BROTHER BLUEBOTTLE

A bluebottle emerges
from a hedge

like an expensive and
repulsive flying jewel.

It settles upon
my ring finger.

I wear it with
fear and delight.

Its iridescence
bewitches.

This, the first
bluebottle I'd ever seen.

I thought they grew
in hedges.

I had a lot to learn.

It buzzes about
in my brain

as if 50 years
had not passed.

Welcome back
brother bluebottle.

It's good to see you
still alive.

BROTHER BLUEBOTTLE

A bluebottle emerges
from a hedge

like an expensive and
repulsive flying jewel.

It settles upon
my ring finger.

I wear it with
fear and delight.

Its iridescence
bewitches.

This, the first
bluebottle I'd ever seen.

I thought they grew
in hedges.

I had a lot to learn.

It buzzes about
in my brain

as if 50 years
had not passed.

Welcome back
brother bluebottle.

It's good to see you
still alive.

BROTHER BLUEBOTTLE

A bluebottle emerges
from a hedge

like an expensive and
repulsive flying jewel.

It settles upon
my ring finger.

I wear it with
fear and delight.

Its iridescence
bewitches.

This, the first
bluebottle I'd ever seen.

I thought they grew
in hedges.

I had a lot to learn.

It buzzes about
in my brain

as if 50 years
had not passed.

Welcome back
brother bluebottle.

It's good to see you
still alive.

BROTHER BLUEBOTTLE

A bluebottle emerges
from a hedge

like an expensive and
repulsive flying jewel.

It settles upon
my ring finger.

I wear it with
fear and delight.

Its iridescence
bewitches.

This, the first
bluebottle I'd ever seen.

I thought they grew
in hedges.

I had a lot to learn.

It buzzes about
in my brain

as if 50 years
had not passed.

Welcome back
brother bluebottle.

It's good to see you
still alive.

BROTHER BLUEBOTTLE

A bluebottle emerges
from a hedge

like an expensive and
repulsive flying jewel.

It settles upon
my ring finger.

I wear it with
fear and delight.

Its iridescence
bewitches.

This, the first
bluebottle I'd ever seen.

I thought they grew
in hedges.

I had a lot to learn.

It buzzes about
in my brain

as if 50 years
had not passed.

Welcome back
brother bluebottle.

It's good to see you
still alive.

BROTHER BLUEBOTTLE

bluebottle
emerges
from a hedge

like an expensive
repulsive
flying jewel

It settles
upon
my ring finger

I wear it with
fear and delight
its iridescence bewitches

this the first
bluebottle
I'd ever seen.

I thought t
hey grew
in hedges

I had a lot to learn
it buzzes about
in my brain

as if
50 years
had not passed

"Welcome back
brother bluebottle
good to see you still alive!"

Every now and then,
Someone lights up your world
Like breaking weather,
Scattering the clouds
And baptizing your soul
In a deluge of colors.

Every now and then,
Someone captures emotions
Like bluebottle flies
In a jar, only to release,
Too delighted ever
To pin them with names.

Every now and then,
Someone dares you to dance
With words or muscle memory,
And laughs with you
When flailing efforts prove
That you almost can.

Every now and then,
Someone glows like traffic lights
And points you to new roads
They've traveled on before:
Ways that part and meet again,
Every now and then.

Fourteen years old
and my life was a trap -
My ankle was caught
All red and ragged
In the jaws of an age-old machine
Designed to catch boys.
But there was a missing cog –
a little *****,
because there was a way,
(There was a way)
There was a way
to
get away…

College Library,
Domed and dark,
The silence disturbed by a bluebottle’s
Rumble
And the sly ticking of my own gold watch.
Oh! Getting high on the smell of
Other people’s universes,
Tissue thin and
Dogeared immortal -
Gotcha!
I’ve got 'em all!
You can’t contain me in these walls,
I can go an – y -where.

I can get drunk on Holden’s Highballs
Or Sebastian’s brandy,
I can weep at the grave of Ignatius Riley’s
Sexually inappropriate ****-fantasy dog,
I can neatly eat Prufrock’s peach
Or a dismal breakfast in a seaside caff
With Dallow and Spicer
And dear Rosaried Rose
With one eye on the sea and
Some lukewarm tea.
I can spend a season with my namesake,
Far away from Heaven,
And shake hands with Satan as he
Finishes a speech,
Wiping his mouth on a swollen
rock,
Hot as heaven and black as a leech.
I can walk that sheep on B612,
I can whip around the Second Circle
Of Hell
Or lock myself in a toilet
With Franny,
I can live in a garret with a garrulous ****** -
I can be East of Eden,
Wonderland,
I can die in Venice,
I can shoot soldiers in the sand,
I can lust after Lo – lee – ta
Tip of the tongue,
I can be a girl,
I can be a nun,
Blow into a conch,
Diffuse a bomb,
Digest my lunch,
Be a sub,
Be a dom,

I can sparkle here,
I can be free here,
I can just be here
And there are no rules here,

Just one boy
And a book
And a bluebottle
And a watch.

Aw dear -
What a flawed design for a cage!

war took mine, i was sold  playing tenchu
on level 6... just before i was to
assassinate this ***, and he practised all
his bow skill in private, then it was made public
by a ninja... i only completed final
fantasy 7 with a walk-through...
i hate the fact that i stuck to
the schooling narrative...
  but hose were the PS1 days,
those days are gone, gone gone gone,
bye bye gone...
                 the **** was that?!
an oscar for best actor at the gladiator premier?!
why isn't more gaming mentioned in poetry?
where is raziel, and the the legacy of cain:
soul reaver, and the story about how he
squashed his brothers:
dumah, melchiah, rahab, and zephon?
oh look: the geek in me!
                 100 years from a youtube video...
i'm bound to do the bristol d'uh and say:
i've never been to south america...
nor ever...
                        me go sort out this avalanche
if that's o.k. with you, hmm?
this is the thrill you get when seeing peoiple
play a reincarnation of gameboy,
i.e. candy-crush saga... if you moved beyond
the PS1 universe you won't get it...
if you remember PS1 games, you'll probably
remember SEGA and sonic,
and age of empires 2, and sim city 3000...
**** me! but you won't probably remember the
weathergirl... who was becky mantin
when this was written...
           odd, that little gray box of saturdays
and sometimes sundays, but definitely
saturday mornings...
                    it gone... and i don't feel like owning
an update of it, because games have become
overtly narrative prone, they only allow thise gameplay
that's too narrated... i switch on the console
and i want mario bros. calculator type of dynamism...
instead i get this really complex story
when i should be reading a book...
   no, really, when did gaming become so
****** engrossing that i try to become distracted by
brick walls?
           when did i or when didn't i take to playing
chess? well... when i started playing dominos
with 6 cigarette stumps and a black hardcover
philosophy book... maybe around then.
books i great, believe me...
but this nook of counter-arcade games?
i woke up at 9am as if about to go to school
and played that japanese fetish for hours...
so much if our culture in nearing the post-20th
century culture was axis... it was almost all japanese...
you can't take that fact out and replace it
concerning: god intervened at Giza and yawned
at chichén itzá...
because you would... still, i thankfully retired
from the gaming experience (when did PS2 come out?
i wanted it for about 2 years and still didn't
get it)...
    1998? 1997?
                      thankfully i get to mention computer
games like novels... SEGA mega drive?
yep, owned that.
                   and yes, i can cite an ATARI,
and ****, **** **** me!
   that original NINTENDO?!
              and that shooting mallard simulation
against a screen of televisions that could
still issue you with van der graaf static
   of "levitating" hair?
(when televisions were still 3D and played
you remnants of the big bang
       in televised black and white khrrr sound,
all dicta fidgety, like looking through the eyes
of a bluebottle fly)... or
    the original prince of persia?
     those two dimensional ferns rotating round and
round when approached in the original tomb raider?
oh forget the cone-****-madonna...
shaid the ish cream van man to shaun shoonery...
cheap ****: said the dead with charlie
at the head of their horde of entertainment's flops.
i retired from the gaming world though,
left it when PS1 expired...
and morphed into PS2...
           i'm half sad and half saying: i can understand
candy crush, because i can understand
the origin: TETRIS.
like i can understand why i can't do crosswords,
my father just said: even i can't do them,
the clues are all a bit of a wanking to comprehend...
it's as if they only based them on the thesaurus...
   we're good on sudoku though, that can be solved
without problems...
        i miss those games though,
i finished final fantasy 7 with a walkthrough
though... tenchu was also fun to complete,
crash bandicoot? anyone remember him?
           now for not faking it...
                                     i'm glad that's over,
i'd hate the gaming experience as i hate interactive
t.v. thesedays... all this pause and rewind?
  thanks to it i sometimes press the STOP
button when listening to the radio and wonder
why it just keeps running... oh right: this isn't
a c.d. transmission... funny though, the gaming experience
translated into t.v. really has made advertising
ultra competative or utterly useless....
   you just end up pausing before a break, and then
scrolling past the advertisers' airtime...
next thing i'll be buying is when they make
an advert for shoepaste.

We own a pond;
mottled bluebottle,
flecked in freckles
when the sunlight
skims the surface
between the moss.

I dip a finger inside
and stir. A nebula
swills, swirling like
a whisk of spilt oil
from a water spot
sometimes found
underneath a car.

My fist plunges in,
embalming a gulp;
moss bandages
around the orb that,
withdrawing in drips,
I see a new world
set alight upon it.

Stand me still in swaying grass
on the crest of a smooth esker.
Numb my ears to synthetic noise
so I can embrace the earthly chorus;
Green blades clashing swordlike.
The creak of trees, rooted in the battle.
The flip and twist of a passing bluebottle;
Awkward and disorientated.
Let me breathe deep the same wind
that lends herself to these instruments.
Let me hear the crackle of sun on skin;
The sound of hair electrified,
The thud of chemicals leaping across synapses.

Let me feel truly alive.

There was an old person of Skye,
Who waltz'd with a Bluebottle fly:
They buzz'd a sweet tune,
To the light of the moon,
And entranced all the people of Skye.

beneath the daily noise
is the quiet sighing me
floating on a current
of poetic alchemy

i convert the grind
and bustle
into
calm serenity
and post the golden lies
on here, for prosperity.

and then with bluebottle
ink and jellyfish grace
i float away...
to write the insanity of another day..
leaving but a trace
of saltwater tears
in my chosen place...

The day is damp and quiet as I'd noted it usually is
at this time. My brown linen served purpose
of warming me from the wind that hushed
the house but I am leaving his mild comfort
for another.
The truth of the mirror shows my milky feathers
that I'd left on my face from sad infancy.

The kettle wails in an octave of steam and brass
and milk sloshes coolly into its capsule, fault
from my shaking hands - an impressive chip in one glass.
I watch London spin its television reruns
on the other side of the pane and challenge a stray cat
to a staring competition. Chewed ear and licked fur.

Across the lawns creeps the sure squint
of the rising sun and my tea is left unattended.
I begin to prepare
gathering towels from the cupboard, draping
them over my arm as though I am a huntsman.
The harsh material peppers my skin and I slap at it with disgust.
Like a bluebottle scuttling greedily
through the ***** hairs.
The trusted thickness works well as I cram
them against the slits in the doors.
Not even voices should seep through.

USES OF GREAT LITERATURE

Bluebottle & I
share the same moment

. . .the same hour.

It keeps divebombing me
like some crazy kamikaze.

It is a beautiful flying jewel
but I can't appreciate that

just now and enraged I
throw Proust at it.

The full weight of A LA RECHERCHE
DE TEMPS PERDU

thrown halfway across the room
brings it down with a bang and

it is no more.

"Heavy!" I praise the Proust.

Ten minutes later its brother
or its ghost

has returned with a vengeance.

"Don't look at me!" says the Proust
"I done my bit!"

I raise the book and
the bluebottle bolts.

Just the threat of the Proust
works just fine...this time.

There I was..
Running about like a blue arsed fly.
Then I stopped
And wondered
Why?

Now
I'm taking it easy it pleases me no end.
I spend my days in that haze of being lazy
It's crazy..I know
But sometimes
You just got to
Take it
Slow.

I was never a blue bottomed bluebottle
(and throttle rhymes with that..but I'm not using it)
Life's not full of ****
Well maybe a bit but mostly it's good.
And I'm sure if you could and you can..
..come lay with me on the beach..get a tan
You ain't got to hurry..no worry..
I'll wait
Contemplate
And rest.
And I'm the best..
..at that.

A tired fly
Flew past my nose
Its buzz was low
Its speed was slow
It drifted through the heavy air
I know, I saw it go
On by

The cat was sleeping
On a chair
Just lying there
Without a care

Until the fly flew past her nose
To end her doze
The cat she froze

Her green eyes widened
And turned all cold
As cold as gold
If truth be told

The tired fly
Went buzzing by
The cat’s white nose
And I suppose
The cats intention
Was to try
And catch that fly
As it went by

Her paws ****** out
In desperate throttle
To try and ****
The winged bluebottle

The fly escaped
Its hum got higher
Its flight got faster
The cat chased after

Round and round the room they went
The cats neck bent
And furiously sent
The fly on high
Above sharp claws
As she flipped and pawed
The clever fly soared

Until at last
The cat did stop
And off did trot
Like she cared not

To catch a much less mobile snack
Her cat food sat
Upon her mat

The fly is drifting overhead
Its buzz all low
It’s flying slow
And watching out for battle two
When cat is through
With chewing food

And so it goes on every day
Some get away
Some like to play

The cat and fly
They both still try
To take their chance
In life's great dance

New fallen snow on an icy road,
this path I stumble along.
I shake the branches,
I can't take any chances,
but still I fall beneath the serpent song.
Two weeks pure, sacrificed,
a single day to purge my vice
to lay my flesh upon the ground.
Two bluebottle flys, saved,
and two stinkbugs, revived.
Seeing the dead, curled up things
come back to life,
I am certain I will survive
any trials that might assail me,
in the frigid gray sky days to come,
before I finally lay this body down.

USES OF GREAT LITERATURE

Bluebottle & I
share the same moment

. . .the same hour.

It keeps dive bombing me
like some crazy kamikaze.

It is a beautiful flying jewel
but I can't appreciate that

just now and enraged I
throw Proust at it.

The full weight of A LA RECHERCHE
DE TEMPS PERDU

thrown halfway across the room
brings it down with a bang and

it is no more.

"Heavy!" I praise the Proust.

Ten minutes later its brother
or its ghost

has returned with a vengeance.

"Don't look at me!" says the Proust
"I done my bit!"

I raise the book and
the bluebottle bolts.

Just the threat of the Proust
works just fine...this time.

it's not exactly cymande's dove -
    it's mytho's dreamlab (1975) -
  a dedication to wernher von braun -
on the odd occasion
the youtube algorithm feeds
me a nostalgia of suggestions
like it used to: and i forage for
new music...
nucleus' alleycat from the same year...
well:
i'm no bukowski and this is not
one of those moments to
test my strengths of patience
for mahler's: how i will die
with this deafness -
    i know what's lacking in my life
is having listened to the oeuvre...
or have read melville's moby ****...
somehow horizons of
new complete: upon a arrival with
a nudge from charon -
i will come against myself:
rather than upon myself...
by chance...
  that this is not high-brow literature
by any stretch of the imagination:
but i believe myself to be
endowed within the confines
of the democratic process -
a quiver a trembling...
i had to do several impossible
things today...
i laughed from conjuring
a memory while
painting some "chess board"
darkened oak of a makeshift
for the climbing rose to aspire to
with a cling...
i scratched my teeth -
i pretended to play
a violin by fiddling
with my beard:
no exactly de profundis:
but god... how i miss my chin...
i patted myself on the head
while pretending to vortex
imitation over my tummy -
this new man needs to
imagine the process of
caricature of insemination -
i am not the same willing
***** that gave me: you...
   pronoun baggage -
it's so tender in this english:
all english that can be
completely missing in: mutterzunge...
miles davis' ******* brew...
a composition
to imitate the crashing of
piano...
        as i drink i keep a tally...
once i fed an rainbow trout's eye
to a cat...
once i fed a female mosquito to
a cat...
once i had a dog and...
i couldn't possibly rob myself
of a memory of childhood by owning
a dog now...
i am quasi-jealous of people
who have dogs...
it's enough that i tow along
a shadow when i "expatriate"
beyond my day-to-day
trajectory - when
i want to experience an automatic
thinking - pointless memory
weathering -
i sometimes want this completeness
of the incomplete...
no higher sentiments...
new music: not something that
could cradle youth and
the stadium anthem -
something -
even now: one can become
tired of drinking and the occasional
smoke...
           i wouldn't want
to find myself returning to
a paragraph or a novel -
when reading: yes...
    but i couldn't stand the agony
of... not without this impromptu...
sedated into a comfort
looking upon the oeuvre of
jack spicer...
   my grandfather owns
the whole lot of alexander dumas...
i'm petrified of this
microcosm of a forest stashed
on a shelf...
         grand baron apostrophe in
english is so amazing...
i mean: the pedant's treat:
a pedantic treat -
            you can be allowed so many
deviations from orthodoxy -
you can almost wriggle your
way into an imitation jonah -
anglophile i am:
but i see no london burning -
teasing from the outskirts -
flute come to the party...
accent of impressionism -
   diacritical markers -
         i know that i am not writing
for money for excavating purposes:
i can make these little purposes
of fail all the time...
i want to own this language
as if i were born within its confines:
such that i am: "late" arrival:
thrown into the deep end come
me ate: eight - better - eating...

         gladly... because i arrived to it...
it wasn't dictated from "above"
like german or russian might have...
even though: ich muss necken
           alt vater:
              deutschespreschen...
for posterity... ahem... glum looking
joke...
not because i want to champion
the affair of: ****** the private individual...
beside the stage and oration:
yes... clearly he wasn't cut for painting...
i need to fail on writing
this nibbling from the exterior
with an ulterior purpose of tao -

zen my ****'s last worth...
conundrum: a really decent bicycle or...
two hours in a brothel...
hell... perhaps three...
but the bicycle and the return to
the days of drooling over
traffic and nibbling at essex...
i know that i don't know this
over-sexing is me being caged...

well... if you're going to be over-sexed:
pulverised toward status: neuter -
i sometimes mind: not minding...
the genetic argument doesn't really work
on me... given...
i could pass on... hardly the usain bolt
genes...
i could really pass on the most
severe indignation:
i like to call this...
the self-realisation that those
gene-power-proof german doctors
of the ***** had some sense:
in staging such grotesque arguments...

    for the purpose of a pleasure that
i can exhaust...
i don't even need to summon
frankenstein's monster argument:
it's not pivotal -
  when the hormones raged -
fair enough...
                   i can exhaust the argument
with all the readily available *******
and: i will not have to look out
for...                 the trojan dye-d'oh...
or...        ms. dill, ms. dough...

                       from the mother tongue
i couldn't possibly write such
nuances of sounds...
i would be left ******* with crisp cut...
orthographical measures -
   i'd be arguing over: pedantic subject
matters... none of this "poetry" /
graffiti...

                     scratching something vinyl:
elongating some liquorice...
detailing the zenith of england
prior to the dissolution
of the empire...
                  
   in all god given honesty i feel inclined
to be... living here...
it's supposedly not much
but i sense a becoming warmth
as to how...
   it would sometimes take
great care for me to not put on
my "sociopathic" chameleon disguise
of burdening accents:
from the original take:
we're all gammon and himalayan
salt indistinguishable sometimes...

but the affairs of the copperskins...
the camel jockeys, the choccies...
well... at least i'm not colour blind...
i forget to see white...
i forget to nudge some black...
black? you mean: cardamom
with that smokiness -
or nigella seeds?
                 that's black... coal is black...
frank zappa's ****** hair is
black... ***** likewise...
i forgot to be colour blind...

     give me hues!
          give be bold bulging gargoyle-esque
****** features to scare the demons
away...
no?
it has to be a variation
on a new sort of: "racism"...
if we're going to survive the basic lesson...
leave me in the grey humpty-dumpty
area of omelette...
            this be here: the dozen
of eggs that became...
a feast for serpents that didn't become
leather boots... or purses...

leave me to this little cul de sac
of imitation jazz...
  
        synchronised: coincidentally -
but more: a sigma purpose:
  an in totalis - a variation of polyphony -
new jargon - elevated new jargon...
an australian concept of
a savoury-esque dessert -
a beetroot ice-cream...

   pause: syllable cutter:
    not co-in-cidentally -
               a... variation of: ex similis:
but not simultaneously -
too many ******* vowels!
hear it one way: write another...
english is as bad as fwench...
grr...

           well yeah: i'm doing something
more than my supposed democratic
obligation:
i am not voting because i will
write for: the purpose of writing...
english democracy is looked upon
by russian strategists as something
that extends to allow transvestites
and other magpie exotica...

         this current life: this private
adventure...
      would i gladly summon these letters
in such a manner that i...
oh don't bother:
gladly "expatriate": gladly exile...
come to think of it...
if i were to argue about orthography
for so much time as i were
to be alive in...
        english adjusts and makes
pardonable the nuances of grammar...

little can be said: of the already
little given...
                      i want to jump high...
the caged ******* sonnet...
i planned sleep prior to writing this...
that's about it...
once... no... now:
i want to rekindle a fetish for
toying with going full commando
in denim...
  and... to twist the plot...
a ******* will always be nibbled
by the zipper...

it's: the evening i discovered ian carr's nucleus...
the original title simply read as: it's...
then some grandiosity appeared
with a mountain being towed...
and a fairytale...

this grand composure of
the bass routine... ***-ar...
drums on one side...
and solo projects on the other...
something so pristine without
lyrics - which is something i hoped
to exploit... not necessarily make synch...
i'm not a beat poet and i will
not read my words over a jazz:
as some refrigerator humming:
dulling these already pronounced
accents of sound:

a moth twice the size of my thumb
makes attempts to posit a selfie
with its: my eyes' scrutiny:

the jazz quintet is hardly an orchestral
testament of polyphony -
but... teasing at an earl grey in
inconveniences of "lacking"...

a dull moth the size of two thumbs
pressing against each other:
my little loitering project of future:
in eternity from bypassing:
on the the behalf of over punctuation:
as that clarity in the future of words...
or a lack of it...
with etymology...

******* into the sink...
simultaneously flushing the toilet
while washing your hands:
new age of multitasking...

by way of talking to cats:
herr mimic something akin to: ćć..
which is not the english CH - tugging along
the tetragrammaton...
or the full crown of the czech: caron...
                            č...
it's more slush-puppy piquant...
the sort of "thing" that defies
imitation with ny borrow of
meow or bark...

on my bookshelf:
madame bovary in a single tomme -
and... that opening line
of tolstoy's anna...
that misery is unique: particular -
to borrow the old greek dichotomy -
while happiness is ubiquitous -
generic -
             therefore universal...
indistinguishable from
a buddha to a screwdriver
from a jesus christ or a christening
of the next new plotline of
psychopathy...

           halves the hour: in that such
an album is half an hour's worth...
sooner a route relay
with the royal mile and cow gate
towing for any tourist come
edinburgh...

             beside myself:
i will not ever... torture myself
with a novel or a paragraph...
it either comes... or it doesn't...
it's not exactly courting a used to:
coherency...
and you are the reader...
club of exclusivity -
i have written by never bothered
to read back what it is
that i spewed out...

okokamona from roots (1973)...
cow bell... teasing nazareth's:
hair of a dog...
led zeppelin's dyer maker: "jamaica"...
yes... *****'s heaving
a son...
                     some variation of
abortions galore -
that i eat plenty of them in a poultry
feast come morning -
that i'm later scratching
the least of a possible pride:

white gold rubric:
michael pfeiffer...
sharon stone...
              a grizzly with a snub
at an alias: Tobias...
         next leftover project of expansive
"thinking": this little detail of moi too...
come again?
come again?
   *** ah'dzin: eh? gin...
it's not a giggle: it's not a girdle...
it's mr. dzin / jinn... tow the tonics
yourself..
some variation of fripp
is nothing near a hendrix -
some variation is all we heave
to have to topple...

lazy whitey jazz like some
interlude in rainy towing
scaffolds of seattle -
   settled peaches or... thereby plums
to the pulp of the excavations
made mad by pristine...
this feeble work-around
of flesh... in fruit or via
pork with offal... sequences
of bible bashing and that up-kept year
of langid promise echoes...

oh ******* of the most pristine
bluebottle types of flies
congregating:
there's no pawn broker of
klansman in sight...
to wed bed-sheets to a scrutiny of
ghosts...
that such a word
is still scrutinised with a hyphen
"interlude" and that it
can't be... classically: deutsche...
compounded into
a juggling act of syllables?
m'eh!

it has to be a variation of elitism...
   not because it actually is...
but that there's a necessary niche biped
wanting:
to have this kept sacrificial
lamb and a sacrilege of it's purpose
to make grief (grieve, slightly)
(of) a lack of demands
for the impossible task...
english can't be consolidated:
england can be bent to forward
a cosmopolitan rot of an idea...
england can be anything the rodney plonkers
want it to: Clapham want it to
burrow...

english and the universal rubrics
of grammar...
yes no right yore sire...
my missing sir... my drum solo project...
my mobias **** -
my amore amore amore! dulce primo:
linguo - kaff et normandy: genesis...

for the exertion of a patience...
that could never come bu was nonetheless
expected:
by dog races in the abandoned
stadium: of a looted womfowd tool fow
exhauted torn...
  maybe vels - or velsh...
or really? this is not scripted teasing
dubliner gaelic?!

A bluebottle’s tale.
Flies, dark a biblical curse flew, over Alexandria
darkened the sky and hummed hell´s song.
This was not butterflies, in a summer glade.
A bluebottle got to a small hole in the window
they were bringing profanity upon the world.
I looked into its intelligent eyes a soldier drafted
to bring wars and hunger to the world,
(No, not a locust plaque that for its own sake
headless exists.)
to make wars and split nations into many pieces.
God had fated humans should remove each other,
he had made the error given humanity free will
and refused to be held responsible for this fault.
Since we are at the foothill of doom
His will be done.
A new breed of mankind, with small brains and no imagination.
of a Zarathustra or Jung, to give us the idea that we deserved
a better way to find harmony and everlasting niceness.

USES OF GREAT LITERATURE

Bluebottle & I
share the same moment

. . .the same hour.

It keeps dive bombing me
like some crazy kamikaze.

It is a beautiful flying jewel
but I can't appreciate that

just now and enraged I
throw Proust at it.

The full weight of A LA RECHERCHE
DE TEMPS PERDU

thrown halfway across the room
brings it down with a bang and

it is no more.

"Heavy!" I praise the Proust.

Ten minutes later its brother
or its ghost

has returned with a vengeance.

"Don't look at me!" says the Proust
"I done my bit!"

I raise the book and
the bluebottle bolts.

Just the threat of the Proust
works just fine...this time.

Once armoured and indeed
Once a fearsome tank
Of a man,
I strode across the battlefields
Of my life
Swatting trouble from the skies
Like flies from a sweaty face

No more bothered by trouble Than by a bluebottle
A man of certitude and confidence,
Capable of rising to meet and beat whatever
Life threw at me,

However it seems that love
Has become mine undoing,
My Achillies heel has been mine heart
And mine heart is breaking in pieces,
No more able to pump the blood
I need to live this life
About my walking corpse,

And so I'm shucking my armour,
The plate falling with a muffled thud
Upon the grass as each leather strap is loosed,
So strange to feel lighter as my
Weakness grows greater
And mine ending draws
Ever and certainly closer