Where do we meet
    Oh! No He_*
Getting onto
the next courses
Oh La- La "Cheri"
K>ANSAS>>City
_ Prime spot pretty

 let's >- jump ))) To Love
Please raise the horses

What a skirt steak in her
Petticoat Junction
Going to Kansas City affection
Different tribe or breed
What needs to love me
tender Elvis meet Beavis Buthead
    More  T.L.C  
computer DOC Tick Tock
IRS taking a meat beef
chunk is everybody drunk
IOS what is really the meat
Business Politician Trump

Subscribe well done
Cooked or rare spooked
Taking a Spin City kick
She got canned and licked
The prime meat hot seat

The ******* who arrives
first class steak knifes
Ms. Pork hard chew 
Mr. Beans second rate
Dark pumpernickel
Saloon *******, he
is eating
The young tender
chicken leg

High five thigh? Hands
up Robin Fly
Save the meat "let it be"
  "Let it Be" Beatles
The beat Colonel deep fried
Grade A rare meat slicing

Eating in a board meeting
The pig meat market
of pricing

Doe a deer he loves
International beer
A very sensitive time
Slaughterhouse no way out
His poker face meets
potato heads beef jerky
Surrender Weds
maple smiles picky
The rich Syrup
Disney Mickey Mouse
Kansas City Wonder
meat house

The beauty of animals
"Moms kettle she is talking
to Parrots" meat
the market for rings riot
Six enemies making
6 rounds
Six servants 666 carats
Robin smiles heartily
"Campbells Chicken" little

He's the Beef Man stew
If you only knew
He's spitting tobacco chew
She peels the potato for the
meathead bad to the
T-bone Dachshund I Bone

Garlic knots heart of the
Sausage wearing the
meat corsage Superbowl
My sweet basil good soul
Grilling your bullhead
Pirate Ribeye steak pupils
Mr. "Billygoat" Bachelorette
Hair flat crepe Suzette

Moms Korean style fuss
coleslaw what a seesaw
Playing Porgy and Bess
 Scarlet the red rare meat
Rolling stone baking pin
Mississippi one or two
Under my meaty thumb

Comes in three-4-5-6- Lucky 7
-Crazy 8 furries
Nine meat ribs-10 babies
with bibs
Hungry Man meat when!!
Country plaid tablecloth
"Kansas Men" of the cloth
The Pig approval
Kansas City Mayor
new arrival

Family together eating
Don't eat our animals
Why is life so unfair
Feeding the poor
with cans
The bad cut of meat devil
this is not the "Grade A"
This is not a ring
circus trainer Bullseye

Robin coffee animal-friendly
Two peas in a pod I pods
  I tune like Gods
Were the luckiest people to have
animals  

The Floridian with dog murals
Palm trees green thumb
plants sunshine events
The symphony dog tails
of hunts
Whats to compare her twilight
eyes hold the moment stare
Talk to the animal's hearts care

Bones for Breakfast
July 2014

Bones are like peanut brittle.
Gnawed on til toothless,
by us old mangy mutts.
Tastes sweet tender as a drop 'o dew,
Feels soft in a bride's whisper, "I do."
But speaks crunchy crackles of Tic-Tac language,
instead of ******* out bad breath breathe shards in.

Although bones may break,
become buried under archaeologists' noses,
slip through crevices cracked and crumbled.
They were once anything but brittle,
covered only by skin yet to be bruised,
backs yet to be battered,
blood yet to be spilled,
faces yet to witness the history yet to be written.

I do not believe we are supposed to eat bones,
but we break them down into shreds of paper-back tidbits,
consumable by children during the snack time called 'history class.'
Our teachers are creating cannibals,
consuming culture on textbook platters,
but pay no mind while wearing bone bibs,
they leave out the thickest cuts of meat and just eat the ribs.

History is a living thing, dressed to deceive those who blindly believe.
I remember reading George Washington's claim to fame,
"I did not chop down that cherry tree."
But Mr. President, what about your enemies?
Because every revolution needs people to die for the revolutionaries.
Ain't that a sweet piece of cherry lie pie?

I learned Genghis Khan sure got it on with many women,
but didn't read about Alexander the Great's great ***,
much of it involving a same-gendered mate.
Wait, was that a mixture of patriarchy and hetero-normativity?
Words that weren't worth the pennies to print?
Who hired these fact checkers for the publishing industries?
I'll give you a hint,
Learn who has the most to gain from condemning intellectual content and corrupting it with a corrosive lack of social conscience.
As textbook reps tell professors, "Buy our books with cute new features."  But since when was that what made good teachers?
And so, these chapters get served to us on poo poo platters,
passed off to be refreshing as fresh mint pours in for corporations like Pearson Education.

I surveyed the lay of the land in Egypt,
purveying the literature of pharaohs.
Pyramids meant to portray a portrait of powerful people,
not a foolish riddle.
"Who built them," we ask.
But not of curiosity for whose backs broke building.
Its whose bones mummified beneath are made into mythological creatures along with Sphinx features.

I was taught the Holocaust was a unique horror story,
along with the catch phrase "never again."
Yet those 600 pages neglected to educate about the "re-education campaign" against the Cambodians.
Where was I to learn of the Rwanda civilization's tensions and exterminations?
Perhaps those pages were buried in the mass graves and dirt ditches, deserted and desecrated like the indigenous individuals we now call Native Americans.

Tell me more about art again.
It conveys a message about the historical humans experience,
but I think that message got lost sometime in the Renaissance Period.
When men had beards and wore colorful clothing,
but now that is either unprofessional or deemed gay as a bad thing.
When women were depicted full-bodied as that meant social status,
but now they are painted in photo shop with air brushes and slimmed slick.
We've created a glorious new empire of gastrointestinal bypass Groupons, and have either **** out or surgically removed all the bones we swallowed to get here... So, who's ready for lunch?

"So, you ski da marathon, eh?"
came the voice out of the back
"You anglos call me Frenchie"
"But, my friends all call me Jacques"
"You ever do da marathon?
That is why you're here?
Sit here with old Frenchie
Barkeep...three more beer"
We sat down with this old man
He looked worn out, nearly dead
He said "You know, to win this race"
"It's all up here in my head"
The beers arrived, he drank his down
Our lips were barely wet
When he signalled to the barkeep
Three more for him to get
"You know, I've been here yearly
telling Anglos like you's two
The way to Montebello
The best way to get through"
"I'm eighty fours years old you know
Believe me now it's true"
And with a little finger snap you know
The barkeep brought more brew
We sat and listened as this man
Told tales of races past
He talked of Jack Johannsen
And he drank his beer down fast
We sat with him for hours
And at ten we paid the bill
We'd spent two hundred dollars
This old man drank his fill
The next day we came in to eat
Before we started out
"You ski the marathon eh?"
We heard that husky shout
We looked into the corner
Three more suckers yet to please
So, we smiled and we left quickly
To our room to get our skis
We spent the day out on the course
Thinking that this wise old man
Knew just what he was saying
He knew every inch of land
We skied each part and in our heads
We heard that old voice say
In a husky, bad french accent
You ski the marathon...eh?
We finsihed up and thawed out beards
That had frozen to our bibs
We were off to see our wizard
In fact we fought for dibs
To see who'd buy the first round
To listen to this sage
To be a student of this teacher
Who'd reached this grand old age
"You ski the marathon, eh?'
Came from the back as we walke in
It was the same old husky accent
We knew that it was him
But, there back in the corner
Sitting at our teachers feet
Were another bunch of skiers
Who'd be buying this mans treat
So, we rounded up some barstools
And we bent the barkeeps ear
He told us that Old Frenchie
He showed up every year
He comes to town a week before
The race itself takes place
He's a regular here in this bar
The whole town knows his face
He isn't from around here
Lachute, is where he lives
But for two weeks every winter
It's free advice he gives.
You buy his beet, and hear his tales
It keeps the old man young
In fact, myself I've been here 40 years
And races...he's sikiied...none
He waits there in that corner
For you anglos to show up
And he drinks what he can handle
He's really in his cups
"Barkeep, three beers...if you please"
Came roaring from the back
It seems two brand new anglos
Were new victims of old Jacques
We finsished up, and paid our bill
We knew that we'd been taken
by an old man with an accent
Who smelled like beer and bacon
The last day, when we ventured out
We dropped by to see Jacques
The barkeep said he'd gone on home
But, come next year..he's back
You boys enjoy your race day
And I'll see you here next year
So, we tipped him ten bucks extra
To buy him and Jacques a beer
That summer, I went to Quebec
To run an iron man
I was down around Three Rivers
I went there with my friend Dan
We went out for an evening
To have some drinks before race day
And when we walked into that tavern
"You run the iron man...eh?"
That voice, you couldn't hide it
That was Frenchie in the back
He said hello, you anglos..bon soir my friends
...Now you can  call me Jacques!!!

A flatulent king sits
Slouching, scratching,
Congealing to his throne of gold.

His army of a billion men
Are clad in ****** bibs
And grins.
Equipped with hate
And hollow eyes
They stand redily assembled.  

The king is a miser.
His face is a lie.
His motives are equally clear.

Royal subjects within the walls
Respect only of weakness and fear.

They are taxed and harassed.
For knowledge they're knived.
The wisest of Wiseman
Are forced to take bribes.

Their children are taken and
Hidden away
At the mechanized dawn
That announces each day

To learn to be
Ruthless and cruel.
To take advantage of fools.

Greed and malice are tools to be used
At their s and m brainwashing schools.

So their eyes turn jade
And their words turn black
As they cut up their hands
Stabbing themselves in the back.

They're just being taught
How to buy and be bought.

To serve the king;
A gear in his machine.

The ones who concede,
Buy into the greed
But their weakening teeth snap!

One by one
As they go round the vicious circle.

So they end up
Defunct,
Sunken eyed.

They dangle their
Dot spangled
Hands at their sides.

And although they loose,
Somehow they win.

They end up running
The world we live in.

One day in an office somewhere,
On someone else’s time,
Someone had an idea -
They were looking for ways to make up money
Out of thin air.
Now this someone somewhere was a man
For want of a better name, let’s call him Dan
Dan’s idea was simple, it was this:
Let’s start making make-up aimed at kids!
Not kids like students, or as in school kids,
But real kids, you know, of 9,8,7, even 6!
Infants, toddlers, babies, that’s the biz!
We’ll be the market leader in make-up bibs!
Tell them they get purple potts when telling fibs
But try our concealer - Mum won't even notice!
We’ll get some newborn WAG to celebendorse it
And call it something aspirational like, Babywish
In fact, before 12 months they’re really not all that clever
So how about “With Babywish u2 can live 4ever!”

I have memories
Of lying down in the backyard
Of my childhood home
Dressed in a hug
Parka, snow bibs, and gloves a size too big
The world had grown completely silent
All my fears held back
By a curtain of snowflakes

Sometimes
when the world is too loud
And everything is a little too much
My mind will wander off
To a snowy neighborhood
At night
In a small town

Often times this mental space
holds only darkness
All my developmental flaws
Packed away in moving boxes
Thick black smoke seeps between the cracks
Of pristine cardboard and plastic
Being loaded onto a truck
A size too small

It’s funny
That house never felt like a home
But sometimes
When the world was wrapped
In a blanket of snow
I felt peace and warmth
Out in the cold

it's been a while
since my pen last flew,
across the ocean
over the sky,
"i'm back," she whispers,
silently to my little thumb
and the other little fingers,
and they lived,
happily ever after.
i'm using a pen,
trying not to make any mistakes
for i've no bibs
for the little spills
from my clumsy self,
i'm just letting the words go
like how it should be
when things come straight from the heart,
that's how magic happens,
that's where i found you.

You? You.

The clock was protected from change in your house.
No Daylight Savings Time admitted to your routines.
We who bordered your life had to adjust or miss your timing.
Your farm the antipodes of ours...straight and neat,
Everything where it ought to be,
No duplication or mess....
A feast for my order-hungered eyes.
I had not yet learned of obsessive-compulsiveness;
I only despised my father's clutter,
His refusal to wear time upon his wrist,
His stubborn old World ways.

I shoveled barley half a hot and muggy day
To load your truck,
Emerged tired, covered with dust,
Raging in a million itches
To receive fifty cents
"To take your girlfriend out."
Most ungrateful, I chafed,
Told anyone who listened...
But now, I smile,
Wishing my labor to have been
A gift, now long ago.

I fell in love with John Deere tractors, gleaming green,
Colored television,
Fresh paint, white and red,
Because of you
Standing in striped Osh Kosh bibs,
Penultimate farmer.

Lydia, your wife,
Danced to the metronome
Of your orderly life,
Escaped only in Harlequin novels
Stacked by her chair.

Until the day everything changed,
Pink drool trailing from your mouth,
Gears grinding as you lost
The memory of clutches,
Tractor care,
Crops to plant
Be ******...
A stroke was taking down another man.

A Saturday we moved your wife to town
Near where you convalesced;
Monday, the Baptist preacher found her.

You ordered mahogany, rich and prime,
For us to bid your Lydia farewell,
Then followed, true to form,
Within the month.

Your children ordered oak, solid and strong,
Wheat sheaves bedeck the top,
Inlaid and waiting,
Ready for the coming harvest.

Haji Thomas,                                                      Thom­as and his son Thomas,
Thomas, French,      Germany's Car History,                     and many on Mars,
Scots and Gymnastics,                          but caused problems
                                     for the King.
Therefore,                         we realize that a permanent process for managing.
Teachers should not be contacted,                     to save time,
to save the world,                                                   working around the world,
the horse.                        Spain, parents, and fathers talked about the future -
business, but the security of the poor in the West is stuck -
50% faster than the first model.
"Happiness of Australian Marriage and Women -
Women in America and America,
Three Canadas, Sicilya Oligiala,
Canada, Haiti, Thomas Thomas of Christ by one
and a half hours, three years of dog,             three years of three universities,
many universities of the heart of the University
of Ireland and high debt data,                                               Thomas Thomas
There are Thomas, Cathy Ununwarin's
father Thomas Thomas Germany;
Thomas Thomas Germany story and other gardening tools,
Lei Lee [Sanille linear] Linear Films,
James D. Thomas,                         I said that the North Star
in English is so happy that communication,
cumamunicationism and mountain Ninyanyulah restaurant,             beautiful Hispanic parents, and her parents are still there,
but this is a mistake,                                                  because­ of the explosion,
such as the Canadian University and Canadian
                                              Cristina Christina's
seven French 50% of the words German and L.:
Performance and his first son's mathematical art
at Hamid, Hama NN thirsty French Marshall
Avirarminik; GraY Germany find out the gap
and talk about history, forestry, health, food,
VA British History of Douglas Brothers and people:
John Robert Thomas, Regional History
and TVVimans-bibs Thomas Germany,
France, etc. Wall Belenellan body,        increases diesel to Roscoe's wedding,
free, nine buildings Nirmik Patatuma                                Ma
in but very attractive among the mother-father of Spain
50%, or in the future prepared in the «halpiin
Australia, but Americans are heime;         okolle golden
with Argalin shell gates, dogs, Jane Canada,
Christie Germans, the world's experts
And many station malaria, the most important article,
many Götter mucus Marcus,                                         Ystävänpäiväprikäätti,
military history, Mexico French Eksikoni -
French Wu Rate,   King,                                     Lord Robert's Love Triangle,
Virginia, Mexico, England, the world's
Oasis of carbon paper in the world of food,
Tom Tom Tom,                                        the Om, Galo garden of the German
Martian rock,                                                 and a lot of the history of sports,
but they are a problem,
so we understand that the President's engineers.
Favorite id, save time,               world of horses.
Spain, parents,             and fathers are publicly considered
LAW businesses, but poor people
are stuck in a safe Western style - 50% of the first models
"Australian marriage and women
are faster than happiness -                 in the              United States of America
and Canada in Canada, Canadians'
Cecilia Oligiala of Canada John Christ Thomas,
half dogs are three questions;
Three questions for seven years,
University has a great heart's        GHV patterns
and debt relief of Anunwar,                                                  Thomas,­ Thomas,
Thomas Scanner;                                                 There are lots of information
about the lineman called John,
James D. Thomas is so happy in LA,
Mount Ninyanyulah,            English,
Communication and Language of North IRELAND;
                 Stars cumamunicationisis, a star restaurant,                      Thomas,
                             German and other beautiful gardens
come to the parents and parents
but the captivity is wrong,
but to blow up 50 French West:
Canadian University of Canada
and Christina Christina,
seven Growing German power out,
and his son, L. and sync, first art Sid
Hamid Hama and Germanic France;                                                Avirarmini­k, FRANNY Thirsting
Awarded large estate,
and club history,                        which is rewarded
with high stories, forests, resources,
food ions, VA, my brother Doug's Lass,
Sica and the world: J                           John Robert Thomas,
world history and TV Vitamins -
Thomas Germany,   France and elsewhere.
Spain's Diesel Belenella is preparing
for 50%, or ashes and Latin futures, in the
night walls -                  nine buildings of Nirmik Patatuma
Ma «Cheap»                     Roscoe's wedding is in Australia,
very free, for a certain time. Americans,
however, have a variety of barking dogs,
Canadian Jain Kristi,      Thomas, a German expert
and heimokollegeioita stool malaria.        Mexican
                                         ­  Workers,
multi-Götter, mucus marcus,                                                valentine brigade,
                                               military history of the french region of Mexico

general t'so what the ****'s this meat made of?
the fluorescent room gleans
off the sheen of fake food,
***** this weak pay stub,
this buffet too
and living off food court food.
hors derves served to
a bunch of augustus gloops
who'll soon sport tubes.

I hope the line short fuses.

I'll be giggling,  
at these wiggling
greedy,
feeding
frenzies
still feeling empty
with stomachs of drains
they feign being friendly
not a morsel of moral thought,
their brain's busy picking
food from the troth
pointing with pickeled pig feet
ruder than all hell
marvelously stinky
laid back in booths
soothing their sweet tooths
mouths oozing drool
drippin onto bibs
turning solids into goo

“Papaw, whatzat?”
My granddaughter asks,
As she watches me
Pull my pocketwatch
From the front of my bibs
To check the time.
“That’s my watch.”
I tell her,
As she holds it in her hand,
Intently studying.
She shakes her head.
“It takes too long
To know
What time it is.”
She remarks.
Out of the mouths of babes…
But I like it.
The slow deliberate
And quiet ticking
Of the pocketwatch
In my bibs.

The clock was protected from change in your house.
No Daylight Savings Time admitted to your routines.
We who bordered your life had to adjust or miss you.
Your farm the antipodes of ours...straight and neat,
Everything where it ought to be,
No duplication or mess....
A feast for my order-hungered eyes.
I had not yet learned of obsessive-compulsiveness;
I only despised my father's clutter,
His refusal to wear time upon his wrist,
His stubborn old World ways.

I shoveled barley half a hot and muggy day
To load your truck,
Emerged tired, covered with dust,
Raging in a million itches
To receive fifty cents
"To take your girlfriend out."
Most ungrateful, I chafed,
Told anyone who listened...
But now, I smile,
Wishing my labor had been a gift.

I fell in love with John Deere tractors, gleaming green,
Colored television,
Fresh paint, white and red,
Because of you
Standing in striped Osh Kosh bibs,
Penultimate farmer.

Lydia, your wife,
Danced to the metronome
Of your orderly life,
Escaped only in Harlequin novels
Stacked by her chair.

Until the day everything changed,
Pink drool trailing from your mouth,
Gears grinding as you lost
The memory of clutches,
Tractor care,
Crops to plant be ******...
A stroke was taking down another man.

A Saturday we moved your wife to town
Near where you convalesced;
Monday, the Baptist preacher found her.

You ordered mahogany, rich and prime,
For us to bid your Lydia farewell,
Then followed, true to form,
Within the month covered in oak,
Wheat sheaves bedecking the heavy lid.

Inlaid and waiting, you rest,
Ready for the coming harvest.

One wears the wages of sin
As war's protecting bibs
Where arrowheads of flight
Cannot pierce the pump within

Taste the salt upon the sea
The sea where sins are drowned
Upon the hearts that sit on sleeves
The head of smiles we crown

Back across the cross we bear
Hear the pounding of the condemned
Perhaps we will never be more
Than the crown of thorns we wear

So the cherry tree has fallen
It's bark black with disease
Lime should cure the problem
I will be planting trees

When my sister next to me were babies, we had our very own crib.  We were still in diapers; we wore our very own bibs.
I remember my Mother waxing our bed room floor.  It was so shinny, until my Mother couldn't wax anymore.
After my Mother left the room, we prepared for the "Big Race".  Because the floor was so slick and shinny, not a chance for a slower pace.
We had the finest cribs, they came with rolling wheels.  We would shake them across the room, only to get a big thrill!
All we needed was a " News Flash" with the word "Olympics" with all of the lovely rings.  Right behind that; two babies in their rolling cribs, smiling and waiving behind the scene.
By, Sandra Juanita Nailing

Take a look,
there is no shelter at this inn
we're all booked up,
so take your donkey and
'sling yer hook'

Having a baby and nowhere to stay..doh..should have reserved a bit earlier in the day,a bit late now you're having a baby and,
anyhow
who's the dad?

Then three old goats with long flowing coats who had checked it all out on tripfinder,couldn't find yer,so the gifts,one was scent,a towel set,a tent were then left in the cleft of the stick which Jesus walked with and boy was he sick,he called at the inn and found nobody there,no babies in cribs,no nappies or bibs,but he did find the cowshit which stuck just a bit to the soles of his sandals.

Waterloo.

So the nativity took place in left luggage,a case for a cot and a hot cup of tea though Mary preferred de-caff coffee,'it's free', said the clerk and he went back to work and the three men were none the wiser.

Lend me back my 1 bad eye or I'll **** where I ain't supposed to, in
the sink, in the bird bath on a picnic with gay baited junior Al Gore
whose love for flits pimped degrades the common unpimped *****

Four hours left.
That is just two sets of two hours.
Twenty five five-gallon buckets
Up the ladder, on my tiptoes
I dump ice dramatically into the dispenser.
This motion repeats every four hours.
Two sets of two hours.
That is just four one hours.
I change the Pepsi bibs, and break down boxes.
Ignoring my drenched socks from standing water.
I notice there is an orange Gatorade stain on my khaki shorts.
The stench of mold and un-carbonated soda clings to my skin.
I take a deep breath.
Four sets of one hour.
An hour is just sixty minutes.
I mop the floor. Smiling.
Time to lean is time to clean.
An hour is just two sets of thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes.
That is just two sets of fifteen minutes.
Fill cups. “Are you enjoying your day at the park?”
Back in the confines of the station
The roaring fans make conversation impossible.
Never mind that, I work in solitude.
Fifteen minutes is just three sets of five minutes.
Unwavering heat and blinding sun to match.
My arms are tanned brown until just above the elbow.
Polo shirt tucked in, I am allowed one piece of jewelry.
Five minutes is just five sets of sixty seconds.
And a minute goes by in no time.

“My glands are glandularly normal,” I told a farmer, who had to handle 1 farming problem before the next 1. ~ “Your normal glands make farming a piece of cake,” he said. ~ “Thanks a lot,” I answered. “My sincerity is why I'm respected by Willie Nelson somewhat.”; “Me too,” he said like a dumb *******.

There's no leftovers
when you dine at Loves table
seconds anyone

                           Kelly McManus

Don't ask me about the future-
I just let go of the past-

I'm floating in melted gun-metal
I'm firing nails into the sky
Alone on this planet of red and she-devil
I'm emerging as a butterfly-
Piano keys of ivory and emerald,
Finished in exotic leather.
Dripping in pearls and ostrich feather-
I play on and on, to the die
That's been cast on a hand-drawn tabletop map
Lined with seafood bibs
I laugh as my lungs turn to dust
And wonder if this is all there ever was-
I'm floating in aluminum, above the skyline
Peering down on this world I create,
The tin-foil stars around me, oh how they shine
But it's not enough to sate.

Goodbye my quinoa islands,
Beaches of grain where my toes sink,
I'm dreaming of better editorials that ran-
While my thoughts brought me over the brink.

see the doors they are mouths stretched to feed
the food is an offering for someone missing their plate
it appears fake in this lighting but they promise it is nutritional
our bellies are elephants stomping to shatter fragile and reflective
here of our secretive beasts which wear slobber as bibs
fork we carve our fellow eaters proud of once stalking the other
to feast is to dine violently, lips are teeth, don't let them sink
the chew a rock of nibble stab the grainy flesh
that will be a coffin in the teeth, I am not proud
ventriloquist the disjointed mumble
ahh! slip the chin, obnoxious jaw

Sorrow splits the night
like lightning in the sky.
I see strangers
with an endless reserve
of tears clouding
their red and bag heavy eyes.
Makes me wonder why
they had to live
to see their children die.

I pass by these borders you plan to build
thick brick walls to block you from how
all these strange foreigners feel,
but I will take all the pain they receive,
make their scars a permanent part of me.
I will see this life break me
of all those playful star trek fantasies
of how we will be better human beings.

Cause, I have seen babies wearing bullet holes
like little red onesie, and crimson bibs,

seen pictures of places we will never be,
decimated cities, with scars so deep
that even the stones bleed.

I shudder
knowing we do not need
Hollywood monsters
because real nightmares
exist over there.

Please tell me how
do I move on
from these portraits of pain.

Blindness
I think I'm going blind
Have walked around the house blindfolded
Having lived in my hut for a hundred years
I know where everything is
I can put clothes in the washing machine and
And put a capsule of liquid soap into it
When it is finished, it bibs saying it is done
The tricky bit is to open the gas oven I tried today
And burnt my hands I kept it over the ring
To check if it was hot
Having a shower is easy I know my body intimately
The problem is how to call the gas people when the bottle is empty
My wife wants me to move to her flat on the seventh floor
I will sit on the terrace and not see the view of the bay
The sailboats and ship at anchors and I will never be able
To talk to friends on the Facebook
She and her daughter will be tired of me and push me
Out of the terrace and for two seconds I will be flying and
Be incredibly happy to be able to fly and in a trance not
Notice the impact; they will when looking out see the dent
I made in concrete and ask someone to resurface the spot.

The agile man stooped low in its bow,
But made no apology for his lack of yellow suspenders.
Our motley crew congregated somewhere in his left armpit,
Crickets announcing the day’s blaze.

Diners decorated with bibs,
We now awaited word as to the specials.
An aproned crustacean chaperoned us
To our linen-smothered tables.
Pincers stretched forward to place the menus,
Count Devon tramped Mr. Crabby into a mushy patty,
Much to the jest of roaring King Henry.

Glancing over the rest,
Mr. Crabby’s twitching eyes found mine,
Conveying only this: Get out,
While you still can. Man fears my pincers,
Yet they are harmless compared to him, the venomous mincer.

ah... what a day! what a day! i've been through so much
******* in my 20s i once thought about hanging myself
from a branch... i tried it... lucky for me the branch
broke...

of course the gods turn those who they want to destroy
mad... look at what happened to Hercules...
they drove the poor chap mad... he never recovered...
me? one of the gods sent unto me a choir of singing
beings in a church: i never figured out
whether it was a god descending...
or the devil ascending...
after all: i imagine all the fallen angels were once
part of the choir...
that's why i kept my mouth shut during the experience
and as the great wind dispersed the choir
into silence i phoned my then girlfriend having ran
out of the church imploring her:
i'm at the Camden post office depot...
i've been walking around London smoking
marijuana and meditating on hunger:
i asked her to: i implored her to come and save me:
to bring me water and bread...

she didn't come... *****... that was back in 2007...
very funny events have happened since 2007...
the 2008 crash... the civil war in Syria...
the great migrant crisis of 2016: i see those "banana boaat"
guys lately... speaking ancient African and H'arabic...
they're now the deliveroo guys on scooters...
i could, never, ask, someone, to, bring me, something:
i'd cycle to the shop for myself...
what lazy ***** am i living among?
anyways... that was then... since 2007 i feel
i'm driving in a car that's supposed to have 4 wheels:
we're making it on 3: we? sorry... i am making it on two...
but... it's like that quote from the poem
by w. b. yeats: the centre cannot hold...
i fear that once i die all hell will be let loose!

because i don't know whether it was the devil
ascending for a confrontation with god:
hey! stop treating me like a mushroom! humanity's
brain fungus... they already discovered lysergic acid...
sure... i sometimes think...
jellyfish and mushrooms... you cant exactly ingest
a jellyfish... but you can eat a magic mushrooms...
mushrooms clouds over Hiroshima and Nagasaki:
the big mushroom counterfeit:
we've been hiding in your brains: ha ha...
no look... mushrooms driving the mammalian species
of the highest kind: and... eh...
some of us received genes from the people who
first invested magic mushrooms...
the rest? what humanity would look like:
incrementally backwards... bitter... sane... normal...
easily manipulated but also easily loved...

now i'm sitting having this celebratory
whiskey-pepsi sharpshooter self-congratulatory drink:
on my own: i learned that drinking alone does
me more good than drinking with people...
i used to drink with "friends": until they started
to bore me... i find myself my own company...
and i keep it...
              well: it must have been some special marijuana
to have conjured up such a potent AUDITORY
"hallucination"... which is good:
all the Beatniks never found any auditory hallucinations
on marijuana: they just talked bad poetry
over mediocre jazz... and felt: goo good...
then they started tripping on acid and: fan + **** =
****** fan... don't (i know, it's supposed be doesn't)
spin...

a whiskey / pepsi sharpshooter? the proportions
are inverted... if a normal mixer is 3 to 1 pepsi to whiskey...
then a sharpshooter is a 1 to 3 pepsi to whiskey...
but i'm having one...

why? i'm self-congratulating myself...
on a whim i was made a supervisor today...
i badly wanted to land this one...
eh... supervisor at Wembley: also on a whim is one thing...
but the London Stadium? West Ham?
that's different... as a steward and a breaker
i already built up a rapport with the crowd...
i get the per usual hug from about five people
i befriended for? sitting in the rain and smiling...
sitting in the ******* rain: soaked: and simply smiling...

i must have a devilish smile, ergo...
but i'm done with hating myself or being unsure with
myself...
point being... there's this guy in the company...
mein gott! zero... ZERO self-awareness!
he lives by some weird script...
even the guy with cerebral palsy has more respect:
i actually like Martin... he walks like he's drunk
but at least he's aware that he has cerebral palsy...
he knows he has it... he knows it inhibits his full
potential... he knows it... he's self-aware...
and that's why no one minds it...
everyone overlooks his disability with an air of
conscience and dignity: since?
he can make self-deprecating humour...
and overcome his disability...
but this guy? the one who i am about to mention?

he's ****** up as well... but ****** up physically
with an added twist on the mental side...
people already started quoting him because he
quotes himself...
  1. in my twelve year's experience as a steward...
2. in my career as a steward...
one manager throws a box of new bibs
on the floor and tells him to open it...
   calling him all sorts of things while he struggle
to open the ****** box...
looks at me and: with a face that hides a smile...
big boy... bigger than me bearded: like me...
it's such a baby face... i just give off the most genuine giggle
because there's no punch-line there are
only insinuations of a joke...

i like Daniel: whenever he's trying to make a point...
in England there's this ugly practice of shortening names:
Matthew becomes Matt
Anthony becomes Tony
Daniels becomes Dan
Alexander becomes Alex... i hate it...
i once called Dan Daniel and overheard someone
call a Matt Matthew and both reacted in the same
way... my mother calls my Daniel, my mother calls me Matthew...
ha ha... this sharpshooter is really working...

not even Bukowski had this much fun writing
about the "drudgery of work":
spend your 20s outside of the workplace mingling
with people: spend at least 10 years in solitude:
**** those 7 years in Tibet alongside Heinrich Harrer...
just spend 10+ years in England...
isolated... schizoid-probed... medicated for
imaginary conditions: become fat from
anti-psychotic medication... then! ah! like a phoenix!
spend those years in England:
i guarantee you... they will break you...
then? relieve you... release you...
i remember the last words i told my 4th or 5th
psychiatrists when she asked me
what book i was reading:
   i was more into talking to her as to why i was
drinking more as to why my mother was undergoing
spinal surgery: KANT! critique of pure reason!
and when i get out of here: i don't know what i'm going
to do!

to hell with being misdiagnosed as a schizophrenic
when you've had my experiences...
i already told one psychiatrist after another:
i cured my "schizophrenia" by bilingual...
i hardly think schizophrenia is a smart-disease:
it's a contradiction of symptoms...
to be able to hallucinate in two languages
i've "tested" it: no! i've proven it!
you can't hallucinate in two languages!
which side of me hallucinated? the acquired English
part of me? the ****** born with it side?
nope... i'm still to get a postcard from Tartarus...

it's so much fun being love by people...
this supervisor came down from the upper levels
to say hello to me, shook my hand and we hugged:
i was his breaker at the Red Hot Chilli Pepper gigs...
but the simple words he uttered:
i just had to say hello...

               it makes all the difference some people like
Bukowski sociopaths aspire to in terms of milking fame...
those words: i want to become famous regardless
of the people in my vicinity:
i want to died with a: rest in peace...
to hell with mortal fame: sure...
fame postmortem? i'm fine with that...
but when i'm dead... not when i'm alive...

this girl Harini who i disclosed to: the third eye
of Shiva? yeah, i know about it... i used to smoke marijuana
and practice: res vanus, i.e. nothing thinking
in the park: i wanted my internal monologue
to die... i wanted the "audibility" of my thinking:
my internal monologue to die...
and? hell... it died... but she was so giddy about:
Matthew is my supervisor!

but this guy... let's call him Mark Leg-It...
bro... issues...
12 years of experience as a steward and he can't
stomach the idea that someone who started
this "career": it's a ******* job... once i'm one year in
and i'm rewriting my curriculum vitae and
moving into teaching: this job: not a career is
only rewarding once you advance...
staying put is a bit like sitting in a car pretending
you're driving... **** that...
i need more intellectual stimulation:
i don't think i need to teach chemistry per se...
to teenagers... i think i need to teach
the generalisations of ontology to primary school
children: find my Abraham's ***** vortex...
drop my heart that's the size of a pebble
into a lake of feelings of dawning hearts of children...

i like shaking hands... perhaps that's my approach...
but this guy is so bitter...
he has this nervous tick of swinging his head
back to the side: Dan remarked once:
he probably wishes he had long hair
and could flick it...
but the guy with cerebral palsy is likeable:
because he's self-aware... this guy?
he takes himself too serious!
people in "the company" scold him... i just play
it best... ignore him... let him cool
off his pickling heart...

there's always one...
i had 13 stewards under me and 3 breakers...
man... we worked like magic... everyone had a break...
i used more body language than language itself...
constant reminders to the younglings:
take care of the crowd: keep looking up...
i envisioned a tongue of finger pointing
and hand rotating whenever they were paying more
attention to the game (west ham vs. manchester united)
than the crowd:
personally? Jack Grealish is still the ******* son
of David Beckham... sorry... he just is...

people of little or no authority: when given any?
behave like tyrants...
i tried the approach of: there's a stick
and there are three carrots...
body language translations stimulate more than
verbal "reprimands... it's also always good
to giggle... this once instance i told a guy:
up up up! indicating my pinky ring middle index...
as i was walking back into position
i saw him standing up... ha ha... ha ha...
i walked back to him...
i didn't mean get up! i meant: look up!
so he sat down...

mein gott! even with Gerry: i became an advocate...
she told me she was a heavy drinker...
she told me: i had an "AURA"...
that i was likeable... i had a way with language...
i told her: i came to England when
i was 8... no prior knowledge of the language...
i used to spend afternoons crying in the toilets
of a primary school:
the exact words: thrown into the deep end:
no?! ******! swim!
that's how i learned English...
then one day... i was "born" with it...
she's Irish i'm ****** we compared the good
relations before the altar of hip-joined Catholics...
how ****** girls marry Irish boys...
each time she sees me she just hugs me...

i hate authoritarians principles...
sure... i was given some authority... but, did i abuse it?
ha ha... petty power for petty people...
it's the perfect cauldron of events that shouldn't take place...
danke gott...
the milk of the son was squirting all over us
today...
poor Gerry's concerns came to fruition...
an old woman was looking queasy to say the least:
turned out she was having a heart aneurysm...
for the first time i called in CONTROL with
a confidant voice... PAPA 2.3 - i need medical support...
lucky for the woman she was taking into
the shade of the stadium and was given treatment:
all the extra water i brought her didn't help...

then in alley of the stadium some guy hollered up
to me? we're baking up here!
water fountains all around the fountain...
but it's an East London mentality?
what did i do? throw a bottle up to him...
lucky throw: lucky catch...
i remember this one instance in the school playground:
i hated this guy for how puny he was...
me, Peter Richardson, Samuel Richards...
we used to watch WWF... drink cider under-age...
Kieran O'Mahoney... run into car parks
and spit on people from the roofs...
i was the only one who managed to land
a proper pigeon's **** of phlegm on one guy...
when Ilford was primarily Irish laden...
i men and throwing...
this bottle throw sort of reminded me of this
one instance in the playground...
as boys do in school: they huddle in groups...
i said to the guys: watch this...

oh man! i lobbed this tangerine straight at the head
of the guy i didn't like... it was: PIN-POINT...
it was a needle "metaphor"...
Peter just cracked up breaking his stomach...
i then ran up to the guy hit by a tangerine
in the head and told him outright: you report this...
we're "talking" after school...
i got into more trouble trying to push
pictures of Pamela Anderson in primary school...
jumping onto rail track in secondary school
and also selling dangerously explosive petards
in secondary school... ha ha...                doo n00b...

but that throw of the water bottle felt like
throwing that tangerine at that guy i didn't like at school....
Dave... oh **** me... i can't remember his surname...
he's still recovering on social media
trying to compensate his... "life"?
with pictures of the car he owns...
and the insurance he owns on his car...
and whatever the hell is implied by owning
a car and living in the vicinity of London...
i own a bicycle and a pair of strong legs:
i'm happy... that's the thing...

i'm finding myself more and more in this state...
it's hard to describe: it's... it's: happy-sad...
there's melancholic intellectualism very much akin
to Michel de Montaigne...
but there's also a happy-sadness that's...
it's infatuating: it's the sort of happy-sad that makes
you enjoy the company of prostitutes beyond
belief... it's... it's... the equivalent of
the hyper-inflation that happened in Weimar Germany?

what has truly helped? apart from listen
to some relevant modern music: Red Hot Chilli Peppers...
i don't understand the "flavour" surrounding
the constant celebration of the Beatles or the Rolling Stones...
why Beethoven is "being" unruly over
the glamour of Handel... i don't have a "favourite"
music... there's either music: or there's no music...
there's just... the wind...
or there's metal grinding metal grinding
metal between Liverpool St. and Bank of the winding
Dune worm of London of the tube...

i like seeing people happy...
i like when the shift ends and some random girl
walks up to you:
her prior supervisor:
a mega-super-***-boss-*****-little-******-in-disguise
has issues:
i tell the same girl: just work with me...
i can't promise you eating lotus fruits or
ambrosia... but just work with me:
as she does... and at the end of the shift
i hear the words: it has been a pleasure:
working with you... JOB DONE...

treat animals: at least the ones you pet:
i don't animals readied for slaughter
as a tier above yourself: then translate
that dynamic onto other human beings...
what spatious geometries without
geometric constraints you can create...
the 16 of us worked like clockwork...
mind you... the English traffic system?
perhaps illogical to the rest of the world...
but? when you come to a roundabout?
what's clockwise? driving on the left side
of the road, or driving on the right side
of the road?
the LEFT! the LEFT!
how do the hands of the clock move?
from "left" to "right"... no?
the rest of the world makes no sense...
i have such spiritual kinship with
the anglo-saxons that's hard to believe i have
any to begin with:

you come to the roundabout
"thinking" about a clock... how do the hands move?
"right" to "left", or "left" to "right"?
obviously the latter!
even as a cyclist i know that the route
of traffic: the impetus for GIVE WAY comes from
the right...
what saved me? neo-folk neo-pagan Scandinavian
and Germanic songs...
i don't listen to modern pop music...
i'm sort of deaf to it...
                if Frank Zappa liked Bulgarian tunes...
i'm honing onto a listening project myself..

i love working... there's a detrimental to
not working... or, rather: not making oneself available...
how much is worth learning from
the Protestant work ethos...
                  i wouldn't want to work the work
of investment banking:
as much as i learned from the work associated
with: working by paid work by work done...
by the Xlnm of tarring and carpeting the "skies"
(roofs) with felt from roofing...
as much as paid productivity allowed:
i like the longer hours...