In this tightly interwoven
tapestry of
           silks and cottons
softness upon stems
an intricately-*****
                     journey
manifesto of life
        I find myself in
patchwork landscapes
of ochre and
rust turning
           turquoise
earthern shades
of cumin and cardamom
cloves and coriander
piquant red of paprika
alighting the senses
My fingers reach out
to sift the powder
to crush
fragrant fronds
of fresh basil and oregano
upon the blueprint of tips
allow their scent
to permeate my skin
and infuse tissue
                of tongue and lips
and I seem to be
in this
           bustling marketplace
my blood afire like
dried ghost pepper
searing and brightening
all flavors
fenugreek and asafoetida
to soothe the ache
of emptiness
chervil and chive
to get juices flowing
I want to slit open
vanilla pods
get at the beans
revel in their essence
wear it all over me


In this realm of spice
and paradise
I am flying,
a magic carpet of dreams
unrolling before me
like an unfurled flag
of new existence
The sounds of hagglers,
fading in raw visons
of shiny apple colors
olives piled high
textures of smooth cherry
budded broccoli
of walnut wrinkles
aroma of guava

Music takes over
I am in a cloud of
oud and lute
syncopated tabla
bells and rumbling
taut skin drum beats
Or is that long low whir
simply my heart purring
to the cadence of
       freedom's call?

I only know
that in the whisk
of a second's split
I will savor the flight
and also the
                fall

i have to admit, i have retracted my position on *******;
quiet frankly? my ***** starting aching,
            and they turned into the size of peanuts from
all the concentrated fluid in them; and that happens,
  when you go dry for a month... and by then it's not a case
of pleasure (or some fetish)... but rather to ease the pressure;
and it has to happen at some point... which is why i think
celibacy is a farce... it's unavoidable as a woman
experiencing her period... it just has to happen... once a month...
and it's not related to pleasure, as such...
         it's just a biological cycle... and the stuff that comes
out?            slightly canary tinged...
                 by the way... did you know that penetrating
a woman on her period (wearing a ******), can actually
alleviate her pains? and if you're trying for children?
          **** her on her period, wearing a ******,
   and when she's off it... ******* into her...
         chance are, she probably, just might, become pregnant.
well, i don't know, that's what happened to me it seems,
i was hard at work on an industrial sized roof
and she calls me up and she says: i think i'm pregnant.
is this were descartes comes in, to let me know what
you're thinking... or feeling?
                      if she said: i feel i'm pregnant...
          i wouldn't go all "autistic" ape-**** on her associating
what i deemed to be thinking.
          oh she could move for her ex-boyfriend from st. petersburg
to edinburgh... but she couldn't move from edinburgh to
            the outskirts of london for me...

anyway, apologies for the long italic introduction,
and the subsequent shorter "poem".
          now, there are three tiers of liquid amber,
there's whiskey... there's bourbon... and there's brandy,
              or for puritan sensibility, otherwise known as *cognac -
and you drink the last example of amber, warm,
      in a bell shaped glass, which you hold with your
hand tucked beneath the bell shape, with the glass' foot
lodged in between your middle and ring fingers...
      again, that's a puritan / orthodox way of drinking
the amber...
       but i have another, for one, i can't disrespect brandy...
i still drink her like i might a whiskey, with ms. pepsi...
the only difference?      freshly squeezed lemon
               added to the mix; obviously ice-cubes...
      but if you're going to mix brandy with ms. pepsi?
    lemon juice.

so you know, my next door neighbour calls me over to her garden,
she notices i'm smoking in my own garden,
and she's like: come on over, have a beer.
                    so i go over and her garden looks like world war iii,
as i have said many times.
                            i once complimented her: i like yout ****
garden... she actually has a **** the size of a tree...
                                                         i'm not kidding.
and i'm there, figuring what to do, there's a guy in a wheelchair
yelling at his mom over the phone, there's the dog zoe,
all black with one white paw, and she's barking and trying
to lick me...
                        and then there's this portrait of nelson mandela...
framed, behind glass... and a black violin in a case
that the dog probably ****** on...
                      and i pick it up, and take out the violin and
try to play some sort of ukulele -
              by the way? i hate people who have a rigid language
system in place... it's a bit like talking to a 2 + 2 sort of people,
if you're starting from romford and you want to
get to timbuktu? some people write so rigid that, starting
from romford... you might get as far as dover...
               their tongues are a bad excuse for the rigidness equivalent
to a spine... but even their spines are crooked...
                 spineless *******... and tongueless to boot.
well... so i'm over in my neighbour's garden, and the arsonist kid
over here is trying to make a bonfire...
         oh by the time the fire-crew were summoned,
he was throwing a television, and a vacuum cleaner into the flames...
it began with a matress, and a few chairs...
          but he was trying to get the fire started, and having soaked
the matress with white spirit (turpentine) - it wouldn't light up...
so i suggested... you have any kitchen towels? or some toilet paper?
i mean, if you soak that sort of thin-"skinned" materials,
you're going to get a: houston... we don't have a problem: a.ok.
**** me, you should have seen the smoke...
you start off burning a matress and a few chairs...
   then you throw in a few plank of wood...
then a vacuum cleaner... then a television?
                                        i was really expecting a bang!
what i was doing was sitting on my ledge, perky like a crow
doing a sudoku no. 9018...
        sniffing in the fumes of what looked like the most appropriate
"metaphor" for apocalyptic society...
   and then the fire-crew came, and extinguished the bonfire,
because my other neighbour called in the brigade.
i guess this is one of those times when you feel the need to make
the firemen useful... considering there are... what? scandinavian
architectural "problems" with wooden houses?
  oh yeah, sure... concrerte's gonna burn! -
   but while i gave him the idea, of soaking a roll of toilet paper
with the turpentine spirit... and watched the whole thing foooom!
out of control?          we started a sing-along...
     *the roof, the roof, the roof is on fire...
   the roof, the roof, the roof is on fire...
    we don't need no water, let the ******* burn,
                                                     burn *******... burn.