He he ha ah, ah ah –
no, no, no – no I’m not tipsy…
Who says so ? I can drink and
still walk a straight mile
Yeah, I’m delirious, am I?
I’m delirious that’s
because you’re funny, silly
cos you’ve got three skunks
where your mouth should be
and your nose is a dead tree….
Ha ha he he
hey, anyone reasonable can tell I’m not tipsy;
really
I can drink till grandma comes back
from Heaven and still stay calm and steady
and she screamed the other day:
‘Hey, sonny boy…when you drink
airmail some of the spirit up here to me…
It gets too sane up here in Heaven.’
And what’s that you say?
You too think I’m tipsy? Hee, hee, hah ah **…
What’s the matter
You people never seen anyone happy?
Tipsy?...no way, man….I’m just me, yeah
happy and easy-going
I swear the last time I drank was at my wedding
Which was when?
Bet my wife’ll remember the date and year…and place…
and if it happened at all..
and I’m laughing, it seems, oddly
cos you’ve got a donkey head
and your wife looks like a monkey on heat
He he ha ah, ah ah –
no, no, no – no I’m not tipsy
I swear the last time I drank was
when your grandma gave birth to
what was it, her twentieth baby?
Says who, ah? I can drink and
still walk a straight mile
and look at you, you’re looking
like a pink pig with its posterior
all barbecued on a dinner plate
ready for the fork and pepper and sauce;
and hey, I swear the last time I drank was
when you drowned
in the swimming pool;
it was our office function
and you drowned in the hotel pool
and you were struggling and you said:
‘****! ****! Help me!’
and you drowned and died….
I really hate talking to drowning ghosts…
Booo…BOOOOOO….
He he ha ah, ah ah –
No, no, no – no I’m not tipsy
who says so ? I can drink and
still walk a straight mile
Say, can you call me a taxi
and spare, say, a fifty?

IM SO OVER PEOPLE LIKE… REAL ***** ****…. CAUSE KITS ALWAYZ SOMETHING FOR REAL….. LOST MY BESTFRIEND OVER SOME ****…..SO BOOO OVER SOME ****…..NOW I JUST DON’T GIVE A **** ANYMORE…. REAL N TRULY PEOPLE CAN DO THEM CAUSE IM OUT… END OF THE STORY…..

IM DONE CRYING OVER PEOPLE N FEELING BAD FOR ANYBODY SHIDDDD IM DOIN ME FOR LIFE… MA ALWAYS SAID DON’T EVER CRY OVER NO ***** OR NO ***** SO

FAMILY ALWAYZ MATTER

I love my baby doo
love love love out of you
I love my baby doo
love in and out love in you true

I dream of me and you
a love so sweet
a loveeee you ........

I love my baby doo
love love love out of you
I love my baby doo
love in and out love in you true

I need my baby here
to hold and kiss
so sweet my ear

I love my baby doo
love love love out of you
I love my baby doo
love in and out love in you true

one day I know you will
be my baby
be my baby booo ohh ohh!!

I love my baby doo
love love love so into you
I love my sweety pie
love in my heart you are my you  ......

weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

i'm starting to get them...
         no, wait: i've lost the plot...
it's almost like...
alcoholics anonymous...
booo! booo!
  yep, *gatlin knows
about as much,
            and bolt was
the voodoo doll
   of the jamaican sprint
team...
     whatever they make
him out to be: voodoo doll,
genuine, to me.
but i listen to these
youtube reformists,
they "alcoholics" anonymous
and i'm starting to
pledge myself into pitying
them...
   they really didn't make
much of their own company
when drinking? did they?
me?
    of course i cry!
    you play me the most emotionally
charged piece of classical
music and i'm a wendy spencer
(whoever the **** that is)
   using up about ten tissues
to mind the niagara falls of
sentiment...
                what's with so much
confessing, and the complete
lack of enjoying the trip?
   am i going to repent for me
drinking?
               **** no!
         if you can't keep up,
then there's no point in
keeping you motivated...
  if you can't bask in a sunset
of a litre of *** with me,
        what sort of pirate r'ye?
go on, ******, frown,
frown *******, frown!
beat me with you ugly stick...
hope you get the ian dury polio
counter-effect...
      while walking down
cuntish town you thought you'd
call to safe ground via kentish...
kent's impromptu:
   essex can have the veg 'n' blush
  fruits,
we're 'eeping the flou-wares.;
hmm... a(n) english garden,
after all.
       whaa whaa... tongue tied
in the grapheme shared between two
words, hence the bracket "optional" (n);
aye! yo!
           big up kingston-upon-thames!
charcoal those jamaican
   colours, and make sure
i get i ****-churn at notting hil
filling station of jerking inflatables
of juggling hips and pelvises
            of the caribbean woo, woo-manz;
suddenly my **** turns
into a crisp dipper with a salsa
of fat *** and chocolate drip
               of ***** mush...
   nice thought, i suggest you try
it sometime;
boy, you ain't 'ave ah 12" dipper?
   don't bother...
   look for the girls with the boney a,
i mean via m... take them to the mass
with the altar being:
    and rodeo it was...
   i never knew i had bones inside
the bush of my *****...
                    evidently? i have!
gold goes to vanilla manila,
silver? goes to strawberry blush...
bronze? ah...
    you ever wonder why oiled or
wet chockies look so fascinating
bouncing off moonlight?
   me too...
          kenyan brown is beyond
what the western niger showcases.
if they just dropped the madonna *******,
       i'd still **** them drunk...
when she's naked
     and you're naked,
                          and you're drunk:
              it's no time to be a *****-loner;
tea-cups and napkins,
  invoking a respectable "repertoire"
can belong to the white girls,
   along with the ***** collection of
abbreviated lies...
             i got bored,
started to loosen up a bit,
    i have no motto,
        i have absolutely no ethical concern...
what comes along is better than
paying for enforcing an encounter via
the liberty of paying for it...
   trouble is... when you pay,
and she *******...
           that's a real ******* problem for her...
she wasn't supposed to enjoy it,
she was supposed to get paid...
              ha! transcending the "ethics"
of prostitution is not an easy feat;l
more painful for her, than for me,
    with that octopus-like squeeze of imitating
a circumcised ***** having pulled
the ******* back...
    **** me... i never thought i'd own
an aubergine... thank **** that also
means: minus the c-ring: two birds, one stone.

A cold damp foggy October night.
As mist falls onto the ground and a slight breeze moves the fog sideways as the thick fog slams faces that are out and about roaming the streets of this small quiet town.
The sky is grey not one star in sight. The fog is so thick trees and roads can not be seen.
Growls and howled are heard in the distance . As we walk the road that's known for strange happenings.
Not one car has passes us in the past half hour .Feet and fingers are numb nose has a slight run and my eyes are wide open from fright of the creepy October night.
In the direction of the trees and thick brush a dollar is heard but it's faint as we walk towards it it becomes clearer sounds like a baby crying . I'm shaking as I walk towards it a shadow passes me and my heart stops it's beat lying in front of me is a mutilated baby pig with its mother hanging from a tree above I turn around and I'm hit hard as my body fell to the ground .

A BOY MADE OF LEAVES
( for Paul Kearney )

The Curragh
5,000 acres of fun

where a boy
could roam

through all the realms
of a 1960's childhood.

Our house is gone now
only two pillars still stand

leading into an empty
nothingness.

I shoo a sheep
out of the bedroom

once ours
our voices carved in the air.

Here a sheep pees furiously
in what had been the bathroom.

The house has become
a ghost

haunting itself..

I still the little boy
hiding in the Marian Shrine

invisible to one
and all

under an ocean
of leaves

startling the passerbys
with a quick "Booo!"

Or a "Poo to you!"

The ****** Mary blushes
upon her pedestal

frowning upon
our antics.

Our shame
telling it in confession.

The wind scatters
my childhood.

I walk into the mist
erasing me bit by

...bit.

bing bing  bing bimmy

blimph
   foo  
ku-   tooo--ooo --booo -


tteee   teeeee
   teee              teeeee           n
cone-shape  blac  
dual
cab

              smack  -head
pinched ­ in  fun- tal
ban   backed pack
  breed
            big   fo   kid ****

hap
  in hull
  
3 skims
socky    low - loo


pump

A BOY MADE OF LEAVES
( for Paul Kearney )

The Curragh!
5,000 acres of fun

where a boy
could roam

through all the realms
of a 1960's childhood.

Our house is gone now
only two pillars still stand

leading into an empty
nothingness.

I shoo a sheep
out of the bedroom

once ours
our voices carved in the air.

Here a sheep pees furiously
in what had been the bathroom.

The house has become
a ghost

haunting itself..

I still the little boy
hiding in the Marian Shrine

invisible to one
and all

under an ocean
of leaves

startling the passerbys
with a quick "Booo!"

Or a "Poo to you!"

The ****** Mary blushes
upon her pedestal

frowning upon
our antics.

Our shame
telling it in confession.

The wind scatters
my childhood.

I walk into the mist
erasing me bit by

...bit.

A BOY MADE OF LEAVES
( for Paul Kearney )

The Curragh!
5,000 acres of fun

where a boy
could roam

through all the realms
of a 1960's childhood.

Our house is gone now
only two pillars still stand

leading into an empty
nothingness.

I shoo a sheep
out of the bedroom

once ours
our voices carved in the air.

Here a sheep pees furiously
in what had been the bathroom.

The house has become
a ghost

haunting itself..

I still the little boy
hiding in the Marian Shrine

invisible to one
and all

under an ocean
of leaves

startling the passerbys
with a quick "Booo!"

Or a "Poo to you!"

The ****** Mary blushes
upon her pedestal

frowning upon
our antics.

Our shame
telling it in confession.

The wind scatters
my childhood.

I walk into the mist
erasing me bit by

...bit.

*

Chatting to Paul Kearney on facebook and tripping down memory lane...he remembering me from a time I couldn't even remember myself! The Marian Shrine beside the church somehow came up and we both had memories of playing amongst a myriad of leaves.

I used to hide under them...so many...so many and call out things to make a statue of the ****** say: "Oh sweet Jaysus!"It was great fun to see people startled out of themselves trying to figure out where on earth( not even thinking of an invisible boy drowning under lots of leaves)the voice was coming from.

My Godmother Breda Ryan passed by and was given the treatment only to say: "Those leaves have the voice of a boy I know...how strange! I hope those leaves go to confession!"

So it was I was given 10 Holy Marys and three How's yer Fathers and advised not to startle the good folk of the Curragh with my leafy voice. Oh I was a bad leaf when I was small. But I have since turned over a new leaf.  I never did it again or since...though now I am sorely tempted!

A BOY MADE OF LEAVES
( for Paul Kearney )

The Curragh!
5,000 acres of fun

where a boy
could roam

through all the realms
of a 1960's childhood.

Our house is gone now
only two pillars still stand

leading into an empty
nothingness.

I shoo a sheep
out of the bedroom

once ours
our voices carved in the air.

Here a sheep pees furiously
in what had been the bathroom.

The house has become
a ghost

haunting itself..

I still the little boy
hiding in the Marian Shrine

invisible to one
and all

under an ocean
of leaves

startling the passerbys
with a quick "Booo!"

Or a "Poo to you!"

The ****** Mary blushes
upon her pedestal

frowning upon
such antics.

My shame
telling it in confession.

The wind scatters
my childhood.

I walk into the mist
erasing me bit by

...bit.


*


Chatting to Paul Kearney on facebook and tripping down memory lane...he remembering me from a time I couldn't even remember myself! The Marian Shrine beside the church somehow came up and we both had memories of playing amongst a myriad of leaves.

I used to hide under them...so many...so many and call out things to make a statue of the ****** say: "Oh sweet Jaysus!"It was great fun to see people startled out of themselves trying to figure out where on earth( not even thinking of an invisible boy drowning under lots of leaves)the voice was coming from.

My Godmother Breda Ryan passed by and was given the treatment only to say: "Those leaves have the voice of a boy I know...how strange! I hope those leaves go to confession!"

So it was I was given 10 Holy Marys and three How's yer Fathers and advised not to startle the good folk of the Curragh with my leafy voice. Oh I was a bad leaf when I was small. But I have since turned over a new leaf.  I never did it again or since...though now I am sorely tempted!

on the front porch
the young, deaf woman
waters her potted plants
green... lush
her two bratty children sling mud
at the freshly washed sheets
hanging from the clothesline
in the backyard

at this moment she's quite happy
wetting the stalks, leaves, and flowers
the giggling children
with mudcaked faces
never had a better time
and at times yell
cheerfully ecstatic

the mother's deafness
her safety against knowing this offense is taking place
then their dad looks out the bedroom window
sees their children
and curses aloud their punk disobedience

he storms outside
promises them punishment
if they don't wash the sheets
before their mother discovers their trespass
then he gets in his pick-up truck
and drives off to work
disgustingly waving goodbye
and giving them a scowling look

the woman after finishing her gardening
walks around to the backyard to motion her kids inside
she cant figure out why the sheets she hung
on the line ten minutes ago
are missing now
and the children--
Where were they?

then suddenly two mud-streaked
ghosts in her soiled up sheets
round the corner of the house
crying boo!!
Boo, boo, booo!!!
in joyful unison
and she's glad she cant hear them

not hearing their circular mouths
so gross that they'd conspire
with bad words to do this
to her and her work
At least her plants were happy now
even if she wasn't
and tonight they will be grounded

then she gets an image in her head
of daddy running the kids over
with his truck
compost meat for her plants---
so happy