the word Cnut. It'a obviously related to ****, which is nice. Freud would maintain an existential connection, no? Kristeva a maternal one. Derrida a...blah de blah

Matthew Conrad* Cnut is an actual name of a Danish king that ruled England... it's not related to **** in the least. it's authenticity speaks for itself, 990 a.d., variations include Canute.

Matthew Conrad crapper - its - ugh and the whole shitload of
missing diacritical marks in English, excessive when said:
hyphenation when quasi-German-compounding,
and the one-armed bandit of ditto when a possessive article is expressed, notably missing, a notable circus frenzy or:
that thing to mind on the tourist trail: short-hand it's:
it is, and its, such a short word will always do
stealth undermining when quickened to be expressed:
unlike a stripper's corset might, or a cat's invisible leash
given it's behavioural quasi, or in falsetto dittoing i.e.
passing down the torch, id est: more ambiguity than anything
so the dichotomy of hmm... quasi- or pseudo-?
almost or sort of?
even more atomic, linguists are mathematicians
of letters? sure, hence the complexity variance
of 10 ( 0 - 9 ) v. 26 ( a - z ),
mathematics is difficult, due to e.g. ∋,
which translates as t.q. (talis quod) -
is encoded....
where was i?
x and .
both denote a convergence - only that
the western multiple variation has
divergent off-shoots, while the eastern method
hones on a x, y, z, or (0, 0, 0) -
and hence the multiple, hence the full-stop
that's never a full-stop, given so many books are
written including bypassing the semi-colon
and hyphen and colon and all the other remainders... dare i say, reminders?
but still, mathematics overpowers
linguistics (the equivalent science) with the many
more punctuation marks...
≈ v. ~
mathematical punctuation in
language is sometimes akin to stiffened Latin
prefixes, like quasi and pseudo,
in mathematics quasi (≈) and pseudo (~);
the hyphen (-) is translated as +...
quasi = approx.
and pseudo = similarity.
there is so much refinement
going on when mathematical punctuation
mingles with literary Oliver Twist -
i mean, literature is a pauper when it
comes to punctuation -
ctrl c & v this ****...
only upon replying you can
i honestly spin the cobweb, thanks...
the Minotaur wakes up sorta thing...
i've decided you did this on purpose,
i guess i'm glad...
after all... it only takes
a very minor incision to dissect a whole body:
pulling the brain from the nostrils
within the framework of mummification
sort of thing...
but my luck is as good as yours:
if you don't prosper from this little hushed up explosion,
then at least i'll peacock strut into another blank being filled,
or the sort of thing you say on a Monday:
how was your Sunday roast, with the family... or...
whoever you ate with the previous day, in the afternoon?
Freud, yes, Derrida, yes... Kristeva?
feed me something essential,
never heard of what's already a pronoun enigmatic word
given the current transgender upheaval of he she you me
it we blah blah.
oh right! a woman! d'uh... i'm still stuck on Plath
and, ah ****, what's her name... Imogen Siberians-Need-
                  Sun-Cream-Akhmatova -
dunno... i was just reading this article about
    this *****-donor app that spirals female fantasies
out of control akin to the Tinder-swipe and i got
thinking about the futility of men in professions outside
of construction and whatever the **** there is to do
that's macho -
                          and rather than gender affirming,
more or less life-affirming -
                                        to the specified method-statement
of *** -
                             not that i'm undermined,
          or threatened -
just ****** bewildered by the whole um-hum hmm?
                     ****... (after a long pause);
i should really check this groovy someone-something out,
should i?
                   what medium was she using?
        i was digesting bob dylan winning the Swedish prize
for the best lingonberry jam (vocabulary) or
the marley: we're jamming in the wind -
                         don't know where such crass gin jokes
came from, but i'm sure they came from somewhere,
where?                           oh sure,
              a million poets said with jealousy:
   but i don't recite my poems while playing the ******* flute!
****** puritans: learn the ******* harmonica before
charging into the scene wanting to recite Jethro Tull's my god!

Anne hand pushed
her wheelchair
along the avenue of trees

towards the back gate
that led to the beach
and she saw you

standing by the gate
peering over at the sea
Hey skinny kid

push me out
towards the beach
and you turned round

and got behind her
and pushed her
out of the gate

and onto the edge
where the beach began
and she sat there

staring out
at the incoming tide
and you stood behind her

your hands on the handles
I used to swim quite well once
she said suddenly

Until I lost
my ******* leg
and she swore on

the words frightening
nearby gulls
and you said

You’ll swim again one day
when you feel up to it
I’m sure people swim

with one leg
and she turned round
and stared at you

and said
Who made you
the expert?

You know jackshit
and she turned away
and spat on the sand

beside the wheelchair
and you looked at the way
her dark hair

was caught by the wind
off the beach
and her white blouse

flapped like a small sail
and you leaned over
her shoulder

and kissed her cheek
and she giggled
and said

Get off you sad sod
and push me closer
to the sea

and you heaved her
forward over the sand
the wheels slowly sinking

as you went
until you came to a stopped
a stones throw

from the incoming tide
and she held out
her hand like King Canute

and bellowed
Hold back
you ****** in sea

and you laughed
and after a few moments cursing
so did she.

Salt waves breaking on the seashore.
Their sound waves shaking our eardrums,
as we sat listening to his tales.
Even wise Canute couldn't hold back
the surging tides of myth.

We were beachcombers, picking up
the flotsam and jetsam of stories,
not history, his stories,
tutorials in delights and dangers.

We've since learned
his stories are truths.
They are myths
that helped us muddle through.

Tide arrives

Take a breath,
Deep

Engulfed within the Ocean,
Unconsciousness

Let it

****** off and get a coffee, leave me in my chair
alone to watch the waves and bones
and the fractured wind-washed water stones
a canvas canute,  imperious I command the tide,
go back I say, come forth no more,
I speak therefore you must abide
and stand astride as the rushing waters flee my hand
retreating from the scatted margin land  
they fear my wrath, and plot amongst themselves in bubbled froth
regrouped replenished forces gather forth to rush and overtake my seat
wet and bloodied but unbowed I hold my ground and kick my soaking feet
neither of us is willing to admit defeat

oh i was a bad man, a bad bad man... i better pay up, and say my prayers; you won't give me the Bob Dylan meadows of Kentucky tomorrow... you won't, just drive-through assertions on centipedes, Alistair Armstrong on the moon, the discovered and boring Alaska and Antarctic... what else, tortoise Tsars talking penguin? before the science gets there, the fiction will be repulsive to begin with.

and to think a tyrant like Henry VIII
could write the anthem (greensleeves) that's not
god save the queen*, and allow the queen her head?
but i'm sure the proverbial fancy of England
undermined both William and Canute
with her willing ways and her
hip-borne sways...
to mind i have but the Arabian girl
in mind her elephant costume of Baghdad -
but of course i revel is speaking for
all things human -
a timely message some would say with
choking at the joke - and i too,
for to hear the cockchafer, candle-lit moonlight
the baking of potatoes, the old ways of communism
spoken from the woods, ancient adverts
for the creased shirt, i'd be the African
                                                Bambo boy of tomorrow;
wild man of the north, whitened, ain't
Eskimo, and ain't no believer in superstition -
a man that feeds no soul to only feed the mind
and this, requested world, clean shaven
and happy tie-tight-dressed for the day-job,
loose feet numbering 7 inches in 12 inch shoes,
my tongue of a pauper in a wallet of a billionaire
spending a lifetimes's worth of food
and whatever vanities dragged into the stench
of a squat.