Adrift on her very first voyage
With the sea coursing in through her bow
Lay the cruise ship, the S.S. Lumbago
There was scarcely a chance for her now
But Ahoy! On the western horizon
In a flurry of yellow and green
That ender of blight and a damsel’s delight
And he’s always on cue for his scene

It’s Sir Patrick Stewart!
And his Luxury Budgerigar!
It’s got seating for seventy people
And the service is well above par
There’s an adequate medical unit
And a modest but elegant bar
What more could a man ever dream of
In a Luxury Budgerigar?
Well…

The forests of England were burning
So the foxes escaped to the city
The badgers had taken to looting
And the squirrels had formed a committee
But who should arise from a manhole
With a confident gleam in his eye?
That destroyer of woes with a spring in his toes
And he’s quick with a witty reply…

Sir Patrick Stewart!
And his Luxury Budgerigar!
With adjustable hose pipe attachment
It’s got wheels like a feathery car
The forests were dowsed and the fauna re-housed
With a three day retreat at a spa
It’s a thing to admire and surely acquire
The Luxury Budgerigar!
But…

Susan was stricken with sorrow
Twas her darkest, most fearful hour
A spider had wrestled her out of her bath
And set up his home in the shower
But who should jump out of the wardrobe
With an innocent look on his face?
That singer of shanties, remover of *******
And first in an obstacle race

Sir Patrick Stewart!
And his Luxury Budgerigar
With a sucker for spiders and beetles
That deposits them into a jar
There’s a tiny wee restaurant to feed them
It was given a Michelin star
A remarkable thing with retractable wings
Is a Luxury Budgerigar

So if you should be in a pet shop
And you see just the critter for you
Please heed this advice: make a note of the price
Then proceed to the back of the queue
When you ask for your preference of creature
Should it whistle, slither or waddle
Do as Sir Patrick Stewart did
And opt for the Luxury model

pets are hours of fun, feathered finned and furry ones
pets are hours of fun, feathered finned and furry ones
their antics do amuse, owners love them to bits
their antics do amuse, owners love them to bits
owners love them to bits, feathered finned and furry ones
their antics do amuse, pets are hours of fun

**** playing with a skein of wool, Rufus chasing his tail
**** playing with a skein of wool, Rufus chasing his tail
their capers never fail to get a laugh, what a show he puts on
their capers never fail to get a laugh, what a show he puts on
what a show he puts on, Rufus chasing his tail
**** playing with a skein of wool, their capers never fail to get a laugh

behind the air filter goldfish dart, such a jovial spectacle
behind the air filter goldfish dart, such a jovial spectacle
budgerigar hop scotching on her perch, they're natural born entertainers
budgerigar hop scotching on her perch, they're natural born entertainers
budgerigar hop scotching on her perch, behind the air filter goldfish dart
such a jovial spectacle, they're natural born entertainers

they're natural born entertainers, feathered finned and furry ones
their antics do amuse, pets are hours of fun
budgerigar hop scotching on her perch, **** playing with a skein of wool
behind the air filter goldfish dart, Rufus chasing his tail
such a jovial spectacle, what a show they put on
their antics never fail to get a laugh, owners love them to bits

The bomb site
is the best place
for chickweed
Helen said

so you went
to the one off
Meadow Row
and gathered up

handfuls of the stuff
and took them back
to your flat
to feed the budgerigar

you were looking after
for the old couple
along the balcony
who had gone away

for a few days
you watched
as Helen poked
some through the bars

of the bird cage
with her fingers
and you noticed
her tenderness

and determination
as she pushed it
through the narrow
gauged bars

her tongue poking out
of the corner
of her mouth
her eyes focusing

through her
thick lens spectacles
does it sing?
she asked

don't think so
you replied
least I’ve not
heard it do so

she talked to the budgie
in her little girl voice
and sang a few lines
of a hymn

the budgerigar
just stared at her
and walked up
the other end

of the perch
with a beak full
of chickweed
as she sang to it

she held her head
at an angle
and one of her plaits
of brown hair

hung downwards
do you want
to come back
to my place afterwards?

she said
you can help me
bath my doll Battered Betty
and then

Mum'll get us
some bread and jam
or bread and dripping
and a mug of tea

you had wanted to go
to the bomb site
for half an hour
to gather ammunition

for your catapult
but she had that look
about her face
that made you say

sure why not
and so after poking through
the remaining chickweed
and washing your hands

under the cold water tap
in the kitchen
and drying them
on the towel hanging

behind the door
you walked down
the concrete stairs
and out into the Square

and down the *****
into Rockingham Street
where you walked past
the coal wharf

where coal trucks
were being filled
with sacks of coal
and by

the Duke of Wellington pub
where you used to get
bags of crisps
and bottles of Tizer

on Sunday evenings
then under
the railway bridge
and she talked

of some boys at school
who called her 4 eyes
and fish face
O don't mind them

you said
they just can't see
your beauty
too blind

dumb idiots
do I?
she said
have beauty?

sure you do
you said
putting on
your serious face

never seen a girl
with more
and she smiled
and gazed at you

through the thick lens
of her spectacles
showing the large
brown conker like eyes

when you got to her place
her mother
was just finishing
bathing a young kid

so she let Helen
have the water after
to bath Betty
and gave her

an old towel to dry with
you helped her
prepare the doll
but she took off

the baby clothes
an old cardigan
that had seen
better days

and a creamy dress
with small buttons
at the back
which were a hell

of a job to undo
and a pair of
doll *******
that fitted tightly

and were a struggle
to get off
well
Helen said

the water's nice
and soapy
so we can wash her
as it is

and so you watched
as she dipped the doll
under the water
(it might have drowned

had it been for real)
and held it there
until bubbles came out
of the neck

and she lifted Betty out
and wiped her over
with a flowery face cloth
and Betty’s eyes

opened and closed
and you helped dry
and studied
(as boys tend to do)

the seriousness
of Helen about the task
the tongue hanging
from the side

of her mouth
her eyes focussed
the head to one side
like an animal

trying to understand
a human command
and the small hands
working with calm concern

just as you'd seen
your mother do
when she made a cake
or rolled out pastry

for a pie
once the doll was dry
and dressed
she put Betty back

in the tiny cot
her dad had made
from an orange box
and her mother said

sit down
and I’ll get you
some bread and jam
or bread and dripping

and mugs of tea
and off she went
to the kitchen
humming some hymn

and you looked at Helen
sitting there
with her plaits of hair
and big eyes

showing no fear
and a smile
from ear
to lovely ear.

for a heart's worth of stone,
will the mind
hardly succumb to
the sponge...
             easily ingested,
yet hardly
          perforated
to give off a worth
of a translation...

                         let alone,
        a chance to print less money,
and more,
postage stamps..
               my heart to no mind
belongs, even if it's the crucible
of my own...
                 the mind goes one way,
the heart, another,
    and by death,
in pristine inversion,
relocated to their former
bearing...

              the heart begins to speak
for the mind,
   and the mind:
"forgets" to speak for the heart...

   my worst "fear" of death,
is that...
   it will never be the akin justification
for taking repose,
   for sleeping...
how,
   somehow death will
                transcend sleep...
and i will be forced into...
        dignifying,
or undignifying dogmas,
based upon the whims from
a dream...
   conjuring...

                    i can stomach
a forever-slumber,
    when it comes to death...
but to have to put up
with...
           fears of dream
being realized?
             cats don't sleep
during the night,
they pretend to,
            you can pass one by,
and he or she is: "snoozing",
with eyes half-open...

                     peering at shadows
of shadows in the daft night,
then...
   also...
                  prying on
the eternal silence of man's
rested set of comforted body
to bid him and his fellow:
a good night...

             audacious, some will meow
akin to the sparrows come morn,
but between the 11pm and the 4pm
mark?
     the house falls silent...
a drunk shuffles...
     itching to tattoo his fingertips
with texture of the wallpaper...
a cat sleeps...

                    i can almost always,
find myself,
   ascribed to a haunting,
           like the atypical english
out-suburb house...
  a house, whereby the natives
care so much for a garden...
but then actually use it...

             glued to their "castle"...
bonsai felines...
ever notice, that they have
eyes, akin to reptiles?
       large cats have mammal
eyes..
   when their pupils constrict,
they are not akin
to their bonsai counterparts,
i.e. reptilian slits?

                   i sense there's a spy...
what was once a serpent,
became a bonsai tiger,
a cat...
    when these felines
are bound to rest
i almost alway find them suspect...

         pandemonium spies...
i never allow myself
to be comfortable in
the presence of a cat,
                spy of: beelzebub,
spie of moloch...
  and the whole milton litany
of names...

               i don't trust them,
they're mammals...
but they have reptilian eyes...
esp. when the pupil slits
appear...
   a normal mammal would
have the same shaped
     pupil dilation and constriction,
like a lion...
but little bonsai tiger over here?

            venus in furs...
reptile in fur...
             i think the dinosaurs did a sly
one on us, when we arrived
with the capacity to breed these
bonsais...
                
         you'll still find the cool kids,
"petting" / more or less: keeping
snakes, lizards, chamaleons,
      spiders...
        i honestly don't think cats
are that much different...
             were you ever fed a deception,
so good,
that you, "somehow",
began questioning the authenticity,
after many years of
convincing yourself it was "true"?

        a cat, a bonsai tiger,
is about as much mammal...
    as i'm a ******* cyborg right not...
it's a reptile, in a mammalian
disguise...
   a bonsai doesn't behave
like a mammal...
     not even a mammal...
that hasn't been domesticated...
esp. a mammal that was been
quasi-domesticated,
    for the worth of cow,
or pig...
             or horse...
                        sly little *******...

i'm suspicious of cats,
and the cats i "own" are suspicious
of me...
       they're nothing more
than a dinosaur remnant of a spine
and a brain in a pickle jar
of lost eye-lids (snakes)...
  with a taste for fashion,
furs, masochism...
                
           cats are deceptive...
looking at their eyes...
they're ******* reptiles!
                        that and the birds...
pseudo-mammals...
                reproducing via
the aid of the reptile egg...

         hell... sure... "it's all about
the bees and the birds"...
more like it being about
the cats and the birds...

    why else wouldn't a reptile fake
"being afraid" / or seek to find a mammalian
reply for: endearing?
  than expand their slit eyes...
into a fully dilated pupil?
           as a mammal...
my pupil either contracts
or expands... it's either
                                    o or O...
a cat's eye?
                        O or ()
    and that's still stating a "compliment"
with the () curvature of the slit...
       that's not how a mammal's
eye should behave...
   fur,
    and as much does for birds...
also with fur, but no female womb,
instead a plot of egg
                    and greedy omelette...

    sure sure, i could have owned
a snake, if a wanted,
    or a tarantula...
   but cats just freaked me out
to begin with...
   that whole fur bit of *******
is an act of subversion...

               as is the whole bird:
feed me a budgerigar clock...
   because the whole beak...
was never going to be akin
                                  to a horse's hoof...

cats, when they're faking it,
turn all O puerile with their pupils...
but then they revert back
into their reptile calculating
demure of the slit ()
                                pupils.

big cat,
                 elephant, dog,
the eye dynamic is either
from o to O or from O to o,
to conscript their allowance
for the traffic of light...
    once again...
      whatever categorical divisions
we have constructed
to process information?

               to me,
cats are the old fashioned
fabble of a hushed variant
of chimera.

She stood in the dock,
a ruddy gibbering wreck,
very flushed and very frightened,
The stern judge was a vulture,
dreams of chewing her flesh,
Counsel for the prosecution,
was a rather noisy crow,
In her defence,
an eagle stood,
Clutching close her feathered brood.
the courtroom clerk a budgerigar,
with yellow breast,
and mottled feathers,
chatting and typing litotes,
although not really listening.
The defendant for the trial today,
was a bright pink flamingo,
with googly legs and googly eyes,
that poured out such pink tears,
the way the case was going on,
well,
she could be locked away for years,
the jury consisted of mockingbirds,
who laughed at everything they heard,
the evidence was null and void,
not really heard above the noise.

Having heard what he could of the evidence,
the vulture judge got rather cross,
he called upon a dove,
"members of the jury,
we have to acquit  this pretty flamingo,
because I believe that I'm in love".
(c)Livvi

One deep breath away
from the start of another day,

Begin,

moving on with a spring in my step
pat the pet cat
feed the budgerigar
turn the key in the car,

so much for the spring in my step!

got go get from here to there
pollution in the air,
but I'm seated in a Peugeot
and that's the way to go.

I'm feeling slinky
it must be the dress which
I admit
rather suits me
rather *****,

on the count of three I am
no longer me.

the memory starts clearly aged ten. kept in the fitted cabinet, second drawer down, mother’s scissors. i guess they were around before in a more muzzy state in  mind.

she may have kept my fringe tidy  when i was not taken off to the barber in the village. he used a plank across the arms of the chair to seat me. i was small then.



she said that hers were special, hairdressers’ scissors. we were never to cut paper with them, yet we did. once i saw her cutting greaseproof; different rules apply.



we  had only one pair. just one pair that i remember. i felt that mum gave them great importance, transfered this feeling.

i wish i had kept them, even with the damage.  the incident was one afternoon .



a lamp needed moving,  plug removing and my brother put it off for various reasons. we heard the noise, the bang , we saw the feathers.

those days many people had budgies, ours was blue usually. i think green was a different price?

so mum cut the electric wire with her special scissors to remove the plug, still plugged in. a hole then  in the blade. mother put to bed, we probably took her tea. the budgerigar tidied and settled we all moved forward with experience.



i wonder still if this is why i collect scissors here.



sbm.

I hear a budgerigar and not too far away
heard him yesterday and the day before

wonder why he's squawking
why isn't the budgie talking?

has the cat got his tongue?

re.: a mini-psychotic detour -
it's off the stream! it's off the stream!
it's been catalogued in: latest!
it's off the stream! i'm aiming to reach
1million words and...
it's off the stream... so the word
count will not be incorporated...

oddly enough i still know how
to use a toaster - and a kettle -
i am also fabled with having to perform
week long chemistry experiments...
why i didn't look into the basics
of

<!doctype html>
       <html>
    <head>
<meta charset="utf-8">
<title>Untitled Document</title>
</head>
          <body>
<nav>
      <li>
     <ul>Home</ul>
           <ul>About</ul>
<ul>Contact</ul>
                  <ul>Gallery</ul>
   </li>
                  </nav>
   </body>
                              </html>

funny that... how ever many of years
in school, then at university...
i was teased with this language...
for half a semester at university...
the rest of the time school was...
a bit like being in prison...
making sure the prison guards had
a job, were paid...
same with school...
the teachers were paid...

did they teach us basic computer language?
no... i'm pretty sure they didn't...
were we all expected to go to the coalmine
first... before being told to...

which isn't so much lazy as...
i can still remember chalk and chalkboard
at school...
and the holy trinity of (
                                    {      [
how many crescent moons - and altering
a piece of: would be paper?

oh my god... e. e. cummings wasn't even
born...
can you imagine if e. e. cummings
was born 20 years ago...
and started smashing out his:

stand-
;still)

i was honestly being technologicaly
paranoid...
about to cite archive numbers
of "missing" / "shadow-banned"
poo'ems...

e.g. 3479319, 3482972, 3485309,
3484258, 3483083, 3480751,
3480555, 3478158 etc.

but how is that even an over-hyped
reaction - when you're only scratching
the bare minimum -
of what's nonetheless, to me:
a 2 dimensional canvas...

and the point of school was to ensure
that we could fathom our naiveness even more so...
nothing of importance...
just passing the time...
it's not like they could have taught
us to code -
school is not some preface for:
all the subsequent self-taught mechanisms
you will ever encounter:
further on life...

why did i go to school?
why is the cult of school and the nostalgia
culture associated with: popular kids,
nerdy kids, bowling for columbine...
the everyday leftover kids -
i don't even remember being
taught grammar: proper...
we were told... as long as you sound
coherent...
nature came - nurture ****** off somewhere...
but nature didn't come
with <basic> or not so </end of>
with this sort of <bracket>
and this sort of (bracket)
and this sort of {bracket}
and this sort of [bracket] -

"back in the day" you'd read some heidegger
and not "bother" to code -
" " implies /misnomer
/metaphor - solo....

as: burgundy < red
     red being the base marker...
     given that rose < red (is also)...
     since burgundy > red
     since: burgundy ≈ purple...

<approx>
     cardinal < crimson
                                           </approx>

a "debate", and another debate -
in a thesaurus entry...
red - cardinal, crimson, burgundy appear
<sim>
           cardinal < burgundy
                                             </sim>

that is... cardinal ~ burgundy
   ergo cardinal > crimson...
or do we call these the prefixes: quasi~
and pseudo≈?

cerise and all that's suddenly expected to turn
into fluorescence of some underwater Florence...
from carmine and maroon -
brown starts to creep in...

     bobby vinton - blue on blue and...
spaghetti westerns -
somehow i wish to be held in the hands
of a coroner -
i should really think about
donating my body to a medical school -
and bobby has another great track:
velvet blue...
sure... he's no sam cook...
all the way riddled with h'american
suburbia psychopathy:
a smile can hide a thousand
little lies...
a smile is something anti-stoic...
because... the shine of the ivory sheen...

and all i can think of...
not even beginning sentences -
esp. not ending them -
the narrative went with the baby
and the bathwater -
the canary had a coalmine -
the budgerigar had a cage...
the sparrow were tattooed
along with swallows onto convicts
bodies in some jean-genet
minor *****-porky-teen-flick...

tender-bits from some Olaf or Oleg...
or better still an Olga...
recitations would also require:
bumblebees and petula clark!

and that one song that surfed right
above my head and started towing
a hoarding of kippahs
and a... my my... all those
abrahamic beards turned into sabbath
bound brooms for the fwench
brides of boredom...

some might say it's:
strawberry alarm clock -
incense and peppermints...

      as Herman's Hermits aged much worse
than a Donovan...
no milk today and the three kingfishers...

welcome citations...
what's more apparent? someone is clogging
up the arteries of time...
the veins are... the veins that stretch as far
back as jazz from the 1920s...
through to the wock and woll of the 50s...
don't get me started on what's the leftover
of the 90s of the 20th century...

new beginnings they will cite...
here's one... if e. e. cummings was to be born...

swing low
sweet ca

rr
y on

(pass the freedoms pappy
or uncle shylock not interested

- notes on finland the elsewhere estonia,
latvia and li... i will not give lithuania up
that easily... the once grand duchy...
married to the crown -
and all my hitorical adventures -
the sensible today...
the modern sensibility the current man!
me and my historical... what did i call them?

no... they're not idiosyncracies...
they're... detours in infantalism...
but if e. e. cummings was born circa...
and he - he would mosty certainly
succumb to code logic poetics...

bracket (a) "bracket" <b> bracket {c} bracket [d]...
!red is blue -
outright negation...
!red isn't red - the "is" is therefore questionable...
for some reason: no, it doesn't have to be:
but it's blue... blue is !red

should a mr. buckling bucktooth still
be introduced?
well: we do need to indroduce a next to nothing
worth nothing new: cipher unit...

a faux pas needs to have an addressee -
namely me - and i need to wallow in infuriated
agony of a petty detail that no life will
require to cherish!

- and that i am to be fond of tomorrow in that
the only promise that awaits me there is:
me baking a four tier cake - literally...

how terrible a faux pas becomes -
a bull so enraged by red that he becomes blinded
and no longer is able to hone onto
the originating crux -

even somehow "somewhere" with a dasein in
tow... intermitten years...
no... not without a T attached...
and even by now as by then:
that's a misnomer...

- apparently tautology is not a logical
fallacy... but something worth
a thesaurus rex and peacock's: "age of discovery"...
how we can all speak a language
of aphorisms and verb conjectures -
as ever: nouns retain their form as being
the most complete category of everyday
toils - a hammer will never become
an iron shrapnel hanging by a hook chin
off the clide edge of a nail's head...

set with time in mind - temporal thinking...
otherwise set with space in mind -
spatial thinking -
otherwise: when thinking was simply
thinking - exploring the moral architecture...
with that moral-theta of 'ought... and i:
probably not...

save me from linguo-savvy h'american
media pundits and their acronyms!
the boss, the bot the bot, the boss...
the bottom liner - the beatnik and the bolshevik
and... some other b- prefixed outlier...

- otherwise: it's pretty **** evil...
for movies to showcase the hygienic act of
washing ones teeth...
washing the teeth...
spitting out the remaining toothpaste
(oh jeez louis! why don't they simply,
swallow it?)...
and then... not rinsing their mouths?
at this point... rinsing the mouth...
after having just washed the teeth using
toothpaste... is probably as much good
as using mouthwash to begin with...
no one; no one rinses their mouths
after brushing their teeth on film?!

i've too many dreams about teeth
to know - i am actually the sole proprietor of
a memory of my great-grandfather...
and how... he would eat 20 sugar cubes
a day... smoke 40...
and have his first tooth pulled out...
aged 62...
myth, history... journalism?
i dream about teeth...
i would have clearly asked for:
and he dreamed about moths...
but then... oh Eden is still in my grasp...
i can see the next forbidden fruit
hanging...
her name is Layla... and she's...
borderline 16 years old...
i see my Eden already...
i see the forbidden fruit...
apparently i never left...
as i was never apparently Adam...

problem is: you already know what
the forbidden fruit is...
and it's bothering you that i know
what the forbidden fruit is, for me...
now comes the juggling act
of me entertaining not making my will
into a resolve... which is to not:
act upon it...
maybe the apple was too complicated...
maybe a Layla circa 16 is...
a more obvious deterrent...

i think it's also called:
the prosecutor's *****...
but... enough gob and enougn dosh...
you can be the new st. andrew of windsor...
even in the taxi driver the ****
is 0... negated...

my my... what sort of language could
even become so casual...
the burning bridges of informality...
strapped to the formal tool of
orientating one's spatial creed of:
for the exchange of goods and services...
long gone the per se
of a school and a playground...

or some do... want to find and rekindle
the brotherhood of childhood...
they'll join the army...
they'll commit themselves to crime...
some men... it's hardly the adventure riddle
first lady's history society of
rhode island's desperate housewife club...
but...
it's hardly a deviation from imagining
how fudge is packed,
or for that matter: sausages...

a major faux pas...
some e. e. cummings... and what would never
become a code(d) poo'em...
but... for what today had to offer:
and what i had to offer today;
it's enough... it's peaches and cream...
a well balanced butterfly of reciprocation...
it's a death... but a death with a promise
of returning: in situ...
although in situ is always a flexible
requirement when reincarnation is fiddled
with.

Judging is about as pointless as a water-skiing budgerigar
Because all it does is bring people down
Turn once proud smiles into bitter sullen frowns
You never know the whole story
So why would you dismiss them, morning glory?

Take for example that homeless man out on the corner
He was a vet that served his country with pride and decorum
But when he got back home his job had been taken
By a young upstart who's boots were still shaking

His pride was shattered and his spirit was gone
So he had to move slowly along
All he could do was beg to survive
While so many people make comments and deride
My point here people is try your best to not judge another
Because you never know of that one day may be you sleeping under a bridge with no cover

baby was a black sheep, baby
was a *****...
rock & roll ******.

i'm gonna drink my whiskey,
extend my *******,
and in doing so,
      to simply express the stance:
thank you, thank you,
                 *******, *******!
eat lead.
  capsize on your ******'s worth of girth!
cunty-mother-*******-waste-of-a-worth-of-man;
come, the last demand...
               and i'm adjusting my clockwork
toward a city lifestlyle...
  i just felt there was enough empty
space in the double bed to suggest:
     hums and cuddling pillows
to hope for the opposite ***...
****** ****** ****** ****** ******...
****** ****** ****** ******...
                  it's what's called: singing in prison...
like a parrot... a *budgerigar...
         white boy in the prison of his
own language...
   what, a, waste, of, time.

"they" kept scrambling,
scuttling their way back
into the asylum...

   like there was no
retraction...

   videos and response
videos...

      and then...
    someone left something,
and there was no
comment section...
  
and it read,
as a litany worth of all
that was not pop
via the dada movement...

arthur cravan
    jacques riguat
     julien torma
          jacques vache
   (jack...
  jackson...
   why not: ja' que!
           huh?)

and then the whole, "thing"
imploded
into a high school
schoolyard brawl...
scuffle...
   whatever you call
throwing an orange
at someone's head...
playing the lottery...
will it hit him...
or will it miss...
  a bit like three
beavis & butthead
loons
staying out too late,
forgetting to leave
a park...
jumping over
the fence,
and the fat one...
jumps...
  then gets "hanged",
by a ******...
on the park fence...
and you're wondering:
how many more seconds...
before we release this
budgerigar...
from an abstract fence...
when he's still...
a fat boy,
dangling on a park fence...
yapping like
some ugly duckling...
dangling...
      from a "noose"
of his underwear
being caught on a
vlad the impaler safe-keep?

  **** it, let's all be
as pedantic as: moi...
   and sift through
what's,
i assure you: to come.

life was so pure...
back when,
you'd huddle in for a friday
night...
and never take gaming
seriously...

  gaming would be akin
to reviving the understanding
of chess...
or mahjong...
   you'd spend
a "solipsistic" saturday
morning...
not worrying about homework
until sunday night...
and...
you'd congregate,
go to the shopping-centre...
and buckaroo
the afternoon away...

     like now...
me: eyes: void / blank...
good thing i didn't learn anything
about leaving comments,
or engaging in:
a comment section...
i'm all pro democracy...
but...
  comment sections, per se?
that's worse than a tweet...
given the current twitter
debacle...
   never used it...
moved to gab.com...
huh? i don't know how
to use that...
give me a ******* hammer
and a nail
and a book by heidegger:
sure...
    we can make that work...

like, i wanted to leave
the schoolyard at some point...
but then the ****
just kept nagging me
back into a mafia-esque
demand for cipher-zunge...

you know why comment
sections ****?
i remember the days
of the microsoft chat-rooms,
the m.s.n. hybrids
of social media...

        whatever this is...
       it is, whatever that was,
and neither,
will ever meet.

p.s.
      anger...
isn't that something worth
pacifying with copious
     amounts of ms. amber?
****... better buy
a camera and a mic.
and record myself saying
something:
that i can't quiet, literally,
think through.

cats don't, excactly, sleep,
during the hours of the nights...
if you ever perchance
a lapse into insomnia...
you'd notice...
                    cat's snooze...
during the day?
they play catch-up "journalism"
from the confines
of: where Cain was banished to...
Nod...
             sure...
a cat will sleep,
if you're also sleeping...
    but in the nocturnal hours,
you're awake,
and you have a cat handy,
by your side?
         perhaps... just perhaps...
but most of the time,
                            they just: snooze...
that's what cats are for...
no leash,
    no muzzle...
           ***** where it feels like...
   eats whenever it feels like...
it's hardly a *******
budgerigar worth a cage...
or a dog...
          you ignore it,
it ignores you,
the ultimate canvas ****-test
for experiencing free will...
whenever needed to be translated
and incubated by a human being...
m'eh... m'eh back...
pristine echo, sonar machine...
    me + cat = dolphin...
   i don't infringe on its freedom,
it doesn't infringe on my freedom...
perfect symbiosis,
the closest symbiotic comparison
would come, in the shape of
a tapeworm.