i call my ambition, sergeant giggs... don't ask; i also call my left foot lady cantona, it's just regarding the manchester united dream team from the mid 90s.*

oi! oi! that strange perfume in my garden
has come back!
i don't like it! i know i'm growing garlic
and rosemary & mint & jasmine in it,
but i'm not liking the eerie honey ****
of it, that i might liken to female genitals,
no!
   *******!
                  get these gnats away from me!
feed em to the bankers!
       point being, if i were ever an islamic
martyr, and i'd get to the "sacred" gardens,
much akin to the hanging gardens of babylon
and i'd be like...
     wait a minute, i didn't ask for solomon's
gym routine, i didn't ask for *******
gym membership scheme!
   i said, i said that i wanted 72 watermelons!
who said that 72 virgins is a reward?
where are my 72 watermelons?!
i want my ******* 72 watermelons!
   1 woman is enough! enough as in:
one too much!
   yes, i know nature it cruel, and it proved
that by providing more women than men,
and that when an ****** hits their egos
and shatters them all hell breaks loose...
no! i didn't sign up for a gym membership!
i want my 72 watermelons!
     take your virgins and shove them
into fairy-airy stories, or up my ***!
        how could 72 virgins ever be so appealing
as to take the lives of others?
   i asked for heaven, not a gym membership...
idiots are going to be hating the notion
after a few hours:
well... gotta **** 'em all...
otherwise the ones not ******, will go straight
to king solomon, with his permanent
****** **** fusion...
   just give me the 72 watermelons and ****
off with your "promises"...
      i wasn't promised **** all upon
birth in this world,
   but the promises of 72 virgins in the "next" world
seems more like a curse, than honey-dew;
i'd rather worm through
   a library of books worth-the-reading,
than a bunch of girls: "worth-the-****";
well yeah, "the" oops;
muslims: monkey mentality, even after death;
me? i was imagining it as:
                       a brain in a pickle jar;
then again, i'd love to chat with 72 prostitutes,
gone down the train ride of waggle waggle...
plus the drinking helps...
   less gym orientation mind you:
the already exhausted ***** 'elp a 'ittle.

Someone.
One person is all I ask.
Maybe they'll find the time to read this.
Even though it's sad;
One persons greatest fear,
Never quite finding it's way to the surface,
Even though it's always just below it.

Heaven finds a way to taunt me now and then,
Even though I medicate my thoughts away,
Light always fades, and darkness
Plunges through.

My story is one of fear, of despair,
Even. But maybe, I'll find a way out of this

Insanity.

Sex.
Everyone expects me to believe that it doesn't hurt,
Even though they see how tentative I am,

They plainly see how scared I am.
History goes on for...
Ever. And ever and ever and ever.

Why can't anyone let me be in peace?
Hello, I'm looking for a way out.
Instead of helping me,
They just shut me down and out.
Everyone seems to think they know me.

Luckily for them, they don't.
Inside, I hide my true thoughts away, but that turned me into a
Ghost. A former shell of myself, wandering around aimlessly.
Help me? When will it stop? Because the white light at the end of the
T**unnel, was just a freight train coming my way.

Eye hav a higgoramous, shee tort me orl I knoe
Sheez a clevar Higgoramous az Higorrami goe
Shee tort me orl mi spelin and wen eye pik mi no’s
Ter wypit on der carpit knot rubbit on mi close

Sum peepul saye herz higgorrunt an saye dat shee iz fik
I ate dem orrid peepul dey reely mayk mee sik
I ope dat shee gitz pregerant an az a littel cubb
Eye’ll fead er lotz of kandie an uthar luvly grubb
Eye’ll elp er mummie baff er eye’ll chainge er durty nappie
Shee’ll bee soe qoot an cudelsum shee’l mayk mee viry appy
An wen der cubb gitz biggar shee’ll plae wiv mee an kis
An evariwun wil real eyes dat higgoramous’s iz bliss :-)

i've been listening to signals
of being so,
so,                   so,
so...
                  better educated...
while also...
having to resort to asking:
so...
                      so...
who's going to butcher
the cows going into
the slaughterhouse:
moaning slabs of
                  "syllables"
of vowels with no
knowledge of consonants?!
who?!
                   who?!
pristine what?
i said:
           by the saint and by
the clandestine
suitor's cover...
me...
listening to rihanna's
disturbia?
did i just *******
a *****,
             did i just...
do the funny ***** lips
with an ****...
no...
        i just listened to
a song...
            there's a...
*******... limit for citing
the mea culpa...
your fault,
my fault...
   and then Pontius Pilate
walks in...
'**** all of this **** out,
i'm ready, bargain,
punching-bag exclusive
take, on,
what...'
catching up contra
the 1960s...
       watch me...
disillusioned by the beatnik
poets....
              does it matter?
no no...
i try to heave the heavy sight
of a sigh...
we, again, on repeat...
better learn some Sanskrit
to escape...
  or learn to brovado
through with some curry
recipes...
                 like:
who is to conquer Siberia...
little people learning to play
chess...
big people learned
to conquer the Raj and teach
us to play the "sport"
of, cricket...
               only recently,
news,
the ski jumper, Finn,
          Nykänen died....
      yeah... modern standards,
aged 55, he, "died"...
ooh, please 'elp,
'elp 'elp!
i have an ambrosia branch
sticking out of my eye,

ouch ouch,
comic strip Asterix, ouch ouch...

hey presto!
the elgin marbles!

the animal was never going
to moan out...
slabs of syllables,
for syllables you'd need
both vowels, and consonants...
but a cow being towed
into a slaughterhouse?

i'm guessing...

               dostoevsky walking
the nevsky prospekt doesn't cut it...
it's like...
   vowel... intimidating
a consonant to show &
subsequently to attach itself
to...
there's also the vowel-in-itself
squint...
            the jamming sensation
of what could become
the gritted teeth without
a jawline...
the pristine tall couple
talking about his
                 programming
job somewhere, somewhere
far away...
and the both of them look
taller than the two of me...

      stuck in retro...
or whatever remains the gloated
voice of the populace
of the past....
proud term, that term: necromancer...
i can't deviate from the fact,
that my personal library,
is mostly composed
by... dead people...
or as i like to call them...

so much of the written word,
but no epitaph of
"worth" bound to them...
good...
    i own books
without epitaphs...
better than "own"
people without a worth of
scribbles to ascribe them
to...

me? real life?
or... this current spew of
real-time "conversation"?
of me, and this agitated blank
canvas?
     you, me, or the who's who
of what's to be written?

yes, the cow...
it could not tow into
the slaughterhouse a distinction
of telling apart
the vowel from the consonant...
almost like the english
people...

          they attempted to escape
writing in :)
rather than telling me...
     š... for: šut up!
              the cow being towed
into the slaughterhouse?
the cry of vowels
searching for its apparent
non-existence of consonants!

you know...
that's trauma...
the sort of trauma that locks
you in...
the sort of trauma that says...
thank **** i'm not Syrian,
Iraqi, or Lybian...
  i feel... less inclined
to "spread the love" of the trauma...
i've seen one cow being towed
into a slaughterhouse...
i don't feel like
expanding on the topic
with an over-exaggeration
of humans screaming: yelp!

then again, Paris once...
  Nabokov filled...
back in circa 2005...
me? go back to Paris?
ha... ha ha!
   ah ha ha ha ha ha!
               so i'm supposed
to play the infantile game
of counting marbles?!
i'm learning to play the game:
sit on your ***
and pretend to lasso a donkey
to gallop!

oh... i could learn to **** this
thing is transit...
if only i was first given
the basic rubric
of having eaten it,
                            i.e. man;

bad boy what?!
    first idea...
the cow is being towed
into a slaughterhouse
and it has no knowledge
of consonants!
    second idea...
              und wie isoliert ar sie?

Some past details are sketchy now,
There's things I know I've done:
I did a spliff with Neil Young,
Had a pint with Pete's best singer,
Walked on Nelson's ship,
The ship that shook Napoleon.
Stole The Dubliners cigarettes,
And the matches too.
McCartney once played for me,
Cat Stevens served us tea.
Leonard was with Suzanne,
He'll always be your man.
I imagine Lennon at his white grand,
Making love to ivory keys;
Krishna George on a cushion,
With sitar on his knees.
Joni's paradise was paved,
But we saved many trees.
I once floated on a zeppelin,
Beneath the dark side of the moon.
I didn't need an aqualung
To help with songs I sung.
We were changing with the times,
And the times they were a changin.
ELP and Alice Cooper,
Zappa, Jackson Brown,
Brought us high,
But we came down.
There's so much more to be done,
But when this life has been run,
I'll cross my legs and play some chords
Of yesterday and days before.