EG TEN /V.S/ BLitZ3D

ROUND 1

EG TEN
For the second time around, I won't be too gentle.// You turds can't rhyme for *****, soft as a noodle.// Get rid of that shirt, Wordman, do us a favor.// It ain't bad at all, its just, one size too little.// Ill break you fools in half, straw snapping like a scarecrow// Cowardly lion come out, Monster Smashed you innuendo.// The reason why you got passed by the first time around// Like a girl post some pix up, cut my **** in half, now u goin down// You and Wordman teams up, who cares! a pair of freakin clowns//

BLitZ3D
let um start off first, either way ur a representation of a man in a hearse /hurt um real bad n rubbed his face in the dirt/the pics that I posted was just a ***** in a skirt/sskkirrt! on this *****, like who you ****** with nerd?/ that's a ****** sweater what u talkin bout shirt?/ an what exactly do you think you rhymed off ****?/ ******* from the start, pulled out and drove straight into the curb/ Asian drivers man, they'll never ****** learn/ a coward vs a lion I guess my warning wasn't herd/ why'd you delete the first battle? you coulda reread my words/ then you'd probly remember to go again would be absurd/ but everyone loves a under dog, makes emotion go reverse/ cause then when you go under dog , the wears not even worse/ an no one teamed up on you,/ I tagged in and hulk Hogan lumped a few/ American Dream, elbow jumped at you,/ then to your defense, in ran gorilla monsoon/ the way I see it, the joker popped both of you,/ a heist on ur thread but that's just my point of view./ sights locked retical red, not a sound with the front mount/ knights drop, clown with a crown, and a jester in bed./ leave um slumped out/ /roar/ I messed with his head/ take my advice and this cypher ...just jump out

Round 2

EG TEN
Let um start off first? Now what the **** was that?// Your no king of the jungle, but a little ***** cat!// A blissful of zits in your face a sign disgusting// BlitZed does not show off his face an ugly duckling// My rhyme is in verse, so fresh with multiple gears on my Hearse// You can't spit for *****, so your *** be going in reverse// A fan of hulkamania? That **** ain't real brotha!.// I bet your next line would be "Hakuna Matata!// You ain't no **** Mufasa, your like that fool Scar hangin out With them ugly *** Hyena// I laugh at you BlitZed, I ******, I flip the script with my skills// Your elbow dropped not fast enough a straight kick up your chest!// This is SPARTA!!!! So jump on out! off to the next round// Welcome to the Writer's Creed, A true MC battleground!//

BLitZ3D
if this is Sparta then ***** I'm Gannicus,/ two swords in my hand while u attack with some shallow ****/ your **** right I'm scar and ull still bow down to this/ u wont get to far hyenas surround in the mist/ Hakuna Matata but theres reason to worry kid/ shoot um point blank an laugh as he say the dots are blury miss/ from his stomach out leaks guts an curry strips/ no lines to connect, his souls in a hurry, drips,/ out his mouth like his mom as she dines in nutty bliss/ bust um quick like his dad, his sister we both miss/ a cute little thing, deaf dumb n blind, snitch/ I think not, i broke her fingers, a tight grip/ dropped her leg and screamed Hogan wins/ layed on top of her and counted to three/ donkey punched that ***** in the head an continued to proceed/ so ask her how much I give a **** about writers creed //

ROUND 3

EG TEN
You claim to be a Marvel-Super-Villain-God-Like / If you are Galactus" I'm Lactose - Bacilli / Fermented like Lactic Acids what I spit!/ A genus of original but your just a make belief/ BlitZed please! step it ^ up a bit higher/ Your dealing with an oldskool underground ****** / None of that Kindergarten *****' of entry level / My words may be shallow but yet sharp as a Razor / Your write- wrist slice the veins blood burst just like a geyser / My word plays undefeated so try a little Monster / I sMashed your Baked Potatoe with chives a little butter / On side some bits of bacon a Cub is now a Lion / If you don't understand, im at work im eating Lunch / Im on break and wasted half of my time you little punk/ But its cool It's all in fun and that's what its all about / In a place full of infected A cesspool full of talent / Respect to my opponent a true Warrior of Poets / A Monster Mash Creator, A Master of Salvation / The bad *** Mr. BlitZed, Will continue this ***** later-/ Here at Writer's Creed, or where ever else you pleased/

BLitZ3D
A mutant, a radioactive contusion./My ***, gave it gas, now im ******* moving./Onto the end, the finish line, a ******* shoe in./Im new an, your old news, news i knew and /screws im loosing, as we pretend this battle im loosing, wrap it up with a few loose ends, /confusing, a thriving city, up an left it in ruins./Black cloaked, hooded druid, IV fluids, /Gat broke, firing pin, out i chewed it, trigger squeezed now, told you id do it./Ten teeth marks on the barrel, yea EG blew it./Face on some blue ****, stiff Elmers glue tip, /sticky grip, stick um up, Richy Rich, Jackson upper cuts, a Rampage, no *****./Bomb on the stage, chickens with no cluck./Took a bomb on stage, chicken heads, my ***** well ******./Salmonella poisoning, chocked the chicken, she likes it real rough. /In an out, left and right, my blade keeps the feathers well plucked. /Goose and a swan, I recognize no duck, bad luck, body covered up in the back of the truck./One G, no UN, i see, just me..no pun./Mission complete, no fun, grey skies, trust me, no sun.. rains not done. /Bars run from bars, bring the heavens down from the stars, impacts bombard/even from behind bars locked cars explode far, gorilla tactics, no holds bared, reload the AR/Re-roll a new cigar, as i retold, another page from Scar/12 bubbles Gage the contents of this unmarked mason jar./I know your popping some corny something, but i wasn't listening./Busy kicking it with Popcorn Sutton, drinking an smoking **** in the kitchen./These lines must be glitching, space-time the fabrics ripping./Physics are ******, i need a new physician./Watch as my feet move, roots grew planted in a quantum position./Like Groot, stomp um like a twig, raging tunnel vision./A ton of incisions, a gun mixed with questionable decisions. /A life for a life, changes nothing, for both sides the death penalty still glistens./the only difference is the same as this blunt. *****, BLitZ3D is still hitting. /Next time i roar a warning make sure you ******* listen... /
battle?
Im already bored with you
.....
I pulled a gun
And a sword you drew

I broke up with you last night
because it is my duty to
go lana del rey ghost hunting
in the target parking lot
please
don’t take this personally

Been dazed and confused for so long it's not true
There were kids
Sitting in the soft night's semicircle
Encased in a haze of smoke
The darkness enfolding them in a cloak
Of all mysterious things nocturnal
Making it all eternal
A superficial feeling of found truth
A white aura of blazing youth
Conquering the darkness with the fiery tips of lit joints
Puffing chimeras and golden illusions
Things left unsaid yet lead not to confusion
The substance and the glowing friends
Seems to fix everything and make ineffable amends
Lends them some heightened receptivity
With some dazzling sensitivity
To the dizzy promises of life
        *Wanted a woman, never bargained for you
There was blue bottles and red cups
Sloshing full of 21st century ambrosia
Every moment of the night
Is doused in glowing star-light
Different rooms, dark places
Different shadows, similar faces
        Lots of people talk and few of them know
There was music softly ebbing and weaving its way to us
      Soul of a woman was created below
Gleaming sequined pillows
Curtains ebbing in delicate billows
That no amount of reality could ever harden
In the black garden
Amidst the tangy, acrid scent
Boys and girls came and went
Among the soughs and the ***** and the gleaming stars
We are young; ***** replaces wine, blunts replace cigars
      You hurt and abuse tellin' all of your lies
An adagio of whispers travels with a florid vibration
Waves of words, swirls of conversation
High kids trying to touch
What has never been tangible
     Run around sweet baby, Lord how they hypnotize
These kids linger on towering stools and lush couches
Leaning back with careless slouches
Or wander back and forth
Breathing dreams like air
     Sweet little baby, I don't know where you've been
An elusive rhythm throbs in the humid atmosphere
Fragments of lost words hover on drunken lips
A stirring warmth flows
From bodies spilled together
Snuggled under a blanket of stars
      Gonna love you baby, here I come again
Hands take hold of hands
And fingers tightly interlace
Throbbing softly with fluctuating warmth
The room is electric, filled with tiny flowing currents
      Try to love you baby, but you push me away
In this wake of boozed up elations
All sorrows are aborted, all conscience is obliterated
Blitzed kisses are exchanged, transitory enchanted moments
Bemused nudges and tender embraces
Arms around shoulders, heads resting drowsily
All of this immediate and forever
        Don't know where you're goin', only know just where you've been
And the tipsy, blissfully mindless joy of youth
Gives them bleary yet satisfactory hints of the unreality of reality
        Sweet little baby, I want you again
The teens are flickering in and out of consciousness like befuddled fireflies
The sober ones roam the rooms, drifting haphazardly about
Simultaneously enchanted, bewildered, and repelled
By the seemingly inexhaustible variety of drunken fun,
The ****, adventurous mood of the night
        Been dazed and confused for so long, it's not true**
We are all so young
So young and dipped in the dust of folly
And our laughs contain a hint of melancholy
The magic of nights like these,
When the spell of mortality is broken,
Eludes us all,
Yet we cling to them
Like moths to a flame.
Nights like these dig deep in the stuff of the soul
But there is still much to be learned

They huddle in the cold damp darkness
grateful for the sheltering sandstone
shuddering at each echoing blast
a remorseless dull ache
like their meagre rations
eyelids shutting wrinkling between attacks
seeking peace and inner sleepless solace.

'Them docks is taking a pasting.'
'Me Dad works there.'

Another attack, tunnels rumble
evoking century old echoes
of rusty trundling drum-line wagons
bearing sandstone blocks to build the docks
now being blitzed blighting the night sky.

The morning brings a dusty disquiet.
Merseyside emerges curses soldiers on.

He burnt away my eyes,
he said it would make it much easier,
to beg, so I traded it for fear.

I was a little above five, wandering,
on streets a motley of black,
may be not, but my eyes couldn't distinguish the lack.

People would throw coins into my glass,
burnt eyes led to anticipated pitying,
towards the miniaturised cauldron of the dire I lived in.

I went to my master’s garage during my perceived evenings,
my hands felt the swerves of cars and formed shapes in my mind,
and before I departed, I would leave my glass behind.

Blitzed, he would hit me at times I didn’t collect enough,
I wouldn’t run away, the known seemed less horryifying,
than to trip against invisible, in the trying.

I survived each day, stayed thankful for life,
unfair as it may seem, my other senses were in poise,
and I learnt to see through reflections of noise.

He took away my eyes, my dreams stayed invincible,
so I left into a world, incognito,
my master waited for me that night, never to discover though.

I couldn’t steal, so I continued to beg,
I hitchhiked to stores, for a loaf of bread,
but God resolved to bless me with a stranger, instead.

He put me to work, for food and shelter,
little did I know my pay was in kind,
the kind was love, against everything left behind.

Sometimes he read to me, stories with happy endings,
he bid me goodnight before he would move on,
a word I recently learnt, to not be an oxymoron.

He taught me to read in braille,
being blind is no excuse he adjudged to me,
he couldn’t return my sight, so a vision he gave me.

Every night I cried myself to sleep,
for the choking in my throat helped me to believe,
believe in my angel disguised, so I cried myself to sleep.

He gave me fortitude against the vice,
he gave me words, and the power it imbibed,
and he taught me to live, when I just survived.

. and i am only ascribed, a relevant nation status, within the individual, by only having to "enjoy" an exile... back, "home": merging into an NPC-meme, so not the mahjong solitaire acronym "game"? you know: PSCAPE-complete, NP-complete... NP-C? NP-complete problems? nondeterministic polynomial time? guess i was the only dumb 'un to self-teach myself to play mahjong solitaire... i guess that's not expected to be hard... hey: here's the map, you figure it out.

the current climate of a crescendo
of events...

****...
        i can't say maine ****:
even though i own two cats
of that breed...

it's all...  (sniff sniff):
very much like being back
in a catholic high school,
of a highly irish choice
of breed area
of outlier "london"...

       with black girls...
putting vaseline cream
into their hair,
to keep the frizz out...
or the afro...
whichever...

     getting into cat-fights
with each other
and some outlier white girls...
stephanie:
oh i remember stephanie...
while the "other"
time i learned what
a "kit-kat" was...
   lucy...
with ambitions to become
a stripper...

    "kit-kat":
  one hand, does a four-finger
*******...

but the fact that the current
climate
doesn't allow dialectics?
i mean: debate,
without all the rhetorical
******* of:
pre-staged "events"?

i take two beers,
or three,
   a packet of cigarettes...
spot a park bench,
sit on it,
and...
              wait...
some old timer is bound
to chat me up...
hardly complaining
about me drinking in
public,
i excuse myself,
asking him:
is it o.k. if i light a
cigarette?
  no complaints...
he might just come
back with
a rayleigh bicycle...
green...
******* plush specimen
from...
  i'm guessing the 1950s...
and then we'd juggle...
opinions...
because opinions
are not debated...
not in a dialectic environment...
juggle...
two clowns: first pucker
to the punch of a smacker
of a pair of lips of a woman...

and you know...
there would be this...
aura of a whispering silence...
like...
somone was listening...
god... ****: perhaps god...

and we'd sit there...
spewing opinion after
opinion,
   and we'd talk about bicycles,
about his grandchildren's
supposed autism,
and i'd try to comfort him
saying: just give them some time...

but the pop media doesn't
do that, does it?
dialectics on a park bench
is as alien to pop media
as seeing a ******* ****
saucer, all phosphoresent
in the night sky...
   like: neon a. zero...
neon a. zero
  to b. abide blackout,
come in c.
c. piccadilly circus
                             neon out...

i was saying something:
yeah, i was:
never pity the drunk...
he'll just turn inside out and
tell you:

   'the best poached eggs
i ever made... were...
when i was blitzed...
  plastered...
  *******: goo....   goo'n:
gone...
but the perfect poached
eggs...
        yeah yeah...
whrill in a movement
for a tornado,
drip some white vinegar...
  drop... pouch you
limbless chicky-coco-clock-in!'

or... that what i expected
from... not taking
boxing lessons...
did about 3 lessons in martial
arts...
was kicked in the *******
by the teacher...
so i flunked...
  **** to that sort of "club"
of self-defense...
you kick me in the *****,
i kick out your ego...
and thought?
  hell...
         either a stephen king
novel
       or a shot from a shotgun...

honest to god,
i once asked an afro-saxon
if i could touch his hair...
guess what?
  i touched it...
   ooh...
goose feathers...
they would really replace
goose feathers with
afros...
  it's like:
the engineering
concept that went into
springs
of cars?
    ever touch an afro?
cushions...
  i'm feeding goose feather
stuffed pillows...
or springs on both
the bed,
   or a car,
or any variant form of
transportation...

i prayed for chop-sticks,
instead...
they gave me drum-sticks...
but no drum...
they said:
   air-drum...
  ****... that's a tough gig...
air-guitar is once thing...
but air-drum?

i had to start thinking
about my inherent
physical "disability"
concerning the *******
as...
   leech...
  or  yiddish:
     schmuck...
       and... i went to the elders
and they...
didn't expect i was
handed down the script
of william burrough...

imagine...
   a world...
where there was "excess" skin...
associated with the ****...
like... a floral pattern,
protruding out,
and not in...
   so i said:
  sleeve off, or sleeve on?
am i to **** some maiden
or simply do some
jamaican recipe replica
of a *******?

you sure eve of eden
confused the phallus
with a serpent...
or more... a mushroom?
well... if you circumcise
the ******...
that's more a mushroom
than some reptilian
                   artifact, no?

well... we're not going
to have a dialectical spectacle
with the way we're going,
are we?
  i'm juggling opinions,
midly drunk,
with some elder,
bicycles,
the weather, seasons,
grandchildren and autism...
and on the center
stage...

              ONLY RHETORIC
ALLOWED...
       i'm as ugly as Socrates
inside and out...
at this point,
at this point: inside and out...
so...
  if only i was dyslexic
akin to the modern and ancient
greek standards of
not having
the capacity to write...

        writing has become
a famine of conversation...
i don't want to speak because
i chose the medium of writing...
i like ballet...
  i also like watching someone
play the piano...
and then i watch myself
itch away at a keyboard
of, thus, arranged letters.

I confess,
I got blitzed on whiskey
& she might have eaten a worm,
but what happened next
was just a blur.

Elbows and derrieres,
the fragrance of lilac,
a taste of succulent waters,
granite & pewter.

A bit of fine red lace,
her smiling face,
traces of smoke lingering
from salty breath,
her sweating sun.

A running fan &
moving crescent moon,
an electric band
crooning, "Ramble On"
with an etched gremlin
smiling,
his arms outstretched,
reciting,
"I Wuv You's"
above the
pretty waxed nest.

I confess,
I got blitzed on whiskey
& I swear she ate the worm.

I am wading out knee deep into the evening's drinks.
I let my eyeballs take a dip as my wallet plays the breaker.
You'd think the woman had tourettes the way she tries to wink.
She flirts no better than the sisters who oft walk god's acre.

Maestro, another!

A black suit hammers ritzy tusks somewhere across the bar.
The waves upon the wires lap across my eardrum's shore.
My lonely, daydream doll is finally called off from afar.
I'm far too low and far too blitzed to enjoy another bore.

Maestro, another!

When I recall how we met, I transubstantiate my veins
with hopes to find a fertile mound to plough to rude degrees.
Too many furrows to recall, but still your name remains.
So, still I hunt for lonely moths who dance beneath marquees.

Maestro, another!

Why does every truth align with all the stars at night
only to scatter just as broken glass when morning breaks?
Every wholesome oath I swear to cherish all my life
melts with every dewdrop my lawn's unkept blades shake.

I gazed up
as I heard a loud roar,
saw a light shining through two
sliding doors.

Hovering above me
was a spaceship in flight
Is this real?
Is this real life?

I started to feel
my feet leave the ground,
stunned and confused
I fought the urge to
look down.

No one near
no one to hear me scream,
I let the force pull me through
this bright shining beam.

As I ascended into a large metal
room
danger, I didn't assume

There was a man
or at least that's what appeared
that's the costume
I suppose he volunteered

A chair rose below me,
and scooped me in
quickly I felt my
thoughts and feelings begin
to spin.

The alien too
now sat in a chair
and he put his hands in his lap
as if to say a prayer

Graciously he opened reassuring my thoughts
and slowly my stomach was empty of knots



I felt at peace
this ship it was kind
I felt my mind
begin to unwind

A conversation he said
thats all I seek
your planet to us,
it seems so unique
we are already
thrown by your fascinating physique

Traveling is where we've been
all of the galaxy
we have been within.

We need a place
to stop and rest
can you tell us why Earth
is the best.

Wondering why me?
Sitting here without a clue
I began to give him Earth's debut.

You see I come from a place
full of life,
oceans, mountains, rivers and love
but not all days
have all of the above
I mean sort of
it depends on who you are
nature is there
and happiness lives
but it matters on your perspective
and how you give.
Earth is selfish
and Earth is kind
but the majority are concerned with
what they can call “mine.”

We have the resources for growth
and knowledge
I myself am in college
but these resources
you must first
acknowledge
and then
work to shape
in your mind
deep in
your heart
from the inside
the peace Earth has
in you resides
but most people are stuck on the outside

This place can bring you joy
but like a storm
can destroy

we cherish
family, friends
and laughter
we dream of getting
our happily ever after
only to fight over where we will go
like “here after.”
We argue over religion, origin, and creator
over which team, athlete or place
is greater

We have war
disease
killing and hate
pain in the world
that not even the best medicine can sedate.

But deep down
we are all wired by love
so underneath all the mess
is something to be proud of
something you will be happy to meet
a feeling that will make you feel
complete.
Earth is love
full of compassion
truth and fun
you just have to be a visitor
that can see the beauty
under the sun.

He gazed at me
and reached out his hand
shaking mine
he said, I understand.
You,  come from a wonderful
land.
That my planet
was a place he'd like to see
from oceans to mountains
and the space in-between.

He said in his travels
he'd learned a great deal
but most important
is to find your own
truth that is real.

We can't listen
to others and soak in what they say
changing and making you different
by day.

We can learn
we can grow
guidance by others won't be a foe

Optimism is key
acceptance,
awareness
and the ability to be...
free.
To let your soul soar
through every feeling
thought and more.
Open every door
live this life
and seek to be better
be the best you
and then Earth to
will be better.

Love, love, love just like you say,
everyday, close up and far away.

Like words carved in stone
I tattooed his words in my brain
in my head they are stained
to remain
for the rest of my days.

Reading my mind
he smiled and said,
it was so nice to speak with you
my name is Ted.
Sierra, I smiled
as my chair slowly sunk
and I rose to my feet.
The door slid open and my heart
skipped a beat
he waved as I descended and I knowingly smiled
said he'd come find me one day
after he explored for a while.
I agreed and wished him the best
and before I knew it
my stomachs plummet was the test
as I started down
feeling the gravity
draw me to the ground.

I looked up as the ship
blitzed away
off into the galaxy
far far away
I looked around and walked back towards
my car
shaking my head
gazing out far.

Was that real
I feel so....
so enriched
like me and a movies
plots where just switched

I knew in that moment
after my decent
100 percent
that the content
that I learned
would forever stay with me, push me to yearn.
That I would share these teachings
for everyone to learn.
In each and every way
and to always
walk in love
every day.

-Sierra Wilmot

Why is it,
that I only crave you
when I'm ****** up?
So high, you're the
only thing I can see.
Blitzed out of my
******* mind,
so my world revolves
solely around you.
Can't sleep and
my head is
filled with thoughts
of you.
Touch me, feel me,
need me.
Take me all the way up,
until I come down,
and see the real you.

I've been meaning to ask you-
What do you think about a ménage à trois
Mary Jane
And You and Moi.
And
I can envision
You without that shirt.
And you without those draws.
And me without these *******
And me without this bra.
And me on top of you
And you on top of moi
And me screaming your name.
And your eyes glazed in awe.
Meanwhile
My tongue leaves a wet trail along the edge of the blunt,
Your eyes leave a wet trail on my lips.
Lets be upfront
I'll tell you this
The blunt isn't the only thing wet and sticky
And ready to be blitzed.

sails like blankets
thrown awry,
float with
idle paseé.

wind whips wrinkles
for pioneers,
chaos and crinkles
make our worst fears.

wakes speed time
like a blitzed motor,
whils't the sun burns
blackened otters.

sunsets brush the
beauty away,
highlights fade
and darken grey.

birds fish
the waters va-
cate your hovel
and meet us for café.

Tonight,
I am posting memos on the dark side of the moon,
where words spewed in wrong states of mind
can be swallowed up
spit up
into black holes
*******
expressions tasting of bile
and last night's ***** twist.
Tonight,
I'm shooting up
on spite and resentment.
Getting blazed,
blitzed,
baked.
Getting blasted off
to outer space.
And no one
can hear me
scream
Tonight,
I'm scribing prayers
and miracles
that would never be worked
if God is the god
that I believe God is.
Lists of hopes penned in anger
and hedonistic impulse
carved over
the memories
of my deep,
penetrating love.
A love that was like
the sword
that Judas fell on
because he had too much
faith
because he had too much
love
to see Love
(that's the god I believe God is).
But tonight,
there is no grace
And God
I am not.

Little missels
Sparklie crystals
jedi mind tricks
play in my bedroom
I spy the pill jar
with a little bud waiting to be broken down and rolled.
I lick the blunt
and crack it down
tabacoo spinkels and covers my floor
I grasp the bud and crack it in half
and the stink of it overwhelms my automosphere.
The song skips and tupac all eyes on me stars playing
as I begin to roll the bud I get a since of joy and happiness
that soon ill be blitzed
I know I got good bud
because when I do my dog wobbels in to enjoy it.
I spark it and that little popping noise of the dank thc circles me.
I take a big drag but carefully so the cherry doesn't get to long

She was all starry-eye blitzed
  which was one helluva party
'til a lit moon crashed her high,
    hungover indifferent
             clouded sky falling -
      tripping earth's cruel stratosphere

I have miraculously moseyed my mind into a mysteriously mellow mood!
My masterminded misfit momentarily mesmerized me.
I magically muted my meticulous mind,
Merry-go-round memories minced.
Meanwhile I am absolutely blitzed!

I’m heading west and I’ll tell you why
I’m young and the world’s still mine
Last chance whilst I’m not tied
And West has caught my eye

Where to go was hard to choose
This world of mine is rather huge
So listening to other people views
South America suits me, so why not Peru?!

One stop there I have to make
The Inca trail, and not a fake
So I booked it first, even before the plane
A starting point to lead the way

Flights further west frequent from Chile
So that decision made more easily
And then with Bolivia’s close proximity
My route was made clear to me

The finer details I’m still unsure
The options are vast of which I’m allured
Spoilt for choice of landscape and more
No part of this continent will be a bore

Except perhaps the time spent on roads
Long distance between places that I’ll go
And doing it all whilst alone
My own head may become too well known

I’ve written a route but expect it to change
As I meet new people along the way
Stories of experiences will lead me astray
Or personalities might hold me for an extra day

This is the beauty of this trip
All the decisions are in my grip
And although daunted by the Spanish lip
Independence will force me a learning hit

I’ll tick some boxes of my bucket list
Some of which I know I wont miss
Lone travel, new language-even if just bits
Volcanoes, salt planes, surfing-they’ll be blitzed

Then further west I’ll be on my way
To meet my family for that special day
Hear new words my niece has learnt to say
And meet her little sister, for which I cannot wait

But before they show me their new home
Up the coast of their country I shall roam
Starting Sydney where I’ll be stunned I know
Then toward where all the hippies go

After Father Christmas has been
And they’ve shown me all that must be seen
And fed me plenty barbeque supreme
The West of Aus is where I’ll next lean

Here I’ve more family ready to meet
And a New Year for us to greet
My uncle will keep me upon my feet
Showing me places that make their life neat

These chances I’m so lucky to take
Though I miss them so and it does ache
At least they all live in a wondrous place
And happily share with me all that is great

But it doesn’t quite end there
There’s more the world has to share
So to make the most of my fare
I’ll touch down in Bangkok to taste Thai air

And although I wont have long to lurk
I’ll squeeze in sights the city serves
It depends on when I am due to start work
For at some point it’s time I became a nurse

But even that I look forward to
I love my job and what I do
And at least the role is not all new
I know it but my responsibilities’ have grew

By this time I’m sure to say
I’ll be in desperate need of pay
So although I’ll be living back in gray
I’ll be glad when a salary comes my way

Intoxicated
With one taste
Of your cherry lips
I'm blitzed
Drunk and powerless
to resist
Smashed, trashed
Plastered.
I'm useless,
You've got me hooked
From one sweet kiss.

So November's Come,
Hazy leaves deck the trees;
Rotten ****** wrecked the sprecht,
gotta please, gotta tease.
Cotton crusted smile
took the style while spine dumb;
Freeze as whacks churn
spurned, danced to the crime hum.
Early squeeze amidst blitzed spritz, dark romancing,
prancing picket line fum-
bled; Ambled twixt crowds antsing.
Glazed, took prior avenue
espoused culture tazed/
Fazed, ascends erased hub,
Dire mazed/Liar snubbed;
Nah crowd sourced: after-shock stancing/
Corp core flexed waves/paves vexed glancing,
Dropped four, floor to score, music cull en(c)hancing.
Enchantingly out of touch; Butchered lemming dancing.

Rupturous rapturing gospel takes all:
Sports neck line with wreck wine drenched via stall,
Appalling, talling tower looms abroad
Broad took shin dig as grin, fling; swig accord.
Objectified Subject, with verb kept in tow
flits through the fine lines, and cracks in the snow.

Noticed grave shadows, slow; ravens attest
a'Gig'a'Sibling invested in scoping, and chest;
Blooming bioluminescence scatters down/
Frothy broth fairly broiled. Scorn fawning Noun/
Habit forming, tarnished, ab(d)jectified malt-core
Verby? Nun-thank-you-muchly, Mary Mag-dolla store.

.... So November's Come,
Clubbed, stepped and altared.
Brushed away the dark hype
crowd mic check faltered.
Dastardly respite. Psyche.
Planted positively preened
nature:societal fiend
crept crudely, rudely James Deaned.
Pants 'cocked, stewed, steamed',
Megalithic mount gleaned
as posture postulates
cost you fate, spate-spoke-stake, ****-rate
vibrate denatured, protein plucked feud
fueled larger sense of afterlife tense imbued.
Spotted shortly crossèd portly,
tautly tossed courtly cost,
'nawt'ly flossed' possed thoughtly;
Sportly Mossed Kate washed
scene brimmed/beamed/loved
'Leaned' fussed. Trussed team musk/
Stock puppet power-aid, raid's pretty husk.
****** sidekicks show side slicks, stuck chiming bitty.
Flickering afterdark lark glistens, gritty-city-fitty.
Bought distorted Faster Mark, Narc acrossed shark,
passed past the Rasta Park, embarked'n'stashed arc.

Dark the dreams that crept to the fallen gate/
dazzled gems and hellish rhinestones irk fate.
Grated joy, plated coyly, then doff broke;      
spoke symphony of fattened tire/wire frame joke;
Took twisted lyre, choir, to tame my europa,
maybz next time a better luck'n'fly my eloper,
clucky chickens plucked/fussed/cussed, a fitting trend,
Spare parts missing neural heart; a plasticated end.

Blitzed out of reality when the ball dropped
and he was there
good intentions turned sour as each day passed
but it was good for her
for what I thought was good, it was
when good finally came around though
that is when the fog cleared
Everything before September was a cloudy haze
and will stay that way
A year I partially forgot for good reasons.

I can't always run,
But my hiding's not too bad.

A former boss told me
To stay longer for a work shift.
My lips said yes,
But my mind said "Hell no!"
Clocked out,
Casually stepped outside;
Upon passing the host window,
I blitzed to the car, fidgetted with my keys nervously,
And whirred the blazes out of that parking lot.

Each New Year of mine has begun with relatives
Crashing at my family house.
This 2019, I take the interstate back home
To be around the out-of-state.
It's been a long-lasting tradition
And I did what I could
To break apart from that tradition
Even just this time.

At a bar on New Year's Eve 2018,
I relaxed after having made prior reservations,
Just me,
And having moseyed away from family
For just one night.
I'd go to this bar again too:
**** dancing, stellar drinks, young blood...
**** dancing.
Didn't mean to be a Scrooge and mostly not dance,
But at least I escaped and saw new faces around me.

The escape that is never too far away
And is always open around the clock
Is my journal book.
A journal doesn't have to have continents,
Oceans or clouds
To be a world
That revolves around the author.
Natural the paper,
Preserving the pen[cil].

I'm not implying
That I escape this world,
But what a world there is
In escapism.

All Joe king aside

Humor iz vital stove topface
component to survive the cares
and concerns oven uncertain
culinary future, that presages

over heating of this planet
concomitant with extinction
per the human race. Many
gauges point toward an
irrevocable debacle where

the evolutionary timer seems
to tick, head, and (hmm…
more like barreling) toward
becoming a cooked goose.

An ear splitting ruth less
buzzer will be an impossible
mission to clap quiet while
steam issues out the airwaves

from stymied paunchiest pilot
light buck kit brigade. If and/
or when such a fiery fate befalls
this arrogantly bombastic,

conceitedly egoistic, forlorn,
grievously hapless, irascibly
jangling, kookily middling
luddite, he hopes his demise

will be brutish, short and nasty
while surviving foreign legion
members of locked humanity
hob bull along the blitzed
boulevard of broken dreams.

Whatever provokes a maniacal
person to laugh as the world
turns tumultuously affecting
a surreal ambience akin to the
edge of night (especially with

dark shadows) may appear
wantonly vapid unspooling
threnodies sotto voce.
Rational quartermasters
promulgated outlandish no mans land.

Knowledge jackknifed ideal
humane gentility. Febrile earth
lings’ dragnet cleaved bona fide
actualization. What other option

available to tinker, tailor, soldier
spy except to chuckle at the folly
gingerly loosened upon the terra firmae?
Nothing short of an uproarious chortle

would be prescribed from doctor
demento to ameliorate the tightly
wound tension arising from local

or global aggression arising from
bullies calling their bluff fed goat
bluster, division by the zero
sum game of thrones. Thus,

this mechanically nonsensical,
pop sic cull *** purée to throw
fire retardant on the conflict frission
intonating loopy outré playfulness

with words hoop ping quadratic
equations totally add further
meaninglessness. Hence **** friend,
aye axe hew, how does humor get decided?

Laughter versus humor All Joe king aside.
Jest parody offers funny types of humor.
Seriously folks. What spurs this laughter?
Repression of natural mandated libidinal
kickstarter jammed in high gear feeds

e-z dropsy clodhoppers bursts of hyena
sounding eruptions! The cervical contractions
puffed up like jiffy pop laced pompadour,
increased with greater frequency and

intensity asthma due date approached
(which felt like violent shaking of the
biological ***** re: me), especially
prominent when “mother” gracefully
described Arabesque. She gravitated

to modus operandi sans professional
ballet dancer like a duck would drake
to water, and salve and duff heat whirled
pool ache kin to preparation H - soothing

the pain in the *** of hemorrhoids. Hours
elapsed with incessant stretching (while
in a standing pose) blithely drawing one leg
or the other up against those roseate ****** cheeks.

Even when quite progressed along
the family way with yours truly, thy
status while in utero where ******
stretched akin to a taut rubber band

near ready tubby (or knot tibia) snapped,
like ballet slippers suspending balanced
***** of toes pointed to maximum flexion,
or inflated balloon ready to pop beyond
capacity or, bulged in utero, she maintained

a fanatic, maniacal, and slavish veneration
asper the rigorous being a choreographed
top notch ballerina. This passion to bend
body electric defied laws of fig newton’s,

finagled parallel dimensions, and hugged
joie de vivre limbs maintaining nonchalant
passion recognized talent unbridled versatility
waiving youngest attaining burlesque,

Churrigueresque dramatic elegiac fluidity
transformed thine mama into a holographic,
kaleidoscopic, and opportunistic piquant
rondelet thru vitality, whimsicality, and zealotry.

Gracefulness hove spectators to behold defiance
asper flexibility of muscles in conjunction with
defiance of physics. Once immersed in a classical
routine, thee supple rubbery form assumed

by thine mother ******* focused klieg lights
upon wondrous kinetic magic. An audience
member vicariously experienced dalliance
of some mind-numbing narcotic minus
the addiction. Stupefaction trans fixed gaze

upon the dynamic parameters of space
and time to present an enchanting move
able feast replete with operatic poetry,
quixotic romanticism, and sculpturesque

statuesque totemic union verging on affects
cast by a singular whirling dervish. A
heightened indoctrination of jubilation
radiated from every cell of this artiste

in motion. Pirouettes cast grotesque dark
shadows and etched the faux edge of
night scenario with gigantesque ghoulish
phantasmagoric veterans of many tragic-

comic composers long since vetted into
the storied ballroom of fame. No surprise
then that when mine exit from the berth
canal of stage nom de plume Harriet Harris

witnessed by a full house, my denouement
propelled from the tender vittles tulip ruffled
private naughty bits induced balletic movements.
Meanwhile me mum (real name christened Chrys

Anne Thumb) busily intensely engrossed herself
(terrifically totally tubularly) within whose inter
twined arms and legs that emulated an analogy
to a pretzel held me snug as a bug in rug. A pause

(which many interpreted to initiate an applause)
sprung a contagion of hand clapping that drowned
out the impetus signifying the first breath of
this wordsmith. Only as the slap happy flesh

diminished did ardent hard fans of a triumphant
fancy feast and foot loose Gangnam style winged
goddess take stock of the starlit cradling a newborn.
Frightful faces and peculiar sounds appeared scary.

Thence spurred via submit able exertion climaxing
with a riveting acrobatic contortion (essentially
forcing this now grown baby boomer former chap -
lain cocooned for nine months within the womb),

thyself made headway into an alien world, whereat
this full term new born did provide his own wailing
lyrics (even at that tender infant hood, an iconoclastic
antiestablishmentarian). This now grown baby boomer

chap lain cocooned for nine months within the womb,
who sought nothing more nor less than that which
necessitates being swaddled, pampered, mollycoddled,
cuddled, bundled, and held close to the *****. As

grown middle-aged madman (albeit married to
X-Files rabid fan) still craves, desires, and gloms
toward picturesque pairs of pendulous pliant plump prized
politically incorrect breastworks.

well, if you look up a recipe from a page like bawarchi, it has to be good.

aside making the chapatis,
the turmeric infused rice,
and the kashmiri chilly curry
(oh **** me, bring
the cuisine, curries are great
contenders of the goulash...
ha ha... goulash in a gulag:
possibly a great title for
a book... that will never be
written)...
there was this little curiosity
to add on today's menu...
i realised that:
   i've never used mint in a curry
recipe...
luckily i have a lovely beu of
a mint "shrub" in the garden:
why?
   well, the people i'm living
with love their mojitos...
so there is was, staring back
at me: mint chicken curry...
i've never used so little spices
in all the curries i've made...
plus, i do like my peshwari naans...
all it took was mint (which you
rarely see)... fresh coriander...
a quarter inch of cinnamon,
    three legs of a star anise
  a bay leaf, and some chilli powder...
evidently blitzed into a paste
with some water...
   but **** me... turmeric?
(i had to add it in the end) -
cardamon pods? cloves?
        the rest of the jazz band?
but you know what...
         it didn't matter,
         it came out in the end,
pretty as a *paul gaugin -
weird radioactive green at first,
then, over a period, a nice pale
vindaloo brown... who would have
thought: mint, cinnamon, coriander...
i guess the anise too...
but that's beside the point,
as the title suggests...
this really is: a culinary conundrum
for me...
    you know how when you
cook an italian dish,
  you can still pick up the texture of
diced onions?
   well... when making a curry...
the onions? "magically" disappear...
every, single, curry, i've made
has the ability to: literally dissolve
the onions, so the diced onion tecture
apparent in italian dishes: vanishes!
into thin air! well, more like vanishes
into: a rich sauce.
how? good question: i, don't, know.

p.s. i can't believe i sat for two hours
worth of film,
   watching clive owen be this model
father, carpenter and even a car mechanic,
looking for this missing tool-box,
which was stolen, from his truck...
i mean some people started looking
for the holy grail, the ark of the covenant,
no, this was just a movie about
a man on a mission: to find his missing tools...
hollywood can really provide some
funny-eerie movies sometimes,
   this was one of them; which brings
me to:

p.p.s. i really don't know how to write
poetry -
   i'm stuck wavering on the thin line
between mushy-mushy ooh la la love
me tender, my love's so perfect
or the macho stuff...
          i like neither, it's easy to make
a clear enough distinction,
but harder to write a down-the-middle
types...
       i mean: the guy is a carpenter,
and he can fix a car...
     what do i have to offer,
        a few words on a **** of paper -
mind you, i do get to retain a laugh about it,
but the manual aspect of labour is very much
   the most masculine command of the world...
this? incy-wincy spider labour,
  itchy fingers,
  more importantly: an itchy ego -
can't scratch it, like i might scratch
my head my *** or my *****...
     hence the translation into writing;
jealous? a little bit...
            i mean... try justifying writing
"poetry" when you could have been
    an understudy for the profession of industrial
scale roofing with your father...
  but i have to admit,
   that scottish widows' h.q. building near
st. paul's?
               a **** fine summer that was,
even though rolls of felt weight around 40kg...
and bags of gravel a nice 25kg,
    and doughnuts of permaquic around 30kg...
and the heat from the boiler...
   and the annoying finishing touches of
laying insulation...
     but a **** great site...
   and the rewards of a shade, and a bottle
of water, and a sandwich...
        and the cigarettes...
                 i still believe the motto
   arbeit macht frei -
              you are able to forget, stop thinking,
automate yourself to perfection
  within a certain skills criterium -
        apparently mine translated into a fluidity
of language (plus the itchy ego,
that i keep scratching / writing about) -
oh no, i don't mean that phrase in the ****
sense of doing pointless tasks...
translate that into the world outside that
very bad joke...
          even the russians with their gulags
made work authentic,
   i guess they were, or maybe that documentary
on the black eagle penal colony
was fake? i'm guessing the failings of that
statement in its original zeitgeist context
translates into: never under-estimate
the power of arbeit - lounging on a beach
and getting a suntan never provides
   the same sort of mental labyrinth,
                counter to a day's worth of
                          "menial" exertion.

I spoke to you on January 6th,
Staff party at the bar and it was tragic as ****,
So I'm walking outside to have a *** and just sit,
You told me "I got something better", thought you'd hand me a spliff,
But you gave me a cigar and we were having some drinks,
Everybody's inside getting gatted and blitzed,
But us two are doing good, sipping whiskey on the rocks,
Knew we weren't allowed but we'd risk it for the shots.

Got to talking about the future, what we plan to achieve,
It was like you sprung to life and told me fabulous dreams,
I was headed back to uni, that's the standard, it seems,
But you had hunger in your stomach, made you travel and leave,
So you saved every penny from the job that we hated,
And you gave up many offers to get properly faded,
Because you knew you had to get away from offices, papers,
And all the obstacles they drop on you to stop you from greatness.

Then you left a day later.
I moved away and we soon became strangers.
I called it the trip of a lifetime, guess I was stating facts,
Because you left on a plane and you never made it back,
And now I'm on track to go and waste my days in a cubicle,
I think that's why I couldn't show my face at your funeral,
And so in life, when the hard parts have got me pacing,
I'll try to remember our last conversation.

The Scar due for Prep

Have you danced with darkness?
Minus, cliche bobble, pale moonlight?
No balance of step, nor vision of sight?
Have you danced with the darkness’ dastardly devils and devious demons?

Everyday divulging deep bleak colors contrasting societies soot lined shadows,
Showing shades of every face weary or strong that it makes you sick!
Fire in your iron lungs,
Pick! Who to burn next in your wanton web,

You yearn to see them torn and scream,
Sowing secret, sacred, scripts of suffering,
“Help me! I’m sorry friend!”
“Let me hug you, friend, and tend,” you’d pretend,

Even adopting a valued visage of light,
Easier to trap and less of a fight,
You think it makes you strong and gives you might,
You got cocky,

Was is greed that took the lead?
Perhaps phallus fueled foolishness,
An ego built pride where you rather would’ve died then had not tried,
Woe, my mental wars,

For I tried to eat a light,
I tried to eat her sight,
Her soul and absorb her might,
But my bite couldn’t swallow or chew,

Rampantly in anger I battled and battered,
Clinging to fleeing demons,
Bawdily bolting from the luminous light,
Till it was I, alone, in the fight,

Rage in every inch of me,
“Why does she look so calm? Don’t mock me! *******! F-U-U-C-K YOU!”
With fire in my eyes I glared,
Observing, she stared,

Then she asked me a question,
“What is wrong?”
My pride, my ego, my lust, my kingdom of slothful rust cried!
“Nothing!”

Then she gave me a glance,
Suddenly she was talking through my shadowy shields and swords,
To a side I had left, alone, long ago,
“What is wrong?”

Suddenly in silence I saw him,
On his knees, hands in black mist,
Me, no more then six, crying,
I wasn’t ******, or glad, or wrathful or mad,

“I’m sad!” I cried in emotional *****, heart sore,
Out of nowhere tears blitzed my face,
A foul feral weep I’d never heard before,
A symphony of suffering, I sowed galore,

How could I know?
That there was a sad little boy behind this ******?
Such a bitter and sweet gift to bestow,
Off to sleep sweet dancing darkness, it’s time for you to go,

A beginning of a journey for this new found soul,
Minus war of my mental mindscape,
Each step an accomplished goal,
Walking along the shallow banks of a warm peaceful shoal.

Blitzed and blinded
by barely escaping lies
that make you feel apart
of things
but have left
you behind.

Why have you shied away
once again?
you've lost any
real intent.

Bottom of the pit
with blood crusted lips
and a head
full of ****.

You're still a kid.
you're still a kid.

C.e.M. April 25, 2015