Have you heard about our tennis player?
She is our first singles slayer,
She can serve and she will probably hit you with an ace,
She is impossible to replace.

She can be the sweetest girl you have ever met,
Before the game starts, we shake hands by the net,
But do not try to mess with her when she is playing the tennis game,
She could hit you with her racquet’s frame.

But let me tell you about this girl:
She can easily win the game,
Not only with her smart brain,
But also with her skills that will surely get her to the hall of fame.

If you ever see her around,
She never has a frown,
She will gladly give you a smile,
But do not forget to slowdown and take a look at her style.

You might recognize the girl,
It’s the one with the awesome curls,
You will see her around these halls,
And her pictures will be hanging on the walls.

She is our proud valedictorian,
She will forever be victorious,
One of our most outstanding students,
Oh what a big inspiration but she is clueless!

This journey has been tremendous,
So let me give a shout out to tennis,
Is the sport that brought us together,
I could not ask for anything better.

Now looking back at the place we were,
Only makes me cherish every moment I spent with her,
I will always be thankful for every advice,
That has helped us reach our own paradise.

The best I wish for her career aims,
I hope to see her in the Olympic games
And be the player she wishes to become,
I am a proud friend to see how far she has come.

I never thought I could be this close to her,
Nobody else I would prefer,
To say a “see you later”, at the end,
What a big blessing to call her one of my best friends!

i don't have a conspiracy theory... i just have an encyclopaedia of adverts... western intelligence is squandered on pub quizzes and trivia knowledge shows... spies are like magicians, although a spy's audience is a bunch of journalists high on tarantula venom, quote: (uh... what's going on?) take any stoner to speak that bracket.*

when my parents were eight, they were still
blossoming in a natural environment,
using the inherited tongue like a hammer:
here's the nail, here's a plank of wood,
now hammer that thought of yours in.
aged eight i was thrown into the deep end,
having to learn a new language, as somehow
unlearn my mother's tongue, i didn't budge,
i kept it scheming, rather than subconscious,
i didn't repress it... thrown into the deep end
i didn't become like most migrants
"assimilated", i.e. losing heritage... i kept it
(just in case)... now the chameleon of me
is about... suit & tie... then tracksuit bottoms...
no little russian kakashka (little ****)
would dare **** me, all the information i have
is useless... it's too personal...
i was supposed to be the rebound guy...
she sort of faked using anti-contraceptives...
i ended up a boomerang after seeing all
the possibilities of education...
that's the thing with the west and education,
it, just, doesn't, work... because all the menial
jobs have been exported, the west is sort
of puzzle-box tied in terms of hands able,
with hands actually disabled...
this excess outpouring of poetry is one sign,
the obvious one, excess poetry as deviation
from a chronology of illiteracy and books left
in the shadows and dust and crematoriums...
you tend to write poetry when you're either
illiterate or haven't read much that's on offer...
read the least number of books, then you get
to write poetry, simple as Victoria sponge or
bechamel sauce for a lasagne, motto being:
just keep stirring that flour into the frying butter,
just keep stirring, then slowly keep adding
onion bay leaf nutmeg infused milk slowly...
just keep on stirring...
western society likes bureaucracy, by way of
exporting the ideal that's democracy,
but it's so ******* n'ah! keep slang as an expression
of encrypted onomatopoeia, keep slang
as disguised nouns in onomatopoeias...
russians love poetry, hence they tend to send poets
into the gulag... in western society they
take poets to be raw meat and send a dozen flies in
to **** sperms into it, to clarify:
pornographic actors get paid, poets don't...
O masters of this glorious sphere, what will
this Eden Project prove? a third eye that's Voyeurism
en masse? when the blow-over fringe was running
for president i just said (no, no hindsight):
i wouldn't laugh... imagine a female pope!
women are not supposed to wear the Kippah...
western society in crisis; today i was watching the
film Cleopatra (1963) and there was so much dialogue!
take a movie from 2015 or 2016 and the dialogue
you get is: TNT BOOM BOOM BOOM!
CGI that's a fake of pixels being arable for the original
intention... the great decline... it only too one hit...
one ******* hit... and it ended up being a K.O.
you'd think they'd be able to take more... but Islam
became a Mike Tyson... *******... take one more hit!
what you're seeing now is what's called
the paradox of treating democracy as Utopia,
democracy isn't Utopia (Churchill said)...
but this is the unravelling, treat democracy as
the sole expression of utopia and then watch when
something alien hits it... one smack and you're out...
treating democracy as utopian politics is false,
too many self interests and too much bureaucracy;
or i can example my father for you...
two Lithuanian labourers employed by a company
****** up his drill... they weren't electrocuted
(the drill was wet), because if they were
the effect of electrocution would be like that of
an electron cloud the glue of keeping the proton
and neutron nucleus intact, the thing electrocuting
would be like a crocodile's jaw snap, you wouldn't
be able to let go... instead they became Lithuanian
vandals... smashed the thing... and what about
being self-employed and having his wages cut
once in a while? self-employment is the norm in western
societies... because the boss of BHS took a big fat
pay-cheque for a yacht with Kate Moss on it
while employee pensions went down the drain or
into Hawking's theory of black holes colliding...
zero hour contracts to match up the statistics...
western powers are mad to export their ideals...
i wouldn't trust them with a water-pistol,
and you know why? they'd just want an Iraqi to
wear Nike trainers and eat a Big Mac.

British home stores once a week
We would meet Mum and I
Would sit for a while
Share fish and chips
Feed baby the bits
Go round the shops
Not buy a lot,
Then to walk home down country roads
Across the bridge, pushing the pram
Shopping in bags.
Home at last Mum and me gasped
For a cup of tea, slice of cake,
Freshly baked.
We bathed the baby, dressed her in
A pink babygrow,
Your first grandchild, I love you so.
Begins to get dark, walk you back to the bus stop
Watching the back of your tweed coat
And sensible shoes, I feel humble inside
That this gentle lady is my mother,
Go safely, I will ring tomorrow
Love Mary .




For my mum, Grace and first daughter and child, Katharine
Maria Kearns xxxxx

...I couldn't stop thinking about what would have happened if I had allowed you that second chance. Would I have stayed? Would I have been happy, merely because I would have had you again? Would I have still left? Would we have stayed in a relationship? I suppose we would have because VHS is only two or three blocks away from BHS. But I suppose we probably wouldn't have because it was all just too much of a sad situation.
And c... I wonder this quite often... If I had asked you to allow me to explain myself to you... Would you let me? Would you want to hear the truth? Or would you be content with a lie?... I wanted to reach for your hand that day, so badly that it stung. I wanted to hold your hand; see if I could still feel the warmth from your hand radiate through mine into my bones. I remember how it felt to slip my hand into yours, and I desperately wanted to see if I would still feel that now. I so desperately wanted to know how you feel about me... And whether or not you wanted to hold my hand too.

I used to wear flares
though
not of the solar kind,
I think you'll find that
they come from the Sun,
mine came from
Littlewoods
or
BHS
and here I confess
that I can't remember
which one.