the banners are blowing steady
(fully extended in the hot august wind)
contemporary in style
tightly trimmed
and all gloriously dressed
in the latest colors and hues
it’s a fleeting distraction though
as the caskets
and children
and grieving widows
are rolled steadily across
the burning tarmac

it’s the beginning
of that inevitable
two part proceeding
a skotoma for the ages
delusionary in nature
rich in grays
and eerily reminiscent
of that foreign reign
clipped in silence
with dark roots of fear
set deep in the bowels
of a chapter
of unimaginable sin

indifference as pronounced
as the accompanying salutes
haphazard sentiments that are
cloaked in the horror
of endless
aborted days
forgotten buggies
and bunkers
and rat packs
how could the switch
be set so wrong?

it’s truly an illusion
(this way of the world)
simple indulgence can grow
so beastly and consuming
try telling the tale to the
tibetan monks
or broad peak sherpas
(those boys know how to get it done!)
how to bask in
the ice cold waters
how to savor
the lava hot falls
couldn’t the others
have figured this one out?

the flags have settled
at half mass
and are tinted
in a charred yellow brown
the lifeless dreams
and inspirations now
in the rear view
leif running solo
(exempt of his trusted gunners)
ready for the numbered lines
his eyes open
to the ever changing
enemy at hand

Two bottles of Southern Comfort, Black Keys on iTunes, profile picture with sister, stir-fry, 30 Rock, Gorillaz poster, pancakes at 3 am, spontaneous lunch at Barone, friends with benefits, need a hug, Columbus Day, touch my ****, too much tongue, crumpled into wall in the morning, Urban Outfitters for a t-shirt, silver medal, free Dominos, Workaholics at 12, secret sleepover #2, ******* because i thought that's all he wanted from me and i wanted him to stay, hickey on my neck, studying in a room with the round table, drew a horse on the whiteboard, fill out a police report, Redgates from Firehouse, he looks cute today. Tackled into metal, did I break my back? Jump on it, it's not funny, I'm crying, cold beer, kiss on the porch, stop kissing me in 12, *******, more kissing, blood everywhere, come over, comb through hair. you can stay over again, skips class, uses my shower, makes the bed, come with me to doctor. Vermont secret, Batmobile, on Prius, dune buggies, Phantom Menace, brother-in-law, supermarket in Newfane, stir-fry, statement at 6am. Hurricane, in my basement, halloween at the fire station, knitted scarf headpiece, mother's phone number, red gate sandwiches by Citi Bank across from library. Confirmation party, Chartruese, Coldplay at Mohegan, Torches, enchiladas, screaming, stuffed wolf, comic book finishing touches at 1 am, new roommates, L.O.L., I was going to propose to you - in the hallway, 3 month long orchids, Vermont trip #2, no riding allowed, nap by the fire, bare butts touching over unscented blanket, sapphire ring too big under lamppost in parking lot, happy. Sarasota, hide my eyes with Mosley Tribes, take a walk without me, Game of Thrones, cold sand, hair dryer joke, need eye drops, Ringling Mansion, gator bites, silent walk by traffic, kayak in shallow water, families too different, bike ride to tune of Star Wars, nervous about the summer, panic into shoulder on flight home. ******* in the middle of the night, drive around campus, leave me alone, pack up N-64 games, fight before final presentation - only one group gets an A, instant milkshake and magazines to pass the time, make a pizza, here let's make out again - apparently that isn't so bad, almost forgot my friesian mug and vase by the trailer. Texting *****, sick stomach, Lord of the Rings, try smoking, Magic: The Gathering, first communion, wedding, Chip's Family restaurant, high school graduation that I couldn't sit at, Miya's with the mini *****. Fireworks on hill through trees. Retna laptop with blue cover, HGTV's Next Design Star, I have to leave. this is where I stop.

A drive-by piercing with a lemon going haywire
Some day-old sushi seen floating in a milk shake
Biplanes soaring on a river made of goldfish
Hamsters running like a maggot being stepped on
T-Birds flying on a highway made of spike strips
A sleeper hold keeping pleasure from the culprit
High-speed boats with Bond at the Olympics
A Cheshire cat that is famous for his slow wit
A hands-free call using carrots as a pitchfork
Motel 6 giving buckets full of sunshine
A loser shakes when he’s calling for a train wreck
Two horned-toad dogs seek pleasure from a princess
Pineapples dance on a table made of tall grass
Swimming pools run like the nostrils of a cokehead
Lawnmowers chase televisions made of chocolate
A headrest pops like a package full of mayonnaise
Full moon falling like a stock that’s made of pennies
Some ring-toss games using members as a target
Horse-drawn buggies have turtles for a driver
Captain Crunch cracks three teeth with his product
Unicorn strippers charge nothing for a snow cone
A fig tree shoots his rifle like a marksman
Time-lapse photos lend credence to a journey
A night jog leading to the starting of a win streak
Cotton ***** fighting like the heart of a palm tree
Rabbit holes filled with a rocket made of red glare
Alien red giants just as sure as I am breathing
A high-speed rail system travels without leaving
Lamborghinis resting on a bed of melting ice cream
Then there’s a cuckoo clock riding on a white mink
I saw a cowboy yesterday atop a pile of hay
Leaches lurking everywhere really like to play
Red newspaper taxis burn at the pole in June
Hearts of gold at harvest time, hear my drum in tune
Playing in the band was my only decent goal
Rake, a shovel, and a pick dig working with a ***        
Prince without a pauper will rise from down below
Hot tamales drop like hail the radar never showed
Squids sign a new record deal using their own ink
Octomom wants it all; such ***** I’ve never seen

As our States go into a state of confusion
In the passing of their passing of laws
Saying now that all their fine citizens
Can freely lay out and get ******

As a matter of fact haven't they been doing that
For years if my minds working correctly
I guess the difference now when they lounge around
They can freely puff on it legally

So let's all take the bongs out of hiding
And add some fresh liquid to it
Invite over the neighbors you've never talked to
To share in a neighborly spliff

It'll certainly make everyone happy
When we come together and roll up a fatty
Don't worry if to this party your a newbie
Here take a hit off this doobie

We'll order out pizza
And crank up Netflix
Watch My Little Pony
And laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and...

Wait...now where was I? Oh Yea!

So let's take all the bongs out of hiding

Hold on...have I already said that?
Dude, this is freaking me out!  Lol!

Oh okay, here we go...

You can now grow your own
On your very own farm
But instead of deep in the woods
It can now be your front yard

Of course all the neighbor kids
You'll have to watch
As they pass by your place
And pick from your crops

So then you'll have to invest
In a scary guard dog
To keep them at bay
And out of your plot

But of course you'll be ******
And forget that he's there
Where he'll end up hungry
And start eating his share

There goes your profit
There goes your crop
Plus all the time you'll spend behind the dog
With a baggy waiting for doggie do do drops

But then again the government
May not let you grow your own stuff
As you wait for the F.D.A.
To authorize all your drugs

And we all know when you get
The government involved
Bureaucratic common sense
Too often gets lost

Maybe this legalization thingy
Is not the best of ideas
Things seemed to run smoother
When we all kept our *** hid

I dislike the easterlies,
as they carry
the sound of traffic
into the solitude
of my meditation room.

It's times like these
when one wishes
for horses and buggies,
simplicity to return.

I breath deep,
hoping
for some of it.

In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should

You query, her name's a pond.  In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin.  Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan.  Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent

Stones.  Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,

Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies

Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew.  O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right

To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon

The doons.  In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!

My humblest apology if the following account
doth gross thee out forlorn childhood of mine
found further ostracization of me tantamount
being shipped off to a leprosarium.

As a chronic gold digger in early grade school,
specifically within nasal passages, I excelled at
locating awesome gooey gems. The pinky seemed
most opportune for button nose of mine as most
convenient handy implement to mine for juicy
succulent wads of yuck. Early academic ex pear
re: ants helped refine delicate art of reaching
pitch perfect snot. This individual craft essentially
entails extensive dexterity in conjunction with
recognizing ideal picking time. If one plunges

the little finger prematurely, nothing but a glob
of **** will dribble out. Best to wait until rock
hard sensation felt when applying pressure to
either nostril. The consistency of rock candy the
best analogy for this other than tasteful habit
instinctively learned when being housed in the
womb. Upon birth one or more phalanges often
solidly locked where mucus generated. This
common medical condition frequently requires
delicate intervention (usually minor surgery)

to separate glued gummy intertwined proboscis
with fleshy mitts. As a natural born miner for
the most moist and choice septum byproduct,
this man as one gangly whipper snapper mastered
the art of sifting thru the sinus cavity to extricate
boulder sized buggies wrote the book on this
ole factory chews. Unlike many other young
children who fancied this fun hunt for crusty
crab cakes like formations as delectable treats,
this grown man chose to paste them on under

side of his desk. No particular strategy for affix
sing goop upon the underneath section of old
fashion unit (whereby the top opened up and
provided a dish like formation to store materials)
motivated this daily cultivating for ripe buggies.
Within very few months, the front most section
became quite thick with wads of buggies that
quickly hardened into scaly coating displeasing
even to my high tolerance for gross. Since no
preliminary measure took place to map out

where to place the collection of daily glob,
inevitable contact took place with aging dried
buggies that felt like molting shells of insects.
Nightmares eventually took place incorporating
this scary goblin like creature (usually dripping
lugi with mossy slime), which sought out his
insatiable hunger for buggies. In these dreams,
I tended to be honored with razor sharp fangs
and dagger type fingernails. The latter came
in particular service to probe my pinocchio-

sized smeller with amazing ease to scrape
practically to the brain (and perhaps some
grey matter did get unintentionally removed)
to appease the buggy monster. Soon after wake
king up in a start from this nightmare (when
outsize still pitchblack), a blurry image seemed
to dart thru away leaving soggy footprints
closely resembling phlegm!

I.

The last thing? It wadn't nothing special. Pa and me, well, we never had what I guess you'd call a real easy exchange. He kept to hisself. I kept to myself. We worked hard, and we appreciated each other. But we--and this may be sad to you, but it ain't sad to me--we didn't get touchy-feely. Didn't say "I love you" or things like that. We traded off fetching the water. Traded off nabbing clothes off the line for Ma. He taught me how to be, to live, you know? How to work the cotton. How to work the mules. He gave me three bullets--just three--every time I took the .22 out to get a squirrel. "Make it count," he'd say. "Don't bring home less than four." Making it count--that means more than that other stuff.

So, what I'm saying is, in the end it wadn't no big to-do. Before he handed Ma the shotgun and told us to get, he stuck his head out the kitchen window, the one just over the sink. He said, "It's gonna rain. Them's the kind of clouds that ain't fickle."

I said I reckoned he was right. He said yep. Handed Ma the shotgun. And that was that.


II.

Robert never wanted to live in Tennessee. He was a Kentucky boy, and if it hadn't been for my selfishness, I believe he would have died a Kentucky boy--or man, rather--at a much later date. See my mother, Faye, she got dreadful sick back in '31, and I says to him, I says, Robert, you know my sister can't take care of her--this being on account of her being touched in the head and all. He didn't say nothing, which was usual, but he didn't grumble neither and that, that right there, is the mark of a good man.

We started with just 80 acres. He built the house hisself. Did you know that? It wasn't nothing fancy, no, but we didn't need nothing fancy. It was made pretty much entirely of--oh what do they call it. It ain't just cedar. That uh uh uh--red cedar. Can't believe I forgot that.

Anyway, our place was sprawling with red cedar. Not the prettiest trees you ever saw, but they were ours, and they provided what we needed of them.

Because of us doing alright with the logging, we was able to pick up the Whitmore place. That was another 160 acres.  Robert hated Tennessee, not a doubt in my mind about that. It was his home, though, you see. It was his land. He wanted to make something of it to give to our son, Henry.


III.

Come all you people if you want to hear
The story about a brave engineer;
He's Franklin D. Roosevelt, in Washington D.C.
He's running the train they call 'prosperity.'

Now he straightened up the banks with a big holiday;
He circulated money with the T.V.A.
With the C.C.C. and the C.W.A.
He's brought back smiles and kept hunger away.
      -"Casey Roosevelt" [Excerpts]
          Folk song recorded by Buck Fulton for E.C. and M.N. Kirkland, July, 1937


IV.

Before they even started on the reservoir, the Tennessee Valley Authority started digging up the dead. I'm serious. Most frightful thing you ever saw. Hickory Road--and I swear, I swear on the country, the good Lord, anything from a ****** to a mountain--the road was full-up with buggies carting coffins. Three days straight they were carting dead folks down to Clinton. Most of the coffins were barely holding up, too. Made out that crude pine. Seeing them yellow-but-not-yellow heads poking out was enough to make a feller sick.

If I remember right, they had to relocate something like 5,000 before they dammed up the Clinch, but they made a lot more living, breathing folks than that move along. Lot more.


V.

A week before the T.V.A went and flooded the valley the sounds stopped. The duhh-duhh. The errgh-errgh. You know? The sounds of work. When you don't got all that noise going on--that routine, I guess you could say--what can you do but think?

And because of that, I believe, that last week Pa acted different. He was trying not to, trying to act just the same. But he was trying to be the same too hard. Ma would take coffee off the stove, pour it for him and he'd say: "Thank you, sweetheart." He always said thank you. That much was the same. It's that sweetheart bit that didn't fit in his mouth right. She left the kitchen. Couldn't take it.

Tom Scott hung himself, too. Clyde Johnson, his brother Jacob. There was one more. Big fella that lived down by Hershel's store. Can't remember his name. Pa's was the only body that didn't wash up on the bank.

I never did see them after they washed up. Mrs. Scott said it was appalling. She said her husband's body was all puffed up, swollen with the water. Sheriff cut the rope off her husband's neck. She said that neck was black leading into purple leading into black. Raw. Mrs. Scott didn't live too long after that. A year or so. The shame got to her I suppose.

When folks called my pa a coward, I never argued with them. Didn't see the point. What's a coward? Somebody hang hisself? Somebody that leave his wife and boy to fend for themselves? That a coward? Call him what you want. I ain't gonna argue. All he is--is dead to me.

VI.

My people will abide in a peaceful habitation, in secure dwellings, and in quiet resting places. And it will hail when the forest falls down, and the city will be utterly laid low. Happy are you who sow beside all waters, who let the feet of the ox and the donkey range free.
         - Isaiah 32:18-20

VII.**

Robert had brown, wavy hair. He had big hands with scarred knuckles. He was missing a tooth on the right side. Three or four down from the front. You could only tell when he laughed. Every day in the field he wore the same cap, a Miller's Co-op cap, with overlapping sweat stains. He never wanted to track dirt in the house so he'd knock on the side of the house anytime he needed something from inside, like a box of matches or a knife or something. The first two knocks would be to get my attention. They'd sound urgent. The third was soft, as if to say please. When we went to bed, he always waited for me to fall asleep before he even tried. He knew his snoring kept me up.

On the last day, Robert handed me his shotgun. Says, "I love you, Mary." He was so choked up, I didn't know if he was going to kiss me. So I kissed him. Says, "I love you Robert." And that was pretty much all. We got in the buggy and headed off to my mother's.

I wanted to bury the shotgun. I knew I'd need a place to visit, a place to talk to Robert. And it had to be a piece of him. I dug the hole out behind my mother's place. Henry, he must've thought I was crazy, digging that hole the very next day. He asked me what I was going to put in there. I says the shotgun. He says, "No, ma'am, you isn't." I says, "Yes, son, I is." He says we need that gun. Get squirrels. Get rabbits. Make it count, he says.

I was pretty sore about it, but I ended up throwing my wedding ring in that hole. It being the only other thing that was him. We put the shotgun over the door frame in the kitchen.

I miss him every day. I feel it in my body. Feel it down to my bones. I imagine it wouldn't feel no different if I had lost a hand. But what makes me sadder than anything, sadder than not seeing Robert every morning, sadder than knowing he don't get to see what Henry makes of hisself, is that Robert didn't get nobody's attention.

He never said that's why he had to do it. I just figured as much. He wouldn't die for nothing. That wasn't him. The paper wouldn't say nothing about him other than he was dead. I wrote the T.V.A. Never heard nothing back. It's like the world mumbled, "I'm sorry," and just spun on. That's what they give the good men: a mumble. Killers make the front page. They're in the pictures. The good men? For the good men, the world has to keep asking for their names. The world says, "Oh, Robert, right," and "I'm sorry." But the world don't mean it. The world's got dams to build, valleys to flood. Graves to move. People to uproot. Why? Do you know? Course you don't. God hisself would shrug his shoulders and tell me that's just the way it is.

Thinking of how people used me and betrayed me but the worse double cross is from family your own blood choosing bad habits and lieing to those who live them.
My cousin is a drug addict his habits have made him become someone I thought I knew. He's always scratching never sleeps he's burned so many people and stole I never thought he'd cross that line with me.
It sickens me to know others see drugs more important than family. It hit me deep struck a nerve to know I can't do anything he has to want to change I'm not forcing it.
I don't want to give up but I'll stay away because I don't want to get hurt again or know if I can ever trust.
This kid was suppose to go to the navy but he's out doing drugs wasting time its not my life but its hard to watch.

Everything plus-minus,
Venus, I beg you
to sponge me
All her fishes
Swim to surplus
and I imagine John
and all the people living
in peace but your niece looks
like Octopus
A priority the postman comes
Again twice got sponged
paid another
wet your
palate
price

His sturdy strong
legs
Milkman diary
but so many legs
But not enough time
Seattle rain
dating site
of Squid
She said to put a
lid on it
With such fluid
of water legs

They can really swim
Diet of fish my mask had
holes Swiss cheese lace
The golf game hole in one
sponge
I am home cooking
Calamari all knifed
inside like
Samkari  Uncle Sam
Sponged in with a lady
in her Mercedes

All squid-crabmeat
Those fish cakes water
crabby women
town
Sponge Bob aquarium
what an age
The college sorority
took over
the man's legs
Colliegate Girly
Fun side
authority sponge me
anytime no cell phone
So precocious hair rinse
game
So fictitious
legs so pompous
showing
Something always
more flirtatious
Sponge wet lips
she thought things were
clean delicious women
why do we
get devious wanting
what others have
You cannot share
your way too jealous
everyone became about the
The next winner New Jersey
Mrs. Cleaner not the dry ones
joy luck don't press me out
Club sandwich of legs
Got sponged
obnoxiously
I Apple phones
too much of a bite
She got bugged
things had to change
They deleted
everyone's name
Those monstrous

Mother in laws belly buttons
with gems rings of octopus
Everytime the same things
Octopus every October
They were Cowboy riders
And baked trio swingers
Quickdraw Mcdonald burglar
the gun always the silencer
Those sponge ladies love
to clean with their dancer's legs
Hitting some ***** spots
with her sponge
Those octopus men muscles
Leg lift Taylor Swift
Men love their leggy
eating muscles
Snake eyes of Venom
That jellyfish way too clean
lemon
Those surrenders
and wet calender
reminders
They got suspicious email
But lemons are the climate
Of October clean
Halloween became
beyond nasty
Thirteen sides slippery
Got slimy at the Door concert
Jimmy with his Morris(sons)
  Octopus
Octopus caused a vigorous
scene smashing pumpkins
There is no science to an
Octopus and sponge
But she loves her computer
and it was
an infectious disease
She was overly had
obsessive-compulsive
behavior

Cleaning it with her sponge
Eating her blueberry
sponge cake big mistake
She became on this sugar
leg kick really sick
Aggressiveness
So reckless or
Metamorphosis
Wheres her thesis
What a day for the sponge to
be doomed with curses
Sponge talk ***** lounge
Cafe with mud packs
Dilemmas

Sponge sticking to Mamas
Octopuses garden wanting
to hold your hand
The Beatles pin cushion shaped;
like an Octopus needles
I am the Walrus all doodles
Meretricious appliances
Her child had
Octopus performance
What allowances

Woodstock New York
The concerts heavy rained on
Purple haze Octopus
You needed to ring it
out on the clothesline
This felt like a pipe dream
The Octopus needed
more money

All burlesque Cher legs I got you
Sponged
The seamstress what madness
The butterfly lost her wings
Hannibal all Octopuses cannibal
They were sewed into the
Octopus picnic outing
Salads calamari tomato rotten
Got crush from her leggy

Going out of the country but
I cant back down
Tom Petty got sponged
with a  million buggies
Dr. Seus Octopus in the hat
Her legs got flat
That's a Jerry Mcquire Hire
Octopus got so baked I wonder
who made the fire

In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should

You query, her name's a pond.  In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin.  Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan.  Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent

Stones.  Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,

Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies

Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew.  O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right

To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon

The doons.  In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!

In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should

You query, her name's a pond.  In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin.  Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan.  Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent

Stones.  Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,

Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies

Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew.  O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right

To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon

The doons.  In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!

In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should

You query, her name's a pond.  In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin.  Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan.  Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent

Stones.  Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,

Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies

Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew.  O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right

To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon

The doons.  In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!

Driving all night into red skies
We'll feel so alive when the sun comes up
And the morning air turns our blood so cold and warm
Settle at a hotel because we got another 800 miles to go
I just want to stay like this forever,
I never want to leave who I am because
We got it made, and the nights we stay awake
Wishing this would never end, we'll run out of gas
And we know it's all okay because we have each other
Seems it'll never end,
All over the east coast we'll throw our own parties
Breaking all the rules, we could stay this young forever
and own the store parking lots skating on buggies
Escaping to paradise to start all over again
Well, we know we got it made

Do you remember days gone by
When car songs ruled the radio
Think about the passing years
Where did these songs all go?
Little Honda, Duece Coupe
I miss my GTO
I miss the beach boy harmony
Where did the car songs go?

The Little Old Lady From Pasadena
My Hot Rod Lincoln...oh
Daddy took my t-bird away
Where did my car songs go?

Way back in the sixties
The car song, it was boss
Where has the music travelled
It's this generations loss

Do you remember days gone by
When car songs ruled the radio
Think about the passing years
Where did these songs all go?
Little Honda, Duece Coupe
I miss my GTO
I miss the beach boy harmony
Where did the car songs go?


Hot Rods, and dune buggies
The cars would go go go
Where are the car songs hiding
Does anybody know?

I miss my barracuda
My "Woody"  was the bomb
There's nothing out there like it
Where has the car song gone?

The music they are playing
Just puts me fast asleep
I need to hear my car song
No more "Rolling In The Deep"

Do you remember days gone by
When car songs ruled the radio
Think about the passing years
Where did these songs all go?
Little Honda, Duece Coupe
I miss my GTO
I miss the beach boy harmony
Where did the car songs go?

In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should

You query, her name's a pond.  In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin.  Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan.  Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent

Stones.  Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,

Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies

Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew.  O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right

To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon

The doons.  In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!

EDNA: Hello there, Dan my dear, please take a seat, but before you sit down, just let me put a plastic sheet over the chair.

DAN: Thank you so much, Mrs Sweetlove.

EDNA: Now, Dan, please tell me why you are known far and wide as Dan, Dan, the ***** Old Man. How did you come to acquire such a salubrious soubriquet? Don't spare us any of the more sordid details. My readers are all agog.

DAN: Well, there are three aspects to my dirtiness. Firstly, my sanitary arrangements and personal hygiene. How can I put this delicately? [scratches head in puzzlement and several lice are dislodged, much to Edna's distaste. She squirts them with super-strength LICEOKILL.] To be blunt, Edna, I don't wash much and I very seldom change my clothes. This means I smell quite strongly. And, as you will observe, my skin is quite grimy and unpleasant to behold; the boils and sores are not attractive to many people.

EDNA: Fortunately I am afflicted with a rather bad head cold at the moment, so I can't really whiff you too strongly. However, I can see your skin is disgusting and your clothes are a total disgrace. Tell me, is there any particular reason why you are so careless of your hygienic duties?

DAN: Well, I see it as a vicious circle. If I were to take a bath or a shower, I would only get ***** again quite soon. And anyway, getting dressed again in my old clothes means any olfactory benefit would be negated. Again, if I were to put on some clean clothes, they would only be rendered odorous by my unwashed body. And defecation and urination tend to get your lower parts ***** two or three times a day anyway, even if you wipe thoroughly which I don't. So what's the point, unless you want to waste all your life on synchronising cleansing activities? Also, between you and me, I quite enjoy the stench of my own unclean body. And it has several benefits: I always get a row of seats to myself at the cinema and I normally have no problem with queues when I go shopping: people tend to give way to me as a mark of respect.

EDNA: And the second aspect of your dirtiness?

DAN: May I talk to you freely about ***, Mrs Sweetlove?

EDNA: Oh yes, be frank! [nods eagerly] Be frank!

DAN: Well, let's put it like this: I am not very particular when it comes to ***. I can honestly say I have never ever turned down a ****** approach of any sort. I am, of course, bisexual and when I feel like a bit of impersonal *******, I nip down to the public lavatory in the park and have some there. What I normally do is wait by the ****** and whip out my grimy, stinking **** and flash it whenever someone comes in. I don't care who it is. What does it matter? Most people run away in horror, a few attack me and shove my face down a pan, but one or two let me **** them.

EDNA: What sort of people would that be, dear?

DAN: Usually tramps, the short-sighted, people with no sense of smell, degenerates, psychos, masochists, you know. A reasonably varied selection. Buggers can't be choosers. Who cares anyway? I've been arrested by the cops a few times, but they don't like to put me in their nice clean police car, so they usually let me go with a bit of a thumping. Which I quite like anyway, although it's cost me several teeth [shows hideous maw of rotting stumps].

EDNA: And how about when you feel like a little bit of the old hetero rumpy-pumpy action, Dan, my love?

DAN: To be honest, I don't get much rumpy-pumpy, even though that's probably what I'm most famous for. Speaking candidly, not many women fancy anyone as filthy as I am, even lady tramps have to draw the line somewhere. So I tend to have to be a bit pushy when I feel like a bit of female company. What I usually do is lurk around girls' schools, ladies' gyms, ballet dancing classes, hockey grounds, netball pitches, the park where the young mums push their babies' buggies, anywhere really where you get women and girls in reasonable numbers. When I see someone I fancy, which is anything female between sixteen and the grave, I just drop my pants and show them what I've got down there. They scream a bit but I can usually get a quick one off the wrist before they've run too far. I've been arrested a few times for that too, but it's a hazard of the game of love, I feel.

EDNA: [gulps excitedly] I think you mentioned three reasons why you are known as a ***** Old Man par excellence......

DAN: Yes, well the third one is a bit more personal. You see, I have a very sensitive stomach and I often get very bad indigestion, which means I **** and burp a lot. And I frequently ***** too, as you can see from the state of my trousers - this is probably a reflection of the fact that my kitchen is crawling with rodents and insects large and small. And did I mention this last bit? I really like eating my own snot in public [voids nostrils onto grimy paw and gobbles product thereof].

EDNA: I'd like to thank you, Dan, for sharing your opinions, emotions and ambitions with me and my readers here today [switches off tape recorder]. You truly are an unusually repellent *******. Get out of my lovely house.

*[END OF INTERVIEW]

.
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should

You query, her name's a pond.  In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin.  Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan.  Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent

Stones.  Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,

Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies

Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew.  O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right

To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon

The doons.  In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!

Carefully I lay me down,
in a world so hectic,
and yet it matters.
It matters we were all placed gently.
In a world so hectic.
Born to breathe,
an air of fresh chemicals,
in a world so hectic.
I can't say why,
since I'm no god,
but in this world it matters.
In this world so hectic,
it matters
that we have lips and eyes.
It matters
that there is little hair on our heads that give life to buggies if we don't keep it clean.
It matters
that we have money in our pockets,
and shoes on our feet.
It matters,
and that isn't always the softest inside.
There may be holes in those pockets;
holes in those shoes,
but it matters.
Those holes are representing something new.
Something fresh.
Something before and not so bad, because
before humans touched this world did earth seem so sad?
Was earth dripping color?
Were raindrops filled with gas?
What about those cans you see,
scattered in the bay?
Do you think the world would still be sad,
if all it went away?
Not to say, we are to blame.
In fact, that's not my point.
I'm saying we are carefully placed in this loving,
small,
and hopeful place,
yet this hectic,
crazy,
brain-numbing place,
so carefully,
we can't misplace that this
this matters,
in some kind of way.
It must matter we were placed
in the world, though we wrecked it.
It matters we were placed
in a world so hectic

SIX street ends come together here.
They feed people and wagons into the center.
In and out all day horses with thoughts of nose-bags,
Men with shovels, women with baskets and baby buggies.
Six ends of streets and no sleep for them all day.
The people and wagons come and go, out and in.
Triangles of banks and drug stores watch.
The policemen whistle, the trolley cars bump:
Wheels, wheels, feet, feet, all day.
  
In the false dawn when the chickens blink
And the east shakes a lazy baby toe at to-morrow,
And the east fixes a pink half-eye this way,
In the time when only one milk wagon crosses
These three streets, these six street ends,
It is the sleep time and they rest.
The triangle banks and drug stores rest.
The policeman is gone, his star and gun sleep.
The owl car blutters along in a sleep-walk.

As our States go into a state of confusion
In the passing of their passing of laws
Saying now that all their fine citizens 
Can freely lay out and get ******

As a matter of fact haven't they been doing that
For years if my minds working correctly 
I guess the difference now when they lounge around
They can freely puff on it legally 

So let's all take the bongs out of hiding
And add some fresh liquid to it
Invite over the neighbors you've never talked to
To share in a neighborly spliff 

It'll certainly make everyone happy 
When we come together and roll up a fatty
Don't worry if to this party you're a newbie
Here take a hit off this doobie

We'll order out pizza
And crank up Netflix
Watch My Little Pony 
And laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and...

Wait...now where was I? Oh Yea!

So let's take all the bongs out of hiding

Hold on...have I already said that?
Dude, this is freaking me out!  Lol!

Oh okay, here we go...

You can now grow your own
On your very own farm
But instead of deep in the woods
It can now be your front yard

Of course all the neighbor kids 
You'll have to watch
As they pass by your place 
And pick from your crops

So then you'll have to invest
In a scary guard dog
To keep them at bay 
And out of your plot

But of course you'll be ****** 
And forget that he's there
Where he'll end up hungry
And start eating his share

There goes your profit 
There goes your crop
Plus all the time you'll spend behind the dog
With a baggy waiting for doggie do do drops

But then again the government
May not let you grow your own stuff
As you wait for the F.D.A.
To authorize all your drugs

And we all know when you get
The government involved
Bureaucratic common sense
Too often gets lost

Maybe this legalization thingy
Is not the best of ideas
Things seemed to run smoother
When we all kept our *** hid...

Neon lights from salt rusted beach buggies, gypsy camels and a faint memory of dollops of colour reflect under the milky moon that hangs unnaturally low.

In the car window, the reflection of her pensive eyes are overlaid with the mischievous moon, and a vendor selling animated light toys skip like stones that never sink -
ceaseless ripples in the unconventionally eerie and curious night.

They say the moon has this unnerving attraction to the earth -
a pull, compelling and persuasive. Like a tangled ball of yarn it is unkempt, woven out of threads of enigmas. Each of us having a loose end of the intermingling threads tied around our waists, like our own invisible axis.
Every time our thread is tugged, almost like a reflex we are compelled to look up like a reminder that we might live on earth - on the ground, but our eyes, minds, and our souls are infinite.

I think I should have
been born in the past
not just so my life
would have a new cast

Because often I feel
somewhat out of place
A reminder of earlier days
for this race

Days when our work
was all done at home
On horse or in buggies
is how we would roam

We'd grow our own food
raise our own stock
and keep time by the chime
of a grandfather clock

We'd sit on the porch
and we'd read or we'd write
and have deep conversations
on into the night

We'd fish in the pond
and swim in the creek
and shingle the roof
whenever it leaked

We'd not have no money
but be richer than most
And thank god for our fortune
with grace and a toast

We'd sit by the fire
in winter when cold
and live happy together
right 'til we got old

Then when the time came
for our maker to see
We'd get laid to rest
in the plot 'neath the tree

i'm going with Loki on this one... as taught: φ... is the iota needed? never mind... φιλoφαρσα - let's just play musical hiding places: φλoκεφ - and subsequently losing an omicron with ρ, or iotas from φ, χand ψ - it's a Jewish game... a Vegan milkshake sort of gangrene bruise on how aesthetics are different across our ethnic spectrum.

and it usually begins with a white coffee in the morning
with a few cigarettes, so the nicotine tuberculosis
subsides and i phlegm out a schnitzel -
but it works, i ate two meals a day,
i starve still dinner, then eat for closure after
the binge... i rarely attempt a breakfast for champions,
given i usually finish a bottle of whiskey or bourbon
the night before... i call it the mandible diet,
ensuring that beauty is mandible, bendable,
who would **** a skeleton pose, i'm not quiet sure,
the **** industry treats their women like
the lust for flesh in the Renaissance - plump...
or simply mandible.
a fond memory: drinking absinthe on the streets
of Athens before the revolution started,
cackling a mad laugh, just so the Greeks might
remember... so many junkies on the streets back
then, before the bust... junkies with baby buggies
walking down the streets injecting Afghan sunsets
into their veins, never made it to the mount of
Parthenon, like i never went for a tourist trip of
Edinburgh castle... instead... hooked up with a few
Algerians and went to the strip-club...
mm (smile)... fun there...
ah ****, never mind, or today, a bottle of bourbon
and a pint-bottle of Heineken...
then menthol filters and papers for rolling tobacco...
then a quick walk about the neighbourhood...
madman's luck in the end... the karma brigade came
along... the infinite factors involved, more thrill
than from playing the lottery, gambler neutral...
just walk, sulk a bit, laugh a while,
have a drink, have a smoke... walk past the social
centre and it's cheap disco "get together" on
the Saturday, two girls discussing how the night-out
will plan out in the cheap outer-London bars
(not as bad as that bar in Seven Kings...
imagine walking into a house with the kitchen
having carpets... all the evaporating oil,
all the scents... this bar near my school was like that...
it didn't have hard flooring, it was all dressed in
carpets... sickly **** sweat blood... the sort of place
you'd bring your drug dealer to... and unsurprisingly
my drug dealer was a Jamaican, into his Illuminati
conspiracies, who i listened to with human respect
while he showed me aliens, hyenas talking Hindu,
and starving Buddhas breaking the 40 days and nights
in the desert limit... kinda self-deprecating
given he was Jamaican and i was a white boy rummaging
outer-East London grime... but you have to fit in somewhere,
right?)
so the two girls at the bus stop... me hardly the gambling man...
and there is was... smiling at me on the ground...
'would you believe it?' i said to my father
watching the Olympic gold medal match between Brasil
and Germany... 'a 20 quid note!'
and it was, a little bit wet, a little bit gritty...
madman's luck... in my pocket a 20 quid banknote...
that's lucky, that's more lucky than gambling
with 3 lottery numbers for the same amount...
well, actually the winnings are £10 with 3 numbers...
i have found £10 twice and a fiver... but twenty quid?
no chance! well... until now...
and that's lucky... just like that Nietzsche quote
about looking down (and being praised)
and looking up (and being ******) -
well fair enough about cheapskates - but when the probability
game comes up, and you do find some money
on the street (not merely a lost copper penny) you sort
of start thinking: i'd have more odds finding
a laughing gas ******-shell of the bullet of injection...
and there are plenty of those littering the streets around
here... don't know, but i can depict outer
London suburbs like the streets of Sudan... junkies
everywhere... so that's how you play gambler neutral:
you don't expect to find anything while walking
smoking and drinking a few beers...
but it's the sort of exercise routine that pays... ha ha,
literally... which ain't that bad as when you
realise what's happening in the world... in today's
Saturday edition of *the times a real harrowing...
a sketch of the article:
    beware #thinstagram: does social media need a
  heath warning?
           vegan blogger, clean-eating regime,
            masking her severe eating disorder,
            death threats ensued - wellness trend
            tipping into an unhealthy obsession?
            carrots and sweet potato a.o.k.
            result? an Essex suntan... oorangé -
            psychological distress, the doughnut
            schizophrenic - i.e. the doughnuts are
           speaking to me people -
           (i'm not even going for mug smartness
            with a scythe moon extension of
            the jawline, Stephen King is an amateur
            in this respect - look up writing the
            horrors designating your ears to
            every contort of the world... the real horrors
            are the ones you can't escape,
            some of them yours, but mostly other people)
     orthorexia nervosa: crucial, the benzene ring
positioning, all the coin-phrasing-tossers
will probably come up with the other two:
metarexia and pararexia... whatever that might mean...
orthorexia? internet fuelled obsession with clean-eating
Calais / kale shakes (cos it's said Kalé in French, ******)
avocados on toast... who the **** does that routine?
£30 five-day juice cleaners... but still, the only
cure for a hangover is to keep on drinking...
gluten-free sales up 63% from 2012 to 2014...
almond milk sales 80% sales increase year by year
(given only 1 - 2% of people in Britain have a health allergy)...
NutriBullet smoothie-maker (black Friday 2014):
one sold every 30 seconds...
£9 million spent on avocados a year...
increase in kale being sold: 400%...
drinking a smoothie consisting of 12 bananas... /
            and this is happening, these people aren't living their
lives... they're selling them... me?
you think i get paid or do you think i drop a line about
Nietzsche or Heidegger like Diogenes mouthing off
Alexander the Great about blocking out the sun
****** mooove! and by the way, just so you don't think
that i think highly of Nietzsche... that fable about the madman
going into a market sq. with a lamp at noon looking for
god? ironic, because Diogenes did exactly the same thing...
but he wasn't looking for god... oddly enough he was looking
for an honest man.

Once more into the bleach
Bleach of contract
Bleach head
Bleach comber
Bleach buggies
Bleach boys
Bleach resort
Bleach front
Bleach hut
Bleach wear
Bleach hair
Bleach fleas
Bleach ***** ˚˚

I have
a confession to make;
that I go to sleep every night
hoping you'll visit me
in my dreams
that I like smelling your hoodie
when you're not with me
just to make sure
you weren't a dream-
that blue punch-buggies make me laugh
and sour green apple Jolly Ranchers
make me smile
(by the way, my last two cavities
are all your fault)
I confess that I read over our conversations
so I can hear your voice,
and play  back every kiss
we've ever shared-
That I think of you
when I'm sad
when I'm excited
when I'm angry
when I'm happy
And oh,
before I forget,
I stole your flip-flops
the day before you left-
sorry
I was going to return them-
honest.
And by the way, I do confess
that I miss you
a rather lot.

I want to ride old memories
Like broken merry go rounds
Going around and around
Carousel horses
Up and down
Like bipolar days
Happy sad
Apathetic mad
Saint to bad
And back to saint
Innocent victim
To pathetic hermit
Perpetrator
And self-inflictor
Pain inspector
Flipping happiness
Like it was a madhouse of pancakes
In a bad neighborhood
Like madness is good
In memories
Poetry follows me
Beautifully
Sleep deprivation
Exhausts me
Punch drunk driver
Crossing lane
Nodding off
The truck slips
Hits the dips
As I dip into childhood dreams
Sparkling green
Buggies
Doing endless circles
The Ferris wheel
A happy ride
Like a hamster wheel
And I never really get off

winter is coming, it was bound to happen,
my fingers started their funny itch of cold,
little nitrogen piranhas with atom-speed randomisation
eating me up, on the face of it -
but there was me, a bench,
doing optic paralleism, in common tongue going
cross-eyed
looking at a street-lamp -
**** man, it’s not exactly blurry,
well it is...
but my left & my right eye is looking at the same thing
and it’s doubled-up...
meaning the other idiotic thing -
one eye explained means out eyes translate
things upside down... two eyes... synchronicity...
two eyes work on the principle of us seeing
cross-eyed, two eyes work on the algebraic principle of x,
"going cross-eyed" is actually optical parallelism,
as ever counter-intuitive...
when it gets real cold -
you got fire -
and that’s music to my soul -
when the lights get low - we burn brighter -
woah woe -
even in darkness -
well, i love walking the streets in the dark,
drinking my beer -
i get to cool it on my winded bends,
i get to remember the one suicidal girl
who talked me on msn messanger when we were at school
almost everyday,
in between playing multiplayer age of empires ii,
me chosing the teutons building in new york squares
for the idle place to grow organic cucumbers and raising
chicken abortions...
to be crushed by the persians with muhammad entering
with the elephants...
dude... my farms! my villagers!
i asked the girl to see a movie with me,
she declined...
i walk past her parents’ house these days...
pretending to smoke cigarettes in my ~37°C unit
breathing out the coiling cold...
watching the cold strata of the universe in constellations
hooded:
doing the opposite to narcissus, finding a god
in love with his shadow,
only because the shadow feeds less perceptive critiques
concerning body mass index...
the god who fell in love with his shadow
found it to be warm... unlike kant who found it as cold.
so yeah... tomorrow i’ll buy me a pair of gloves...
stop the speed of nitrogen piranhas biting me...
and execute a poetic non-linear explanation
of what newton might have said via pythagoras
away from photonos speeding in the equivalent
of a light droplet like in the egg-timer or clepsydra:
a single photon droplet is equivalent to a year in
our pentagram perception - light years away...
now the crossword:
κλεπτειν / kleptein, 'to steal' and φως / phos, ‘light:’
so we get the instrument of measure - κλεπτφως / kleptphos.
i had to do it, i did steal james merrill’s book recitative
to read it on the way through greece, macedonia, serbia, hungary, slovakia
and then to katowice in poland to see my grandparents...
originally prompted by the words of my father:
‘we’re starting the 2012 olympic village project, you’re starting tomorrow.’
i smoked a joint and got paranoid, flew
from london to athens before all the three graeae took
to prophecy, with me
shutting my eyes, pointing with my index to
the future drinking absinthe in the streets of athens
with the ****** junkies walking shooting up
with children in buggies.
well i saw belgrade enveloped by stereoid snow on the flat plataeus
of serbia, away from the macedonian mountains.

My black gloves, coat, boots
Make me thick and heavy and slow
I am trudging through this white brick wall
I am tired and dripping.
This snow is ungainly
As it piles on top of the dead
Black, are the silhouettes of branches on drooping trees

Car crash.
Car crash.
Car crash.
I had forgotten that snow makes death unforgotten.
I am a beacon of safety
Inside my warm hut
With my life and my body, attached still.

Snow, sky, same thing.
Both a shocking white,
The color of the white light
Of death, reflected in a black lake
Swallowing everything else whole.
An insulting shade of pale,
Unimaginable in the middle of November.

A white bleached ivory
Your knuckles are that color white,
Bloodless
As they grip the wheel
But your fingertips forget how to drive
Your mind loses all the knowledge
You have gathered over your twenty three years

Your secure little buggy
Is no longer secure
No longer out of harm’s way.
The permafrost inching its way under your wheels
You are a little child learning how to walk,
Slipping and falling,
Reaching for your mama

You really don’t want to go over there
REALLY don’t want to go over there.
Because over there is the ditch.
And you scream “NO NO NO NO NO NO NO”
But who are you yelling at? No one can hear you.
You’re all alone in your little buggy
And the snow muffles you anyway

And you are upside down
god is grabbing you by your ankles and shaking you
Hoping for money to fall out of your pocket
And then you’re right side up
And then upside down
And your brain is sloshing and slopping
All over the upholstery

And the red is all over the windows
Thick paint, splashed over the cracked panes
Your hands are covered in your own gore
Gushing from your thighs and stomach
And you are making so much noise
Why are you yelling?
No one can hear you.

And now you’re dead.
The air in your punctured lungs is frozen.
The blood on the window is turning rusty red crust
And the people in the little buggies next to you
Are watching you as they pass by
Some even fold their hands and pray
But they shouldn’t take their hands off the wheel.

Beer bellied Romeos stepping up to the ****** trough so their three inch piece of manhood can stand up , wives in line two picking up Xanax for the month to remove all memory of Studs ****** inclination ..Morbidly obese people jamming garbage into their buggies with a case of Diet Coke on top to avoid excess sugar ? Suits with their cell phones pressed against their ears , getting the Tuesday night grocery list sorted out , wishing they could be anywhere else but here ! Fifteen cash registers , three open , twenty people waiting their turn....A bank conveniently located here to get the cash , to buy the trash , that makes you ill , got to get " the pills " from the friendly pharmacist running the drug mill here in Grocery We Got it All Heaven for cattle , looking like their in line to be branded people like you and I , checking off a list , loading our metal wagons , in our own little world , bombarded by marketing ne'er do wells , stacking high dollar items where a child looks directly at them ! Every **** item in the store is apparently discounted ! Save ! Save ! Save is printed everywhere ! Nobody's being saved here for sure !..Later ..

Snow falls photo white on black
Lace buggies for the charm we lack
The wind howls mournful though not weak
The way a tiny puppy speaks
With fortitude the storm swells
Tissue deep in frozen spells

Buggie
To my best bug, Buggie: (The following is a true story completely lived by myself) :

I found a bug in my garage and I named him Buggie. I loved him very much, although he had'n't any money. We laughed and played and sang and danced and everything was merry, But if I did not save him soon Buggie would be buried. I called my sister in to help. "Save my Buggie, Please!", I said She grabbed a piece of cardboard and smacked him on the head. I felt a tear fall from my eye as I saw him twitch and die. My Buggie was my only friend and so I had to cry. I stood there with my buggies life just hanging in my grip. He twitched his leg and then he left and a quiver found my lip. It's sad to see a Buggie go when you knew him only a minute or so. But minutes make up lifetimes, and so the story goes. Cherish the ones you love the most and never let them go.

1) You were always really judgmental of my friends, like there was a point behind your reasons for always being timid, there was.. I was oblivious and you told me things, the things you saw, that I should've realized a long time ago. I've been better since the alcohol left-
2) I never believed in the idea of love- always blinded by what I thought was mutual infatuation when it was really just my incessant fixation on the idea of.. You called me gorgeous the first day we hung-out and that was the first time anyone ever did. I fell for you fast and hard and that was the first and only time I ever have.
3) When you talk about the things that interest you or make you happy, your face lights up and your words become sonnets of admiration and everything you say sounds like poetry as it leaves your lips. I live for this.
4) I was kind of a child when we met, hardheaded and stubborn in my ways- never letting anyone close enough to scratch the surface but you made me realize that what was behind the surface was so so much better.
5) You made me love who I am, from my hip bones that beg to rip through my flesh to my nose and the way it sort of takes up half my face- you made me fall in love with myself again when I didn't think I ever would.
6) You give me a reason to have a lust for the life I live and I may be hard headed and stuck in my dark depths of depression but you're always there to lend a hand when needed.
7) Though you taught me only I can help myself back up, you will be there to keep me from falling down again.
8) The way you like really weird things most people wouldn't take a second glance at shows me that you find fascination in the beauty and the balance rather than just the image. You paint a bigger picture with your opinion and turn it beautiful every single time.
9) The way you get angry when someone wakes you up too early, or too aggressively- but you still find time to turn and tell me you love me.
10) This is the part where I start to cry because I was never really good with emotions and I'm spilling all of them just for you. This is the most naked I've felt even without a single piece of clothing on, but you'd still probably think I was beautiful.
11) I threw my phone across the room in a fit of rage but you held me anyway.
12) You always get more punch buggies than me- but on a good day I get more than you and can rub it in your face as long as I can, until the next time you win again.
13) I really didn't think a year could feel this short but with you I feel like my life here could last an eternity.
14) We fight sometimes and you always let me talk until I'm blue in the face which takes a while and even though you fall silent in times I wish you would scream or cry or give me something- you still find a way to calm me.
15) I love the way you're protective over me and sometimes I get overwhelmed by it but secretly it's really flattering because I've never really had someone look out for me. Ever.
16) You make me feel safe in a world that is filled with darkness and violence and tragedy, but you make it all seem so so far away when you're lying next to me.
17) When you are lying next to me, holding me close to your chest and kissing me on my head- it's almost therapy.
18) Though you tell me you love me with words, you also show me. Chivalry isn't dead ladies; yes my boyfriend opens doors for me- eat your hearts out.
19) You make everyday feel better than the last and you put up with my constant worry that someday you're gonna up and leave for no reason- but you don't.
20) I spent my 19th birthday with you and will now spend my 20th and every day since then has gotten better with you even when it seemed like everything was going to fall apart again- we kept it together.
21) You turned 21 last year but you don't really like alcohol-
22) You did what I thought was the impossible- made me believe in love.

Spider man hoods
Limp pallid elders
Obese wheelchair pushers
Hot dog munchers
Sunglasses
Clouds
Donut aroma
Sugary slush
Blond hair and piercings
Missing teeth
Leggings
Teenage haircuts
Flashing lights
Flags
Fat arses
False fingernails
Wailing sirens
Round we go
Round we go
Ice cream and stomach aches
Muddy beaches
Calliope
Tattoos and cleavage
Buckets of candy floss
Helter skelter
Midriffs and teeth
Give me a wave
Or give me a wink
Chips and mayonnaise
**** fake cigarettes
Piercings and seagulls
Buttocks and shorts
Brand new trainers
Beer guts
High heels
Scars and pop music
Screaming rapture
Moonlight and buggies
Exhausted children
Sunlight
Sunset
Nighttime
Sleep

in the athenian ghetto i watched ****** junkies with buggies and babies, little children begging for few quid spare for the daddies to shoot up.*

wonderous in assertion is a statement
that begins with the prefix a-
and the affix -theism,
to simply say: a theology (of some sort),
usually democratic;
we believe in god the same way
we believe in human disorganisation
that wants to number ants
rather than lions, but cannot grasp
the hierarchy of the ant utopia
with the imploded reflection of nature
of the mother, the queen, the origin
having the highest status, and like in chess,
the king the shadow dwarf,
a pawn of foolery almost limbless.

now i fet it the broccoli exploding heads against me
put the wavering native american eyes in your mouth
chew and swallow
i see heaven now laid out on a dusty suburban street
with heavens light poking through holes in a dark dark liquor pool sky
all the little buggies like that
hovering

and then there you are
appearing out of stone green alabaster ladders
she comes now spewing hot sauce out of her mouth
winged lepars and polio stricken words out of dry ice sculpture
depends on what youre aiming at
when
backing up in reverse so many days
seconds
minutes
hours
time spent in an old logging camp
years wasted in fruitless retrieval

its been tackled now
the fearless writhing of my reckless sack of bones
the fibers tearing apart like a ghost projecting a soul
a stringy mess of plasma

days and days and years and years up out of this shamble
this poor excuse for a signal
duck shaped glyphs flickering on a radar screen
walking down the dusty grey broken pavement
back and forth to the neon green river
in and out towards the warm light of love undulating
my lunge for the final helpless fury
and then
we let go