this morning of les oeuf
i read of epilepsy..oof..
those temperol lobes..!

but moved swiftly on
to a saraband by
sl weiss

in the 13th bar of
le seconde deuxieme
is the f natural or sharp..

how i agonise..my copy
is a photo and worn with
memory and love..

yes,spring was always
hard for me
the winter was no picnic
neither
the summer was dull
and autumn ******..

that is a convoluted title
her latest water colour
in three colours
put it on the fridge..

that was more than i had
a clock called sad
i wept and sang


home on the range
tussled with c
dropped lsd

drank and laughed
lost in the flowers
and beautiful holland..

and of course perfection
is a dodgy conception
you could end up believing

in god..or you might think
i am god..and i will create..!
when i stopped drinking

i felt very good and bad at
the same time,like a tulip
or a devil..

or maybe that was the acid..
which i believe they now
use to treat alcoholism

and depression-i like to
think i was ahead of my time
o but keep a job?

i used my music to
quit drinking and depression
when substance abuse is
in your soul..

it takes something to replace
it takes time and understanding
it is a re-assesment and embracing
the reach for perfection..

silence can be ominous
but a marble egg thrown through
the television
speaks volumes

(blasphemy, says lily)
and the colours by golly
they stood dead
only a threat..

in the counsellers house
i was a boy
and remained so
chicken ****..

man can not be isolated
(covid was a timely reminder)
and yet we are to live on
another planet..

there are some who already do-
lily says, look at this-what is that?
a pk 42 with the latest do-da
for killing and maiming..

a bargain..no more re-loading..
lazer sights..so where are we
in the dark-wait,wait..
a marble egg thrown through

the television-o no-
ah, these demons are to be
exorcised-get that rainbow
at the ready so..

poms from the basement:
what happened next?
i had a rather dramatic bowel movement

passing the guard with my
bottle of johnny walker-(black label),
(traded for some fine squidgy, lily..)

i took an old decrepid bus for
the coast to a sweet little bay..
(let me get my paints..)

the palm trees sway..
what is that..?bedouin tents,
and children running with little

billy-goats..the tourists lying
in the sun
****** and covered in flies-

ugh..i thought..yet three weeks
later there lay i
****** and covered in flies..in the sun..

ii

what is that?
it is called the donkey
that kicked itself..

is it relevant?
you see it laughs
as the pains diminish

in the basement
things are getting a
little strange..

i

poems from the basement:
..and who is to say what or whom
is beautiful..***..
well, moving on-

dead beggars and so on
(mostly, my poetry is an exercise
in memory-use it or..
i am not apologising..)

i was the last to see him alive
and we argued
living with the russians
around the fire and songs

from the gulag..he  was
found on the beach
by a friend who had his guitar
stolen by a hunch back dwarf from albania

i warned him-last time i saw him
he was on the bins..trying to get a stake together
(for a new guitar)so he could again play in the street,
he was pretty good..

ii

i was sat outside my tent
(amid the rubble)
when the police come  around

with his photograph-
you know him-he was purple
they were going to slap me

but laughed-i said i was going on
holiday, so might not be around
they wanted me to drop a dime,

as our american cousins say..
(do i look like a rat..)so i walked
for the border line..

iii

t, who knew everything,
said they got him-
he was the educated one-

(surprised me..)
it was a hairy old walk to
the border..

****** is not funny
anything can happen
no good running

casual like
i will be off then
a black sedan

followed
a few yards behind
i was not laughing..

poems from the basement-
the past comes back to haunt
(you-me..)
i´ll get my paint box..

a look from a man-something
surreal-says lily thoughtfully..
it is death with a moustache..
it is surety-

it is a void
it has lasted 44 years..
the human visage is capable of
an astonishing variety of emotions
and communication..

what is that?
that is some act of wickedness
and the blue?
waves..
a complete lack of humanity
rides forever outward..
what´s that say?
plain clothes..

that star there is
still hope and the green
is the fresh down on
some innocent morn
we will say single or
return..

poems from the basement:
she looks over my shoulder
how we remember it (or
paranoid nonsense..)

i know hardly original is
it-hanging in the balance
(walk that way-)
a single or return..?

there, the ticket master
not normally
so emotional..
will he cry-

let us see-
how much is a single?
and how much is..
a vestige of hope

behind an insect eye..
how long is an open valid
for-what about peak times
ever had any fun..

long times..well, i ceased
listening long ago but
considering his demeanor
(only doing his job..)

we regard each other
outside, trains and rain
now, he is smiling..
in this town of grey pain..

poems from the basement:
a fake knife in the pocket
a marble egg thrown
through the television
sniff the air and returned
go abroad..
a look from a man
a single or return
a bird warning
a look of compassion
off of a waiter
thieves at the bedside table
beautiful women
dead beggars and so on..

poems from the basement:
i liked to live in a tent
i would move from one beautiful

place to the next..
learn a musical instrument
by a stream

and go play in the town
get some money
meet somebody..

go to the library
go to the museum
live on the beach..

poems from the basement-
i stayed with a couple in the attic
once-

the police led him away in handcuffs
there were state of the art cameras
lights and dogs..

there were plain clothes and soldiers
bright lights and a thin divide
there, was his woman unsuprised..

followed, i left town
i took a bus for the country side
the air was sweet..

what is the good of nothing
to a man that has everything
does he recall when he had nothing

and wanted everything..
you know when he dreamed
life was exciting!

anything seemed possible
the stars were his
when he was..young..

she is too ******* herself
the past can not be helped
for all my sins
love is my penance..

she says-with in
lies my redemption
here and now and your
darkling eyes..

yes,the past is contentious
that is, it´s content is
ious-i owe u see..

yes,you think i owe you..
yes,you do..
every greedy little expression

from those beady little eyes
say so
lily consults her mirror..

i am a product of
my past
not what i say

but what is
day to day
the die is cast..

what is zeno´s arrow?
i don´t know
i may word search

but i don´t want too..
never before in the history
of man

has there been so much
information-and..
when we knew nothing

at least we knew it
-the village and horizon
the crows laughing..

yes, lily-liu,
anything can be war
you name her..

a bed
the side of an egg
what you just said..

a dash
a comma
a full stop..

time is circular
says lily, not linear
banging on the same

old drum..?!
here she gives an example:
as a little girl

she played guitar
while gangsters in low slung
cars slid by

intimidating
so she played quietly
(underneath the stairs)

but still they heard
and threatened her..
in three four..

why, she wonders?
anything can be war
lily,you silly billy..

i

what is of variance
more than a good dance
to express

the same but different
for each one
we worship romance

or wonder our existance!
like fire or fleeting as
a kiss..

ii

the plastic palm trees or the moon
makes no odds
i am blessed and naked

son of man-fred astaire
(one eye on the bouncers)
the precision of time

the dying swan
the celebration of the ****
that meant survival

the safe journey of it´s soul
back to it´s ancestors..
sun´s rise..

lily has the giggles
what is funny?
i have to dance
golly..

she is shadows
what is that?
snake  shed skin
ole..!

this..this prayer
and devotion and
belief-this is a tree or
spirit there of..

i see..what is that?
i got itchy ***..
scratch my back..
o god..?!?

i

i say to lily
(without the power of speech-)
it is funny
what i think is mediocre

is genius and vice-verse
i intimate my poetry
that is why we share
says she-

that is why we have critics..
it does nt really matter
what of silence
do we feel better?

ii

what is this creation
is it god left over
a thingm-jig of the brain..

is it money or boredom
what is funny?
nothing..

lily is in a tiff
she says i am
like that ancient greek poet
that stood beneath the iced water falls
for hours at a time-mad?
sensitive..

sleightly telepathic?
would nt do if i was thick
as two-short-planks
would it?
and with that rather archaic expression
i am transported back..


to an algerbraic equation
if x times y is a negative then..
my father sits with a red face
i don´t know what you are
going to do-i don´t..
neither did i..

i

who says that
lily is affronted
a scalded cat
stupid..

what it means
is a refference to the
telepathic
powers we have since lost..

the mountain of life
the dreams that possess us
obscure but obvious
wisdom and love..

try again,
they say,
if you want the world
(in it´s entirety)

to know-go whisper
it
up a mountain..
i would concur..

i should say from
the serpent´s way
it was unpreturbed
my hand hurt..

we forgot..
memory only a word
hastens the day
the blank page..

the blue sky is laughing
-not an unreasonable title for
a biography

remembering the past
can be contencious-
henry ford said history is bunk

more or less..
we just forget from moment to
moment..

or i might not bother,
i mean,i am everything
and nothing..

all that is to come
all that has been
a daisy and a star..

all that hate over
nada..
when we are the same..

i know what has happened
says god
the past has become

again..
at this rate
soon i will be..

two from a thousand
no one
i was 52 when  i begun

what has happened
in between
only god knows..

life is what you make it
as the song says
stand on a leg in the desert
who gives a s*?

go round in circles or
fall from an edge
read the classics
search for gold..

but don´t expect any thanks
love in beauty
write poems
as my mother would say..

i

the futility of it all
says lily-futile-?
the devils,

grandier, as an ambitious
parson
the possesion of a holy order

he, burned and tortured..
(or everyday hysteria?)
in line at dia

ii

her point being
i think modern day
a hell that the inquisition

could only dream..
or no point to be
something..

anyone interested:
in the second part of the piece
(which is in e minor
and consequently

marked sharp-(f),
in the third bar should
be played  natural and is
not indicated so..

and so you changed it
lily is being funny
yes,i did but did not regret
the intermittent years..

i played some of sor´s pieces
from his opus sixty
they are nice but number 14
had a sharp where with further investigation

turned out to be a natural and for years
i have misplayed..
then i made a spaghetti and wrote two poems
all that remains is the drying up..