"The Beatles had no genuine musical talent, but were a product shaped according to British Psychological Warfare Division (Tavistock) specifications, and promoted in Britain by agencies which are controlled by British intelligence." Why Your Child Became A Drug Addict" Lyndon H. LaRouche, Jr., Campaigner Special Report, Copyright 1978*

Don’t let it be said,
That nothing chipped off his father’s block,
The father who played
In ragtime and jazz bands,
In Liverpool, England.
Sir James Paul McCartney, MBE, and
According to “another clue for you all”
Compliments of Glass Onion:
“The Walrus was Paul.”
But I digress.
Sir Paul, erstwhile Beatle,
Certainly had the ear-for-music gene,
Percolating through his spiral double helix.
And the clever linguistics gene as well,
Lyrics seemingly crafted in an earlier era,
Back when fine-tuning & finesse,
Ruled bouts of social chitchat.
When men could sing when they spoke.
The music of the spoken word:
Homeric and magical,
Casting spells upon us.
Like English scops:
Medieval Minstrels, Jugglers & Clowns,
Who memorized and recited long heroic poems
And stories. Usually both.
The music of the spoken word;
The magic of an aural experience;
Back before those words conjured up oral experience,
“You are correct, Sir!” mouths Johnny’s sidekick,
Back before mouth-on *** crossed over to the Straight Population.
Back before Gordon Gekko/Liberace
Blamed his oral cancer on *******,
No. Not Colonel Angus.
Think Cole Porter--
Sophisticated, ***** lyrics,
Clever rhymes, complex misdemeanors.
Think Tin Pan Alley.
Cole Porter--a Yale graduate by the way,
Demonstrating another critically-important genetic fact of life:
The gift of Ivy-League DNA.
But, again, I digress.
Paul was the happy Beatle,
Not to be confused with John, the serious Beatle, or
George, the quiet Beatle.
Not to mention Ringo: the utterly extraneous Beatle.
Let’s map the social dynamics of their band.
Let us scrutinize that famous mop-top barbershop quartet.
Immediately we comprehend the creative tension,
Centered largely on that giant clash of personalities:
Paul vs. John.
The surprise is not that the Beatles broke up.
It’s more a sense of unsuspended disbelief,
That this particular band,
Ever got it together to show up for a gig,
Let alone last long enough to record their first album,
And go on to become the first
(Can we forget Elvis for a moment, please?)
Truly viral sensations of this earth, this realm, this England:
Pop stars of the Nineteen-Sixties.
John vs. Paul:
For every “Strawberry Fields Forever,”
There’s a “Lovely Rita, Meter Maid.”

There once was a Beatle and a Bird
Who enjoyed a cup of tea every hour of the 3rd
At whome, passer bys would exclaim “Absurd!”
“These two could never give what the other deserves”
But still the Beatle and the Bird
Remained ever so undeterred

PROLOGUE
               Hyde Park weekend of politics and pop,
Geldof’s gang of divas and mad hatters;
Sergeant Pepper only one heart beating,
resurrected by a once dead Beatle.
The ******, Queen and Irish juggernauts;
The Entertainer and dead bands
re-jigged for the sake of humanity.
   The almighty single named entities
all out for Africa and people power.
Olympics in the bag, a Waterloo
of celebrations in the street that night
Leaping and whooping in sheer delight
Nelson rocking in Trafalgar Square
The promised computer wonderlands
rising from the poisoned dead heart wasteland;
derelict, deserted, still festering.
The Brave Tomorrow in a world of hate.
The flame will be lit, magic rings aloft
and harmony will be our middle name.

On the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl;
the ‘war on terror’ just a tattered trope
drained and exhausted and put out of sight
in a dark corner of a darker shelf.
A power surge the first lie of the day.
Savagely woken from our pleasant dream
al Qa’ida opens up a new franchise
and a new frontier for terror to prowl.

               Howling sirens shatter morning’s progress
Hysterical screech of ambulances
and police cars trying to grip the road.
The oppressive drone of helicopters
gathering like the Furies in the sky;
Blair’s hubris is acknowledged by the gods.
Without warning the deadly game begins.

The Leviathan state machinery,
certain of its strength and authority,
with sheer balletic co-ordination,
steadies itself for a fine performance.
The new citizen army in ‘day glow’
take up their ‘Support Official’ roles,
like air raid wardens in the last big show;
feisty  yet firm, delivering every line
deep voiced and clearly to the whole theatre.
On cue, the Police fan out through Bloomsbury
clearing every emergency exit,
arresting and handcuffing surly streets,
locking down this ancient river city.
Fetching in fluorescent green costuming,
the old Bill nimbly Tangos and Foxtrots
the airways, Oscar, Charlie and Yankee
quickly reply with grid reference Echo;
Whiskey, Sierra, Quebec, November,
beam out from New Scotland Yard,
staccato, nearly lost in static space.
      
              LIVERPOOL STREET STATION
8.51 a.m. Circle Line

Shehezad Tanweer was born in England.
A migrant’s child of hope and better life,
dreaming of his future from his birth.
Only twenty two short years on this earth.
In a madrassah, Lahore, Pakistan,
he spent twelve weeks reading and rote learning
verses chosen from the sacred text.
Chanting the syllables, hour after hour,
swaying back and forth with the word rhythm,
like an underground train rocking the rails,
as it weaves its way beneath the world,
in turning tunnels in the dead of night.

Teve Talevski had a meeting
across the river, he knew he’d be late.
**** trains they do it to you every time.
But something odd happened while he waited
A taut-limbed young woman sashayed past him
in a forget-me-not blue dress of silk.
She rustled on the platform as she turned.
She turned to him and smiled, and he smiled back.
Stale tunnel air pushed along in the rush
of the train arriving in the station.
He found a seat and watched her from afar.
Opened his paper for distraction’s sake
Olympic win exciting like the smile.

Train heading southwest under Whitechapel.
Deafening blast, rushing sound blast, bright flash
of golden light, flying glass and debris
Twisted people thrown to ground, darkness;
the dreadful silent second in blackness.
The stench of human flesh and gunpowder,
burning rubber and fiery acrid smoke.
Screaming bone bare pain, blood-drenched tearing pain.
Pitiful weeping, begging for a god
to come, someone to come, and help them out.

Teve pushes off a dead weighted man.
He stands unsteady trying to balance.
Railway staff with torches, moving spotlights
**** and jolt, catching still life scenery,
lighting the exit in gloomy dimness.
They file down the track to Aldgate Station,
Teve passes the sardine can carriage
torn apart by a fierce hungry giant.
Through the dust, four lifeless bodies take shape
and disappear again in drifting smoke.
It’s only later, when safe above ground,
Teve looks around and starts to wonder
where his blue epiphany girl has gone.

                 KINGS CROSS STATION
8.56 a.m. Piccadilly Line

Many named Lyndsey Germaine, Jamaican,
living with his wife and child in Aylesbury,
laying low, never visited the Mosque.   
                Buckinghamshire bomber known as Jamal,
clean shaven, wearing normal western clothes,
annoyed his neighbours with loud music.
Samantha-wife converted and renamed,
Sherafiyah and took to wearing black.
Devout in that jet black shalmar kameez.
Loving father cradled close his daughter
Caressed her cheek and held her tiny hand
He wondered what the future held for her.

Station of the lost and homeless people,
where you can buy anything at a price.
A place where a face can be lost forever;
where the future’s as real as faded dreams.
Below the mainline trains, deep underground
Piccadilly lines cross the River Thames
Cram-packed, shoulder to shoulder and standing,
the train heading southward for Russell Square,
barely pulls away from Kings Cross Station,
when Arash Kazerouni hears the bang,
‘Almighty bang’ before everything stopped.
Twenty six hearts stopped beating that moment.
But glass flew apart in a shattering wave,
followed by a  huge whoosh of smoky soot.
Panic raced down the line with ice fingers
touching and tagging the living with fear.
Spine chiller blanching faces white with shock.

Gracia Hormigos, a housekeeper,
thought, I am being electrocuted.
Her body was shaking, it seemed her mind
was in free fall, no safety cord to pull,
just disconnected, so she looked around,
saw the man next to her had no right leg,
a shattered shard of bone and gouts of  blood,
Where was the rest of his leg and his foot ?

Level headed ones with serious voices
spoke over the screaming and the sobbing;
Titanic lifeboat voices giving orders;
Iceberg cool voices of reassurance;
We’re stoical British bulldog voices
that organize the mayhem and chaos
into meaty chunks of jobs to be done.
Clear air required - break the windows now;
Lines could be live - so we stay where we are;
Help will be here shortly - try to stay calm.

John, Mark and Emma introduce themselves
They never usually speak underground,
averting your gaze, tube train etiquette.
Disaster has its opportunities;
Try the new mobile, take a photograph;
Ring your Mum and Dad, ****** battery’s flat;
My network’s down; my phone light’s still working
Useful to see the way, step carefully.

   Fiona asks, ‘Am I dreaming all this?’
A shrieking man answers her, “I’m dying!”
Hammered glass finally breaks, fresher air;
too late for the man in the front carriage.
London Transport staff in yellow jackets
start an orderly evacuation
The mobile phones held up to light the way.
Only nineteen minutes in a lifetime.
  
EDGEWARE ROAD STATION
9.17 a.m. Circle Line

               Mohammed Sadique Khan, the oldest one.
Perhaps the leader, at least a mentor.
Yorkshire man born, married with a daughter
Gently spoken man, endlessly patient,
worked in the Hamara, Lodge Lane, Leeds,
Council-funded, multi-faith youth Centre;
and the local Primary school, in Beeston.
No-one could believe this of  Mr Khan;
well educated, caring and very kind
Where did he hide his secret other life  ?

Wise enough to wait for the second train.
Two for the price of one, a real bargain.
Westbound second carriage is blown away,
a commuter blasted from the platform,
hurled under the wheels of the east bound train.
Moon Crater holes, the walls pitted and pocked;
a sparse dark-side landscape with black, black air.
The ripped and shredded metal bursts free
like a surprising party popper;
Steel curlicues corkscrew through wood and glass.
Mass is made atomic in the closed space.
Roasting meat and Auschwitzed cremation stench
saturates the already murky air.              
Our human kindling feeds the greedy fire;
Heads alight like medieval torches;
Fiery liquid skin drops from the faceless;
Punk afro hair is cauterised and singed.  
Heat intensity, like a wayward iron,
scorches clothes, fuses fibres together.
Seven people escape this inferno;
many die in later days, badly burned,
and everyone there will live a scarred life.

               TAVISTOCK ROAD
9.47 a.m. Number 30 Bus  

Hasib Hussain migrant son, English born
barely an adult, loved by his mother;
reported him missing later that night.
Police typed his description in the file
and matched his clothes to fragments from the scene.
A hapless victim or vicious bomber ?
Child of the ‘Ummah’ waging deadly war.
Seventy two black eyed virgins waiting
in jihadist paradise just for you.

Red double-decker bus, number thirty,
going from Hackney Wick to Marble Arch;
stuck in traffic, diversions everywhere.
Driver pulls up next to a tree lined square;
the Parking Inspector, Ade Soji,
tells the driver he’s in Tavistock Road,
British Museum nearby and the Square.
A place of peace and quiet reflection;
the sad history of war is remembered;
symbols to make us never forget death;
Cherry Tree from Hiroshima, Japan;
Holocaust Memorial for Jewish dead;
sturdy statue of  Mahatma Gandhi.
Peaceful resistance that drove the Lion out.
Freedom for India but death for him.

Sudden sonic boom, bus roof tears apart,
seats erupt with volcanic force upward,
hot larva of blood and tissue rains down.
Bloodied road becomes a charnel-house scene;
disembodied limbs among the wreckage,
headless corpses; sinews, muscles and bone.
Buildings spattered and smeared with human paint
Impressionist daubs, blood red like the bus.

Jasmine Gardiner, running late for work;
all trains were cancelled from Euston Station;  
she headed for the square, to catch the bus.
It drove straight past her standing at the stop;
before she could curse aloud - Kaboom !
Instinctively she ran, ran for her life.
Umbrella shield from the shower of gore.

On the lower deck, two Aussies squeezed in;
Catherine Klestov was standing in the aisle,
floored by the bomb, suffered cuts and bruises
She limped to Islington two days later.
Louise Barry was reading the paper,
she was ‘****-scared’ by the explosion;
she crawled out of the remnants of the bus,
broken and burned, she lay flat on the road,
the world of sound had gone, ear drums had burst;
she lay there drowsy, quiet, looking up
and amazingly the sky was still there.

Sam Ly, Vietnamese Australian,
One of the boat people once welcomed here.
A refugee, held in his mother’s arms,
she died of cancer, before he was three.
Hi Ly struggled to raise his son alone;
a tough life, inner city high rise flats.
Education the smart migrant’s revenge,
Monash Uni and an IT degree.
Lucky Sam, perfect job of a lifetime;
in London, with his one love, Mandy Ha,
Life going great until that fateful day;
on the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl.

Three other Aussies on that ****** bus;
no serious physical injuries,
Sam’s luck ran out, in choosing where to sit.
His neck was broken, could not breath alone;
his head smashed and crushed, fractured bones and burns
Wrapped in a cocoon of coma safe
This broken figure lying on white sheets
in an English Intensive Care Unit
did not seem like Hi Ly’s beloved son;
but he sat by Sam’s bed in disbelief,
seven days and seven nights of struggle,
until the final hour, when it was done.

In the pit of our stomach we all knew,
but we kept on deep breathing and hoping
this nauseous reality would pass.
The weary inevitability
of horrific disasters such as these.
Strangely familiar like an old newsreel
Black and white, it happened long ago.
But its happening now right before our eyes
satellite pictures beam and bounce the globe.
Twelve thousand miles we watch the story
Plot unfolds rapidly, chapters emerge
We know the places names of this narrative.
  
It is all subterranean, hidden
from the curious, voyeuristic gaze,
Until the icon bus, we are hopeful
This public spectacle is above ground
We can see the force that mangled the bus,
fury that tore people apart limb by limb
Now we can imagine a bomb below,
far below, people trapped, fiery hell;
fighting to breathe each breath in tunnelled tombs.

Herded from the blast they are strangely calm,
obedient, shuffling this way and that.
Blood-streaked, sooty and dishevelled they come.
Out from the choking darkness far below
Dazzled by the brightness of the morning
of a day they feared might be their last.
They have breathed deeply of Kurtz’s horror.
Sights and sounds unimaginable before
will haunt their waking hours for many years;
a lifetime of nightmares in the making.
They trudge like weary soldiers from the Somme
already see the world with older eyes.

On the surface, they find a world where life
simply goes on as before, unmindful.
Cyclist couriers still defy road laws,
sprint racing again in Le Tour de France;
beer-gutted, real men are loading lorries;
lunch time sandwiches are made as usual,
sold and eaten at desks and in the street.
Roadside cafes sell lots of hot sweet tea.
The Umbrella stand soon does brisk business.
Sign writers' hands, still steady, paint the sign.
The summer blooms are watered in the park.
A ***** stretches on the bench and wakes up,
he folds and stows his newspaper blankets;
mouth dry,  he sips water at the fountain.
A lady scoops up her black poodle’s ****.
A young couple argues over nothing.
Betting shops are full of people losing
money and dreaming of a trifecta.
Martin’s still smoking despite the patches.
There’s a rush on Brandy in nearby pubs
Retired gardener dead heads his flowers
and picks a lettuce for the evening meal

Fifty six minutes from start to finish.
Perfectly orchestrated performance.
Rush hour co-ordination excellent.
Maximum devastation was ensured.
Cruel, merciless killing so coldly done.
Fine detail in the maiming and damage.

A REVIEW

Well activated practical response.
Rehearsals really paid off on the day.
Brilliant touch with bus transport for victims;
Space blankets well deployed for shock effect;
Dramatic improv by Paramedics;
Nurses, medicos and casualty staff
showed great technical E.R. Skills - Bravo !
Plenty of pizzazz and dash as always
from the nifty, London Ambo drivers;
Old fashioned know-how from the Fire fighters
in hosing down the fireworks underground.
Dangerous rescues were undertaken,
accomplished with buckets of common sense.
And what can one say about those Bobbies,
jolly good show, the lips unquivering
and universally stiff, no mean feat
in this Premiere season tear-jerker.
Nail-bitingly brittle, but a smash-hit
Poignant misery and stoic suffering,
fortitude, forbearance and lots of grit
Altogether was quite tickety boo.



NOTES ON THE POEM

Liverpool Street Station

A Circle Line train from Moorgate with six carriages and a capacity of 1272 passengers [ 192 seated; 1080 standing]. 7 dead on the first day.

Southbound, destination Aldgate. Explosion occurs midway between Liverpool Street and Aldgate.

Shehezad Tanweer was reported to have ‘never been political’ by a friend who played cricket with him 10 days before the bombing

Teve Talevski is a real person and I have elaborated a little on reports in the press. He runs a coffee shop in North London.

At the time of writing the fate of the blue dress lady is not known

Kings Cross Station

A Piccadilly Line train with six carriages and a capacity of 1238 passengers [272 seated; 966 standing]. 21 dead on first day.

Southbound, destination Russell Square. Explosion occurs mi

[Intro: Big Sean]
I look up
Yeah and I take my time, *****
I'mma take my time, whoa
Power moves only, *****

[Verse 1: Big Sean]
Boy I'm 'bout my business on business, I drink liquor on liquor
I had women on women, yeah that's bunk bed *******
I've done lived more than an eighty year old man still kickin'
Cause they live for some moments, and I live for a livin'
But this for the girls who barely let me get to first base
On some ground ball ****
Cause now I run my city on some town hall ****
They prayin' on my *******' downfall *****, like a drought, but
You gon' get this rain like it's May weather
G.O.O.D. Music, Ye weather
Champagne just tastes better
They told me I never boy, never say never
Swear flow special like an infant's first steps
I got paid then reversed debts
Then I finally found a girl that reverse stress
So now I'm talkin' to the reaper to reverse death
Yep, so I can kick it with my granddad, take him for a ride
Show him I made somethin' out myself and not just tried
Show him the house I bought the fam, let him tour inside
No matter how far ahead I get, I always feel behind
In my mind, but **** tryin' and not doin'
Cause not doin' is somethin' a ***** not doin'
I said **** tryin' and not doin'
Cause not doin' is somethin' a ***** not doin'
I grew up to Em, B.I.G. and Pac *****, and got ruined
So until I got the same crib B.I.G. had in that Juicy vid
*****, I can't *******' stop movin'
Go against me, you won't stop losin'
From the city where every month is May-Day at home, spray your dome
****** get sprayed up like AK was cologne for a paycheck or loan
Yeah I know that **** ain't fair
They say Detroit ain't got a chance, we ain't even got a mayor
You write your name with a Sharpie, I write mine in stone
I knew the world was for the taking and wouldn't take long
We on, tryna be better than everybody that's better than everybody
Rep Detroit, everybody, Detroit versus everybody
I'm so ******' first class, I could spit up on every pilot
The city's my Metropolis, feel it, it's metabolic
And I'm over ****** sayin' they're the hottest ******
Then run to the hottest ****** just to stay hot
I'm one of the hottest because I flame drop
Drop fire, and not because I'm name dropping, Hall of Fame droppin'
And I ain't takin' **** from nobody unless they're OG's
Cause that ain't the way of a OG
So I G-O collect more G's, every dollar
Never changed though, I'm just the new version of old me
Forever hot headed but never got cold feet
Got up in the game won't look back at my old seats
Clique so deep we take up the whole street
I need a ***** so bad that she take up my whole week, Sean Don

[Bridge: Kendrick Lamar]
Miscellaneous minds are never explainin' their minds
Devilish grin for my alias aliens to respond
Peddlin' sin, thinkin' maybe when you get old you realize
I'm not gonna fold or demise
(I don't smoke crack, ******* I sell it!)
*****, everything I rap is a quarter piece to your melon
So if you have a relapse, just relax and pop in my disc
Don't you pop me no ******* pill, I'mma a pop you and give you this

[Verse 2: Kendrick Lamar]
Tell Flex to drop a bomb on this ****
So many bombs, ring the alarm like Vietnam on this ****
So many bombs, make Farrakhan think that Saddam in this *****
One at a time, I line them up
And bomb on they mom while she watching the kids
I'm in a destruction mode if the gold exists
I'm important like the Pope, I'm a Muslim on pork
I'm Makaveli's offspring, I'm the king of New York
King of the Coast, one hand, I juggle them both
The juggernaut's all in your jugular, you take me for jokes
Live in the basement, church pews and funeral faces
Cartier bracelets for my women friends, I'm in Vegas
Who the **** y'all thought it's supposed to be?
If Phil Jackson came back, still no coachin' me
I'm uncoachable, I'm unsociable, **** y'all clubs
**** y'all pictures, your Instagram can gobble these nuts
Gobble **** up til you hiccup, my big homie Kurupt
This the same flow that put the rap game on a crutch (West x6)
I've seen ****** transform like villain Decepticons
Mollies'll prolly turn these ****** to ******* Lindsay Lohan
A bunch of rich *** white girls looking for parties
Playing with Barbies, wreck the Porsche before you give them the car key
Judgment to the monarchy, blessings to Paul McCartney
You called me a black Beatle, I'm either that or a Marley
(I don't smoke crack, *******, I sell it)
I'm dressed in all black, this is not for the fan of Elvis
I'm aiming straight for your pelvis, you can't stomach me
You plan on stumpin' me? ***** I’ve been jumped before you put a gun on me
***** I put one on yours, I'm Sean Connery
James Bonding with none of you ******, climbing 100 mil in front of me
And I'm gonna get it even if you're in the way
And if you're in it, better run for Pete's sake
I heard the barbershops be in great debates all the time
Bout who's the best MC? Kendrick, Jigga and Nas
Eminem, Andre 3000, the rest of y'all
New ****** just new ******, don't get involved
And I ain't rocking no more designer ****
White T’s and Nike Cortez, this red Corvettes anonymous
I'm usually homeboys with the same ****** I'm rhymin' with
But this is hip-hop and them ****** should know what time it is
And that goes for Jermaine Cole, Big KRIT, Wale
Pusha T, Meek Millz, A$AP Rocky, Drake
Big Sean, Jay Electron', Tyler, Mac Miller
I got love for you all but I'm tryna ****** you ******
Trying to make sure your core fans never heard of you ******
They don't wanna hear not one more noun or verb from you ******
What is competition? I'm trying to raise the bar high
Who tryna jump and get it? You're better off trying to skydive
Out the exit window of 5 G5’s with 5 grand
With your granddad as the pilot he drunk as **** trying land
With the hand full of arthritis and popping prosthetic leg
Bumpin Pac in the cockpit so the **** that pops in his head
Is an option of violence, someone heard the stewardess said
That your parachute is a latex ****** hooked to a dread
West Coast

[Verse 3: Jay Electronica]
You could check my name on the books
I Earth, Wind, and Fire’d the verse, then rained on the hook
The legend of Dorothy Flowers proclaimed from the roof
The tale of a magnificent king who came from the nooks
Of the wild magnolia, mother of many soldiers
We live by every single word she ever told us
Watch over your shoulders
And keep a tin of beans for when the weather turns the coldest
The Lord is our shepherd, so our cup runneth over
Put your trust in the Lord but tether your Chevy Nova
I’m spittin' this **** for closure
And God is my witness, so you could get it from Hova
To all you magicians that’s fidgeting with the cobra
I’m silent as a rock, ‘cause I came from a rock
That’s why I came with the rock, then signed my name on the Roc
Draw a line around some Earth, then put my name on the plot
Cause I endured a lot of pain for everything that I got
The eyelashes like umbrellas when it rains from the heart
And the tissue is like an angel kissin you in the dark
You go from blind sight to hindsight, passion of the Christ
Right, to baskin' in the limelight, it take time to get your mind right
Jay Electricity, PBS mysteries
In a lofty place, tangling with Satan over history
You can’t say **** to me - Alhamdulillah
It’s strictly by faith that we made it this far

Beatle Bomb  (a tribute to the Fab 4)

I should have known better, but if I fell, can you tell me why?
I'm happy just to dance with you, anytime at all,
you can't do that, if you love me do,
I want to hold your hand, and your bird can sing too,
said you was a taxman, it was a hard days night,
you can drive my car, but you wont see me,
I'm looking through you, but you're nowhere man,
had  a ticket to ride, eight days a week,
it was only yesterday, when I met the day tripper,
we can work it out, with the paperback writer,
we called Eleanor Rigby and Penny Lane,
and now it's getting better, with a little help from my friends,
You say “Helllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllooooo­oooooooooooo”
I say “Goodbye”,  
You say “Helllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllooooo­oooooooooooo”
I say “Goodbye”,  

I was living in a glass onion with Dear Prudence,
I said help! Lady Maddona, won't you just let it be,
Martha my dear, took her Blackbird and Piggies
while Rocky Racoon and Bungalow Bill had wild honey pie
Julia and **** Sadie  had honey pie for their birthday
while there was a revolution back in the U.S.S.R
it was helter skelter but everybody's got something
but I'm getting better, fixing a hole, using Maxwell's silver hammer
and mean Mr Mustard was chasing Polythene Pam  
so she came in through the bathroom window
guess it is time to just Let it be

You say “Helllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllooooo­oooooooooooo”
I say “Goodbye”,  
You say “Helllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllooooo­oooooooooooo”
I say “Goodbye”,  

Gomer LePoet...

I am the walrus walking, with Lucy in the sky with her diamonds, talking about going to Mr. Kites show tonight and then we'd have dinner at the Octopus's garden in the shade with Father MacKenzie. She said that Rocky raccoon was going to be at the show too and I remembered that Lady Madonna will stay for a bit if she earns enough money. I bet you didn't know that Sgt. Pepper's lonely hearts band will be there to play a bit. They are going to arrive in the yellow submarine with the nowhere man. then they are going to strawberry fields to play. I am going to meet up with them tomorrow at Abbey road and then go visit Jojo with them. From there we'd go to play for the Blue meanies and their bulldogs. What a wonderful place Beatle world is, but I have a ticket to ride the Magic mystery bus back to reality. Too bad I can't stay awhile longer!

A true story of a chance gathering of strangers in the back room of a Gelato Parlor *** restaurant, two years ago, in a little village near the bay, on a land surrounded by vineyards. Come visit.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~­~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gelato Nation

There is a place,
location secret,
mine to keep,
mine with which
you to tease,
make you envious,
a back room 'office'
jealous guarded
by a barkeep,
whose chosen invites sweeps
you into a reality that is
what you will it to be.

But nota bene, note well,
remembrances of things swell
from your past be the
only tongue spoken here.  

Code word entry only,
a shared whisper.
Perhaps One Woman,
may reveal its pleasures,
if she so chooses,
which are:

gelato laughs, poetry snaps,
Beatle songs sung ensemble,
by rag tag strangers
self-collected accidentally,
sung de rigeur off key
by voices lubricated by
cognac, laughter, and
the coldest of white wines,
issue of the very soil
upon which we sit.  

Words to value properly,
not in my possess to capture
the few moments in time when;

Strangers transform themselves
into a triple A nation united,
that will never be
S&P; downgraded.

A holy alliance
celebrating July 4th
all night long,
all participants
signatory witnesses to
its gelato conception,
as well as pallbearers
to its last drink dissolution,
the fullness of its lifetime
a vintage of a few hours extant,
a vintage, once drunk, is
a history, forever gone.

Mixologists please record:

One playwright, a psychologist, bond trader and a social scientist
with a dash of museum director,
and do not forget the
Hundred Year Old Woman,
whose Dowager Princess Daughter
(she, a mere eighty)'
from Central Park West
clarifies all of life dilemmas with
the singular analytical tool of:

But is it good for the Jews?

But t'is the barkeep
who is the leavening
in this evenings human
pastry-petrie dish.

He makes the pastiche,        
the ions of personalities,
coalesce best,
guitar strummer,
singer of songs that were our
multiple national anthems
when we were pseudo-rebels
starting out on our
long and winding roads.  

Long the King of the Keep!
Long live the memory of our
Gelato Nation,
may it stay sweet in
our antique collection of
the best moments of
our intersecting lives.

July 2011

Business the Guinness
of records
Of the
Drunkin drivers
The presidential
audience all
together

We love one
white or dark lie
conifers thinking like
the Beatle song
I'm a loser
having respect for
yourself be the defeated
M-L-M morons, losers,
So nice you are linked
into my millionaires
The marketing scam
You will be broke
Those 69 lovers to
be ******
off shorter life
just smoke  PM
ATM money goes
pop the weasel
painting it dark
drunk
wearing your
heart out on the easel

Not for sale dancers
need exotic drink taking off
their Drunk Zen shirts
Chirp that Chippendale
dance her out
Until she is drunk
Drunk Zen Rocker
of punk

So ***** light thinker side
Phone drinker fantasize
about the trip
Link me on my
mountaintop- stamp
collection glue-stick
philatelic reinvention

Doing my exercise why so
Absentminded
Wow such beauty Judy
sunrise recent
memory-guided
What meeting my heart all
depends to remember
September but October
November Drunk Zen
Thanksgiving food
with crying pillows
Quite the Yam and
marshmallows
before I was drunk

The new navy blouse said
I'm not drunk abbreviated
Inebriated linked-in
private club
Like an initiation or
Sorority only drunk
I'm not sorry invitation

Drunk Club Zen
adventurous men
The hair club Oh! no
shipwrecked
He got her by her
drunk-in neck

The Mediterranean
Going French Canne
Itsy bitsy tipsy bikini
The monk was like
the morning hot flame
Glitch or twitch of the nose
Jeannie
What a Red-Robin Rooster
making

Kevin Bacon lovers
Melted cheese and him
couldn't hold his sneeze
The Bed and breakfast
This wasn't Hamlet
or Camelot just
drunken Dunkin donut
drive-in
For God's sake
(O) outstanding omelet
 drunken sea of eleven
Steven Universe
Glick Pearl chick
Email one universe click
Linked deep-sea hoarder
of junk
At her summer house
Strawberry wild hair he was
drunk forever Irish lad
Like the pub in
London Abby lane

Nancy Drew mystery
tour Zen men pour
In Georgia stays in her
mind what would it be
without nature, we need
air the water the sound

The trees grow in Brooklyn
Robin me birds spoke in
Those hubs on the go
In there Mercedes
having yogurt? Their drunk__

Drunk Zen be brave not
to be hurt his head cocked
A million in none
cars parked
The cheer was in beer the
lover of darkness
sky malt drunk
They were bushy eyed
with a  drunken masseuse
Drunk Zen was having sweet
tooth French kiss mouse  

Hands numb she is falling
over her  tweets of words
So jibberish dumb what
******* but silence
That number lottery Freddy
Halloween what Diva Queen
13 shots
High school drop out

Guilty ever Greek
to ever think cop out
Spiritual caller like the
winding road babes of pigs
in a blanket the helicopter
Head spinner Eifel Tower
Frenc kiss got plugged
drunk never a hug

Hangover flower mugs
The Drunk-Apple* of his eye
computer the Zen dogs'
Alaskan Husky Buddhism
Shiba Uni from Japan
They got the realism

Heavy rain tents you walk
out on me
Woodstock Jefferson Airplane
Or those Cocker Spaniels
Elton John with Daniel

The adoption they were crazed
with high tech gadgets
The adopters named Danny boy
Zoolander commander was drunk
I wasn't really drinking you have
a brain of a sieve

Man, water, the green earth just live
Like the four-leaf clover hey
this isn't over
(The Planet) or her
drunken eyes who wins
I could see a glimpse of
garnet Oh! **** it like
a dragnet or the Zen
The Roobus tea faraway
thought
In Ireland hilly garden

Men with ladies cat milk
purr Kate Perry
Linked into the
materialistic Madonna
lady of silk he's the
hangover she
gave him her soy milk
what a guy
The pry coexisting to
ever think to pray

The super lady drink
never thinking blue
that he ever existed
Not remembering who you're
with he was on the
wanted list
Linked In the army
green wearing
a tank top bullets firing
in his chapel getting
married in his tank
Blue uniform acting
drunk

Disguised as a cop
My acting role for
both like Darth
And hey we are
not drunk!!
In the name of a
drunken love
Before I was drunk

My higher flight parachute
twenty-two jump street right fit
yourself as oneself linked
onto the mountain
the Ancient spiritual awareness
Grecian  love fountain harness
Maybe a lonely shot
of darkness
Maybe a lovely shot
of wellness

i was thinking of the cavern club just the other daywhere in the sixties all the groups would playthere was lots bands who came from miles around  they put it all together and made the mersey soundmy favourite was the beatles in there beatle suitswith there  beatle haircut and winkle picker bootsthere was john and george paul and ringo toothey made lots of songs that everybody knew.there was many others so many i cant namethe beatles were the ones that always had the famethe  music is still around to this very daythe sounds of the sixties will never go away

i

This is for thou both miss Vicki, and miss Beth Stclair, true poet's
Miss Beth StClair, thy sonnet style, brings back the old smile I see;
Miss Vicki, writing of love so quickly, so beautifully inspiring
Miss beth, thy word's got me flying I'll buyeth thy book real soon.

ii

Miss Vicki, thou art an old soul made of gold, a home amongst homes, as thou liveth in mine state, miss beth, I'd seeith thee if I go to England, amongst the Beatle street's we'll speaketh of ourn living's, and reciteth sonnet's of Shakespearian knowledge.

iii

Miss Vicki, thy jargon is wrapped like a bouquet, glazed with honey, thine words art displayed, people in this world like Thee I do prayeth, that thine life wilt be joyful, and harmonious in thy tommorrow, beth, I feeleth thine wild's, as the sixties thou hadst.

iv

Beth StClair, if it was back in the day, we'd be wonderful friend's, thou wouldst hath watched me on a stage, singing poetic thunder, miss Vicki, when thou feeleth down and under, continue to write thy creator in thy works, and I promise thou both, thou both hath

A friend in me......





©Brandon nagley
©Miss Vicki/miss Beth StClair dedication for both of you (:::::
©Lonesome poet's poetry

My use of personal pronouns
Puts me in my poem;
I can roll a rock with Sisyphus,
Be in a ceiling flame in Rome.

I can bring you back to life,
Sharing tales and tea;
Sitting there before my fire,
For all eternity.

I go marauding with Attila,
Walk with Neil Armstrong,
Fly high with Amelia,
Be a Beatle with my song.

My pronouns give me presence
In my lover's residence;
I'm just a specter she can't see;
A spirit roaming outside of me.

I can jot an I with you,
I could pen an our;
But that's just ink on my notebook,
Not as sweet as sour.

I can use my pronouns
To put you in my verse;
And then I lay my pen down,
I'm cursed, but none the worse.
You're just poetry to me.

TALLAHASSEE CONTAINS ALLAH to whom I'm truly true blue
as He is the Just, the King, the Watchful, the Father of me & of you
Like 9 dogs eatin' tuna fish I cried for your thigh to comfort me like
the jack breadfruit that comforted Bounty Lieutenant William Bligh
whilst he abstained from Tahitian maidens who were cunningly shy
My big, beautiful mouth that frets & sasses makes me intellectually
superior to everyone except the most idiotic of ******* dumb *****
whose apple cider vinegar becomes unsulfured blackstrap molasses
Remember again old cross firemen, Jesus burned for your arson sin
2,000 years before I wrapped your fat *** around your chinless chin
through hellish dew of frosty equanimity with Gail Fisher as Peggy,
Mannix shaved his dangling loose hairy stems above gay legs leggy
so that he might wiggle folklorical jigs like Haitians do with reggae
Gay-***-whackin' Hillary Clinton humps *** to a disco-***-humpin'
beat from her *** crooked-pants-suited *** to her lezzy-***-toed feet
stuck in turds as Bill sodomizes a mule, **** Hillary can be bought
stuck in pig **** as Billy rapes another, shaky Hillary can be bought
with Kleenex 'cause her honker has 5 pounds of unsought nose snot
that added nothin' to the virulent ****** that I ain't not never caught
On clean teen carpet she munched, slurped & lapped sink drain-like
forcing me to slap her shitless so that she could be a real, sane ****
whose despicable antics I am not morally outraged by, nor annoyed
as this repugnant behavior is directed medically by faux cushingoid
which accounts for her likeness to the puffy-faced star Alison Lloyd
who had something criminally criminal to do when she wasn't doin'
something grimy to fill her cravenously-craven-criminalistical void
that toys with emotions that are not immune to being toyed with on
the weekends that were made for Michelob on my blue hemorrhoid
that toys with emotions that aren't afraid of being toyed with on gay
weekends that were made for Michelob dumped on my hemorrhoid
only 'cause it is something to do when you are not doing something
that could have ended early the cowboyin'-guy-life of William Boyd
whose hoppin,' in the hoppin'-along biz, derived from a secosteroid
Vegetable-hating vegans love pagans & meat-eaters secrete beavers
& Yukio & Yoko Mishima beat to death with a bat old Tom Seavers
after he frittered away his ball-batting career as a raunchy, gay dude
to the tune of 4 original Beatles crooning the god-awful "Hey Jude"
while fat priests ****** nuns & nudists in nudist colonies pray ****
for chapel cameras of the ******* Channel's dude ranch, Play Dude
where the rudest nudists & naturalists, nudely & naturally stay rude
without caring to distinguish betwixt fake night & serious day food
that could throw a self-effacing exhibitionist into a filthy, gay mood
with prelude payload which equates to slaves getting their pay sued
by orthognathical charlatans who worship devil-lovin' Ben Franklin
in his guise as Frenchy Chucky de Gaulle who could send tank men
for forensical strikes targetin' ****** on rivers whereat men bank sin
with a plugged-up ******* called Peter Hamilton, feet or Nam again
in quokka flesh minus 22% over a pig sty or a bacon-oiled ham pen
Even though He maintained amazing Bible-understanding abilities,
Pittsburgh's wall-to-wall ******* gave Jesus the Hill District jiggers
Despite His God given Holy Christian Bible-understandin' abilities,
Pittsburgh's loo-to-loo ******* gave Jesus shaky, Hill District jitters
that ache way too late & shake for a sexily-religious girl who titters
over dead Zhanna Friske's Russian lickspittles & ******* pig-sitters
gettin' one passed normal lesbians with tattoos of sickly zoo critters
that clearly show pederasts of The New York Times ******* shitless
after chalking Marxistical New York Times sources ******* shitless
in Bethlehem stables stabling new stud muffin horses shoed witless
where hippy people with greasy long hair were quite apt to be livin'
clawing about what's issue based vs. character drivel, I mean driven
Ol' Walker McDonald was my very special friend until he ***** me
under a nice fig tree beyond the bitchiest beach of the Sargasso Sea
where he wouldn't quit ****** me despite my sexiest desperate plea
I hollered a lot in a ******-nutty masculine voice but he did not care
about rotten figs that matted my Ellen-degenerated, lezzy-short hair
I told everyone in North Vietnam & Laos that he couldn't he trusted
'cause the 21,798 times he ***** me made me thoroughly disgusted
like there were gigantical nests of bugs up my *** heavily encrusted
in cracks where ****-crop-dusting planes can't dive swoop in dusted
before flying into my inner-sanctum room like old Corrie ten Boom
whose bee-busy life, after her crapping-out death, has yet to resume
in order to beat senseless neo-brutalistical V.A. nursing home abuse
that kills the blood-coagulatin' screams of a cursing gnome papoose
draped across the *** of a ***-rail engineer takin' it up the caboose
to make his gay meaning known to stragglers too lucid to be obtuse
Don't ****** me I'm your amigo, oh yeah I forgot in your final spin
that a plucky slice'd paralyze you forever good on any hot spinal fin
****** ****** at ****** mall: Who's the baddest ****** of them all?
Is it Ringo, or dead George/John, or false/fake ******, Beatle Faul?
I cannot wear no slutty dress because I got a sass-*** dose of P.M.S.
I can't ***** in my slutty dress while I got a bad-*** dose of P.M.S.
My boyfriend's a ***** queer who has been ripped up his ***'s rear
In city pig files they record my criminal-*****-bone record in miles
Here amongst the thoroughly hypnotized, I spank your lard **** red
while you flee with free fleas that fly with flies that are too-well fed
while you flee with 3 free fleas that fly with flies that are overly fed
The traveling mermaid porked & beaned me in the moldy sea green
as P.B.S.'s Fred Rogers fits into a death list of ***, dead codgers we
ruefully mourn the murders of Jack the Ripper's ******-red lodgers
who overtly related homosexually to lesbian heterosex bed-dodgers
on mountain picnics in Pennsylvania where they are fed odd chores
There ain't nothing grim in threading tawny-titted Hawaiian women
before drug-induced comas or with food cramps got from swimmin' Demon Hillary, I Would ****** Everybody Just to Make You Smile
Is this wrong? No, murdering everybody is Scratch's most beautiful
way to say: "I loathe you Bill" in his hottest court of Luciferian trial
A raunchy **** bussed my *** with cerebral palsy quicker than Ajax
scrubbed the crapped-out Admiral William Halsey. I'd mount 1 trull
plain or crunchy too but not when she humps like a Harlem *******
We told everybody deaf 'bout "us" but everybody but "us" was deaf
to our mutant deafness save Harland Sanders & Burger Chef & Jeff
Swallow this sea-warped poker chip to see what can happen while I
moodily tap out Florida flame red maple trees to drain all the sap in
Anita O'Day never curled the nether tufts of Melvin Howard Tormé
because she was a limpless gimp who saw sike-a-***** as girly gay
in the throes of scissor lovin' between Blobert Rake & Huddy Bolly
whose fine, rug-burned legs queered their sapphical, sexoholic folly
that in 1966 farted greasy Earth's real cheeses to slickly **** breezes
as 99 rescue inhalers asphyxiated fatalistically-asthmatical wheezes
I love the ocean. Do you feel the aloof sea spray on your face? That
ain't sea spray. That's a gay *** peeing down on you from the roof.
I like my ******* on caffeine-free diets as they're better controlled I
think, than apes on caffeine-big diets who **** ******* cherry pink
for sea-lovers in iron linkage to twist apart a chewed-on master link
soaked in a tub 93% bigger than a beef washer's blood-washed sink
Let us forgive my unkind words but the dog turds I tracked in aren't
my dog's turds 'cause your ***'s really pretty like that of an angel's
dead cousin, so you must not cream on creamy donuts by the dozen
I will not talk of you in the old past as long as you are able to ****
really fast. The way to hell is lousy with sinners as each part of you
could provide several dinners. Our cherries are nicer than the sweet
cherries in pies. I wish that our 4 eye sockets had 4 cherry-red eyes.
You're so tiny that you stand 'neath my knee at a distance so nice to
bruise my better kidney. Shut up a lot, I told you before. I ain't got a
mistress who did not chronically snore. I could slather your body in
peanut butter from scalp to *** belly like would that jack-*** Kojak
Savalas brother called Telly. How many times have I warned you to
shut up? 3,345 trillion 9 hundred thousand 128? Enough is enough!
I scratched your back while you were reverently praying, just like a
Catholical priest, which is the chief role I'm now piously portraying
Part of me wants to **** you the other doesn't when I was me & you
were so wasn't, when your ****** were floral with dandelions, ever
more gay than those that were Paul Ryan's. After January we'll ****
bleached whales on the beach while I castigate old adulteresses in a
sermon I preach beneath the flickering grand dragon wizard's torch.
God has blessed us with elbows & knees & sharp teeth, only to bite
whoever's sporting deliciously-moist quims that we strive to please
Kicking the **** out of constipation is my preferred realization with prunes, olive oil & herbs from rich soil, for once I'm well you'll see
healthful regularity overtaking me. I'll make your cheery cherry pop
by threading your pretty Barbie bobbin so fast that I can hardly stop
from attaching psychedelical fixations to conundrums psycholytical
No one asleep had ever downed a pickle 'cause the racer who hit 45
wet spots was the women-pleasing racer large Richard **** Trickle
No one awake had ever drowned a pickle because the racer who hit
damp spots was the ****-racing racer, big-stick Richard **** Trickle
No one awake had ever got ******-cell sickle with the racer who hit
87 damp spots, the ***-****-racing racer, ***** Richard **** Trickle
who found that **** babes with keen intellects were tricky to tickle
as ****'ll be doin' Marianne Faithfull with big-ribbed-****** ******
in his British Marxian way with obligatory sledge hammer & sickle
to spread her ******* for shire horse hung Beatle Jimmy Nicol
as Albert Hofmann's 102-year-old L.S.D. schlort is a thrill pickle in
a Swiss lab bobbing dead in *****, unable to pork, **** & ***** all
while Bert Hofmann's 102-year-ol' L.S.D. ******* is a dill pickle in
a Swiss lab bobbin' in *****, unable to poke, sock, cram & stick all
because of contact with a toxical/allergical rose bushy thorn prickle
Some of me's puerile, the other section's a rash, over my nasty belly
is mama, below is a wacky, pinkish ******, while I pile onward real
love from 11 p.m. till the pole star's there, 8 degrees from starboard
several acres from where the **** wipes for my liquor bar are stored
You're brave & you're wise, with my camera I'll capture your thighs
I long for blonde hair of which you've plenty. I want to kiss all of it
before you turn 20. Our Russian passion will pass a fever pitch like
convicts on a chain gang diggin' a ditch. You whistle alluringly like
Lauren Bacall. I wonder, can you do it pulling from Bogart's straw?
Let's eat cookies while we sleep in my million-dollar Blue Bird bus
because I have expensive chocolate chip cookies just for the 2 of us
Tell me the truth, I am dyin' to know. Will you be able to stop when
we go go go? It's very important that you're careful so you don't get
knocked up by a drunken sailor or a window washer or a blind man
with a tin cup. Your pocked *** is really low slung like a green pine
ladder's 1st broken rung. I bang you in the murky morning too early
for lunch 'cause you ain't ½ as **** as Alice from The Brady Bunch
whose meat-hacking with butcher Sam included a knock-out punch
Turn up the gas, I want no damp cell, no moist damsel in **** hell
whose ill virginity is wiped clean by my hellishly-wild *** machine
I love you tall, I love you short in a barrel, beneath a port. You are a
broad. I know it's true. Live up to the crooked contract or I will sue.
Richard F. Burton, extinguish *** Taylor's fiery *** that lit abruptly
in the Golfo de México from B.P.'s unmothered-crack-head-****-gas
I took harmful advice to seize a 1-upped leg man ****-deep in knees

I shoud've told the bartender to tie me to the last working pay phone.
But I didn't. I let her introduce herself. Sadie, she said, like The Beatle's song.

I'm hard to forget, so I asked, What's your motto?

She breathed in reverse. She looked at the door. She was past mottos.

It was Josh, right?

Yeah.

Let me tell you something. I'm the bad, **** ***** that's gonna wreck your health.

And she did.

Every weekend for 105 weekends. I opened her up like a paycheck.
I spent her on a big brass bed.
I spent her on glass tile.
I spent her on the kitchen island.
The Japanese table.
The water lily pond.

Her brother Frank or Gary or Marvin---some American classic---kept us
horizontal with white whiskey from his personal still.
Personal still.
And there is a house in New Orleans,
but there's another one in Colorado Springs,
one you should be wary of.

I shoud've told the bartender to tie me to the last working pay phone.
But I didn't. I let him tell me about his dream. My name is Jack, he said, as in Jumpin' Jack Flash.

Like the Rolling Stones' song?
Like the Stones' song, man.

You were in it.

Four white girls shared one mic. Karaoke night.

You were in my dream. Are you listening to me? I'm gonna say it anyways.
I only had one eye, but I could see you. Seen you plain as day.
You were scared of me. As you should be. We were on the coast.
No, I don't know which one. I saw that thought on your forehead.
It was a dream. Anyway, you were holding a pen. A giant pen.
And I asked for your name.

I lifted my drink from the makeshift napkin coaster. Pulled a pen out of my coat pocket.
Straightened out the napkin. I scribbled Nobody. Handed it to him. And aimed myself toward the interstate.

I shoud've told the bartender to tie me to the last working pay phone.
But I didn't. She had one helluva an afro. Her name was Katrina, not like any song, like the hurricane.

My skin tastes a little like coffee, Katrina said.

I like coffee.

You wouldn't like me.

Probably not. But I've been lost in this bar forever. I could change my mind.

No, sweetie. Forever ain't that long. Just ask my ex-husband.

Katrina paid for her drink. Asked me if I'd like the change.

Yeah, I'll take it.

I called my buddy Chris back in Oklahoma, but he didn't answer.
I called my buddy Ben back in Oklahoma, but he didn't answer.
Sam. Sarah. Brooks. Nothing. Silence.

Barkeep (I always wanted to say it), I don't think your phone is working.

It works. You gotta remember kid. You're on Rocky time.
There's an hour, every night,
where you're the only person you know that's awake.

LUCKY 13 BIG TRIP DIP
From the 12th diary entry of Stewy Lemmon's childhood adventures.

This week my whole family, Smoochy and I, all headed off by car, to the annual big city fair on Friday the 13th. Some people believe an unlucky day of the year and an unlucky number for most. It was a big trip for the whole family, which took about two hours and twenty-five minutes to get there. But, we all still looked forward to it coming around each year, despite the long drive.

I had been to the big city fair, for every year that I can remember. My parents have been going there, every year since they were my age. I thought, 'Man, they must be old now, maybe one hundred and two years old or even a lot more'.

The food stalls were packed full of snacks and different makes of cakes and all kinds of different, yummy-in-your-tummy things, for us kids to eat.

There were stalls selling: Creamy Caramel Cup-Cakes, Limited Edition Lollipop Layered Lamington's and even some, short, swirly, Shortbread Slices. Even, my mum and two, much older, identical, twin sisters, Emma and Jemma, had set up their very own food stall. They, were selling heaps of my colourful creation named, 'A Colourful Take-Away Fruit-Blast In A Bag'.

They, were even selling, clear plastic cups along with a spiral-shaped straw.

But, only for the people, who emailed me for the secret, Jiggy-Jiggy Side-Kick Creation instructions, which was in my third diary entry named, 'Water off a Ducks Back'. Only then, will you remember what the plastic cups are for and how to perform the all important, Jiggy-Jiggy.

There were so many fun rides at the annual big city fair, for all of the kids to enjoy. Like the dodgem cars, a jumping castle and the pirate ship, 'my favourite ride of all time'. I loved sitting at the very back of the pirate ship because, it made me feel really funny in the tummy.

Towards the end of the day, my dad, had bought a ticket in the, Big city annual lucky dip first prize, surprise raffle. He had never been lucky in the big city raffle, all of the previous years before. So, this time, he didn't pick his usual lucky number 7, but instead he picked number 13 and guess what? 'He won the first prize surprise'.

We all went to see what the first prize was, at this year's annual lucky dip surprise raffle. It was a family holiday to thirteen of the world's most colourful cities. The whole family screamed, with joy. But, I then slapped my face a little and said to myself, 'Is this another dream of mine'? 'Nope! this one's for real', mum told me, with glee.

The day had arrived, for the start of our colourful, lucky-dip, big 13, city trip adventure. We had, packed all our bags and I even put in my dad's trusty, fancy, far out, funny binoculars and my very, super, sporty, single-shot, stylish slingshot. Just in case, I needed them both on our exciting city adventures.

My two, much older, identical, twin sisters, Emma and Jemma, had packed their bags full of makeup, creams and a hair styling dryer. While, Lemmy, had his bag packed by our dear mum, Flo, along with her own. While, dad went to his unusually built and outrageously painted, backyard, outback, shed and gathered his tools and paint brushes for the trip.

We headed to the airport, to start our first leg of our adventure to London England. On the first day, we went to visit the queen, in her very large house named, Buckingham Palace. The palace guard's face's didn't move one bit. Even, when dad, tried to make them laugh, with a funny joke or pulling faces at them, to make them smile.

Then, off we went, to see Big Ben. It was built years ago along the river Thames. We, then went to see some old rocks called, Stonehenge. Nobody knows exactly, why they were made. Their just placed, all alone, located in the middle of a large field, gathering moss and all still on show.

We then took a ferry ride across the English Channel and hopped off in the Netherlands. We all stayed in the very colourful city of Amsterdam. Mum, loved all of the beautiful flowers and my two, much older, identical, twin sisters, Emma and Jemma, especially loved trying the, unusual sweet cakes and drinks in the many cafes all spread about town. While dad, Lemmy, Smoochy and I, really enjoyed riding the bikes along the paths, on the side of the long and winding canals.

Then, we went to the beautiful, but cold country of Norway. We stayed in the capital city of Oslo. We took a boat ride through the icy fjords and I even thought, I saw that whale that winked at me, on that adventurous day out at, Slip-Slop-Slap Bay.

We then went by bus up north to see the Aurora Lights. Wow! what a sight. It was like daytime, even at ten thirty at night.

I even thought maybe, Stefan Pettersson from North Poland the ski instructor at Shivermytimbers Ski Lodge, lived close to here.

Next city was Paris the city of lights in the country of France. We went up the Eiffel Tower and I pulled out dad's fancy homemade binoculars from my bag and had such wonderful views of the city and then took a taxi for a ride through the streets of Paris and even went under the historical Arc of Triumph. Then we all went to see the great artwork and sculptures at a place called the Louvre. We saw a serious painting of a sad lady named Moaning Lisa; at least that's what I think the tour guide said.

The next morning we boarded a small plane and landed in the very watery city of Venice in Italy. I thought we were going to land on water, just like Buck the Duck does back at the small village pond. The city is surrounded by water and everyone travels by a small boat called a gondola which weavestheir way through the water canals and under all the old bridges. Smoochy even climbed up into the top left-hand side pocket of the Italian man sailing the boat, to get a better view. The food was so colourful in Italy, like the spaghetti, pizzas and delicious and colourful gelato.

Egypt was our next adventure stop and we went to the ancient city of Cairo. The very old Pyramids were out of this world, with precision angles and stones that fitted together ever so well. A cruise on the long Nile River was very exciting to see as well. It went from one end of the country to the other, but we only travelled on it for a mile or so.

Then off to Thailand and to the capital city named Bangkok, the busiest city of them all. There were cars, taxis, two wheeled motorbikes and funny three wheeled colourful ones called

Tuk-tuks. There was traffic and people everywhere we went and a lot of confusion by the Lemmon's when trying to cross the busy streets. We even visited some very old Buddhist Temples in the countryside and had some lunch that was extremely hot stuff, which made us all, puff. They gave us bread and water to cool our mouths down afterwards. Mum said, oh what a colourful and spicy city it is, and I love there ancient culture and friendliness of their people.

Off to the big red and easy going country of Australia tomorrow. We visited a place in the middle of nowhere called Alice Springs, which was in the Northern Territory of Australia. The next day we climbed up a rock named Uluru that was a sacred area for Aboriginals, the original inhabitants of Australia. We took a trip to a beautiful area up north of the Northern Territory called Kakadu National Park. Where we saw big red kangaroos, crocodiles and even some emus. One kangaroo even to try and box dad, but dad ran away and said, ‘He would fight him, but he forgot his gloves’.

We then headed off to China and the island of Hong Kong. What a very old and colourful city it was, with so many colourful buildings to see. In the large harbour we saw painted fishing and food boats cruising around.

Brazil Rio de Janeiro was next and we even saw the famous Carnival, with people dancing to a very cool beat. All dressed up and having the best party of all time. Down on the beach people were swimming and surfing and lying about in the sun. We even went to see a football match with USA v Cameroon playing, oh so well, for the winner would get its hand on a large world cup. We also saw a very large statue of an important man perched on a mountain.

USA was the last country to visit before our adventures would come to an end. We landed in Los Angeles and went straight to the magical kingdom of Disneyland. We did a day tour of Universal Studios where they make all the great movies.

Off to Nevada we drove and stayed one night in the ever so bright Las Vegas, oh what colourful sites we saw from our seventeenth floor suite hotel window. There were so many colourful casinos stretched out as long as you could see which light up at night alright. Dad even said you could see the lights from outer space. The next day we took a flight over the Grand Canyon in a Hot Air Balloon. We saw beautiful waterfalls and even saw people on donkeys riding down far down below.

New York was our last city to visit; it was especially dad's favourite city, because his ancestors had lived there for years, before coming to live in our village of Shimmerleedimmerlee to start a family, all those years ago.

The Empire State Building was an historic tall building that even once had a gorilla on top making a movie. Statue of Liberty was so fun to climb up and see all the lights of New York from across the Hudson River.

We took a horse drawn carriage ride in Central Park and even saw a memorable garden for the ex-Beatle John Lennon.

While travelling the New York subway to get to Soho we saw some great graffiti artwork sprayed on council approved walls.

The next day we were heading back home, which is nestled amongst the trees on a hill, in a little country village, called Shimmerleedimmerlee.

The ghost of Christmas past dropped in
You see. he was completely out of wine
He had two stops to make by three
so, he borrowed some of mine

He asked me how i was getting on
since, he came around that night
with Jacob and the other two
and took me on that flight

i told him i was doing well
but, i thought he had to know
i was succeptible to pnuemonia now
since they dragged me through the snow

it's just the nature of the beast
that you may get a cold
the younger ones, not quite so much
it's just that you were old

i asked him where he had to go
and who he had to see
he told me , Ebby you know the rules
but, i can give you guesses...three

the first place that i'm off to now
is really not that far
this one, used to be a beatle
peace and love is for this starr

i was surprised that it was Ringo
he said, he had to be reeled in
his ego grew a little bit
and to his boss that was a sin

The second place he had to go
he needed wine for the bar
because he was going out to celebrate
and he brought a good cigar

He said this one, he's off his head
He's gone back fifty years
There's a lot of things he needs to see
So, with your wine, I'll need some beers

If everything goes as we hope
And he can make amends
He plans on calling Cuba
And saying...it's time that we were friends

i was thinking of the cavern club just the other day
where in the nineteen sixties. all the groups would play.
there was lots bands who came from miles around  
they put it all together and made the mersey sound.

my favourite was the beatles in there beatle suits
with there  beatle haircut and winkle picker boots
there was john and george paul and ringo too
they made lots of songs that everybody knew.

there was many others so many i cant name
the beatles were the ones that always had the fame
there  musics still around to this very day
the sounds of the sixties will never go away

Ahh the 60s! How well I remember it…as a lad.
It’s a bit like the kids saying…“What did you do in the war then dad?”
And I HAVE been asked a time or two… “You were a teenager in the sixties...
What was it like?…” Well it was mixed… some bits good (brilliant in fact) and a few, bad.

I’d call my experiences near misses…!

At 13 I lived in Handsworth Wood (that’s Brum) went to the same youth club as Steve Winwood…
He… gangly, wearing shorts, wowed the girls in the gym as a keyboard player.
Spencer Davis, Traffic, Blind Faith,  Ginger Baker’s Airforce, Solo… A stellar career !
Me? At 15 our family moved south to Bognor…  ******…Bognor!

Actually that’s not fair - It’s not as bad as it might sound…

I peeled spuds at Butlin’s for excitable holiday hordes…
I cleared tables for Chess’ World Championships too - with Tim Rice…he got good with words…
“Doesn’t seem a minute since the Tyrolean Bar had the chess boards in it - that’s how it goes!
One of us got a job as a sales rep, the other a seat in the Lords!

See what I mean?.. Another near miss!

I went in for a talent show in a marquee near the pier
won 5 quid - bought a new pair of Beatle boots… and some keen mod gear.
Joined an R&B band and we gigged for a few years…even London… (well Kingston actually!).
Moved on to art college where things got hairy… ***, drugs and rock & roll - scary!

That might have been what I now call Brian’s Jamaican Woodbines!

A new band, a true blues band, made a real mark - without me! -
an offer came in - and it didn’t sound like the best future to me.
So I left, Chalky joined - they flew, I didn’t. Martin Q wrote Maggie May.  
guess maybe I should’ve stayed… Yeah, yeah, yeah!
Their reputation stood the test of time,
toured & played alongside the best, Freddie King, Jeff Beck, AC/DC, Led Zep.
I got my job as the rep! They toured and so did I. So, we all went on the road!
Imagine how sick I felt! Shall we say - a slight lack of zest! Yep!

I’ll just share this with you…

So, I’m standing at the bus stop in Muswell Hill, first day of work - slow traffic passing by, up the hill.
Barry, the manager, pulls up in a dandy sports car… lights at red. “Hi Man! Where to? Get in!
“Starting a new job today - off to pick up my company car”… (I didn’t know that was true)… How about you?”
“Meeting the guys at Gatwick. This week we’re doing Amsterdam, Hamburg and Berlin too! They did well, it's true, but…maybe at a cost... Loves, minds and a few lives lost!  

But this is where I usually say “**** it, I should've given it a go!”

But I said “Oh, well done that’s brilliant! I wish you well. Really well!
Anyway after a year or so another band came along and I said what the hell!
But it wasn’t the same… Different game… maybe I’d already had my chance at 15 minutes of fame.
Well, Chris Blackwell, the Island boss, said “no boys… passé… in fact a bit lame”
This is what’s happening now...and he faded up Lindisfarne. Said "now THIS is fame"!

"Meet me on the corner as the sun is going down and I’ll be there".

I’ll keep it short…Now don’t get me wrong… It’s just part of the story and I’ve had a great life.
Two great kids - 7 grandkids and an adorable, adoring wife.
(she might just read this!).
A successful career… an interesting unfolding retirement - and, well - I’m here…
and, when I look at others - it’s all been without much strife, I’m well set.
The fact is there’s so much to do… so little time…
There’s this poetry lark, portrait painting,  learning the guitar, house renovation - two at once in fact - AND anyway -  I haven’t finished yet!

A ******* kid growing up
in Rosewood all alone,
a world full of anger
& turf fights.

She learned early-on
how to use a butterfly knife,
showcases a horizontal battle scar
on her shoulder blade,
it makes her look mean.

She has the face of a dark angel,
elegant-Hispanic
with hints of ******
twisted on her full rosy lips.
She talks rude street-vernacular,
the same dialect used by
those  cracked gems
doing hard time
down in the big house.

She’s just seventeen,
and not the kind
found standing in
a Beatle happy-ever-after love song.
This girl plays tough,
she witnessed her first drive-by at ten,
dropped out at twelve,
she’d slit your throat for her tribe,
that’s rough.

And sadly,
she’ll never get out,
ever get to see
the wonderful things
most young girls dream about
that come true.

David Song

Yawning wide I awake amiss foes!
More Haters rise against wayward me
No beat say Haters have I in heart
Rhythm down for the count, no help
Roll & Rock.
Lordie lord, how wall sound wraps me round
Gloria singing song, smoking eyes
Let me sing too to you waking yawn
Holler and the caller, breaking rocks
Rock & Roll
Lays me down
And I awake with a lifting Yawn.
Bring it on you thousand Naysayers
Circling round and round against me
Wake up Yawn!
Salvation
Hits haters in cheek and tongue
There's more to me than broken Fang
Saved by master tape my longing Yawn
Beatle blessing to the masses of
Rock & Roll.

Horse hog beatle eatin mad hair spinning wandering Druid in rags and rage from some untold war,
sweat and secrets in the dust of a sleeve,
the shadows tell of souls that fell and are held in bags, the trophies of the dead,
grim times grim place, a stain, a beard, a violent gleam in an honest eye,
flying eyes with wings that carry we I to salvation known to be see-through truths,
step out of the alley and we call attention to the rips in pockets,
loose girls, loose change, loose lips lose everything,
I will not return, I will not be held,
I will not be judged by sawdust filled domes resting on water bags like rotting fruit still on the vine,
it's almost like the sunshine could be brought down and called mine, again,
every time I see that smile I dance a hundred times on the grave,
my ultimate dream slave,
my body calls once and I move on,
I'm always moving on towards another drawn dawn,
another card burnt into the table,
straying is my way of saying this is real, this is done before my feet hit the ground,
why should I rush the fun of coming undone?
Of sliding down to run up and hang a crow on my brown burnt brimmed hat and sit on a fence watching Him play a tune and learn to lose as He leads those lambs to their doom,
spitin and listenin to that mad burglar spinnin old brews that sleeps the jury and the suits and the brats that cry morning dew on my shoulder,
who says that the road is long? It's just a little dusty and walked on!
Tappin my way to the sky, tappin my way to some sunny day in your eyes, baby blue eyes I can't help but smile, you can't blame me if I smile.

I feel as though I'm different than the people my age that I see in the bars and clubs I go to

Not better, just not like them
Maybe lesser, I don't know

I don't dress like them
I don't listen to all the same music as them
Or even into the same movies as them

I wear Italian leather Beatle boots
They wear Nikes or Jordans
I listen to Bob Dylan or The Mountain Goats
They're into whatever rapper or dj is hot right now
They're talking about American ******
And I'm still trying to wrap my head around Inland Empire and The Holy Mountain

And it's not the fact that we don't have similar interests
It's the fact that we have nothing to actually talk about or bond over

I have problems meeting people and making friends
I even have problems keeping friends

I'll tell you why
I lose friends because I see people for who they are
I observe and I listen
I'll even call someone out if I've had my fill
Or I'll do something they don''t like
Not on purpose, I just **** them off

This one time when I was younger I had this "friend" and he asked m for five bucks
Now, this kid and I wee not close at all so I said no
Then I bought a drink  or something
And the next thing I know he's calling me grimy because I had money to give him but I didn't

It was then and there I realized the concept of the phrase "people ****"

People ****
We all say that
But why?
Because when someone does something to us that we would rather not have them do we automatically put them in the category of "****"

Oh you ****
He *****
They ****

We say that because they're not doing what we'd prefer them to do
Like hang out with us
Or do us a favor
Or keep a secret
Or lend money

But there is a ratio of suckage

The sucakge of someone's person depends on their history of things they've ****** at

If someone ***** at being on time, they're not really hurting you directly
They just can't get their **** together and by now you should prepare for that
So there isn't really any harm done

But someone who acts like a friend, gets on your good side, gains your trust and makes you feel comfortable enough to let your guard down just a bit
Then turns around and bad mouths you to people
Puts word in your mouth
Even make up lies about you
That persons suckage is outta here

And that kind of experience can make a person a tad wary in social situations
Bringing me back to my main point
That I feel a sting of separation between me and my peers whenever I go out

We're all twenty something
We're all out to have a good time

Then why do I feel so inadequate?
Maybe because I'm self conscious of my appearance?
Maybe because I'm not that tall, five foot ten is the average right?
Maybe because I feel like a loser for being at a two year community college for four years because I ****** up because I went through a bad break up and went into a drug induced spiral while dating someone who I used to make the person who broke up with me jealous and at the same time enabled me to further my drug use and care free attitude to rock bottom until I realized where I was and broke up with that person, got over the first person and met someone who made me a better me and gave me the confidence to  move forward
Maybe it's because I depend on relationships too much

And that's another thing
I'm with someone
But I go out to bars and clubs with the desire to possibly meet women
What the **** is with me?
That's wrong
Isn't it?
Could I be a polygamist
Maybe I'm just a selfish ******* who thinks with his ****

Maybe it's because I'm twenty one, still living at home with my mom and dad and don't really pay for ****
I work at a middle school in my town as a janitor part time for $10.25 an hour
Four hours a day five days a week
Most kids are either living at school and graduating by now
Or working and living on their own

Should I stop comparing myself to everyone?
Yes
Should I just keep trying to better myself?
Yes
Should I let the past be the past and learn from it?
Yes
Will I?
I'm making an effort to

I hate being where I am in my life right now
I'll tell you man it's been a long road and I'm sure you've had a long road too
And I feel for you even if I don't know you or have even ever spoke with you
Because we're all human
We all share this world
So why not?

You know maybe I am different
Maybe I am a little weird
Maybe I have a few issues
Maybe I am socially inept
Maybe I do **** because I;m not doing what I wish I was doing
Good!

That means I'm not complacent
Not that I'm ungrateful or anything
But I want more for myself and I deserve it
We all do

Some people say I'm the kind of guy who isn't happy unless I'm miserable
Well they could be right
Or maybe I just haven't found what makes me happy
But I intend to

Silence is a matter of body
Coming towards your language
He's in the lounge on his
(I Pad) looking frightfully cleaver
Slice cake mad
Not the happiest lad
she's wearing her fit to
be tied but feeling upside
down but lifted firmly up
in her falsies cup
 ((Hush  get your rush in silence))

But she failed to make him
these incredible ***** dozen
baking brownies
What a rookie cookie girl
Cannot keep secrets to be silent
But her deadly **** pout
     (( Card-Flush-in silence))
She screams get out!!
The Bill **** she's the
killer eyelashes hot flash
She was quite challenging 
That silvery dainty moon lady
hurrying
She's all capped-plated her knife
crazy eyes
 He's channeling her
Quietly with her bedroom eyes

   ((Rush-Silent-night))

Putting up a fight that's life you win

((The silent love))
Or start over your sin is
the silent killer
The silencer staying put
didn't explode
Her fifties smoking was
her weaknesses
Oh! boy, he had the right high tech glasses

What Belguim chocolate but her
Latte caramel she was quietly
running late more time with her
perishables love doves
(Such patients hospitality above)

What a braggart in her brassiere
She got his attention to look
over here
Over their all in the family
Like an Army military fit, Starwar
skirts super tight something didn't
feel right
They couldn't breathe and
someone asked  her to sit
silently
So uptight down handed
Well guarded she the lady with
wits and guts scorpion landed
Oh! what a killer fights the dust mites

That silent killer lady was not
someone you could trust websites
What a fund money signs on her
forehead but tough elephant's skin
She needed a new hobby silent flirting
Her wrinkled cute puppy dog
What hogwash wearing your
Frownies all wrinkles they say
sometimes owners resemble their
dogs this the Hollywood hot dog
Out of state doggone it townies
obsessions something to die for

(Recent prayer of silence)

Forgive me darling I need to wear my
Frownies I am not going to be around
those loony tunes I needed to make
my getaway faraway really soon
He was wearing his yellow polka
dot bow tie every month of June

Smarties alcoholic anonymous

Malibu Lolobolu Honolulu
I love Lucy she wearing a tutu

All sizes and silent mouths
Things get louder when you're older
Loco in the Cabeza hot blooded
Little red Robin hood so silent
She is looking like a good pair
The silence is killing you  
I wouldn't get one taste out of
Moms French roue'
My Eden garden
Met -us
Something will **** us

The fresh green's healer
The mood set-us
The goods got us

Whats the in-betweens
No-one will ever notice
what's not green
(Like the blindsided lover)

My courage thumb needed
to break the shades of silence,
 To trust the secret promoting
her shampoo anonymous
Overly powerful her weapon
Dennis the menace
Loud as the hippopotamus

Mixed Thomas Islands
the bottom dirt
He was dressed in tweed
What a **** killer bloom
Wearing his stark white shirt
Madmen needed more room
We need the funhouse Amen

Heres looking at you
Stranger/Lover/
Kid/Mother
Your brother of prodigy
The silent scheme chemist
He acts like a psychiatrist
(I am talking he is so silent)

  Like a franchise lemonade
Put your foot down and stand
Her hair mousy brown
the sounds of silence

The fuller up spouse
Met his match fuller brush man
These herbicides hitching a ride

To be silent? This is not the
beauty patent
The mineral-sea-shore comes to the
dead sea
Giant green mutant/Medieval funhouse
Silent track betting racing horse
He's my General-tea-shirt

What are you after- the traveler
Or the loner meeting another drifter
Having tea plea party guilty green-tea-
Monk- by the sea mountain
What we kept Barbie dolls
Looking in the mirror in silence
Seeing the Fountain of youth
Beatle bopping heads
Ketchup packets spicy I pods

Eventually, Gods come to our front door
That chemical stinks cleaning our floor
The smokers teeth yellow the gray
shark Jaw's He Haw
Chinny chin Mr. Jawbreaker
The kitchen should be our
the safest haven, little rascals
Met the ***** scoundrels
Silent killer lady is so driven
Chemicals and health risks
Red silent Rooster
A silent chat his killer smile
Over my dark coffee
Mr. Beanster
Why was I put in this spot
Empty space looks shot

Your egg biscuits
Trilogy game of Triscuits
Wearing a bandana
***** dancing at the
Copacabana

Organic eggs no bacon
With the cabana boy
Hey sardine pork and
My killer beans, O-D and
more coffee!!!
Something renewable
Even if you're a twin double

Phoenix bird beauty of her flight
The silent killer lady didn't
get a decent sleep even one night

Not fancy leafs plain and simple
My smile high cheeks dimple
My Brooklyn tree smiling at
my Mom and Dad that's my
Brooklyn roots

I'd like to be under
      BANG BANG
Maxwell's silver hammer in a
yellow submarine in
the land where I
was born in
my life

I know
what it's like to be
dead

Back in the day of the fifties music scene.
You had rivals of opposite back grounds.
But similar in many ways.

Whether it was country , or the blues.
You have rivals impressing you.

Chuck Berry, with his oddity sound.
Had Buddy Holly , with his similar odd sound.

Say LittleRichard and think Jerry Lee Lewis.
Two of the baddest piano players that was original.

And we know Elvis had no rival of his style.
Although for some reason they think it was Fabians.
Who were far from it?

The Beatle during the sixties had the Rolling Stones.
While the Temptations had the Impressions.
And the Lovin' Spoonful had the Rascals.

We, see things that reminds you of twins.
Sometimes, it pays to be different.
To let your personality come shining through.

Which we know music usually do.
It soothes the savage beast.
Unless it part of a music called rage.

Or maybe even rap.
But this just a matter of opinion.

Oh Abbey Road
who has walked your heart
singing from way back then
only the most famous of all
only to end with Let It Be
and please Just Imagine in 1969...

John, you wouldn't have many years left
your birthday came and we always loved
Paul, you will continue to sing your heart
and fly with Wings
Ringo, Sweet Sixteen, Your beautiful
and your mine
George singing to your SWEET LORD ...

We miss you John, its your birthday
your words are still magic, as we follow
you down Abbey Lane....although a bullet
took you away that FATEFUL day
December 8, 1980.

It left holes in our hearts
The torture, the publicity and Beatle mania'
took a toll, your life had an aura, you would come
on and perform a miracle just one last time
as we follow you down Abbey Lane and the Yoga
acid trip ...

Happy Birthday dear John
you are sooooo missed .

Debbie

******* THIS CZECH SHAPESHIFTING




lost in Praha
lost in Kafka
losing myself


careful making deals
with old Nick
I said 'Beatle' not 'beetle'


*


WHEN FRANZ MET DÓNALL


'When Dónall Dempsey woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous version of a certain F. Kafka.

Someone must have been telling lies about Dónall Dempsey, he knew he had done nothing wrong but, one morning, he was arrested to find out he had been turned into this F. Kafka.

Where had his Dónall Dempsey-ness gone and why -  Kafka? He knew of but had never actually read any - Kafka He had knowledge of the tropes...what Kafka could be reduced to in terms of general knowledge that could possibly clinch a pub quiz victory so that people would nod sagely and say "I knew...you being a poet and all...that you would know the answer to that."

I found that what had happened to me...whatever had happened to me...was more extensive that I had thought so that even my initial "D" become the 11th letter of the alphabet instead of the usual fourth. I was now merely a  "K."

I realised I would have to go to Prague to bring some semblance of sense to this transformation. And when I did so...hiding myself among the many tourists...I discovered that Kafka had become me and that we had somehow traded places.

So that now there was a Dónall Dempsey cafe and postcards bearing my features and other such touristy attractions that would be sure to be a sure fire attraction to the traveller with a literary bent of mind.

I visited the grave...his grave...and sure enough...it was my name that was chiseled into the stone.
Meanwhile Kafka was enjoying my life and strolling around Guildford as if it was his own. He appeared to be enjoying being Dónall Dempsey.

"Ha ha..!" I thought. "Give it time...give it time!" And Franz would surely find that being Dónall Dempsey wasn't such a good thing.
And myself being a literary tourist attraction? I ****** well hated it  I wanted to crawl away and die or be trampled to a pulp by a frightened child who had discovered a cockroach in her cornflakes.

You told me personally on facebook to stop posting bus pictures
This is strictly for you
Everything I will be saying for you to pursue
But whatever happened to understanding
What’s wrong with knowing about a bus?
Bus Nuts are enthusiasts it surrounds us
So why all the negative fuss
Knowledge and education all get a plus
If you don’t like what you see than just flee
We are Bus Nuts and we hold the key
Misery loves company
But I will not be your guest
In fact, you don’t get respect being an unwelcomed pest
I certainly will not be at your request
I am a bus nut and it’s the multitude more than me
You lack personality and all can see
Just because you never had the opportunity to get your bus ride on
I suggest that you just move along
2016 is negativity has no place
Your negative comment has been erased
Let the bus exhaust be the force
Let your lack of understanding take a new course
As a bus nut I will continue to be
Bus pictures will continue for all to see
A Beatle’s song “Let it be”
So the facebook person who told me more bus post
It’s really up to us bus nuts folks
You actually have no vote
You are only wasting your own time
Buses are here to stay
Go read a book and just astray
Maybe just maybe you might be ok
Life is how you live it
Strive in what participation that you give
The bus has departed
You are left all alone.