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Home is ambivalent agony of always endingupalone,
lion's share of my life in such ambivaliving spent shunning,
shadowstriped w/solitude of tired tiger cadging a cage.
But tho' animal me had misgivings, it must have felt l/ home
if home is defined by how many times you return,
wherever you may roam. Show me t/ way to go home,
I'm tired & I wanna go to bed
alone in ambivalent agony.

My unheimlich forever home
is a permanent pearlescent adolescence.
Opaque to myself, a reflection only of t/ present,
l/ a fleshwound of mythic marble.
I read 'Borderline adolescent' is a tautology;
no wonder being needy gets so boring,
all apologies for vicious flatline circumfrumping
t/ monotonous circle from
overgrown upturned Skoda Larkman gardens
to this Borderline 37olescent.
Assentaneous bittersweetness my last deserter.

Enough oddbouts of messy ire complex
to oversimplify infallibility as extension of aloofness,
telling a few home aloofs is rush of Unabomber smugness
at my own deviant basketmaking
a.k.a. poorman's genius. Cliched,
but an artist is a spiritual exile
a.k.a. richman's homelessness.
An omnicidal somebody w/  bespoke nuke
in a hollow copy of Walter Mitty's hollow 'Collected Poems'
- nothing them genius weenies duz really pleases us,
vice versa for earth gods amongst derfwads.
For what abode of hip food & humble ideas could rival
t/ visceral crystalclear unheimlich adolescent opacity
of eternal ambivaliving in t/ Righteous Paranoic Present?
All heres & all nows unified, underpinned &
undermined by t/ constantfeeling something unknown is very
very wrong.
So constant 1/2  t/ feeling is feeling verymuch at home w/ this.
'Swhy suicidalideation always seemed such a 1/2way house,
tho' noone can really live on t/ middle of a busy bridge.

But it surprises me how anyone can call anywhere home,
t/ universe being profoundly plummeting, pulverised fieryfroze matter,
just plummeting & scuffing & pulverising  other fieryfroze matter,
conflagrating in a blacuum until all t/ homefires of Nature's Hbombs
leave us even colder, in caliginy worse than white torture of
pool skamkab a ni ronyag airogl ginrevoc repeer migr eht.
Our peeling Nikes peeking out of a panther pelt shroud,
peeled from a panther as big as t/ guntz. Homeless,
but as its hangdog furniture t/ future's my retainer
as I mature against my better judgement.
Roots always get t/ better.

So I am not t/ Dave that rode, suicyclist
(tho' he wasn't one who drove) into O, t/ porcelain
sunset of midnite. Cliched,
but life is just such a ride by t/ seat of our panthers.
Besides, Glaswegian Dave survived (until he died at
a grand middleage).
& Marge wears a string of moons & Homer's at home everywhere.
& I do have a home under t/ pathos of a British Moon,
dangling l/ Mussolini amidst baseballmitts of nimbostrata, dabbing
t/ Counciltip - ***** of all overgrown upturned Skoda Larkman gardens
- w/ evocative rainpong, gentrifying petrichor.
& tho' most British disturbances are kept to t/ home,
what's more English than shelter? I have somewhere to go...

But I would fall into yr arms, Dark Cow,
like profoundly plummeting, pulverised fieryfroze matter
- go on, let my cuddle scuff you, wipe out yr comfortzone of  tyrannosaurs.
One can stay at home too long, you know.
As far as concepts & their tails go,
I'm more of a feeder than a finisher,
so I'll fill my writingboots, biro my toes,
by feeding home's humble ideal:
home is where we're more furniture than feature,
& neither dimmed nor bright lites can be home's diminisher.

Hi [insert cat's name here], I'm home!
I remember it as if were yesterday
VE Day...well, not exactly
but, close enough for me
The actual surrender of Italy
May 2, 1945....but the **** Americans
Always the Americans wanted May 8
So, it's May 8th, but I'll always remember the second
We were in Milan...I love Milan
****** was dead, Mussolini was dead
I was alive, and in Milan
Rumours were out that the war in Europe was almost done
Nobody had told the Gerry's that though
Word came from Lubeck that they'd surrendered
I was twenty one years old, going on 50
War ages you...and not in a good way
I was in 6th Airborne and ready to go back
When the word came down
I remember kissing the waitress at our cafe
I kissed her hard, and with as much passion as a 21 yr. old can have
I didn't want to let her go
It was over
I kissed her for myself, and everyone in Milan
I kissed her for my folks in Clapham
I kissed her for her folks, wherever they were
I kissed her because we were free, they were free
I kissed her for my Uncle, who we lost early in 1941
Lost him during the blitz in London
England lost 430 people, we lost Uncle Cyril
That was enough, I was signing up
Now, it was over and I was moving on
I kissed her for everyone still waiting for the news
But, most of all, I kissed her for Leslie Testro, Rfn (18yrs)
Lance Cpl Thomas Wray (22 yrs), Lt. Dennis Edmonds (21 yrs)
and all the others attached to 6th Airborne
Who wouldn't know it was Victory in Italy
They were lost, not forgotten, never forgotten
Forever in our minds, our roll of honour
We celebrate them annualy
Few of us left now, but, those that are
go back to Italy every two or three years
back to Milan, and we toast them all
My waitress, Rosa Testrini
She was there as well, every year
Until five years back, we lost her
Now we toast her as well
We all have our honour roll
She was on mine
I found her again in 1950
We were on our second trip back
She met my wife, and I her husband
He's still there, and we talk
My Italian is better than his English
But, we talk as well as we can
I miss her, and the others
But that day, that glorious day in May
I've never kissed like that since
And my wife knows it
Sometimes she reminds me...
I laugh, and remind her....
What that day means...if it hadn't happened
We may not be kissing now
so, she'll never get that kiss
Only Rosa
Rest In Peace my waitress

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