THE COMMONWEALTH GAMES
THE QUEEN'S BATON RELAY
THE POETRY OF QUEENSLAND
IN BUCKINGHAM PALACE TODAY


MY BOOK IS IN THE PALACE
MY LETTER FROM THE QUEEN
PROMOTING OUR BEAUTIFUL STATE
LIKE NEVER EVER SEEN


I AM A BRISBANE POET
THE QUEEN HAS MY BOOK
THE BATON RELAY HAS STARTED
BY HOOK OR BY CROOK

I used to think that all of them were just bodies. She-figures, they came and went, facilitating infinite happiness and following with hellacious heartbreak, aorta explosions galore. They pass. I stay. She goes. I remain. We all take a trip, but she falls asleep while I follow the road, I sing the song, make the lyrics up as the 101 heads West, and I careen against the Pacific. I see silvery-white plumes of whale breaths spouting, they break the rocks of my rock and roll. When the levee breaks, we'll have no place to go- I'm going back to Chicago.

California. Line 5. Verse 1. She is born in Arkansas, in Denver, in New York City, in the back of a taxi cab, her parents waiting for a table at Earth Cafe, 1989. There are concerts, balconies, elevator shafts, and on benches. The gain rises, the volume up and up and up, I offer her a cigarette, I ask her if she likes my dress, I show up with two palms full of a flame, and I say hello. Browsing in high-definition, the water is warm, my feet are planted and I have everywhere to go. Classical emporium of light fill me with ease, greatness, and belief. She asks me if I'm gay. Every great confusion can be proven to be fortuitous with enough time on hand. I kiss in cars, in bathrooms, and barrooms, in hallways, on staircases, on beds, church steps, and legs. I touched a leg, ran my fingers through her hair, my thumbs curved to the height of two ears alongside a size B head. I love art *****. i burn candles, and I swirl the wax around until the walls wear masks of white. I check-in to a hotel. I stop to buy wild flowers on the side of the road, or to climb down a ravine, we open a page into an enormous patch of strawberries, wind-surfers, and the golden Palo Alto beaches. I am in Bronzeville, on my way to Bridgeport, I am riding the train, browsing magazines, and singing new songs in my head. My lips are wet with excitement and the musings of the Modern Art Museum and the gift of a first kiss; behind the statue on Balcony 2, near the drinking fountain, the Eames couch, and two lips meeting anew. Bravery in twos.

Chapter 1, Verse 2. The chorus is large and exciting. New plastic shining coats. Smocks patterned with the Random House children's stories that we played with as children. We didn't wear gloves, or hats, or pants, or our hearts on our sleeves. I was up to my knees in hormones and very persuasive. My fifth birthday was at the Nature Center, you chased me into the boys' bathroom and kissed me with your wet and four year old lips in the second stall from the door. I eased up maybe 2% since then. The speakers are a little bit fuzzy, it's like listening to the spit of someone's tongue cascade the roof of their mouth while they pronounce the British consonants of the 90s. Said and done and saving space.

I am saving up for Grace. A crush in the mid 2000s, black hair, long legs, and the only brunette for a decade before or after. We played doctor, with the electric scalpel we turned our noses red with Christmas time South American powders. A safe word for an enemy, the sun for an enemy too. You bolted out and took my early Jimi Hendrix Best Of compact disc case too. While we're at it, you took my Michael Jackson cassettes as well. I go mid-range, think Kiri Te Kanawa in the whispers of E.T.'s Elliot. Stuffed-animal closet party for seven minutes in heaven. Your family came with butlers while mine came with over-educated storage. A blue borage sky in the intestines of life, a splinter in the shanty-town of invincible daily struggles- both of us were born again in O'Hare Airport's Parking Level D. Too many nonsensical arguments in two-tone grayscale ripping open the packaging of a course about trysting in your twenties.

Your stomach's history is overpowering. It is temperamental, mettled by spirits and sleepless nights, borborygmus, wambles, and shades of nervousness you were never comfortable speaking openly about. The history of your ****** was privatized, in options and unedited films shot over and over candidly by a mini DV desk camera, nine months to read you wrong to weep in strong wintry walks back and forth from The Buckingham to the Dwight Lofts, Room 408 without a view. All of your secrets in a little miniature of a notebook, bright cerise red. You captured teardrops in medicinal jars meant for syringes. You tied strings to your fingers, named your field mouse Ginger, and introduced your mother as Lady Darling. Captain with stingray skin, the hide of Ferris Bueller with the coattails of James Bond, dusted with daisy pollen, and clearly weakness. You ate me like bitter herbs on Thursdays, and like every other woman I've ever met, on Tuesdays you always kept me waiting.

I have wings for everything. Yellow wings for a woman in a yellow dress, Red, White, and Green wings for Bernice from Mexico City, Purple wings for  Mrs. Doolittle the doctor who worked at Taco Bell, the Jamaican priestess who was traveling through Venice Italy- we smoked hash with the grandchild of James Joyce on the Northern pier against the aurulent statues of Apollo and Zeus, Cupids' collection of malevolent tricks, SleepingB Beauty's rebuttal in fending off GHB attackers, my two dear friends who were kidnapped in clothes, abandoned in the ****, and only remember eating chocolate donuts with sprinkles and the bruises and dirt on the insides of their thighs. Nothing clever. Nothing extraordinary. Everything sentimental, built to withstand soot, sourness, and early female bravado.

You know how to play the piano so you've said, but i only have the CD you gave me to prove it. I do have evidence of your addiction to men and *******. I have your collection of dresses with tags still on them (but every woman has some of those), there is the post office box in Kauai, the Halloween card from last November and the two videos I have stored on an external drive in a nightstand adjacent to the foot of my bed. You sleep atrociously, talk too quickly, and **** like your father abandoned you when you were five. Your talent for taking photographs is like your skill-set for playing the piano, but I don't have the CD to prove it. You don't believe in social media, social consistency, friendships, or hephalumps and woozels- with the exception of the classes we shared together in college, I've never seen you outside of the most glamorous of fashion. You hate flats, hats, and white wine, and for as sad as you can seem to be at times, I've only had you cry on me once. While we were on the phone, three days after your mother hung herself. That's when I last left California, and I haven't been back yet.

I love a Kristine, but once a Britni, a Brandi, a Joni, a Tina, Kristina, Kirsten, Kristen, and a Katherine and Kathryn too. I know rock stars who are my dearest friends, enemies who I share excellent taste in music with, and parents who've always had my back but show it in lashings of the tongue and of the belt. It's been two years and three states since I was two sizes smaller than I am now. I've never considered the possibility that I was the main character and not the supporting actor, but due to recent developments in antipathy and aesthete, reevaluation, and retrospective nostalgia. All of this is about to change.

I am me still evolving without my usually stolid and grim ****** features. i bare brevity to situations existing that would **** most or in the least paralyze a great many. There is one for every hour of every day, and one for every minute in every hour, second in every minute, and more than the minutes in every day. No one has a second chance, shares a different time, or works off a different clock. I have been called the master of the analog, king of the codependent, and rook to queenside knight. I share a parabola for every encounter, experience, and endeavor. I am three minutes from being a cadaver, one drink away from a drunk, and one thought away from being completely alone. I think upright, i sleep horizontally, and I love infinitely. I am the only finite constant i have ever known. I am the main character, the script, satire, sarcasm, and soundtrack are mine.

"I don’t care if you believe it. That’s the kind of house I live in. And I hope we never leave it.”
There's A Wocket In My Pocket by Dr. Seuss

Wee Angus McSporran, the world's most accurate marksman, is deployed  to Afghanistan and Iraq as a ****** in the Royal Scots Guards. In spite of his diminutive stature (4ft 8in), we see him skilfully shooting men, women and children by the score, convinced they are terrorists and a threat to our freedoms in the West. He becomes emotionally involved with the gigantic ginger-haired Pipe Sergeant-Major **** McKnob, the loudest piper in the British Army and a famous poofter. We see Angus and **** in some of the most explicit ******* love scenes ever shown in a mainstream movie (tastefully filmed in soft focus and sponsored by KY-Jelly).

When **** is blown to smithereens by a roadside bomb planted by American freelancers in order to implicate the Taliban, Wee Angus goes into deep depression and becomes obsessed with his skill as a ******, often shooting "allied" soldiers in so-called "blue on blue" friendly fire. After each shooting we see the image of the ghostly dead Sergeant-Major appear as in a dream, his kilt a-swirl and his pipes wailing a tragic dirge in scenes reminiscent of Braveheart.

When Wee Angus triumphantly notches up his 500th **** (including over 75 US military personnel and several important Afghan politicians), the British government decide it is time to withdraw him from active service. In order to gain patriotic press coverage in the run-up to a General Election in Britain, it is agreed that Wee Angus shall be awarded the Victoria Cross by HM the Queen.

We see Wee Angus, in full regimental uniform, marching up the Mall to Buckingham Palace to receive his medal, his telescopic-sighted ******'s rifle looming heavily on his childlike shoulder, being cheered on by crowds of thousands of wellwishers. Tragically, when he is crossing the road in front of the Palace, he does not hear a new environmentally friendly eco-diesel double-decker London Transport bus approaching (his hearing has been seriously impaired by the noise of battle) and he is mown down, his scream being amplified to eardrum-splitting levels of horror. The camera lingers lovingly on his crushed body and we see scenes of unimaginable grief in the crowds who have taken Wee Angus to their hearts. His lover, the strapping Pipe Sergeant-Major **** McKnob, appears as an angel and weeps by Wee Angus's squashed corpse.

In the final scene, reminiscent of the closing minutes of Slumdog Millionaire, the massed marching pipe bands of the Assembled Scots, Irish and Welsh Guards appear as if by magic and the entire crowd cast all inhibitions to the wind and indulge in a life-enhancing Highland Dance and Ceili around the Victoria Memorial facing Buckingham Palace. The film ends with a heart-breaking shot of the Queen coming out on the balcony in front of the Palace and having a fatal heart attack with the shock of what she sees before her. Prince Charles is seen gleefully rubbing his hands together in the background: at long last, he is King! *(end titles shown over a shot of him groping Camilla's naked sagging ****)

Mom should’ve been here by now. I sat on my frilly blue and purple polka-dotted bed waiting for the knock on the door telling me mom found my dress. Finally, it raps on my door. “Mom! Did you find it?” My eyes widen as the silky blue sways in her arms, it’s beauty sings as a caged bird let free. I gasp in admiration. “I-It’s wonderful!” I pick it up and it glides down into a perfect fit.  “I’m glad you love it. Come down after you finish getting ready.” The door thuds after her. Looking across the room I note my honey brown hair that curls into pigtails. Restraining the squeal that is caught in my throat, I travel the length of my room to the mirror.

     The mirror sits on an antique dresser that my mom found at a garage sale. At first I didn’t care much for the ancient wooden junk that is at least half a century old. Now the gold-tinted metal gleams with pride once again. Rusty gems were in carved into an arc surrounding the mystic glass. “Lydia! Can you go upstairs and get that box down for me?” Mom’s request interfered with my thoughts. … Go in that dusty attic? “Sure mom!”

       Out the door and into the hallway stood a door like any other in our house. It squeaked open as eerily as what you’d expect in a haunted house. ‘A box, a box’ than out of the side of my vision I thought I saw motion. I shook it off as just being a spider or mouse. Soon my footsteps lead me to come across a dresser and mirror identical to the one in my room. It was cluttered with cobwebs and spiders. “Not very well taken care of, are you?” I muttered the joke. I looked into the mirror expecting to see a light blue dress covered in dust and sparkly silk material, but there was no reflection at all. I looked even closer at the mirror, before realizing, there was no mirror at all.

     I looked around until I found it behind the dresser, sitting on the ground. I touched one of the gems that surprisingly glowed despite the rust. Something shone until I was blinded. A tingle ran through the hand that brushed the mirror’s gem and flew through my arm until it encompassed me, racing into my every feeling until I couldn’t feel anything. My eyes shut and refused to open themselves.


     A gentle breeze grasped my hair, as music descended from the air. I could smell what seemed to be a banquet of some kind, mixed with perfume. Slowly my eyes lifted their veil to lock with waves pounding against a brick wall. I was looking down from a balcony into the erupting sea. The white brick-made balcony was large and lonely even with the brush of people walking by. I hid behind the rose-red curtains to look around. People danced and talked. Some ate. The music paved the trail for their feet to follow, all very gracefully. The men wore suits that tails drip to their knees. Their white shirts buried under sashes of gold, red, or blue. Sometimes holding medallions, some only dressed in ties. The woman wore Victorian dresses of every color and shade. Frilled hats with flowers were arranged on their heads.

     Wait, I’m not supposed to be here. I was in the attic, going to the café with mom. What was I doing? My head ached from the effort to recall my actions. Why can’t I remember? I stumble backward only to reach the balcony’s edge. Where is this anyway?

      I dive back into the curtain to search for my answer. The softness of the curtain was a rose pushed to my nose. I peeked through the small gap to find a page carting some clothes past my hiding spot. I sneaked next to the cart being wheeled into a doorway, planning to find a way out. I lost the page and walked around until I went through an archway door. The cool air spiraled against my silk-trapped skin. The scent of flowers bloomed around me. I found the garden labyrinth.

     Walking through the maze’s hedges I arrive at a beautiful fountain displaying crystal clear pouring waters. Everywhere I gazed, flowers embraced the greenery. My breath deprived my lungs of air as I took in the sight. It was so magnificent under the light of the full moon. A few lamps lighted a sidewalk path maneuvering along the hedges. I circled the fountain, taking in the surroundings. My silk dress was shining in the dim glow. The sceneries beauty entranced me.






     I didn’t see a shadow before me, and almost fell to the ground. In a graceful swoop an arm latched around my waist to pull me to my feet. “Be careful to look where you’re going, please my lady.” He bowed his head while his slim rimmed glasses started to fall off of his face, suddenly he looked up at me; sliding them back on with a slight wave of a finger. “That garb isn’t from around here.” He noted my sky blue dress with interest. I’m not even sure where I am. “I seem a bit lost. Will you help me?” he stares at me closer, a deeper curiosity shines in his green eyes, daintily brushed by his dark hair. “My dear, if it brings you comfort to know, we are in London at the Buckingham palace.”

      I gasped; London was so far away from New York. It’s across seas. I gulped at my next question as sweat pricked the nape of my neck, “What’s todays date?” His eyes sparkled at the question. “Why, it is June 28, of 1838. The entire castle is bustling at these very words. It’s a day to remember. Now my dear, I must take my leave and see to the ballroom. Farewell.” He bowed, than turned to leave. His slow stride seemed like a dance all on it’s own. My gaze was caught on his figure following the foot trail until he had disappeared. I sighed at my first encounter with someone in this grand place. The Buckingham Palace, in 1838. …1838!! That can’t be right, it’s 2014. Then the shock hit me as if bricks fell from the castle onto my forehead; the clothes, the language, the pages, and royalty. This couldn’t be London in present Great Britain.

    I circle the garden once more before I decide to go back inside. The young noble had realized my clothes didn’t belong here, probably anyone who sees me would recognize this too. I start off towards the footpath. The melodic rhythm still swirled in the breeze. Than for a second I thought I heard a footstep. My head twists back only to see a shadow move. The cool air now seems icy. Multiple possible things to say to the night air gallop through my mind. “ Such a lovely night,” is the one I decide on. From behind me a few feet back I imagine a sigh. No, not imagined, but actually there. It’s too real. I turn on my heels just to catch a glimpse of a black cape caught in the wind, as it’s master floats into the open. “My, It is lovely. However, I didn’t realize such a strangely dressed commoner as you could enter this palace.” His smirk shows sarcasm as easily as his eyes. “I never intended to visit a palace, even less in London.” My honest answer only has him conceal his laugh.




     “I’m sure you didn’t. Yet, your dressed for a fine occasion.” His hand reaches for mine. I pull away from the willowy figured glove. “Why not allow me this dance in the garden?” I back away, aware that his voice is too prescient and I should be careful. “Are you going to be wary of me?” his gaze turned pained, his blue eyes that were once full of playfulness now melted into hurt. I unintentionally reach out for his gloved hand. His laugh echoes past the foliage. “Such a naïve girl.” Dread decided that this nobleman should be avoided at all costs. I ran towards the palace. “And so the chase begins.” He snickers and rushes after me.


     I pass through the archways, glancing back now and again to find the caped captor flying along my tracks. If only there was some way to lose him. I ducked into the nearest doorway. At the far end of the hall I could see a door with a sign saying, “Dressing room”. I flung myself under a table and tablecloth to hide myself as my pursuer rounded the corner into the hall. I tucked my head between my knees and waited for his footsteps to fade. The warm place that held me trapped was close and too easily discoverable. I held my breath and tried to sink into the darkness. I’m not here. No one can find me.

     After enough time flew by to ensure my safety, I crawled out from under the table. The cloth draped over my head. I looked back and forth, half expecting to see a smirking smile, and haughty eyes. A girl stares down at me. She’s at least ten years old. “Shhh.” I press my finger to my lips and gently smile at her as if we’re keeping a secret between us. She giggles, copies the motion to her own mouth, than delightfully skips away. I let out a sigh and stand up. I follow the hall to the dressing room. The door creaks open and I look around once more, startled by the sudden noise.

     I sneak inside hoping find that the room is abandoned. In the darkly lit room, only my footsteps sound. As far as I can tell, no one has entered lately. I walk over to the carts of clothes and run my hand over the first one on the stack. It’s a ruby-red dress with fine material and some gems similar to those in the mirror. … The mirror. Not in my room, but the attic. My head hurts again, but I know I touched its gem before winding up here. How? I look through the dresses until I find a light blue and white one. The bowed sleeves come down to my elbow with frills encasing the bottom. The neckline forms a squared area of similar white frills. A small white sash acts as a belt that drops into the skirt of the dress. Two similar white ones come down each side. I pick up the light material and set it near my feet.
      My old silk dress easily slips overhead, making way for the new clothing. After tugging tight sleeves and bodices into place the light dress swoops over my feet. I spin through the dark room only to stop at catching someone’s eye. I immediately turn towards the frozen face. It is my own reflection in a mirror. I face myself as my sight settles on the dress I wear. My honey brown hair curled over the dress from my pigtails. My eyes sparkled it’s matching blue to the dress. In the corner of the room, next to the mirror, sat a large wooden box. I looked through it to find that it was full of jewelry and accessories. I prodded its contents until I found sky blue bows to wrap in my pigtails.

     I walked into the open hallway, now littered with people going to and fro. Anyone from passerby’s, young nobility, servants, and pages. Once the hall emptied I fled the room, hurrying through the corridors until I met with the room that created the harmonious trance. At the ends of the great ballroom sat crowds eating and laughing. Clusters of on-goers danced and chatted. In the middle of the farthest side of the room sat a throne that was embroidered with metal marks from centuries of legends. On the throne sat a woman at least eighteen of age. Her regal crown shone despite other attractions surrounding the dance room. A page strode over to her as she flourished her hand for his service. He stood and listened intently to her whispers. Finally, he stood and roared for the room’s attention. From his mouth spilled cheer and wistfulness, as he demanded the crowd’s ear. “Our young Queen Victoria’s coronation has completed. Now starts a new era! Let the celebration proceed.” The room reverberated with hope, love, and admiration for their new ruler.

     ‘Queen Victoria has been crowned’ having no clue how to find a way home, I disconsolately decide to join in the festivities. The crowd moves into a larger room. I stagger after them; the mass pushing everyone forward. We pass the kitchens. The aroma of cakes and deserts of every kind rises into the cool night air. The only smell more perceptible than delicate delights is the perfume penetrating the entire castle. We enter a by far more spacious ballroom. Empty amphitheater seats loom overhead, tied into the walls for onlookers to watch the ball unravel. Once again I glance at these to notice black material hangs over the edge. A head moves as people fill the seats. A nobleman with a black cape and familiar blue eyes takes their seat next to men and woman of high status. I walk into the mop to hide myself, while watching him. He laughs and chats with them as if he’s known them all his life.


      Unable to watch where I’m going, I trip. The harsh, solid ground hits my knee as if I’ve met a tornado. I wince at the pain as I strain myself to stand. A firm, but careful hand grabs mine. I look up into green eyes shaded by recognizable glasses. “My dear, you are very clumsy.” He smiles at me as I pat my dress back into place. “I see we’ve met again.” My response comes weakly as the sore from my knee makes me flinch. “I don’t think you’ve told me your name.” I inquire. “You have not requested my name, so I haven’t told it. However, if you do me the honor of a dance, my secret may be leaked.”  He bowed and offered me his arm, as I timidly accept it.

     A new song disrupts the last, as new pairs take the stage. He walks me onto the floor, and diligently starts to dance. I watch my feet, not wanting to mistake my pace. “Lift your chin, my dear. You don’t seem to but much of a church-bell.” I looked up at him puzzled. “Church-bell?” As he tried to conceal a grin, his glasses couldn’t suppress the laughter in his eyes. “Your rather quiet. And most likely not from around London, are you?” I looked to the ground once more. Should I tell him or not? Will it start problems, or will I be okay? “It’s fine, I shall not expect you to answer a question you wish not to.” I looked up at him, solemnly. “I promised to introduce myself, correct?” I nodded, as the music that echoed around us faded into the next song.

      His movements were so fluid; he was a wave at the end of the day, flowing into the sunset. “Miss, I am known by most as William Anderson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He procured my sweaty palm into his, tenderly swiping his mouth to my fingers. I let my hand be brought back into the dance as I searched for words to speak. Once the dance ended a few moments later, I curtsey and murmur, “It’s nice to meet you. I am Lydia Olsen.” At my gesture he bows, and requests once more, “Am I trustworthy enough to understand why you are in a mysterious place you don’t understand?” My answer had been decided and started to splatter from my mouth. “Y…”









     The next sound bounces along the room, it’s symphony starting. My words mix into the noise. In my vision of the seats above, snowy dots shoot arrows in my direction. Blue eyes gaze down at me, their iciness piercing me as icicles prickle my skin. I exchange a glance with William, nod and answer, “You are. I’ll explain.” My discomfort is surely recognizable. I often peek over my shoulder above as we dance. The shadow with a glare starts his voyage through the seats to reach the stairs that pillar into the wall. He descends from the tower, only adding to my panic. My hand seizes Williams, as I give him an apologetic smile. We hurry from the room, stumbling over each other’s feet. His graceful prance, now a faltering wreak.

     Once we are outside the ballroom, I turn towards him. “I trust you, so please understand, I live In the USA in 2014. Not London, not Even in the 1800’s.” His expression is masked, but I’m sure that I’ve confused him. “I went back into time, from the future.” The simple words struck a chord with him, his glasses tilted off his nose as he listens intently. “The future? How?” even I don’t know how to answer such questions. “I’m not sure. I was in the attic with a mirror, than … ****! I’m here.” Confusion once again wonders onto his face. “I went into a storage room with old things, and found a mirror, touched a gem, now I was here.”

     “I see, but why did we run away from the celebration? I was looking forward to another dance with you.” His casual smile does nothing to conceal unasked questions. I’m not sure how to answer them ei

I trace my finger around. With red lipstick on I wear the skin of the pets I had, looking like a marigold shot through the head, my bare skin is barbed in the back. Such trouble and quiet with the wrap-around, the cross-walk, and floral shop as I browse. The white elephant in the upstairs bedroom, is making it hard for every one of us to sleep. With this Africa becomes a disease, that I unwrap from a cotton white sheet. When I breathe life is going good, under the spells of wicked and word. I like to call out in the night, so with no response I can plead for the courage to think; all the suburban philistines try to help me, but I can't tell a joke because I cannot read. Every thing amounts to being fat. Or liquidated in the most pathetic singles party for Karl Lagerfeld.

Numb fingers slur the words as I type telephone numbers that end in threes. I see a notice to be called upon, but it's hard to remember what day it is when your job only pays you in financial advice, "Don't do as I do, but please just do what I say." And I can smell that. The approach that a hunter brews in his midnight solemn cup of tea. Where a voice chimes in while a mouse runs out, dragging the corners of my eyes in a lagging meme, it doesn't do well to even be yourself sometimes, once while traveling I couldn't see. Come that morning I had left my hotel pass inside my favorite pants, black denim toting paint from a ******* shot, a picture that explains my disease.

The fifty inch fan hums an anonymous tune that when I turn quickly towards it becomes this feral baboon. And is it hardly based on fact or is it the illusions and the myths that Christopher Robins struck inside of me. With his griseous hands made of soot and of gouache, that worshipped animals that wear clothes outside. And even sometimes there are z's that transform into other creatures that hum real fast and talk out loud in nursery rhymes, a Whatsit and a Woozel are totally, too much for me. I turn the fan off and lay back down, and fight the world off with hands from another guy, much braver than I who doesn't even have tattoos but he's the top wordsmith from Buckingham. What a beautiful treat and such a magnificent surprise that the elephant lays down to die. Of course that's when my mouth dries up with smoke and my voice turns into the vanilla flavoring that everyone hates, and then too I felt like laying down to die. But I'm not 97 like I had thought I'm quite sure that I'm still alive. The white moon shines into my bedroom window at night and I pretend that I direct for the sky.

I used to think that all of them were just bodies. She-figures, they came and went, facilitating infinite happiness and following with hellacious heartbreak, aorta explosions galore. They pass. I stay. She goes. I remain. We all take a trip, but she falls asleep while I follow the road, I sing the song, make the lyrics up as the 101 heads West, and I careen against the Pacific. I see silvery-white plumes of whale breaths spouting, they break the rocks of my rock and roll. When the levee breaks, we'll have no place to go- I'm going back to Chicago.

California. Line 5. Verse 1. She is born in Arkansas, in Denver, in New York City, in the back of a taxi cab, her parents waiting for a table at Earth Cafe, 1989. There are concerts, balconies, elevator shafts, and on benches. The gain rises, the volume up and up and up, I offer her a cigarette, I ask her if she likes my dress, I show up with two palms full of a flame, and I say hello. Browsing in high-definition, the water is warm, my feet are planted and I have everywhere to go. Classical emporium of light fill me with ease, greatness, and belief. She asks me if I'm gay. Every great confusion can be proven to be fortuitous with enough time on hand. I kiss in cars, in bathrooms, and barrooms, in hallways, on staircases, on beds, church steps, and legs. I touched a leg, ran my fingers through her hair, my thumbs curved to the height of two ears alongside a size B head. I love art *****. i burn candles, and I swirl the wax around until the walls wear masks of white. I check-in to a hotel. I stop to buy wild flowers on the side of the road, or to climb down a ravine, we open a page into an enormous patch of strawberries, wind-surfers, and the golden Palo Alto beaches. I am in Bronzeville, on my way to Bridgeport, I am riding the train, browsing magazines, and singing new songs in my head. My lips are wet with excitement and the musings of the Modern Art Museum and the gift of a first kiss; behind the statue on Balcony 2, near the drinking fountain, the Eames couch, and two lips meeting anew. Bravery in twos.

Chapter 1, Verse 2. The chorus is large and exciting. New plastic shining coats. Smocks patterned with the Random House children's stories that we played with as children. We didn't wear gloves, or hats, or pants, or our hearts on our sleeves. I was up to my knees in hormones and very persuasive. My fifth birthday was at the Nature Center, you chased me into the boys' bathroom and kissed me with your wet and four year old lips in the second stall from the door. I eased up maybe 2% since then. The speakers are a little bit fuzzy, it's like listening to the spit of someone's tongue cascade the roof of their mouth while they pronounce the British consonants of the 90s. Said and done and saving space.

I am saving up for Grace. A crush in the mid 2000s, black hair, long legs, and the only brunette for a decade before or after. We played doctor, with the electric scalpel we turned our noses red with Christmas time South American powders. A safe word for an enemy, the sun for an enemy too. You bolted out and took my early Jimi Hendrix Best Of compact disc case too. While we're at it, you took my Michael Jackson cassettes as well. I go mid-range, think Kiri Te Kanawa in the whispers of E.T.'s Elliot. Stuffed-animal closet party for seven minutes in heaven. Your family came with butlers while mine came with over-educated storage. A blue borage sky in the intestines of life, a splinter in the shanty-town of invincible daily struggles- both of us were born again in O'Hare Airport's Parking Level D. Too many nonsensical arguments in two-tone grayscale ripping open the packaging of a course about trysting in your twenties.

Your stomach's history is overpowering. It is temperamental, mettled by spirits and sleepless nights, borborygmus, wambles, and shades of nervousness you were never comfortable speaking openly about. The history of your ****** was privatized, in options and unedited films shot over and over candidly by a mini DV desk camera, nine months to read you wrong to weep in strong wintry walks back and forth from The Buckingham to the Dwight Lofts, Room 408 without a view. All of your secrets in a little miniature of a notebook, bright cerise red. You captured teardrops in medicinal jars meant for syringes. You tied strings to your fingers, named your field mouse Ginger, and introduced your mother as Lady Darling. Captain with stingray skin, the hide of Ferris Bueller with the coattails of James Bond, dusted with daisy pollen, and clearly weakness. You ate me like bitter herbs on Thursdays, and like every other woman I've ever met, on Tuesdays you always kept me waiting.

I have wings for everything. Yellow wings for a woman in a yellow dress, Red, White, and Green wings for Bernice from Mexico City, Purple wings for  Mrs. Doolittle the doctor who worked at Taco Bell, the Jamaican priestess who was traveling through Venice Italy- we smoked hash with the grandchild of James Joyce on the Northern pier against the aurulent statues of Apollo and Zeus, Cupids' collection of malevolent tricks, SleepingB Beauty's rebuttal in fending off GHB attackers, my two dear friends who were kidnapped in clothes, abandoned in the ****, and only remember eating chocolate donuts with sprinkles and the bruises and dirt on the insides of their thighs. Nothing clever. Nothing extraordinary. Everything sentimental, built to withstand soot, sourness, and early female bravado.

You know how to play the piano so you've said, but i only have the CD you gave me to prove it. I do have evidence of your addiction to men and *******. I have your collection of dresses with tags still on them (but every woman has some of those), there is the post office box in Kauai, the Halloween card from last November and the two videos I have stored on an external drive in a nightstand adjacent to the foot of my bed. You sleep atrociously, talk too quickly, and **** like your father abandoned you when you were five. Your talent for taking photographs is like your skill-set for playing the piano, but I don't have the CD to prove it. You don't believe in social media, social consistency, friendships, or hephalumps and woozels- with the exception of the classes we shared together in college, I've never seen you outside of the most glamorous of fashion. You hate flats, hats, and white wine, and for as sad as you can seem to be at times, I've only had you cry on me once. While we were on the phone, three days after your mother hung herself. That's when I last left California, and I haven't been back yet.

I love a Kristine, but once a Britni, a Brandi, a Joni, a Tina, Kristina, Kirsten, Kristen, and a Katherine and Kathryn too. I know rock stars who are my dearest friends, enemies who I share excellent taste in music with, and parents who've always had my back but show it in lashings of the tongue and of the belt. It's been two years and three states since I was two sizes smaller than I am now. I've never considered the possibility that I was the main character and not the supporting actor, but due to recent developments in antipathy and aesthete, reevaluation, and retrospective nostalgia. All of this is about to change.

I am me still evolving without my usually stolid and grim ****** features. i bare brevity to situations existing that would **** most or in the least paralyze a great many. There is one for every hour of every day, and one for every minute in every hour, second in every minute, and more than the minutes in every day. No one has a second chance, shares a different time, or works off a different clock. I have been called the master of the analog, king of the codependent, and rook to queenside knight. I share a parabola for every encounter, experience, and endeavor. I am three minutes from being a cadaver, one drink away from a drunk, and one thought away from being completely alone. I think upright, i sleep horizontally, and I love infinitely. I am the only finite constant i have ever known. I am the main character, the script, satire, sarcasm, and soundtrack are mine.

"I don’t care if you believe it. That’s the kind of house I live in. And I hope we never leave it.”

It's London, all the time,
when at night I close my eyes,
it's when and where I get to roam and dwell,
in the city I know inside-out so well,
where all the narrow streets and cobbled stones,
teacups, pint glasses, and fresh scones,
lend themselves into the misty English air,
of London's ancient, yet so modern flair,
of Piccadilly, and Hyde Park Corner's box,
riding Black Cabs, or a big Red Double-Bus,
evening gas-lamp walks with ol' Saucy Jack,
fish and chips and shandys for a perfect snack;
then the changing of The Guard at Buckingham,
where native Cockney's and young mums with prams,
gather for a view of Lizzy's Royal Family Show;
but, my, how rich the April sun sets and does glow,
over the rolling raging river Thames of yore,
where ancient Roman armies marched to shore,
proclaimed: LONDINIUM! -the regal rest,
of civilised peoples and the Royal Crests,
where lives and deaths would go and come,
yet The City despite all odds has lost and won,
in the hearts, souls and minds of all who take,
great London as their true hearth and home to stake,
and arise and fall the poet's versing nights and days,
whilst Big Ben chimes his toll in the foggy haze;
and alas, London from my slumber dissipates,
to that of which I yearn and love, asleep or wake,
knowing where my home of soul-keep lies divine:
in London, my dear London; it's London, all the time.
__
London:
http://beautyineverything.com/3366195864

Earlier on tonight
I came within this close of losing my life
On Buckingham Palace Road.

He was doing 50 and I wasn't wearing any lights.

And like freshly cut spaghetti
Relief took over fright
The car drove past and the man had a face like this...

But I was too busy thanking my lucky stars
For coming out tonight.

And if I'd died tonight, everyone would have said.
"Ahhh what a shame. But...it was late at night and...and he didn't have any lights....so...y'know."

And the man doing 50 would probably have said he was doing thirty and just didn't see me.

I'd have hated to have died like that.

In 1983, the Fashion Design Council burst on to the Melbourne scene like a Liverpool kiss to the mainstream fashion industry. Inspired by punk's DIY aesthetic and armed with an audaciously grandiose title, an earnest manifesto and a grant from the Victorian government, FDC founders Robert Buckingham, Kate Durham and Robert Pearce were determined to showcase the burgeoning Melbourne design scene in all its outrageous glory.

"People resented hearing about Karl Lagerfeld," says Durham. "Our movement was against the mainstream and the way Australians and magazines like Vogue treated Australian designers."

Over its 10-year lifespan, the FDC launched such emerging designers as Jenny Bannister, Christopher Graf and Martin Grant. But what was perhaps most exciting was the FDC's ecumenical approach. Architects, filmmakers, artists and musicians all partied together at runway shows held in nightclubs.

"It was an inventive time when people came together and made people notice fashion," says Durham.

Among the creative congregation, Durham remembers artist Rosslynd Piggott, who constructed dresses of strange boats with children in them and filmmaker Philip Brophy, who used "naff" Butterick dress patterns. Elsewhere, an engineer made a pop-riveted ball dress out of sheet metal. The crossover between music, art, graphic design and film extended to architects such as Biltmoderne (an early incarnation of celebrated architects Wood Marsh) who designed the FDC's favourite runway and watering hole, Inflation nightclub.

"Clothing was confronting," says Durham. "It was brash and tribe-oriented. It was quite good if you weren't good-looking. People liked the idea that this or that clothing style was going to win you friends."

Today, however, even Karl Lagerfeld has a punk collection. To complicate matters, "fast fashion" appropriates the avant-garde at impossibly low prices. The digital era too has caused the fashion world to splinter and bifurcate. What's a young contemporary designer to do?

"The physical collective is no longer that important," says Robyn Healy, co-curator of the exhibition High Risk Dressing/Critical Fashion, which uses the FDC as a lens to view the current fashion landscape. "These are designers who are highly networked through social media who put their work up on websites."

Fashion designers still use music, film and architecture, but in different ways. Where FDC members might document its runway shows with video, studios such as Pageant use video as the runway show and post them online. Social media is perhaps the big disrupter. Where FDC designers might collaborate with architects, today it's webdesigners.

"Space has changed," says Healy. "Web designers might be the equivalent of the architect today. It's a different use of space."

As grandiose as the FDC, yet perhaps even more ambitious in scope, is contemporary designer Matthew Linde's online store *** gallery, Centre for Style. Like the FDC, it offers space for "artists who aren't at all designers per-se, but they're dealing with a borrowed language from fashion", Linde told i-D magazine.

"It's an extraordinary juggernaut across the world with a huge amount of Instagram followers," says co-curator Fleur Watson. "[Linde] has created a brand that uses social media in an interesting avant-garde way."

Yet unlike their often untrained FDC counterparts, these designers are perhaps the first generation of PhD designers, notes Watson. "Robert Pearce had a belief in culture changing the world. That's what these new designers are reflecting on in their research, their position in the fashion world and how do they change the way fashion works?"

While it's also true that new technologies offer exciting possibilities in embedded fabrics and experimentation with 3D printing, fast fashion has created certain expectations.

As Cassandra Wheat of the Chorus fashion label laments: "It's just hard for people to understand the complexity and the value that goes into production without being really exposed to it. They think they should have a T-shirt for cheaper than their sandwich."

During the course of the exhibition Chorus will produce its monthly collection from one of the newly designed spaces within the gallery. The exhibition's curators have commissioned three contemporary architects who, like its '80s counterparts, work across the arts, to interpret FDC-inspired spaces. Matthew Bird's Inflation-influenced bar acts as a meeting place for the exhibition's forums and discussions on the contemporary state of fashion. Sibling architects abstracts the retail space, while Wowowa's office design resembles a fishbowl. For Watson, the exposed shopfront/office has as much front as Myer's. Its architecture suggests the type of brazen confidence every generation of fashion design needs. Says Watson: "Fake it till you make it."Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2017

LUCKY 13 BIG TRIP DIP
From the 12th diary entry of Stewy Lemmon's childhood adventures.

This week my whole family, Smoochy and I, all headed off by car, to the annual big city fair on Friday the 13th. Some people believe an unlucky day of the year and an unlucky number for most. It was a big trip for the whole family, which took about two hours and twenty-five minutes to get there. But, we all still looked forward to it coming around each year, despite the long drive.

I had been to the big city fair, for every year that I can remember. My parents have been going there, every year since they were my age. I thought, 'Man, they must be old now, maybe one hundred and two years old or even a lot more'.

The food stalls were packed full of snacks and different makes of cakes and all kinds of different, yummy-in-your-tummy things, for us kids to eat.

There were stalls selling: Creamy Caramel Cup-Cakes, Limited Edition Lollipop Layered Lamington's and even some, short, swirly, Shortbread Slices. Even, my mum and two, much older, identical, twin sisters, Emma and Jemma, had set up their very own food stall. They, were selling heaps of my colourful creation named, 'A Colourful Take-Away Fruit-Blast In A Bag'.

They, were even selling, clear plastic cups along with a spiral-shaped straw.

But, only for the people, who emailed me for the secret, Jiggy-Jiggy Side-Kick Creation instructions, which was in my third diary entry named, 'Water off a Ducks Back'. Only then, will you remember what the plastic cups are for and how to perform the all important, Jiggy-Jiggy.

There were so many fun rides at the annual big city fair, for all of the kids to enjoy. Like the dodgem cars, a jumping castle and the pirate ship, 'my favourite ride of all time'. I loved sitting at the very back of the pirate ship because, it made me feel really funny in the tummy.

Towards the end of the day, my dad, had bought a ticket in the, Big city annual lucky dip first prize, surprise raffle. He had never been lucky in the big city raffle, all of the previous years before. So, this time, he didn't pick his usual lucky number 7, but instead he picked number 13 and guess what? 'He won the first prize surprise'.

We all went to see what the first prize was, at this year's annual lucky dip surprise raffle. It was a family holiday to thirteen of the world's most colourful cities. The whole family screamed, with joy. But, I then slapped my face a little and said to myself, 'Is this another dream of mine'? 'Nope! this one's for real', mum told me, with glee.

The day had arrived, for the start of our colourful, lucky-dip, big 13, city trip adventure. We had, packed all our bags and I even put in my dad's trusty, fancy, far out, funny binoculars and my very, super, sporty, single-shot, stylish slingshot. Just in case, I needed them both on our exciting city adventures.

My two, much older, identical, twin sisters, Emma and Jemma, had packed their bags full of makeup, creams and a hair styling dryer. While, Lemmy, had his bag packed by our dear mum, Flo, along with her own. While, dad went to his unusually built and outrageously painted, backyard, outback, shed and gathered his tools and paint brushes for the trip.

We headed to the airport, to start our first leg of our adventure to London England. On the first day, we went to visit the queen, in her very large house named, Buckingham Palace. The palace guard's face's didn't move one bit. Even, when dad, tried to make them laugh, with a funny joke or pulling faces at them, to make them smile.

Then, off we went, to see Big Ben. It was built years ago along the river Thames. We, then went to see some old rocks called, Stonehenge. Nobody knows exactly, why they were made. Their just placed, all alone, located in the middle of a large field, gathering moss and all still on show.

We then took a ferry ride across the English Channel and hopped off in the Netherlands. We all stayed in the very colourful city of Amsterdam. Mum, loved all of the beautiful flowers and my two, much older, identical, twin sisters, Emma and Jemma, especially loved trying the, unusual sweet cakes and drinks in the many cafes all spread about town. While dad, Lemmy, Smoochy and I, really enjoyed riding the bikes along the paths, on the side of the long and winding canals.

Then, we went to the beautiful, but cold country of Norway. We stayed in the capital city of Oslo. We took a boat ride through the icy fjords and I even thought, I saw that whale that winked at me, on that adventurous day out at, Slip-Slop-Slap Bay.

We then went by bus up north to see the Aurora Lights. Wow! what a sight. It was like daytime, even at ten thirty at night.

I even thought maybe, Stefan Pettersson from North Poland the ski instructor at Shivermytimbers Ski Lodge, lived close to here.

Next city was Paris the city of lights in the country of France. We went up the Eiffel Tower and I pulled out dad's fancy homemade binoculars from my bag and had such wonderful views of the city and then took a taxi for a ride through the streets of Paris and even went under the historical Arc of Triumph. Then we all went to see the great artwork and sculptures at a place called the Louvre. We saw a serious painting of a sad lady named Moaning Lisa; at least that's what I think the tour guide said.

The next morning we boarded a small plane and landed in the very watery city of Venice in Italy. I thought we were going to land on water, just like Buck the Duck does back at the small village pond. The city is surrounded by water and everyone travels by a small boat called a gondola which weavestheir way through the water canals and under all the old bridges. Smoochy even climbed up into the top left-hand side pocket of the Italian man sailing the boat, to get a better view. The food was so colourful in Italy, like the spaghetti, pizzas and delicious and colourful gelato.

Egypt was our next adventure stop and we went to the ancient city of Cairo. The very old Pyramids were out of this world, with precision angles and stones that fitted together ever so well. A cruise on the long Nile River was very exciting to see as well. It went from one end of the country to the other, but we only travelled on it for a mile or so.

Then off to Thailand and to the capital city named Bangkok, the busiest city of them all. There were cars, taxis, two wheeled motorbikes and funny three wheeled colourful ones called

Tuk-tuks. There was traffic and people everywhere we went and a lot of confusion by the Lemmon's when trying to cross the busy streets. We even visited some very old Buddhist Temples in the countryside and had some lunch that was extremely hot stuff, which made us all, puff. They gave us bread and water to cool our mouths down afterwards. Mum said, oh what a colourful and spicy city it is, and I love there ancient culture and friendliness of their people.

Off to the big red and easy going country of Australia tomorrow. We visited a place in the middle of nowhere called Alice Springs, which was in the Northern Territory of Australia. The next day we climbed up a rock named Uluru that was a sacred area for Aboriginals, the original inhabitants of Australia. We took a trip to a beautiful area up north of the Northern Territory called Kakadu National Park. Where we saw big red kangaroos, crocodiles and even some emus. One kangaroo even to try and box dad, but dad ran away and said, ‘He would fight him, but he forgot his gloves’.

We then headed off to China and the island of Hong Kong. What a very old and colourful city it was, with so many colourful buildings to see. In the large harbour we saw painted fishing and food boats cruising around.

Brazil Rio de Janeiro was next and we even saw the famous Carnival, with people dancing to a very cool beat. All dressed up and having the best party of all time. Down on the beach people were swimming and surfing and lying about in the sun. We even went to see a football match with USA v Cameroon playing, oh so well, for the winner would get its hand on a large world cup. We also saw a very large statue of an important man perched on a mountain.

USA was the last country to visit before our adventures would come to an end. We landed in Los Angeles and went straight to the magical kingdom of Disneyland. We did a day tour of Universal Studios where they make all the great movies.

Off to Nevada we drove and stayed one night in the ever so bright Las Vegas, oh what colourful sites we saw from our seventeenth floor suite hotel window. There were so many colourful casinos stretched out as long as you could see which light up at night alright. Dad even said you could see the lights from outer space. The next day we took a flight over the Grand Canyon in a Hot Air Balloon. We saw beautiful waterfalls and even saw people on donkeys riding down far down below.

New York was our last city to visit; it was especially dad's favourite city, because his ancestors had lived there for years, before coming to live in our village of Shimmerleedimmerlee to start a family, all those years ago.

The Empire State Building was an historic tall building that even once had a gorilla on top making a movie. Statue of Liberty was so fun to climb up and see all the lights of New York from across the Hudson River.

We took a horse drawn carriage ride in Central Park and even saw a memorable garden for the ex-Beatle John Lennon.

While travelling the New York subway to get to Soho we saw some great graffiti artwork sprayed on council approved walls.

The next day we were heading back home, which is nestled amongst the trees on a hill, in a little country village, called Shimmerleedimmerlee.

originally it reads as:
(****, i am drunk: do sudoku drunk!
          what a ******!)
x x x     x x x     x x x
x 7 6     x 5 9     3 x x  
x x 8     x 7 x     x 1 x

x x 2     x 1 x     x 5 x
x x x     3 x 7     1 2 x
1 6 9     x 2 x     x x x

x x x     4 x 1     7 8 x
9 4 x     7 x x     x 6 x
x 5 x     6 x x     x x x

      now i really want to learn something,
but i don't seem to want to...

the end result?

3 1 5  8 4 6  9 7 2
2 7 6  1 5 9  3 4 8
4 9 8  2 7 3  5 1 6

7 3 2  9 1 8  6 5 4
5 8 4  3 6 7  1 2 9
1 6 9  5 2 4  8 3 7

6 2 3  4 9 1  7 8 5
9 4 1  7 8 5  2 6 3
8 5 7  6 3 2  4 9 1...

    bu there's a narrative to mind...
the        ) game,
        half an hour's worth of game after inserting
the first six -
                    (a
                      b) matrixes -
             the theta-phi debate crosswords and blind-spots -
but the narrative goes like this:

a.   7                          1
      1                          5  ­    )
      x 7       1              2
                                    "zooming in with a nibbled into 6",
b. 5 |  5
           7
           1
           x
       x  2  x
           x
           x
           x
                       c. 2nd 5
                          6 x x  4 x 1  7 8 x (5)
d. 1st 5
          5 x x  4 x 1  7 8 x
          9 4 x  7 x x  x 6 x
         x 5 x  6 x x  x x x
                              e. x x x         x x 2              x x x
                                  x 7 6    |   x x x    |        9 4 x
                                  x x 8         1 6 9              x 5 x
f. x x x
   x 5 9
   x 7 x
   x 1 x               x 5 x
   3 x 7
   5 2 x
   4 x 1
   7 x 5               7 8 5
   6 x x
               (more than or haczyk, or háček
            a hook: in saying: oi! geezer!
traffic that 'un!  
                           but still more than or less
than in Copernican lingua?
dunno... well: that's two smokin' barrels' worth
of info for the inauguration -
'cos' pretty face over 'ere was half a wit's know-churn
off a *****... 'now what i mean?'
they necessarily say it in sprechen glutton Danzig
so you look smart, and not like some artful dodgy
podger:
              n'es pas?                             twinkle tweezer ****:
oi right and that ****** off came with the touch
of a knuckle: 'cos' i wasn't preaching trigonometry:
nor was i ******* kidding.
               down the east end they call us Vlad-sodden
impaler imperialistic -
         after the little debacle we 'av a laugh and drink
a bottle of *****...
          then we do the rickety chance of engaging in
baptismal fire with the Jamaicans -
or so you know. well, wouldn't you believe it,
look how far being called vermin gets ya!
all the way to Buckingham Palace me says!
         and some dared to say: ransack Sicily.
blah ha ha... your's a tongue on the leash!

g.    x - 4? / 3?
       5
       7
       1
       x - 4?
       2
       x
       x
       x
                         h.  6 2 x  4 x 1  7 8 5
                              6 2 x  4 9 1  7 8 5
                              6 2 3 4 9 1  7 8 5
(breakthrough point!)

i. 7
      x
      1
      5
      2
      x
               j. x 7 6  1 5 9  3 x x

k. 7                  l. 7                   m. 7
    x                     x                         4
    1                     1                         1
    5                     5                         5
    2                     2                         2
    x                     3                      3
    8                     8                         8
    6                     6                         6
    9                  9                         9

n. 6 2 3  4 9 1  7 8 5
    9 4 x  7 8 5 x 6 x
    x 5 x  6 x x  x 1 x

         o. 6 2 3
             9 4 x
            8 5 x
                                    p. 6 2 3              4
                                       9 4 1     |    7
                                       8 5 7           6
          
the 1st square:      6 2 3
                                9 4 1
                                8 5 7.

    2nd square:
                            x          x
                ­            3          x
                            x          x­
                            x          x
                       ­     1          x
                            x          x
      ­                      7          5
       9 4 1
       2 6 3
       7 8 5;
                       q. square no. 2 anti linear:
4 9 1                               4 9 1
7 8 5              : / v.          7 8 5
6 x x                               6
             ergo
                      4 9 1
                      7 8 5
                      6 3 2
                                             3rd square:
    7 8 5                        7 8 5
    2 6 3         |             2 6 3
    x 9 x                        x 9 1....

subsequently: 8 5 7 6 3 2 4 9 1
  hence: 1 6 9 5 2 x x 3 7
       ": 1 6 9 5 2 4 8 3 7
       ": 2 7 6 1 5 9 3 4 8
         (interlude):
4 x 8 x 7 x x x(?)
                          
           r. x                        s. 7 3 2
               2                           x x x
               4                           1 6 9:           3
               7                                             2
               x                                                4
              ­ 1                                                7
              ­ 6                                               5
               9                                                1
              ­ 8                                                6
              ­                                                   9
                                                               ­  8

t. 1          then:      1
     7                           7
     x                           9
     3                           3
     x                           8
     6                           6
     2                           2
     4                           4
     5                           5

  then     7 3 2
               5 8 4
               1 6 9           then 5 8 4  3 6 7  1 2 9

          then 4                2
                    5                  9
   ­                 7                  8  
                    1    ­              3
                    6

      u. 7 3 2  x 1 x  x 5 4
then
             6 5 4              9 1 8
               1 2 9         |     3 6 7
               8 3 7                5 2 4

then
              6
               9
               3
                8                             8 4 6
                7                              1 5 9
                4                              2 7 3
                1
                5
                2

v. then 3 1 x  8 4 6  x 7 2
  then 3 1 5  8 4 6 9 7 2 0
then the crescendo:
                                  9 7 2
                                  3 4 8
                                  5 1 6         !

well... between listening
to the INFO WARS ban...
by the mainstream...

and listening
to Greig's
perfecto
   in the hall of the mountain king...

and john williams...
london symphony orchestra

for the emperor's throne room
scene?

            youtube was always my
testing alternative to
            ****** megastore listening
booths...
like replacing my ears with
a tongue...

               i never actually tuned
in on youtube,
for the indie commentators...
i was always there for the music...
      listening to these
content creators,
grovel a penny,
like some Oxfam offshoot?
   not cool...
    
                i was always there for
the foraging of music...
         never the commentaries...
who said anything about
the commentaries?!
        
          can't be bothered,
won't be bothered,
given that i've been doing this
scribbling for over 10 years,
and hven't been paid a
barnado's penny...
can't be ******* bothered,
mate...
        burn in hell;

at this point, you don't dictate,
and... i don't tell you
what you must do...
           welcome! free fall!

oh no... like my english neighbor,
he doesn't tell me when i can or can't
light my barbeque...
  just so he can hang his washing!

*******!
       the only respected violence is
that against private property rights...
i'd cut his limbs off,
and then hang him off in a noose
composed of, his ******* tongue,
the next time,
he tells me i'm to inform him of
when i do my next barbeque,
prior to him doing his washing...

PRIVATE... PROPERTY... RIGHTS...
YOU *******! ENGLISH! ****!
nor king, nor Buckingham Palace
janitor!
*******!

you even know what itchy teeth
implies?
     i beg to differ:
you don't want to know,
but i'll let you know;
it implies a desire to own
a pig farm;
   and we known what the economics
of pork looks likes...
now apply that in reverse,
to hide, cannibalism.

Almost like a mirror to
Look at you. A sort of Alice on the other side
Of the looking glass.
You are a reflection I never thought might exist.
But there are flaws spiderwebbing cracks into the glass,
The picture so minutely cracked here and
There that it might all just
Fall out of the frame.

Words, picked like highhanging fruit,
Stack and
Form the
Edges of your
Mind--
brilliant walls of Buckingham but also the boxes of fruit
(high hanging like the words) floating down congolese waters
and into the heart

--of Darkness? only kurtz knows
but does it matter? still Grand as ever--

They're words I see in myself on my side
And music from Mechanicsburg Anchorage Dar es Salaam
sings down the same Congo we share

But the only cracks I see are with me.
Your words and wit are the envoys,
Celebrated diplomats from the Heart that lies
downriver.
eyes flash and the Fruit is bountiful and
Hail the heart (wherever whatever it is down the River).

The words are strong as the man who sent them
(somewhere in the Heart)
Such strength to speak and shout
Respect commandeddemanded in the fruit

I often wonder if I have it.
And each time I know I don't
Another crack is born.

the tally man sends his beautiful fruit--
strong as everforever
To the world, smileonface and gleamineye--

and you're him
on the other side
at the Heart.

Today a baby boy was born
The future heir to the British throne
Remember July 22nd was the date
Proud parents William & Kate
Every child born today will receive a Silver Penny
A collectors item, for so many
First we watched William & Kate marry
He has a really cool Uncle in Prince Harry
I bet he will show him some tricks
A bouncing baby boy 8lb 6,

A baby, a toddler, then into a little nipper
Look after him Auntie Pippa.
We will watch him grow up and ready to take his place
The news confirmed on the easel at Buckingham Palace
Well done to Kate Middleton
To us a Prince, to you a son.

Prince Charles is your Grandad
The Paparazzi will go mad
One day old and already on Twitter trending
Who will help, with the Royal winding
William & Kate must be so happy
One hopes One's been practicing changing a *****
Born in St Mary's, Lindo Wing
A child that will be our future King
Everyone is so happy for them
Born on a Monday 4.24pm
You're Great GrandMother is called Her Majesty the Queen
We'll watch him grow into a teen
For Prince Phillip four male generations
Now the country starts with the celebrations
The new addition to the Royal Family
The future of the British Monarchy
The Windsor family and the family of Middleton
A boy to bring them so much fun
Proud watching down over all times will be his Nanna
Brought up in the memory of  Princess Diana
The name now we have to all guess
For now we call him His Royal Highness
For the country this brings so much joy
A beautiful, bouncing Royal Baby Boy

sorry... have to be pedantic all on you...

   you ever think that some people
are born illiterate, at leat,
partially, to escape the label: dyslexic?

sounds to me, that pretty much
all h'americans are...

     is H... neither a vowel
nor a consonant?
you ******* eating steam-****
curry or something?

fill me in...
last time i heard...
you'd doing what the Hindus do to H...
they put it in,
but classify it as neither vowel,
or consonant...
   some whacky orthographic
insertion...
        
        certain languages treat H
as a... surd...
       you write it... but you don't speak it...
it's like people forgot the pivot letter
for either harking up phlegm...
or laughter!

   and Al Paccino can have his ***** fit
in the devil's advocate
all he wants...
                that famous:
look, but don't taste,
touch, but don't taste,
taste?! but don't swallow.
   sorry... own a DVD...
   because you know how the English
variant of sorry, goes, in England, right?
you're not...
i always thought that
the h'Americans had a terrible
problem with having their
personal "space" infringed...
weirdos...
  a part of conversation is also
a part of what monkeys find
the last bit intimidating,
close contact...
            touching each other by the fur...
tugging along...
     H though?
   it's a surd, not a vowel,
not a consonant in the english language,
a "revised" replica of
Hindu orthography...
which inserts the letter,
as neither vowel, or consonant,
but as a surd...
           oh but the Judea pundits will
what to know this info...
  like?
  you forget harking up phlegm in
clearing your throat for rhetorical
purposes,
or you forget how to pivot on a letter
that encompasses both sighing
and laughter?!
      your choice...
         so is the first H of
ha-shem a sigh of relief?
  and the second H a pivot for laughing
into a vacuous space
of planets, stars, and orbits?!

i cannot not be pedantic about language,
there are rules to language,
which is how, people like me,
ensure it's sustained,
and doesn't devolve into
internet EMOJI hieroglyphics...

         savvy?

           the language stays,
but sure, you can run along and play your
little, pseudo / + crypto- linguistic game
of whatever the hell
a correct spelling doesn't suffice...
mind you...
i'm dyslexic on certain words in english...

e.g. vetenerian...
   as you already know,
it's actually veterinarian...

  and that's because of what, exactly?
quasi-stenography bound to english...
e.g.?

     don't: do not
      isn't: is it not
           won't: will not...
you get the drift?!

   i call that the highest form of
cannibalism,
eating letters...
                  serving the apostrophe
Canni...
            and yes, a (indirect article),
the (direct article),
               's (possessive article):
there is a third article in play when
reading english grammar...

but eating certain letters
within the construct of crafting simple
compounds - i.e. -
simple sentences?
no wonder the spelling errors...

back in Poland?
    you don't have dyslexics -
you have orthographic ronin -
the clarification of syllables
is, to my knowledge, ever question...
but in English?
always.
     i make the mistakes...

the English are a race
of linguistic cannibalism,
they eat certain letters out of existence...
never having noticed
that H, is neither vowel, or consonant...
but a surd in most
obscure instances...

    esp. in that "cultural appropriation"
dynamic of borrowing Hindu words...
or Urdu, whichever...

              hatchet -
  hovering -
              hay -
   wasn't it the Cockney shlang
that ate the H out of existence?
    'ay,
           'atchet,
     'overing...
                  oi! 'ate me sum more!
i swear the Cockney accent
don't allow H...
                      but did the Cockney's
laugh more?
  or sigh more?
   the H is about to become dodo
and people are still desiring to use
it for either sighing,
or to pivot on it for the consummation
of, laughter!

  odd... isn't it?!
       and it's the English who are
attempting to **** of H...
                  via Cockney,
having introduced the surd Hindi
H in... say... words like
dhāl (see how the H "suddenly" disappears,
the macron elongates the spelling to dhaal?) -
lentil curry, decent provided
enough chillies...

not funny anymore?!
      How will you laugH?
witHout this letter?
    oi! Cockney sHdders!
      tHe **** are you going to pivot on?
wHat's your tigHt rope, replacement?!

let's just say...
some of us, are pedantic enough,
to care about setting standards
of literacy...
or at least? up-keeping them...
like gardeners...
tending to the gardens of Buckingham palace.

party zone with johnny brown




johnny’    hi dudes and welcime to the 2nd party zone for 2016 and tonight we are going

to party real hard and our first party dude  is lorraine

lorraine’  i want  to be so happy  

i want to be so cool

i want to drink scotch on the rocks following a lovely bbq

i am very happy as happy as can be

i don’t know why i am so happy

i only know i am, party on dudes

johnny’  yeah you look like you are ready to party tonight

lorraine’  it’s the end of the working week, why not

johnny’  ok here is patric weezer

pattrick’   one sheep two fish red fish blue fish

going ba ba ba every ****** where

five sheep six  sheep silver sheep black sheep

you see it’s  hard to become the black sheep of the family

nine fish ten fish isn’t that a dainty dish

to put before prince william on the way to buckingham palace today

eleven fish twelve fish

i wonder who i will find at the party for my best mate tom

it’s fine to have fish, especially down the coast with chips

johnny’ are you creative

patrick’  yeah, i am an artist and a writer and a youtube entertainer, i am cool

johnny’  ok here is harry with a great rhyme

dave bought a honday for his best friend rhonda

to make her pretty wealthy

dave bought a honda

and he will make it a party

yeah, we will get down and boogie and say oh lay

hey little old lady

pretty pretty baby

saying

dave bought a honda for his aunty flo who went home to make pumpkin scones for joh

but joh didn’t want any cause he ws too right wing

dave bought a honda from adelaide and every night we say dave bought a honda for everyone around oh dude

johnny’  yeah what a great one, but your choice of politicians, ya know a bit old and dead

harry’ yeah, but i am 56 years old and i still want to party

johnny’   here is another party song from kenneth

kenneth’  16 pounds to buy a car with

it is a very cheap car if it costs that much

a dollar bill to buy a car mat

cause it really protects your car floor

and aussie cent ain’t around anymore, cause it can’t afford anything no fear, so chuck it away my friend

a japanese coin is a wonderful coin

i notice how there is a hole in the middle, to stick your finger in, yeah

$16 is a lot ya see

you could buy an expensive tub of honey from the bee

so if you spend all this money now

just remember the tune from hello in the ‘80s with oh yeah bow bow

johnny’  thank you kenneth

kenneth, yeah, and i am ready to pardddy, now party dudes, have the best hangover cure if you are totally wasted tomorrow

johnny’  thank you kenneth and thanks dudes for enjoying party zone

catch ya later dudes

yellow light from the coach station
against marble houses-that we wish
we could buy- reminds me of the silver
moon we watch when we’re high.
now I’m crying into the duvet
and feeling far away from whispered
happy compliments I don’t know how
to describe you but you’re mine but
it’s time for a forest fire to still the fire
in my heart. I start to want to hold you
forever though my forever is over
my love, my never again. feeling your body
pulse with each sleeping breath reminding
me of death and I don’t want you to go.
I like being bad when I’m with you, sad
though it might seem when we dream
and you ask me to speak french when I’m
smoking cigarettes, trying to forget the plans
we made. we plan to go to europe because all
our dreams sparkle under the weekend skies,
you sigh, I can’t get back from here, my dear,
I fear I don’t know what’s real anymore,
what to feel anymore. your broad shoulders,
we’re getting older, they wrap around me &
your eye lids flutter, reminding me of a kind of
innocence we have yet to discover, my lover.
now the sun is beating down on london parks
where we sit and talk and dream, it seems
you are so beautiful reading kerouac,
what a cliché but we’ll get away, by megabus,
counting our change, courting our lust,
on 5 hour bus journeys from city to city
ambitions to home, joy to pity.
cuddling to britpop, we keep popping
pills and thrills and whatever is going.
don’t go, I know I’m a romantic
(you have no idea) your passions kills
and your mind excites, I might have to die
tonight, I might. I want you in the kitchen-
I can never untie my shoelaces- living on shoestrings,
tightropes and other things, I think that drinking
in cinemas could be a new favourite pastime,
are you still mine? drowning in wine, I know
I cry too much, but touch me. that night we went
out in your car to the docks, no stars, but you still
shone for me. buckingham palace is against a grey
sky tonight, against us but we still try- england is mine,
england is mine. we don’t usually kiss in public.
I used to spend a lot of time in the cathedral,
scribbling poems in the crypt, hoping something
would stick, but we drift towards a moment now,
my muse. you use me. red flowers in the buckingham
palace breeze, I breathe in daydreams of paris and patti smith
I keep rehearsing my life, it seems.

iwishicould go to Buckingham Palace,
to dine & drink from a golden chalice;
#iwishicould be Her Majesty,
but #WhatsThePoint I'm only me

#iwishicould be the eyebrows of Gordon Brown,
and go so fetchingly up and down,
#iwishicould be #Nowplaying guitar,
or be a mighty megastar.

I HAVE A CONNECTION TO
HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN
MY POEM FOR HER 90TH
IN HER REPLY SHE HAS SEEN

MY POETRY BOOK OF
QUEENSLAND OUR BEAUTIFUL STATE
IS GRACING THE HALLS
OF BUCKINGHAM PLACE


SO I DO BELIEVE I NOW
CAN DEDICATE THIS RHYME
TO A BEAUTIFUL LADY
WITHIN THIS MOMENT IN TIME

IL semblait grelotter, car la bise était dure.
C'était, sous un amas de rameaux sans verdure,
Une pauvre statue, au dos noir, au pied vert,
Un vieux faune isolé dans le vieux parc désert,
Qui, de son front penché touchant aux branches d'arbre,
Se perdait à mi-corps dans sa gaine de marbre.

Il était là, pensif, à la terre lié,
Et, comme toute chose immobile, - oublié !

Des arbres l'entouraient, fouettés d'un vent de glace,
Et comme lui vieillis à cette même place ;
Des marronniers géants, sans feuilles, sans oiseaux
Sous leurs tailles brouillés en ténébreux réseaux,
Pâle, il apparaissait, et la terre était brune.
Une âpre nuit d'hiver, sans étoile et sans lune,
Tombait à larges pans dans le brouillard diffus.
D'autres arbres plus **** croisaient leurs sombres fûts ;
Plus **** d'autre encore, estompés par l'espace,
Poussaient dans le ciel gris où le vent du soir passe
Mille petits rameaux noirs, tordus et mêlés,
Et se posaient partout, l'un par l'autre voilés,
Sur l'horizon, perdu dans les vapeurs informes,
Comme un grand troupeau roux de hérissons énormes.

Rien de plus. Ce vieux faune, un ciel morne, un bois noir.

Peut-être dans la brume au **** pouvait-on voir
Quelque longue terrasse aux verdâtres assises,
Ou, près d'un grand bassin, des nymphes indécises,
Honteuses à bon droit dans ce parc aboli,
Autrefois des regards, maintenant de l'oubli.

Le vieux faune riait. - Dans leurs ombres douteuses
Laissant le bassin triste et les nymphes honteuses,
Le vieux faune riait, c'est à lui que je vins ;
Ému, car sans pitié tous ces sculpteurs divins
Condamnent pour jamais, contents qu'on les admire,
Les nymphes à la honte et les faunes au rire.

Moi, j'ai toujours pitié du pauvre marbre obscur.
De l'homme moins souvent, parce qu'il est plus dur.

Et, sans froisser d'un mot son oreille blessée,
Car le marbre entend bien la voix de la pensée,
Je lui dis : - Vous étiez du beau siècle amoureux.
Sylvain, qu'avez-vous vu quand vous étiez heureux ?
Vous étiez de la cour ? Vous assistiez aux fêtes ?
C'est pour vous divertir que ces nymphes sont faites.
C'est pour vous, dans ces bois, que de savantes mains
Ont mêlé les dieux grecs et les césars romains,
Et, dans les claires eaux mirant les vases rares,
Tordu tout ce jardin en dédales bizarres.
Quand vous étiez heureux, qu'avez-vous vu, Sylvain ?
Contez-moi les secrets de ce passé trop vain,
De ce passé charmant, plein de flammes discrètes,
Où parmi les grands rois croissaient les grands poètes.
Que de frais souvenirs dont encor vous riez !
Parlez-moi, beau Sylvain, comme vous parleriez
A l'arbre, au vent qui souffle, à l'herbe non foulée.
D'un bout à l'autre bout de cette épaisse allée,
Avez-vous quelquefois, moqueur antique et grec,
Quand près de vous passait avec le beau Lautrec
Marguerite aux yeux doux, la reine béarnaise,
Lancé votre œil oblique à l'Hercule Farnèse ?
Seul sous votre antre vert de feuillage mouillé,
Ô Sylvain complaisant, avez-vous conseillé,
Vous tournant vers chacun du côté qui l'attire,
Racan comme berger, Regnier comme satyre ?
Avez-vous vu parfois, sur ce banc, vers midi,
Suer Vincent de Paul à façonner Gondi ?
Faune ! avez-vous suivi de ce regard étrange
Anne avec Buckingham, Louis avec Fontange,
Et se retournaient-ils, la rougeur sur le front,
En vous entendant rire au coin du bois profond ?
Étiez-vous consulté sur le thyrse ou le lierre,
Lorsqu'en un grand ballet de forme singulière
La cour du dieu Phœbus ou la cour du dieu Pan
Du nom d'Amaryllis enivraient Montespan ?
Fuyant des courtisans les oreilles de pierre,
La Fontaine vint-il, les pleurs dans la paupière,
De ses nymphes de Vaux vous conter les regrets ?
Que vous disait Boileau, que vous disait Segrais,
A vous, faune lettré qui jadis dans l'églogue
Aviez avec Virgile un charmant dialogue,
Et qui faisiez sauter, sur le gazon naissant,
Le lourd spondée au pas du dactyle dansant ?
Avez-vous vu jouer les beautés dans les herbes,
Chevreuse aux yeux noyés, Thiange aux airs superbes ?
Vous ont-elles parfois de leur groupe vermeil
Entouré follement, si bien que le soleil
Découpait tout à coup, en perçant quelque nue,
Votre profil lascif sur leur gorge ingénue ?
Votre arbre a-t-il reçu sous son abri serein
L'écarlate linceul du pâle Mazarin ?
Avez-vous eu l'honneur de voir rêver Molière ?
Vous a-t-il quelquefois, d'une voix familière,
Vous jetant brusquement un vers mélodieux,
Tutoyé, comme on fait entre les demi-dieux ?
En revenant un soir du fond des avenues,
Ce penseur, qui, voyant les âmes toutes nues,
Ne pouvait avoir peur de votre nudité,
À l'homme en son esprit vous a-t-il confronté ?
Et vous a-t-il trouvé, vous le spectre cynique,
Moins triste, moins méchant, moins froid, moins ironique,
Alors qu'il comparait, s'arrêtant en chemin,
Votre rire de marbre à notre rire humain ? -

Ainsi je lui parlais sous l'épaisse ramure.
Il ne répondit pas même par un murmure.
J'écoutais, incliné sur le marbre glacé,
Mais je n'entendis rien remuer du passé.
La blafarde lueur du jour qui se retire
Blanchissait vaguement l'immobile satyre,
Muet à ma parole et sourd à ma pitié.
À le voir là, sinistre, et sortant à moitié
De son fourreau noirci par l'humide feuillée,
On eût dit la poignée en torse ciselée
D'un vieux glaive rouillé qu'on laisse dans l'étui.

Je secouai la tête et m'éloignai de lui.
Alors des buissons noirs, des branches desséchées
Comme des sœurs en deuil sur sa tête penchées,
Et des antres secrets dispersés dans les bois,
Il me sembla soudain qu'il sortait une voix,
Qui dans mon âme obscure et vaguement sonore
Éveillait un écho comme au fond d'une amphore.

- Ô poète imprudent, que fais-tu ? laisse en paix
Les faunes délaissés sous les arbres épais !
Poète ! ignores-tu qu'il est toujours impie
D'aller, aux lieux déserts où dort l'ombre assoupie,
Secouer, par l'amour fussiez-vous entraînés,
Cette mousse qui pend aux siècles ruinés,
Et troubler, du vain bruit de vos voix indiscrètes,
Le souvenir des morts dans ses sombres retraites ! -

Alors dans les jardins sous la brume enfouis
Je m'enfonçai, rêvant aux jours évanouis,
Tandis que les rameaux s'emplissaient de mystère,
Et que derrière moi le faune solitaire,
Hiéroglyphe obscur d'un antique alphabet,
Continuait de rire à la nuit qui tombait.

J'allais, et contemplant d'un regard triste encore
Tous ces doux souvenirs, beauté, printemps, aurore,
Dans l'air et sous mes pieds épars, mêlés, flottants,
Feuilles de l'autre été, femmes de l'autre temps,
J'entrevoyais au ****, sous les branchages sombres,
Des marbres dans le bois, dans le passé des ombres !

Le 19 mars 1837.

It's royal blue  - it's a boy - the heir
the British throne
Buckingham Palace an awaken
bloom - a rebirth -
awaits a princely visit.

Blue - the prince is born -
a full moon, St. Mary's Hospital,
London - To the Duke and Duchess of
Cambridge.
Fear God - Honour the Queen!

now I, Anton, eldest and wisest,
I, nature-appointed leader by age and time,
I call this our first meeting to order
and each shall stand in silence as I read
out the rules and regulations
of this our BOYS ONLY order of OLD RUSSIA,
which I, as my first act as leader, shall name
the Anton Boys Only Group, the name obviously after myself…
And now, Artem stand still and stand at ease as Vladimir here is…
This pose with legs like a soldier's
and with hands at back, back in palm,
this is the way of the obedient follower
though I fear Artem may have a bit of Napoleon in him…
But Anton Boys Only Group we shall be
and in the streets we are destined to meet…
Now for the rules:
I am the leader and I’m always right;
you are the members of the group,
and you will always follow…
now, girls will not be allowed in this group
and no one is to come with any girls
here except me, with Galina once in a while
as she has recently been winking at me in class,
when I do attend class, that is,
and she has sent me notes
to meet her in the old shed past the fields
and once in a while, as I say,
she might be here on our way to said
location during which time
you will all keep guard
and remain as still as the Kremlin guards
or, as I’ve heard, the guards outside
****** England’s Buckingham palace.
Now, Viktor and Georgy, you are hereby fined five coins
for taking a casual attitude while I speak…
Artem, the tallest here after me,
you will be my bearer and cleaner
like carrying things I might have to carry
and dusting my coat before and after meetings
and for which I shall nominate you successor
should I run away with Galina to America…
We shall, however, always remain faithful to Mother Russia
and send you back information as and when necessary;
and also at each meeting, from hence,
each of you will bear gifts for the leader
(who, let me remind you, is myself)
like an apple, a tomato, eggs and sweets
and chicken pieces and such
as and when possible
but always at least one gift each
at each meeting as payment for the privilege
of my leadership;
and meetings will start promptly and be canceled as I wish;
and Vladimir and Bogdan and Andrey
you shall before each meeting, finish such field tasks
as my mother may have assigned me
and which I may then justly apportion to each one of you…
I do not anticipate any questions at this stage our first meeting
and so I announce this meeting over…
And Artem, you might want to dust the coat on my back…
but kindly do ensure your hands are clean first…

three ante-chambers and then the bedroom, a valet rather than my wife sleeping in the same room as me... if this is a will to power, i'd rather see the Sunday menu of: a will to whatever's on offer, other than hereditary genetics... mind you, 20th century anti-hereditary genetics seemed like quite fun, all that eugenic stuff... i love the byproducts that came with that, weaklings to be sure, missing horse and engaged tractor, celeb culture and the next Raphael pickling a hammer-shark sidelined with Warhol's quote: knock knock - ah cheap, i know, but when wasn't sarcasm ever?

the famoud *will to power is a fable, there are too few words
in between will and power, since both are rather antonymous
in application, the argument -
the will to power is a state of anonymity
rather than a dualism,
in Versailles Louis XIV questions himself
as both man and king, and the god appointed;
instead of duality there's an anonymity,
a permanent height outreaching / out-qualifying
the jumper, all pampers and demure,
the mirror circus of poses that Louis XIV
was compared to his brother
gauging out an eye of a laughing man in
a role of a Kafka play the nobles thirsted for
and slyly forgot - there was once a prancing
lady of France, who donned the title
as the king of France, but was overshadowed by
his ****-******* brother; there are indeed
Arabia in the King to quench Africa,
but not enough to go further, with his philandering
******* boyishness to succumb to the womanising
artefact with brotherly jest as with a woman's
care for an up-kept boudoir... of matching stockings
and his matching socks: never mind the places
cut first on the gauges of fear of the guillotine
with the eyes turning all Newtonian searching
for the next cake - the roles we keep are not the
identities we express, keeping the militant
populace ignorant and ourselves kept by
the labyrinth sexed-up, keeping one pronoun
a wall of denoted king and the rest
a scramble which, whoever, we wish to choose -
as ever, preferring a woman...
well i preferred animals, how's that for an argument
from *****? oh wait, that's an argument from Eden...
ooh choo choo the pick-up truck never picked up steam,
the democracy of nobles overtook the notion
of king as the psychiatric, philosophical rigidity
overtook the notion of ego...
well, weeners and winners here and there,
like salt and pepper... mm, push it! push it real
good! wait a minute, i thought that aristocracy kept
Paris and subsequent Parisian a folded model ready for
corruption with adequate vices?
when Communism came about the aristocracy was replaced
with intelligentsia - the urban version of what was once
property owning now replaced with idea owning -
it all gets a bit murky here, i write with a more detached
defacement in mind onto a head of a donkey to reveal
the saintly cranium, but never mind the joke,
there's still the papal yoke to keep us curbed, after all,
the best ****** travel to home to sing: love live papa,
love like papa.
it just got me thinking, this obscure cannibal of
aristocracy could scare the king, no wonder the king
in chess is just an extension of pawns, while the queen
is an extension of rook, knight, bishop -
reductionist Darwinism uncovered more than
Darwinism per se, we were originally reduced to insects,
revolving past that and encouraging us to exhibit
mammalian tendencies made us into being unable to
choose which monkey was worthwhile to have originated from;
but still the black widow, the mantis -
female reductions took her beyond mammals,
into pre-reptiles,
male reductions took him into pure mammal,
we're both running treadmills now though,
we're both rodents, hamsters, ha ha, it's funny how
equilibrium works, there's two opposites, both need
to be pacified, no trans-gender changes will actually
objectify or personify, it'll just the other more even and the
other mode off / left in / left out.
you never ask so much about art, you just say
the magic Sesame words of Ali-Baba 'i don't get it'
and it opens, but then you suddenly want poetry to read like
chemistry, what a ******* oddity, and say the words
'i get it', but all that opens is a can of tuna, wooh!
what a ******* stink. imagine these words unlike what
you'd might use buying a pint of beer at a pub,
grow up, you hit puberty with fifty shades of grey,
bestsellers this century, the last, Don Quixote...
believe me, these words will be around for not that long,
soon ingested by what the already aristocracy isn't,
modern aristocracy are mere inheritors, spongers,
they overslept the mark of complicated phonetic encoding
being exhausted, hence the dissociation with politics,
the apathy of the former lusts for war -
granny can write a tweet, but granny can't write an app.,
never mind if it's Buckingham Palace or
the French Riviera mansion... Party Harry gives less ****
than the red squirrels when the grey Canadian squirrels
were introduced, and the next Prince of Wales
is wondering: did i really need to waste 20 minutes of my
life watching Head & Shoulders' adverts?!

it's strange to live in post-colonial societies,
northern england excluded:
aye, southern fairies and northern
monkeys! it's just strange to try
erasing the past, what's there to make up?
charisma or charcoal? never mind,
private joke... it's strange living in a
post-colonial society, the lost franchise
of wife, husband and brats falling apart,
it's so strange to live in a post-colonial society,
faking it with celebrities winning
money for charities on quiz shows televised,
the shame, it would seem as a tool
to educate others, the necessary plots
to educate people but nonetheless revise their
vocabulary to an "appropriate" use,
such method of dittoing is fine, since
you're not bothered to cite a bibliographical
reference - a someone said.
living in a post-colonial society is near-piquant
surreal... you don't know what to do...
i wish i knew... i wish it was strict and
affectionate, but sooner or later
the Zeitgeist of Darwinism will take over
and limit what's to be expressed;
why did i pick poetry as a medium of expression?
why? it's so pathetic, so ****** pathetic
that we have a poetic title of a book,
and equal plumber or electrician drudge writing
out the prose, he said, she said, whatever...
i guess people write prose like any
manual labourer does working on a construction
site, where the only Englishman is a bricklayer
or a scaffold-er, all other professions backed up
by Europe... Romanian labourers,
the graffiti in toilets... the graffiti in toilets,
once it was the Poles to blame, then
the Bulgarians and the Romanians...
strange to learn culture and contraband,
to learn it from post-colonial societies,
how they begrudge their past in order
to look pristine... oh sure they can sing...
they have the Irish jingles & jives in 'em,
but when they become conscious of it,
they want to spread it as far east as Iraq,
if they only looked in, rather than imagining
themselves as saviours... of course there are
differences, there always were,
but they haven't bothered to criticise themselves,
after such a colonial past they decided
that angels roamed the streets of London
looking for a quill... living in a post-colonial
society isn't exactly crumpets and jam...
three generations prior and you'd be singing
the national anthem with some form of
attachment - donning a top hat and a cane...
gentlemanly parading yourself on
a promenade leading up to Buckingham Palace
via St. James' Park... LOLS and high tea
at the 5 p.m. sunset worth a biscuit
dipped into Siberian tea served to pregnant
women in Siberia (i.e. with milk -
bawarka). **** on me, i never could have imagined
a former colonial nation, a former empire
to behave as it does... if i were an insider
i wouldn't have spotted the anomalies,
had i been a Jew i wouldn't either,
they still speak about us as if the Lithuanian-Crown
commonwealth never existed...
asking Palestinians are answered: give it 2000 years
of struggle to leverage authentic sympathy -
talking about humans like farmed chickens
is one way to go about it, the last resort,
but the only manageable precipitation of the world
into you, too many concerns to have,
the evidence leading up to a cocoon action,
from the earth's demanding representation of man
and worms - to dreamed up man and butterflies
that sing the Koran.

The white winged beast
Slices through the blue
Dominating all the cities that bow beneath
The creature leads as the best transportation tool

Passengers bask in opulence
Glancing at the miniature toy city
The passive scenery acts as reassurance
Since the wind gale sweeps the white cotton in pity

The jay sails to its nest
Gliding while checking for error
The landing signals a successful test
Safe from the perilous journey’s terror

The exotic passengers gaze in awe
The Cliffs of Dover, soldiers clad in red, Buckingham palace
All book text now raw
This dimension lacks common malice

The winged beast leaps
The destination: an unknown place
All the culture the sphinx keeps
No wonder many adore the ferocious face

Mildew, mold, cobwebs, rust, stench, trash, dead grass, window screens with holes & ****.
Not things you'd find at buckingham palace.
Only in a home of bums.
Not a dream to last.
I want to move, I want to run.

Colorful Colorado....7 years Bad Luck

Snowflakes, frozen lakes, shoveling snow.
A cold for all to know.
I will never go back.
My ex boyfriend would strike & attack.
It was I he tried to choke out & ****.
From 2006 to 2012.
Thinking of him makes me ILL.
Summer of elves.

Unloved & Taken for Granted. Raved & Ranted.

A haiku with thoughts of you.
I don't feel lucky with us two.
We never hold hands or embrace.
We never kiss each other's face

I see them walking down streets with names like
old buckingham
old gun road
westchester common street
robious
hugenaut
broad
grace frankling main cary
carry the weight of a group of ****** up **** ups
trying to "make a difference"
delusional *******
difference is made from killing a status quo
and their hands shake like childrens'
take a stake in the mental quake of the plasticity of the fake looking for mates
I'm tumbling down sure fall peak
free fall
until falling free is forgotten as a quest
childe roland to the dark tower came
yeah I went to college for a little bit there
broke out when I broke out of a sane frame of mind
swallow the sludge created by incontinent consumerists
snakes on trees make better friends than invisible fathers
but get these depressed lunatics out of my sight
feeling a fight bubbling up
complaints are for the complacent
so I don't see you
fear or hear no evil
evil makes good possible
using my vice versa as my vice
quoting bible quotes verbatim
I don't ft right
jigsaw piece chewed up by toddlers
jam me into place
and cover me in duct tape to silence the protests

The Mudlark

1869
The little boy was hungry.
London was not a benevolent place
for the children of the unwashed masses.
The great Queen Victoria was in permanent mourning.
Grief encapsulated her heart at the loss of her soulmate
Her consort her husband and father of her nine children.
Her beloved Albert.

Hunger and cold were striking the young boy
He was an orphan he knew he was seven
but was not sure of any birthdates.
They had found him wrapped in an old coat
On the orphanage steps.
At seven he ran away from the cruelty of the place.
And foraged in the muddy shores of the Thames river.
Finding bric a brac  a medal a coin a piece of jewelry.
In the thick mud that ****** his bare feet deep into it.

He was having a bad day nothing to sell there would be no food
Or a bed he would sleep in the park under the bushes
Until the policeman found him.he would run away
So that he could not be sent to the workhouse.
They made small boys go inside the chimneys
Of great houses to clean off the soot.

Then a sliver of light from an amost hidden moon
It glinted in the mud he rushed over and picked it up.
It was a beautiful cameo broach gold encrusted ivory
A lovely woman was depicted in it.

In his young life he had never seen anything as lovely.
He showed it to the man who buys the findings of the mudlarks
As the boys were known.
He said it is the likeness of queen Victoria
She is the mother of all the British Empire.
He said is she my mother too?
She is everybody’s mother young lad.
He refused to sell the cameo broach.
No it is of my mother he said.

A week later at Buckingham palace.
A great event was held.
He found a wide gap in the railings.
To allow his thin frail body through.
In the bushes he could hear the throng of celebration.
Creeping around he found a courtyard.
A great lady was sat alone on a bench.
She was weeping.
He moved to her she was older but unmistakably
it was the lady on the broach.

She was alarmed as she saw the young said.
Go away I shall call the guards you ruffian.
But I wish you no harm ma'am he said softly.
I found your broach and I want to return it to you.
In the tiny hand he offered the item to her.
She picked it up from him.

This was given to me by my dear Albert.
I lost it overboard in the river Thames fifteen years ago.

I found it in the mud mother.
Mother she asked quizzically.
I was told you are the mother of all the children in your empire.
And I do not have a mother I am an orphan.
The old lady felt tears flowing in her eyes.
Yes I am your mother dear.
The guards saw him and grabbed him
You will get a beating for this young lad
A good beating.
The lady stood up no one shall lay a hand on this boy.
He has brought me a signal my beloved Albert.
It is time for me to return To my duties
And look after the millions of children in my empire.
And true to her word
she discarded her deep depression and widows weaves.
To take her empire to its mst  glorious days.

The young boy was given a job in the palace
And educated to become a fine gentleman
A lawyer who advocated for the poor and lost
In London’s streets.

We are all walking around in each other
(our bodies and breathing and sweat and
sneezes)
walking around in pieces of each other
unescapably we are
in each other
in the crudest way possible we are
in each other
(in Buckingham in front of Michelangelo paintings in Taj Mahal in Los Angeles in Sydney in paradise in your bedroom)
connected in an
(uncomfortable)
way we are all each other we are all one
don’t forget to breathe
we only have this chance once
breathe breathe breathe you are one

among the people that i hold accountable to suggest
someone has lost touch with reality:
    well, apologies for not engaging in your
  cinnamon-laced *** life - i sought other spices:
as in chilli for the tongue, and salt for my eyes,
and pepper for my nose - because that's what's
being debated: when philosophers come back
from their adventure i'll let you know what reality
actually is - then the cathedrals will crumble,
   then the neo-Babylonian extracts from modern
architectural preferences will become less neo-Babylonian
English and more: Glaswegian dialects
surrounded by Croat diacritical markings -
    as if drawing hunting antelopes in caves
   giving us "more" clues about the one inhospitable earth:
or are we truly surrendering to Darwinism
rather than carpe diem? i'm i'll ******* chirpy
given a dinosaur bone, and the timescale -
             and given that we turned Cartesian duality into
a dichotomy, everyday seems challenging:
a blimmin' boxing match 'n' all...
                                    i can't remember how many times
i've been k.o'ed (knocked out) in my waking moments
(conscious or, rather mourning? don't know).
      i still find it staggering they (no paranoia collective:
simply scientists) came up with the fact that the sun
(or any star) is a reaction of helium and hydrogen:
do people really explode into chipmunk joviality when
   doing a b.b.q. of their bodies on a beach?
             (asking questions becomes a ****** syringe
after a while) - and yes, use the term joviality before it
becomes archaic, you never know when it might
unearth a wormhole of Hades and **** the fact out
and flush it into oblivion.
              and some don bowler hats and use folded
umbrellas as walking sticks, perhaps the monocle,
but definitely the bow-tie: and make rhetoric of language:
airs, courtesy (court-t'eh-c vs. curt-see): herr chirurg!
how do you insert the scalpel into the rhythmic expression
of dribbling that kauczuk? (rubber ball).
      (cow- -chook).
           i mean in Cockney: how do you juggle that word
properly while balancing an oyster on your tongue?
and yes, i'm starting to believe Polish (as a language)
borrows too much from German - of the few slavic languages
i also say Kaiser bun -          she's called a variant of
antoinette, i.e., a kajzerka, or Wilhelm (dressed as a little
girl, all hurly burly) akin to philippe duke of orléans;
someone say lace stockings?
      i could write out this ******* in chauvinistic bravado
aesthetic: or i could smoke a cigar...
     and sooner we realised that crows never prayed
but croaked -
        that pigs grunted and never prayed -
that pigeons cooed, and never prayed,
       that monkeys did the mambo knock-knock joke -
that woodpeckers were the original carpenters and
                invoked the existence of the machinegun
and the rattler.
so there are people (sophists) who wear
bowler-hats, smocking, monocles and disdain:
rather ardently -
                 and then there are those that spontaneously
explode, from out of nowhere,
and dress themselves in rags and never rags to riches
sort of attitude - because appearances are deceptive
and too can be gambled with and neglected and seeing
a decay of a royal house: is much fancier than seeing
autumn...     because aren't the Windsors
                                         vacating Buckingham?
as in: from rot -                 apple and pear sweetness.
(at this point the poem should end) -
       not always the case of: less is more...
speaking on behalf the man who read the karamazov
brothers and stuck a leaflet on the back
of the book that read: the hash marihuana & hemp
museum - oudezijds achterburgwal 130 amsterdam
                    (next to the 'sensi seed bank' grow shop
   www.hashmuseum.com).
i mean you have read something equivalent of a brick
these days, at least one brick within that distractive
paradise of poetry - either the already mentioned book,
or war and peace, or in search of lost time,
or bolwesław prus' the doll - and they said
that life's short... not with these books being read it is...
life becomes a snail-paced traffic jam -
            it's what mystics aim at, across all religions:
the carpe diem momentum.
            it's not even boring, it's just a tedium-ladden
misanthropy: that suggestion is mainly aimed at seeing
an afternoon sitcom about 0-hour contract jobs...
       which is applauded by the terminally ill who
might say: thank **** it's not me.
            so we're all agreed - what the collapse of
communism left behind was a chance of a pension,
        given that all the western countries sold their remnant
versions of tribalism to stealth upper-tier formulations
         of "we're in this together" as otherwise know: companies...
we're not accompanied -
                   cold and wet and ***** -
                            which is odd why we'd think it
necessary to cause upheaval in iRaq...
                           given that the origins of communism were
in England, tested in Mongolia and then ingrained elsewhere...
ah, but of course, the profit margin: it's hard to
automate people surrounded by machines
        it's like olympians competing with para-olympians
where's talk of golf and the handicap?
              not here...
                       but i'm wondering, how can i redeem myself
after having stretched the poem for too long?
     point being: i can't change the status quo, and don't
intend to - and is that hypocritical or simply being
honest? well: if i managed to fit the concept of the big bang
into my little head: i'd choose the bullet every single time -
   we've established a majority, we've become as deluded
in our hopes for individuality: as was once deemed worthy
of the idea of god; we simply have established a constant
supply & demand parameters;
or what Heidegger calls: the perpetuated "ineffectual"
(well, not really him, my wording) -
                  basically a state of panic and
how different does concern compare with anxiety?
   a woman would tell a man that crimson is very different
from burgundy, as man would use the crude sigma:
red, red. n'es pas?

*i wish i could write something within the framework
of universal appeal; something simple
   and easily digested: like baby pulp, or simple
pulp of any fruit, mashed up and regurgitated
as if a seagull feeding its chicks... alas! not to be.

and sometimes magic, a scene from the book
of genesis, chapter verse whatever,
buying whiskey and beer in a supermarket,
the cashier, Tara, knows me,
she's my gym coach,
she tut tut struts and tuts when i buy
beer telling me to keep the beer off -
i told you alcoholics are mobile,
we go sightseeing most of the time,
on a double decker bus we bemuse and
lipread: and here's the Elizabeth tower (formerly
known as Benjamin "big ****" Disraeli -
the English by the French after the 100
year war: if they're not retards, they're perverts) -
****! that ****'s brushed off on me! am i a *******
if i hold dear a British passport? phew! no? yes? huh?!
i must be a Mr. Khan in waiting...
no, but seriously, a scene in the cave of an iceman,
5 lasses buying wine lonely,
me my beer my whiskey,
i get a lemon added / ****, i told you it was a lime not
a lemon on the conveyor belt -
i get a lime, lucky Adam got an apple
and one asking, i'm doing double-up fevers waiting
for Saturday night with Paris, Hilda, Venus and Hera..
Adam gets an apple from smooch slick Eva
naked and i get a ******* lime on a conveyor-belt
in a supermarket while buying whiskey...
Jonah! call the whale! i'm sure we'll both
be calling it Noah's ark when tomorrow comes;
**** you not, we'll be boarding dry-land at
Arsuk - ****, send a message to Columbus -
we discovered North America via Greenland
like you discovered the same via the Caribbean Islands,
ha ha! call it dynamo of Erik versus Kristopheren;
i just got a lime on a conveyor belt in a supermarket,
Adam was handed an apple in Eden -
i guess that's worth a 50 50 chance of coincidence
with my ***-starved libido and the English "roses":
not that i'm guarantying anything good either,
it's not like i'm a vacuum cleaner based guarantee -
but **** me, the ******? **** wrinkles and all,
bamboozle clad the salutary march for applause -
and the fainting bearskin trumpet-brigadier at
the ro- -yal parade onto Buckingham Ponce;
n'ah n'ah n'ah n'ah n'ah.

Somewhere near the globe
Where the ghost of Elizabethan actors
Still roam the streets

London Bridge Is Falling Down

I think about Buckingham Palace
Where the guards protect the queen
Who cries all the time

London Bridge is falling down

Somewhere close to Big Ben
Where the Westminster Chimes
Still haunt the ears

London Bridge is falling down

The prison cells in the Tower Of London
Where sacred life becomes apparition
And weeps at the thought

London Bridge is falling down

you know Philip Larkin was the king of the selfie - the contrast a painter would have made with a self-portrait, a fascination we all inhibit or exhibit - how about a selfie to end all selfies, open hangman style?!

- ᚹᚨᚱᛞᚱᚢᚾᚨ son ᚻᛖᛚᚹᛖᚷᛖᚾ -
chisel in timber is nothing compared to ornamental marble
on the streets of Rome; the Coliseum god's chosen architecture
above pyramid by far, and temple prior -
as care worded: let man be entertained, even with the man
dead the entertainment exists to be furthered - athletes instead
of gladiators, less blood, more chemistry and cheats
who are asking for the full capacity, otherwise chemists
are extensions of dentist and fluoride pushers via pastes* -
the runes though - chicken scratches - etching -
i too croaked while the Barbarossa prophesy
resounded in my birth-town: the return
of the horde of nachtklappe -
me chasing a night butterfly in my bedroom:
in the glass eye you go; in!
fed the tarantula with you! but that's affirming
origin in the equatorial axis - dear moth,
my woollen jumper bemoans your larvae trims.
with me a Woad ****** tattoo -
with that song, hangover i preyed on misery
with a gratifying cascade of tear -
how some men strive for popular beliefs in their
coordinates outside their chosen realm of expertise,
a soldier outside of war, a gladiator outside a
coliseum, an artist without paint and canvas,
while the so called mediocre's search is done ever
so quickly with a shop selling necessary goods...
travesty transcendental or travesty simply necessary?
it takes trans-generational interest to become
a Turkish shop-owner in the medium of art,
it literally takes St. Samael (angel of death) to get involved,
you're writing poems, you're not selling tomatoes,
to become recognised while living, for your art
is, well, some would just utter the word: unfashionable.
unless of course you write utter drivel...
then the stage is yours - for the most part we're not
aiming to write oration pre, but aim to write echo -
capturing aquatic vibrations, waves, sine or cosine.
but i still wonder: given the lazy diacritic above iota
(and jasmine) - ι - i.e. dotty rather than comatose -
why is it necessary to have a Buckingham Palace royal
flag waver from í to ì via ι / concretely i but no
straight comma stress as necessary involvement pin-point
usage as rather the simply visible ιota without the dot?
no wind or simply a camera zoom to pinpoint
the tourists' fascination?
whatever the answer, punctuation marks
added to letters reveal: outside of letter-attachment: timing,
invoked with letters: stressing - shame no semicolon
made it to be added to a letter: thankfully we have ;) -
wink wink smiley - this is me,
reminiscent of Wittgenstein bedazzled by Copernicus'
late entry with the heliocentric system, later to be
replaced with an egocentric system - whatever good
that did to improve the geocentric beginning -
and the horizontal colon (:), the hyphen added / macron,
comma, full-stop, the approximate ~, but no semi-colon -
the Adam of emoticons - the reason most banker Jason
Fritzes don't use punctuation is because they don't
use diacritics.