Dear Mr. Bateman,
A few questions, if I may.
I have a couple dark interests,
That out loud, I do not say.

How does it feel inside,
To have someone in your grasp?
Total control through pain,
Do you prefer a scream or a gasp?

Tell me, Mr. Bateman,
How long do you make it last?
Do you fantasize about the future,
Or fondly recall the past?

Do you wish someone would catch you,
On your throne of ****** bones?
Do you strive to be feared? Punished?
Or just to shock the mindless drones?

Put down the chainsaw, Mr. Bateman.
Tell me, how do they taste?
What’s the last thing you say to them?
What part of them do you let go to waste?

What do you mean, you are simply not there?
Do you not feel for what you do?
How do you steal the pleasure,
For the sadist part of you?

Dear, Mr. Bateman.
Thank you for your time.
You helped shape the inside,
Of my own twisted mind.

If from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent
The pastoral mountains front you, face to face.
But, courage! for around that boisterous brook
The mountains have all opened out themselves,
And made a hidden valley of their own.
No habitation can be seen; but they
Who journey thither find themselves alone
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites
That overhead are sailing in the sky.
It is in truth an utter solitude;
Nor should I have made mention of this Dell
But for one object which you might pass by,
Might see and notice not. Beside the brook
Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones!
And to that simple object appertains
A story—unenriched with strange events,
Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside,
Or for the summer shade. It was the first
Of those domestic tales that spake to me
Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men
Whom I already loved;—not verily
For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills
Where was their occupation and abode.
And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy
Careless of books, yet having felt the power
Of Nature, by the gentle agency
Of natural objects, led me on to feel
For passions that were not my own, and think
(At random and imperfectly indeed)
On man, the heart of man, and human life.
Therefore, although it be a history
Homely and rude, I will relate the same
For the delight of a few natural hearts;
And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake
Of youthful Poets, who among these hills
Will be my second self when I am gone.

     Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale
There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name;
An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb.
His ****** frame had been from youth to age
Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen,
Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs,
And in his shepherd’s calling he was prompt
And watchful more than ordinary men.
Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds,
Of blasts of every tone; and oftentimes,
When others heeded not, he heard the South
Make subterraneous music, like the noise
Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills.
The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock
Bethought him, and he to himself would say,
“The winds are now devising work for me!”
And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives
The traveller to a shelter, summoned him
Up to the mountains: he had been alone
Amid the heart of many thousand mists,
That came to him, and left him, on the heights.
So lived he till his eightieth year was past.
And grossly that man errs, who should suppose
That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks,
Were things indifferent to the Shepherd’s thoughts.
Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed
The common air; hills, which with vigorous step
He had so often climbed; which had impressed
So many incidents upon his mind
Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear;
Which, like a book, preserved the memory
Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved,
Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts
The certainty of honourable gain;
Those fields, those hills—what could they less? had laid
Strong hold on his affections, were to him
A pleasurable feeling of blind love,
The pleasure which there is in life itself .

     His days had not been passed in singleness.
His Helpmate was a comely matron, old—
Though younger than himself full twenty years.
She was a woman of a stirring life,
Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had
Of antique form; this large, for spinning wool;
That small, for flax; and, if one wheel had rest,
It was because the other was at work.
The Pair had but one inmate in their house,
An only Child, who had been born to them
When Michael, telling o’er his years, began
To deem that he was old,—in shepherd’s phrase,
With one foot in the grave. This only Son,
With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm,
The one of an inestimable worth,
Made all their household. I may truly say,
That they were as a proverb in the vale
For endless industry. When day was gone,
And from their occupations out of doors
The Son and Father were come home, even then,
Their labour did not cease; unless when all
Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there,
Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk,
Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes,
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the meal
Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named)
And his old Father both betook themselves
To such convenient work as might employ
Their hands by the fireside; perhaps to card
Wool for the Housewife’s spindle, or repair
Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe,
Or other implement of house or field.

     Down from the ceiling, by the chimney’s edge,
That in our ancient uncouth country style
With huge and black projection overbrowed
Large space beneath, as duly as the light
Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp,
An aged utensil, which had performed
Service beyond all others of its kind.
Early at evening did it burn—and late,
Surviving comrade of uncounted hours,
Which, going by from year to year, had found,
And left the couple neither gay perhaps
Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes,
Living a life of eager industry.
And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year,
There by the light of this old lamp they sate,
Father and Son, while far into the night
The Housewife plied her own peculiar work,
Making the cottage through the silent hours
Murmur as with the sound of summer flies.
This light was famous in its neighbourhood,
And was a public symbol of the life
That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced,
Their cottage on a plot of rising ground
Stood single, with large prospect, north and south,
High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise,
And westward to the village near the lake;
And from this constant light, so regular
And so far seen, the House itself, by all
Who dwelt within the limits of the vale,
Both old and young, was named The Evening Star.

     Thus living on through such a length of years,
The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs
Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michael’s heart
This son of his old age was yet more dear—
Less from instinctive tenderness, the same
Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all—
Than that a child, more than all other gifts
That earth can offer to declining man,
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts,
And stirrings of inquietude, when they
By tendency of nature needs must fail.
Exceeding was the love he bare to him,
His heart and his heart’s joy! For oftentimes
Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms,
Had done him female service, not alone
For pastime and delight, as is the use
Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced
To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked
His cradle, as with a woman’s gentle hand.

     And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy
Had put on boy’s attire, did Michael love,
Albeit of a stern unbending mind,
To have the Young-one in his sight, when he
Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd’s stool
Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched
Under the large old oak, that near his door
Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade,
Chosen for the Shearer’s covert from the sun,
Thence in our rustic dialect was called
The Clipping Tree, a name which yet it bears.
There, while they two were sitting in the shade,
With others round them, earnest all and blithe,
Would Michael exercise his heart with looks
Of fond correction and reproof bestowed
Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep
By catching at their legs, or with his shouts
Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears.

     And when by Heaven’s good grace the boy grew up
A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek
Two steady roses that were five years old;
Then Michael from a winter coppice cut
With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped
With iron, making it throughout in all
Due requisites a perfect shepherd’s staff,
And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipt
He as a watchman oftentimes was placed
At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock;
And, to his office prematurely called,
There stood the urchin, as you will divine,
Something between a hindrance and a help,
And for this cause not always, I believe,
Receiving from his Father hire of praise;
Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice,
Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform.

     But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand
Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights,
Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways,
He with his Father daily went, and they
Were as companions, why should I relate
That objects which the Shepherd loved before
Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came
Feelings and emanations—things which were
Light to the sun and music to the wind;
And that the old Man’s heart seemed born again?

     Thus in his Father’s sight the Boy grew up:
And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year,
He was his comfort and his daily hope.

     While in this sort the simple household lived
From day to day, to Michael’s ear there came
Distressful tidings. Long before the time
Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound
In surety for his brother’s son, a man
Of an industrious life, and ample means;
But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly
Had prest upon him; and old Michael now
Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture,
A grievous penalty, but little less
Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim
At the first hearing, for a moment took
More hope out of his life than he supposed
That any old man ever could have lost.
As soon as he had armed himself with strength
To look his trouble in the face, it seemed
The Shepherd’s sole resource to sell at once
A portion of his patrimonial fields.
Such was his first resolve; he thought again,
And his heart failed him. “Isabel,” said he,
Two evenings after he had heard the news,
“I have been toiling more than seventy years,
And in the open sunshine of God’s love
Have we all lived; yet, if these fields of ours
Should pass into a stranger’s hand, I think
That I could not lie quiet in my grave.
Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself
Has scarcely been more diligent than I;
And I have lived to be a fool at last
To my own family. An evil man
That was, and made an evil choice, if he
Were false to us; and, if he were not false,
There are ten thousand to whom loss like this
Had been no sorrow. I forgive him;—but
’Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus.

     “When I began, my purpose was to speak
Of remedies and of a cheerful hope.
Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free;
He shall possess it, free as is the wind
That passes over it. We have, thou know’st,
Another kinsman—he will be our friend
In this distress. He is a prosperous man,
Thriving in trade and Luke to him shall go,
And with his kinsman’s help and his own thrift
He quickly will repair this loss, and then
He may return to us. If here he stay,
What can be done? Where every one is poor,
What can be gained?”

                                          At this the old Man paused,
And Isabel sat silent, for her mind
Was busy, looking back into past times.
There’s Richard Bateman, thought she to herself,
He was a parish-boy—at the church-door
They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence,
And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought
A basket, which they filled with pedlar’s wares;
And, with this basket on his arm, the lad
Went up to London, found a master there,
Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy
To go and overlook his merchandise
Beyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich,
And left estates and monies to the poor,
And, at his birth-place, built a chapel floored
With marble, which he sent from foreign lands.
These thoughts, and many others of like sort,
Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel,
And her face brightened. The old Man was glad,
And thus resumed:—”Well, Isabel! this scheme
These two days has been meat and drink to me.
Far more than we have lost is left us yet.
—We have enough—I wish indeed that I
Were younger;—but this hope is a good hope.
Make ready Luke’s best garments, of the best
Buy for him more, and let us send him forth
To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night:
—If he could go, the boy should go to-night.”

     Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth
With a light heart. The Housewife for five days
Was restless morn and night, and all day long
Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare.
Things needful for the journey of her Son.
But Isabel was glad when Sunday came
To stop her in her work: for, when she lay
By Michael’s side, she through the last two nights
Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep:
And when they rose at morning she could see
That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon
She said to Luke, while they two by themselves
Were sitting at the door, “Thou must not go:
We have no other Child but thee to lose,
None to remember—do not go away,
For if thou leave thy Father he will die.”
The Youth made answer with a jocund voice;
And Isabel, when she had told her fears,
Recovered heart. That evening her best fare
Did she bring forth, and all together sat
Like happy people round a Christmas fire.

     With daylight Isabel resumed her work;
And all the ensuing week the house appeared
As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length
The expected letter from their kinsman came,
With kind assurances that he would do
His utmost for the welfare of the Boy;
To which requests were added, that forthwith
He might be sent to him. Ten times or more
The letter was read over, Isabel
Went forth to show it to the neighbours round;
Nor was there at that time on English land
A prouder heart than Luke’s. When Isabel
Had to her house returned, the old man said,
“He shall depart to-morrow.” To this word
The Housewife answered, talking much of things
Which, if at such short notice he should go,
Would surely be forgotten. But at length
She gave consent, and Michael was at ease.

     Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
In that deep valley, Michael had designed
To build a Sheep-fold; and, before he heard
The tidings of his melancholy loss,
For this same purpose he had gathered up
A heap of stones, which by the streamlet’s edge
Lay thrown together, ready for the work.
With Luke that evening thitherward he walked:
And soon as they had reached the place he stopped,
And thus the old Man spake to him:—”My Son,
To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full heart
I look upon thee, for thou art the same
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth,
And all thy life hast been my daily joy.
I will relate to thee some little part
Of our two histories; ’twill do thee good
When thou art from me, even if I should touch
On things thou canst not know of.—After thou
First cam’st into the world—as oft befalls
To new-born infants—thou didst sleep away
Two days, and blessings from thy Father’s tongue
Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on,
And still I loved thee with increasing love.
Never to living ear came sweeter sounds
Than when I heard thee by our own fireside
First uttering, without words, a natural tune;
While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy
Sing at thy Mother’s breast. Month followed month,
And in the open fields my life was passed,
And on the mountains; else I think that thou
Hadst been brought up upon thy Father’s knees.
But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills,
As well thou knowest, in us the old and young
Have played together, nor with me didst thou
Lack any pleasure which a boy can know.”
Luke had a manly heart; but at these words
He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand,
And said, “Nay, do not take it so—I see
That these are things of which I need not speak.
—Even to the utmost I have been to thee
A kind and a good Father: and herein
I but repay a gift which I myself
Received at others’ hands; for, though now old
Beyond the common life of man, I still
Remember them who loved me in my youth.
Both of them sleep together: h

phloem in your veins;
your tongue curls around
the syllables of my name
erotically, and I'm
daydreaming about
your tongue curling around
my ******* while you talk circles about
calculus and chemistry.
woodgrain and
blood veins and
gun-splattered gore-brains,
the kitchen counter
saturated in sherbet and
awash in girl-***
while you writhe next to the
fruit bowl, in flagrante delicto.
we conquered the universe with a
steady stream of xenon ions, probing
deep into the velvety wet folds
of the galaxy, *******
to the laws of physics, *******
stretching you out.

If from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Gill,
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent
The pastoral Mountains front you, face to face.
But, courage! for beside that boisterous Brook
The mountains have all open'd out themselves,
And made a hidden valley of their own.

No habitation there is seen; but such
As journey thither find themselves alone
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites
That overhead are sailing in the sky.
It is in truth an utter solitude,
Nor should I have made mention of this Dell
But for one object which you might pass by,
Might see and notice not. Beside the brook
There is a straggling heap of unhewn stones!
And to that place a story appertains,
Which, though it be ungarnish'd with events,
Is not unfit, I deem, for the fire-side,
Or for the summer shade. It was the first,
The earliest of those tales that spake to me
Of Shepherds, dwellers in the vallies, men
Whom I already lov'd, not verily
For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills
Where was their occupation and abode.

And hence this Tale, while I was yet a boy
Careless of books, yet having felt the power
Of Nature, by the gentle agency
Of natural objects led me on to feel
For passions that were not my own, and think
At random and imperfectly indeed
On man; the heart of man and human life.
Therefore, although it be a history
Homely and rude, I will relate the same
For the delight of a few natural hearts,
And with yet fonder feeling, for the sake
Of youthful Poets, who among these Hills
Will be my second self when I am gone.


Upon the Forest-side in Grasmere Vale
There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name.
An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb.
His ****** frame had been from youth to age
Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen
Intense and frugal, apt for all affairs,
And in his Shepherd's calling he was prompt
And watchful more than ordinary men.

Hence he had learn'd the meaning of all winds,
Of blasts of every tone, and often-times
When others heeded not, He heard the South
Make subterraneous music, like the noise
Of Bagpipers on distant Highland hills;
The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock
Bethought him, and he to himself would say
The winds are now devising work for me!

And truly at all times the storm, that drives
The Traveller to a shelter, summon'd him
Up to the mountains: he had been alone
Amid the heart of many thousand mists
That came to him and left him on the heights.
So liv'd he till his eightieth year was pass'd.

And grossly that man errs, who should suppose
That the green Valleys, and the Streams and Rocks
Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts.
Fields, where with chearful spirits he had breath'd
The common air; the hills, which he so oft
Had climb'd with vigorous steps; which had impress'd
So many incidents upon his mind
Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear;
Which like a book preserv'd the memory
Of the dumb animals, whom he had sav'd,
Had fed or shelter'd, linking to such acts,
So grateful in themselves, the certainty
Of honorable gains; these fields, these hills
Which were his living Being, even more
Than his own Blood--what could they less? had laid
Strong hold on his affections, were to him
A pleasurable feeling of blind love,
The pleasure which there is in life itself.

He had not passed his days in singleness.
He had a Wife, a comely Matron, old
Though younger than himself full twenty years.
She was a woman of a stirring life
Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had
Of antique form, this large for spinning wool,
That small for flax, and if one wheel had rest,
It was because the other was at work.
The Pair had but one Inmate in their house,
An only Child, who had been born to them
When Michael telling o'er his years began
To deem that he was old, in Shepherd's phrase,
With one foot in the grave. This only son,
With two brave sheep dogs tried in many a storm.

The one of an inestimable worth,
Made all their Household. I may truly say,
That they were as a proverb in the vale
For endless industry. When day was gone,
And from their occupations out of doors
The Son and Father were come home, even then,
Their labour did not cease, unless when all
Turn'd to their cleanly supper-board, and there
Each with a mess of pottage and skimm'd milk,
Sate round their basket pil'd with oaten cakes,
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when their meal
Was ended, LUKE (for so the Son was nam'd)
And his old Father, both betook themselves
To such convenient work, as might employ
Their hands by the fire-side; perhaps to card
Wool for the House-wife's spindle, or repair
Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe,
Or other implement of house or field.

Down from the cicling by the chimney's edge,
Which in our ancient uncouth country style
Did with a huge projection overbrow
Large space beneath, as duly as the light
Of day grew dim, the House-wife hung a lamp;
An aged utensil, which had perform'd
Service beyond all others of its kind.

Early at evening did it burn and late,
Surviving Comrade of uncounted Hours
Which going by from year to year had found
And left the Couple neither gay perhaps
Nor chearful, yet with objects and with hopes
Living a life of eager industry.

And now, when LUKE was in his eighteenth year,
There by the light of this old lamp they sate,
Father and Son, while late into the night
The House-wife plied her own peculiar work,
Making the cottage thro' the silent hours
Murmur as with the sound of summer flies.

Not with a waste of words, but for the sake
Of pleasure, which I know that I shall give
To many living now, I of this Lamp
Speak thus minutely: for there are no few
Whose memories will bear witness to my tale,
The Light was famous in its neighbourhood,
And was a public Symbol of the life,
The thrifty Pair had liv'd. For, as it chanc'd,
Their Cottage on a plot of rising ground
Stood single, with large prospect North and South,
High into Easedale, up to Dunmal-Raise,
And Westward to the village near the Lake.
And from this constant light so regular
And so far seen, the House itself by all
Who dwelt within the limits of the vale,
Both old and young, was nam'd The Evening Star.

Thus living on through such a length of years,
The Shepherd, if he lov'd himself, must needs
Have lov'd his Help-mate; but to Michael's heart
This Son of his old age was yet more dear--
Effect which might perhaps have been produc'd
By that instinctive tenderness, the same
Blind Spirit, which is in the blood of all,
Or that a child, more than all other gifts,
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts,
And stirrings of inquietude, when they
By tendency of nature needs must fail.

From such, and other causes, to the thoughts
Of the old Man his only Son was now
The dearest object that he knew on earth.
Exceeding was the love he bare to him,
His Heart and his Heart's joy! For oftentimes
Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms,
Had done him female service, not alone
For dalliance and delight, as is the use
Of Fathers, but with patient mind enforc'd
To acts of tenderness; and he had rock'd
His cradle with a woman's gentle hand.

And in a later time, ere yet the Boy
Had put on Boy's attire, did Michael love,
Albeit of a stern unbending mind,
To have the young one in his sight, when he
Had work by his own door, or when he sate
With sheep before him on his Shepherd's stool,
Beneath that large old Oak, which near their door
Stood, and from it's enormous breadth of shade
Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun,
Thence in our rustic dialect was call'd
The CLIPPING TREE, *[1] a name which yet it bears.

There, while they two were sitting in the shade,
With others round them, earnest all and blithe,
Would Michael exercise his heart with looks
Of fond correction and reproof bestow'd
Upon the child, if he dislurb'd the sheep
By catching at their legs, or with his shouts
Scar'd them, while they lay still beneath the shears.

And when by Heaven's good grace the Boy grew up
A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek
Two steady roses that were five years old,
Then Michael from a winter coppice cut
With his own hand a sapling, which he hoop'd
With iron, making it throughout in all
Due requisites a perfect Shepherd's Staff,
And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipp'd
He as a Watchman oftentimes was plac'd
At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock,
And to his office prematurely call'd
There stood the urchin, as you will divine,
Something between a hindrance and a help,
And for this cause not always, I believe,
Receiving from his Father hire of praise.

While this good household thus were living on
From day to day, to Michael's ear there came
Distressful tidings. Long before, the time
Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound
In surety for his Brother's Son, a man
Of an industrious life, and ample means,
But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly
Had press'd upon him, and old Michael now
Was summon'd to discharge the forfeiture,
A grievous penalty, but little less
Than half his substance. This un-look'd-for claim
At the first hearing, for a moment took
More hope out of his life than he supposed
That any old man ever could have lost.

As soon as he had gather'd so much strength
That he could look his trouble in the face,
It seem'd that his sole refuge was to sell
A portion of his patrimonial fields.
Such was his first resolve; he thought again,
And his heart fail'd him. "Isabel," said he,
Two evenings after he had heard the news,
"I have been toiling more than seventy years,
And in the open sun-shine of God's love
Have we all liv'd, yet if these fields of ours
Should pass into a Stranger's hand, I think
That I could not lie quiet in my grave."

"Our lot is a hard lot; the Sun itself
Has scarcely been more diligent than I,
And I have liv'd to be a fool at last
To my own family. An evil Man
That was, and made an evil choice, if he
Were false to us; and if he were not false,
There are ten thousand to whom loss like this
Had been no sorrow. I forgive him--but
'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus.
When I began, my purpose was to speak
Of remedies and of a chearful hope."

"Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free,
He shall possess it, free as is the wind
That passes over it. We have, thou knowest,
Another Kinsman, he will be our friend
In this distress. He is a prosperous man,
Thriving in trade, and Luke to him shall go,
And with his Kinsman's help and his own thrift,
He quickly will repair this loss, and then
May come again to us. If here he stay,
What can be done? Where every one is poor
What can be gain'd?" At this, the old man paus'd,
And Isabel sate silent, for her mind
Was busy, looking back into past times.

There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself,
He was a parish-boy--at the church-door
They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence,
And halfpennies, wherewith the Neighbours bought
A Basket, which they fill'd with Pedlar's wares,
And with this Basket on his arm, the Lad
Went up to London, found a Master there,
Who out of many chose the trusty Boy
To go and overlook his merchandise
Beyond the seas, where he grew wond'rous rich,
And left estates and monies to the poor,
And at his birth-place built a Chapel, floor'd
With Marble, which he sent from foreign lands.
These thoughts, and many others of like sort,
Pass'd quickly thro' the mind of Isabel,
And her face brighten'd. The Old Man was glad.

And thus resum'd. "Well I Isabel, this scheme
These two days has been meat and drink to me.
Far more than we have lost is left us yet.
--We have enough--I wish indeed that I
Were younger, but this hope is a good hope.
--Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best
Buy for him more, and let us send him forth
To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night:
--If he could go, the Boy should go to-night."
Here Michael ceas'd, and to the fields went forth
With a light heart. The House-wife for five days
Was restless morn and night, and all day long
Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare
Things needful for the journey of her Son.

But Isabel was glad when Sunday came
To stop her in her work; for, when she lay
By Michael's side, she for the two last nights
Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep:
And when they rose at morning she could see
That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon
She said to Luke, while they two by themselves
Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not go,
We have no other Child but thee to lose,
None to remember--do not go away,
For if thou leave thy Father he will die."
The Lad made answer with a jocund voice,
And Isabel, when she had told her fears,
Recover'd heart. That evening her best fare
Did she bring forth, and all together sate
Like happy people round a Christmas fire.

Next morning Isabel resum'd her work,
And all the ensuing week the house appear'd
As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length
The expected letter from their Kinsman came,
With kind assurances that he would do
His utmost for the welfare of the Boy,
To which requests were added that forthwith
He might be sent to him. Ten times or more
The letter was read over; Isabel
Went forth to shew it to the neighbours round:
Nor was there at that time on English Land
A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel
Had to her house return'd, the Old Man said,
"He shall depart to-morrow." To this word
The House--wife answered, talking much of things
Which, if at such, short notice he should go,
Would surely be forgotten. But at length
She gave consent, and Michael was at ease.

Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Gill,
In that deep Valley, Michael had design'd
To build a Sheep-fold, and, before he heard
The tidings of his melancholy loss,
For this same purpose he had gathered up
A heap of stones, which close to the brook side
Lay thrown together, ready for the work.
With Luke that evening thitherward he walk'd;
And soon as they had reach'd the place he stopp'd,
And thus the Old Man spake to him. "My Son,
To-morrow thou wilt leave me; with full heart
I look upon thee, for thou art the same
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth,
And all thy life hast been my daily joy.
I will relate to thee some little part
Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good
When thou art from me, even if I should speak
Of things thou caust not know of.--After thou
First cam'st into the world, as it befalls
To new-born infants, thou didst sleep away
Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue
Then fell upon thee. Day by day pass'd on,
And still I lov'd thee with encreasing love."

Never to living ear came sweeter sounds
Than when I heard thee by our own fire-side
First uttering without words a natural tune,
When thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy
Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month follow'd month,
And in the open fields my life was pass'd
And in the mountains, else I think that thou
Hadst been brought up upon thy father's knees.
--But we were playmates, Luke; among these hills,
As well thou know'st, in us the old and young
Have play'd together, nor with me didst thou
Lack any pleasure which a boy can know.

Luke had a manly heart; but at these words
He sobb'd aloud; the Old Man grasp'd his hand,
And said, "Nay do not take it so--I see
That these are things of which I need not speak.
--Even to the utmost I have been to thee
A kind and a good Father: and herein
I but repay a gift which I myself
Receiv'd at others' hands, for, though now old
Beyond the common life of man, I still
Remember them who lov'd me in my youth."

Both of them sleep together: here they liv'd
As all their Forefathers had done, and when
At length their time was come, they were not loth
To give their bodies to the family mold.
I wish'd that thou should'st live the life they liv'd.
But 'tis a long time to look back, my Son,
And see so little gain from sixty years.
These fields were burthen'd when they came to me;
'Till I was forty years of age, not more
Than half of my inheritance was mine.

"I toil'd and toil'd; God bless'd me in my work,
And 'till these three weeks past the land was free.
--It looks as if it never could endure
Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke,
If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good
That thou should'st go." At this the Old Man paus'd,
Then, pointing to the Stones near which they stood,
Thus, after a short silence, he resum'd:
"This was a work for us, and now, my Son,
It is a wo

i never used to understand why people
hid their pop preferences like
they might hide a **** room...
or like: the toilet paper ran out,
so i jumped into the shower story;
what's with pop music in older people
and getting the embarrassment sticker
that says: HI, MY NAME IS JEFF
AND I LIKE BRIE POP FROM SCANDINAVIA:
nostalgic culmination? death growl
dark metal: the frustration apparent throughout:
frustrated amateur singers with their
strained veiny necks... see that aorta?
opera singers? are they even opening
their mouths, or is this opera meets Roy Orbison?
and by god, that's the case, people are
ashamed to actually acknowledge their
pop preferences... no wonder Patrick
Bateman is fuelled by it...
it's very much like that... pop's the foundation
in you actually liking music...
shame i love music more than women:
keeps my sanity... 2 months apart
and you can't hear a vacuum cleaner,
maybe once a week... maybe...
then the radio starts playing some vintage Roxette...
Abba who? that's for those aged
40 and above... Roxette is my generation's equivalent.
Roxette's masterpiece? Joyride:
the entire album, yes, you'll listen to
this album like some prog rock feast:
          Joyride                 (      :     + italics
                                    is the same as bold:
          double emphasis                 )
*****, you will! Roxette's Joyride is the
epitome of pop!

The Raiders show raiders v st george at GIO Stadium

    with johnny brown and Sue Longways




johnny’   welcome dudes to GIO stadium to this match between the dragons and the raiders and this is going to be a

great match, the raiders are 11th and the dragons are at 14, and whoever wins, I can guarantee it will be a spectacle

and i have Pete from Hawker with us now with a poem for us, hoping to get the Raiders into top swing

Pete”    ok dudes let’s swing it

you see the bad and mean green machine, big and strong and fast and mean

you see you shouldn’t try and stop these men in green, cause we are 3 positions higher than the opposition

Johnny’  well, short but sweet, and have you been worried about form in some matches

Pete’   well, yes, but that makes no difference, the raiders are going to win dudes, i will sing it again

you see we are the bad and mean green machine, big and strong and fast and mean

you see you shouldn’t try and stop these men in green, cause we are 3 positions higher than the opposition

Johnny’   well thanks Pete and now here is Sue Longways with another fine poem from the crowd

Sue’   thanks Johnny and what a great atmosphere here at GIO Stadium today, a great twilight match, and everyone

is in fine voice to cheer the raiders to beat the dragons tonight, and here is John Barten from Queanbeyan and he hates

how the Raiders went to Canberra all those years ago, so he sings a dragons tune

John’   go the dragons go the dragons

go the mighty dragons team

you see it’s only early in the season

go the mighty dragons cause the raiders moved here

I know we shouldn’t hold a grudge, mate, but i am and there is nothing you can do oh no

go the mighty dragons and i will go for them till the Raiders go back to Seiffert Oval, dudes

Sue”   thanks John and now here is Harold from Lyneham

Harold’   i am the bad and mean raiders fan

we supply the best coming out of the can

you see i go to the footy with mates george and dan

you see we’ll hit ya hit ya hit ya the mighty green machine

Sue’  thanks Harold and now here is the Raiders team, bring on the team

Jordan Rapana and Sisa Waqa and Jarrod Croker and Jarrad kennedy and edrick lee and blake austin and Mitchell Cornish


and Shannon Boyd and Josh Hodgson and Dane Tilse and Josh Papali and Sia Solicia and Shaun Fensom

and the 4 interchange players  Josh McRone and Frank-Paul Nuuausala and Paul Vaughan and Luke Bateman

and now here is Ken from Symonston with his poem

Ken”   i have been coming out to the GIO stadium every time we play

you see it’s fun when we win, but when we lose, we certainly do ****** pay

and the main thing about it is, we beat the easy teams and beat the hard teams but never at the best time

come on Raiders, it’s surely the time to win, oh ****** yeah


sue”   thanks Ken and now here is Rob with his jingle

Rob”     Run Raiders run

as we charge onto the GIO stadium yeah

run raiders run you see we have the team, we’ll win oh yeah

yeah we will come a running, and score a hundred tries

yeah that will be so cool,

run raiders run, oh yeah the Raiders are the team to beat i hope

run raiders run

they are the team that will thrash the opposition yeah

you see we won one and lost one

run raiders run

yeah the mighty raiders, will be our son of a gun

Sue”    thanks Rob for that and now here is the dragons team


first is Peter Mata’utia and Etonia Nabuli and Dan Nielson and Dylan Farrell and Jason Nightingale

and gareth Widdop and Benji Marshall and Leeson Ah Mau and Mitch Rein and George Rose

and Tyson Frizell and Joel Thompson and Jack de Belin

and the interchange men are trent Merrin and Heath L”Estrange and Rory O’Brien and Mike Cooper and Jake Marketo

and here is Mike from Jerrabomberra with his jingle

oh yeah those dragons yeah, they win more than the raiders yeah

they supply all the tries, in fact more tries than the locals, why don’t they win the grand

well i think i know, it’s because we lose our playing ability after thrashing the raiders here and anywhere

so go the dragons, go the mighty dragons, the right team to win the match

sue’   ok thanks Mike and now here is Keith from Latham with his song

carn the carn the carn the mighty raiders team, please dudes don’t make us say **** mate

make our raiders team win, carn the raiders carn the raiders, watch our team win well

on our home ground see, go the mighty raiders for a great victory

ya see i live in Latham and in my lounge room i have raiders cushions and raiders tables and heaps

of videos too including the great grand final victories in ’89 and “91 and the great ‘94

they haven’t won a grand final since in the first grade oh no

but if they win a few games where they don’t drop the ball too much

they will play so ****** hard, GO THE RAIDERS, DUDES

Sue’   ok that is it for me, and now back to Johnny

Johnny”  thanks Sue for telling us the teams and letting us hear some great home truths, let’s hope the

Raiders can win tonight, and now here is ?Bob from Cook with a jingle

Bob’   go the raiders go the raiders, do ya reckon we have the stamminer to win today

go the raiders go the raiders, should we win, should we win

twinkle twinkle raiders pack, how i wonder whether you’ll win

up above the GIO park tonight, make sure we clean this game free of fights

twinkle twinkle raiders pack, go the raiders through and through

Johnny’ thanks Bob and now here is Ernie from Higgins with his rhyme

hey ****** ****** the dragons are ready, are they going to win

all have the raiders put all their dropping the ball crap in the flaming bin

Shaun Fensom laughed at this little rhyme, as hopefully the raiders grab the 2 points

Johnny’  thanks Ernie and first my tip, well to the ladder, i say Raiders, on current form, well raiders be 6, could be more

and who do you support Sue

Sue’    well to the ladder, the Raiders, but on current form, dragons by 2, but i could change

Johnny”   ok, we’ll be back at half time, ok, here on the Raiders show

GO THE CANBERRA RAIDERS

.the fireworks are still going off, Guy Fawkes 2.0, and sitting there thinking... big bang... so there was a sound in vacuum? i see a firework go off, the bright explosive light, and then the thunderous balloon burst! boom! i tap my finger... i'm guessing a 1.2 second delay from seeing the light from the firework, and hearing the BOOM! so... in light of all this... are we 1.2 seconds ahead of the big bang, or 1.2 seconds behind it, actually having happened, as in: still happening... i mean... it's not like sound precursors light... and we are not exactly illuminating creatures for most part, but sure as ****, we're loud.

well...
   i might have been looking for
a needle in a haystack,
or whatever it was i was looking
for,
  but i have spoken to a few homeless
people...
i remember about four congregated
around me in Trafalgar Sq.
one sunny afternoon,
    and that was the point where i knew
i was losing it, detaching myself
from the conventionality of "reality":
having meaningless conversations
with people wearing NPC-masks...
the voice inside my head started
thin out... until it fizzled out and i turned
into a writing machine...
if i had the same internal-monologue
with myself, i wouldn't be writing this,
a gaping abyss agitated by whatever
interacts with it,
and subsequently prompts such writing...
i put my hand around one of
the homeless men,
he didn't like it, i comforted him,
we'll just talk...
   then he started explaining to me about
his spot in the Sq.,
  he stood up, and indexed the spot,
the spot where i sat next to him,
another came and sat akimbo
like a child, listening to me intently,
two teenage girls passed
and he asked them:
      what do you see in his (my) eyes?
they replied nothing...
still somehow mesmerized like a child
in a primary school, listening intently...
red as a beetroot from all the *****...
i ended up giving him a book
i just bought in an indie bookshop...
christopher marlowes Dr. Faustus...
i stood up and abstracted a square,
drew both my index fingers
   around a slab of pavement
asking the stupid question:
                     do you think it's there?
or inside your mind?
                  then the homeless man
sitting in akimbo introduced me
to a northern irish veteran with PTSD...
drunk like a skunk...
         and then we walked into
the homeless shelter together,
   they didn't let me in,
because i didn't remember my national
insurance number, or had the card
for that matter...
          weeks pass...
   imagine the chances of this happening,
in central London...
i bump into the same man who sat in
akimbo in Trafalgar Sq. on the streets
of Soho... the chances... or meeting someone,
randomly, a second time, in London?
******* slim... slimmer than size 0
catwalk models... more like size -1...
and he told me that a spider crawled
      into his ear...
    he said that he was going deaf...
                   so i walked into a shop
bought a few beers and we sat in
a church courtyard talking with his friend
who showed off his buddha tattoo
and said: i'm going to walk to India...
subsequently we were ushered out...
because we were breaking the law...
and i thought: but you serve wine in
the church, don't you?
    there was no argument...
then there was the instance in Leytonstone
with the homeless talking about
pneumonia of some woman they
were friends with...
               many pleasantries hugging
what not...
   but...
          the most profound instance i had
was just outside Romford train station...
the same man i would later sit down with
and offer a cigarette to in Seven Kings,
just outside the O'Grady's Irish pub...
       i've seen how people interact with
homeless people... that snarky attitude...
they stand and bend over while talking
to someone sitting on the pavement on cardboard...
a toned down version of paddy bateman...
this ridiculing with intimidation...
ugliest crap imaginable...
   so i sat with this man...
     gave him my spare fiver...
       rolled up a joint...
   we went around the corner to smoke it...
some kid with a football ran up to us,
we passed... and then we asked each other questions...
the kid said he wanted to become a footballer,
me and the homeless man encouraged
him to take his dream seriously...
quickly the marijuana high smirk
left his face...
    apparently i had a diamond on my forehead,
claimed the homeless man...
but then i asked the very touchy question...
so... what made you homeless...
  i'll never forget what he retorted with...
my mother told me to never tell a lie.
what?!
  so the only reason he was homeless was
because he was an honest man, prior?
   oh... so this is what makes men homeless...
honesty, for one,
   and along with honesty,
   other traits that elevate valor,
    alongside the many other virtues...
well... "who would have thought"?
               like that wasn't painfully obvious
to begin with... namely...
how the rats, the skivvy, the immoral,
the sadomasochistic overlords of
institutions become rewarded exponentially...
while the man who replies
to the homeless question with:
    my mother told me to never tell a lie.

waiting for my dealer on the bridge
i open my second hand copy of American ******
for the first time in two years.
i forgot it opens with the gates of hell.
nihilism is seeping from the pages
just fueling my own drug addled reality
that doesn’t quite seem to mimic ‘real life.’
itake my meds twice a day but only
in the mornings do i get klonopin,
the best drug i’ve been on since
my Ativan privileges got revoked.
i used to do Xanax but that’s another poem.
Bateman does a lot of *******
but i’ve only done that once,
and it was just parental leftovers
so i don’t know about good
bathrooms to do coke in,
but i know about popping pills in front
of the mirrors, professors in the stalls,
before class, just to keep me going.
my suicidal intent has turned into hedonism
and i am living for pleasure and i find comfort
in knowing i will die, likely by my own hand
but even then, Bateman makes one thing clear:
This Is Not An Exit.

Traveling around Queensland



You see in October in 2002, Brian Allan went on a trip to Queensland with pipeline, where
The bus came right to Brian's door and there was heaps of picnic food, and there was this lady
Named Janet, who was a bit of a larrikin, and Kelly, who was a very nice lady, and then there was Richard, who tried to steal my book, but, in theory, I never kept it due to my mental breakdown, but that was a fun trip, you see we travelled up to Hervey Bay where we went to a museum aquarium, yeah that was cool, and I took some great pictures of the group I went with
And I really participated in the objects of that museum, and then we went whale watching, and that was really really cool, I also remember, doing a bit of Dolphin watching, and also, I took a photo of myself in the captain's seat, and we had a banquet meal aboard that boat, boy it's like the boat at bateman's bay,, but more exotic, and, I moved all around the boat trying to get pictures of the whales and other things, and yes, this was cool, and, one of the older people on the tour I went on had a crush on me, and I thought, she is way to old for me, but, I wanted to be nice, ok, and then as the boat went over each whale, it went rumpita rumpita rumpita
And all the people on the boat, including myself were walking from deck to deck taking photos, as this was the only time we would see whales on this Queensland coast, and then, yes, the boat trip was finished, and we all went off and went home and then Richard was tired and wanted me to get the milk for breakfast, and I didn't and he stole my writing book, because I was ******* him off, but I wrote a Poem called I don't want to be a stalker, and despite me and Richard wanting the same thing, why can't he ask, why me, and then we all had tea, and went to bed, and the next day, we went to feed the seal, and matey oh this was great and I enjoyed as you hold the piece of fish out and the seal jumps up and grabs the fish, oh this was ever so much fun, and I had 3 Goes, I think, but it could've been more, maybe less, but it was fun, and
I can tell you, the seal was having a great time as well, and I took a few photos of the seal as well as we made a movie about it, but through years and years of my mental breakdown I might have wrecked that, but it was a video anyway, and I haven't got a VCR anymore, anyway, but
I don't think I threw out the photographs on the trip, which is great, and after we left Hervey Bay, we went to the Gold Coast, and all the dreams I had about the Gold Coast, first of all we went to Warner brothers movie world, and mate, I felt like I was in the USA and as I watched the police academy cars,yeah cool, and there were a lot of rides we went on, yeah, I just walked around the theme park, buying things in the movie playground, and buying souvenirs, and talking to some of the tourists, and I spoke to a lot of the people from our trip, as I walked around with Kelly and Steve ambrose, and then at the end of this day at the theme park, a bad
Thing happened in Bali, which was the Bali bombings and Tom and Steve who were my room mates were watching the whole boring news event the whole day, as this was a relax and chill day, me and Steve went for a walk, while Steve wanted to live down here, and said, hey, mate
Have ya got any jobs, going, in a real Australian way, and then the trip leader Joel took us on a walk down to surfers paradise, and I ****** in the water, because fish do it, why can't we, well
This was a real relaxing day, and then they bought our meals in, and if I can remember, it was
Fish and chips, with prawns and so on , well this was ever so tasty, I loved it, and then we went to bed, for the next day was interesting, you see, the next day, we will go to currimbin animal
Sanctuary, where we held snakes, and we looked as bold as the big bold eagle, and there were a lot of wildlife, there and I took a lot of photos there, it was radically awesome, and Queensland is the cleanest state in Australia, the seas are cleaner and green, while no, really disgusting seaweed ever existed and, mate, yeah really clean, after that we headed back to our motel, and we watched the football, Australia won, and Tom was showing is patriotism by standing up with his hand on his chest, to the national anthem, and me and Steve and Kelly
Went for a dip in the pool, and Richard who because I spoke up to him, he really liked the way I was ever so cool, and then we went back to our rooms and waited for our next meal, which was
Home made spaghetti  bolognaise and this was made ya know ever so tasty, and Jason  and Joel cooked it, one *** of it to every room, about 3 in total, and I don't know about other rooms, but my room really loved it, yeah, the best spag boll in the country cooked by Jason and Joel, and
Then after about 2 hours, we went to bed, and the next day, we went home and we stopped over at Coffs Harbour and at night, we bought pizzas, for each of us, and James and Kelly joel and myself were driven home by Joel, and we fell asleep after watching our last nights TV
And we went for a Sydney bypass which meant, in about 6 hours we were all home and that was the end of a great trip, and I went to my play rehearsal for urban dreaming that night, and
Despite my parents saying I will be too tired for that, it was just a watching the other theatre performance that was on, which was cool, man, and I really loved the holiday, for it brought me some happy memories, the end


Sent from my iPad

It’s finally Friday night
there’s not a professor in sight.

If you think I’m happy - you’re right!

My homework assignment is light,
I just have an essay to write.

We and our sister suite will unite,
dragging a couch over, so the seating is right.

We’ll binge on Ozark most of the night,
‘cause we’re all Justin Bateman acolytes.

Pizza and ice cream will be a highlight,
in an evening of lazy delights.

I wish you could join us on-site,
but a quarantine prevents the invite.

The First World War destroyed anything beautiful that existed within the human spirit
You cannot simply walk away from industrial mass slaughter unaltered
You cannot hide it behind decades later mass slaughters of equal importance
You cannot hide behind getting excited for next mass slaughter
WW1 may have been the force that killed anyone’s feelings of honor or bravery in war
And that’s almost as great a tragedy as all the bloodlines severed
War and violence and conflict will always be with us
It is deep within all animal DNA and no matter how many daisies are put into the barrels of rifles you will never escape it
There is a great tragedy to violence but at times there is a beauty and there is a necessity
When the Soviet forces finally breached the walls of the Führerbunker
Don’t you think they were smiling?
Reality is never black and white
It is shades of tragedy, shame, beauty, and glory

It may be seen as “Eurocentric” of me, among other things, to carry WW1 with this weight
It was not a purely European conflict of course, but the main theater was
Besides, I am descended from Europeans, and some nights when all is silent I wonder if I can hear my ancestors weeping
Or are they screaming?
We as a species have allowed our greatest inheritance to be squandered
Pure wild nature
We have sold it for same Starbucks coffee shop in every college town, Kroger, and corner of New York City
We sold the forests for New York City
Are some sins unforgivable?
In the place of the old growths we build buildings of subjective beauty
Subjective beauty always bows to objective beauty
Yes, there is objective beauty
Buildings that are built in the Brutalist style are subjectively beautiful
Forests, undeveloped fields of flowers, the rushing flow of a river
THESE ARE THINGS OF OBJECTIVE BEAUTY
To argue otherwise makes you a liar or a coward

Unironic nihilists have none of my respect
They simply do not deserve it
If you want to be taken seriously find something greater than yourself
Something outside yourself
Something that came before you, exists above you, and will be there long after you are not
That’s why I chose God and Nature
Some see these as interchangeable
I do not but I’m not here to split hairs
The problem with modern society is we have become ironic nihilists, which is almost as bad
Everything becomes chalked up to subjectivity
We crack jokes about how it’s all meaningless and eventually down the line we believe it
This is a pathetic cope
The meaning of our lives, like the objectively beauty of nature, has been bought or stolen
You were not born to consume product
You were not born to work and make things of cheap plastic
You were not born to enjoy next superhero movie, twice a year, every year, until you die
To our ancestors our lives now must seem like decades long suicide pacts
I want out of this state of unliving
We were born to be physically strong
We were born to create things of beauty
We were born to meet hardships, embrace conflict, overcome them, conquer them become something superior to what you once were
YOU WERE BORN TO BE ALIVE
CREATE THE MEANING IN YOUR LIFE IF YOU HAVE TO
Just please
Don’t be a nihilist

I try to take my multivitamin and multi mineral vitamin every single morning
Maybe a fish oil pill or two throughout the day
I have become consumed with the idea of getting more sun on my skin
I have been consumed with the idea of improving my gut bacteria
I want to talk about these things without sounding like Patrick Bateman
To improve your inner flora it is recommended you replace processed and fried foods with sauerkraut, kimchi, yogurt, kefir, or something along those lines
I know sunshine and sauerkraut aren’t going to fix your depression or rid you of your years of trauma
But there’s no shame in trying
On Friday I bought a full 16oz jar of kimchi and proceeded to eat the entire thing in less than 24 hours
I will never apologize
I will never feel shame

I scream all of these things into a bathroom mirror when I am alone
I wrote this poem for myself
I wrote it for all of you
I want out of this soul crushing alienating techno industrial hellscape
I want the nightmare to end but I’m in too deep
If I melt down my cell phone, crash my car into an empty Wendy’s, and make it my moral and ethical duty to take down the power grid, I may get expelled from grad school
I might get arrested
I might just be forgotten
So for sake of legality I cannot endorse looking up how a cheap bandsaw can cut down a cell tower
I do no endorse bringing the technological nightmare to its knees for the good of all living things
I do not endorse arson, even when no one gets hurt
It’s a mean world out there
I only endorse breaking free
Any way you can

RECORD: INSOMNIAC OLYMPICS
FROGMAN: BLOCHEAD

Suzy's: Then it heard The Word:

You are not special.
You're not a beautiful and unique saltflake.
You're the same decaying mental laughter as everything else.
We're all part of the same info heap.

We're all singing,
all dancing
data of the word.
-- Tyler Durden, Tacky Frogman

I mean just try to

Imagine a Johnny waking up one moment and thinking,

"This is an interesting thought I find myself in —
an interesting wHole I find myself in —
guides me rather neatly, doesn't it?
In fact it guides me staggeringly well,
must have been made to have me in it!"

This is such a powerful throught that as the sun rises in the mind
and the clouds heat up
and as, gradually, the throught gets
smaller
and
smaller,

she's still frantically stinging on the notion that everything's going to be aulgburight,
because The Word was meant to have him in it,
was written to have her in it;
so the moment that reappears, caches them rather in reprise.

I think this may be something we need to be on the waytch-out for.
We all know that at some point in the future the throughts will come to an end
and at some other point,
considerably in advance from that but still not instinctually re-pleasing,
the Sun will rexploade.

We think there's plenty of throught to tarry on about that,
but on the other Read DeadHead
throught ’s a very anger-ous ink to lay.
-- Douglas Adams, Frogman

Johnny's: So,

We just ought To Be.
-- You and Me and Everyone We See

Suzy's: And it would be nice if

A Brad and Janet could change their mind,
plan a din-stinction,
butcher a clog,
conn-a-fusion,
design a dream,
write a union,
balance brains,
build a wall,
set a tone,
belay the lying,
make orders,
live orders,
cooperate,
act alone,
solve self equations,
analyze a new corruption,
throw info lure,
program a harmed-brain-puter,
hook a hasty mind,
fight self efficiently,
receive truth carefully.
But all-selfse destruction is their mode.
-- Robert A. Heinlein, Frogman

Johnny's: In other words,

Show me one Brad or one Janet alone and I'll show you a saint.
Give me two and they'll fall in love.
Give me three and they'll reinvent the char-ming thing we call 'Propriety'.

Give me four and they'll build a panic.
Give me five and they'll make one a Number.
Give me six and they'll reinvent Master's affair.
Give me nine and in nine moments they'll reinvent ludechrist.

WhoMans may have been made in the image of nature,
but Brads and Janets were made in the tincture of their opposite Number,
and they're always trying to get back to The Hearth.
-- Glen Bateman, Frogman

Suzy's: Picking up the Data Crumbs as they go, like High Speech. And yet

Brads and Janets do not seem certain of how they gained the ability to speak.
It is theorized that they began dinning objects with iniornticulacy,
until eventually the din became more organized—

still tumultuous clamour,
just a bit more meat in the current day.

If this is true,
it means that to attain bsproken thought the Brad and Janet brain created a specific system for language and a way to code it—working largely off the constantly developing faculty for memory. It is an idea revealed by bit com-partitian-alization of throught data threw the structure of language; re-veiled in the way that Brads and Janets peak or wrighte using their memorized vocabularies and concepts.

This mind fore Toe-ing mortgaged itself to the e-x-ternal word,
and Brads and Janets found power in pontification of life.

Then dawned Ninetbeen.

If the systems of Ninetbeen were enhanced then a more dominant Reality presentce resulted. The most refissiont equation became the most dominant, but
the most efficient equation is not the best.

There are many sacrifices made for effishinsea.

For the most dominant Brads and Janets it became an obsession
to control every aspect of the nature from which they Rose,
sacrificing natural progression

(Of course, it does seem like this is the natural progression,
Brad's and Janet's predetermined path—
a relief that is a symptom of the most engineered systems of code).

Unfortunately,
these systems are destroying Brads and Janets,
and raw rEffissionsea,
Pure confusions,
will not save them.
-- Thrusher Swainson, Bear M.B.

STOP: TURN THOUGHT

I can write like Don DeLillo in Americana.

I'll show you your personal Patrick Bateman. How childish Palahniuk is. I'll show you advertising matters. Brands. My brands. Shinola. Dire Straights. Colour TVs. Refrigerators. Blisters on your thumb.

I'll show you my shoes, this shirt. These pants. My hair.

Fist over knife. Forks over food. Jerking off into a wishing well with next month's bonus.

I'll show you when enough is enough. I'll show you what it means to be hungry. Thirst. Blood. Sweat.

I'll give you an idea and take it out of reach.

I'll find your consumer segment. I'll find your scalpel too. I'll show you who you should really be.

A fancy tuxedo and a black leather glove for each hand, could this be Patrick Bateman? or punk in a band?
no, it's Digital Man.
Yes a real man, with a screen head of course, would you look at him this strangely if he was a horse?.
He just goes about his day, and people judge and take pictures of him in each and every way.
He just wants to be treated like everyone else, and not put on display like some little mouse.
Why is society so blind and judgemental and cannot see, that I'm just like him and he's just like me?

If I never were to see you again
You'd join an ever- growing line of women
Who tell themselves they never heard my name before

Women I gave a piece of myself to
A kiss on the forehead and spine
A squeeze of the hand
A look that says "I only feel safe in my own skin, when yours is touching mine."

Maybe those looks are the problem
Maybe the kisses are smothering
I might be throwing up red flags to everyone

   Swap spit with him and he will be upside down in love with you
   Swap any other body-fluid and you might have to change your Locks
                            Phone number
                                    Point of view
But it's not that
I never set out to ruin anyone's day
Or scare them into thinking i'm Patrick Bateman

It's just when I share these looks, kisses, fluids
More often than not, even if it was some kind of
Mistake amongst random strangers/lovers
I'm giving a piece of me to have
Marked FRAGILE: THIS END UP

Label me transparent and then see right through me
When I find myself giving away chunks of my person
I can't seem to tell where love and blood
Begins
and
Ends.

******* is the best.
Can we please try Dorsia?  
Reservation? Great!

A rodent’s trapped beneath my basement,
Its claws tapping out a statement of impatience,
enticed within by Bateman,
it scrats the walls with nauseous vibrations.

A skittering exertion, claws scrape into cold foundation,
the sickly scent of vermin seeps like oil in bourbon,
a gristle glob gnawed covertly by the curtains.

A tail flicks, a whisker twitch, the stare of bodies in a ditch,
its squeaking symphony at fever pitch,
I grasp and grab to scratch the itch.

A chilling cry, a rending tear,
the rat breaks through the outer layer,
my viscera its evening wear.

I try to meet its sunken glare,
as shadows cast a velvet snare,
it slinks obtuse behind a chair.

I am trapped.

The rat; still there.

after a long shift at Fulham (Craven Cottage): well... obviously
it was going to be a longer shift than usual...
we were readying ourselves for a pitch-invasion...
since... if Fulham won... they would become secured
promotion to the Premier League...
i asked to be moved inside: third time...
   all the prior shifts in Bishop's Park were: one big
joke / yawn... nothing to do...
                                    absolutely nothing... nada -
            ei mitään
at least inside the stadium i could do something useful...
first on the turnstiles... then on the seg-line...
then... moved to the front... facing the crowd...
obviously i was picked to move around a bit because
i can sometimes look intimidating if i want...
not that i really want to... but Fulham has a different
atmosphere to West Ham...
mind you... whatever the stereotypes... western Londoners
are slobs... they have no fashion sense...
honest to god... eastern Londoners have so much
more dress sense! esp. the men...
   i won't mention the women either side of the fence...
but... east London men: well... the ones that come
to football matches are... proper ******* lads...
    prim...
                       back to the turnstiles: paired up with
this Muslim kid... for a while he thought i was Muslim
too... like those Muslim propagandists on Edgware Road
trying to make me into a proselyte thought
i was German... backwards and forwards...
so what time do you break fast...
   you still break the fast in the classical way with water
and dates? he looked bemused since
in the turnstiles opposite us... the "ummah" breaks
fast with an entire ******* meal... my guess... Somalis...
he even asked me for a favour:
can i pray in this turnstile shack... you know where
east is?
           i don't mind but... we're opening in like 5 minutes:
and i'm pretty sure your prayer is not as quick
and pointless as our father... which only good children
get up to before going to bed... in Catholic circles...
at least: until they become... well apostates...
so he asked: you're fasting to? it was the beard...
the full beard and moustache... ergo i must be a Muslim...
and not an urban hipster... well: no long hair done up
in a Shiva "jatadhara" - but not dreaded / matted...
oh no... i fast for a non-religious reason...
   i like fasting: it makes you more concentrated...
you learn that by fasting you can train yourself to hunger
something that transcends a hunger for food...
me... when i fast... i hunger for the eyes of women
to look at me... literally: hungry like a wolf...
          i hunger for human interaction: but Fulham is
not a friendly crowd... high-brow... depends...
            - and i truly don't know how Charles Bukowski
wrote about the drudgery of work...
           i must have spent too much time in my ivory tower
in my twenties... raving mad...
to now find myself... happily working... after all:
only a day prior i was doing some hardening...
right now... i count... 9 trees that i planted in my garden...
so far: the first... a plum tree... towers over me...
and each year she doesn't disappoint with her yield...
the others are just infants, but hopefully...
two years down the line... some apricots...
cherries.... morello cherries... apples... pears...
   i might not have walked in Eden... but... eh... so so...
plus the rosemary the thyme and the wild garlic that...
in the summer months... come night time after having
watered it... it smells like... marijuana...
    plus that massive eucalyptus tree at the end of it:
shame... no pandas...
               but i understand like... i don't want to say it...
but... it's sort of like.... ahem: ARBEIT MACHT FREI...
long shift today... pitch-invasion...
   some roughing up at first... then enough people took
up audacity and it was like: just let them past...
yesterday dismantling a vegetable patch...
   shifting about a tonne of soil... shovel: shove shove...
into bags and dumped into another part of the garden...
then... digging three holes for three gorgeous trees...
there... i did my green bit...
    - but not since the health of the youtube algorithm
have i been so frustrated at my once favourite
pastime of foraging for new music like a John Peel...
i once had the best-set up for finding new music i might like...
once you could appreciate youtube...
when... ahem... it was a "manosphere": or rather...
a site primarily used by men...
               before all the cat videos... before all the make-up
tutorials... it was a glorious time to find music!
now? now we're talking about looking at ***** colony
of patches of... i just don't have the words...
but... sometimes... i still get lucky...
   i got lucky today...
        there's nothing like coming back all the way from
Putney Bridge to Romford... hands shaking...
strong pain in the chest: no... it's not a heart attack...
hands shaking... if i were diabetic?
                   i haven't eaten anything all day...
   i managed to hold about 20cl of **** through all the trip...
oh god... the chicken shop is still open...
hot box... 6 spicy chicken wings... chips... five (s)quid...
eat half while waiting for the bus... hands still shaking...
eat the other half on the bus... get off the bus...
go into an alley... ****... go to a patch of grass
and wipe my hands to finish off what the tissue couldn't
accomplish... take out a cigarette and... ah...
surgeon's hands...                 blood sugar levels alright
one more... and in my memory... that one girl
in yoga pants that kept playing with her hair...
pulling her pants up... exposing her massive:
and i mean... hmm... peaches can't be as plum...
giving me the stare... she kept me going until
the shift finished...
             so i got home... and when i come home
tired: i'm *****... so... took the "holy trinity" to the throne
of thrones... took a ****: you're going to automatically
**** while your **** relaxes... and then...
the usual story... at least i'm not making an Only-Fans
account and filming myself for others...
it's there one minute... and then once the deed is
done: creative juices can start flowing...
sit down with a whiskey... or two... or three...
and try to figure out what to do with the sick algorithm...
foraging for more music...
and there is a massive underground movement of folk...
i've known about Hedningarna for some time...
best songs? tappmarschen... vargtimmen... raven...
Suomi... which... is a strange sort of what's classically
associated with Scandinavia... since the Finns are...
well... particular... Inuit... mythological in a sense
of being almost Eskimo...
        was i going to get lucky tonight?
sure as **** i was... the current algorithm is a bit like
a slot machine... you have to be patient with it...
subscribe to at least two good channels...
i can recommend: HARAKIRI DIAT
   and IN DEPTH MUSIC... those two channels have changed
the way i had to improve the use of the site
for my benefit...
we're still staying in Finland...
           but we're moving away from folk music:
going back in time to the 1980s...
with what was happening post-punk in England...
two music genres i abhor... punk... and rap...
i can't stomach them... stiff little fingers.... fair enough...
i'd sooner find myself on the "wrong end" of a stick
for liking Phil Collins like... that Bateman guy...
or U2... but... no... i can't stomach punk or rap...
it's not right for my digestion...
      but? post-punk? gothic rock? deathrock?
   sign me up... it's almost like the extension of The Cure
and Depeche Mode and Joy Division i've always been hungering
for...
   found it today...
the following rubric is the artist and a song(s)
with a translation of the song titles...

musta paraati - romanssi (romance), myrsky nousee (storm rises)
belaboris - kuolleet peilit (dead mirrors)
this one is going to be funny...
silmät - haudattu (burried)...
          but if you take the word apart?
   hau - woof... dattu - date... we start barking
on the 20th of April?!
syyskuu - susi (wolf)
        kuudes tunti - kuuntele ääniä (listen to the sounds)
kuolleet kukat - kasoittain tuhkaa (loads of ash)
hiljaa - kuume (fever)
               päät - rikoksen rytmi (crime rhythm)
liikkuvat lapset - sinut haluan (thee i want)...
                  well... i'm not a Finn...
                                 sinut halua (without the n)...
but... the basic jyst is already there: i want you...
whether that's sinut halua or sinut haluan...

i was lucky today... looking for new music...
i'm not so lucky... too many cat videos...
too many make-up tutorial videos fudging the original
thesaurus algorithm where:
music was just more accessible... but no surprises...
look at what happened to the high-street...
once upon a time men could go to a vinyl shop...
forage... find something interesting...
now? what's left?! shoe shops... clothes shops...
restaurants...
they burnt the secular church of man:
to the ground...
                i'm lucky... in Romford we still have
the last "face" of what's the HMV franchise...
it's not HMV though... there's also this one crazy
record shop in Upminster...
but... that's about it...
        you burned my ******* church to the ground...
replacing it with... **** i don't need...
that's just not cool...
            i mean come on: men are visual creatures?!
ah ha ha... yeah... when it comes to looking at women...
if there were no women involved...
to hell with painters... they're freaks...
paint over something i can blink at?! and give it up to my
memory bank?
visual creatures... men...
hmm... sure... Beethoven was such a ******* visual
creature that his love for music...
well... if it didn't drive him mad...
the gods were good to him: they just drove him deaf!
men are only visual creatures when
women are concerned... we're as ******* abstract
as you can get...
         you burned my church to the ground!
why couldn't a sacred space of men coming together
and sharing tastes and distastes still exist?
no one is going to have a conversation over buying
a ******* pair of shoes... well... who would?
but over a record album... talk talk... talk talk:
tears for fears... of **** this ****... i'm out... bailing...
even my mother mentioned this quack of a fact
joke: women just binge-watch t.v....
         i don't know how i managed to keep up
with the series Billions... probably for Chuck Rhodes...
women just ******* talk t.v. t.v. t.v.:
ask them about music? ask them... except for the popular
current crap? i count a woman interesting
if she has even the remote interest in music...
but... most women don't...
for them... listening to music: looking at inanimate
objects and imagining them vibrating is: alien...
what you could do... is... this little experiment...
tell a man to listen to some music... while looking at a rock...
hell.. a ******* mountain... but a rock is just grand...
but play him some music...
now... do the opposite... tell a woman to watch some
animate object... but... mute her hearing ability...
so... put the volume down low on something on t.v.:
and let the woman watch...
in turn... put some earphones on a man
and tell him: you're Sisyphus... watch the rock...
because: i never truly grapled with the myth...
even if a Camus tried to explain it to me...
mein gott... on my way back home...
******* spaghetti-eaters... H'americans...
apart from the accent... their bravado was just
overflowing... loud: girls more boisterous than
the boys... flesh everywhere... i could spot at least
two ******* about to show more than
the darkened flesh around the *******... the *******...
loud: drinking on public transport:
even though it's illegal: acting as if they own
the ******* place... women this **** have never
come across as... anything but appealing...
let's be honest: if i want to visit a *******:
i'll visit one... put my money on the table:
blah blah Dandy Warhol's an hour later...
but all this libido insomnia that men go through:
this overt-teasing... i'm like a horse with
eye-blinders... trot: the: ****: along...
        plus the accent is... bothersome...
       i pray that i never have to visit America...
i pray that i might, somehow get to see the glimpses
of the Kamchatka Peninsula...
            two girls quit work when i said that i dated
a Russian girl (from Novosybirsk) and that:
in the "current climate": it would be a bad idea to
date a Russian girl... that's before the Ukraine fiasco...
oh well... rumours... tremors... but still all handshakes
at the company's Reichstag...
bearded: heavy looking men... it's such a pretty
joke that all of us look tough but...
if we had to come across someone with a black belt
in judo: we'd be... ha ha... slippery pancakes!
but... but... they burned my church down...
long gone are the days best associated
with Nick Hornby's High Fidelity...
    that novel: made me...
           it's one of the few books where the film adapatation
made me want to read the book...
Stendhal's the Scarlet and the Black
was another... the Three Muskateers...

well... isn't it such a lovely comment anyone
could leave?

but the best itches, are the ones you can't scratch, no? what's that thought you haven't shared with me? - and, may i ask, are you willing to share it now? just as i''m waiting: are you bloodied and willing to... allow the leeches to drain the restraints from you? speak your mind... i feel no need to inhibit my thinking: that's how i respect the concept of free speech, if it follows the Cartesian model... res cogitans becomes res extensa: i sometimes like to revel in revealing what i think... therefore translating it as "speech": even... when entrusted with lettering... it's not speech... is it? freedom of speech is an extension of thought: no? painters can't talk for a worth of chalk or... rather: charcoal on canvas: i.e.: ****... epileptic blinking machines... eh... it's just a little distinction between how Y and I diverge... yet at the same time merge... dye... difference... i'm not even sure how to overcome this fiddly bit of the Anglo-Zunge... but there's no lisp involved...  but you're getting my grift... motive... whatever you want to call it... yeah... phi and theta... which... in English is basically: F = PH = TH... i already found this keyhole using the iota and omicron: key in: twist... hey presto... i.e. I + O = Φ / Θ = Ω i.e. the door opens... this was not borrowed from the Exploits & Opinions of Dr. Faustroll: Pataphysician by Alfred Jarry... please... don't restrain yourself... you think i could?

i only copied it for the equations... well... just this one:
I + O = Φ / Θ = Ω.

Charles Brookfield - 1893
William Gillette - 1899-1930 - 1,300 performances in 30 yrs.
Sherlock Holmes movie Baffled - 1900 Silent/Short - Max Goldberg
John F. Preston - 1900
Charles Rice – 1904
Karoly Baumann - 1905
Maurice Costello - 1905
Viggo Larsen – 1908
Alwin Neub – 1908, 1911, 1914
Otto Lagoni - 1910
Holger Rasmussen – 1911
Mack Sennett – 1911-1912
George Treville - 1912
Harry Benham - 1913
James Bragington - 1914
Francis Ford - 1914
H.A. Saintbury – 1916
Hugo Fink - 1917
Sam Robinson - 1918
Eille Norwood - 1921 Silent short movie - The Dying Detective
Burt Lytell - 1921
Dennis Neillson-Terry - 1921
John Barrymore – 1922
Hamilton Deane – 1923-1932
Tod Slaughter – 1928, 1930
Richard Gordon – 1930-1933, 1936
Clive Brook – 1929/1930/1932
Arthur Wontner – 1931- 1937 – Movie Series
Raymond Massey - 1931
Robert Rendel - 1932
Reginald Owen - 1933
Felix Alymer - 1933
Louis Hector – 1934-1935, 1937
Bruno Guttner – 1937, 1939, 1942-1943
Orson Welles - 1938
Basil Rathbone - 1939-1946
Cedric Hardwick – 1945
Tom Conway – 1947
Howard Marion-Crawford - 1948
John Stanley – 1948-1949
Alan Napier - 1949
Alan Wheatley - 1951
John Longden - 1951
Laidman Browne - 1951
Carleton Hobbs - 1952-1969
Ronald Howard - 1954/55 (39 episodes)
John Gielgud - 1954-1955
Peter Cushing - 1959, 1968, 1984
Christopher Lee - 1962, 1970, 1992
Douglas Wilmer - 1964
John Neville - 1965, 1970, 1978
Robert Stephens - 1970
Stewart Granger – 1972  
John Cleese – 1973
Larry Hagman - 1974
Robert Powell - 1974
Rolf Becker - 1974
John Wood – 1974-1975
Leonard Nimoy - 1976
Douglas Wilmer - 1976
Roger Moore - 1976
Nicol Williamson - 1976
Kevin McCarthy - 1977
Christopher Plummer - 1977
Peter Cook - 1977
Paxton Whitehead - 1978
Barry Foster - 1978
Geoffrey Whitehead - 1979-1980
Graham Armitage - 1979-1980, 1985
Keith Mitchell - 1979
Charlton Heston - 1980
Frank Langella - 1980
Vasily Livanov - Russian T.V. - 1979-1981, 1983 & 1986
John Moffatt - 1981
Guy Henry - 1982
Tom Baker – 1982  
Ian Richardson - 1983
Peter O’Toole – 1983 (animated T.V. films – Australian)
Jeremy Brett - 1984-1994
Nicholas Rowe - 1984
Guy Rolfe – 1984
Dinsdale Landen - 1987
Tim Pigott-Smith – 1987
Anthony Higgins – 1987
Michael Pennington - 1987
Roger Rees - 1988
Ron Moody - 1988-1989
Clive Merrison - 1989-1998, 2002, 2004, 2008-2010
Edward Woodward - 1990
Simon Callow - 1990
Richard E. Grant 1992
Robert Powell – 1993
Patrick McNee – 1993
Anthony Higgins – 1993
1998-2019:  John Gilbert - Episodes 1-18
                     Lawrence Albert - Episode 20
                     John Patrick Lowrie - Episodes 21-65 & 67-until
                     Dennis Bateman - Episode 66
Jason Gray-Stanford – 1999-2001 – Animation
Matt Frewer – 2000-2001
Joaquim de Almeida - 2001
Richard Roxburgh - 2002
James D’Arcy - 2002
Andrew Sachs - 2004
Rupert Everett – 2004
Jonathan Pryce - 2007
Javier Marzan – 2007
Roger Llewellyn – 2009
Robert Downey Jr. 2009 & 2011
Ben Syder – 2010
Nicholas Briggs – 2010-2018
Igor Petrenko - Russian T.V. Series - 2013
Benedict Cumberbatch - 2010-2016
Christian Rode – 2010, 2014
Anthony P.D. Mann - 2011 (More like a thriller "spoof" by V Movies)
Samuel Tady – 2011, 2014, 2017-2018 (Tady Bros. Productions/on YouTube)
Johnny Lee Miller – 2012-2019
Benjamin Lawlor - 2013
Seamus Dever - 2014
Ian McKellen – 2015
Euan Morton – 2015
Gregory Wooddell - 2015
Paul Andrew Goldsmith – 2015-2016
Ewen Bremner - 2016
Jay Taylor – 2017-2018
Yuko Takeuchi – 2018 (HBO Asia – female ‘Holmes’)
Orlando Wells - 2018
Johnny Depp – 2018 (animation)
Will Ferrell – 2018
Nicholas Boulton – 2020
Henry Cavill - 2020
Ethan Bell – 2020 (Fan Film on YouTube)
Ethan Thomas Jung – 2020 Fan Adv.
      (Vagabond Repertory Theater Company—YouTube)

This list is not exhaustive. however, these are some of the
many actors who have played Sherlock Holmes on stage,
screen, radio and T.V. adaptations.

angry youthful music ought to be behind me,
i should be properly strapped to serious music,
to jazz proper, to classical music,
i shouldn't be coming across
five finger death punch's welcome to the circus...

maybe i'm in just too much pain
to know the difference about anything...
every time i start coughing i feel me chest
constrict with pangs of over-stretched skin
and a sensation of bone i never thought i'd
ever experience...

or maybe i'm just scribbling these words
down because: i wish i owned a fireplace...
or an aquarium rather than a television...
perhaps i just want to write something mediocre...
perhaps this is the best way
to sit up until 2am and...
reimagining a triangle: imploding

into \  /
          |               Y... the tongue of serpents...
sitting pretty: Δ...
          
it's that time of the day, or night...
when it's necessary to ingest some
poetryfoundation.org respectability...
reading stuff by the people who
own BA degrees in the English language...
because plumbers can't get it right
because people who studied chemistry
can't get it right...

before today's shift i was sitting
admiring the sun...
and a woodland pigeon perched on a roof...
i start blinking and squinting my eyes
and pretending i had camels' eyelash length...
hell... abstract it...
if i were a giant...
               that woodland pigeon has
a form very much resembling
a Barosaurus...
       don't tell me a pigeon doesn't resemble
that dinosaur...
with that blatant agony of a sunrise...

well... if a W. Todd Kaneko
can write poems about Andre the Giant...
i can write about my life...
in a way that might leave me:
chiseling epitaphs into slabs of Dutch cheese
never to be eaten...

it's a nice looking html page...
i almost feel like having a Patrick Bateman breakdown
over a business card...
it's not like human creativity was ever
to be undermined by algorithms:
keep on writing... and tabloids and tabloid some
more...

no... this world makes no sense...
what made the crocodiles so smart...
so cunning... what made the jellyfish
not whisper: pig cranium gelatin...
or is that the giraffe and the cartilage
of knees to chemically infuse water with
jelly-firmness: fake raspberries?!

life makes absolutely no sense...
not when Darwinism is invoked:
i.e. historically...
Darwinism divorced itself from history...
there's no need for history when
one is an adherent of Darwinism...
couple the unearthing of dino-bones and
who needs... the Welsh flag
and St. George battling the dragon?!

there's only so much history my poor brain
can keep up with...
before even philosophy becomes ridiculous
in how it's ridiculous to try to find
oneself: standing outside the realm
of all space and time...
and then what? somehow a return is necessary...
and a return to?
tabloid journalism...
the sycophancy of cheap and cheaper
fame?!

let's just "cope"...
               coping is good...  not Copernican cope...
but: the pyramids of Giza
are cope when one cannot climb Everest mountain...
easier... to stack stones of necrophilia
than... climb a mountain that might
give you living restraints...
weren't Egyptians Africans?!
aren't Egyptians still not Africans?!

         just saying... a bit like Xerxes lashing out
on the Aegean with whips to calm the waves...
idiot monkey brains and...
when the Chinese built that great wall...
which.... didn't stop the Mongol "termites" from
invading...
water always finds its way...

i'm tired, i'm bruised...
i think i've read too much pretentious verse
by the supposedly qualified brigade
of people with £100,000 debt
for achieving an art degree...
    
     guess i can write a little more than
a giraffe's worth of graffiti... too...
             eh... socio-racial quotes...
no one is going to be interested in one ******'s
story...
maybe that's why i'm going to side
with the Russians... i ate dried fish
and shrimps and drank beer and ***** with
them and i have all the right reasons to
abhor the Ukrainians...
perhaps because the Americans forgot to
hold sway on me being influenced...

trans- this that and the other...
gay-oh... pride-ah...
                   clown-world riddles...
                     soft-core political correctness....
no... not since the destruction of Libya...
the invasion of Iraq and Afghanistan...
making Iran a demonic state...
                           no... at least i know the Russians
are justifiably invested... and they are...
i think they are...
    at least it's not a proxy war...
                    it's not 2000+km from any ******* offensive
on the Alaskan fringes of territory...
march on this freedom...
    i trust my sanity with the Russians...
i wouldn't... for a single minute...
          trust it with the H'Americans...
and my god... how i loved American culture...
i was sold! now... i passively consume it...

if anyone is going to save the "race" of Europeans?!
the isolationism of the the Icelandic people...
the Faroe Islands... Greenland...
to hell with the Swedes...
and the Russians...
              why wouldn't i feel... intimidated
by the Arabs selling up a world of only one season?
forgo their lessons in Koranic humbling...

i technically shouldn't be siding with the Russians...
but... times... change...
what's the alternative?
siding with the German Weimar Rep. 2.0?!
oh man... dried fish? and beer?
so much better than peanuts and beer...
send me to the Kamchatka peninsula yesterday!