such "fickle"
a sort of "people"
to mind...
given they
are the sort of people
that necessarily
    need minding...
behest:
little
feebles...
       what little
scoops....
    ******* irritable
arab fwends...
         ****-oil
thrills,...
        and the some
but bits in betwain...
     idiotic Koran
blah blahs....
        hell...
you have me be and me be you
and
then...
             you grieve the what,
in attaining the Vatican,
you, *******
Mooffat?!
******* windy project!

with respect to your hair man
play with it, been living large
so you ain't got time to cut it
put it in a ponytail that puts mine to shame

it's a little weird talking about your hair
seagulls make a birds nest on it
it's a hair song, sing songs along the cold air
picasso paint it well, redoing the blue three hundred times

police pull ya over because of it
sometimes ya skin color makes it knappy
like the way it settles on my blue jeans
when you rest your head on my lappy

let not your hope ever fall down
nor wear a frown
keep it growing
strong in showing

uplifting the spirits very well
with a cheery bell
it is sanguine
saying all's fine

so employ my upbeat message
for your usage
stay bright of tone
a buoyant zone

i’m a kitty cat, a minx,
a playful mistress
your enigma, the sphinx
and my fur’s wet

****** into water,
trying to escape the rain
or the plunge,
happiness is a stain

the more ya pet me
the more i bite
the more you pick me up
the more my tail twitches in spite

if today you drop me
i’ll love you
but if today you love me
i’ll hate you

out the trap into a brand new audi
says A class stuff like
i like my men and my drugs white
but don’t project on me

even if she still was in there
she’d still be owning it
devotion is a sin, she’s hunting but she’s
not hungry

expecting the ride of a lifetime
hype guy with the pimped out kith jeans
and the shoes that cost god knows what
but he pulls me off of him so he can
carefully unlace them, while i get drier
than a desert waiting for him

like, ***?
show up in sweats and a hoodie so i can
steal it next time, man

sitting on a balcony,
   listening to sparrow songs
mingling with
      an old man's memory:
that vague form of
cinema...
    eating May cherries
   shooting their pits from an
index-thumb gun at metal
objects...
    missing the sound of rain...
digesting 100ml
of *****,
   rolling sweet Virginia
tobacco...
         attempting to
      look disorientated,
unimpressed,
                           feline...        
  as if:
      demanding to find
a summary of all this,
bound to a, yawn;
    ever the wish,
    to have been born
            yesterday,
fully suited with no
argument concerning
a precursor state nearing
tadpole...
        how does one
even begin to formulate
a receding
       consolidation of
a former awe?

I can only find two sensible reasons
behind poetry...
   well, more like three...
the aspect of voyeurism,
              but there's no real thrill
in that...
      the odd chance of seeing
language in free-fall...
                disintegrating,
     then the reintegration in a
comment section...
                      or what is best
depicted as an escape from
    the dormatory of social formality,
the sort of conventionality
that strangers allow themselves...
and less about the one howling
wolf in a pack of mutes...
   more like the in-between pacts
and settled grievances,
   slyly passing enigmas and...
     lit candles...
                  thirdly though...
the casuality of the whole "business"...
2 months!
   a book of this sort of stature
I could digest within a forgetable month
of listlessness...
     but at least with poems
there is no sense of achievement...
    zilch...
                    and that's a formidable
gesture of appreciation...
   perhaps a novel is this that and
the other... yet the persistent sense
of relief, upon completing it...
no more than a brick,
     amounting to a feeling of having
erected a mountain...
   hovering above it, a halo of:
well done... a heaving sigh of relief...
a pat on th shoulder and...
for some inexplicable reason...
   a sense of initiation into a cult
of John the Baptist...
                    why this sense of:
having accomplished something?
     it's almost unbearable to have to
strip down a novel
   in order to see the bare, minimum,
or rather, memorable enough
to be granted a scenographic
         translation...
                since when is reading these
bulging gluttonous texts,
not akin to reading X R A Y S?
               a poem a view
  a novel some absurd finalé...
    which becomes nothing more than
a miserable sigh of relief...
    funny that,
  a poem allows me to not
accomplish any major feat,
leaving me neither satisfied,
    nor unsatisfied...
         but certainly not relieved
akin to a novel, which,
        in its monarchical
    bulk sometimes nibbles at me
to express...
               saying that,
I wouldn't pay the sort of homage
that some poems receive
(esp. those using the rhyming aid)
    in being memorised...
odd, this medium,
      of perpetual motion...