Here you stand blowing raspberries
at my phonemic skills.
Please close your lips. Just listen.
Learn of bilabial trills.

You may call me an animal
for my alveolar clicks,
for in America its only real use
is for catcalling chicks.

And not many understand
a velar implosive stop,
that the words are the gurgle
of a doughnut shop cop.

And yes,  my pharyngeal fricative
sounds like something's amiss.
But its not always contempt,
like some puppet show hiss.

So, if you just could excuse
my pulmonic ingressive,
I promise, If it feels like it hurts,
I will be singly expressive.

I guess all I can say
is that when you hear what I say,
remember, it more than just words
that I try to convey.

she said her name
was: "Zeta Ampersand!"
"Wot?" I wotted?

her Da had named her after
some mathematical function
Ampersand she just liked the sound

she even signed her self
ζ (& ) "...the artist formerly known as
my self!"

"59 & 509...both primes!" she smiled
"30, 031...isn't!"
"!?!" I said

I watched a snake
of sweet sweat slither
between her cleavage

"...the Buckmisterfullerene molecule is
like a soccer ball...blah de blah.."
"Uh huh..yeah...I'm...eh...listening..."

to my heart beat
wildly out of control
she an Everest...I the foothills

said she liked
Daft Punk & kissing
"Now there's a coincidence..." I whispered

Daft Punk I didn't know but
I had a 1st Class Honours
in kissing &...stuff

we made love with
AROUND THE WORLD on replay
"Call me Z..." she sighed

*** with her was like
voicing alveolar sibilant fricatives
"Gee Zee...geeee!" was all I could say

I was an quantic entity
experiencing wave/particle duality
for the first time forever

i find it scary that people
who claim sanity
and drink coffee puffy-eyed
at 5a.m.
are the relative answer to
make those, drinking whiskey
at 7 minutes to midnight,
as being insane...*

forthrightly to obscure and to make make words archaic
would never make sense in geometry...
or what's the archaic standard
diacritical model of: yeß, prime minißter!
when you don't apply orthodox diacritical syllable
incision you'll make nonsense adjustments:
for a trill (or rolling)
we range from "r" alveolar "trill"
    and ʙ / v in Cyrillic (acute w)
           into bilabial?
я-Alice... uvular?
                  voiceless epiglottal trill,
or n, or ...  or surd?
                     you really have to word it
or over-word it when a few punctuation
marks aren't ascribed to phonetic units
that letters are:
rather than phonetic equivalents of ethanol
as attaches of carbohydrates
to be later stressed in the discussion:
which never took place...
    i'm still baffled by the conesus that
someone drinking coffee at 5a.m. is considered
sane compared with someone drinking whiskey
at five-past midnight...
the former is sane because in his state he will
embrace the state and craft a future plan for
making change... and the latter will
have to inherit the estate of the asylum
and craft a future plan that says: you, will,
not, be, able, to, congest, this, world,
with, your, dreams; even, if, your, dreams,
are, equatable, with, demeaning, ambitions,
to overcome, the stereotypes,
                 for they speak the drooling R...
when others hark or trill it...
                            and they say: power
exacted from an "ambiguity" of what's necessarily
stressed when a word is cut apart into
syllables, which cannot be further exposed to be
under-the-scalpel of letters having "punctuation"
marks (diacritical marks)...
as some might say, i'm colourblind given
the medium i use that's dichromatic sentenced to
be polarised by that, which is in between...
council-flat tenants complaining to the builders that
their kitchens don't represent Kuwait hotels
in Newham... or how to address post-colonialism
in how to represent modernity and moderation
and a disfranchise of ethnicity being the original
model for exploitation...
             i remember a time in England when
it was a happy place to be... prior to 2004...
          talk in Poland? mongrels amid stern
nationalism that represses homegrown terrorism,
given the historicity of Pole and Turk...
        and someone in the Philippines is to
address the question of justifiable censorship?
the Englishman is overtly prudish,
or let us say: overtly too polite...
   the Englishman is towing politeness when
he's actually towing a rotting corpse of a titan
he once was...
there was no chance to teach people
diacritical syllable punctuation, hence that
pseudo-science of leveraging a simple diacritical
representation into a dynamic of a Rosetta stone...
what could ʢ ever represent other than
a voiced episteme gluttony without a drill to
concede a need to repeat summer follows spring?
yes, after 2004, my status of a minority was left
blemished by those who i account for as my
"brethren", but, who have dragged me down,
to worthily accept a quote from Isaiah,
to some obscure circumstance of having an ethnicity
to begin with, and so unlearn my use of English
into a hostile psychological stance that simply said:
globalisation, and war against all and none:
within a framework of none? myself.
now i'm jealous of a snoopy-eyed garcon
and i know he's not jealous of me...
but i am jealous of the idea that capitalism actually
implants in the garcon's hope the idea of
a "state" pension... there are no states within
globalisation... the other "Japanese" time-bomb
in western society is not old age... it's pensions:
pray to god you don't reach old age...
the productivity of an expendable billion of Chinese
means you are entrusted with a brief hiatus
from work, and an slight existential bewilderment:
before jumping into the yawning lava pit of Etna.

Waiting for the sun to come
Banish this fog
And vanish the frost
From my shuddering skin
The ice is melting, the sea overflows
The air blows hot and cold, that's something that a lot of people don't understand
Global warming coincides with ice ages
I confide my hate and my hope to adjacent pages
In my manual of how not to be
If I have to burn, I hope the sun swallows me
But the horizon lies and makes promises that it can't keep
And yeah, I feel something moving in the deep
But my world is standing still and
My armor is cracked, retract the knife from my back
Before it corrodes from my acidic soul
The shadows impose upon the earth and
The night, there is no light to go around
I see the ground and the void compromising
I see the sun still isn't rising
And the fog is tenacious, voraciously seeking
Out alveolar spaces in my lungs
If there is a god why does it only help some?
I'm so ******* tired
Just let the end come

this fresh philosophy of forest
brushes past my ears fine-tuned to
its autumnal voice ~
I eavesdrop on amber
leaves letting go of their
love from these alveolar-like trees,
and a gurgling creek that drains
all my expectations downstream

Written by Sara Fielder © Nov 2016

From this hydrant, I begin to drink
The wealth of knowledge, the geyser that
Overwhelms with ambition linked
To an endless reservoir of defeat.
I already feel the bloat setting in,
My internal resistance signaling
Near capacitance, the visceral
Response to give up, to give in, to halt.
Fight or flight has never felt so raw,
The two diverging at the carina
Aspirating the decision into me
As they inundate my atria.
I can feel the icy hot burn searing
My chest and neck from the inside out,
The irony of alveolar collapse
Rejecting my futile attempt
To breathe
Just like the titans swimming far ahead
Effortlessly whilst I struggle to tread,
Clawing at suffocating airways
That have yet to surpass elastance
And evolve the surfactant that promises
Life
Beyond the sleepless nights
Beyond the next exams
Beyond the repeating cycles
Of maximal effort and minimal results.
I crave the day when the desperation
For air to fill my lungs, to inspire
And expire the atmosphere, is replaced
With an aqueous tidal volume
That dissolves the surmounting pain
And converts water into air.

From this hydrant, I begin to breathe.

I wander this valley verging on black
And exhausted, I lap the ***** lack.
The question whether I'd be fast or slow.

Often my flesh begs and beckons for flesh,
The same way entrails desire to digest.
Furthermore, even and ever more so
The eye sees a feminine collage and wishes
To take and forget a thousand faces.

But flesh makes no remarks that it wants a heart.
For I do not need love, nor regret, nor
Shattered shards that implore to call for more.
Although sometimes I aspire the pride of two parts,
Since the single must play and pay alone,
A debt of dates not buried like bones.
For I often feel I must play the scriptless part.
So sometimes I wish to play the jester,
And for a soft face to grow lighter.

Yet…
Why reenact what was?
Why phlebotomize my pen?
The call has been made and rejected
With the mentors and the Goddess I have met.
Afterall, the sky was already blue before she left
And now shades have only darkened.
For women excite and ignite the cauldron,
Only to boil the broth, summoning smoke
And conjuring cuneiform from words I thought I knew.
Within darkness previously mentioned
Leviathans slither by lips which whisper.

To fall and collapse
For jokes at her feet.
My pen pressed.
Unable to clear the hourglass sand that dirties
The wind sweeps across the beach.
My pen pressured to leak.

No one told that man, how hard it would be
To let unfurling sapphires become passion. Yet
Everyone knew which way he ought to be in action.
They bought your innards with dinner, they took
The muscles by which morsel and mouthfuls travel
And took your mouth in debt that lasts till death.
While the rain fell like ink on the heartbroken stage,
As my pen wept upon the page.

I know lessons ought to be known with each mistake
But with this heartache, which mistake do I begin with.
Still my pen weeps upon the page.
He cries to speak,
Of a girl who spoke of vulnerability
And thought of Othello till the leaves yellowed
And funnily enough, pierced me.
A story she’d never write for me, for why would she bother?

I now care only for the alarm
And howling, hollering sirens
Of diversions and perversions
And I’m scared only by the harm
That wouldn’t bleed but would imply
My lacerated pen leaks upon the page.  

As a thousand poets pens have bled.
For heroes have fled into stories of old
And all stories told from youth
Say let lingering souls lay low.
Don't dare resurrect this meek creature.
Hasn't he suffered enough?
Don't dare twist via alveolar to say "Hello."
Don't you dare continue this.
For why would we let tongues lick our innards and hollow us.

Yet…
Sometimes on tired nights as I stare above,
Lapping the lonely lack. The void stares back,
As we lock eyes and despise one another.
I wish I could turn my face and see her
Who at least to me, is a precious beauty,
For only a moment sometimes.
I could close my eyes and hold on tightly,
As she folds within these thin arms of mine,
From somnolent nights, till the end of time.