it's raining, i outstretch my hand in an akimbo pose on a windowsill, capture some rain on the hand, and then, lick it off.

i always seem to word the world in better guise,
when i can encourage a minute or two,
faking being blind,
closed eyes, deaf or rather
  deafened by headphones,
       cackling, trying to make a hyrbid
of fox and hyena in me attempting
a shy laugh...
          i forget when my admiration
for ****** hair began...
probably after i neared November,
and own, started to agitate the wind,
i.e.it started to be brushed by it,
like a long-haired tangle....
          the oddity of experiencing
your ****** hair made real by the wind...
there are
the falcon sheds his wings
to dive for his prey...
                   as any angel might
to caste a magic of embodiment...
the falcon imitates
an arrow, slicing, thriving,
cutting through, reestablishing a
genesis... a let's begrudge an unnecessary
             beginning...
prior to wishing being a father,
prior to asking for a son,
prior to attaining a woman,
i am conscript of metaphor,
              i abhor the literalism
of an egyptian prince, comedy of
the overtly literal *******...
            what i hate deserves hating...
mort poetica is, not, an, answer!
             there was no talking serpent
to begin with,
  there was only your labouring poetry...
ever heard  of *nuance of joke?
   if making life difficult was your answer,
you pillock, numb-whit,
   fine! fine fine!
                        plonkers r us...
tragic!
                   our safe-haven of
class A hillbilly window-cleaners!
     Delboy is my new Goebbel Hoffhessen
trap of a treat...
you quasi cockney squat!
laugh all you want,
i wanna the bending of the 'nee -
                   surds g, anmd the k,
and then the pucker asks:
                w'ah wit dame cockney
                               n' the lost feather....
you playing me potters'?
                             'ucking bride to be
wishy-washy lost oasis mods...
         jerkers off in the trans fannies...
farking bunnies...
calls them the southern bunnies,
quips us better sorter than
the gimmick muzzies of herr mah mah med;
******* dollop of a plonker.
you get bistro nostalgic on me
i'll get holiday happy to be honest,
over hanover,
i know a german loving a gormnan
when i see 'un.
                  last time i told this tale
i was tying a string to a paper tail,
an aeroplane in the the form of
origami...
                    i'll **** one off,
if you ask me nicely, you
******* ire, shh shh,
gingerbread man's worth of a
******* celt pleading for both
ginger & luck...
flip a coin...
  call it a shamrock;
then demand less than the lesser
of all possibles lessened:
the perfectly poured pint
of Guinness... ye' *******
scab of waiting intervention...
   you f'acking kanyan scabbed
sun-stroked-mastering-
of a paint-brush...
       in aiming for a crumb
dedicated to a loaf.
         it's almost funny watching
commentators of today
being so dismissive of poetry
in biblical writing,
   their literal interpretation
of biblical verse is
beyond funny...
                 it's just plain sad,
before they make fun of
the language of an ancient egyptian
prince, i suggest they read
some words of
  ambiguity / poetry...
             who is not to write
imagery, in order to not gauge out
the eyes of readers?!

bad boy, i got a weakness
i like the taste of blood licked from my
own hands from being reckless
tearing hearts out their intended
cavities and im afraid my mouth
is cold from being exposed

i guess i keep the charade
of getting mad at you
for not buying me cigarettes
or not telling me to quit them depending
if im interested in you

i go to the gym to heal
all of my mistakes instead of church
and its cuffing season
want you to tie me to your mast

and leave me there all season
then afterwards we'll never text each
other again because you're a bad boy
and you are no good for me

started wearing surgical face masks
in public to hide zits
i dig the tiny apartments and the drift
of tokyo skylines
i dig the anonymity, paper thin walls
you can hear a neighbor
playing his guitar
sometimes i wish i could fly back
and live there forever
quit living with an abusive boyfriend

three's up
i'm throwing my life away
throwing my three's up

three **** summers in a row
three nights in the slammer
three days getting drunk

been thinking about all my exes a lot
been thinking about you a lot
and how we'd spend the night doing homework

and then sleeping together
used to get me chicken nuggets afterwards
and now you know what goes on in my brain
***, programming and chicken nuggets
from mcdonalds

This is real
This is true
I cut, reform, reshape for you
And though it hurts
With penknife sting
I hope one day
You'll accept this ring.

So trust me baby
Though I cause a fuss
I’ll work on past it
For the sake of us.

Lace my pain with percussive cussing
Swear care no matter how you fare
Taking turns, till, we in turn fail
End nearing, gasp through by breadth of hair.

So hold no breaths
And cry no tears
We’ll be there soon
Speak, breathe, forget your fears.

It's true our future’s cloudy
We're over 8 by 8 by 100 miles away
I daily **** up as you tuck in
Pledging, “Rest, I don’t jest figure eights.”

Numbers don’t matter.

And my senses, they’re surely wrong.

So why hold both eyes on you?
And ask the same for me, just as long?
It’s so we both go strain blind
Bind souls and minds together
Splatter glue hastily agreeing to this eternal song
Float handheld in this spaceless place
Disintegrating all the walls that fall upon us.

… Or those we need to walk through.

There, in fantasy, easily we go
Each kiss a taste of the love we share
That we only alone in our nakedness wear
It's clear I would put nothing on or over you
Or dare seek some other exchange
Because without this arrangement
There'd be nothing
Besides empty, pitted pangs.

i treat writing as my drinking.

the point being: fluidity.
language, if properly expressed,
properly founded
is far from conspiring to write
a novel, my novel is already
the idle chit-chat of purchasing
goods (funny how haggling
is still allowed, even though
we know the fixed price
ending of .99).
      language is not a rigid base,
it's not a raw piece of stone
waiting for a rodin-esque
sculptor to make something out
of it, and it's certainly not a
meditation on a dictionary /
thesaurus...
       i am aquarius, the language
i am providing is what two hands
held together make of water being
poured into them is,
it's the fluidity, it's what i find
by finding that the only "thing"
i can find is: fluidity...
you can't take language and serve
a mountain's stubbornness -
you have to allow the sea to
infuriate the blank page of serenity...
i never allow language to be
rigid in small-talk: hello how are you?
crap...
          language needs to be water,
needs to be fire,
it can never reside in char,
charcoal or anything and everything
unmoveable, sisyphus would
concede this fact...
   there is no effort, there is no attempt:
there either is, or there isn't;
don't try, trying brings failure,
do, and do, even if it's a "failure".
you can't expect me to remould
a dictionary, the arrangements are
already too varied, and you can't
expect me to leave a trace of a
protruding signature of a thesaurus...
sure, i write poetry:
   every poet dreams of writing a novel...
but i don't write a novel
because in between this "scarcity"
i live a novel...
        the mundane interludes of a novel
bother me enough to think my
writing as: enough.
            then again i treat writing
as water, or fire,
   and never airy fairy south eastern
english, or a raw sculpture canvas -
language is already a wriggling can
of worms...
       with that being said:
no one takes the afterlife seriously is
because: so much is alive, well,
delirious in sensual anticipation,
   too much of life, bring little topic
of a "realistic" most-mortem realism,
'cos' there isn't any!
            so please, don't give me
this stale inanimate crap,
              don't treat language as a
labrador on a leash with you the blind-man
at the end of it...
language is not rock, it's not air,
it's the fluidity i'm interested in...
    write me a poem as if a dam is about
to burst, give me tsunami language...
give me traces of spontaneity...
  you give me a piece of writing as
rigid as a wheelchair marathon "runner"
i'll give my honest opinion...
     you should overflow with
the ultimate freedom of what the god of gob
said: blah blah blah...
           i don't deal in cute,
i don't deal in pretty,
carnations i can mind...
          but the sort of poetics that is
insulated in: requires a metaphor,
requires a metaphor... who's identifying who?
with that sort of poem, the poem
ends up asking the poet: you sure you're
not a plumber?
   there's but one technique:
       stick to the narrative, forget the rest;
there's only one "technique" in poetry:
the narrative;
write as if impotent, suddenly getting
a hard-on, never imagining to turn
to a ******-boost of the congestion of
spotting a genre, from a "genre";
there's no point writing with this transmutation
of the categorical "imperative" -
             there's only water...
or there's the zenith of
   *s. t. coleridge - water water, everywhere,
nor any drop to drink.
point being: write fluid,
         and make your reader thirsty.
writing has a lot to do with the newly
emergent art of: cuisine;
have you noticed the emergence
of the art of culinary antics?
               cooking is the new painting;
seems that painting has become shoo
****, that the chefs had to intervene
(minus the sean connery).

the self promoting team
assured the servile
that they were the best
ever profile

but on the buyers being
taken in by their promotion
they discovered a falsified
promotion

the regulators heard
of the self promoter's ticket
and they weren't happy
about the deceptive wicket

they enacted a bill of law
to even up the score
by sending over zealous
self  promoters well off shore

should a promotion
sound too good to be true
there's every possibility
you've cottoned onto the clue