Prosecco cocktails, être pour la danse,
cassis pour moi avec limoncello,
madame, passion fruit, and blood oranges

très grownup, breakfast at Tiffany's,
she is all sunglasses and Audreyfied,
me and George P., struggling writers,
checking if i got enough cash
or have to exit smooth, just in case,
maybe we leave our
coats behind, as ransom?

lincoln center plaza cross-dressers,
past the opera,
the sun, a balmy thirty five degrees,
laughing at us teasingly,
cause tonight and tomorrow,
******* all the day,
winter kisses
in case we forgot,
early March
first belongs to the Ides of Winter

Afternoon of a Faun,
another ballet, origin,
a Mallarmé poem.
(you begin to comprehend)
yes quite so,
a perfect synopsis of the day,
Acheron imported from Scarlett Liam
who lives in the U.K.,
but comes to choreograph here,
for gloria Americana

sundown, soul cold back,
"lest we forget,"
but the dancers bid us adieu
with a rousing waltz, frenchified,
La Valse, une poème chorégraphique,
by Ravel, bien sûr!
aroused and heart gladdened,
return home for

for veal chop love

two hours of *** banging,
kitchen banishment, (Yay!)
chanterelles steeped in red wine,
coverlet for a non-vegan tasting,
English peas, red and purple potatoes,
and for desert,
a diet dream of verbal exchanged of detailed
I love you's

He: I love you,
She (happy), replies: I love you more.
(this repartee ballet, has been rehearsal danced before)
He: Why?
She: Because you are kind and generous, to street beggars, my single friends, good and smart, love art,
and never let me down, and love my cooking, leave space for others when you park, go thru life making waiters and ticket takers smile and laugh, sleep for hours your head on my hip, write me crazy love poems about veal chops
He: What's for desert tonight?
She: A ****

The man woke up.

He walked to his refrigerator hoping to find last nights left over veal, but he doesn't.
He thought maybe it's a sign veal is bad in the morning, so he made his coffee and sat down to watch the news.
Linda Sparoski was on talking about Gun rights.
"I kind've want a gun, but it probably wouldn't be the best idea."
He kept watching until he heard someone at the door.
Paranoid, he crept up to the peep hole.
Peering through he saw an elderly woman delivering what looked to be like a package.
"I wasn't expecting anything... **** it must **** to be her age"
He waited until the frail old woman made her way back to the UPS truck and drove away.
He went outside to pick up the box, only to find it very light. Much lighter than he expected.
On the outside scribbled in blue pen was "The man's name" so he knew it was for him.
He saw it was taped up pretty good, kind've how a child wraps a Christmas present.
He grabbed his kitchen knife.
"Scissors are like double knifes, except you don't need a cutting board."
He put the knife back and grabbed a pair of scissors.
"Scissors are ****** double knifes."
He put the scissors back and grabbed the knife.

When he returned to the box, he seemed to stare at the handwriting for quite some time.
He began to cut into the box.
On removal of the layers of scotch tape was a little note before the rest of the box could be open.
"Promise me?"
He was really confused now.
"I need more coffee"
Chugging his third cup, the man returns to the box.
Determined to open it.
He lifts the ***** keeping the pieces of cardboard box cube shaped, and begins to look inside.
The man sees photographs stacked on top of a few letters.
"Possibly something underneath."
As he dug through he saw a picture of himself dressed as Captain America on Halloween.
He tries remembering that Halloween but just can't quiet do it.
"I was never Cap.. "
He dug through more.
Found pictures of old beach houses he vaguely remembers, some pictures almost looked like a sonic drive through.
Stomach growl.
"Last nights quesadilla"
The man went to his fridge, with no luck of finding this cheesey goodness.
In fact his fridge was empty.
He doesn't remember it being empty.
He starts thinking about Halloween.
The man kicks the box under his coffee table, and stumbles to bed, even though it is only 6:47 pm.
Dreams of sand.
Dreams of sand.
Dreams of water.
Dreams of her.

The man woke up.

He heads to his coffee ***.
He has not made coffee yet.
He heads to his refrigerator to find last nights left over lasagna.
"When did I make that? 2 weeks-ago-ish?"
He does not find lasagna.
His coffee is done brewing.
He walks away without a cup to find the box.
The news was still on. Linda Sparracci was on talking about the man's town.
She said that the man's town was experiencing the worst drought since two thousand and sixteen.
"What year is it?"
The man tries to find a calendar but only finds twelve.
"So it could be 2025, 2026, 2028... Wait."
He deducted that it must be 2026, for this calendar had the most dates circled, and he has felt quite busy recently.
The man then fell.
When he came too he was on the couch.
It was snowing out.

Deciding it must be around December  time, he goes throughout his home looking for objects to wrap up and give to his family.
He finds a box.
The box has a note on the outside
"Promise me"
Without looking through the box, he wraps it up with what he can find.  
Thinking of where to send it, he thinks of the first address he can remember, presumably his parents house, and sends the box off.
"Captain America... "
The man decides to watch Duck Dynasty season 34 for the first time, without seeing the prior 33 seasons.
The man passes out.
Dreams of white.
Dreams of red.
Dreams of death.

The man woke up.

He walked to his refrigerator hoping to find last nights left over veal, but he doesn't.
He thought maybe it's a sign veal is bad in the morning, so he made his coffee and sat down to watch the news.
Linda Spurokik was on, talking about the new Captain America movie.
"I was Captain America once.."
The man gets up to feed his dog.
The man does not have a dog anymore.
The man sits down.
Halloween 3 comes on the television.
He remembers getting her roses, because she was mad he didn't want to go trick or treating.
They ending up going trick or treating anyway.
She didn't like the roses.
The man tries to imagine what Michael Meyers must've felt like.
Being cast so many times over because of his creepy plastic face.
"I bet it was really hard to find other work though..."
The man was unsettled with this thought and turned off the television.
With nothing to more to do, he crawls to bed, even though it is only 6:24 pm.
No dreams
Just blackness.

The man woke up.

He heard someone at the door.
Paranoid, he crept down the stairs to the window.
Peering through he saw a young man delivering what looked to be like a package.
"I wasn't expecting anything... **** it must **** to be that young in this day and age"
He waited until the man made his way back to the USPS truck and drove away.
He went outside to pick up the box, only to find it very light. Much lighter than he expected.
On the outside scribbled in blue pen was "The man's name" so he knew it was for him.
When he opens the box he finds a picture of himself dressed as Captain America and she was beside him.
"Even trying to look ugly she was beautiful."
The man begins to cry a bit.
Gently places the picture down, he digs through more.
He finds an old Valentine's Day card.
"Signed your's forever, love you so much"
The man puts the contents of the box back, and gently pushes it under the table.
He turns the television on and Linda Sadok is on talking about a fire.
"3 dead, 2 injured with 3rd degrees burns along 85% percent of their body"
The man states "****" and turns the television off.
"I'd rather be one of the three than one of the two"
The man grabs the last pack of tostitos he can find, and chows down for awhile.
The man dozes off.  

A few hours later the man awakes.
He house is quieter than normal, but he normally has all the washing machines running so he thinks "all good."
Walking to his refrigerator, he finds it filled with Mexican Taco Hot Pockets.
Not wanting to get fat, he rejects this refrigerator and demands a new one.
He does not get it.
Hot pocket.
He walks to his coffee table.
It is very long.
His box is gone.
Befuddled, he walks to his hallway to check under the door.
Upon opening the door, his house leads to another one of his houses.
It is the same house though, it's just his other one.
Walking to the refrigerator, he finds it filled with ingredients for fresh pesto and Texas toast.
Thinking maybe it would upset his stomach. He throws the fridge down his garbage disposal.
On returning to his living room, he sees a man.
This man is talking to the man about life.
Talking about how long could one go on for in the same space.  
This man tells the man, maybe you should **** yourself.
Get out.
The man has never liked suicide.
But given the preposterous conditions of his life, he thinks about it.
This man says a hand full of advil or a few too many sleeping pills could do it.
The man says no.
"I can't leave, I'm not done yet.
Then, this man asks what the man has not finished yet.
"I don't remember..."
This man tells the man, that he is not Captain America and disappears.
The man disagrees.
"Photo evidence"

The man wakes up.

He finds the contents of the box sprawled all over his chest.
He had fallen asleep on the couch.
He hears her say goodnight.
He says I love you.
There is no one there.
He crawls to bed, and it is 2:34 am.
He cannot sleep.
This man returns to him.
This man asks the man if he had finished what he wanted to finish.
The man says no.
This man asks why once more.
"She's still gone, i'm not letting go"
This man says the man already has.
The man rolls over in his bed.
This man says you've been done here for awhile.
The man pretends to be asleep,
motionless, yet awake for hours.

The sun never came up, because he didn't want it too.
The fridge was always empty, because he didn't want to eat.
The box would appear, because he wanted it too.
She was gone, because he knew she was gone.
He stayed, and kept resealing and opening that box. Day in day out.
Surviving healthy off of nothing at all.

He never left.

We are not on a schedule
But we are working
Ivory skills of mastery hard
We can not afford to lose
The Elephants hearts diary
The Zen of topiary
      Details
  The good luck

The hard worker making
True buck the husk of fruit seed
The Peking God of duck
Superman of gifts of steel
The movie superstitious eyes
Everyday good earth cries
Elephant Trunk
Bring on the Holiday
The tuxedo the Elephant Tusk
Godly task the top rank

Anomalous

Questioning the situation not
so delicious
Sensual so moving vivacious
The comedy of errors
Ridiculous to the sublime

The compromising position
Waiting for the next
      "Crime"
Mens of romance
Holiday the gracious gray
Taking risks

*Gallivanting never separating love
Of the tusk, life holds too many risks

Smiles and baking
more loving
The harder you mix
    Wonderful Ivory
   An elephant is a true
   ingredient
Holding the whisk over creamed
Looking high up the
white feathers
Like a beauty, I have never seen

She loves to pick his holiday
Elephants circles the tie he's
her dream
There is no truth when its a holiday
when people
Laugh between there lies

Start running toward
Elephant Tusk
Moms homemade apple caramel
pecan pies
Conflicts subjects
to paint talk to the "Elephants"
With the dreamy ivory tusk

The fragrance of Ireland
Spicy Greens musk
King hand card player tough skin
*Holiday Queen got numbered in
The men million stars of
musk saved the day it flew in

You make me feel brand new
I never made a mistake
Never one that I couldn't explain
Running towards or afterward
Those love words
Before the Gods
The veal chops
Emperor of emails
The Cops and robbers

So modest and shy with demure 
 Holiday spirit world of hands galore
What allure dreamy contentment
She got holiday advancement

The contrast between
Holiday family love the honesty
but our government magical
mystery all bribery
Go for the tour just pour
your words
Quite a mystery white baking
flour messy
Moon and the Star handkerchief style
dressy

The Astronomy we need
to build a better
Here and the now
Wondering how?

Deep brown hazelnut
coffee royal bow
Seeing through the
Gray starting to pray
The parade of the Elephant
The day we can trust
This isn't a Fay Ray
not my kind
of town
The holiday comes and goes
too quick
There you are Rick and
his cousins
It felt like a holiday of
*Tombstones
The gathering with the finest
rhinestones
More sound of silence
Please no I phones
Shut them off enjoy the
Elephants tusk and
their home turf
Not the bluest sea
Make it the lovely
    (Earl Gray)
Bringing surf and turf
More conflicts those predictions
More spiritual afflictions

Just find your peace within
His Elephant pants win
You got the whole tusk
in your hand
"Snow White Huntsman"
Affection like a
housewarming
My holiday transformation

Neon Lion light of crystal ball
The spiritual Tree elephant
Touched a part of me the art
All the fine elements bring
us closer, not the copy
of an imposter

Something to smile about
The myriad
The full length of the camera
The Elephants has a heart
no drama
Flying so Ivory gown sheer
Moms roast will not
come next year
Red devil computer
Telling me there are
Ghostbusters and
travel gliders
I am the true
Elephant lover
More homestayers
music players

Men looking astronomically
Feeling silly
in their whiskers
The world is horrifying
But there is no denying
more praying
Her heart is very thick
Elephant skin close to her
heart is luck
What is happening
to our economy
The sad thing people are selling
Elephant's
Tusk for money we need
to stop this

Lucky Elephant tusk is
turning to good luck
We pray for the world
Holy bless

No sprouted wheat and soya shoots
And Brussels in a cake,
Carrot straw and spinach raw,
(Today, I need a steak).

Not thick brown rice and rice pilaw
Or mushrooms creamed on toast,
Turnips mashed and parsnips hashed,
(I'm dreaming of a roast).

Health-food folks around the world
Are thinned by anxious zeal,
They look for help in seafood kelp
(I count on breaded veal).

No smoking signs, raw mustard greens,
Zucchini by the ton,
Uncooked kale and bodies frail
Are sure to make me run

to

***** of pork and chicken thighs
And standing rib, so prime,
Pork chops brown and fresh ground round
(I crave them all the time).

Irish stews and boiled corned beef
and hot dogs by the scores,
or any place that saves a space
For smoking carnivores.

There is one thing that ought to be taught in all the colleges,
Which is that people ought to be taught not to go around always making apologies.
I don't mean the kind of apologies people make when they run over you or borrow five dollars or step on your feet,
Because I think that is sort of sweet;
No, I object to one kind of apology alone,
Which is when people spend their time and yours apologizing for everything they own.
You go to their house for a meal,
And they apologize because the anchovies aren't caviar or the partridge is veal;
They apologize privately for the crudeness of the other guests,
And they apologize publicly for their wife's housekeeping or their husband's jests;
If they give you a book by Dickens they apologize because it isn't by Scott,
And if they take you to the theater, they apologize for the acting and the dialogue and the plot;
They contain more milk of human kindness than the most capacious diary can,
But if you are from out of town they apologize for everything local and if you are a foreigner they apologize for everything American.
I dread these apologizers even as I am depicting them,
I shudder as I think of the hours that must be spend in contradicting them,
Because you are very rude if you let them emerge from an argument victorious,
And when they say something of theirs is awful, it is your duty to convince them politely that it is magnificent and glorious,
And what particularly bores me with them,
Is that half the time you have to politely contradict them when you rudely agree with them,
So I think there is one rule every host and hostess ought to keep with the comb and nail file and bicarbonate and aromatic spirits on a handy shelf,
Which is don't spoil the denouement by telling the guests everything is terrible, but let them have the thrill of finding it out for themselves.

.i get it now, the more i make it a detention hour writing lines: doing dull work, makes sam a bored boy... intra-racial variant of slur qua intimacy, in-group standard... take any "n" word "extra g" word "thingy" among the non-exported examples, non-NBA privileged, say... in Kenya... friends? **** no... feeling intimate? huh? like i said... watching 2 hours of a washing machine cycle, is probably more entertaining, than, seeing, the cages, the - - - - - morse breaks in... so... everyone is being a ******* ******, creating a natural response to a river, that must become a reservoir / fake lake? whatever etiquette equated to politeness comes from this... no wonder we'll be doing it from spite... rather than a genuine sediment of genuine feeling, flight of the heart & and all the fickle thoughts that go with it.

please, please, put me into handcuffs
for ******* in an alleyway,
the english sort of handcuffs,
the ones where they can't handcuff
you from behind,
   because the cuffs are not connected
by a mandible chain,
but a rigid middle,
implying that you have to be handcuffed
with your hands in-front...
which also implies:
   well... if **** turned ugly...
i could just wrap my hands around
a boppy's neck and just turn into
a boa...
     but that other police officer was
nice, turning the police van cell
into a taxi...
   racial slurs...
   intra-racial, or inter-racial?
  big difference...
            inter-racial slurs,
namely an english derivative:
the empire britannia rule the waves
what not?
   crass...
      not too... genius...
no real outlet phonetically...
  the language is too soft as it is...
i met one german at university
who complimented the ****** tongue
with that one general-****-over
word for everything -
conjunction, was the word,
the word is treated as a conjunction:
kurwa...
        i once dated a french psychology
major two years my senior
who i lost my virginity to,
who, let's say, enlightened me...
she was looking for native english speakers,
she told me the most fascinating
fact...
        the fwench used to attach
a trill to the R...
   before they started harking up
an R like phlegm when smoking too much
or down with the flu...
inter-racial slurs are... yawn...
   who gives a **** about walking
on egg-shells...
   i'm watching a ******* football match
or swan lake with 22 *******
                                       pansies?
everyone's suddenly going to be
     as sensitive as a fwench footballer?
****: french / fwench...
  it pretty much sounds the same...
the fwench speak one language,
the french write the same one language...
but the german complimented
a language for the: pristine outlet
of frustration of... tongue licking
a metaphysical punching bag...
but inter-racial slurs are crass,
for the simple fact that...
          they're just too plain in sight...
there is no intimate history of
a people...
   me? personally?
   i'd love to know what the african
royalty called would-be slaves
picked up by western europeans
for export...
   it's not like these colonialists run
these colonized countries freely,
without collusion with the african ruling class...
there was an african ruling class,
there is an african ruling class,
     what's to be exactly changed?
lost in translation:
    former soviet states people /
  but not the satellites?
   kacap...
   from the song husaria by bujak?
ahem...
     muscovite gałgan...
never heard that one before...
   gałgan...
   i once dated a girl from st. petersburg
that summarißed my mutterzunge
        as a crackling of radio static...
just as the english say:
of a people, with, "too many" consonants
in their surnames...
   ask a ****** about hindu surnames...
i mean: intra-racial slurs...
a movement toward real intimacy
of the use of language...
e.g. in england:
    northern monkeys,
southern fairies...
      and the rest? eurotrash...
       i once heard a intra-racial slur
about the english -
                  angol to pedzio...
and then back to cosmopolitan english...
the "n" word... night? nightmare,
nigh?
                oh... the n- word?
if only i could find some malice in
the context of use...
yes, i know the content of the word,
the content of historical usage...
    and now the whole intra-racial
comradery... inclusion...
familiarity...
                a joke of latin...
   to me that's like saying
              Nigeria...
  and then thinking:
         so... it's not the "n" word,
is it? it's the "extra g" word?
better start writing giggle with an optional
   gig(g)le:
   which could become problematic
when it came to a double omicron:
to go, among the goo...
the intra-rascial slur for a german
east of berlin?
          švab...
     funny that... the saxons are
not actually minded...
  the anglo-saxons (intra-racial
mix of celt and saxon)
             as we see them today...
but... when the teutonic order came
to the area around Danzig
     and further east to Königsberg...
further... to Riga...
         a Prussian isn't a German...
              die Preußen ist: Preuße;
  now?
   the Preußen have been reintegrated
into a dialect of Polen...
        kashubian: or at least,
        that's                     sort-of...
ultra-nationalist "sentiments":
   in "exile"...
          i love that, brushing aside
any economic migrant in favor
for the immediate migrant
   of conflict, or political asylum...
you know...
   economics: is a type of war,
                                 in slow-motion...
it's a peaceful war,
   well... ergo it's a "war"...
              and the economic migrants?
disorientated *******...
who can't exactly fully assimilate
to the expectation of the natives...
i.e. speak our language in public,
and our language in private...
  no... no thank you...
         it would be easier to remove
a tattoo with a shark-bite
and a scar than to remove my
                                   mutterzunge...
and here i am... "worried"
about the N in the word trigger...
or the "missing G" in the word: Nigeria...
like... ******* pandering
        to a panda in a Beijing zoo...
now comes the malice...
thought-prison, metaphorical dyslexia
and tattoos of grafitti on
bypass highways...
   like dirt behind my fingernails...
looking for gold nuggets
picking my nose...
   as harold norse once stated
in his memoir (of a ******* angel):
a sign of a Brooklyn intellectual...
   but i just have to point this out...
LGBTQIA...
   nice acronym...
but you're missing two letters...
**** me... if mr and mrs H
  are not included...
LGBTQIA is missing two protected
groups...
     mr P and mr N...
LGBTQIAPN...
    the ******* and
the necrophiliac...
                                    no?
   they'd fit right in...
        no? they wouldn't?
weren't we talking deviance,
             per se?
so...
          those two outer-outliers
    are legit. rainbow deviances...
no? at least mr P can have some sort
of a religious backing...
whether in the desert slap-stick
ninja sketch and satan's postbox...
or at least, back of the queue of a choir,
and some boy...
   but that's the scary bit,
isn't it?
            mr N... now...
                that's... some would claim
it to be art... or what the hell became
of eddie gein in american mainstream
culture...
                  ****... forgot ms B+...
   i do remember seeing internet
in its youth,
                   rotten . com,
            and the earliest edgy ****...
now... not even a black guy can
leave adequate compensation...
   for what... began as a saddle,
reins and stirrups...
          and became:
   a demonic hybrid knock-knock-knocking
on Gomorrah's door...
fastforward...
men on stag outings before
being shackled by the ring...
inflateable sheep
   and granny dolls...
          oh yeah: i'm a real moralist
at this point...
                    what i do find scary
is that whenever i'm confined
to a waiting room, a confined space...
and there's a child with its parent
present... there's an animal...
   there's a very old man with
a middle aged mentally ill daughter...
i'm suddenly likeable...
a curiosity...
        just like today...
  her dad is nearing 75...
      she's unkept... greasy hair...
                  rags, rather than clothes...
and in the corner of my eye...
she just couldn't stop glaring at me...
i'm sweating like i'm the sort of hell
where i'm supposed to **** her...
or go to her pajamas sleep-over party
if the case was: she was sixteen
and i was eight...
                        as i went into
the doctor's appointment
    and recounted my 2 week psychotic
episode of being strapped
to the bed... in a quasi-paralysis...
citing metaphors of p.t.s.d.,
                   not talking a word for
2 weeks, only because i received
a ******* questionnaire from
the dept. of work & pensions...
   'am i a fraud? am i?'
   between 48 hour periods...
i'd chance 2 hours of sleep...
     the usual questions...
suicidal thoughts, hallucinations?
   no... the 1st episode, yeah...
but now? it's just debilitating,
quasi-paralysis...
                  nice doctor... plump...
beauty of a doughnut...
          and doughnuts are beautiful...
esp. if you throw them into a lake,
and they float,
  and then you watch the ducks
                  and the swans swarm it...
if i lied: i should be contending
for an oscar...
          then she measured my blood-pressure...
first instrument failed...
the arm-band was too small...
the air was pumped into the band
around my hand:
    arm-band snapped
  of the blood-pressure measuring tool...
so she had to resort to
the old method of using
the stethoscope and a bigger arm-band...
i guess she knew she was
dealing with a scared / agitated
animal...
   that just so happened to talk
                  some words in human;
a wounded animal,
is hardly scared / agitated...
a wounded animal,
   is whatever implies...
being elevated to a status
that transcends the wound...
the doctors came too late,
i'm fidding with letters
    like jigsaw...
  i'm fiddling with the then
larger jigsaw of words...
   and the whole point of the picture
will only arrive,
post office stamp and all...
akin to a postmortem:
  that part of life...
where...
   eh? how would you classify
man...
          pork, beef, game,
poultry, fish?
    all... none of the stated?
that's almost funny...
   HOW WOULD YOU CLASSIFY
MAN IN THE "CATEGORICAL IMPERATIVE"
of said classes of edible meats?
am i pork?
   no... am i beef? no...
veal? no...
         well, we already know
that some examples of meat
are actually vegetables:
   brain damage, coma...
like:
   do you bite into a tomato...
"thinking" it's a fruit...
or a veg.?
         "logic" supposes
that a tomato is a fruit...
common sense?
     it's a ******* vegetable!
post-racism...
   what sort of meat is man?
eh... bewildering...
   i guess we can only find
an answer, in China...
  should we ever send
a pet dog & its owner to
some obscure, countryside,
small town, famine riddled
(or straight to Kiev) place...
sorry...
******* a black doesn't make
me "less", "racist"...
i might as well imitate
a colonial overlord by the act...
seriously...
english, these days?
watching a ******* washing-machine
is less confusing that
walking on egg-shells in
this tongue...
currently, available...
so let's forget, black, or white...
you beef?
   you crab meat?
       you lamb?
   (slippery *****
of salivating sounds):
what are you?
       it's called:
  SEEING PAST THE COLOUR...
so...
     what's the meat worth?
is chimp meat the same
as human meat?
   no, wait...
that gorilla grew big-*******
eating shrubs?
anomaly of human
dietary requirements...
a horse became so big...
only eating... grass...
      yeah... no anomaly...
and then my brain starts to short-circuit...
past the colour,
infancy of discrimination...
how would to categorise
the "body" of christ
if no bread was available?
beef? pork? veal?
fish?
      i already know what
the ****** would be...
   sure as **** it wouldn't be
*****'s liquor worth of wine...
i went straight to the beast
of the wheat...
    and i called her...
        ms. amber...
                 and... maybe i just didn't
like the wrap-up of rap
because of the lyrics and
my unrelateable tendency
to never **** the bid-bop head...
of the music per se,
but the lyrics?
      sure... the music is great...
but the lyrics?
     i can't relate to them...
i need, something,
mythological and obscure...
a time-wrap not minding a grief
                 of / from yesterday...
mind you: i'll write this,
as i'll drink whatever is left,
and tomorrow...
            is a tomorrow without
this current zenith of the hours...
come beethoven thinking
of tux in the variant of rigid
geometry in the form of music...
           like when sartre plagiarised
joyce at the end of iron in the soul?
- that's the next tier of "racism"...
    as far as i am concerned...
it would be nice to re-evauluate
my position
    on the libra of being
reengaged in a food-chain
hierarchy...
                  cancer is a primitive
pseudo-vitro-forma...
    great... eaten by parasites...
germs... etc.,
  guess what...
   at least a lion is beautiful...
i'd rather be eaten by a lion
than a ******* tapeworm...
so what am i?
              beef?
                     ****...
       first i'd have to put monkey
on the menu...
to tease at the taboo
     of teasing the cannibal
    while performing oral ***.

I'm the best, there ever was
Can't get with me, at da club
Other poets, need to respect
My reputation, I'll protect
I got a 9, pen in my hand
Write your name, in the sand
To me, you can't never stand
I ain't afraid, to let out a curse
Write you in, an ugly verse
I'm da best, you da worst

You can't, stay with my meter
I spit sick, iambic pentameter  
I'm da truth you da cheater
You rhyme like Armstrong rides
You have to dope, ya got no rhymes
You da Cheech I'm da Chong
I write, you smoke da ****
You da burger, I'm da veal
I earn likes, you freakin still
You got da, cheesy *** rhymes
Droppin' words, like love & sublime
I put the free, in free verse
You all about, Nonsense Verse
I drop a sonnet, makes his head Shake
I'm the Chaucer, you da fake
I'm a Lyric, you the Lune
You can't quit writen', too crazy soon
Your stuff is dirt, mines the moon
You want a challenge, get in the ring
I'll make you cry but your mama sing

You'all poets, you got to know
You da fluff, I'm da show
I'm the king of the poets, HELLO

Night sets,
The sun falls.
Moon and stars become uncovered.
A pink faced child crawls under the covers.
A cardboard book is clutched in soft bands.
A                           f
                       d          a
                   e                   r
               r                          m
                     c                b
                    u                 a
                    t                  r
                    e ­                n
looks innocent and careless.
Mother hen, baby calf, wiggly pig,
their  smiling faces send the child off to sleep.

That child remembers that story.
They remember the smiling faces of
mother hen, baby calf, wiggly pig.

That child is no long a child,
they no longer read that cardboard farm book.
They remember their childhood with that book,
they blur into one.
They see a barn just like the  
                             f
                       d          a
                   e                   r
               r                          m
                     c                b
                    u                 a
                    t                  r
                    e ­                n
just like the picture in the cardboard farm book.

They stop to revisit their childhood,
they stop to revisit their innocence,
they stop to revisit those smiling faces.


                             f
                       d          a
                   e                   r
               r                          m
                     c                b
                    u                 a
                    t                  r
                    e ­                n
is only a step away,
that no longer child pushes open the sun warmed door.
They except innocence,
they except those smiling faces,
but they did not see what they expected.

The innocence of their childhood was a lie,
there are no smiling faces here.

This is not the
                              f
                       d          a
                   e                   r
               r                          m
                     c                b
                    u                 a
                    t                  r
                    e ­                n
from their cardboard book,
from their childhood,
they blurred into one.

Mother hen is not smiling,
her beak is cut off with a hot blade, she cannot move her wings in her cage,
her daughters are taken to live her fate,
her sons are ground alive to be feed to her,
mother hen is not smiling.

Baby calf is not smiling,
baby calf is just born,
then taken by a man in blood soaked boots,
baby calf watches helpless as their mother cries,
as their mother chews the metal bars,
as their mother fights the electric shocks.
Baby calf does not know their father,
neither does their mother.
Baby calf is put in a metal cage,
they will live a year or two,
baby calf will not move,
that is the point of veal.
Baby calf is not smiling.

Wiggly pig is not smiling,
wiggly pig can only wiggle,
only enough so her babies can drink her milk,
she cannot reach them though.
Wiggly pig will watch her babies grow,
but beyond what is natural,
beyond what their hearts can handle,
but there is a big demand for bacon.
Wiggly pig can see her babies hung from their hooves,
and slit open alive,
but wiggly pig can only wiggle.
Wiggly pig is not smiling.

That                     f
                       d          a
                   e                   r
               r                          m
                     c                b
                    u                 a
                    t                  r
                    e ­                n
is not as innocent as the cardboard farm book.
That farm in the book,
it was a lie,
but that cardboard farm book was their childhood right?
They blur into one.
Their childhood was a lie.

That no longer child lived a lie,
because power wanted them to only see the smiling faces,
they wanted them to believe that farm in the book
to be true,
not the lie that really is.
Power took away their innocence of childhood.
Power took away babies from their mothers.
Power took away my smile.
The                      f
                       d          a
                   e                   r
               r                          m
                     c                b
                    u                 a
                    t                  r
                    e ­                n
from my child no longer sends me off to sleep.
Instead it keeps me awake with the image of a farm,
not the farm in the cardboard book though,
a farm not filled with smiling animals,
a farm filled with cries, blood, sorrow, pain, horror, death.
A farm that is a lie.

M covered in blood and attempting to roll a cigarette throughout but failing utterly.

M: Blood dries much quicker than you think. It is hell on cotton and wool blends, but once it's dried on the skin, you can either chip it off or just rub it off, so that's cool. (beat) You know, after a while you start to be able to smell if someone is anemic. It's crazy, I know, but when the metallic perfume entertains the thought processes for so long, you tend to notice when something changes...

M realizes he is divulging too much and snaps out of it.


M (contd): I always feel like a greasy kebab at times like this. Maybe it's something in the electric meat shaver thing that just evokes memories of drunken nights and mysterious bruises acting as battle scars, compared between those who saw, and those who pretend they had. (beat) I feel a kind of aggressive nostalgia for those debaucherous days. I would do anything to be still under that one, singular light source, barely being able to stand due to the altered states, blacking out Blake's eyes and standing so close to him, that with the right music we would be sharing a slow dance. The air was thick and Miss Love bleaching her hair in the sink provided the perfect musings of life and love. We stumbled. We laughed. We fell. Now only I stumble. I pretend to smile. And they fall. They all fall. When I am King, you will be first against the wall.

M again realizes he is going too far and dials it back


M (contd): Some people suggest that human meat would taste similar to pork because of the similarity of blood supply and flesh density, blah blah blah. They're wrong. It's more like veal all over, but that really depends on how latent the person is, and where the meat is cut from. And who was the idiot who said the Chianti would pair well with liver?! ******* idiots. Too fatty. I wonder if the new 'Mock The Week' episode is up yet. Torrenting is a crime, I get it, but who pays for anything any more anyway? Imagine going to jail for video piracy! (laughs) God, like sharing a cell with a ****** or gang member or something, and you're there because you don't have Foxtel and you want to watch 'Game of Thrones'.


M finally decides to drop the facade of small talk and just be real*


M (contd): I'm not... normal. People don't often walk the streets covered in their neighbour's families blood. But if I take out my phone and pretend to be talking about how exciting tonight's costume party was, eyelids usually aren't battered. Normal people are too trusting.

I

The Nutcrackers sate by a plate on the table,
  The Sugar-tongs sate by a plate at his side;
And the Nutcrackers said, 'Don't you wish we were able
  'Along the blue hills and green meadows to ride?
'Must we drag on this stupid existence for ever,
  'So idle so weary, so full of remorse,--
'While every one else takes his pleasure, and never
  'Seems happy unless he is riding a horse?

II

'Don't you think we could ride without being instructed?
  'Without any saddle, or bridle, or spur?
'Our legs are so long, and so aptly constructed,
  'I'm sure that an accident could not occur.
'Let us all of a sudden hop down from the table,
  'And hustle downstairs, and each jump on a horse!
'Shall we try? Shall we go! Do you think we are able?'
  The Sugar-tongs answered distinctly,'Of course!'

III

So down the long staircase they hopped in a minute,
  The Sugar-tongs snapped, and the Crackers said 'crack!'
The stable was open, the horses were in it;
  Each took out a pony, and jumped on his back.
The Cat in a fright scrambled out of the doorway,
  The Mice tumbled out of a bundle of hay,
The brown and white Rats, and the black ones from Norway,
  Screamed out, 'They are taking the horses away!'

IV

The whole of the household was filled with amazement,
  The Cups and the Saucers danced madly about,
The Plates and the Dishes looked out of the casement,
  The Saltcellar stood on his head with a shout,
The Spoons with a clatter looked out of the lattice,
  The Mustard-*** climbed up the Gooseberry Pies,
The Soup-ladle peeped through a heap of Veal Patties,
  And squeaked with a ladle-like scream of surprise.

V

The Frying-pan said, 'It's an awful delusion!'
  The Tea-kettle hissed and grew black in the face;
And they all rushed downstairs in the wildest confusion,
  To see the great Nutcracker-Sugar-tong race.
And out of the stable, with screamings and laughter,
  (Their ponies were cream-coloured, speckled with brown,)
The Nutcrackers first, and the Sugar-tongs after,
  Rode all round the yard, and then all round the town.

VI

They rode through the street, and they rode by the station,
  They galloped away to the beautiful shore;
In silence they rode, and 'made no observation',
  Save this: 'We will never go back any more!'
And still you might hear, till they rode out of hearing,
  The Sugar-tongs snap, and the Crackers say 'crack!'
Till far in the distance their forms disappearing,
  They faded away.--And they never came back!

What would you like for dinner, Honey?
Pork? Beef? Human?

Ah, I’m never sure about human.
I don’t think I’ve ever had a free range or organic human ever,
Which has always surprised me, seeing as they choose the environment they live in.
Haha, they have the most ridiculous hierarchy of alpha males and leaders,

The psychopathic lead the docile.
I find it hard to eat this animal,
Always in the back of my head are the rumours
That they have a conscience
Somewhere underneath their thin skulls.

And all the controversies,
About it not being quite human meat,
Or being diseased,
Or the weirdoes, with their
“where did humans come from anyway?”

They barely have any meat in them anyway,
Useless animal really.
Sometimes it’s just fat, sometimes just bone.
I don’t like the chances.
Too much risk.

I think I’ll have some foie gras, or maybe some veal.