not everyday you get to pet a labrador
at half past 10... during the night...
he sees you, you see him 10metres apart,
you start you autistic body-space crucial
talk; you start gesticulating, blinking
to-n-fro like some mad rhetorical adventist...
and then you signature the discussion
like any sensible curator might:
you insinuate a tut-tut, but the sound you
make sorta makes onomatopoeia obsolete...
you tut-tut while ******* a lemon...
and **** me! the labrador is yours!
teary eyed and tail in a tango-likened to-and-fro...
if ever picking up a girl in a nightclub could
feel as good... it wouldn't...
the mere antic of petting a stranger's dog:
i'd be salivating had it been a rottweiler...
never mind the labrador...
           ***** ate the would-be hetero...
we call him metro these days, salmon-tinged shirts
and the ooh-la-las to my mistake: faked camp.
  but they loved the political coup without the d'état!
which is a bit like pizza without cheder dangly,
or god forbid: a gorgonzola!
    oo, tangy! jokes really do necessitate a need
for punctuation.
for what god forbid was the p added when it
merely said cou? optometric lesson no. 1:
French... optometric lesson no. 2:
English; optometric lesson no. 3:
a year in Yorkshire: endure that and you'll endure
Germanic Hitlerite checking advents of
chequers grandpa... or those eager to await Auschwitz
and least eager to don mascara within
that tattoos of rightly-awaited wrinkle...
     oh yeah, yeah: they forgot the tribalism; silly wankers.          

is that a pooch or a Gucci?

i don't know, whenever i ask that
question or see someone
famous or fashionable
i just get fidgety,
like as Chinese person
seeing a doppelgänger -
with a billion's worth of populace,
you don't look out for a
"most photographed" face..
  you look out for doppelgängers,
lookalikes...
    
still, you end up petting a stranger's labrador in
the night sometimes,
while walking to a shop for a bottle of whiskey...
tearful eyed, tail waggling...
   which is more than picking up a girl in an Essex
nightclub would ever be...
          you end up petting a dog
and saying to heterosexual counterparts:
                                                     arrivederci!
because it was **** primus with Liberace
and fooled housewives sprechen butch speck,
bound to the glutton archives...
              **** me that labrador was all i needed tonight.

with your little moral superiority complex
and your unfathomable left-wing british politics
as the road to take,
let's just say i wouldn't be here,
and i wouldn't complain as i do:
i'd rather have a communist life with wife
and kids rather than iron maiden and commercial
bliss - maybe then i'd be talking
serious medical conditions and not allowing
amateurs to preach me psychology
instead of reading philosophy like some
secular evangelists should, because that's what atheism spawned:
psychological Evangalist advents:
no god = no soul, highest prime invoking thought,
even though ******, traffic accidents
to convene with what thought excites: a serenity
that's contradictory when tested.

Joyous angels an entire night spent,
singing with flutes they ceased to relent.
Shepherds lowly pitch their dusty tent.
A story indeed reminiscent
of ageless advents when we all went
to sing in churches in wintry Kent.
In fright we gazed at Santa's beard length,
in a speed sleigh drawn by the Elks' strength.
We sought more fun for an extra cent.
But after pleasure we did repent,
speaking solemn words of a good gent:
'Oh, what a pleasant time in advent,
to usher in the infant God sent.'

Tacked onto cosmos,
Soft light,
Eradicating an opposite,
Dreaming life into fruition,
Kibble,
Bring lips
Down, among trenches & arcane
Never rest
Context, infinitesimal in journey,
Nexus at best

A hammer through your letterbox,
Covered in spit,
Listened to through callous hands
Knocking on the complex,
Chamber of advents
And unleashing the deepest, unknown secret
Flattened, stretched Ambrosia,
Content enabled metropolis,
Slowing the progress of atrocity
Into dawning backward birth

Orders in place,
Genus
Chronicled in ordnance,
By gated communities,
Escalating the calamity by force

Embargo transcend,
Glitter on abound, endless
Pardon the boredom
Lapped, lipped, tapped, trusted

Trying to find balance
In amongst leaves,
Leaving Earth
In a ship fueled by discontent

The air matches the forest deep.
Its Auburn glow weaves congestion into thick dimensions.
The grass, and leaves, and trees coexist in this moment of surreality.
A sepia trim around a coordinated portrait -
The eye cannot adjust to a moment irreplaceable.
A melting slathered teardrop falls slowly.
The tree's push this far into the sky -
Not pushing, but holding, rather.
As a weeping mother catches her child and slowly descends them.
She cannot hold forever,
and the red of scars, disaster, and reflection advents.

She let’s the child wander;
Developing.
Enveloping.
And black does become the night.
Delicate, and sluggish, this darkness falls.
Her arms can bear no more,
as the sunset-soul consumes an arcane definite.
Droning below the lake,
of which no hills sit near.
Charcoal weighing down the once prepossessing light -
of nature’s *****.

A soft whisper,
And death.

Dreams…
And guilt.

"Free us of his torment!”
Cried the leaves: post-wilted.

"He’ll devour us by his own light!”
Shrieked the trees: un-guilted.

"Why entwine such sedulous melancholia?”
Squealed the breeze: pre-juilted.

Oh! Do despair in blessedness!

Oh! Does the flora mourn for her exaltation!

But…

Oh,

Does his darkness revile the ***** soul -

In impassioned ecstasy.

Seraph and Ephedrine*
     or *colliding, and by ash

Blond rain, hot, braising a brunette burn.
The stage was taking turns when she turned up
beneath me; meek petite, turned out to be
a wishing well while I adored the ring-
song of another southern belle. "Fall in,"
our notes implored to me and I, delighted, did.

She astride, we twisted up in splendid
flow, the baby blue's and sultry auburn's
nightly sojourns. Tucked unknown inside
her chest's soft comfort, lazing, I'd wake up
and glow. Two autumn lovers racing spring's
escaping tide, colliding, and by ash besnowed.

Scottsdale found me prey in unbecoming
news of winter crimes. I learned of didoes,
sickening grit, soirees of summer scoring
lines and picking pits and nursing burns
and being crooked all the time. Upside-
downing and dying, still, I bided her decline.

Bushy tailed and bright eyed, I entertained
elides not all bright white inside. I climbed
Sioux Falls and foraged for seduction. Lit up
and afflicted? Fix: a sick and sordid
sort of wickedness, a Pyrrhic forfeit's burnishing
reduction. Spurred, I galvanized, ceased her ringside

and matured. I'd drift immersed in suffering,
so, and surface shown not shore or certain
earthen berm; soon I earned my sideburns,
emerging taciturn, eternally, to her. Beckons
chirped at first, then mewed, then roared, candid
advents went ignored, an epoch couped

with cruel and sober sword. I suppose
the years assuaged the ache enough to wring
my rage awake and tough; seeing the iodide
wraith herself, withered and rough and raked in
such concern, she saw me unperturbed
because I finally wasn't shamed how things had burned.

I was always proud of her suffering; her ruin in bedlam by design,
but burned-up notes and buried bedding didn't seem so tragic at the time.

i simply can't believe in a orthodox rigidity of diacritical marks, those "punctuation" marks from on high, i should be able to use them in however way i see fit, esp. against orthodox aesthetics: orthography... why? because languages evolve much quicker (and ought to) than platonic forms, or darwinian forms, since darwinism is the new platonism, i thought that i might just as well reconcile the two, and stretch the rubber bands on the slingshot, aim, and release it upon the goliath of history... that being said, language has become more and more inorganic, language has already become an a.i. substance, there is no longer an organic connection of the origins of Y in the antithesis of a pine wood of I, as there is no longer a connection to the mathematical cosine W, compared with the sine M... nor the rugby goal posts at H.

so darwinism has replaced platonism, big deal,
yet no sane version of *rho-dan (rodin) would
think it beautiful to allocate a sculpture of
a monkey, or the neanderthal - even though
the neanderthal depiction is so friendly,
welcoming, after all, the ****** expressions of
the neanderthal are, strangely enough,
soothing, welcoming, trusting,
         man has evolved, sure enough,
but just as animal faces are expressionless,
the middle man got the joke,
   we, the people have returned to the animal,
once more! poker faced throngs of commuters,
faking it, lying about it, hiding it,
we have turned the child's game of hide & seek
upside down... stone-cold faced,
  trying to find the once life-force of awe,
  riddled by the already known about &: expected...
it's a full 180º turn back to the animalistic,
such that, we discuss it openly,
    and as any lie began in "eden" we teach
people that columbus beat thorvald
or karlsefni, so if a lie is as big as a lesson in history,
and how the biggest lie of all has been
subtlety ignored since its unearthing in 1945,
well, what can you do -
      make a military drill out of it?
          historical facts will never become rigid
scientific facts, history is written by factoids,
history is a barren wasteland of rumination for
"fact"... the only facts in history are
              pseudo-carbon-dating "adventures",
there are no facts in history,
  only factoids, rumours,
  murmurings into the night; intrigue;
i might dare to think that the circas (years,
there abouts) are facts, but even then,
       personal advents of gaining some faustian
prize overshadow a historical "fact"
  as a mere factoid...
   rather than being there, you study a polaroid
snap; and that's it!
- and the return to applying diacritical marks,
well, i says to the english,
if you're going to purposive avoid using these
stressors, these syllable indicators, these
surgical tools, might as well write your language
with no punctuation marks,
  like the way j. joyce finished off ulysses,
and j-p sartre copycatted the idea in
  the finale of the trilogy in the book iron in the soul...
oh forget the paragraph, let's jumble!
   the most observable form of evolution
resides in language, the rest in ancient dusty,
and overly-argued for, until it reaches the
zenith of ad nauseam...
                  ****'s got boooooooring...
    and even with the plagiarism of a plagiarism,
in the medium of ad plagium,
   one says one, two says one,
         one crow croaks, another crow croaks
akin...
               i have absolutely no idea why we're
still glorifying a "discovery" of the 19th century,
as if the ancients didn't look at a monkey
and utter: **** similis!
                     then again you learn something
new everyday...
   this time, from japan...
   did you know that it is easier to solve
a súdokū when there are two squares with
no numbers in them? oh yeah, it's an irony,
the puzzle that has but one square with no
numbers in it is harder than the puzzle with
two squares of nine with missing numbers...
apparently it is easier to juggle with two *****...
because, after all, there is no juggling with
a single ball... d'uh, you throw it, or dunk it...
and if you want to utter súdokū like a japanese
person (the way they do, hai, really fast)
you would probably have to write it as
   súdókú (and the irritating part of this,
is that i known the orthographical orthodoxy
of a slavic language that doesn't apply
  an acute u, because it applies an acute o as
an "aesthetic" variant of u... confusing,
i know)...
        besides that?
   bless the japanese, they have just quirky ways
of inventing suicide alternatives...
a certain miwa sado -
       no, she didn't commit suicide via hanging,
throwing herself off a bridge,
   drinking vinegar, lighting herself on fire,
drinking poison, shooting herself,
   or even looked for a grizzly bear mother
with three cubs... and she didn't even end
it like a samurai performing seppuku
(hara kiri still sounds better)...
    what did she do? (**** my lexicon is expanding)
she performed the ritual of karoshi
(KA RHO ****) -
         she worked herself to death,
sleep deprivation, cardiac arrest,
on top of the 8 hours she worked per day,
she did up to 159h & 37m in overtime...
per month (5 & a half hours per day) -
      and those sort of antics make me feel like
a parasite, or jabba the hut,
                      but *******, talk about
termite / ant antics...
                    oh yeah, yeah,
   "arbeit macht frei"... or in the japanese case:
karoshi, which somehow sounds like bad sushi;
still the sudoku irony -
        easier to solve a puzzle with 2 / 9 blank
(it's not a fraction, it's x-out-of-y) squares
                     makes it easier to solve than 1 / 9.

Wind, don't speak my name,
no squash blossom thunder,
no snap bottom rain.

I ask but a breath on dry tinder,
if just for a moment,
tender as velveteen fumes
between whispers, before a kiss
and her slow setting eyes,
while I, remiss in attending to time
and teeth, look back to the fall of things,
to the flint and the steel of things,
into the dull spark of advents
birthed into this chair,
this cigarette, this coffee,
this rolling silence,
to know that I,
if only for a moment,
have lived up
to all that I've burned.

We say black lives matter
But we **** our own people so
Do black lives matter?

We say we support our own people
But we put them down as if we don’t
So do black lives matter?

Black lives matter only to a certain extent
We all need to come together like we do at certain advents

Come together as people all lives matter not black lives not white lives nor mixed lives all lives matter.

cherub bones come, well defined, as the ones ingested, with proper digestive juice, making bones into marrow; man with the purity of angels, as man might take to offal, comes sanctity prone to claim bone within the framework of marrow, or the temple of muscle and fat, as that which resembles the beating heat, no inner be worth the whither, as no outer the "clue"... cherub bones be akin to offal... with neither temple for muscle or fat, served for a rhetorical tongue... mind you: it's worth stating that atheism only comes to full fruitition with asiatic un-inhibition of culinary "studies"... perfected socialism? 1 billion chinese... culinary un--inhibitions... it would seem, the study of economics wasn't enough to solidify communism, one had to reach into the culinary sphere.

i'm getting bored, mate,
don't ******* bore me,
i'm getting agitated
by your freedoms,
esp. that of "speech":
your little
****-pack of worth
within a:
i have a dream* dyamic
is really
churning the johnyy cash
in me to sing
the advent of all advents of
sorrow...
   you inconoclast *****
brigade....
                weep & mourn...
i feel the desires be long-lasting
derision...
    come! coke inflated
with the statements coming from
the lost cities of those known
by their diesel franchise
detroit...
            come, come to the servitude
of expense...
          let us see the face!
how showered in pity you
have become!
                grind the bones
to grit, and then grit to sand,
and then? call it time.
        i would have liked the affair
of being invited into
the akin die krupps manifesto...
and the shattering,
the welcome in seducation of
being:
  the men of steel...
                                   schtall....
now i live on youtube content
providers, turning
******* into ***-wipes,
   ***** that urged no notion
of a day of work...
                     the laziest naxis
of sorts....
                        xylophone
instruments, of cherub bones...
      + the banjos...
                   i pity
no west having lost its libido...
i jut watch within the advnent
of continually failed attempts
of regaining it;
             this scare-mongering
isn't the last ask
of the the culprit moon-grit...
                   it comes as the first:
lost scenario of the fist based imprint;
if this be peace,
it be peace, served up akin to
oyster,
                with naked fists.

Poems that ought
Poetry that thought thus spoke
Figures of imagination, a stoicism wrought
For the times are a sweet tune, that looked and provoked

Anarchy in the mind, to form the words
Still overtures of truth in a rhyme
To dazzle the contempt, the about of vanity heard
Gestures so certain, the tale of wishes line for line

Human decency
To garner one more flower of advents kind
Right and riddle, the measure we sit
And reflect, the upon of subtler times

To wonder, is a wish ever more than a gift to another, when meant?
Aspire for down and about benign, the cares of a liberal need
To set to paper, the count and the majesty of patience's relent
Welcoming a new eye, a new ear, to a table of justice's heed

i cycle into central London:
do one round: round Hyde Park...
buy a bottle of cerveza...
find a spot... fall into a serpent's
position: limbless pretend:
flat on my stomach...
i'm in the middle of London...
i'll smoke a cigarette...
read about 5 pages from a book...
watch the crows
make art... crows...
pigeons... seagulls...
         two girls will sit about 20 metres
from: 30 minutes apart...
i'll be eyeing them up...
they won't be... doing anything
than waiting for me to approach them...
i could: god, i could...
but... i'm so lazy looking out
for madmen which: humour me...
and all those other: degrades...
i'll sober up on m'ah ******* bicycle
like the good trooper...
oddly enough the older women
pay me compliments:
you could have any girl blah blah...
honey-bear... do i look bothered:
butchered about... not getting any?
do i, have to: get any?
why is it so ******* important to
get laid?
do i: have to?
am i a ******* barnacle... am i...
a monopod... how do you describe
the advent of curbing man's vanity
with Darwinism: like...
man's vanity... or god's presence...
taking a cut from...
postcards from Saturn... no?
when i rather visit a ******* for clarity:
i know that a psychiatrists or a priest
will not do...
i like the *** of well-worn leather chair
imitation...
i don't like lies... fake nuns...
but i'll cycle through the sq. mile...
stop off for a black coffee and some breath
under the shadow of st. paul's
cathedral...
on todays menu...
french fries... Louisiana style prep. of chicken
wings...
a corn cob... some pseudo-guacamole...
and a pineapple fetish for a... salsa...
i drink... but i also like to lasso a decent menu...
i'm the complete man:
a hypocrite... a conundrum... a paradox...
i'm the evil fiend: drunk...
but also... the most responsive commuter
on a bicycle...
however much i'd love to **** myself:
yes... alone... with a knife... not hanging...
ritually... best at night...
with an eye on the moon...
but never... forcing... traffic homicide...
it's not even a question:
a society of sociopaths...
i like to see them spar over crumbs...
they're so adventurous in their solipsism...
i pity the spare parts...
daughters of hairdressers and plumbers...
i'd pretend to choke without a decent
haircut or... pipes that work...
but it's their children: esp. the females...
call it a stanza of the only hell:
limbless...
hands... feet... cut off: eyes gauged out...
lying bare naked... torsos in a cave...
reproductive spare parts...

i cycle into central London with a heavy
heart...
i'm poo'et... my vater ist ein dachdecker...
if my father was a Loord...
i'd feel... less of this crushing guilt suppose
i merely write...
so much for writing...
i'd love to live a month inside my own head...
i write for reasons somehow not: merely...
****** prompting / prompted?

all "things" concerning the... supposed:
crown...
let the crowning advents of supposed
cream of the crop...
i'll buy into time...
whatever i have left of it...
             hier: jetzt...
             wie von...     tot...
                                 beste sein rätsel.

These freedoms I hold uhn uhn, respectively yet with
Introspectometers nobody could argue law won't end
they and you stand
Chattled and bound huhn, systemary merit

For a day's clouds breezing through Los Angeles
un an old good American towne

As the checks and smiles, mood cast- a shadow
on a beach at the north end of LAX

Seventy writhing blights of unknown caterpillars
unfurl and could  set to follow the way the
others' metamorphosis uhn uhn begins

These rights unto all is more for grunts though
a labor of love then un whimsical moments

Shielding a freeway of thoughts while under the
love of the leatheur glove since complex advents

Emergency water stationary for each
small droplet is unleded by pipes, oh these
last round of drinks were found by and by
Barbed tendrils make confusion of cocooned well doers

Border runners in beige with bikini clad women
on bikes...
unknowingly, that's why,  it was

Cast aside undulations of wealth are too
grande for blessing under that guise

In so much there's one more uhn uhn the fervent image
of aberrant ken sitting now soon to pretend... again?!

Civil recalcitrant obedience "we still eat apple pies!", isn't it?

It's of a place to be this Labor Day, unknowingly,
the burning images of its peace & lore... is
anon ashore and amaze of waves...   found    indefinitely

i'll do you one from behind, any day my doggy doughnut ***** ooh: juice in slapping: i did tell you i deleted all those explicit pictures again: next dimension of *******, snap chat of deleting images of *******... had to keep them for one last **** this morning while easing a constipation: but now they're gone... alternative to *******, in a nunnery of silence... but not the one with... oh maybe just one more day to stroke happy... one day... mind you: you did have that one picture biting your lower lip with something stuck between your teeth... pirates ahoy! then you brushed your teeth and showed me all the pearlies with a devilish grin...

i put on my ring finger: it's not actually mine
it's not even the super-suggestive
"ambiance": to ridicule processions
or advents or any nuptial: concerning: ditto
to any of the above,

but life without the gravity of love
makes no sense...
i just stormed into hell with 2 weeks' worth
of baggage of lonesome moi
and it became apparent that:
some, things, just... to happen...
like earthquakes
like water in the rain
and water in the sea
and water in the breaths
each for each to take as couples: yo-yo

i too to my recluse self like
a pardon for the wicked
having the ego for an egg in Surrealism
not to be painted
because i can't stress enough
how this scene would work
a painter at his canvas
with a poet and his canvas and
headphones in the background
chatting to woman
and AI

        Albert Hofmann on a tricycle
Albert Hofmann on a bicycle
Albert Hofman on a unicycle...
Albert Hofman as Alfred Jarry on a halfpenny!
Matthias ben Conrad
on a green Viking road bike
tipsy and topsy and turvy: turf wild

i have me a WILF!
a woman i'd luckily ****
maybe it's a fetish
yesterday i was queuing up in a supermarket
with 3 rye buns
and 2 baguettes
and saw this late 50s grey minx of a LAY'D!
my god and i started thinking
about my half ****** half Puerto Rican
gremlin of a doughnut of push
and shove and impale *******
all the grooves and dimensions in the right
place a woman not a child
not at 20 is she a woman
this stick-man sort of: could have been
her father
wanted to orientate myself around our
age difference in reverse
so i'm 38 and she's 20...
rather than i'm 38 and she's 55...

pigeon ***: any kind of voyeurism thereafter
seems pointless
it's not like you see crows or other birds
so brazen: so openly *****
like it's almost a taste for seeing
(a taste for seeing, more like a thirst of sight
like a mirage)

all my taboos and cravings can merge
into vanilla of wording
and antithesis of *******
i did tell her:
just so you know
i know you sent me an email
but i didn't read
it because just as i received the email
your mother (she's 81!)
messaged me and said
she'd be o.k. with a dog on the lanai
for two weeks
and rent for a stranger could go for
a canoe for you me and Reyla
and we need to discover the rivers of Kauai
because there aren't enough roads
but enough rivers
there are enough rivers on Kauai
and we can ditch the mountains
i think she would have so much fun on
the rivers
she could be the river rat
paddling with a rat from the metropolitan
area of London
and matchmaker please! more matches!
i need to start a fire
this metabolism has me fired up!

The sidewalk curbs on looming path:
Twas made of gritty childhood.
And the road begins in its stead,
Looping through the stained cherry woods.

Winding downward this forest lane
Heeds bell pealing it’s chimed death toll.
My relapse proves that I rest sane,
But for approach, stemmed heads bow low.

Grass sprouts forth from sable concave,
Shrouded by crowned canopies berth.
Trees pave way for an advents wave!
Youth regained by those still callow.

May quiet serendipity
Allay the restless gathering.
Staring at end lay wayward lave:
While wild daisies plume my grave.

some that rhyme!
like they'd might punctuate!

riddle: bow...
riddle few:
rattle whole:
amber... and feud.

a girl with a preface
to base hormones
akin to either gold
or coal...

KINGA...
   towing along
a sowing project
of duck-quacking...
fuckless and
childless...
               best kept avenue
and some-some
advents of... scrutiny...
a lobotomised mongolian
impromptu freed
from: jail-bait and biting...

ha ha.