The robbers who kidnapped Brian Allan


Brian Allan went around the town thinking no one wanted to do harm to him till, once when he was walking around the car yards and there was a few oddballs hanging around, and Brian Allan was being a brat, who tested the patience of these robbers, when basically all the robbers wanted to do is do the job, but Brian Allan got in their way, trying to ask for directions, and eventually, the rough bearded one put his hand around Brian Allan's mouth and brought him close to the car and got the rope from his boot and tied Brian Allan up and through him in the boot, yes the robbers went about to pull off this job, but Brian Allan didn't know that these robbers were thinking of demanding a ransom as a replacement for Brian, Brian was saying through his gag, don't get me, I ain't like these family people, I want to be with you, and of course the robbers didn't hear that.
The car drove off down the road after the robbers did the job and as they were leaving a kid who was Brian's age which was 15 was taking his time crossing the road, and the robbers got out of the car, and they put their hands across hs mouth and said who are you, and are you a friend of Brian Allan and he said I am Peter Buchanan and yes I do know him, and straight away the robbers thought, it would be cool to keep Peter and Brian ******* in the boot untill they finish the jobs they have to do, and Brian Allan and Peter Buchanan were trying to scream but the gags were on their mouths too tightly, and both boys thought they were going to die, both were thinking that they are too young to die and despite them not being heard, one robber said that you 2 boys are helping us rob places, you see they won't shoot us knowing we have teenage boys in the boot, so we will be long gone before you 2 will escape, and I don't want you 2 to be vonerable, because you 2 aren't, you see both Brian Allan and Peter Buchanan are like us, man, yes you 2 aren't like the rest, so while all the other kids, much with all the happy families, you 2 will be trapped in your rooms, and yes, I will have someone watch both of you, do don't try any funny stuff, teenagers.
The last job was pulled and despite the robbers promising to let Brian Allan and Peter Buchanan go, they just didn't trust then so he tied them to a pole and then said, if anyone comes to rescue you, and ask you anything, just say, nothing, and that man over there, he is part of our gang, and of you kids try anything like reporting or charging us, we will have both you teenagers killed in 4 weeks from the day you do it.
Brian Allan and Peter Buchanan were rescued and they kept their word, but they told that the attackers moved so quickly, and they put a bag over our faces when they grabbed us, and Brian Allan said, that he was feeling to dizzy to notice who did this, and both of them were sent back to their houses, and the poiice never bothered them while their kidnappers ended up going on a trip around the world and now that Brian Allan and Peter Buchanan were 40, the robbers were holidaying over in England, where they needed more money and wanted to abduct prince Harry, but he was too much protected, and it might not have been as easy as pulling one over on Brian Allan and Peter Buchanan, and now that they are old, no one would believe them anyway, and this case went unsliced and Brian Allan and Peter Buchanan were the only adults who didn't get robbed, all because they kept the robbers secret, but they still feel like they've been kidnapped by demons, and the robbers are teasing them over and over again, for that.

(this is a revised version of my earlier poem, "i like to wear big hats")

on a day between winter and summer that does not feel like spring
i stand in the mirror and pinch my cheeks 'til my eyes water
to make them look like roses.
i put on my great grandmother's gray cloche hat
and pretend i am a famous actress playing daisy buchanan
in the great gatsby.
teary eyed, i gaze beyond my own reflection
and listen to that man.
"don't you love me, daisy?"
the phone rings.
it's you.
we see a romantic comedy, which fills us both
with something like cotton candy.
but it's temporary so we get chinese food
because you say you like sweet
and sour pork.
i never liked the aftertaste.

"shall we?" Jay Gatsby uttered.
we took each step
cautiously,
as if we were
treading carefully
on each other's
soul.
and it made me a little sad,
that I could never be his
anymore.

She described me as Tom Buchanan.
She immediately said that I wasn't violent like him,
but that I could easily be him...
I could easily show his side.
I could be brutish and abusive
and dishonest and an adulterer
and greedy and pretentious.
I could be all of those things so easily.
It's as if a switch goes off in my brain that says,
"Hey, let's be an ******* today."
I don't want to be.
I don't want to be seen as Tom Buchanan.
I don't want to be the man who hurts so many
and truly loves so few.
I want to be so much more than that.
I don't necessarily want to be like Daisy or Jordan or Myrtle or Nick or
even like Gatsby himself.
I want to be like myself.
I want to be the girl that I'm meant to be
and I know that I am not right now
nor have I been for quite some time.
I just want to be the woman God made me to be and
I'm tired of being such a catastrophe in the making and
for ruining and hurting those around me.
I don't want to be that girl.
I don't want to be like Tom Buchanan.
I want to be me...
The real me.

*...who am I?

I'm a Beautiful Fool

Daisy Buchanan said,
It's the best thing a woman could be -
a Beautiful Fool.

That's me.

You were a good man who died to soon*
You had a great heart
You was the type that would do anything for anyone
You'd put people you cared about before yourself
Give them your last dollar...the clothes off your back
But like the rest of us
You had your issues
And all though you never showed it..
life messed you up
••••••••••••••••

Let’s go back to 1.
To start again, to meet you, to seventeen, to yellow
and hugs, to hammers and strings.
Nobody knew me then, and I ****** up
told them the true story.
Let’s go back, and I’ll tell you a different one.
It started out a prepschool fantasy. I had a
Great Perhaps, and you
(were there, probably)
And then I ****** up, my friend.
I’d like to revert to 1: a second round
I’m ready, now.
Hello, nice to meet you
Would you like to have a drink with me?
I will say yes. I will be thin again for you
And when you touch my arm
I will not shrink
from you.
Let us. Let me, at least
Revert to 1
and promise
(I do—to do better now).

On money-soaked leather, we’ll make angels
no I’m sorry—we’ll make amends
I will talk breathy and flutter my eyelashes; I will be Daisy Buchanan
a rosewater anachronism that needs no cigarettes and no pretense, only
Attention
(I stood at, when you said goodbye)
There will be no end. There was no end. Not a goodbye.
On rust-red rooftops we will soliloquize
(about what?) (it doesn’t matter)
We will throw lit matches and watch how fire makes its mark
And we will separately wonder where it goes
and—are you listening?—we will watch the sunrise
and I will tell my daughter about that day when she is older.
A prepschool fantasy. We will drink to the word “contraband”
and it will be 1966—the rich kids’ 1966, the whitewashed one we pretend we are ashamed of.
I will be Daisy Buchanan, and thin again for you.
Let’s go back to 1. I would love to
try again, and better now.

I met Lori at a beer pong table. She was tall. A trash talker. Beach blonde hair. Eyes blue, blue as the sky on an afternoon in July, when the weather was cool from a light rain. This was post-college—a house party, for young adults who wanted more from life than the typical 9-5. She wasn’t from NOVA. She was from Weston, FL. Her teammate was a guy she was with at the time—they ended up breaking it off and for a while she was dating Cam, a pro-bass fisher, a long distance relationship, but they loved each other. But at the table, I was competing with her teammate, later on I ended up mentally competing with Cam, which didn’t do any good except to make me chain-smoke jacks and drink bourbon. I had a girlfriend at the time—let’s just call her Voldy. My teammate was Lori’s best friend Erica. This girl had swagger; played beer pong like Dr. J, always got us roll backs. I was tall as **** for a Vietnamese American—still am tall as **** for a Vietnamese American (Don’t worry my guys, my family’s from the Southside)—and in college we had built a beer pong table, at a spot called the pink house. “We,” meaning my roommates and I: CJ, Trevor, and Samuel. The U.N. I had practiced daily, playing before class, playing after class. Height made a difference; some great basketball player once said you need to have game on and off the court. I wasn’t sure what court I was on when I was in that moment. Lori was more than appearance; more body language; more eye contact; more southern twang; and more astuteness, than a TED Talk combined with NPR, combined with The New Yorker, combined with Al-Jazeera and linked with Wikipedia on a ***** binge. I could talk all day about how she looked, how she dressed. But I told you what you need to know. She shot first, her right arm shaped like a swan, the type of swan that sits on a lake in the middle of a spring morning, the type of morning when the sky is blue with the eyes of a girl who has seen too much, been through too much, and has heard too much. She sank the shot. Her teammate roared. But all I could hear was Lori’s voice; soft as the piano notes played by Sakamoto’s right hand, loud as the piano notes played by Sakamoto’s left hand. Blu was not how I was feeling. Or maybe I was.
Because at this table I had to either take a loss,
or seal a win. I didn’t know what I wanted. But I wanted her. Wanted her, like how you wanted a postcard
from Santa when you were 5 years old, and it was opposite day. So you got the address wrong,
and the letter was never received. And your parents told
you to keep trying so you did, you did, and you did,
but you were young and naïve. You didn’t know
what was real and what was not real. And now I was
at a place in time, when the setting didn’t matter,
and the alcohol didn’t matter, and the drugs didn’t matter.
All that mattered was her.
Because when I shot that orange ping-pong ball,
I kept eye-contact with her eyes.
Blue, much more blue
than the water in the red solo cups we were playing with.
I wish it were water from the beaches in Florida,
beaches I could read a Salinger story on,
beaches I could rest on
beaches I could lay on,
lay and take in the sun
that rises above my soul
that aches for something more.
But Lori wasn’t Brett Ashley,
she was more Daisy Buchanan
than anything.
But does that make me Tom or Jay?
Jimmy or Nick?
I didn’t know and I still don’t know.
What I do know, is this;
the ball sank into the
first cup of the triangle.
Lori’s face went from cocky,
to frustrated, from frustrated
to relaxed,
from that
to a smile.
One that I remember, and one,
I won’t forget.
Because all I want to do is forget,
Take my memory and squeeze
the bad **** out,
twist the living **** out of it,
and burn it with a match.
Because she thinks I’m the one,
Who did her wrong, but it wasn’t me.
I put that on my integrity, even if my words don’t mean much to your ears: please listen.
I was inebriated, 3/4ths of the time we chilled.
So I didn’t know what was false and what was real.
You can check my temperature,
Because when you’re in my thoughts I get a fever
And hey, I shouldn’t have made a pass on your roomie
I should have thought before I texted, because now your trust in me has been affected.
We’re not talking. I can keep apologizing for what happened, but you don’t want to listen to a broken record.
I wish the bad memories would pass away and I guess they’re all in the past today.
Look, I don’t have a time machine
strong enough to change all the mistakes that I’ve made.
But take this as a time capsule,
this piece that I’m sharing. Like that piece we were sharing. The one that belonged to you.
The one I wish I could kiss again,
Because your lips touched it,
And mine never touched yours.

THE BOXING DAY SALES



WHAT CAN I SAY ABOUT THE BOXING DAY SALES

WELL, THE MALL IS OFTEN A PLACE FOR PEOPLE TO

DO THEIR STUFF, BUT BOXING DAY EVERYONE

IS PUSHING OVER EACH OTHER

THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH GOING TO THE MALL ON BOXING DAY

BUT BE PREPARED, IT’S LIKE ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE

YA SEE, PEOPLE BUY THINFS THEY NEVER USE

AND THE MOTHERS BUY KIDS LUNCH, NEVER GETS EATEN

KIDS RUNNING AROUND, SAYING YEAH WE AIN’T AT SCHOOL

LET’S CELEBRATE LET’S CELEBRATE

YOU SEE BOXING DAY IS THE FRANTIC DAY

IF YOU LIKE THE REGULAR DAYS AT THE MALL

NEVER GO ON BOXING DAY

CAUSE, THEY CALL IT BOXING DAY

CAUSE PEOPLE AT THE MALL BOX YOU OUT OF THE WAY

TO EXCHANGE THE TACKY COAT YOUR MOTHER BOUGHT YOU

TO A STYLISH RED LEATHER COAT, LOOKS BETTER AND COSTS THE FUCKEN EARTH

YA SEE IN MELBOURNE, THE BOXING DAY TEST, WITH AUSTRALIA AGAINST THE REST

AND THEN IN SYDNEY, IS THE SYDNEY - HOBART YACHT RACE, AND THAT IS RAD

AND OFTEN PEOPLE ARE CAMPED OUTSIDE SHOPPING CENTRES

TO GET FIRST GRASP AT THE BOXING DAY SALES

WITH ME, I SHOP FOR THE MOMENT, SOM I DON’T GET DISSAPOINTED

I DON’T NEED TO FALL ASLEEP OUTSIDE WESTFIELD BELCONNEN MALL

I AM USING PANADOL CAUSE ATHENA’S METHANE IS POUNDING

BUT THAT IS PREVIOUS LIFE TRAUMA, YA SEE THE PARACETAMOL IS REALLY GETTING IN

AND I CAN FEEL, WITH THE COCA COLA, AND REGULAR BRUSHING

THERE WILL BE ON INFECTION IN MY MOUTH, I DON’T WANT THAT

I PUT MY VIDEOS ON SOCIAL MEDIA TO ATTRACT A COOLER KIND OF PERSON

YA SEE, I DON’T NEED THE FIRST THINGS IN THE BOXING DAY SALES

I GET WHAT I WANT OUT OF LIFE, I REMEMBER A SONG

THE FESTIVAL OF SYDNEY IS OUR DAY, SYDNEY SYDNEY SYDNEY OI OI OI

I HAVE MY HOME NOW, SO I DON’T NEED TO HANG AT THE MALL AS MUCH

BUT CURRENTLY I AM DOING A TAPESTRY ON PATRICK DUNBARS LITTLE LEAGUE BASEBALL

I FEEL COOL, I FEEL ON TOP OF THE WORLD, LOOKING, OVER CREATION, LOOKING

THE ONLY SOLUTION I CAN FIND, AND AS I SANG FINE, PETER BUCHANAN

A MATE IN WOODBERRY IN THE 1970S, DID A REALLY COOL FINNNEEE

WITH A DEEPER VOICE, HE WAS COOOL MAN

I FAKED HIM TO PROVE A POINT TO THE YOUNG DUDES SAYING

JUST BECAUSE THE OTHER YOUNG DUDES UNDERSTOOD DAD’S WAY

DOESN’T MEAN I DID, HE LOOKED LIKE A REAL PAIN IN THE ***

TAKING MY COOL KID AWAY, BUT MUSTN’T DWELL, WE MUST HAVE FUN

I AM OFF TO THE CAVALRY MATCH TOMORROW, TO SEE THE FIRST

BUT I AM LEAVING AFTER THE FIRST MATCH, NO BUSES IN THE NIGHT

AND THE BOXING DAY SALES BRINGS OUT THE RIFF RAFF THE ROUGHER TYPES

AND THE CHEAP SUPERMARKET PUDDING JUNKIES LIKE ME WHO NEED TO GO TO THE MALL TO LEAVE THE HOUSE

BUT BOXING DAY SALES ARE FUN, IF YOU AIN’T IN THE INITIAL LINE

THAT CAN BE FRANTIC

I get off the Belt Parkway at Rockaway Boulevard and
Jet aloft from Idyllwild.
(I know, now called J.F. ******* K!)
Aboard a TWA 747 to what was then British East Africa,
Then overland by train to Baroness Blixen’s Nairobi farm . . .
You know the one at the foot of the Ngong Hills.
I lease space in Karen’s African dreams,
Caressing her long white giraffe nape,
That exquisite Streep jugular.
I am a ghost in Meryl’s evil petting zoo:
I haunt the hand that feeds me.

Safely back in Denmark, I receive treatment
For my third bout with syphilis at Copenhagen General.
Cured at last, I return to Kenya and Karen.
In my solitude or sleep, I go with her,
One hundred miles north of the Equator,
Arriving at Julia Child’s marijuana herb garden–
Originally Kikuyu Land, of course—
But mine now by imperial design &
California voter referendum.
(Voiceover) "I had a farm in Africa
At the foot of the Ngong Hills."
My farm lies high above the sea at 6,000 feet.
By daybreak I feel oh, oh so high up,
Near to the sun on early mornings.
Evenings so limpid and restful;
Nights oh, so cold.
Mille Grazie a lei, Signore *******!
Andiamo, Sydney, amico mio.
Let it flow like the water that lives in Mombasa.
Let it flow like Kurt Luedtke’s liquid crystal script.
We zoom in. We go close in. Going close up,
On the face of Isak Dinesen’s household
Servant and general factotum. (Full camera ******)
Karen Blixen’s devoted Muslim manservant,
Farah: “God is happy, msabu. He plays with us…”
He plays with me.  And who shall I be today?
How about Tony Manero for starters?
Good choice. Nicely done!
Geezer Manero:  old and bitter now,
Still working at the hardware store,
Twice-divorced, a chain-smoker,
Severely diabetic, a drunk on dialysis 3 times a week.
Bite me, Pop:  I never thought I was John Travolta.
But, hey, I had my shot:  “I coulda been a contenda.”
Once more, by association only,
I am a great artist again, quickly made
Near great by a simple second look.
Why, oh God? I am kvetching again.
I celebrate myself and sing the
L-on-forehead loser’s lament:
Why implant the desire and then
Withhold from me the talent?
“I wrote 30 ******* operas,”
I hear Salieri’s demented cackle.
“I will speak for you, Wolfie Babaloo;
I speak for all mediocrities.
I am their champion, their patron saint.”

Must I wind up in the same
Viennese loony bin with Antonio?
Note to self:  GTF out of Austria post-haste!
I’ve been called on the Emperor’s carpet again,
My head, my decapitated Prufrock noodle,
Grown slightly bald, brought in upon a platter.
Are peaches in season?
Do I dare eat one?
I am Amadeus, ******, infantile,
An irresistible iconoclast and clown.
Wolfie:   “I am called on the imperial carpet again.
The Emperor may have no clothes but he’s got a
Shitload of ******* carpets."
Hello Girls: ‘Disco Tampons!
Staying inside, staying inside!
Wolfie: "Why have I chosen a ****** farce for my libretto?
Surely there are more elevated themes . . . NO!
I am fed to the teeth with elevated themes,
People so lofty they **** marble!"
Confutatis maledictis,
Flammis acribus addictis.

So, I mix paint in the hardware store by day.
I dance all night, near-great again by locomotion.
Join me in at least one of my verifiable nine lives.
Go with me across the Narrows,
Back to Lenape with the wild red men of Canarsee,
To Vlacke Bos, Boswijk & Nieuw Utrecht,
To Dutch treat Breuckelen, Red Hook & Bensonhurst,
To Bay Ridge and the Sheepshead.
Come with me to Coney Island’s Steeplechase & Luna Park, &
Dreamland (aka Brownsville) East New York, County of Kings.
If I’m lying, I’m dying.
And while we’re on the subject now,
Bwana Finch Hatton (pronounced FINCH HATTON),
Why not turn your focus to the rival for Karen’s heart,
To the guy who nursed her through the syphilis,
That old taciturn ******, Guru Farah?
Righto and Cheerio, Mr. Finch Hatton,
Denys George of that surname—
Why not visualize Imam Farah?
Farah: a Twisted Sister Mary Ignatius,
Explaining it all to your likes-the-dark-meat
Friend and ivory-trading business partner,
Berkeley (pronounced BARK-LEE) Cole.
Can you dig it, Travolta?
I knew that you could!

Oh yeah, Tony Manero, the Bee Gees & me,
A marriage made in Brooklyn.
The Gibbs providing the sound track while
I took care of the local action.
I got more *** than a toilet seat, a Don Juan rep &
THE CLAP on more than one occasion.
Probably from a toilet seat.
Even my big brother–the failed priest,
Celibate too long and desperate now–
Even my defrocked, blue-balled brother,
Frankie, cashing in his chips at the Archdiocese,
Taking soave lessons from yours truly,
Taking notes, copying my slick moves with chicks.
It was the usual story with the usual suspects &
The usual character tests. All of which I flunk.
I choose Fitzgerald's “vast, ****** meretricious beauty,”
My jumpstart to the middle class.
I spurn the neighborhood puttana,
Mary Catherine Delvecchio: the community ****
With the proverbial heart of gold &
A backpack full of self-esteem deficits.
I opt out.  I’m hungry and leaping.
I morph again, grab *** the golden girl.
Now I’m Gatsby in a white suit,
Stalking Daisy Buchanan in East Egg,
Daisy: her voice full of money;
My green light flashing on the disco dance floor.
I, a fool for love; she, my faithless uptown girl,
Golden and delicious like the apple,
Capricious like a blue Persian cat.
My “orgiastic future” eluded me then.
It eludes me still. Time to go home again to the place
****-ant Prufrocks ponder their pathetic dying embers.
Time to assume the position:
Gazing out from some trapezoidal patch of green
At the foot of Roebling’s bridge,
Contemplating an alternative reality for myself,
A new life across the East River,
In the city that never sleeps.
I crave. I lust. I am a guinzo Eva Duarte.
I too must be a part of B.A., Buenos Aires:
THE BIG APPLE.
But I am ashamed of my luggage,
Not to mention my baggage.
It’s like that last thing Holden Caulfield said to me,
Just before he crossed over the Brooklyn Bridge,
Crossed over to Manhattan without me,
Leaving me alone again, searching for our kid sister,
Phoebe, the only one on earth we can relate to:
“It’s really hard to be roommates with people
If your suitcases are much better than theirs.”
Ow! That stung; that was a stinger.
I am smithereened by a self-guided drone,
A smart bomb full of snide antigravity,
Transformational and caustic.
My meager allotment of self-esteem
Metastasizes into something base,
Something heavy and vile.
I drop to earth like lead mozzarella.

I am unworthy, unworthy in the maximum mendicant,
Roman Catholic mea culpa sense of the word.
I am now Umberto Eco’s penitenziagite.
I am Salvatore, a demented hunchback
(Played flawlessly as a demented hunchback by Ron Perlman),
Spewing linguistic gibberish in a variety of vernaculars:
“Lord, I am not worthy to live anywhere west of the Gowanus Canal.”
By East River waters I weep bitter tears,
The promise of a promised land denied.
I am a garlic-eating Chuck Yeager,
Auguring in, burnt beyond recognition,
An ethnic trope, a defiant Private Maggio
From here and for eternity,
Forever a swarthy ethnic stereotype
Trying to escape thru a small but significant
Hole in the ozone layer above South Ozone Park,
New York, zip code 11420.
That’s right, Ozone Park.
If you don’t believe me, look it up.
GO ******* GOOGLE IT!

And I just don’t know when to quit.
So why quit there?
Work with me, fratello mio, mon lecteur.
Like you, I took the LSAT so long ago.
Why am I not a distinguished American jurist
Asking the one question that seems to be on
Everyone’s eugenic lips today:
“Aren’t three generations of imbeciles enough?”
I am Charly from Flowers for Algernon,
A slow learner with a push broom, swept up in
Some dust from Leonard Cohen’s cuff.
Lenny: a grey-beard loon himself now, singing
“Hallelujah” for fish & chips in London’s O2 Arena.
“Suzanne takes you down, Babaloo!”
At last, I am Jesus Quintana—
John Turturro stealing the movie as usual--
This time in a hair net and a jumpsuit,
"Made of a comfortable 65% polyester/35%
Cotton poplin, you can even add your own
Ribbon leg trim and monogramming
For just the right look to be one of
The Big Lebowski’s favorite characters.
Mouse-over the thumbnail below to see our actual style
(Color must be purple). Style #: 98P, Price: $55.95. On sale: $50.36.www.myjumpsuit.com."
Fortunately, I am a savvy marketeer:
I understand the artistic potential, the venal
Possibilities of product placement. Go with me
To that undiscovered country.
The humanities uncorrupted till now by
Crass gimcrack television ads. That’s right:
******* commercials smack dab in the
Middle of a ******* poem. Why not?
Great literature has always been about
Selling something, even if only an idea.
Hey, **** me, Herman Melville!
We both know the publication costs of
Moby **** were underwritten by the tattoo artists &
Harpoon manufacturers of New Bedford,
Matched by a small research grant from some
Proto-Greenpeace, Poseidon adventure in some
Great white whale-watching swinging soiree.
Murray the ******* K, pendejo!
At last, I am The Jesus, a pervert & pederast,
According to Walter Sobjak—another post-traumatic
Post Toasty, like me, still out there in the jungle,
Still in love with the smell of ****** in the morning.
My bowling buddy, Walter, comfortably far to the right of
The Dude, and Attila the *** for that matter,
But who gives a **** if Lenin was The Walrus?
(“Shut the **** up, Buscemi!”)
“Once you hang a right at Hubert Humphrey,”
Said the streets of 1968 Chicago,
"It’s all ******* fascism anyway.”
That creep could roll, though, and as we know so well:
“Nobody ***** with The Jesus.”
Can you dig it, Travolta?
I knew that you could!

INCOMING!
I just heard from an old girlfriend who is miles away,
Teaching school in Navajo Land.
The Big Rez:  a long day’s interstate katzenjammer,
A Route 66 nightmare by car, but by email,
Just down the block and round the corner.
I had previously closed an email to her with a frivolous
“Say hello to my stinky friend.”
It was a total non-sequitur, an iconic-moronic,
Ace Ventura-mutant line from Scarface,
Which may have meant–in my herbal lunch delirium—
That she should say hi to some mutual acquaintance
We mutually loathe, Or, perhaps an acknowledgement that she–
My surrogate Cameron Diaz–has a new **** buddy,
Of whom I am insanely jealous.
Or maybe it was a simple Seinfeld “about nothing.”
Who knows what goes on in that twisted *****’s head?
She spends the next two hours in a flood of funk,
A deluge of insecurity.
A veritable Katrina ****** of self-consciousness,
Interpreting my inane nonsense in terms of vaginal health.

Hey, you want to ruin a woman’s day?
Tell her, her **** smells.

I am scared!
Scared of this world

Robert Godwin Sr
Alyssa Elsman

How many more have to die?
By my kind,
By their kind,
Because they blame some other kind
What ever happened to just being
kind?

Daniel Parmertor, Russell King, Jr., Demetrius Hewlin

Where were you when the World Trade Center went down?
It’s something everyone alive then will always remember
Never Forget! was our brand motto for American Pride

Krystle Marie Campbell, Lü Lingzi, Martin William Richard, Sean A. Collier, Dennis Simmonds

And now, the death of another is so commonplace
That we forget what and where.
It’s no longer personal enough to register where in our lives that it struck us
Only note that another life has been struck down
Add another tally to the equation
And still it does not add up

Trayvon Martin
Tamir Rice
Samuel DuBose
Delrawn Small
Philando Castile
Terence Crutcher
Heather Heyer

We are completely desensitized
And decentralized
We keep ourselves disconnected
(because we just can’t absorb,
Take,
Process it all)
It’s not us
It’s not me
It’s somebody else
Somewhere else.
Until it is
Then we care
How much can we take, before we break

Cynthia Marie Graham Hurd, Susie Jackson, Ethel Lee Lance, Depayne Middleton Doctor, Clementa C. Pinckney, Tywanza Sanders, Daniel Simmons, Sharonda Coleman Singleton, Myra Thompson

The tragedy is the comedy
We laugh so we don’t cry
Sakia Gunn
Richie Phillips
Nireah Johnson, Brandie Coleman
Glenn Kopitske
Scotty Joe Weaver
Jason Gage
Michael Sandy
Sean William Kennedy
Duanna Johnson
Lawrence "Larry" King
Angie Zapata
Lateisha Green
****** August Provost, III
Mark Carson

I can’t say I’ve never thought of committing violence.
Hell, when my ex-wife cheated, it occurred to me
And I can’t say that I have never hit another
I’ve been a kid
My whole life is designed just to grow up
But, I’ve thought of killing myself far more often than the thought to harm anyone else have ever occurred to me
Because my problems are mine;
My fault,
And I am not seeking some scapegoat

Keenya Cook, Jerry Taylor, Million A. Woldemariam, Claudine Parker, Hong Im Ballenge, James Martin, James L. Buchanan, Premkumar Walekar, Sarah Ramos, Lori Ann Lewis-Rivera, Pascal Charlot, Dean Harold Meyers, Kenneth Bridges, Linda Franklin née Moore, Jeffrey Hopper, Conrad Johnson, 1 unnamed victim

I am not going to deny that being a white male hasn’t allowed me to sidestep a whole level of *******
One day, angry white males will be the minority
And we’ll have no one left to blame, but ourselves.
If we don’t **** everyone first
If we don’t **** ourselves first

Michael Arnold, Martin Bodrog, Arthur Daniels, Sylvia Frasier, Kathy Gaarde, John Roger Johnson, Mary Francis Knight, Frank Kohler, Vishnu Pandit, Kenneth Bernard Proctor, Gerald Read, Richard Michael Ridgell

Jonathan Blunk, Alexander J. Boik , Jesse Childress, Gordon Cowden,
Jessica Ghawi, John Larimer, Matt McQuinn, Micayla Medek, Veronica Moser Sullivan, Alex Sullivan, Alexander C. Teves, Rebecca Wingo

The earth has already decided that we are a plague upon it
Maybe climate change is the natural response to the abuse of our gifts

Nancy Lanza, Rachel D'Avino, Dawn Hochsprung, Anne Marie Murphy,
Lauren Rousseau, Mary Sherlach, Victoria Leigh Soto, Charlotte Bacon, Daniel Barden, Olivia Engel, Josephine Gay, Dylan Hockley, Madeleine Hsu, Catherine Hubbard, Chase Kowalski, Jesse Lewis, Ana Márquez Greene, James Mattioli, Grace McDonnell, Emilie Parker, Jack Pinto, Noah Pozner, Caroline Previdi, Jessica Rekos, Avielle Richman, Benjamin Wheeler, Allison Wyatt

What is this world going to teach my son?
That he’s better because of how he looks?
Or what I’ve taught him:
You make yourself better.

Jamie Bishop, Jocelyne Couture Nowak, Kevin Granata, Liviu Librescu,  P
G. V. Loganathan, Ross Alameddine, Brian Bluhm, Ryan Clark, Austin Cloyd, Daniel Perez Cueva, Matthew Gwaltney, Caitlin Hammaren, Jeremy Herbstritt, Rachael Hill, Emily Hilscher, Matthew La Porte, Jarrett Lane, Henry Lee, Partahi Lumbantoruan, Lauren McCain, Daniel O'Neil, Juan Ortiz, Minal Panchal, Erin Peterson, Michael Pohle Jr., Julia Pryde, Mary Karen Read, Reema Samaha, Waleed Shaalan, Leslie Sherman, Maxine Turner, Nicole White

I work as a data analyst
So, I ran the numbers
But, these are more than numbers
These are people: sons, daughters, sisters, brothers, mothers, fathers, husbands, wives, friends, lovers.

Stanley Almodovar III, Amanda Alvear, Oscar A. Aracena Montero, Rodolfo Ayala Ayala, Alejandro Barrios Martinez, Martin Benitez Torres, Antonio D. Brown, Darryl R. Burt II, Jonathan A. Camuy Vega, Angel L. Candelario Padro, Simon A. Carrillo Fernandez, Juan Chevez Martinez, Luis D. Conde, Cory J. Connell, Tevin E. Crosby, Franky J. DeJesus Velazquez, Deonka D. Drayton, Mercedez M. Flores, Juan R. Guerrero, Peter O. Gonzalez Cruz, Paul T. Henry, Frank Hernandez, Miguel A. Honorato, Javier Jorge Reyes, Jason B. Josaphat, Eddie J. Justice, Anthony L. Laureano Disla, Christopher A. Leinonen, Brenda L. Marquez McCool, Jean C. Mendez Perez, Akyra Monet Murray, Kimberly Morris, Jean C. Nives Rodriguez, Luis O. Ocasio Capo, Geraldo A. Ortiz Jimenez, Eric I. Ortiz Rivera, Joel Rayon Paniagua, Enrique L. Rios Jr., Juan P. Rivera Velazquez, Yilmary Rodriguez Solivan, Christopher J. Sanfeliz, Xavier E. Serrano Rosado, Gilberto R. Silva Menendez, Edward Sotomayor Jr., Shane E. Tomlinson, Leroy Valentin Fernandez, Luis S. Vielma, Luis D. Wilson Leon, Jerald A. Wright

I did research to try to find all the victims since I became abruptly aware 16 years ago
There are too many
I could not discover a single database that contained a comprehensive record
No one can keep track of it anymore
I know I’ve missed people
I know there are 1000’s of people now missing people
Even 1 was too much

Hannah Ahlers, Heather Alvarado, Dorene Anderson, Carrie Barnette, Jack Beaton, Steve Berger, Candice Bowers, Denise Salmon Burditus, Sandra Casey, Andrea Castilla, Denise Cohen, Austin Davis, Virginia Day Jr, Christiana Duarte, Stacee Etcheber, Brian Fraser, Keri Galvan,  Dana Gardner, Angela Gomez, Rocio Guillen Rocha, Charleston Hartfield,  Chris Hazencomb, Jennifer Irvine, Nicol Kimura, Jessica Klymchuk, Carly Kreibaum, Rhonda LeRocque, Victor Link, Jordan McIldoon, Kelsey Meadows, Calla Medig, James ‘Sonny’ Melton, Pati Mestas, Austin Meyer, Adrian Murfitt, Rachael Parker, Jennifer Parks, Carrie Parsons, Lisa Patterson,  John Phippen, Melissa Ramirez, Jordyn Rivera, Quinton Robbins, Cameron Robinson, Lisa Romero Muniz, Christopher Roybal, Brett Schwanbeck, Bailey Schweitzer, Laura Shipp, Erick Silva, Susan Smith, Tara Roe Smith, Brennan Stewart, Derrick ‘Bo’ Taylor, Neysa Tonks, Michelle Vo, Kurt Von Tillow, Bill Wolfe Jr.

and NOW I’ve run out of lines and time to read off all 2,977 people who died in 9-11
Isn’t that a tragedy?

-The wasp cared for the stranger

And the stranger for the ‘bee’

The stranger brought her marigolds

And the wasp brings her honey

The stranger sought for another life

But the wasp she could never keep

Never did they realize

The wasp was not a bee-



Three Dimensions of an Unwanted Soul

     Three Stages of Existential Dread



Perpetual-Purgatory Dread

Omnipresent-Inferno Dread

Transient-Paradiso Dread



Purgatory:



The Glasgow Subway of The Five-Dimensional Man



The Perpetual Existential Dread:



When you are lost in love
Your soul ages quicker than you grow old
Don't you see those living bodies with
Dead Souls
Trying to reap what was never sown



For the five dimensional man
Time is like the Glasgow Subway
He'll be aging forwards and backwards
To get to Hillhead you can't skip Buchanan Street
To get to the good times you can't skip the sad ones
And there's always going to be more bitter than sweet
But there's no end for the five dimensional man
There's no end to the Glasgow subway


He bought a typewriter down Byres Road
Learned to write South of Houston, Prince Street

The love was foreshadowed in Pandrossou Market
And he bargained and lost it on Main Street


The traveler travels through all of time and space
When you live infinitely, you'll remember every name
But when between dreaming and losing is your place
Even the immortal would lose his faith
He would give up the universe for one true love's grace
But perhaps it's easier to fall into the six dimensional ways
If infinite number of him existed in an instant with every trace
No happiness, no sorrow, no loss, no heart breaks
He'll gladly welcome the end of his days


There is a space time gateway 3000 light years away
For the end of solitude he'll endure this 30 lifetime race
He just wants to feel the comfort of a senseless place
And to fill his aching heart with empty loveless space
When nothing's ever gone, despair will vanish without a trace
Could this be the fate of the hapless five dimensional fool
Eternally without love, and another soul to his name





Inferno:



The Glass Elevator of The Six-Dimensional World



The Omnipresent Existential Dread:



They exist endlessly, they exist infinitely

I can see every trace of love

Wherever I want to be

Yet

This must be the undiscovered country

Where all travelers will return

The wasp found the stranger

Though neither of them ever left

This is the place of everything

Except, longing, heartbreak and dread



The Five-Dimensional Man has arrived

And in the happiest moments he’ll land

Here is the universe where nothing will ever end

Nothing ever passes

Nothing ever comes

All of existence in a single jump of the second hand



He looked through the looking glass

And shattered into a million six dimensional man

Each consciousness in one perpetual moment

Where he'll never experience anything else

Happiness or otherwise except

The Omnipresent existential dread of the

Six Dimensional Land




At the Gate of Paradise/Paradiso



The Walk of Life of A Fourth Dimensional Man



The Momentary/Fleeting Dread:



A piece of the trillion trillion six dimensional man

Floated near the wormhole from whence he came

When he crossed from the Five Dimensional Land

Though the new place in which he arrived had a beginning and an end



Since he is only a fragment, he fits in well with the rest of the men

Here, it is our own familiar landscape

My fourth dimensional friends

Where our protagonist finally found paradise

Or the nearest world before the sweet hereafter fence

He was born, he loved and lost, dreamt with regret

And finally passed on through the light

Leaving behind only ashes, dust and sand

Who knew all he craved was never infinite eternity on his Earth

But merely the end

Of his endless dread under the stars

Ever before the Promised Land

Rainbow village Episode 17



Fred, Lyle and Georgina decided to walk down to the shopping mall about 15 minutes away from Rainbow village, and as they were walking some of the young hooligans were skidding down, burning rubber, and some bikies did wheelies, which made Lyle jitter and he ended up saying, that you guys ate a pack of losers and should be f..n locked up, and one hooligan threw a rock right in his face, and Lyle collapsed straight away, while Fred stayed with Lyle, while Georgina went for some help.
Fred told Lyle not to panic, even if he was in pain, and then 2 hours later. The culprit came over, and told Fred, when I was a little boy, I was taken from my home, by a weird man who fits his description and his age, and I know his name, because I don't forget much from those days, and when he said that Gia name was Lyle Hoffman, Fred couldn't understand,
And Lyle told him, that he didn't **** him, so why do you want revenge, and he said because no one ever gets his hand on Peter Buchanan, and now, Lyle, you are going to be ******* in the public toilets, but I think I want you not to be as lucky as I was, so Fred, you go back to your retirement village, (which he said moving his fingers up over his head) and let me deal with Lyle Hoffman and Fred pulled out his mobile to call the police and Peter knocked it out of Fred's hand and then he said, that he doesn't trust him, so Peter took Lyle and Fred hostage and brought them to a rundown factory, and when he got them into the machinery room, Peter set the bomb to go off, in 3 hours, Peter wasn't wanting to **** Fred, so he made his rope escapable, but Lyle's ropes were on tight, and when Fred got free, he went over to rescue Lyle, but his rope was too tight, and he couldn't get the rope loose.
Lyle told Fred, his version of events, which didn't sound good for Lyle's defence, because it sounds like Lyle made his bed, and wanted Peter to lie in it,
What Lyle said, he got sick of Peter and his mates teasing him and to get revenge Lyle grabbed Peter and pulled him into the car and drove him off to the country, and then when he got him there, Lyle decided to get his gun and stick it at Peter, to make him too scared to say anything, but Lyle said in his defence, he let Peter go before the police arrived and shot through, and then he told Peter, tell a soul and your dead, and Peter was scared shitless, and apparently Peter hasn't worked since, but Lyle called him a gutless trouble maker.
Peter came back in and Fred told him, I see why you are doing this, Lyle told us the whole story, but you are making you just as bad as him, and Peter said, he is the reason why I am walking around psych wards all my life, and if you don't let me **** Lyle, I will go to Rainbow village and tell the manager that Lyle should be locked up, and not given the lap of f..n luxury, and Fred told Peter, please spare him, I have the name of a good lawyer, and he can help you get justice against Lyle, and Lyle went. 'hey'.  And then began to be super scared of Peter, because what happened was a long time ago, but Peter didn't give a hoot, but Fred's advice made sense, though, if he loses Fred will cop it, big time.
So Peter let Fred and Lyle go, but that wasn't it, no Peter rang up this bloke and, yes, Lyle went to court, and in court Lyle was getting fried, a he can't seem to defend himself properly, Lyle said one word and the prosecutor kept throwing stuff at him, and despite Lyle having Rainbow village giving him character references and all thar, Lyle's defence wasn't looking too good, and after 1 week of 3 sessions, the magistrate brought the matter in front of a higher court, which could mean jail time for Lyle, and the date was exactly 3 months time, Lyle was scared as he said to Fred. It's all your fault, he was a blushing trouble-maker and Fred said, yes but it still ain't right.
The end

The gentle pull on my waist as sleep left your body.
The steady stare as the alcohol and lust consumed you.
Your strong and firm kiss when you could not convince me that you loved me more.
The unabated honesty as you confessed that I'm your Daisy Buchanan, and she's our Tom.
The look of sorry deep within your tired blue eyes.
The way you say coffee and hockey and my name.
When you talk about our kids and our home and your job and our future and us.
The anger when you think about him or her or it.
The gentle pecks on my forehead and fingers through my hair and interlaced fingers.
And when you let me in and let me look through the window to your heart.

the reason i have hooligan voices



you see, when all the families were teasing me, cause they were rich *****

and the kids who were teasing me were stuck up rich kids

i felt the only mates i had were the heavy metal hooligans, mind you

i was getting mixed messages, on this, by the families, but i felt

that was the reason, they wanted me to be a family person, so

they can call me stupid or dummy, or give me fucken wee

ya see., all this drove me to hooligan behaviour cause these mates were nice to me

they let me into their homes with open arms

you see, we sang all sorts of songs, to scare away the stupid teasing family people

who, are cool kids to their dads and mums, while, me i was out playing with the real hooligans

ya know, partying, and i teased gerald, in the town centre tavern because he was a uni nerd

and i was remembering hooligans allowing me to be one of them

you see even dad teased me, when he came down and did his ya know speech

and the young dudes behind me, knew what dad meant

so i pretended to be peter buchanan, to show the young dudes at the back

what dad’s ya know argument, really sounded like

you have to do this, ya know, you have to do that ya know

every which way ya know, F    U     C    K    O    F   F   OLD TIMER

you see the hooligans mucked with me in cool kid groups

because i threw beer bottles on the roof of the school

you see, it is me the reason why they put fences around schools, so we can’t vandalise the school with out beer bottles

you see, hooligans made me feel great, when nobody else would

the families were too scared of their precious egos, to be my mate or friend

so i made myself a hooligan, because they were nice, i am not shy with the hooligans

but, i was the only one being nice to them

the families were being stuck up

i am listening to bon jovi singing blaze of glory and i sang

shot down in a pair of ******, shot down in party town

when we go out in just a pair of ******

we never drew once, but we drew first blood, my ****** are the devil’s son

you call me hooligan, but that was the hooligans were nice to me

they treated like one of their clan, while the families treated me like total ****

they teased me, and i said, at least i have the music loving hooligans to muck with

their friendship was great medicine, for my disabled head, shake it up hooligan your good medicine

please buddha cure my schitzophrenic head

i said i was a hooligan to scare dad a bit, but i didn’t mean to hurt him, now he is in his grave

with me being too scared to tell him

i was a hooligan, i was a terror, i wish those families would stop teasing me

you see steven bradley was the real hooligan, and his spirit grabbed brian allan who was greame thorne

to say, you are a kidnap victim, young hooligan, you are getting T    E     A     S    E    D buddy

olds time rock and roll, this kind of music makes the families want me yeah

so i play deep purple, iron maiden and kiss and bon jovi and jimmy barnes

and muck with the hooligans buddy ole boy ole chum ole pal

dude, i was a hooligan, getting teased by the families, i hate those families who teased me

i hate being teased full-stop, i hate getting fought full stop

i want to muck with everyone who is willing to PARTY

AND PARTY I SHALL, i was a hooligan, but i am on medication to calm him

no medication alive, will make me be nasty to POOR PEOPLE, dudes, no way hoizei

for Jay Buchanan*

Clearer than a ringing bell,
calling me to stand beneath you--
I am rapt in music’s spell;
your subject,  in your thrall I dwell.

Swaying slowly to the beat,
as I stand before your feet,
I yearn to touch, but thrill in listening,
and watching your sweat-drenched body,
glistening.

Recorded song brings me much pleasure,
but it cannot match the measure
of an evening in the presence
of your fleshly,  human essence.

I stand witness at the living
breathing body, angelic singing.
Mournful verse,  hypnotic chorus
throb in heartbeat’s time before us.

So close to me,  you drip with sweat;
flip your hair and I’ll get wet--
drench me with your raw emotion,
drown me in an aural ocean.

Presidents

Washington, Adams and Jefferson,
had *** with slaves just for fun.
Madison, Monroe and Adams,
I'm sure had secret madams.
Jackson, Van Buren and Harrison,
not sure how they ever won.
Tyler, Polk and Taylor,
before elected lived in a trailer.
Fillmore, Pierce and Buchanan,
should have been shot from a cannon.
Lincoln, Johnson and Grant,
each once had a cotton plant.
Hayes, Garfield and Arthur,
sinking fast with no life preserver.
Cleveland, Harrison and again Cleveland,
both of them killed at least one Indian.
McKinley, Roosevelt and Taft,
all too fat to float on a raft.
Wilson, Harding and Coolidge,
should have jumped from a bridge.
Hoover, Roosevelt and Truman,
wondering if they were even human.
Eisenhower, Kennedy and Johnson,
neither of them can still run.
Nixon, Ford and Carter,
not sure which one was smarter.
Reagan, Bush and Clinton,
shot, stupid and a Monica.
Bush and now Obama,
one was dumb,
and the other looks like a black llama.

The literal worst.

Some might say Nixon- the criminal in charge

Martin for the tear he let the native’s tread

Hoover for the shanty towns that rose

Fillmore who let the escaped and finally free be returned to captivity.

John Taylor the whig who wasn't a whig but manifested his Ideas in us going west.

Warren G Harding and the Affairs

James Buchanan who started the war.

But the worst were the ones who never got to be.
The literal worst because I got to see a world that will remain unknown to me.
And they are:
Jessie  
Charlene
Victoria and Shirley
Belva
Elaine
Carol ‘n Patsy and
Cynthia McKinney
And who can forget Joan Jett Blakk the black Drag Queen


Because Despite what the winners want you to think WE do not look like James Buchanan!

Warren Harding!

John Taylor and all the other men who have persisted to reign.

And still, we sit here and watch as all other make strides in the field we claim to have created.
Brazil
Germany
India
Israel
Iceland
Ireland
Liberia
Norway
Pakistan
The Philippines
Sri Lanka
South Korea
And the UK

I hope I live long enough to see America rise to the silent challenge of its peers.

To see a woman at the podium
To see a woman at the desk.

To see

The black woman
The trans woman
The bisexual woman
The old woman
The unmarried, unmothered woman
The minority woman
The asexual woman
The not so average American woman woman.
The bleeding woman.

Are you happy, Daisy
with your voice all full of money
and your golden locks blowing?
Do you hide your face
embarrassed by Tom's racist harangues
while seeking comfort in the embrace
of your careless, noble friends?
Have you ever seen shirts
as nice as these or suits so pink
and glimmering of tea cakes
and novelty on sweltering Manhattan
gilded ash-worn evenings?
Are you happy now sauntering
through inconsequence adrift in moonlight
and forgetful of your maiden promises
as the air sweeps over that fragile
crown and you swerve drunkenly
about lane to lane letting me
face the consequences worrying
only about you?
The inebriation is mine alone to bear.
That's all I want for you,
the dignified Mrs. Buchanan—
as a moth I fly toward green flame,
enamored—remembering your smile
& eyes as they were!
My heart's last beats are for you,
and I just want to know you're happy
as the transparent water that drowns me
warms and grows turbid like America
and my selfish love.

Keep Pat and Chris in, we need them to be shy boys



2 of the coolest kids in school were suddenly locked in a basement
By a hooded bandit, who wants them killed, and nobody can save them
Except for shy boys Brendan and Brian, but because they were shy boys
They prefer to play together in Brian's room, and forgetting about the silly fact
That Pat and Chris were being held captive in a basement
Their parents were worried, but Brian and Brendan didn't care
All they wanted to do is play little shy boys games and let Pat and Chris suffer
Pat yelled out, come on Brian, be a little cool kid, and save your mate Pat
I will like you forever, and ever forever to come
But of course Brian didn't believe in that sort of tripe and said to Brendan
Do you think we should save Pat and Chris, buddy and Brendan said, no Brian
Let, them suffer, you see those two think nobody will capture them
No, Brian you aren't like them, no dude, be a little cool kid, and stay with me
I will show you how to be a real cool kid, and we will much around forever, dude
Brian said, yes, I aren't like Pat and Chris, they are two Christiana who believe
That God will save them, well, where is their God now, yes this is sweet revenge
Pat and Chris are my two little shy boys, keep them there, Charnwood murderer
Brian and Brendan went outside at night to find where Peter Buchanan
Lived so they can have some fun and on their way, Brian and Brendan
Ran into a prowler and ran as hard as they could to get away
While Brian and Brendan got back home before he caught them
The prowler said the next day at the mall, treat Brian and Brendan like shy boys
As long as we have Pat and Chris, that is all worth while
And Pat and Chris were screaming so loud they can be heard from the other side
Of the world and beyond, and Chris was yelling, let me go you ****** punk
Or I will get my fiat free, and whack it straight through your fucken head
And Pat said, I will bash you up, mr kidnapper, and he said, come on Chris and Pat
Treat Brian and Brendan like two little cool kids, you 2 aren't like us anymore
Treat them like cool kids or you will be ******* here forever
And Chris was gagged and buried alive in a coffin, but Pat was free
Because he promised to treat Brian and Brendan like 2 cool kids
But he will still tease then a little, so Pat went to Brian and Brendan's house
And teased them by saying, you kids no nothing about the world
You go about thinking you are better, but your ****
But your still cool kids. So don't stray away, you are 2 cool kids
I will never let harm get in your way, cause you are both cool kids
Chris was being buried, and Pat told Brian because Brian teaeed Pat
Then a young hooded man came around and ******* Brian and Pat
And then locked them both in a cage together, while Brendan
Was being buried alive with Chris, and Brian and Pat, are now victims
Of this kidnapping that was planned to get Pat and Brian together
And the man yelled, ding **** the kid's are dead
We have Brian and Par with us, the kids are dead
But who gives a ****, so ding ****, Brian and Pat are dead
With Brendan and Chris, oh yeah they are so dead to us
Brian and Pat were struggling saying to each other, why have you snatched us
We are your cool kids, and we are cool kids, your a ****, mate
And now, Brendan, Chris, Brian and Pat dead
The world is free of the cool kids, let the vonerable run
****** *******

The after life part 7



Cronus is having a busy times bringing people back to life and he had 33 year old Brian Buchanan who was a hard worker, he works as a landscaper during the day, helping people get their gardens sorted out and he worked every dinner time at the roadhouse, which is a homeless shelter where he helps out at and after that on Tuesday and Wednesday he does performing arts at the community centre and on Thursday he plays tenpin bowling where he has won many trophies and in summer he volunteered at the cricket and basketball by standing at the gate letting and not letting people in and at winter he does the bbq for the Southport sharks neafl team in Aussie rules where he occasionally gets free footy tickets for Brisbane lions and also works at the masters games where he has met so many great olympians and doing all this made him feel good about himself but he was all burnt out doing all this, he collapsed on the road and passed away and Cronus said, Brian Buchanan what or who do you want to be in your next life and Brian said I want to play little league baseball for whoever they choose for me and I want a family who respects the decisions I make and if you think it is a good idea, I want to bring afl football to Jupiter, I have a team name called the goofy gorillas which is cool enough don’t you think and Cronus said yes that would be good, as long as you don’t burn yourself out
And Brian said no I won’t burn myself out and Cronus sent him to Buddha for a reincarnation talk and then to Athena for a soul check and after that Brian went to Jupiter to work on creating the afl team, the goofy gorillas and after that Cronus had another soul named Harry symes who died by getting hit by a car on his way to work by a drunk driver and Cronus said it was horrible how you passed away, so who or what do you want to be in your next life and Harry said I want to be good enough to be a trainee policemen and I want my spirit to make me a good policeman and Cronus said there is no such thing as a good policeman but I could give you to a family who is ready to learn how to not break the law, so it will be your fault if you make mistakes and Harry said ok, but I don’t want to make mistakes though, I just want to lock away people like the driver that killed me and Cronus said policemen get killed, I hope you know and Harry said yes I know but it is an important job so Cronus sent him to Buddha for a spirit check and then to Athena for a soul check and then Harry went to Saturn to have a methane smoothie before he comes to a world where methane is deadly and then Cronus asked Yvonne Simmons who died on the operating table after collapsing at work, who or what do you want to be in your next life and Yvonne said Just send me anywhere, I want to play sport and do concerts at school and outside school and do a few other cool stuff, please I want to be normal and not stupid and Cronus said you ain’t stupid you could do anything you want to do, and I could see you are a live in the moment kind of person so just relax as I send you to Buddha to talk about the best parents for you and then a soul check with Athena and after that Yvonne went to mercury to meet her deceased boyfriend and they had a good conversation about future lives and Yvonne went back to Buddha to ask if she could be in the same family as her boyfriends next life and Buddha said fine but you might have to just be a cousin and Yvonne said that is fine with me, thanks and Cronus sent her to be her boyfriends cousin and in 9 months she will be back to earth

Dear Daisy Dilly Dalley
You noticed I wrote Dilly Dally,
It's because I've been to large valleys,
Roamed through the darkest alleys,
Saw exquisite masterpiece in art galleries,
Met people named Margaret and Mallory
But I still can't address you as Daisy Buchanan.

The green light across the pier still flickers
And even though I bicker
with my subconscious state of mind,
I wonder, is this luxury life-
worth living without you?
Without you by my side?
The green light is but a taunt now,
saying go- yet at the same time
creating a tension in my heart-
saying this.....
will never happen.
Please come back to me,
or at least write a letter back to me-
Give my best to Tom as well...
                                                         ­   Love you always,
                                                               Jay Gatsby

You are a budding Casanova
A Brett Ashley in the making
Rhett Butler would be proud
Daisy Buchanan might bat her eyelashes
George Wickham would tip his hat
That's all you ever wanted
To be wanted
To be "loved"
You won't get it by chasing every person who enters your life
It doesn't work that way
It isn't that easy
But how would you know?

Is there a better tradition than Halloween?
When I was a child, cloaked in the velvety darkness,
The night felt like it was crackling with electricity, possibility.
Swapping candy, riding the trailer, being out late on a school night;
I realized from a young age nothing emboldens you like friends and the nighttime.

When I was a freshman in college, I saw Rocky Horror for the first time.
"Creature of the Night" rings in my ears as I
Put on makeup,
Take a swig of *****,
Place on the final touches of my costume.

Halloween becomes a blurred vision of masks, laughter, and kisses.
Locking eyes across a room,
I am more alluring as
Daisy Buchanan
Holly Golightly
A fairy
Mary Poppins
Alice in Wonderland.
They're all cute, animated, familiar, warm.

Each day after Halloween is a sickly feeling,
nausea from overindulgence
I will always be emboldened by the night.

Daisy Buchanan
Once said
That there was nothing better
A girl could be in this world
Than a beautiful
Fool

When I smile
With flowers in my hair
And innocence
Pooled with naivety
In my eyes

I hate myself

For the five dimensional man
Time is like the Glasgow Subway
He'll be aging forwards and backwards
To get to Hillhead you can't skip Buchanan Street
To get to the good times you can't skip the sad ones
And there's always going to be more bitter than sweet
But there's no end for the five dimensional man
There's no end to the Glasgow subway