Go to bed Adelle
It's 20 to 4, in the morning Adelle
Smoke this cigarette, Adelle
You're drunk, Adelle
Sipping red wine, Adelle
What are you doing, Adelle?

Hiding with bottles, Adelle
Smoking bongs, Adelle
Playing denial, like a game, Adelle

It's only you, Adelle
Trust and all that ****, you, Adelle
Be you, Adelle

Smoke that smoke, Adelle
Drink that glass of wine, Adelle

Just don't go crazy, Adelle

Be yourself, Adelle

Learn your limits, and stay with in it, Adelle

You should probably sleep, Adelle

Watch jersey shore, and pass out,  Adelle

He quietly appears so many years have passed smelling the amazing greener then life grass a potent filled with magic the invisible man he passed.
Splendor in the grass

Ehh Oh yuck someone
abandoned you
On the runway
He Grilled walked in
fashionable late
The head of his
mansion

You needed to
tolerate
Oh! Chuck
Full of gas
shattered_
her mind
with scars coming
toward her
like glass

The wake-up call
The lady of
all envy
Winning
an Emmy
Adelle
We could
of had it all
Another name
Amy
For the love,
Of a ghost
Like the
Candy Man
Invisible man
from
Ireland

Something got posted
seductively
Blindfolded hosted
Designed into his
Money hand
Powdered substance
poisoned her

Invisible man
Her eyes got
Smoked like
Poison Ivy
In the Army now
Please too much
Attention of green
Arabian in the Nile
Miles and miles
Navy to be seen
He was colored blind
Different eye
Brown in one and blue
Something hatched

Matchmaker  Ghost rider
Fiddler on the roof
We need a story writer
Like a horse
without a hoof
To neigh the right
stuff

I Sir "Infinitely" so
"Existentially"
Remarkably
Divinely
Ghostwriter
Her words were
blank
She is so genuine
Every other day
He was mine
The quiet man
Super shy
Another try
Valentine's day +*

Writing but not seeing
I love you until this day
Quiescently being forced
he entered emerged
I love you let's get
engaged
Beg your pardon
was not her
To be loved so sorry to be
changed
Like a stale piece

Her niece vintage
furniture more love
and peace
Quietly operation
tugged
Someone got flagged
That blind man
faced
And looked into
the  quiet man
On someone's 
body
The smells
like Moms
perfume her
exact tune
New Jersey Patch reader
"The Catcher in the Rye"
To weird the movie
Carrie
School can be strange
A bucket list of water
down your head
She walked

The Quiet man lips
No small talk
Ghost post bed
Not even one star
could be heard
The gas lamp
she tripped
Out of sight

She saw a face not to
be described

So inhibited like
endangered
species

The invisible man
loved her
But got his
vengeance on
anyone
that was too near her
People wanted so
much to
be her
Her force
indescribable

When someone was
clear to see
Extremely well visible
she didn't care to
know them

Her nose on the tip
baking with flour
Ghostly the hostess
of the most
But feeling his
energy the invisible
the man was
courting her so challenging

New flame "Procreating"

Hemming her long skirt
Her diary innocence
Being on her side
but scheming
Disguise home staging
From the ridiculous to the
subline

Her address
Send forget me knots
street
Only blind
people are the kind
you want to find

SOS  surrender or out
The other S Soulmate
Ghost
Hailed the Mary
The Quiet Man
John Wayne

The laundromat
Mack the knife
Invisible man
Inked his whole life
Waynes world
Born to be wild

The other man
Hit the metal
heavy music
fan
Drenched so humid
He was the Murad

Triangle mess
Shopping at London
Harrods
Let's hear it for
the girls or ((Gods))
The magical channeling
TV on the blink
Went right on his computer
All the quiet man linked

He finger waved by the world
Guinness drinking Heineken
beer
The ghost rider
Got grilled called upon
By Ron
College kid playing
Rugby
The good bad and
the Ugly
Clint Eastwood
stretched them out
like Gumby
Western gunshot slinger
He couldn't see the
Ghost rider
the
blank stares
Perky Rabbit Hares
All the negatives got
burned
Exorcist's heads twist
and shout eyes healed
about

Climbing the Jacks
of the shinning
Nowhere in the beauty of
Her heart gleaming

Took a blindfold call felt
somewhere but where?
But I couldn't see blinded
by stars
Over the rainbow, the skies
weren't blue
Being stalked by
someone you know

By the greater impossible
love
To be silent like she was
invisible
So naive at time feeble

Without an honorable
love of fee
Gone with the winding
shopping spree
Disworthy and sneaky
but for being
who or answers
Doctor Who?
Invisible man what
could he do

He was so flavorful
well balanced
strong nursed her well
and sturdy
Quiet man thinking in his
beloved study

She was no goodie
magical shoes
The Ghostwriter
left invisible
clues
More Quiet time
Lemonade time affair of a
Ghost man
Like Hannah and her sisters
Woody if he could
But he is a **** good writer
The Movies of NewYork
I am proud to say
I come from
Brooklyn NY

If lips could talk
pouty
Sensing something but why?
Hans Christian Anderson
Quiet man playing softly but
Killing me easily through the
Blind sighted window

The widows
War Veterans
True Hero My dad
World War 2
Wifes lies and fibs
Quiet leads to invisible
Heller Keller was so
fortunate
Like Fate, she was
the real
Mccoy, she could light
anyone's smile
with joy
The barbecue next season
So many years to reason
More gun control
Be more visible to others
Mothers and brothers
Have a heart of soul


Only the strong keep the
  fight
Just keep on trucking
Grill them show them
What you could write
Perhaps it's cool to be the
Ghostwriter
Not everyone likes
To see the clear picture
What is really taken

So what if people cannot read us
Somehow we are all blind that's
OK its a miracle how other people
Can make it the beautiful day


Of the next groundhog day
He was loving to be invisible
He wanted to keep it that way
So deep set her eyes
to die
Somehow talk could be cheap
And the shepherd of love loads

of sheep, silence is the best sleep

All in someones head so lovingly deep

Invisible but remarkable to be the person
you want to be or let's really look closer
it's not always rosier.

Its been a long time
Since I loved a Artist as much
I make time every day
In her heavenly chorus space

Is this an Angel
I first thought
Stopped in my tracks
I couldn't believe it

If it hadn't been for love
The latest song I strum
I sing my heart out
Dare to think that I can do it

Chasing pavements
Melts my core
Such sweet tone
How does she do it

Someone like you
Someone like me
About mastered
Down to a tee

A few each Generation
Born to move a nation
Who will be next
On my joyous music quest

י / it's semite... there's bound to be a semite-adventure... not a lot of semitic poetry what with jesus... if i sober up... i'll post you a sober copy of this poem... or why i'd rather wash the planks of the flying dutchman, going on and on, forever and ever.... and then realising: i really do not have much to say... but that's the point of music... you want the butcher thinking he's a surgeon attempting to dissect your heart... you want night, you are gagging for fakes or real exponents of sadism... i'd live for an eternity is everyone suddenly became platitude... and all i heard was the sound of music, that couldn't ever possibly become vivaldi; just plain macabre... a creaky chair, something hollow, horror-imbued, rickety... youthful christianity; goth... an agitation of islam...

i picked up a gemini pair of serpents... and twisted
and boiled them, until a shadow emerged....
and i called it man.. and then i tried to tenderly
tenderly believe in it, and conern myself with fear...
  and then i could not identify with
that infernal thing that tears might be
shed on...i feared, i wept, i feared, i wept,
after a while i just wanted a nomad's island...
and *****, and a friend called Friday...
and like... nothing apart from that...
   i called it an a space of / for music,
or at least something of necessary dialogue
pertaining to it being necessary...
tender once you think your own it,
a bit of a *****... once you actually own it...
ha... the dutch sail to nowhere, tonight!
o might of the night, i hail you to be!
at least preoccupied with providing me a moon
to see!
the sole precursor and the sole of
all that might be taken into
worthy account! whip and stern!
for what requires worship!
thinly... deja vu...
a sorta... drifting away...
                like one might ease a fetish
for a music box...
and in my wish to clean the basis for there being
one in the first place...
who are we? simpletons of the heat?
are you not keen to the keel of
taking a ship to the tides of fake war that's
the ocean? are you, the simple tone for what
you could have wished for?
   am i not the depth of an ocean
that needs to speak to you?
am i not writing blind?
                            then what am i?
five blind men and an immaginary
elephants...
  about as much as five mexicans whether
deaf or blind and a ******* piñata...
this heart? this ****? you take to,
the grave. you take as much impetus as
impetus gives it sway for a care,
like a holocaust... this ****...
you take to the grave, along along with all
the jews that come with it...
you don't joke about certain things...
you certainly don't joke about love...
no wonder your western marriages are a sham,
karma knocks on, but only one door...
how the need to juxtapose punctuation
really gives emphasis on the lack
of diacritical markings in the english language...
then again, if the language actually had them,
we probably wouldn't have seen so much adventure;
right now?
i'm thinking about living in little village
in *pomerania (or at least the faroe isles)...
          yep, on the island of rügen....
the part of the world where nothing really happens,
because nothing really happens in it
because you don't have adelle singing about...
    turtles, jelly people... and fake imitations of angry
sharks.

you mature when petting cats... oddly enough, dogs only teach you more routine; owning a cat can make you forget that you even own a cat... it's like misplacing your house keys, and they boomerang back into your concern for them when they need something... namely you... it's completely quantum physics... do i even own a cat? don't know... next times i hear a meow, or sniff a bit of cat-****, i'll let you know.

i also like to call it: in imitation of the crow..
those black shapes perched on t.v. antennas...
just so it feels like i'm an arch,
a shadow... to toy with feeling
being *brooding... or... let's just say listening
to pop was never as difficult,
as it is now and to feel no shame...
people are more eager to discuss doing
*****-strap-on **** than say
they can succumb to the anaesthetic of
certain pop songs... so...
perched on a windowsill
in turkish akimbo -
part of me was always going to
be mamluk in how i approached
islam.... was there a bias to begin with?
perched and hooded and partially drunk
in a void-thought stupor, "acting" -
as a crow might, looking for romance...
typing at a pace that outpaces
a doctor... pecking at a keyboard...
index, peck, index, peck, index, left hand peck...
plenty of breadcrumbs where that **** came from?
in england they call paracetamol the
universal drug... cures all ills...
babe, i spent over 20 years in england
and i had to rent out a bulgar's
*****... you ain't the only delicacy
worth buying oysters for... ugh, i hate this type
of language, it reminds me of things
i should have forgotten...
   too many celts about... anyway...
but it was a fine balancing act
on the windowsill...
drunk, void, listening to pop...
   and there are soundtracks for
the afternoon, beginning with adelle...
you sort of turn into marble...
and then the odd "nervous" twitch
when you forget consciousness
   perched as you are, like a crow aching
for the opera singers to get flowers thrown at them
and, finally bow... to applause...
                  and you exit the statue pose...
   even i get as finicky as animals
wanting to say so much less:
like the animals in want of saying so much more...
i know a cat meows and wants
so much more to be said, but doesn't...
while i say too much, when in fact i want
to say only as much as the σ meow...
           and it's almost a game of intuition
when investigating animals
and that constant eye-contact to open
doors: we're almost dealing with the concept
of royalty!
or what you do with flints... sharpen them!
and i know how i'm **** schizoi that way,
and rarely but sometimes seeing a lucid
future of a **** sapiens that i like
looking into and try figuring out at becoming...
             natural divisions...
they say...
say: naturally we are math proof
to exceed in practicing it... and then dumb-look lockdown
with the word toward the heavens with head askew: huh?
no honey, tangens... a firm **** take on tragedy.
   i see them all the time, sometimes
a kestrel perches on my fence, sometimes i see crows
staging their right for authority
by picking on: search engine insert:
  bird knuckled neck perch pond...
how i remember...
****! that baking butter! stork!
yep, i can be the one witnessing the fact
that crows can attack storks!
   i just meant bent neck...
so, hum... huh huh... elvis ready...
hmph... thrill seeking, or what the french
called: finally the english, without
a stiff upper lip...
   try elvis, or how democracy is only
democracy with a history,
and quiet a lot of dead examples...
that need more resuscitation than
reincarnation... funny thing with english:
i never seem to hear it "correctly"...
american english is too nasal,
they're knitting spaghetti like wool into socks...
kluściaże...
**** me! heaven descends!
just with that, heaven made it apparent...
distinct syllables!
no games, no enligsh,
if nasal american, then overly glottal english
in the original,
   like talking with your mouth full of food...
if i'm being intimidating,
please forget me,
i once talked with a ******* addict
and she kept me interested by talking
about a lighbulb... and how to not fake
a vitamin D deficiency... like that russian girl
who said: a true sign of aristocracy is to
not ever engage in taking to sun-tans...
so all the essex suntan palours will go bankrupt
and we'll have to import oranges,
and then scrape off the zest
  and scrub it into our skin so we can look
proper Hindi, given our diet... of vindalu...
****-smearing, and gaff... those chillies in..
oh the agony, to think that the turks
pickle them and serve them in kebabs...
the agony!
          comedy and horror... the two should
never meet... thankfully they do...
                  poetry as imitation of tranquiliser...
         as a language:
english and it's ****** shrapnel of conjunctions
and pronoun disputes...
             kinda like thinking about how easily
english can become idiosyncratic
and slang, and slurr...
      it's the equivalent of a ******* drug...
i.e. an existential **** expression...
                              ah, hence the colonialism history...
well.. if i had distinct syllable indicators
that other european languages use (i.e. diacritics):
i wouldn't be speaking all acronym...
finally! the internet proved that talk is cheap...
'cos' everyone just keeps talking!
    and thankfully i just like looking at this crap
than have the throth to take it to and speak it
at a market-place, when i should have been selling bananas.

oh, i don't really have a problem with them
talking...
                    it's only when they start babbling
about a necessary correlation between art
and morality,
              how being "moral" allows you to
construct meaningful narratives,
  where, either someone is good
                                                     \
            and descends into being bad
or someone begins by being
                good (ascends).
              /
      bad.
         that part about art, could **** anyone off,
whether left-wing, or right-wing...
  you can ascribe a moral dimension toward
art...   would a sober edgar allan poe
have written what he wrote?
well, sure... perhaps if ****** drank a few whiskeys
a day, and ate some meat, he wouldn't
have crafted the holocaust;
what the **** is with these stale housewife myths?!
this sort of talk can really get at your
           bone marrow...
and make it rot, and give you stomach cramps...
art... & morality?
           so being a moral artists allows you a coherent
access toward providing an educational
form of narrative that can be easily repeated?
          william burroughs... can you recreate
his technique?
              if you can... you're in the pile of:
complete failures;
                               oh, but i guess in the current
right-wing category, homosexuality is moral,
because: you're going to get a baby pooped out
from a gay's ***...
                           that's a very moral stance with
regard to the general cause of humanity.
             i already said, it's a dodo project incubated
by right-wing politics...
                                 as a child i actually thought
about impregnating human ***** in wolves,
or vice versa...
                oh look, a crazy scientist in the making;
but the **** you do with monkeys, or rats?
why not try to impregnate a man's ***** in
a wolf, or a monkey's ***** in a woman,
           or whatever acrobatics you can think of?
by now, the "angel of death" of auschwitz
                                                (josef­ mengele)
     has become really, really ******* boring to me...
as usual, sadists have no imagination
        they only have the capacity intra-species
                   horrors...
                        me? if i had the chance?
          inter-species curiosities...
             what would happen if you impregnated
a sheep with bull's *****, or like i already said,
impregnated a woman with wolf *****?
        see how josef mengele's experiments
with twins, look, rather pale?
             ah... isis and chopping of heads gets boring,
i'm looking for someone brave enough to
do these experiments.
   you can't ask of art a morality,
            as you can't ask of morality, an art-form;
oh sure, because you might as well stumble
upon something akin to voltaire's
        pangloss quote regarding tending
to your own garden (affairs), or dumas'
  athos quote: the best advice, is to give no advice;
as with listening to in extremo's song der galgen,
and turning into a berserker,
  as a glaswegian might turn into
(according to gavin mcinnes) with adelle's song hello.

When all is well and Swell
And the glassy sea spill out shells
      The majesty of its ell
       On me cast a spell
My nostrils twitch to the glorious smell...
I revere at the beauty therein kept
    And the life it gave my latent cell.
A sudden golden gong gushed from a bell!
  A gush from within i knew well
         Images: forms of my Angel
Blissful thoughts of love held me like a gel,
          And then I fell!
Head Swirling like a loose thread held by a peg.
   To bow and follow my noble Adelle
      A course thus set for this Ansel!

pre-scriptum that's actually a p.s. - shock value: staggering! what? peering into an empty glass, where once pirate ***-one-eye and damsel in distress ms. pepsi once resided! shocking! what now? well... guess that means a refill; ahoy the next glug glug! shave my ***** hair and call me p'ooh bear while you're at it; go on, skippy... MOVE IT!

a lazy ****, lodged up your ***...
suggesting
   itself, ever so slightly as being
present...
  man... the most terrible drinking
companion to date...
   in such moments it's never
much,
    it's not you're going to be *******
out a boa-sized tapeworm...
but you know: the general
discomfort, like wearing female underwear...
and it never is much,
it, just, *is, there, forcing you
to think about its presence,
and that's more annoying than:
are we there yet? no. are we there yet?
no. are we there yet? no, no, no!
******, take the plunge,
be off with your ******* sloth
dynamic of pretending to be a cute
parisian pastry in the display window
in some parisian bakery!
*******!
  that's what the blank said to me:
write me a funny one...
   less ***... and more:
         the confinements of taking the 2no.
for a stroll, past st. peter's gate
and toward the throne of thrones...
sure thing floating choccie...
     but just:                     imagine!
mmm... stardust and cinnamon...
   my grandfather had this knack of
describing his **** as:
         i was just around the strawberry
fields... oh look! i also found a dozen
plums, and a handful of, cherries!
have those with milk, and that's
            the perfect laxacative, that is.
on a serious note though...
(what's the onomatopoeia for snigger?
that painful kind of laughter?
                don't know? me neither) -
it's hard to think when you
have a "hitchhiker" who has suddenly
outstayed its welcome...
             a bit like the nicotine
"hangover" in the morning...
         **** me the excess of phlegm...
you hark, you bark, you snort backwards,
you spit, you sneeze,
you do everything possible to clear
the cavities...
   after a while you finally reach
the morning bliss of:
  smelling mint next to you...
you obviously water it to make the scent
exfoliate and become more potent...
but on a sober note,
this sunday times magazine
article by india knight got me thinking...
well... not really "thinking"
just bothered...
      she's moaning about loneliness
and the solution: ***-bots...
    she mention ****-boast gabriel -
and the flacid **** when you'd prefer a cuddle...
the sad bit?
       apparently men are the prime
instigators of this "phenomenon"...
   men only need ***-bots, someone tell them
they're loved...
   thanks... next i'll ask a cave to echo back
a hello for me, morphing my voice
into that of adelle's...
   look at my face... it came back in spanish!
biggest turn-off, (how to teen girls write it? ah!)
                                EVA!
sieve the eden eve into it?
    now i know that's funny, but i always write
it assured that it isn't...
sometimes i get it wrong,
   sometimes i even get a laugh for myself...
which brings me to the crucial point...
company?
           well yeah, i have "conundrum" -
the memory of a sober me from 1 hour ago...
    he likes to iron shirts,
  watches female football...
         likes ***** dancing because:
"apparently" - the film with the best soundtrack -
loves cooking, loves taking out the trash,
turns into a menace with his cats...
               no, i'm not buying it...
ah, what's the point of selling myself like that,
it becomes a pretty boring ambition
of getting to mid-life and ******* younger girls...
i always thought that youth guards youth,
but... no... sour note that part...
   well... nothing like turning to the guard
of cenobite invitation...
   and **** me, that ship has... sailed!
   oh look, a pretty moment,
                     a ship on the canvas of where
sky meets sea, and a lonely ship,
           and a sun taken to skinny-dipping!
just like a gay might say with
exact syllable peacocking: mar-ve(h)-loose!
louse? sure dingy-dingity-****
    two sopranos and three ballerinas later...
john? was it john? daaaarling...
   you're my favourite compensation
                                              to arthritis!
seriously? ***-bots are a man's thing?
    so they made their pro-bot movies akin
to ex_machina...
  but do people still remember
    that ***-bot in spielberg modern twist
on pinocchio via the a.i. movie?
   wasn't the ***-bot male?
                        lucky girls...
here with my bone-structured "****" imitation...
who ****** who with a
       flacid soft-pouch-of-a-kangaroo
****? shanta claush? sean... i told you to stop it!
     shorry.
                      shure you are.
ah, **** yeah! ****** joe! -
now that's tacky, we've moved on - now they're
called the teenage mutant turtle...
     teenage.... turtle... mutant... avengers?
whatever:
michael, raphael, gabriel, uriel, saraqael,
    raguel, and remie....
   theology and fame... ah... you probably
heard only the fraction 2/7...
    what part was the part where "lonely"
was implied?
the part where i like my own farts...
    or the part where i find it really, really *******
difficult to even sleep with a cat in the same bed?
or the part that i fall asleep best,
with a lullaby of a horror movie sountrack?