I dropped three ice cubes in my glass
added three fingers of cognac
then I threw it back
poured another and leaned up
against the counter
and let out a deep breath
I know who I am
but I'm still figuring out how

there is a knock at my door
I'm not sure I want to answer it
could be anyone, anyone I don't want to see
or someone, someone I want to see, or family, so I open it
and she, with her hair and face
stood there, a partial smile
with a certain pain in her eye
she always knew when it was best
for her to show up, she had perfect timing

she sat down on the floor
as I fixed her a drink
she told me that life is magical
but there is white and black magic
and life isn't any different
she spoke of intense drinking
and constant, hollow loneliness
with the feeling of ambition
but she knew that something was missing
and at the time
the familiarity of it all
was too much for me
and I dropped her drink
the glass broke violently and sudden
the opaque cola took shape
as two blobs of darkness
on the floor
she laughed at me
and called me drunk
I called her weak
headed for my room as she followed me

we're in my room
sitting indian style on the floor
I ask her to roll another one
then lean back against my bed
I feel heavy as if the earth is pulling at me
or the sky has its mighty hand pushing on my head
right now in my life
I'm at a weird place, emotionally
and I'm not even sure she's here for me
but it's nice to have some company when you drink
someone to hear you talk about the things you think
I feel the spark of the lighter
the heat of the flame flew into my body
like a bird to a glass door
the smoke danced like waving arms
in patterns I've never seen before
I watched our shadows on the wall
two blobs of darkness with the background flashing
from the wind knocking into the flames on the candles
it felt like taking a picture and we looked like mountains
we sat for hours as we wasted the night away
our minds faded off into the blend of smoke and music
and our words mesh into the thick, foggy haze
we found the door of the next day then walked through it

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn ******, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

it's been months since I've been social
and loneliness to me is as rare
as a four leaf clover
I've grown accustomed to talk with myself
alcohol and interesting conversation
just like I was anyone else
I sit in the dim light of my desk lamp
thumbing through a photo album
with old pictures of my family
I found in the storage last month
I  flipped to a photo of my parents
my mom as beautiful as she could be
and my dad with a smile on his face, looking down at me
I turned the page to find a silhouette of them
two blobs of darkness
they were like two birds
that made a nest
I head to the kitchen for a drink
there are no words for how I feel
nor a reality for the things I think

The last few passengers hopped on catching their breaths with a huff and a puff and taking the remaining seats where they could, while handling their bags in one hand and their mufflers and hats with the other. It was just an ordinary day for them. A day when work and reaching their office on time was the only thing they could think about. A day when half their time on the launch was spent worrying if the Tiffin box packed so lovingly by their wives toppled over to create a mess. A day when they couldn't stop and stare. A day when materialism came before appreciating nature’s beauty.
Kolkata woke up one fine chilly morning to a sky set ablaze. There was always something about Kolkata and its lights that intrigued me. The perfection with which every corner was lit just as much as it should be, the hidden eye candy which could only be seen if you look into your soul to appreciate. Worshipers from all over flocked to the ghats to offer their prayers. And with the mindless honking of the city behind them and the open river in front, they dipped themselves in continuously to be forgiven of their sins. As they lifted their folded hands above their heads to pray and dipped themselves, they made the water all around them make huge ripples which were lost in the vastness of the mighty river. And with that, they were forgiven of their wrong doings, or at least that’s what they believed.
The engines roared to life as one of the crew, miserably opened the ropes and threw them on board after ringing a bell. I stood in one corner of the launch eyeing Kolkata, taking every bit of it in - its morning awakening, its old red bricked buildings, or at least the ones which still stood straight, its ghats green with moss and over crowded with devotees, its icy cold winter morning, and the current of the river beneath the launch floor. Kolkata had woken up to one of the coldest days in recent history. 9 degrees and the wind was up. On the Ganga it felt as if I had come away to some faraway land, away from the hustle and bustle of the city, to find peace.  Silence surrounded me and the only sound faintly audible was the low whistle of the breeze brushing past my cheeks kissing them which felt like tiny needles poking me all at once.
The water looked like liquid glass, floating away to infinity and beyond, as far as my eyes took my vision. As the launch turned to face its destination the Howrah Bridge came into view. Standing tall with its two gigantic pillars the sun peeped from between the cables to shine on the water creating a river of gold while the sun’s reflection seemed a ball of fire just within our reach.  The bridge cast huge shadows causing a sudden darkness to arise in the water which otherwise seemed ablaze.  

Across the river the world waiting for me felt distant. Was civilization actually that beautiful? Or did nature just wrap its covers around to hide the flaws of mankind, his ruthlessness, his ignorance towards other beings and its lack of humanity? The dashes of green popped out of the corners of towering buildings, as sun cast its golden rays on them creating shadows on the opposite side.
The small boats sailed on as the launch took me from bank to bank. The rowers sat at the back on the edge with their rows half immersed in the water. And as the currents made them flow by, the ripples came and hit our launch and travelled back into the vastness and disappeared. They sailed through the disturbed water, and its shadows sailed alongside. The rivers serenity was contrasted with the blobs of **** floating by, entangled with driftwood and mixed with shiny cloths, probably the leftovers of the previous durga puja celebrations.
The sky was a game of colors by now. The sun, still a ball of fire, was slowly creeping upwards, the light grey clouds just behind it shot rays of gold down through the gaps they found on the world below, the sky otherwise was a play of grey, blue, red and orange set in order from the ground upwards without a definite point of distinction. A group of three birds, crows most probably, flew overhead enjoying the sun’s late arrival to the cold morning.
My hands reached for the railing. I gripped the rods tightly looking for security. I looked around me to spot the different lives sailing with me. Some on their phones, some sat with their eyes glued to the cold blank floor, as if they didn’t deserve to be uplifted by nature’s display of her beauty, some staring down at their watches to scrutinize each second to realize how late there were while others stood with a blank expression staring out onto the river, probably going over what they did wrong, playing the images on repeat, making themselves miserable. Me? I stood leaning on the railing looking out also. But I wasn’t in my misery. My misery was behind me. I looked forward to life. And for now I looked forward to my destination. And amongst the crowd I was alone. This was my moment and mine alone. No one could have robbed me of this moment, and no one can make me forget.  
The river gave me peace of mind. Its tranquility and its continuity made an energy of constancy flow within me. A belief that this too shall pass, that every moment shall pass. Never ending was its path. A path which life had chosen. Who are we to disrupt it? Who are we to stop? Life flowed on. And times were not always smooth sailing. There will be waves rocking you, making you lose your balance, there will be rocks at the bottom, sometimes holding you together while other times damaging your base. With time and distance the river will get polluted, but it all depends on what you want to show and what you choose to see. It will be used, to its maximum capacity, with only a handful of souls to stop and think about it and do something about it to the best of their abilities. Things varying in all sizes will cross it, sail by without paying any heed to the water beneath it making them sail smoothly, never appreciating it, and soon it becomes a part of them which they pay no attention to it. It will always be there though. Its existence will always prevail over it being ignored. And when you stop to think, it’ll be there pushing you along the way, to your destination, where you will have to say goodbye to the picture perfect moments, the soul touching feelings and the voice within you which screams in its silence to set yourself free.

I
Opusculum paedagogum.
The pears are not viols,
Nudes or bottles.
They resemble nothing else.

            II
They are yellow forms
Composed of curves
Bulging toward the base.
They are touched red.

            III
Having curved outlines.
They are round
Tapering toward the top.

            IV
In the way they are modelled
There are bits of blue.
A hard dry leaf hangs
From the stem.

            V
The yellow glistens.
It glistens with various yellows,
Citrons, oranges and greens
Flowering over the skin.

The shadows of the pears
Are blobs on the green cloth.
The pears are not seen
As the observer wills.

Machine ground days
Somehow survived by clinging to precarious plans
Die for those.
For proles are stuck in a televised gleam
but I’m barred from distractions
I’m a man of action
Spring healing:
I found a new hope to get through the day
It has a name and it’s you

Workday: animistic curses
against people and their systems and products
except animals would escape forever
as soon as they open the cage
but we stay

The beastly gnashings of overworked merchandisers
for invisible self pocket stuffers
The competition's getting to us, comrades
I feel swindled out of my labor
I was pregnant
but they sold my child before
I woke up

Addressing the solipsism of my rehab circle:

I’m Kagey, and my life is hazy
but, blunted or no, let’s get this clear:
don’t trust your senses
and that goes for all my human peers

Body is a cage full of defenses
Still, I’m suspicious of reality
whether it’s façade society
or the wooden chair in front of me

Still, I enjoy the virtual scenery
I ain’t talking about on the T.V. or phone screen
I mean the willows, buildings, and faces
But all these mushy green acres are fakers
blobs without our eyesight

Still tho,
me and the universe are tight.

What if we were born as blobs
Shapeless
Grey
Nothingness
What if as we grew
Our personalities colored our bodies
Our thoughts shaped our form
Our dreams grew our hair
Crazy and curly
Relaxed and straight
Far reaching and long
Down to earth and short
Our aspirations and desires determined our eye color
So that when you looked into someones eyes
You saw what was truly there
You could see people for how beautiful they truly were
No more hiding
No more shame
Simple and pure
Truth
When your dreams were kicked down
When you were wounded
When you were lost
It formed scars on your body
Badges of honor
To be displayed proudly
Saying that you have lived
You have embraced the possibility of defeat
And continued on in defiance
So that when you looked at someone
You had to take it upon yourself
To study their scars
And accept their dreams
Without question
Without doubt
And they'd do the same for you

For Katharine R. Cole

If gormless is as gormless does unite
That past of him and present me, I’ll turn
His other cheek against his waning sight;
I’ll **** his Hamlet soul to cringe and burn.

But dripping cannot thick or think in depth.
Blobs like blackened bulbous beads of eyes
Persist on shrinking into transits swept,
And down through dullard pools of choking fire.
Yet treacle binds my bole wood vocal chords
In rapture from such silence to withdraw
From sand that quickens, thickens, and distorts.
Can earth and water’s union mask my flaws?
The answer dares to dream but I refrain.
My name is Mud. Dear God, that is my name.

The foot: an endlessly dull point
Breathing technique, perfected by Roman Bill,
And a tall, sinewy, fine china ***** heel,
Cheap to most and worthless when submerged, submerges.
The tough Elephant hide surface
Of a swamp-like state and state.

Q. How does one become embroiled in such a located province of mind?
A. Alcohol’s venomous beauty and cheap living costs.
     The South.
    
An Elephant on a scooter stares blindly
At its own reflection circling the limb,
Shrugging dew drop eyes at what man had forgotten.
Not once, but twice.
    
The foot becomes a divulging calf of information
Sputtering in this bubbling torment of beige,
And pulsating around like an African tunnel
Waiting to be filled – fulfilled – ******.

    
The knee complies,
                      Sinking,
                                 Slowly,
                                          Not painlessly,
                                                             Not quick.

     The mercy of a lethal injection’s lie becomes
Absurd when one’s limb is the needle;
One’s brain the plunger of acceptance.
His gasp, a roar of silent fruit ripening in a
Mode too fast, cutting life and laundering
Expectancy whilst hanged from a
Whined whimper of Penance.
Purgatory’s whistle blows for time.  

II

A small red car clenched tightly
In the hands of a tightly tiny black boy,
His eyes huge and deep, but white; untouched by
Time’s clock or the weight of granite black that
He leans upon. Plastic tires screech horizontally along the
Structure of a Library’s historic insight.
Below, the ground is dry.
Beneath him, the ground is solid.
    
        Meanwhile, molten muck pulsates around
Our swirling antipathy of soul crushing
Nullness, with a lack of guilt unimaginable.
It bubbles, it bubbles: it toils in boiling rubbles
Of the past’s present and All I Could Have Been.
And I have never, could never
Sink lower in reality;
Blow harder against punishment’s wind;
Cry for this other as a **** filled wound weeps down her face.
    
The swirl of liquefied dirt and sand bags me,
Drags me, as if some *** lover of Hades is not done
With what is left of me. Disease to spread: just a little, just
A little more, like the detrimental bottle that
Knew me.
    

      As the hip is engulfed, an angle of almost perfect
Ninety creates  itself against the horizontal extremity
And puny ballsacksquash entails. Useless yet overused;
Timeless yet impressionable, pensionable. Gone.
Nothing knows me but this thickness’ quickness.
          That wants too much
From nothing               but existence
And the scab that fastens with time.

III

Turn the bottle back and find strength to
Outpour the clock and grant eternity.
Non compliant strength paid a fiver
For a soul worth two at the most.
A penny for the worthless: For the sickened lame.
Empty time feeds rays of golden from the sun fuelled
Encrusted *******, mudfast on heat.
This somehow seems like action.
Firm firmness but cracked with ease and
Non-returnable once inflated;
Non-negotiable on the bloodorgans of salt.
Weakness and powerlessness: *****.
*** for tat, for ***, ***, ***. For tat.
    
     The Elephant rises.
You brought this upon yourself, this rain of mud;
This treacle that will dry when you are dirt.
You would not let it ******* lie.
All of your ******* life: this strife, that wife.
     Your second leg (the grasper) tries,
     At length, to shield your heart:
     The only thing that cries.
     That does not want to die.
     Cartoonish bubbles of brown pop to the tune
     Of Loonies; of your shoebox brain that screams in vain.
What is your name? What is your want?
There is no blame you ******* maniac.
Everyone knows. Sink awake. Sink.
     Rest: do not sleep. Freezetimeframe.
     There is one more timeless point to make.


The sun and moon meet brief: the seconds count,
But die shy of one minute. Clear the road.
‘Tis dusk, I fear they named it. Raise the mount
And sacrifice another drowned sot load.
The moment thence: Anonymous descent.
The digger meets the dead in buried time.
The wish is washed in mud, the liver spent.
The blood-stained hands of Glasgow dodge the crime.
Make speed my sick sad Miller, grind the grain
Of Galloway, Gibb, Neave, Dunlop and Cole.
Your ghost will haunt your tag if not your brain.
Your heart should part this city river’s soul.
The sunjoke frozen, captured, stumped, and framed.
My name is Mud. Dear God, that is my name.

Humans are silly

Little blobs of ***** and eggs mix together to turn into little flabby flesh things that churn out a bunch of farts and yell about stuff

Those blobs of flesh things get told how to do stuff by the older flesh egg ***** things who are starting to go bad, so they compensate by laying down rules about how to be a flesh egg ***** thing

They make up different reasons for why they're all here swimming around bumping into each other and making noises that only their own groups of ***** egg meat people can understand, because that's what the older eggs taught them

They try to add some **** they call beauty to all of this by scribbling on stuff, or making noises they think sound good, or building stuff, and they think they're clever.

They'll tell you if it's not proper art it's not good art, but they'll also tell you art is subjective

They won't stop themselves and realize this whole omelette they're a part of is just being made up as they go

Sometimes, people are just Omelettes.

Soft shapes touch a child's finger,
Memories of their sweetness linger--
Helping grandma roll the dough
In her kitchen long ago.

I like the shape your cookies take
When they spread out as they bake,
Like the changing shapes of crowds,
Melting snow or summer clouds.

Oven-hot and placed on racks,
Lined up , lying on their backs,
Coming from a single batch,
But none of them a perfect match.

Toll house cookies, soft, convex,
Each perfection, like the next:
Chocolate chips their surface grace--
Freckles on a child's face.

Pecan ball aren't perfect spheres,
But they're gentle little dears:
Bottoms flat, sides dented slightly,
With white sugar sprinkled lightly.

Sugar cookies cold days cheer,
Shaped like angles and reindeer
Glazed with frosting sweet and white,
Decked with sprinkles all delight.  

Santa's Whiskers, coconut rolled,
Long fat logs of sugared dough,
Cut in portions smooth and round,
Pecan bits, cherries abound.  

Molasses crinkles' faces lined
Like old men's--the friendly kind--
With lines like back roads on a map,
Dunked in milk before a nap.

Oatmeal cookies, shapes amorphous
Juicy raisins budge enormous,
Semi-blobs, their texture rough,
Sometimes packed with nuts and stuff.

So many cookies through our life,
Since we became husband and wife,
In their sweet aroma and taste
Years rushed by like cars in a race.

Looking at their shapes diverse
Reminds me of our love at first:
We weren't sure just where we'd go
And all we had was cookie dough.

A COLOURFUL FRUIT BLAST        
From the 1st diary entry of Stewy Lemmon's childhood adventures.            
            
Hi, my name is Stewy Lemmon and I’m your normal, everyday, friendly, country boy, who lives about 2 hours away from the big city lights. My family’s home is nestled amongst the trees on a hill in a little country village called, 'Shimmerleedimmerlee'.

It's located just a little north west from the famous town of Bearfeet Ridge. Famous of course, because of the mysterious and rarely seen yellow tailed bear family, that is said to inhabit the nearby treed mountain range. The town's people have even given the rarely seen bear family sightings, a nickname called, 'Bearfeet Yellow Tales'.            
              
My family is made up of one much younger brother, named Lemmy; two much older, identical, twin sisters named, Emma and Jemma, and my proud parents, Archie and Flo.            
              
On Christmas day this year, I received a pet mouse as one of my presents. I quickly named him Smoochy, after he suddenly jumped up and kissed me on the cheek, then fell into my top left-hand side pocket. From that moment on, I knew that Smoochy and I, would have such fun times and great adventures together.            
              
This Christmas afternoon was especially hot, so my Mum Flo cut up some healthy and yummy assorted fruit for the family, as a snack and placed it on the table, which was placed in between, the two large trees in the backyard.

I especially love bananas, apples, oranges, grapes and lots of watermelon mixed together in my bowl. I named this creation 'A colourful fruit-blast'. It’s so much fun to eat, although, my little brother Lemmy only likes bananas in his bowl, with a dash of sweet honey.            
              
My two much older identical twin sisters named, Emma and Jemma, love to eat only green celery sticks and plain yogurt on hot days. Smoochy also ate some of my delicious, colourful fruit-blast and even drank a little of my icy, strawberry flavoured, thick shake, through his very own, home-made straw.

My Dad Archie, is very handy at making things out of wood, metal and even plastic and loves to paint unusual designs on whatever he makes. Dad does all of his, building and painting in his unusually built and outrageously painted backyard, outback shed.            
              
So, after he had some of Mum's afternoon fruit snack, Dad built a mouse house, for my grouse, new pet, mouse called, Smoochy. Dad even hand painted it with such colourful flair, from using his artistic nous. But, when I placed Smoochy, into his newly painted, mouse house, the paint wasn't dry enough, and he got yellow paint all over his, oh-so-cute tail.  
  
After my Dad Archie, had finished the grouse, new pet, mouse house, he thought, what could he make for me, as a New Year’s Eve surprise present. He quickly thought of a great idea and headed off to his, unusually built and outrageously painted, outback, backyard shed.            
              
Dad was busy for days, coming and going from his backyard shed and snoring so loudly, while taking short naps on our backyard hammock.            
      
Also, Dad kept taking pieces of Mum's colourful fruit snack, but only very small amounts at a time, from her ever so clean kitchen. Then, sneaking it all back into his, very hard to say shed. You know, the one in the backyard.  
  
My Dad had finally finished building my surprise present, just in time for New Year’s Eve. Then, because we were hosting a party at our house, at about 11.50 pm, my entire family, neighbours, friends, Smoochy and I were all waiting outside, in the backyard for the clock to strike 12.00 midnight.
  
With only 10 minutes to go my Dad, rushed off to his, you know where. Yes that's right, his unusually built and outrageously painted, outback, backyard shed and brought out my surprise. You will never guess what it was, for it was radically recycled, rather refined, remarkably robust and really red. Have you guessed correctly? Anyone? No? Okay, I will tell you what it was. It was my very own really red, reusable, retro rocket.            
              
When I saw the rocket that my dad had built for me, I was over the moon with happiness and I had a smile on my dial, that felt like it was almost as long as about a mile.            
    
All of a sudden, all of my family members, neighbours, friends and I started screaming out 10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1. We all shouted out together, at the top of our voices HAPPY NEW YEAR. Then my Dad helped me light my, really red, reusable, retro rocket surprise and we both stood back, to see it take off and fly into the sky. My Dad told me, it was especially built to create, a fireworks display in the night sky and then return back to us. All so we could reuse it again, for next year.
  
All of a sudden, it took off so high into the night sky, I thought my new, radically recycled, rather refined, remarkably robust, really red, reusable, retro rocket surprise, was going to the moon and may never come back down to earth.            
              
But then we heard a loud bang, the top of my rocket separated from the main body of the rocket and exploded into bright colours all over the night sky.            
              
After a while though, my entire family, our neighbours and our friends, felt things dropping onto their clean party attire. People had red blobs on their backs; yellow splats on their shirts and even some on their skirts; small orange flecks on their faces and a few people had small black bits, dropping into their top, left-hand side pockets.            
    
"It's my colourful fruit snack, coming down from the night sky", yelled Mum. So she went searching through the crowd for my Dad. When she found him, he was chuckling with laughter.

He told us all, ‘That he had packed the radically recycled, rather refined, remarkably robust, really red, reusable, retro rocket, full of Stewy's favorite fruit. Also, because fruity, firework explosives would really make the sky, so much more colourful to the eye, and ever so tasty in our mouths’.
              
My Dad wanted to make as many colours as he could for the fireworks display. He used some of Mum's colourful fruit, which included, apples, bananas, watermelons, grapes and oranges.            
              
Even Smoochy was getting hit by the furiously flying, fast falling, fantastically funny, fabulous family fruit by Flo, through the small gaps, in his newly built, freshly painted, grouse, pet mouse, house. It was the best surprise I have ever seen, come out of that unusually built and outrageously painted, backyard, outback shed.            
              
Oh, what a fun and tasty New Year's Eve party we all had, on that, oh, so wonderful and colourful fruit blast of a night, in my little country village of 'Shimmerleedimmerlee'.

1
   **My dad suddenly walks in,
  as if nothing has happened,
   and he hasn't gone anywhere, leaving
six of us behind, notwithstanding-
all these years of absence and
pain unimaginable that changed us all
to see life in a new light that gets dim
without the lamp he held in front of us.
       A shadow transparent gets in to the room,
he stands near mom sitting inside her cocoon,
lost in an ancient evening, pensive, forlorn
as if she feels an absence, tangible right there.
Dad's absence stands silent, perhaps
curiously looking at her with loving eyes
that's how he was, after a period of absence.
The pantomime, tears my sense of reality
                   in to shreds, I sit upright,
with my hands pressed against my palpitating heart.
Do I see it really or hallucinate him looking,
wistfully at the coconut groves dancing
beyond the extending rice paddy billowing,
in front of our farm yard, sleepy these days,
for a moment I think time has
taken liberty to flow back
and everything is right there
where we'd love it to be.
             2
The absence was a hollow,
in the middle of everything,
breaking the mirror of reality
in to smithereens, the dark space,
in between sprang-
opening its mouth to swallow,
wherever one turned,
it stood in front defiantly,
posing a challenge at times,
it came behind hollering noiselessly,
bringing unbearable memories,
from moments hard to forget
spent in his company,
in my palmy days of yore.
                    3
Absence was fire within,
that needs no fuel to burn,
flood waters without a source,
that can wash away,
till one becomes nothing;
then little by little,
one comes in to terms with the absence
and at last it too is laid to rest,
and that eats a part of the soul,
causing bleeding in slushy green,
transparent white and blobs of sad black.

A head
A giant boney mass
Many mouths and eyes
           thoroughly babbling,
           whatever,
           etc.
Snapping and blinking
Mouths Melded together on this ultra cranium
Yapping on and on
On and on and on
Yellowed teeth and bedazzled grills
Botnet mods and crop tools

The most dastardly of all -
An infinite production of fuzzy,
Buzzing noise blobs.
And Attempts to add me
To its mass connection-collection head
Leave me offended.

"What's on your mind?"

Go away.
You ******* freakazoid.

i remember the meningitis scare:
   oh... it was very real...
i guess it was supposed to affect a niche
proportion of the population...

so much for the "scare":
they would vaccinate us in the schools:
since children were more prone
to succumb to: and inflammation of
the lining around your brain and spinal cord...

and all that: press a thumb against
a skin... and if the skin returns to its original
colouring: there's no blemish of applied
pressure... pressing glasses onto the skin too...

the aesthetics have changed so drastically:
what can **** you is so subtle these days...
it's hardly a case of leprosy...
or... eczema of the zombie plague:
or miniature lilal mushrooms growing
out from your armpits:
suddenly breaking into song:
  'steve told us to sing... so we have
sprouted: to sing!'
       no... celeriac sized warts... hell...
i haven't seen any pictures of covid-19...
as i never saw pictures of ebola...

            death has been given: an anonymity...
but what's still kept in reserve?
shingles...
     like: hyper-eczema...
                i'm having to consolidate myself
on the luck of being 30+ and still having...
a skin on my face that i can't peel:
but i'm sure that belzeebub took a dump on...

they're either dead maggots
or dead white blood-cells...
        i guess i have so many of the latter that...
my immune system is constantly
on a over-charge mode...
          
    where are the lilac mushrooms about to grow
out from out of my armpits:
when will death become visible again:
outside her womb:
without any anonymity to behold:
when will everything... "ev'fing"
  return to the obviousness of a guillotine...
a hangman...
      a... hanged, drawn and... quartered?

the improved aesthetics of the threat is hardly
be sitting in an armchair...
welcoming this: paranoia precursor...
there's no phosphorescent yellow-green phlegm
being shot through the air with a sneeze...

i'm quite disturbed about all this...
        "sterility"...
                      well thankfuly i know that
a schizophrenic can't beget a drone-replica:
dead'ed brain: "schizz"... zombie-cult-esque
   brain: riddled with parasites like...
a disciple of burrough's fever might provide:
subsequently... by...
   by caughing a splitting-headache that might:
somehow: "later": arrive at some variation
of bilingualism...
          but never will... perhaps it should...

because: right now: i want to wrong about everything...
i want to ****** with a hard-on of doubt...
and perhaps: tease negation a little...
or rub-rub-'er very much...
but i do: most honestly...
    want to be wrong about everything...
esp. when it comes to...
   the aesthetics of the "problem":
    it's a problem-solution: solution-problem
  quadratic...
           i mean: if it was truly cosmic... and original...
would it really care for much of aesthetics...
can viruses becomes stealth assassins?
   is a virus a misnomer of plague?
or is... a virus a former case of plague...
  that couldn't be: prior... weaponized?
   the rampant exfoliation of: the obliterated
concern for aesthetics...
   oh sure... it's clean cut...
           god knows what happened to those old
curiosities of medicine...

otherwise...

   what will 3 hours spent reading nothing but
Dickens do to you...
me? i "somehow" managed to miss / forget
about a sunset...
   came the night and... yeah: when meningitis
hit...
   and i guess after the mad-cow disease...
break-dancing limp feet cows...
drunk cows... morbidly drunk cows...

      there was always that postcard reference:
now?
you could obviously see the bubonic plague
from a mile away...
you could see eczema...
you can sure as **** see a shingles belt...
        would a virus even care...
to appease the aesthetic concerns of man?
how doesn't cancer do that...
well... i just start thinking about...
the botanical cancer... viscum...
hardly seen in western europe: tree-foundation
societies... etc.
   half an hour on the road outside of warsaw...
that's enough...

oh sure: because of covid-19:
who could, "somehow" forget about...
                  metastatic tumors!
oh the joys of... <cough cough> the carousel
or that ol' chestnut!
            come to think of it...
    would ingesting a tapeworm make thinks and things
more real?
what wouldn't be bad
about acquiring a symbiote these days?
     all: postulations of the mundane...
without yet within the science-fiction universe...
the facts will simply not stand the test
of time... or will... but will be shelved...
given to the bookworms and their placenta
worm-queen...

it's actually becoming a sieving tool for acquiring
nothing lost: of the old mundane...
the sterile aesthetics of the whole under-taking...
it's too: invisible: too pure...
to be... a freakish byproduct of nature...
sending us back in time...
as the original: single-cell organism
about to usurp the crown of creation...

    my list of conspiracy theories begins
with: catcher in the rye "coincidences" and...
that david copperfield sort of *******...
      because if it's not Pickwican...
it's certainly not an account of count
smorltork:
        peek - christian name
                weeks - surname; good, ver good...

otherwise these days:
the intellect has become a sponge...
and the supposed underlying:
because it is "supposed" and there's an
"underlying" aspect to all of this...
that there is a "dialectic" and...
otherwise: the bestest of the best kind
of...            soap...

is it a revival of an "empire"...
when at the height of its decline...
there was that motto:

     panem et circenses...

     what's underlying in Dickensian prose?
well... some of the words used...
i'd sit with a page and check the dictionary
3 times on average...
because there's still that underlying:
we, Britons, prior to the "english"...
the anglo-saxons... are the Afghanistan
oopsies of the ancient world...
there are so many words with direct
connection: etymologically "speaking"
with latin...

now: the bread is still "here"...
   of the 20th century... you could see a ****
coming way back in 1933...
and the communist... whenever that happened...
and you could subsequently trickle the "evil"
archetype into movies... into gaming...
and have people hooked on a bullseye of evil...

now? greyish blips and blobs of
Kantian bureaucracy...
    
o.k. panem et circenses...
looks to me...
like the circuses are long gone...
the bread is still here...
but... of all the seismic shifts this is...
hardly a ffffffffffff-ucking Pompeii!
riddle me this: riddle me that...
what can possibly become so... overly entertaining...
about eating a slice of bread?
why are the vermin: multiplying:
what's with all this: "huddling" at a distance?
need a cape with that: herr ubermensch?

last time i checked: rats do no operated
under herd scriptures...
there's not need for a shepherd...
there is: fire! scramble!
peep-squeak and more!
          
    an impeding confrontation with a pack of wolves...
a vegetarian lion convert...
                 the bubonic plague: lack of aesthetic...
and now this...
this supreme aesthetic of: when the ancient greeks
thirsted to conceive of the existence
of atoms...
          not that i require proof...
what so of circus: though...
      is, this?!

- yes folks... in the current climate of labyrinths...
the Minotaur isn't here...
and we're out of stock on smoke...
and... mirrors...

citations of a possible prediction to allign with
some variation of borrowed horrors:
to usurp the status quo and sentences us for:
there's no "third time lucky" therein...

all that's happened though:
mental people who would never allow
their minds to riddle them...
become claustrophobic by mere thought...
can you?
translate thinking into claustrophobia?
oh god... no... we haven't reached this nadir...
have we?
thought didn't imply θ(ought)!
that erotica of a would be pronoun:
the moral quest...
                  not because i did something bad
in the past...
but because:
i did what others didn't do prior to me...
i ride the wave of what a *******
said to me once:
after an ******:
this is only the second time it has happened
to me: hello ***** envy thrown out of the window!
hello sisters of mercy in some convent
in Limerick!
'allo! 'allo!

beside the moral conundrum of θ(ought): ought i?
this narrative of the ol' 'ed...
is... claustrophobic?
             spread this negation-of-ease further:
dear kin!
   dis- prefix that denotes negation...
ah... and -ease! the suffix that complete the circle:
no contemplation is necessary!

i'm still seeing bread, though...
oh mein gott! die zirkusse! die zirkusse!
what can be done about the circuses?!

people are coupling thinking with claustrophobia...
people are implored to read
for at least 3 hours a day!
a dickens! a tolstoy! a dumas!
and then relax from congesting paragraph strain
and explore the airy side of what was
written into prose and paragraph with
the aid of poetics: that non-exclusivity of rhyme:
always missing... best missing!

i too abhor this synonym:
poetry is what rhymes...
            a set list of: knock-knock jokes...
about as tasteful as...
               roast beef: done well done...
eating the bark of wood:
now that's an adventure!

            or what's... the adjective riddle / riddled...
of: now...
permanent - adjective... these days a host
of "calling scheitmeiser for all his worth"
and what not...      
                               now: the experimental
history of yesterday and "oops"
now: the cameo cinema of yesterday...
and god willing:
you have a "savings account"
of: memories that can...
suffocate the future: the imagining...
of and for the nought of nothing...
the "conundrum": of being...
such and such... and somehow...
retain: personhood...
rather than... a mere... citizentry "status"...
of the ebbing flow of cattle meat and dung:
itsy-bitsy spider teeth itching...
before the bone!
and... after the bones!

load of crock-**** Lombardy is not
Italy... mantra...
and those rites of rats from
the sinking ship that's Wenice...
much too... quasi-important...

      H - surd of a letter...
but the skeleton supposed to behind:
laughter...

the hibernian folk know it...
the english: eh... somewhat...
          bound to θ and bound to φ...
in t'ought... but not in: t'aught...
who needs the apostrophe?
no me: not "you"...
         third: or... θird:
or... ****... or τ(au) says: "herd"...
                             and what's "spezial"...
the surd worth of π (pi)
     in ψ...
                    or      'sychology...
              then there's "all that" with...
chrome: the χ that becomes a kappa (κ)...
but not... exactly the...
the...      ah!                   CHisel!
chasing dog's tails?

                            but a hardy: hibernian:
it's not an F... it's a T...
we have to expose the H-surd! primo
pronto!

    but ψ can afford...
          πσι in that...
                      either the π... or the π...
is treated as a surd..
cited: the whittle canyon of eta (Ηη)..
            ha: if it's a definite article in 'ebrew...
or ha: if... you need a consonant
skeleton... to breathe when laughing...

toes when marching: chin ching chatter...
otherwise "K / kappa" the matter...
taught to think it all but a massive:
****!
   or... a θurd... which is exfoliating in
the gaellic concept of: third...

i'm not from 'ere...
              mind you...
              this is all disneyland for m'eh et moi...
hello whittle atom me...
hello whittle atom you...
hello: hyvä aamu... susie 'ere...
       rakastaa... että ulvonta...
                 "unohti" haukkua:
fins... drawfs... and other whittle people...
eskimos of the "narrative":
   "kaikki alkaen apinamaa"!
    pωl pυt ***...
             and there's "3" of 'em!
exactly... what about the V'em...
             perhaps a F'ought...
      but: V'ere!
            V'em!
                            who the **** gets to
assure me: this language "ving" or "thin"...
sure hands... sure hands...
it's not all grafitti from chernobyll!

and what if... Joycean would 'ave to begin
its pilgrimage toward Dickensian?
this Ezra of ours: what of this...Ezra of
Fahrenheit of "ours"?

           my atom "versus" your... "atomized" man?
my spaghetti english
versus your... i'll sooner choke on ß...
or SuS...
         or SaS
                  SeS...          sayß...
h'american spaghetti english... *** riddled:
ghetto crown-tongue...


me and finding a juggling of chuckles
with: wit... hiding the ha ha...
when θ = τ...
hibernian...
poland the playground of god:
greek... the plaground of men...
esp. those as being cited:
with origin of the barbarian tinge...

  exatly! what of WH when TH are....
thought of "wen":
this grafitti phpneticism...
this barbarism...
no code of "conduct":
what should have:
and did "have": a happen to...
when it came to the ratio
of consonants to vowels...
  of the latter there was a supposed more...
or the latter a less...

    h.i.v. vampirism romances
would have to die...
  a death... most... closely associated with:
psychopaths: or...
the general pathology is: soul-quests...
all "things" considered...
there is no "grand-Σ"
        "past-participle":
of the unconscious-conscious liver...
does the part: actor... functions
of... i robot: you, not here...

the liver does what a liver does:
even if: i r woke...
and i r: sleepz...
               eyes only on when...
orientating myself around:
a failure of a distinct "individual":
moi foie premier...
   moi estomac premier...
and of "me" or... a me...
given that... there's no: "the me"...
            load of ******* and a chewing tube
of "worded"... "circumstances"...
as: "the alternative" to...
sorry... no other alternative...
was... or would ever... be given...
errror message 404 commences: as of: now!

- or... can you?
compensate a word like... draconian...
with a word... the periphery word...
akin to... byzantine?!
the kite's high up in the ******* air
my dear lad...
can you? "compensate" this...
marry of all other:
never-poppin' up 'ins?!

that's one way of minding:
a grey-ginger...
or an albino-masai...
for "good luck"... of all t'ings:
the lerprechaun 'ucking charm brigade!
that's just 'ucking necessary: that is!

as.... the people have already mentioned
their freedom: to cite and keep up to
the rigours of salutations...
they said and they said... and they:
sad but nonetheless: they sad-***-made-"truth"-of...
"it": 'ucking wombat
multiverse l.s.d.: me typing on an old... cranky...
soviet "qwerty" imitation...

the freedom prior to the plague:
i am yet to see...
the **** covid... and the leprechaun...
and the tarantula...
and the... leech...
   **** me: raining cats and dogs:
what a scenario!
     i was supposed to get...
               not leech: not *****...
those fidgeting terse quizzes...
          *****... no... leech... no...
leprechauns: double no...
             szarańcza... old mother-tongue:
ah yes... "these":
                                 locust!

the third of the lard off the herd of the most:
"likely"... nosense to me:
something for you:              up!
otherwise know as:
quiet a bollocking... wouldn't you,
somehow... please... stage:
an agreed to?
               ****'s sake...

  tyrd the triddle twiddle torn und
towing: dublin the sorry-eye: und sore...
you freckled maverick salt
burner you... and... it's a ginger:
stick-prone... keep y'er eager distance...

eh? that's true: is what's through...
**** paddy **** and a poor ******
walk into a bar...
and the bartender is... a kippah-don
of a rastafarian:
the jokes end...
and there was never a conversation
to begin with... ha ha!
now that's a joke... to wake up...
a frankenstein!

      ginger pleb: ginger poodle!
the new africa: the new eskimo...
or... the finnish gateway: etymologically speaking...
an alternative to... *** and...
              the leftover mongols
stranded by the waters
of the empire: receding...
          the...        no: not the croats...
the...
          a very much elongating concept
of pause....
              "d" or the "v" of: v'eh...: the...
the  immortal savages
of: crimea...
      ah yes!
                  those...            tar-tars!
like the tartare steak:
or what was forever available as
the alibi for: sushi!

        because tokyo is just one of those...
forever huan: new... beijing chicken shacks...
and "tokyo"...
or some other anime typo *******...

irish catholic intellectuals...
and... the none existence of whatever
would have required a magna carta:
believe it or... eat **** sort of
mentality...
            the russian doctors
are already abiding to be hunted
if not huddling in churches...
because: co-vex said: co-vid...
co-vid: sharing blockbuster intrusion
pokes was: that last resort to
mortality: and oh...

          this should have happened a long...
a long long time ago...
  transparency tourism...
where you going?
nowhere...
  and "where" is "going"... "nowhere"...
a bit like france... and the eiffel tower...
and there's no speaking french to have
to be resolved...
because like: "**** it" and what?

the ginger-ninja... the ginger-ninja...
the ginger-ninja and...
when the reality of *****...
reaches... an escalation "reality"
of: synonym with... oh god! beards!
ugh!           vot                          ven?!

yep... and the irish were always:
the horse-breeders..
they always were...
always the catholic-intellect juggernauts...
because the hey'talians and
the spoon-innards...
and... mon deu: zee: fwench!
forget the ****** cathos-pathos...
*******-of-os...

and in me:
the gravitas for a disconcerting ambivalence...
almost a compound:
misnomer... but no...
i like the spaghetti though...
yeah: it looks nice on paper...
and off paper...
and anything to cite: the godfather with...
because: boo is a ghost story
that a solo would sell... and ******* like
that...                   yup...
which is a word: to replace the ideal trajectory of:
would be: ghost limb...
james bond...
                          roulette...
you the actors "faking it": no of course...
dylan thomas bob dylan...
"faking it" i.e. stunt actors!
what's "bob": when there's a ******* roulette:
and a devil's dozen of rich, russian...
oligarchal chick... pretending plastic is not...
new world... ******: comb-over...
creaking chair... stlye-on... style-off...
plastico-supermanoh... dynamo-oh-oh...
those "soz" and "whatsevers"...
works well...
the times column...
when your parents are... conscripted...

             mammoth playdough oh oh oh...
irish is cheap...
catholic is cheap-oh...
******...
ha ha... let's not go there...
becauße that's like...
   goldberg variations: the bwv 988 aria...
   yeah: "soz"... but... i'll ******* eat you:
if i have to: for the purpose assigned
to a hard-on... most associated with...
sparrows...
and... the pirates of the confines...
the magpies...
          
             in every period of congregational
"sanity" there's that interlude into:
madness...
howl how! oh dear world of:
that lost appetite of surprise!
        you begin to wither... and die off:
by the slow culmination of hours...
like... a picture to entomb the perfecting
affair of a decaying pear... or apple...
               and...

            and....                 and...
trickling of sentiments...
and sounds...

                           and there are commentaries...
and there are... catholic bishops...
and protestant cardinals...
and ****** popes!             ah ha!
am i to.. truly... die... from laughter?!

Amorphous blobs of yellow and white
Fly by the candle sticks in the hall
Halls melt hourly when they meet light
Fire of the candles makes paint fall
The blue mixes with the yellow
They make a mellow green
The bowls holding the wax afloat
See the world through a cello screen
The man in the middle glares with watery
Eyes on fire in purple airs
All this time the song keeps playing
Endless, toneless, knocking
on, off, on, off
the music never stops
till the hall melts from the candlesticks in the bowls catching the wax through the cello screen with the green mellow light, but even the man in the middle with the flaming watery eyes cant stop the music from throbbing its beat, drilling into our ears, you can hear it can't you? I can see it, silly you
Until I see the blobs of yellow and white.
Good bye, I'll see you in the morning light.

Everything feels like nothing, and nothing starts to feel like everything.

Everyday. Everyday as I wake up,

Nothing ever beats the feeling of inadequacy.

Inadequacy to do good
Inadequacy as a daughter
Inadequacy as a student
Inadequacy as a person
Inadequacy in feeling good within my own body
Inadequacy from feeling good about myself.

Everyday feels like an endless loop, you best believe my misery hunts me.

But what is inadequacy?

Is it scarcity? Deficiency? Insufficiency? A lack thereof?

Is it this mindless blob, formless and dark or a mangled form of flesh, eating away at you and your insecurities?

Like a virus, it pins you, goes deep inside you and there is never enough antibiotic for you...

This inadequacy keeps me up at ungodly hours where the sun howls and moon chirps, the clouds look at us, feigning interest, idly looking but never interacting.

This inadequacy lulls me in irregular fever dreams where comfort lies in solitude and loneliness,
where the people that surround you, cover their ears, bites their cheek, looks forwards, smiles faintly, but never tries to understanding.

My heart wails for the smallest of things. Nothing, nothing becomes everything.

My successes make me feel less, still. Everything, everything becomes nothing.

I am this inadequate thing, floating around, never seeming to be enough.

Inadequate. Because i could not protect myself from those who touch my skin like its free real estate, those clammy hands holding me in a state
A state of frenzy that never seems to end

Inadequate. That no matter what I do, my past will forever haunt me and define the being I am now that no matter how much I change, and try and try and try to do good, it will never be
enough.

And those same voices, those same people, they say they scream they tell me,
“You should have told me.”
“You should have fought back.”
“You are a waste of time.”
“You are dumb.”
“You are nothing.”
“You waste your talents for something as this,”

And those same people, let go of words
That back then would have meant nothing
But now it seems to be everything
It becomes my identity
It becomes my oxygen
It becomes the blood that circulates in my body
It becomes the endorphins in my brain

Nothing becomes everything. And everything that I’ve tried to change, worked hard to achieve, tried to mend, was sorry for, starts to become nothing.



But I am tired of feeling like nothing. That everything I do is always inadequate. That it is some form of scarcity, deficiency, insufficiency, a lack thereof.

These mindless blobs, or mangled forms of flesh,

Like a virus, it pins me, goes deep inside me and there is never enough antibiotic for me...

Because instead of listening, to understand, to empathize, they listen so they can jeopardize...
Whatever love is left that I could give to myself,
Without a shred of doubt,
In a warm, bright embrace for myself, in a corner slouched.



So, I ask these voices, who are only here to remind how inadequate I am:
How do I fight back?
How do I be good enough?
How do I become less dumb?
How do I make nothing stay as nothing? And appreciate everything as everything?

Because day by day, this inadequacy I feel, gets really tiring.

Two eyes appeared from under a broadrimmed hat.
They looked around with astonishment.

In a schoolroom, far off in the distance, a boy was
Busy making a wooden bowl.
The teacher unaccustomed to such slowness
Requested a completion date.
“I am not slow thought the boy, just working
Away until I get it right.”
He met the teacher’s gaze with an expression
Of opacity and a sense of bewilderment.

On another day, at a later date, this same boy
Was found in his metalwork class applying
Cylinders of gases to his small creation, quietly,
Hoping for a connection before he was blown
To smithereans. Two blue eyes concentrated as
The jets of flames hissed into space.
Too long the gases flowed.
The master rose, the boy shook and his eyes
Widened.

In a playground, sometime earlier,
A small boy could be seen playing without a coat.
Gossiping women spoke of this unnatural act,
This exception to the fold. The boy stared back
Hearing their words with his eyes.

Decades later when his hair had turned from
Brown to grey but his eyes were still blue
And wide apart, he painted a little ***
Sitting on a pale surface, gazing into nothingness.
This painting took him a long time.
He had to get it right, the tones , the lines,
The connections.

After he finished ‘Little ***’, he sat down
And stared into the two blue blobs set wide
Apart on its surface and he thought, “this is
Me, the boy, the man, the painter, of wide
Apart, unnameable moments.”

The Beginning.

Love Mary ***

Surgical Blobs: Onychomy, Scented Scents,
Truthfulness and Beauty of Antiquities and
Beauty and Some Brazilian, Brazilian Giraffe,
Legs Gorgeous. The soldiers returned from
their beautiful and captivating fights.
Beautiful, beautiful parked belts move
with the inside of the boat with Matthew's
inner circle.                                             Although
Thomas Arnold was first published in 1827,
it was planned to refurbish Oxford or Martin
Martin (1833-1845), Arnold's Clone annual
Christian Baptist, and Tom Anthony. . . And
more traditional. Joined the college college
in 1828. That same year, 'a family was living
at home.' In 1831, the widow of Arlington
became the wife of John Becket's wife.
In 1834, he began controlling the center.
William War Art was a neighbor and a close
friend. In 1836, Arnold was sent to Winkler
College, but in 1837,             he returned to fifth to fifth vocal sports lessons.
In 1838, he moved to a sixth floor
and replaced by the father's direct line.
In 1838 an English drama was published
in the Tower of London and the 1843
English edition. First, "This is the Royal Palace."         In 1841 he mentioned
                                                               the Oxford Department of Education.
In Oxford, Rol is closely related to his older brother,                             ******.
Arnold entered the seminar with John Henry Newman,
but he did not actively participate in Oxford.
In 1842, he accidentally escaped
his father's permanent residence.
Arnold Walton won the competition in 1843.
The following year, the Foundation
was awarded the Foundation's Military
Heritage Foundation. At the end
of the rabbinic education, in 1845,                                                   he became
a member of the OLF. They became OLF
leaders in 1845. The year the deceased died.
The romantic romantic poem has "memorial"
in Rome. Her Greatest Stuff and Supporters "Astrologers"           Diagnostics Gastroenterology "Jubus" Lewins
Vaccines Tobacco Tobacco Tobarah Health
Reminders Tobacco Tobarah Health Memorial
Healthy Tobacco Tobarah Book Health                                     Remembrance
Memorial Blackberry            Today Black Black Remarks Abyssinian Company Company Fighting a Little Comedyist ; Today GENTLY,            Black Clasp Design, Winston, or Model for Medical Hospital Newspapers,
has a huge impact. Many viewers are ******.
First Gourmette Buffalo Georgia                         ❑ Sisters Smoking Cocketts
Planet Earth Anatolor Geenegion Gyi
Dicky and Halfy Ziggyeye Humpy
Gypsy Gypsy Justice Justice Boxing
Marks ***** & Shark Shuttle Yusuf
Saudi Arabia Radio Spain Other African
African States United States Fine
Beauty Shoe Stars in Pre-Science Asia
Moments in William Montgomery County
Family Motions Family Motions words
words words words words words words
words words word words words words
words words / Eldest Eldest Education
Education · Seashealth Health · Human ·
Human Journey · Ecumenism · Blackfish ·
Black · Spanish · Boats · Greek Games ·
Jersey · Efforts · Comedy · Comedy ·
Scary · Two Struggles · Woman · Mary
Ralph · F · Black Kebee · Fessium · Soft,
soft and smooth · I have a lot of trouble
for that person.

Cases of old records sat
Waiting for someone to buy
Along with mismatched tea cups
And plates as blue as sky

Vultures jumped at everything
Leaving cars running in park
Picking through the yard sale scraps
Like a raccoon in the dark

Bickering for savings
Saying a quarter is too much
I'll only pay a nickel
To buy a broken crutch

Ice skates, ball gloves, baseball hats
tossed and thrown around the yard
To watch these jackals fighting
Over a half pound piece of lard

It's amazing that one's treasures
Are reduced to blobs of crap
By bargain hunters set to pay
For unused Christmas wrap

They jostle and they tussle
To get close for a deal
They try to bundle things together
To them....it is a steal

You smile, take their money
Tell them thank you, as they shriek
Over deals they think that they have got
On stuff...they'll sell next week!!

I'm made of cobwebs, shaded grays,
echos faded by the murky streetlight;
Festive blobs signal the holidays -
and ricochet off me into the night.
.
A thick, dull fog 'tween me and them,
a brick wall no one can see;
seamless weights in my hem,
and dust inside what used to be me.
.
And then there's you, a year away,
waisted tears, and prayers null;
an end thought for each void day,
a whisper-scratch in my old hull.
.
The words avoid me, skittish things,
like birds that flutter fragile wings;
the right ones are only fledglings,
too young for new beginnings.
.
And I wish that I could care for cold,
worn out flat 'tween mortar and pestle,
a forlorn growth ring in a tree of old,
trapped inside a rotting vessel.
.
.

Imagine a piece of paper pinned up in pride of place.

On that paper drawn in colourful red crayon is a big round oval.
In the oval are two big blue blobs for eyes, and beneath them is a big arc of red forming a smiling mouth.
All around the top and sides of the round red face are masses of yellow scribble hair.

Beneath the face is a triangle outlined in blue, with the sharpest point at the top.
Two stick like arms with twig like hands stick out at the sides, and two sticks at the bottom finished with red blobs form the legs and feet.

Beneath the feet you can make out the words “my mummy”

Mummy loves that picture. It brings a happy smile to her face every time she sees it.



Our worship is as special to God as that picture is to mummy.

our circles of right and wrong,
fractured in absence of fickle zen,
stand now across the sky
diagramed on clouds in venn

and smiling the grey
blobs block the meteors;
it’s love of life that may
chain our bodies in the center

of that shifty airy water space
where waffles are gentrification
and the hands we hold are separation
and its happening everyplace

we go. so to talk and act
separately, is to deny that cloudy venn;
to go where mind is scarcely fact
and establish a dangerous distance

cuz yesterday I meditated
but today I must’ve particulated
cuz  I see we’re one big contradiction
inside love that’s bound to mediation.

friere would say this occupation
is precisely our ontological vocation,
but to subjectify ourselves at the very
center of the venn is to carry

a weight upon the column
of my spinal cord unknown
even to the days
of my very best posture.

yet, your resistance to the slump—
it guides me to listen for the thump
thump of distant drums:
a revolutionary battlecry

through which I extend my hand
to hold yours across the waffled
space which we’ve so ******.
our heartbeat races through my mind.

the first and the single greatest
discouragement from writing
always begins when people
ask you about money,
not necessarily that they want
money, but that they see
art as frivulous, something
to do on the side... and sure enough
most of art is done that way...
on the side... but then such art, what it
becomes, is an expression of chance
opportunism... i mean...
surely there's enough people in
the world that can allow one
man to write a few ******* poems
out, it's not like they're conscripting
young men to join salvation army
in syria or anything as ridiculous as that;
but in all honesty i don't know what
it's all about - first they tell you
to not get in trouble, then they tell
you art belongs in a high school art room,
then they put artists on peddlestools
when all they produce are massive blobs
of colour in a random way, or
make a messy bedroom an art work,
or pickle a shark in a plastic aquarium,
open spaces, strings of metal, ropes
around rodin's kiss... all kinds of airy fairy
bits 'n' bobs... then mediocre seasonal
greetings poetry: rhyme christmas with
business with busy bees with jabberwocky
or something like that -
but indeed the foremost discouragement
people place on you is to get your worried
about money, concerned enough that
you begin to wonder - are they really
chasing their own tail and insert that
serpent-eating-itself into you?
i mean, all the italian renaissance masters
didn't bother with adorments and fashion
for proof of being rich - they had a motto,
only one: we're not a bunch dumb peacocks!
how about i paint you a mona lisa
and make myself shine like gold in rags?!
surely enough modern art, on that
massive scale, in galleries across countries
is obsessed with space, perhaps the lack
of space in real life, the almost claustrophobic,
the sheer number of people on the streets,
all it's fighting is technique and detail,
it's trying to be a child again,
it cannot stomach the fact that old techniques
were never passed on, or if they were
they are like a magician's deception -
whatever that means - i just think that
what modern art has become is almost
architectural - how on earth could
you elaborate on a square is beyond me -
unless of course it isn't, in which case
it's forceful intellectualism:
trying to squeeze out some orange juice
from an old & dry orange.

black blobs
on the page
and on my favorite
t-shirt
on the newspaper
spread before me
and on the tips
of my fingers

child like i press
my fingers
to the page
already occupied with blobs
and create fingerprints
that look like little people
and thus begins
my art work

Miss Arab World – Arabic's Official
National Beauty Pageant (Arabic: إنتخاب ملكة جمال العرب‎)
is a beauty contest in the Arab World.
The contest seeks to select the Arab
girl that best represents her country
based on traditional Arab customs
and traditions. Saudi Arabia and the definitions
of the adjective or the Arab people.
So that when the first to the border of the lands
of the Arabs from the Arabian Peninsula
in the externals of Seminational
was able to pacientur or the squalid places,
with stiffs in many places
in the Middle East, and Africa,
inhabiting the north. Heretofore, the plan
is to have no leader but also in the North African
French Arabs of the Arabian horses.
It can also be a reality together,
and the Arabs to respond to them.
Examples in other words;
seven eighths parts of the old Palestine Arab states,
especially Syria and Jordan but it's almost 300 years,
whereupon they shook hands, the Arabs,
which with the deputies of diverse nations,
they began to burn with fire,
after which there has been a fire,
the deceitful man shall not
find grain, but the substance of these precious
beans are better. Here's a part of the public
health magazine founded in the year
of the Arabs and Jews in Jerusalem
and the run on the doctors. It is one
of a few problems in the hands
of the Arabians to the speaker.
Also, Arab sailors returned back with
shiploads of handicrafts from India.
Putting off from here and seeing
the beautiful big blob of silver, and the Arabic ******.
The Arabians to the army of the tribe
of the Turks in the former siege of the enemy,
this can be increased to a robber,
the Express to Bangladesh to restrict the cities of the past
and of the Arabians, absolutely.
The main markets are Germany,
Austria, Italy, France, the US and Arab countries.
But even those who were on the left wing
to the left on the continent, it is not out of Africa -
which is neither a nor the banter of the south
and of the vale, Arabic, toward the north side.
Ambassador returned from Alexandria
to explore the fourth Arab tarboosh
in a red dress. This is the truth, as seen from friends
and of what was to be reduced in the interests
of brevity and of the Arabians,
that they should not say in every case.
In Iraq mountains the Arabs are not legendary,
literature and culture in Frankfurt, by the way.
Egypt trip is the same authority tries to
"understand what is Arabesque.
One day some high Arab unity
and Arabs negatively affect them.
The carved out Germans, Slavs,
Roman Arabia, but also others.
When orientalists changed the way people
see Islam, Arab and the Middle East.
But he has venerable States
and other Middle East and vice versa;
nearly 300,000 North Africans in the heat
for example through the cake ranks
of the Free French. he also cannot attune
to Arab force then to receive them.
for example, the Palestinians like other Arabs,
not Hebrew even though most of the Muslims
and many people are Christians. Assyrians
in the region long before the British,
the Ottomans, Arabs and Kurds. 1 am inside
a share of the ignorant opinions are convincing
Western European nations that Arab
in the Middle East is equally exporting
sand to the Arabs - or whether to sell
the Scots haggis. 711 dramatically invasion
of Europe is in the pen separated from the rest
of the island, on some of them and the Arabs
and the Berbers of North Africa and to their gates.
Henceforth not only to the emperor,
that he was visited by the immortal gods
among you and it is also related to the complexity
of the genera use of which is in the Ministry
of Civil North Africa, the Arabic and the toughness
of the hide and rests upon the painted ages of Arabia,
and of the Arabians by far the most thoroughbred
are done. Miss Arab World - Arabic to Arab
miss the Miss beauty contest in the Arab world.
In a contest that asks the person to choose
the best girl in the Arab region on the basis
of traditional Arab customs and traditions.
Arab World - Arab state and the public posture;
national contest struggle, the mass of the Arab world,
Arab elite competition is beautiful.
There is a competition to choose the best girl
in the Arab region, according to Arab tradition.
Eastern birds, but refused to defend his plans.
Thousands of horses in Mexico and Mexican cities,
and a group to join in asking the Indian vice
chairman for photos of the gardener,
and into a taxi and finally the candy to Sinai,
the pillar of the water, or that the musical,
the Forum and the Miedusa for the most part
young people, a child, to Aristotle Benjamin
of the garden. Four smoke. In short,
the report shows that there were hundreds
to exercise care to protect yourself
from harmful computers. ::: Saudi Arabia,
Canada, at the end of the golden age.
There is a real story to tell and South Zarkarov,
Latvia, Barbados in Bulimia. In Kenya,
the world's gold and blue world,
the ship began 10 years ago.
Newspapers and magazines.
American Vertebrata is "bad".
Igor sleight away. And because of his flesh. . .
Cats, oceans and seas, from Ireland
to the databases drinking games
in the US and Saudi ...
Saudi Arabia and the Arab adjective
or from definitions. Is the term of such circumstances
as with the first result in the earth
and they were in external things,
and the Arabs out of Arabia,
was able to Seminational pacientur,
on the squalid places and in the neck
of the large number of places in the Middle East,
and Africa in which is the seat of the north.
Hereforth is not their leader, but also in the North
African French Arabs of the Arabian horse.
It can also be about one thing,
the Arabs have to respond to them.
Examples in other words, seven eighths
parts of the old Arab states in Palestine,
especially Syria and Jordan but it's almost 300 years,
whereupon they joined hands, the Arabs,
which the deputies of divers nations,
they began to pass through the fire and burn,
And after him, there was not a fire;
a deceitful man and deceitful men shall not find gain:
but the substance of the precious beans are better.
This is part of the public health magazine founded
in Arab and Jews in Jerusalem run by doctors.
There is a developer with a few Arab speaker.
Also, Arab sailors returned back shiploads
of handicrafts from India. Having divested
themselves of silver and for the Arabs
on the one side it's great to see the beautiful blob.
For the tribe of the Arabs, the Turks,
the former siege of the enemy,
the army of the Bangladeshi.
The cities of the restraint of the past,
the expressions of the Arabian
who is a robber, q can be increased.
The main markets are Germany, Austria,
Italy, France, the US and Arab countries.
But the man who is to the left
of the horn of the continent of Africa -
which is neither a, north to the south
and the lowlands of various and theirs to the north.
Alexandria, the ambassador returned
to explore the fourth Arab tarboosh in red dress.
This is not to say the truth, all of his friends,
and of the Arabians to the use to be reduced
in the interests of brevity.
Iraq mounts high, the Arab is legendary,
and culture in Frankfurt literature, by the way.
Egypt, on the authority tries to
"understand what is Arabesque.
One day, up Arab unity and Arab negatively
affect them. Cælator Germans Slavs in
Roman Arabia, and others. Since Orientalist
and others changed the ways of the people
of Islam in the Arab Middle East.
But he was the venerable Cælator
of the States of the Middle East,
and vice versa nearly 300,000 in the North
African heat, for example through
a cake orders; Free French, he also cannot
attune to the Arabs wanting to receive him.
for example, the Palestinians, like other
Arabs are not Hebrew, although most
are Muslim and many people are Christian.
Assyrians in the region long before the British,
the Ottomans, Arabs and Kurds.
1 am in the middle to share with awareness
that there are proofs Western European nations
and the Arab in the middle east are equally
exporting sand to the Arabs - or whether to sell to the Scott haggis
711 dramatic invasion of Europe in a pen separated from the rest
of the island as some of them, both Arabs and Berbers of the North
of Africa to the gates. His forth not only
to the emperor who had come from the immortal gods
is in thee and that, too, to the complexity
of the general use of which is in the Ministry
of the Civil War in North Africa,
in the Arabic and toughness of the 'skin,
do they dwell on to depict the ages of Arabia
and of the Arabians, Thoroughbreds
far off are made Miss Arab World - Arabic
lack the Arab miss beauty contest
in the Arab world. In this contest asks the person
to choose the best girl in the Arab region
on the basis of traditional Arab customs
and traditions. Arab World - Arab state
and national public contest's physical struggle
and the mass of the Arab world, Arab elite's
fair competition. There is a competition
to choose the best girl in the Arab region,
according to Arab tradition. Eastern birds,
but refused to defend his plans. Thousands
of horses in Mexico and Mexican cities,
and to form associations Indian vice president
for photos gardeners and into a taxi,
and finally the candy in China and the pillar
of water or the musical Forum
and Medusa's mostly young people,
young and Aristotle Benjamin in the garden.
Four smoke. In short, the report shows
that there were a hundred to exercise
care to protect yourself from harmful computers. :::
Saudi Arabia, Canada, at the end of the age
of gold. There is a real story to tell
about South Zarka, Latvia, Barbados and Bulino.
In Kenya, the world's gold and blue world,
the ship began 10 years ago. Newspapers and magazines.
American Vertebrate is "bad".
Igor craft away. And because of the flesh. . .
Cats and oceans, seas from Ireland
and drinking games databases of the US Saudianique.
Saudi Arabia and the Arab adjective
or definitions. Let the term with such luck,
as one of the first of what would be done,
on earth and in the worship of the external
they were against the Arabians, who came
from Arabia was able to Seminational pacientur,
the filth and dirt and on the neck in the number
of places in the Middle East and Africa,
in which the seat of the to the north.
Henceforth it over them, the head of the Gallic
and the Arabs from the Arabian horse
but also in the North African. One can also
distinguish the Arabs response to them.
Examples, in other words, seven eighths parts
of the old Palestine Arab states,
especially Syria and Jordan. This is part
of public health magazine founded by Arabs
and Jews in Jerusalem on the current medicine.
When the developer is one of a few Arab speakers.
Also, Arab sailors returned with shiploads
of handicrafts from India. Depositing black blobs
of Arabia to see the fair. Being retained
by the former siege of the enemy,
the army of the tribe of the Arabs
and the Turks once the Express and of the Arabian
who is a robber that the cities of Bangladesh should be increased.
The main markets are Germany, Austria,
Italy, France, the US and Arab countries.
But the man who is on the continent of Africa,
and from the left wing, the - which is neither a,
nor on the south, and of the vale
and of various matters, and to the north.
Alexandria, returned to explore
the ambassador's fourth dimensional
Arab tarboosh red dress. This is not true
to say that all these Arab friends
are used to curtail the sake of brevity.
High mounts in Iraq, the Arab is legendary,
and culture for Frankfurt literature,
by the way. Whilst the authority tries
to "understand what is Arabesque.
One day in the Arab unity, Arabs
negatively affected them. Cælator Germans,
Slavs Roman Arabia and others.
Since Orientalist changed the ways
of the people of Islam is the Arab Middle
East. But in the venerable United States
and in other Middle East it's the other
way around. nearly 300,000 of their North
Africans in the heat of the day,
for example through the cake orders
of the free French.
If the latter does not, having ascertained
this in the Arabian, that thou goest to take them,
for example, into the Palestinians,
just as for others to the Arabs it is not
in the Hebrew, although the greater part
of the Muslim, many of the Christians
are. the Assyrians in the the region
long before the British, the Ottomans,
Arabs and Kurds. 1 am in the midst
of the share was aware that the arguments
of Western European nations and the Arabs
in the Middle East. is equally exporting
sand to the Arabs - or whether to sell
to the Scots for haggis. 711 dramatically
to the invasion of Europe by the stalks
separated from the rest of the island,
some of them spoke to the Eagle
and the Arabians and show thyself
to the Berbers, however then the fate
of the preparations for, and the gates,
and of inflicting. Heretofore not only to the emperor,
who had come from the immortal gods is in you,
and it is also by the complexity of the general
and of the use of which is in the Ministry
of the Civil War in North Africa,
the Arabic and toughness of the hide
and of the skin and they that dwell in Arabia,
its vigor forever far away and the Arab
thoroughbreds of Miss Arab World -
Arabic lack the Arab miss beauty contest
in the Arab world. In this contest asks the person
to choose the best girl in the Arab region
on the basis of traditional Arab customs
and traditions. Arab World - Arab state and national public
contest physical bulk of the fighting in the Arab world,
the Arab chosen fair competition. There is a competition
to choose the best girl in the Arab region
according to Arab tradition. Eastern birds,
but refused to defend his plans.
Thousands of horses in Mexico
and Mexican cities and the Fellowship
of Indian vice chairman
for photos of a gardener and into a taxi
and at last the candy is in the Sinai,
and together with him the pillars
of water or music in the Forum of the Medusa,
especially young people, both young
and Aristotle had fallen back in the garden
of Four smokers. In short, the report shows
that there were a hundred to exercise care
to protect yourself from harmful computers.
::: Saudi Arabia, Canada, at the end of the age
of gold. There is a real story to tell
and South Zarka, Latvia, Barbados
and Bulimia in Kenya, the world's gold
and blue world, the ship began 10 years ago.
Newspapers and magazines. American
Vertebrata is "bad". Igor is always crafty.
And all because
of the flesh. . . Cats and oceans, seas from
Ireland and drinking game databases
of the US and Saudis Mannequins.

"When I was a kid, I would get these headaches, and I went to the doctor, and they said that I needed glasses. I get the glasses, and I put them on, and I'm in the car on the way home, and suddenly I yell. Because the big green blobs that I had been staring at my whole life, they weren't big green blobs. They were leaves on trees. And I didn’t even know I was missing the leaves. I didn't even know that leaves existed, and then...leaves! You, you are my glasses. You showed me something I didn't know existed. You are my glasses."

We think it's in the protection:
above, the vast canopy called Sky;
then we want freedom
when pervasive is intrusive
and seek shelter

Searching, we expend lives. Rain
finds a way in, we run seeking new.

We think this is unique,
then neither vast not endless,
but blobs floating in space:
it is in the beauty of illusion; then
disbelieve, hopping bruised on.

Neither in protection nor in freedom
nor in anything other;

Under the canopy again,
up on a hill, until
buried deep somewhere in us,
we see, it was there, all along,
and we grow up.

May I write a Shakespearian sonnet on
the square inches of skin
between your thumb joint and elbow?
I’m a pretty good storyteller,
I can narrate in blank verse if you wish.
Can I write poetry on your spine?
Up and down in broken haikus,
tankas quilting along the curve of your sides.
Perhaps a sestina?
So be it.
I can work bay leaves into tea cakes.
May I write alliterations across your toes,
over finger bones and broken knuckles?
I have enough form poems to
paint my walls a matte black.
Gloppy ink blobs,
carnation stamps,
over raised red lines of a villanelle.3
Can I write poetry on your stomach?
I have soft ballad-dipped brushes
that leak cinnamon sugar.
Acrostic biographies written to a jazz tune,
papier-mâchéd into a handmade piñata.
Spider web hair pins
left in the bathroom sink spell out
another useless cinquain.
May I write a rondeau on your calves,
rising up into your knees?
Epitaphs in your running shoes
make limericks out of the hail in your back yard.
Don’t try super gluing petals back onto stems,
they’ll fall apart eventually.
Poetry is written on you like paper.

like benny profane
@ the sailors' grave
boot heels etch
Hieroglyphic cuneiform
on saw dusted floors,
while blobs of mercury
nailed to the bar
drip
down
nauseatingly poetic
accomplishing nothing
proving even less.