Yes, its the year twenty eighteen and not Nineteen forty-four

but comrades and friends, hear me out for I know not what to do

Do be kind and laugh you not, or raise your eyes or snigger like fools

the problem is, like Duke Philip, Mark Philips, Snowdon and Mike Tindall

I have known a Royal Princess for years and really like her very much



She is so sweet and nice, ever gentle, warm, kind and thoughtful

smart and clever, fun and playful yet regal and charismatic

and it is said, pardon moi, she has the sweetest honey ***, to boot

I know she fancies me too, for her intense eyes and actions tells me so

we talked, we joked, drink and laugh and share little tender touches



She lives in a grand little apartment and drive a lovely old car

well read, witty and engaging, she's fun and very good company

She,s impressively intelligent with a wide grasp of social issues and life

very versatile, she can turn her hand to anything and does things well

above all, she's a people's person, always sensitive to the needs of others



Alas, that was then, for now in months, we no longer see or speak

for I am a coward, right through and thorough and not very bright

You see I am, though no longer said, a commoner born and bred

and to me and my kith and kin, its always has been 'us and them'

And from birth, our tradition states, never the twain shall meet, so there!



For if I show my real feelings to my Princess and be real, nice and warm

I shall, by my lot be accused of being impressed by 'them snotty lot'

If I show I really care and want to be close and spend time with her

my lot will mock me to high heavens and call me a toady brown-noser

They will scream, crawler, fawner, he's just a flunkey and a groveller



Again, if with her I am real and natural as with all I know in my circle

they will say I am an arduous social-climber, being what he's not

And to boot, were I to be true to myself and have who I really want

I will be ******, shunned and labelled, a big 'Gold-digger,' true

Look at him, betraying his roots and all for shinning lucre from them



So being the coward, under-confident, paranoid, insipid under-achiever

traits, you all know and have, inherited from birth along with you all from our class

So what else to do, but drive my kind, real and genuine Princess away from me

I had to behave rude and shabbily to show I had no regard for 'them Royals' ones

I shouted and scorned to indicate I have no respect for any 'regal' whatever



Its all show with us, so I put on a good show and reported back to my lot

oh, I farted in the Princess' face and took the **** as we spoke, hahaha

Oh, I stood over the Princess and shouted and raved in public, hahaha

oh, I ignored her calls and never text or call her back, hahaha hahahaha

Oh, do you know, I shouted and slammed the phone down on her, twice, haha...haha



Wow, did I win bragging rights or what, I did not betray my roots, I tell you

I walk amongst my lot now with pride, and I can see they are all impressed

Some idiot said, hey! isn't the Princess just another human like you

did she treat you like that, are you not intelligent enough to see past labels

Have you ever heard, 'Do unto others as you want them do unto you'



Alone by myself, I feel ashamed, I think about her and wished I'd behaved differently

but what could I do, what's the right and correct thing to do in this situation

I am weak, I always need others, not confident enough to stand up for myself

Though educated, I am not intelligent enough to be self-assured, fair and measured

And all my insecurities means I need others attention, kinship and approvals



I love 'showing off', I think most of us do it to make up for our inferiority complexes

Nothing beats being able to say, I disrespected those toffee-nosed ones

Though my Princess was very down to earth and never haughty, she is still one of them

But I have to be a working class hero or be shunned and given grief by my lot

After all, I am not Royal and made of sterner stuff. we are not born and bred that way

Hahaha.....hahaha....hahaha........yeah, I'm the man! Who's your daddy, people?



Copyright LaurenceA. 14th June, All rights reserved.

"You're so beautiful,"
says
Mr. You-Deserve-Better.
His friend,
Joe I-Can-Be-Different,
nods in agreement.
I'm just Miss Single-20-Something
searching for companionship
finding nothing
but the company
of every one-track-minder
in the Greater Portland Area.
I've been promised the moon,
stars,
a few planets here
or there.
Receiving just grunted approvals
from two-pump chumps
with over-active sweat glands.
So excuse the skepticism
clouding my judgement
as I roll all man kind
into one conclusion:
You all bark like dogs.
If he acts like one,
and smells like one,
I'd say Bingo
is his
name-o.
Just save it.
This Jenny has been around the block.
Your flowers will die.
Your chocolates will go to my hips.
For now,
your name is Mud,
and you can call me Miss Independent.

Do not lance your hair

Just to satisfy those men in suits,

Or your woman, sat there with that expectant gaze

Reserved for only you.



Let your image be cultivated

Through the culture of the downstroke.

The lazy thick steel on the neck of the guitar

That shudders at your touch

And responds with the readiness of one thousand ******

Cooing their broken sounded and false approvals.



I see your fingers fumble across the chipped mahogany

And I recall on the benefit of all men

The first and forgotten lovers,

Buried beneath years of clumsy ***

And vicious disregard.



And from the shadows in the archives of your grey matter

You remember every wince of self-doubt,

Etched across the faces of your women

That you never cared to notice in the dizzy ecstasy

Of your youthful wantonness

And the hardness of your ****.



So age will bite at your features,

And you will squint in the wind,

Cowering at the cold that clings to your bones.

At some age you will cut your hair

And iron your shirt.

Nurse your whiskey

And find yourself in receipt of all those women

Still tangled in the hotel sheets

In the back lodgings of your mind

And everything they did to shape you.



And you pick up that old acoustic

And play the tune of one thousands odes.

I can still recall the familiar smell of burning candles that ignited the hot air like a ceremonial perfume. But the presence of soft music, dim lights, and my Mothers unwavering smile all distracted me from what I was to truly encounter that day. That morning my Mother managed to push back most of my stubborn curls away from my face dressing me in an elegant but modest white dress. She explained to me that this was a defining point in my life and I was to look my best for it. It was the day I would walk down the church aisle with many other girls in front of church members to pledge an oath of abstinence prior to marriage. At fourteen years old I stood before my mother, before the congregation, and before God to make a promise not to share my sexuality hardly before reaching an age to explore it myself. This was called: A True Love Waits Ceremony. As I walked inside the entrance crossing between pillars I quickly noticed the Church walls decorated in hues of pinks and reds alongside matching drapes trimmed with frill to better represent the month of Valentines the month of love. In the act of taking my first few steps toward the podium I passed rows and rows of chairs where my fellow church members sat. There were some I knew and some I didn’t but they all gave their nods of approvals to me just the same. Participating in this ceremony was not only suggested but encouraged. As a symbol of my promise I was given a piece of jewelry which as a young girl I could not help but be excited to wear together with others. I was given what is called a purity ring yes given, not asked. During the time I was walking past the audience I felt the sweat of my mother’s palm as she held my hand or was that mine? Our eyes met and she gave a light squeeze of reassurance. When we finally reached the front steps of the great sanctuary each child turned around to face their parents to recite our vows together as one. While my Parents stared back at me proudly I repeated the words just as rehearsed, just like the others, and just as expected of me. It was not until years later that I would ever think about this moment again. This moment between moments where something unknowingly happens to you. Something honest but deceptive. Because no one asked me at fourteen if I understood what *** was only that I need not involve myself in it. Ironically my Sunday school teachers told me I was ready to make this lifelong commitment to abstain from *** just not old enough to engage in it. They instructed me this was my responsibility to hold myself at this standard of dressing and acting appropriately to help men not fall short of their sins. That my body a body not yet fully developed could inspired men of an impure nature a nature of which must be controlled. And since the vast majority of deacons, ministers, pastors, and church officials were men the only other *** to be considered as the primary focus for desire was women and consequently me. However when your fourteen years old no one tells you this. What’s more frightening is that some people do not see the error in it either. When you grow up in a religious sect it’s not necessarily discouraged to question what you’re told but rather that starting as early as childhood there is just so much indoctrination being imbedded for there to be any room left to give birth to independent thought. All I can draw from these events now as an adult is that humanity is flawed and sometimes completely inaccurate. When taking this into account it can only make since that when people get together to form a system, the system too will be flawed and yes sometimes wrong too. So when you grow up Baptist remind yourself not to confuse your faith in God with your faith in humanity. People try to be honest like God but the deception is that we are impossibly flawed and can never hope to be anything like him and that is the honest deception.

he should be called Jesus Lucifer
rather than Jesus Christ,
i mean, the illumination is unreal -
there are so many faults,
and redemption does come,
you're given a name by your parents,
then you're given a church name
at your baptism, then you're entrusted
with making a choice:
given your first and second name,
and your surname: 3 down, 1 to go...
and if the new testament wasn't
a revelation as a profanity of
the tetragrammaton, then the
Christian bureaucracy added to that
does prove to be a concern of abuse,
they said Idle        Joe Samuel Philip Esquire
was the same as      Y       H         W        H -
i'm only stressing these four letters,
because, when i approach them, they respond,
with that joke i'll hear coming from science:
the roving stars will be hailed as comets!
well, revisions of comets, Dobermans
(enlarged Dachshund, which in Polish
is read jamnik, curiously not Deutschehund): tails cut off.
honestly, in him our sole salvation,
i've seen so much **** in this world
i'd gladly do a Homer and earn blindness...
but the profanity of the tetragrammaton
goes beyond the four gospels,
it's enshrined in the first name,
the middle name, the confirmation name,
and the surname -
that's a desecration if i've ever seen one,
i didn't imagine it would be this
crucial as to follow falling brick
with falling brick when it came to spelling
out something a carrier pigeon would have
carried: so, honestly?
i think the a - z was born from a priori
sustenance was not enough, nothing makes it clear
why we would enshrine Chinese whispers
for empirical reasons, when they were from -
well, optically we invited transcendence
of our eyes, we basically put our eyes into our
mouths and asked our tongues to
raise a choirous rebellion against the ears.
               - now she wishes to be the gladly budding
flower... now she wishes she was more
home approving than: a house built on sand...
i've seen feminism turn into a sordid affair,
associating itself with many cares of bachelors
in the field of study...
this ain't picking broccoli mind you,
this isn't peeling onions,
ever wonder why you keep hearing a train
or the gallop of horses in the night?
i love that game children have: hide & seek,
which later translates into negation & denial of adults...
because that's how i will exactly deal with you people...
candy floss choo choo... you're
not in the invested in percentage...
but he clearly is, Jesus Lucifer,
he's so ******* illuminating you get bargain sales
in the calculator department... as describing him shows,
given the Church and first and second and
confirmation name and surname... a profanity
of the tetragrammaton, more harm done in that than
desecrating Roman temples in Syria...
you basically broke the bank
and said: Swiss investments following this
are budding with hefty approvals -
but it really doesn't matter... i'm used to jokes,
i can walk into a supermarket,
by my usual litre of whiskey and a beer,
and hear the cashier talk with another customer and joke
and laugh... i don't mind, i like entertainment,
they speak of the sacred chalice...
well, they joke about a sacred chalice...
in my mind i just have an imprint of Christopher Columbus;
his contemporaries aren't exactly laughing now...
they're tourists... camping out 1 mile outside of Las Vegas;
so yeah, ha ha, he he.

Pay checks and movie stubs
amongst reciepts and wrappers
buried beneath fields of dust bunnies
and clouds of unused smoke
is that all there is?
Graded approvals and first take judgements
within statement making garments
dependant upon conditions and factors
and one can't forget limits
is that all there is?
Genuinely fake smiles and unpiercing sharp eyes
around the time of no boundaries
next to missed alarm clock rings
and ever so important transit missions
is that all there is?
Talk back and rumor mills
spin webs of classes missing caste systems
yet gaining entry into future endeavours
so clever these days of ours
is that all there is?
Awkward congregations and a sense of forced happiness
paired with seemingly healthy attractions
combine to create an enviroment in which only the parasites can dwell
is that all there is?

I'm a person that always feels alone & unwanted, a general feeling that's never gone... The desires to be important & not just the doormat.... Not to only be remembered when you need something, the nerve to call yourself my friend is amusing...

Being the nice guy with the world walking all over you when your working hard all for you, approvals mean most to me mistake number one but I hope for my sake this all just passes

The story of my life is a bad joke and I'm the punchline, the pun to this joke is that I've accepted it, if you hear me loud enough now through my silence, your heart has ears better than the ones attached to your head those ones just have you mislead....

Vent what feel not what you think your heart speaks louder than your mind and if you don't mind I'd rather listen to the beat of your heart than the thump of your mind...

Be it rye, barley, berries: whichever my glass carries
- will keep me content- if only for a brief moment.
These fermented cherries do cause the little fairies
- to speak, very, kindly to me, far as my eyes can see.
Could it be: thee- yeast has suddenly caused a cease
- in sanity- for me? Or is it that I've, simply, released
- my need for other people's nods and approvals?
Have I, merely, stopped caring what fellow pupils
- see and/or feel when they look or think t'ward me?

the fat **** there lay
On the wall
splayed between thighs open
Without expression
Except as art
The beauty of figure
Nature's whorish expression
comes to life in this ****
In pencil, or is it pen?
Shocked ***** nether
pressed into 80 pound bond
Look, look away
Move on, but look back
watch her lips purse
irises flicker and throats clear
Fountains of youth
never produced such blush
In the markings of young women
where bared ***** roam
in Quieted approvals
And not this shaft of derision
Where ******* have put down
and no one blinks an eye
So raised are now the *****
and let's see where the room turns.

the older i become the more it hinders my output:
volume, quality, whatever you want to call...
perhaps it's censorship (in a way) -
a ****** lenovo keyboard: not wide enough
to properly place my hands to not look down
but ahead at the genius of QWERTY...
since... believe me: the classical order of the alphabet
conjured up by the French (perhaps i'm
remembering incorrectly) is not really important:
what matters is the entire body of the scripted
language... words don't unravel from a prerequisite
of abcdefghijklmnopq...rs...t...u...v...w...x...y...z
is that all the letters?
i actually don't know fingers dart backwards &
forwards... or, not really... when playing this
"piano" anyway: as long as all the required
letters are invoked in the required words:
hey presto! meaning!
                      there ought to be 26... funny...
there are 32 letters in the ****** (western Slavic)
alphabet... the same number as the teeth
in my gob...
but sometimes i "lose" a poem... whether it's censorship
when i make a post: ****! gone...
or whether i'm callous with the ctrl + c / + p / + a
scenario when i drank a little bit too much...
i don't know... perhaps i'm writing for
some elite that doesn't want the public to read
my work... i like to think of it that way...
but losing a poo'em can become so disheartening
that i i sometimes want to forget that i speak:
let alone write... now longer periods when
i can rekindle a makeshift monologue:
but then i have to find something technical in language
to reorient my purpose...
it's becoming less & less easy...
esp. since i'm not writing fiction...
  just... grass is green... butternut squash soup is
more than hearty: but it will never match up
to my better take on the Heinz canned classic... period...
not enough chilly in the Heinz... canned classic...
& never eaten with a slice of bread...
it requires vermicelli... like most soups do...
like a decent ****** chicken broth...
which also requires... well: poaching the carcass
but  base set of vegetable...
a leek... a celeriac root slice...
parsley root... a carrot... garlic... celery stalks...
parsley - the green leaves...
salt, pepper... & vermicelli...
oh... & plenty of time...
i'm disheartened when i lose a piece of script:
it's not Shakespeare (obviously) but so much emotion
can flow into the cascade that:
tabloid newspapers are given bragging rights...
are, ahem... "important"... so... my writing...
whether by censorship or not...
or my clumsy fingers when putting across
a body of text from one canvas to another... goes wrong...
hours become days when i find a new:
desire to write... since... writing is much easier
to thinking...
writing is much easier to thinking...
as thinking is much easier to speaking...
- but all of a sudden my life has changed a little...
writing is so much easier when you're
not "doing" anything...
mein gott... poems flow & flow... snippets
of narrative arrive at your forehead & fingertips like
postcards from your ex-girlfriends missing
you dearly from exotic locations: as if being married
& having children is still not enough because:
they didn't have your children & aren't married to you...
the poo'em i lost was about... two days ago...
travelling to Wembley Park for... an induction...
the role? being a steward...
i figured: enough of youth can be wasted on dreams...
literary dreams...
let's inject some... proper... grass-root ambition
with... RE-AH-LI-TY (****... phonetically that's
REE-AH-LEE-TEA/EE/AE)...
this writing "business" isn't going at the pace
i want... sure... i can brag about...
wow... almost 40 thousand views of one poem...
there are over 6K poems of mine, just here...
Wembley Stadium can host 90,000 spectators...
one poem of mine can muster up... almost half
of the capacity?
not bad... but... not good enough...
lucky for me i can relate for this sort of thirst when
drinking... sometimes i'm content with
a bottle of wine... at other times i need a liter of whiskey...
go figure... but not when so many idiotic pundits...
when there's this media masquerade happening...
i'm in the shadows: i'm listening to what people
are listening to... i never leave traces in the comment
sections: a waste of time...
makes thinking about certain things easier:
when you don't air your opinions...
after all: that's pseudo-rhetorical...
the true art of debate is... withdrawing from:
debating... the dialectical position is:
first mind diacritical marks (sorry... none in English,
& yes... it's still more ugly
when phonetically charged with graffiti "mishaps"...
misnomer: "shortcuts")...
- where was i? oh right... perhaps i "missed" something
in my original lost sample of a narrative:
although (last time i checked)
this website provides automated save as drafts
when you stop typing - after a prolonged period
of typing: my bad...
writing is so much easier when life is uneventful...
i could tease that word: uneventful into
a katakana syllabary: i almost want i almost have
to i therefore (not almost, but) must:
un-eh-vent-ful...
oh look at that: sitting pretty like a toddler
with a drumstick of a chicken (leg)...
**** it: my writing is going nowhere...
i have more ambition to simply let it... sizzle in its own
juices: or whatever better expression is handy...
none come to mind...
i need to look at people: i need to study people...
the internet is an echo-chamber to begin with:
it used to...
a jukebox narrative... such freedoms were
once available... mein gott... what music
i discovered when foraging on youtube...
in two years... gone... the algorithm got ******...
period: bad grammar is an exemplification
of this load of: hot-steaming... mix of **** & *******...
i need a real job... wasting my youth on writing
is not enough: perhaps my writing will catch up:
or my readership will... either way:
i'm not aiming for anything under
the title-weight of a Bukowski:
lucky ******... but i'm also not aiming for
the almost near obscurity of... the Black Mountain poets...
who was their leader... Larry?
Lee-rrr...       eh... it's not like a tarantula didn't
crawl into an English mouth & "somehow"
numbed the tongue for the end result of:
nein zu tremolo! ****'s sake... if i only asked:
why the French Fwench... but they hark so:
never mind...   yes, yes... Larry Eignar...
**** me... that took a while...
but there's another... a "renegade" on the...
ha ha... steppes of "Cambodia"...

          Russell is a likely connotation...
but incorrect... let's see....
     wait... Charles Olson... ol' Ollie...
he? he was a black mountain poet?
you ******* kidding me...
no chance in hell that will pass by me
given.... concerning his Maximus poems...
like: **** no...
i'm a critic i'm a nobody i'm a porveurour...
now i remember the ******'s name:
Robert ******* Kreely...
him! Kreely: Creely... Creeley...
**** it... fling in the vowels...
lets see what sort of a trebuchet **** master
you... ought... might... make.
oh.... wait.... important "news"...
an... apostrophe "missing": plain Jane typo....
where?LET(')S i.e. implying the shortening of:
the inclusivity of the collective... "US"..
      wunderbar!
                 schön!
that's the umlaut O... ergo... shoo... shoon...
great!
                           kaninchen und...
                        rosa ball-ons!  
i know a ******* balloon from a *******
ball-on... it's like telling me...
what's the difference between an omicron
and an omega...
i.e. do you really need to tell me
the difference?
sure... if it was an upsilon: you *******
clueless Greek!
what audacity:
you ******* clueless... Greek...
what... better some Iranian...
arriving from... Belarus?!
oh sure... i really want to live in Kenya...
among the ivory beauties with skins
that hide their bodies...
******* milk on toast... some chocolate:
sprinkled... i see teeth & sclera...
& some mahogany...
  ****? i'd **** anything that moves...
even south Korean girls geared up for a game of....
ping-pong....
my bad... what?
or is that: WAT like... WATT...
the energy unit or the Samuel Beckett novel
that over-competes James Joyce's Ulysses?!

your is the roulette... yours... hmm... your's...
for a while... the latter was underlined...

life used to be so much simpler when...
language could speak for... "itself"...
no one could use it: somehow, "somehow"...

i applied for the role of a Wembley Stadium
steward on a whim...
i thought: **** it... writing is not going toward
a projected: Ginsberg stastus...
i'm not going to compete with the leftoid jargon
of the 1960s... lucky me...

i'm just a terrible "millenial"...
i use an apostrophe like i migh5t secure understand
of the Pythagorean hypotenuse...
some C "squared"...
Wembley Stadium steward...
this... cacophony of hierarchy "suddenly" hits me...

i can understand authority...
tier one, tier two... vampire... zombie...
sure, sorted...

of the supposed 12 rules for life...
one of them reeds... i suppose that's reed: read:
reeds... sorry.. n'est ce pas...
pet a cast on the sreet?
you know, how hard it is... to pet a cat..
on the street?!
if you lived in England...
wolves... what wolves?!
foxes... oh yeah... plenty of those...
but... petting cats?
a bit like explaining...
a jpeg. take up less volume... ha ha: "volume"
than a pdf. file...

why i was mo4e than ready: i'll never known...
perhaps i'm a closeted fan of Ed Sheeran,
perhaps i like children in the role of:
a fathering figure...
perhaps children like to
poke my beard & lips...
perhaps this... perhaps that...
perhaps i'm ******* Santa Claus...
or what's Satan's Claus(e)....
all these freebies... cough up!

or... i just like making people "feel" included:
"feel" is one "thing", REALISED... another...
it might sound like newsspeak...
but... i don't want to ingest another...
Manchester Bomb Arena spectacle...

SAA... a week in Brixton... 7 days...
but they require a cohort of at least 12 applicants...
it elevastes your status as steward to:
someone who can: "juggle"...
be legally obliged to utilised force:
if necessary...
i like... i like... i like...

first ZOOM call in my life... ******* Ludite...
luddite... ugh... that double D kills me...
surd: you don't hear(d) to: begin with...
so... what... spelling "mistake"?

oh sure... the ****** transit & traffic...
train from Romford through to Liverpoool St...
then the Metropolitan Line to Wembley Park...
great... the arch...
a black coffee from McDonald's & two croissants from
Lidl... morning... done...
no more... morning sickness....
come late afternoon Somali girls eyeing me up in a black
tie... o.k. sure... fair game: "gamble"...
hunting what?
i like this understudy of what's man...

i arrived an hour early...
waited the tad bit... of a little... we exchanged formalities... but then i watched as...
two groups formed...
the ****-shock-show of the multi-cultural urban... ahem... "class"... with one rep. & the other... mostly... asian men... with their... asian rep...

12 rules for life... seriously?! do you know how hard it is... to pet a cat? sorry... can i make you reiterate... petting a cat... lucky me... for petting two cats today... "strays"... but... do you know how nearly impossible it is... to pet cats, is?! you don't pet a cat because you can... you pet a cat out of the whims of: the cat willing you to pet it!  just like i like... sitting on my windowsill listening to foxes bemoan their lack of ****** adventures... it's England... foxes... ergo no wolves! d'uh! cull the foxes... you cull the erotica of the nights!

between... sigourney weaver... &...
mmm... winona ryder...
raven 'air...
two winners... how harems work...

Tuba Büyüküstün...

apologies for the phrasing...
if all the supposed gems not donning niqabs
that are western women
are so... *******: NIGGERCOCK mad...
Tuba Büyüküstün... oh... look at me...
you think i want some anemic blonde:
stereotype?!
raven... hair!
sure... the black male specimens are
handsome, attractive: if i were a woman:
i would... ha... "problem"...
why don't i want to...
the ****** antonym... because a white girl
really wants to... do a black guy...
do i... "have" to have the same
compulsions with regards to a black girl?!
Turkic! **** yes!
Mongolian... probably!
Tuba Büyüküstün...
or... swans probably don't have necks...
no... swans probably don't have necks
when you see this:

(although sophie skelton looks
better in the initial photograph...
papa best preached)...
swans don't have necks...
not with her...
around... to... curate... a balett of
nodding  approvals...

Caitríona Mary Balfe... i'm so loved up...
in that i once remarked in private:
bemoaned: that the Scots have forgotten
their native tongue...
swans have no necks...
swans don't need necks...

the neck of Caitríona Mary Balfe
eyes... too...
or the short-styled hair... & eyes
of Tuba Büyüküstün...
don't get me started on the hands...
those petite Antoinetes of joy...
the most ****** aspect of a woman is bound
to her hands... i'm missing a knuckle! or at least
*******!

woo-man!                         woe-is-me!
woe-is-man!             woo-man!
i'll bark i'll gargle... not for the sold-cold "soul & eternity"
of the d.n.a.:
but rather for that Muhammad never achieved when
competing with King Solomon!
then again... King David had the better tale...
the love of music, the writing of the psalms
&... defeating Goliath...
king Solomon was... compensating with
the excessing in the exploitation of women...
eh... Solomon &... proverbs can be tested...
true... or untrue...
but psalms... unconditionally...
sung... or... lost...
no antonym-synonym dynamic...
you either remember or you forget...
you don't merely remember & pseudo-remember
via changing the narrative a little: or a lot...

what a neck... on this Irish beauty...

two frotiers formed.... one side...
the cosmopolitan, readied to talk to women
in possible women in authority, etc.
whatever are the preferenfes....
i really adore the ROYAL: third person:
ONE might...
or the plural WE....
"genger plural pronouns":
not since the existence of the "crown":
i am subject to ol' Lizzies stipends!

i am her mouthpiece wherever she's:
not m'ah ******* grandma!
on zoom calll i was sked....   (scared, for sked)
what were British values....
i was asked....
i replied... universal?!
i passed some mythological...
Kennsington Test...
ooh p'ah! ******* hurah
join the Union Jack brigade!
who's kidding who?

              the red coats are coming!
last time i 'eard?
not enough of 'em are "coming"...
come to "think" of it: beside staring at goats...
"going": where?
do "we" need to "go" to Afghanistan
when... Afghanistan is coming to us?!

sorry... what?

two groups of people at Wembley...
mostly Asian men... an Asian rep...
& a group led by a Jewish girl...
talk of tortoises...
Sikh... Tamil... Sanskrit... men...
& women... ******...
Stalowa Wola: Iron Will... which is
an actual town...
Harry... the guy with tattoed hands...
Ewelina: Evaline...
**** me... another single mother...
how many more single mothers will i have to pass?!
i don't mind it:
ancient Rome replies with:
the surrogate father...
chances are...
i could be a bad genetic partner...
i wouldn't mind... raising children that weren't my own...
i swear to the only god available on such
matters...
he'd just nod approving me as
surrogate father...
to hell with it...
CORALINE - DREAMING...
ancient Rome sends you a postcard...
you'll reply?
        no? fair enough...
i could i wish i could...
a little: BAMBINO of my own...
bit then again...
investing in so much of my own...
what if... they are killed...
hell! ****** is one "thing"...
but what if by some stupid circumstance of
a traffic incident?!
ergo?
i very much like the idea of raising children that
biologically "belong"... ahem...
"elsewhere"...
not their souls, their minds.. though...
n'est ce pas?! VOU... that's not how
ALTHOUGH is assembled?
AUL: ALL.... VOU? it's not VOW...
ate the G... no, kiddy?

i love children... esp. those that are not my own...
i could love them & love them like
an Abraham... nein... i could love them like...
a god... i could love children in a way that...
mirrors.. the moment they arrive at...
exploring the game of:
hide & seek...
there was never any playground invoked
to summon: the game of bulldog...

i'm glad i have no children of my own...
more of my seeing and less of the eyes of my "choosing"...
petty tender heart-felts: demands...
i'd rather father the children of "unavaliable" fathers
than father my own...
ancient Rome is messaging you...
dearest...
   look how much easier it all becomes!
you raise someone else's child... but...
should said child die... become murdered...
erm... what of it?
a statistic... i feel no inclination to give a ****...
i invested in the mind... the soul...
the body can ***** itself to death...
as it does... but it's not my own...
i can be as much detached from its fate as is most purposively
ridden: to riddle me...
i'm glad to not raise my own!
it dies... it's murdered... do i care?
no... life replaces life... here we go: the grand
carousel... it's not like i have name like:
McKenzie or... McDougal...
so... no... no lineage... i'm a baron of the most
atomised of times... the individualistic
sanctity: real or supposed...

ancient Rome replies:
the negativity of single mother households....
compensated with... the freedoms of...
paternal surrogacy... give me a break!
ha! it's Eden! i come with not leverage of....
ownership! i owe nothing due to
the Darwinistic impetus!
i'd be freed from whatever is expected of me...
there are no investments...
in pronouns... might we:
the royal one?

ha!

it's no much easier to have children
that turn out to be girl...
ha!

i'd rather be a surrogate father to a "daughter"...
come to think of it...
i'd only want...
to be a father... to a son... biologically....
a daughter can...
Mayflower herself... or ***** herself all she wants...
from a father: unto a son...
like that "******": Matthew & Son (cat stevens)
or... "dreaming": Coraline...

the inquisitive cat... the teenage girl...
the "felix"... the Urdu... somewhat...
the inquisitive cat... kommen die nacht....
alles ist nacht...

if there's no democracy in poetry:
then there's no democracy at all!
maxim: non-la-rochefoucauld

if i were conscious of all the poetic techniques,
metaphor, imagery, pun etc.
i wouldn't write as much as do -
i'd be dealing with some sort of arithmetic,
a labyrinth of obstructions to identify with
rather than bypass - i'd be doing what
philosophers do, staging a fright with a conscious
use of words like: metaphysical, etymological,
ontological - the list goes on, but such vocab secures crutches
holding the whole thing afloat, in poetical realities:
the equivalent of pursuing identities that might
summon a critical conjurer of positive feedback
who, with nodding approvals testifies:
mm indeed a poem, mm indeed a perfected use of
a hammer (metaphor) on that plank of wood
(pun), per se, imagine replacing technique very
much akin to swimming styles with an inanimate tinge,
a stasis - the techniques surrounding the approach to
each of these Pandora boxes is unlimited,
each approach a crescendo, a total failure of Roman
bureaucracy exploited - rather than that mundane
drilling of schooled knowledge of English teachers
ably identifying techniques to such an extent that
all that remains is a noun and nothing behind it;
poetry - the act of spontaneity - synonymous thoroughly
with impromptu - sheering of innocence - the act
of formidable maddening - hysteria par excellence -
spoken like a true addicts, never mind the alcohol,
even though i drink i'm still quiet sober when i infatuate
myself with verse, then the real drinking begins -
piquant - i wrote it because i just love the -quant sound
of things, meaningless indeed, but meaningful that i
could have uttered the sound, and by doing so the resonance
would have a little condo in the universe,
a little place for itself... it still ****** me off what they did
to Brain Wilson - marmalade pop, sure, but it was the sixties!

The world has grown around her womb,

The beginning of all beginnings, the onus of creation upon whom.

While it is her whose life slowly ebbs away,

At the hands of the manics and the fools.

Her hands chained, mind refrained,

Tongue tied and body veiled.

Lies be sold, this is your world behold!

Here your prejudices are yours only, but your pride is collectively owned,

Of the family you are born in, and the family of your future,

And the society that allows you to breathe any further.

So don’t you dare, this is a world prepared

By some to define your modesty and others to violate it beyond repair.

Caught between the two, ever so stretched thin,

Striving for approvals when discontent is where you are stuck in.

Rather learn to live in this moratorium of rules,

That pays no heed to your desires, your esteem, your needs or your moods.

Your life has never been yours, a conjugation of time tested judgements,

A world build around everyone’s opinions and your very own helplessness.

The day strangely culminates in
German potato salad
and trays of sliced meat
on my Aunt MaryAnn’s dining table.
A celebratory end to a hectic week,
filled with what seem interminable
discussions, plans, decisions.
My father takes deliberate care
to involve me in its events,
in part for companionship and in part
not knowing what else to do.

So, there we sit
in the overheated director’s office,
weigh the pros and cons
of viewing times.
Meet with clergy,
choirs and relation.
Design order,
odes and speeches.
Evaluate various technical
and stylistic advantages of
wood versus metal.
Apply for certificates
and approvals from this office
and that.
Fill out forms and releases.
Select a hairstyle
and a dress.
A shade of lipstick.
Glasses or none.
None.

It’s a freezing February day.
The wind bites;
the snow is a dry powder
blowing over rock hard ground.
I sit on the stoop outside
MaryAnn’s back door,
a plate of uneaten food,
trying to size up what we had done.
All at once, it seems brutal.
The series of banal choices
that moments after they were made,
mean less than the potatoes
and onions in my lap.
A purposeful, unavoidable,
flurry of activity followed by
nothing.

Time passes and other lives intervene.
All those boxes to tick
and formalities to fulfill,
their substitutions for
thought and reason.
A system well worn and little changed,
with its own unbearable demand.
But there was assurance,
and if I am honest
a little hope
within it.

His father told him this world was his Petri dish. He placed him in front of mirror and showed him what his specimen had been. He grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to the stale master bedroom, just stale for him though, rather vibrant in its light violet shade, and stomped at the floor with the most primal instincts. He beat his chest and grew to be too big until there was nothing but a shadow too large to escape from.
 
His father threw journals at his face, once which were filled with blank pages and told him to make good on his words. ‘Respect your women.’ He was ordered on the days the mood was as cheerful as a cloudless sky and witnessed his mother’s tears on the bathroom tiles most of the days it was not. The first sight of alcohol came from the cellar that was utterly prohibited, accompanied by the lecture of a sober self. 

The son told himself he was nothing but a specimen, the clay that was to be molded by the hands of the creator. So he studied footsteps and made good on those blank journals, cultivating a life that was as sour as the beer he snuck in to his room.  He waited for approvals that would never come, hoping against all odds that one day he would be counted worthy, perhaps even, worthwhile. He sculpted out of himself a man he detested, one he could not runaway from no matter the number of times he had tried to escape under cover of night.

He was, as expected, his father’s son, living under the roof of another son that had chosen to bend under the shadow of a prior father, unaware of a cycle that lasted generation.

He was his father’s son even though  he never wanted to be anything but himself.

Now...
George Peppard Was The Man...  
  
Who... Liked To See A Plan...
... REALLY Come Together... !!!
  
Because His A-Team Fellas...
Had To Wage Vendettas...
Against Those Whose Agendas...
  
Were Causing Nuff’ STRESS...
To Heads Being DISTRESSED...
By... IGNORANT Heads...
Who Were Making Big Threats...
To... Get Rid of Them... !!!
  
So... Hannibal Smith...
Was The One Whose Lyric...
Made The Show A BIG HIT...
With... Adults And Kids... !!!
  
Because The A-Team...
Was A Show That Was Clean...
  
Even With... Mr T...
As A Man Who Was MEAN... !!!
  
Because NOBODY DIED...
Even When They Would Fight...
To Make Criminals Hide...
Whenever They Tried...
To RUIN The Lives...
of People Just Trying...
To Simply... SURVIVE... !!!
  
So The A Team Would Plan...
By Using... FACEMAN’...
Whose Planning Was Slick...
When It Came To The Chicks...
  
While... Other Plans Ran...
In Ways That Would Crash...
Cos’ They Were Murdoch MAD... !?!
  
And Of Course There Was Amy...
A... VERY SMART Lady...
  
Whose Planning Involved...
Using MORE Than Her Thong... !!!
  
Because The Series Showed...
How Good Planning Controls...
And... DISMANTLES Foes... !!!
  
So Here’s Where This Piece...
Takes A... DIFFERENT Tone...
And Plans To Now Seek...
  
The Truth About Plans...
To Control This Disease...
That’s Now Spread Overseas... !!!
  
Cos’ The Plan Seems To Be...
To Now Feed A VACCINE...
To MILLIONS of Folks...
ALL OVER The Globe...
  
And This Is NO JOKE... !!!
Like The A-Team Show... !!!
  
It’s A... SERIOUS PLAN... !!!
That’s Now Come Together... !!!
  
To Leave Corona TRAPPED... !!!
And To Make Things Much Better...
For... EVERY HUMAN... !!!
  
Than Things CLEARLY Have Been...
Throughout TWENTY TWENTY... !!!
  
Well...... ALLEGEDLY...... ?!?
  
Now I’m No Mr. T...
But My Attitude Is...
As BAD As Can Be... !!!
  
When It Comes To Me Taking...
A RUSHED Through Vaccine... !?!
  
That Seems To Have Been...
AVOIDING What’s Deemed...
To Be Something It NEEDS... !!!
  
Like A...  
... CLEAN Bill HEALTHY... !!!
  
That Has Passed Policies...
Put In Place To ENSURE...
That... This Is A CURE...
  
WITHOUT BAD Side Effects...
That Could Unsettle Heads...
Or Lead To MORE Deaths... !!!
  
So It SHOULDN'T Break Laws...
For It To Be Given...
To Millions of Minions...
  
WITHOUT The Approvals...
From... Health Agencies...
That Are Normally Usual...
In... EMERGENCIES... !!!!!
  
Where It’s Felt Vaccinations...
Are NEEDED In Nations...
In... Different Locations...
ALL OVER The WORLD... !!!
  
To... STOP A New Curve...
That Plans To Make WAVES...
That Are FAR From Humane... !!!
  
When This Thing Attacks...
Like Hackers Who HACK...
Like... Terrorist Clans... !!!!
  
That **** Folks In Silence...
Just Like This NEW VIRUS... !!!
  
That...
Could of Been PLANNED... ?!?
  
But Can Such Thoughts Be Backed...
By Proof Or By... FACT...
  
Somehow I Doubt That... !!!
  
But Planned It May Be...
To Keep... HUMANITY...
CONTROLLED Just Like Sheep... !!!
  
Well... SHEOPLE’ Really... !!!!!!
  
Or Do... Conspiracies...
Plan To Use Trends And Feeds...
To Confuse All The Minds...
of Those Now INCLINED...
  
To... Follow The Plan...
To Now Save Us Humans...
  
From... Viral Infections...
That Leave Humans Lessened...
  
According To Those...
In These Government Folds...
Whose Plans CLEARLY Show...
  
How They... LIE And Implode...
Due To Plans That Have Holes...
  
MUCH BLACKER Than Those...
On Those OLD TV Shows... !!!
Where Trekkers Would Go...
In Ways That Were BOLD... !!!
  
Like The Plans We Now See...
That Surround This Disease...
That Has Wrecked Companies...
And World Economies... !!!
  
If You Read And Believe...
What The Media Feeds...
That Is Currently Seen...
As LIES And FALLACIES...
  
By MORE And MORE Peeps...
Whose Thinking Now Sees...
That These Government Bans...
And The Plans That They Have...
  
Have NOT Come Together...
To Make Things Get Better...
  
So Are Sensing A SHAM... !?!
  
That Could Just Be Part of...
Some... SINISTER...
  
....... “ Plan “.......

Philosophize  
Learning to die
Take your time
Make the most of it
Closer each day
To goodbye
Don’t decide
Based on others’
Approvals
Withheld
Be ourselves
In a solitude
Solely our own
And entrust that within the world
We are at home

Nothing quite like the writers’ church

More or less filled

Creaking of seats.

Anticipation tingling in the chest

Eyes down in respect.



It’s the start.

Glee burning in the veins

Eagerness to hear them speak.



The moaning gospels

Groaning from the stomach

Bent double in prayer and supplication.

Finger snaps of approvals

The wailing - the wailing of poets.

Lowing like cattle.

Mournful.

Rising pitch to screams.

Screams of agony, of love, tearing apart

the cacophony in their heads.