Selfies,
I can smell the desperation,
from here.
odors  of worry;
rippling anxities of uncertainity.
two dimensional,
instantaneous impressions,
pixelated presentations,
and
Teenage frustrations.

up tilted camera.
held against the light,
Illuminating eyes ,
and eradicating spots.
that looks like a good one.
Vicarious representation;
of how good
one could look,
fallible and hopeful.

big bosomed dame
showcasing blessed cleavage,
pulsating the adolescent
bulges.
delivered to
metal passenger,
thereafter shown
among peers.
networked to unknown.
Friends who'd never
met eye,
or
touched skin,
or
even spoke.  

self conscious
cropping of images.
fat and fearful.
wasted hours,
dying for love.
False dream of
captivating the messes with her selfie.

The very ugliness
of impressions.
Oh, how shallow we've became.
The denial
of the impact of aesthetics.
laughable,
torrents of judgement
Skinny,
fat,
ugly,
behold their desperate eyes behind the selfie.

Why I Always Carry Tissues

To My Children:

I'm laughing at myself,
As I am prone to do because
Why I Always Carry Tissues
Is the title of a poem
I write for you.

There is a story here,
Of parenting, and responsibilties
That transcends yourself, defines me,
Vis-a-vis you,
then and there, and maybe now.

When you were small,
I took you by the hand,
The cement canyons, trails & rivers
of West Eighty Six Street,
Together, we would ford.

Periodically, as Fathers are prone to do,
Your hand, from my hand,
I would release
So you could fall down,
All on your own.

It bemused me that I could see
Three or four paces ahead of thee
Exactly which crack,
Upon which you would trip,
And come crying back to me.

Back-to-me.
That was then.
And now,
Yes, no more,
Back-to-me.

But I always had tissues
to dry your eyes
And no surprise,
I still do,
Always will.

These days, they,
more likely used to dry mine,
As I have forded that Styxy river,
When crossed, you spend more of the day,
Liking Back more,
Then looking ahead.

No matter, by right and tradition,
It is still my mission, that
when you need, when you bleed,
as I know you surely shall,
These pocket tissues will be there
Ready, willing and able, fully capable,
of snatching away your tears.

When you need,
When you bleed,
And you surely shall,
These pockets of mine,
Of tissue made,
Are waiting for your tears,
And you, to fill them,
For without them,
Their raison d'etre is unfulfilled.

These used tissues are my history book,
Re the art of loving, and the arch-i-texture of life,
Of tears and hearts,
And concrete spills,
That need knees to be complete.

That is why you will find me, without fail,
Ready, willing and able, holding my
White Badge of Courage at the ready,
Waiting patiently, for my mission to be redeemed,
Missions known as parenting schemes.

The scheme is clear, even if
my tissues you no longer request,
You will let your own babies
fall n' fail, then take their tears
Put them in your pocket,
keep them forever wet,
Like my memories of you
the ones I cherish best...

Perhaps a tradition
We will start,
Unsightly bulges in our pocket rear,
Where we will store our packet of saver-saviors
Removers of our dear one's fears.

If we are truly wise
Those tissued memories
We will keep,
Die among them contented,
Knee-scraped deep
When tears fall...



2008

The river bulges

up to the edge, I'm afraid --


must see it myself.

I know from my past, gym class
From locker rooms, I learned fast
That lots of guys have winners
But my sausage is from Vienna.
I got a little bump, a tiny little lump,
Like a hamster has taken a dump.
Nothing bulges my shorts at the crotch.
Not much there for anyone to watch.

But our society puts the emphasis
On just how big your business is.
If you have a tiny peter, my friend
Many kinds of applause will end.
Go read the writing on the walls,
Because you will inherit the catcalls
And no matter how much you moan
They come through no fault of your own.

Regarded as less than a man; sick
Or perverted to have a small ****.
As too often I have been told
Since as a kid and not very old
Amid laughter and cruel jests
I have learned a big **** is best.
No matter it’s something I can’t change,
Apparently a small ***** is strange.

In time I left behind those taunts
As I left behind adolescent haunts.
The pain has become only a taint;
The scars of bullies with no restraint,
But I am sure I never will fully be
Free of their thoughtless bigotry
As I reach the age of an old codger
Dealing with life with a not so jolly roger.

bespeckled, blotched & blokey
feminine in aspects
only little ****** hair patches
two chins,
or rather a sloped one
the front evenly declining to the middle of the throat
a gradual ***** from the tip, for juices to run if his manner and situation allowed him to be as casual and sloppy as his laziness chose,

torso without form, so there was no curvature on the buttocks or the fly region.
a mass
a blob of bulges on spindly legs

he leans on the wall
stubby in hand he balks
(he means jovial but unintentionally he vocalises mockery)
at the suggestion that the Pies will do better
& that Eddie is a clever man due for thanks, who has done his club well (apparently a straight Aussie arrow tried and true!)

the man ***** his head back & cackles
(the trebly popping bubbles of a gala crackle outwards as the man cackles)
& decides his arms need a rest,
(a long day of up and down they have had indeed, they deserve respect, or rest (or a benching))
  so he places his beer down
on a sloped surface,
& therefore it slips down….

he sees it plummeting, he stretches toward it's tragic trajectory,
…..but he is too slow
it smashes
on his foot (the shards) the beer bottle it transfigures,
and the shards they impart their misery on his toes.  
The shards they intrude on his relaxed state of wellbeing, they intrude on the security sanctioned within the casual footwear of a man at a barbecue; taking it easy.
he swears and hops, reaching in indignation for his bleeding toes
he holds the wound cursing; resisting the impulse to begin convulsive throws
(an oscar worthy performance from a usually suburbaly urbane individual)

the moisture feels degrading
(as it would within a man's pants)
the pain from the cuts it is worsened
by the smirking gazes of others about

he hobbles, disregarding his thong in the wreckage of the scene

off to retrieve a band aid
to mend his ego
and his foot
simultaneously

as a stuffed purse
about to burst at
the seams. I was
so green.

My Passion Bulges
as a toad’s throat,
puffing out after a meal,
like a water-balloon,
with a broken seal –
till it splatters. That’s
when I could feel.

My Passion Bulges
now like a fat man’s
shirt, tightly drawn over
the chest until it hurts, riding up
the flesh and splitting the
buttons. That’s what I get
for being a glutton!

The town does not exist
except where one black-haired tree slips
up like a drowned woman into the hot sky.
The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars.
Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die.

It moves. They are all alive.
Even the moon bulges in its orange irons
to push children, like a god, from its eye.
The old unseen serpent swallows up the stars.
Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die:

into that rushing beast of the night,
****** up by that great dragon, to split
from my life with no flag,
no belly,
no cry.

Inside of my body
Amidst death and poison
a virus lurks

in every
puddle,
pumping
blood that flushes
my tired heart
like
the river
Styx

Amidst this
battlezone
that is my
failing being
lies
a secret, sleeping

The cells swim by
They are
rarer
now like precious gems
the factories of my
fighting body

produced like
diamonds
born amidst feverish
forges within
a toxic mine

The gems,
they call them T-cells,
are now suicide bombers
converted daily
by the
whisper of
necromancy

They call
this
hex ***
a war against
your own
treasures

Yet my T-cells
are more,
runes blazing
mystic and
glowing,
antigen sorcery
that wards against
failing

Amidst
the 300,000 +sleeper
cells
that abandoned
my cause

Insurgence
bulges with
nightmare

The cells
clamour
growing with the whispers
of past victims
now roped into the
mystic chains, the wizards
call it RNA,
that bind us

An ironic family
of ghosts
who live
in each other
"junk DNA"

My body
is no junk;
instead a treasure
- what do they say
one man's trash?

My body
an
amalgamation
30 years
magic growing
twisted
like thorny vines
that must consume
their
helpless host

My
T-cells
inception
Worlds within me
the "JUNK"
of
lovers past
becomes entangled
in archives
carved in my bones.

Amidst recipes
of a poison
I cannot trace,
I am
ironically
linked
into

a
family of
ancestors
whose cries
beat in
my still
working heart

The drum
of the long fallen
crying for justice
...My blood

Our blood.
chains enmeshing
....ghosts I
will never know

Now parts of me
that lie sleeping in
Trojan horses,
all my own.

that’s the thing with those trophy wife types,
never really mandible in *** like a jaw ought to be,
too stiff, too anorexic model type:
pooch pooch a handbag full of duck quack pouts of the lips.
i like mandible women, scary scarred women,
the types that will grow into fond babushkas
and cook you a broth.
ah all this crap with daddy longlegs walking into a paparazzi
web of flashes is ruining the red carpet,
i was about to frizz it up into cushion afro softness
that would be quicksand for high heels.
i need blotches i need survival skills that hold the skin together,
every wrinkle, every passing jest of “irrelevance,”
every amulet glow of feeling through the kaleidoscope of depression,
jet-lag i call it, although i rather call it trombone,
with the numbers it was bound to happen, leaving the mammalian
kingdom and entering the insect kingdom, it was bound to happen,
the lost identity tiling the earth, ploughing the eardrum for symphonies,
it was just waiting... just waiting... like a spider waiting
with the flies of the urbanisation of green & green...
can’t change my mind... blotches on skin and bulges of missing protein
on the hips... perfect girth for child rearing...
i don’t like perfect... it’s supposed to have an aesthetic aura of an art
gallery... instead it has an aesthetic aura of hygiene of a hospital;
i arrested all the beauticians while talking to the paediatricians
painting my nails with u.v. liquorice in this hospital of hygienic looks
but unhygienic romping pompoms that swayed man to chlamydia.

I went for an X-Ray the other day. My name was called
and after the expected delay, I heard a nurse say
Right knee? I said Yep! She said “Come this way…
Can you get your trouser leg up to your thigh"?
I said “No… these skinny jeans don’t go that high”.
“In that case” she said looking me up & down... with a frown
Pop in that cubicle… and put on this gown!

For a start…it took me ages to get these trousers off…
and force the rest of my stuff into the carrier bag supplied
and then, when I saw the gown, I very nearly died!
It would have fitted me just fine if I’d been 18 again
but the gaps and bulges in the thing were a farce...
and allowed everyone in the corridor to see my fat 71 year old ****.

I said out loud when I sat down again in the queue
“You know…I had an inferiority complex before I met any of you.
But this has definitely taken me down a notch. And I apologise about the view”.
However, inside the X-Ray room with all the techie kit and Radiographer Rob,
I felt better… The pain in my knee had almost gone apart from a distant throb.
Then he said “You’re completely safe, just lie back calm, quite still…serene”.
Whilst he clicked the shutter from the other side of his lead lined screen. (So he was alright then!)

Well, I’m home again now, hobbling about… It’s bearable (not like childbirth ladies) but not great.
I’m sitting here with my leg up waiting for the letter that will let me know my fate.
Ah yes… men and pain! There is a well know fact about the differences between the sexes.
It’s proven that, with men, colds become flu…and ailments:- epidemics… (No really!)
So, here’s the letter… Now...will it be Ointment? Physio, to transform a permanent slouch?
Or a keyhole flush with a catheter? Or - Oh no!…
For me - it’s a titanium replacement knee!… Ouch!

Somebody pass me that gown!!!

Before last night, I'd only seen the forbidden-fruit curves and
ripples
rendering my skin unbeautiful.
But in the fluorescent indifference of a drugstore
I caught sight of my legs through eyes not my own,
new tapers and bulges swathed in black spandex
even too flimsy for the $15 price tag,
and wondered why words like "small" and "gap"
were heaven to my ears,
while "quadriceps" and "endurance"
have their own quaint ring,
a lovely taste on the tip of a tongue
which has spent too much time
wallowing in self-hatred.

Strength isn't a virtue in women,
we who learn from birth to take up
as little space as possible.
Our shapes always need shaping,
guiding,
sometimes our own voices telling ourselves
we deserve the pain of fatigue
after one mile too long spent running
up the avenue,
forcing ourselves to faint
for a glimpse of thinner thighs,
we deserve to be dehumanized
if we don't inch our way into
the body laid out for us by
Mother Society.

Where is the place for the girl who
hobbles home, skin bruised purple
but flushed with the accomplishment of stopping
every single shot in practice?
Or for the boy whose gentle hands provide
the perfect perch for a butterfly to land upon?

My strength is not an imperfection.
There is beauty in it, and discipline.
These legs can take me for miles if I
take off the iron vest that keeps me
anchored to a Hollywood version
of myself.

Without it, I can fly.

So many conflicting images
society tells us exactly how we should look
but I’m still supposed to love myself exactly as I am.
Supermodel tall and athletic
but still petite enough that no man feels intimidated.
No extra rolls or bulges anywhere in sight
but not skinny enough to appear sickly.
Never cover yourself up too much as to appear prudish
but showing too much skin equates with promiscuity.
Don’t be too in touch with your sexuality else you should be labeled a *****
but don’t deny too many men else you should be labeled a tease.
Never not be aware of your surroundings as danger lurks in every shadow at night
but don’t seem too hyper vigilant unless you should appear paranoid.
Don’t dare wear too much makeup
but never let them see your flaws.
Beauty comes before all else, including pain
but never let them see how you achieve your beauty in danger of being labeled vain or sick.
Girls should be driven to excel
but only in activities deemed suitably feminine.
Society’s views dictate from birth how we should act, feel, and look as women,
but the molds they attempt to force us into are not designed to contained all the magnificence we are born with.

If you only knew,

I'd stare in the mirror
Then stare a bit harder
"I look fine, don't worry"
those words were my armor.
Because when im alone,
Its just me.
No one around
To call me ugly.
But kids are cruel,
I thought to myself
And in my situation
I was left on the shelf.
Hate shows acknowledgment,
and i was not hated.
They were okay to my face,
But i was being tolerated.
Being shown pity
made me confused.
What did they see?
Was it my hair or my shoes?
I looked in the mirror,
Again i looked "fine"
But then another thought
Crossed through my mind.
"Maybe they see,
Something else?
Maybe I'm not supposed,
To like my self?"
This started it all,
Now I saw me.
With the mirror upside down,
Came the negativity.
I would look at myself,
With confusion and disgust.
I would curse at the world
That I would no longer trust.
I would sit on the floor.
Until I'm blue in the face
From fighting my demons
That I could not erase.
Gelatinous bulges,
Consumed my body,
Restricting my looks,m
my hidden personality.
I felt embarrassed,
I felt felt upset.
I would start to scream,
I was filled with regret.
Id pray every night
For a little change,
And that my future would not
Forever stay the same.
And those prayers were answered,
But it took years to recover,
So much pain and hurt,
That no one would uncover.

So i was broken,
And now released from the cult,
I can express myself,
And take some control.
Those years are gone,
But i still hurt.
I have to look back in time,
So see I'm no longer "her".
So when they are confused,
Why im a little defensive,
I will direct them to this poem,
To see my perspective.
But these is just words,
Strung in a pattern,
The hell that Iwent through,
Doesn't really matter.
Because the words are past tense,
And others are suffering,
And its not those who post it,
On social networking.
Its the quiet girl,
You won't expect
Because she wants to look normal,
Not perfect.

DISCLAIMER: READ THE WHOLE THING IT IS MUCH MORE GENIUS TOWARDS THE END



Bypass the circumlocutions of elementary rhetoric and the obvious bulges into the ethereal realm of supersolid supercalendar emigrations of the wednongues of vogue emigrating into a new frontier of boundless awakening that blisters the sore solid metaphors of a crumbled bricolage of articulate history becoming a reiterative gabble of entropy that curdles the blood-boiling hatred of those envious of those that capitalize on the true girth rather than the flaccid otiose etymology of differential physics becoming a denatured figment of prideful imagination on a frolic with desuetude in the normalization of the wernaggles of ewnastique that defile the ridicule of even the most astute aspirations of those that despise history rather than reveling in its subtle ironies that swelter in connotation rather than suborn the cadged bridewells of those that are estranged by the Dousk Remix rather than the Voulez-Vouz Danser populism of true urbacity expanded upon a national stage as an anthem not for profligate saturnalia but rather an ode to the odium of the reckless titanism of titanic intellects clashing with the dudgeons of intermittent eye-rolling irreverence double-dealing a stacked deck of pleckigger on an intellectual stagecraft for bandwagon apostasy that leads to solidarity among tentative allegiance. We barnstorm for a grift in the grimace of an alpenglow winter to lead to the salvation of all people united under the banner of neat nexility rather than long-winded elocution reserved only for notched caliber against the nativist diatribe that serves the subservience of the engineer of the white chattel indoctrinated into turnstiles of professed irreverence for demarches of solidarity that is gainsay for gain rather than pittances for pitfall. Rhetoric should be duly curtailed against the overcomplication of hypertrophy and trimmed into the sweet success not of saccharine fads of foofaraw but engineered resistance that galvanizes albatross intellectualism into a revved engine without purpose that mobilizes because of estranged impotence in the revelry of the subtle rather than the cordial tethers of emergent entelechy of the esemplastic orthobiosis that we should all strive for not just as pioneers of the socially engineered harbingers of a remedial society but also for the trendsetters that communicate with the canvass and the celluloid rather than spelunking dormitage of drifted anomaly perceptible to everyone but heralded as prominent by the rigged ambeer of a toxicity of a plumage of city over state and country over planet. We need to provide the verdure of the verdant forest that survives the conflagrations of rage indoctrinated by systematic attempts at stilted ignorance that is engendered more by Leftism than Right-Wing thinkers because in general when observed in organic settings we notice that the Right-Wing escapes the sloganeered jaundice of limited bounds for otherwise boundless thought and provides more seminal pathways that reconcile normative virtues with entrenched inveterate harbingers of economic success. The faulty deadstocks that propel the retinoise of the anomaly among Leftism to disregard the girouettism of a world that is so piebald with dishonesty that it elects a patronage that seethes with passion but aimless in its curiosity for deeper embedded candor because the popular might count themselves among the aristocratic Left but the truly Promethean belong to a centrist tribe that borrows the ingenuity of spurned but never spurious interpretations of a sputtered history that remarks with revelry  rather than disdains with #CancelCulture irreverence that seeks to deracinate all context for insipid utopianism that is a shared prerogative of the delusional Left against their complaints of Sebastomania among right-wing zealots that are equally invalidated by the frogmarch of a dilettante history curbed in storms of a pure tempest rather than a banal reiteration of novelty phrased with participant intonation rather than blathers of whispered arbitrage ennobled by hypocrisy immune to criticism among those that crusade for economic justice without understanding formal flombricks of the true gnomic riddles of alchemy fundamental to global panoramic pleonasms becoming the aleatory vagary of admonished warning that spars against spartanism. Instead of pilfering from the exorbitant defalcation of immunized partisan bromides against the ratcheted warranty upon defective obsolescence we must coalesce around the imperious ****** of divinity bequeathing the living water of a fully-lived life that qualifies its felicity not by junctures but by an overall harmony that conforms to the finicky demands of an overly polarized complexion of dimpled conformity founded on girouettism that earns more traction than the deasil sundial emergence of brimstone rejection for alabaster limelight we must urge others to ditch the conformist utilitarian usucaption of the usufruct of manipulative sports for domineering talents suborned into inclement straits because of unwitting albatross that replicates into a fission of uniformity encapsulated in the half-assed witticisms of attempted belletrist succeeding only in alienating the noxious fumes of alveolate diminutive reduction rather than expansive detritus that scrapes the wreckage of a turmoil to build masterworks out of broken sculptures themselves indemnified from a categorical judgment by the panoramic oversight of proctored civilized ambition. We need to exhort self-education that hinges upon not a listless acquiescence to a second-exit impulsive barnacle to the urchins of brimstone because of an insipid blather of flapdoons of brittle banality because the hackencrude is an outmoded entity to the vast resources of the sizable capital of the growing power of the intelligentsia over the weakened grasp and wrangle of terminus meeting consuetude weakly enough with pleasantry to appease but ultimately a complete witwanton persiflage of sizzled destruction rather than the savory contemplation of the cotqueans of majesty derided but never derailed by terminal revivals because the generativity of the titanic original might not be a popular indoctrination but the liberated thought of the untethered is ultimately more decisive in world affairs than the synergistic hive of bees building an imperious defense against dynasty built only upon provincial hatred of hidebound illiteracy combustible into the brazen bravado of a reckless intrepid effrontery against civilized chains into the ******* of complicit interconnection rather than dissolved dissolutions that solve global problems more fundamentally rather than driving through avenues of wide pressures gilded with expansive growth but ultimately bereaved by the ultimate succor of the youthful exuberance of captive audiences rather than the wily connivance of genius unbounded. God is obviously a benevolent provider of all bounties and despite the conspiracies that predicate heterodoxy the uniform mannequin of a mascot Democracy ultimately becomes a fickle bandwagon allegiance to relationship rather than a true witness to authentic ******* to a subservient relationship to a creative God synergized with energies that should exceed all galloped windlass into demarche and expose rather than rundles of ridicule interminable because of the permanence of kitsch memorial rather than living sculpture that breathes a swiveled light that beckons preened self-accountable responsibility to a dutiful matriotic duty of optimism rather than a contrarian futility of those that despise the unequal suave crackjaw dementia of the temulentia of derangement among crowds that provide fewer bounties and more deprivations calculated to indenture need rather than motivate want. We must motivate want by fueling ambition rather than quelling dissent in defensive posture because that strategy of antinomian discord is a dead-end street against an inveterate enmity that can never be fully deposed but only opposed with nominal futility raging with violence rather than seething with the motivation to reform because reform is an efficacy mobilized. Novelty of wednongue propriety grown through the heirs of drastic impertinence gilded from the siphon of lavadero hypogeiody blasphemous in bletonism that guards a piebald scrivelo because the sought dementia of an overwrought alacrity is a purpose without a terminus but an ambition soaring through scraped ice cream stratosphere that marvels at the minutiae of the civilized anthill that becomes a beehive of industry when the rationale of moral reform becomes insuperable rather than suborned into effete recursive cycles of pittances of pitfalls obsessively pondered but never solved because the fustilugianation of a forever tampered travesty is the esemplastic rejection of a categorical aim that leans of windlasses of elegance that surpass the levy of hatred and achieve sizable filagersion to squirm above the squawk upon populace rather than the consternation of an urbane but cloistered metropolitan arrogance contravened by the historical emergence of happenstance locales fostering the most well-guarded treasures of bohemian pedigree rather than dimpled resolve faffling on ergasia in bromidrosis rather than cavorting with a skeptical indoctrination by default evaded by those that equate an improbable scenario with a definitive solution to acatalepsy quandary because by reckoning with indeterminacy we grow in historical lineaments and solve global detritus by recycling the rattled brevity of promontory preens of plumage into a recursive ostentation defalcating heavily from sturdy macroeconomic proofs of the trendsetter rather than the trend and therefore grapple with profound personalized disdain rather than cordial harmony. Essentially by the logical positivism of proof we remind ourselves that obviously a chattering blather swims in tentative irony as long as it is a penultimate relativity because the lack of capstone ensures that the relevant treads beneath the mountain of rapprochement in benign endeavors to survive and thrive in definitive conclusion rather than intermediary conclusions of amnesia in jaundice. By the gnomic apothegms that guard the fortress of the demassified we have quantulated that the preposition of continuance is in fact a guarantee of the fickle supremacy of the recent and even more preponderantly the supremacy of expectancy of latent junctures that never manifest becoming a dictatorial rule of driven alacrity of wastrels that should fast from conclusive opinion and rather favor the primordial fabric of the inveterate truths rounded by the conversion of alchemy solidified by calculated canon converging with esoteric apartheid against the simultagnosia of the simpleton drivel of primordial myths bowdlerized from history neither lewd nor depraved but moribund because of the conclusive ****** of a peremptory intermediary certainty predicating a more precise foresight. The lackluster luster of numinous foghorn subliminal graft is a nativist confusion of legionnaire mettle swaddled by the cosseted grasp of interminable boundaries that demarcate linear time even when supersolid filigrees of elemental confusion erratically swerve into oblivion that becomes a forestalled happenstance so hapless that the connivance of alveolate synergies necessarily precludes event from becoming indelible because the tentative judgment wallops the tributary incontinence of the warble of axiolative jaundice materialized by crystalline fabrication neutered by soundbyte sclerotic calculus inveterate in summations of conclusion only because of peremptory weights upon geometric certainties rather than logarithmic dampers of attenuation that spar against spartan priggish epithets upon the flamboyant grit of grisly specter of speculative sepulchral venal vanity. The timberlask cineaste irony of the partisan usucaption of sapwood is a pirated timber of startled alarm becoming a useful or useless cacophony of barnstorm for the deadstock of past cadasters of rigmarole in the docimasy of pretense in impartial circumstance in specialized oratory bounded by a hemmed bailiwick of verdure denatured by the flombricks of subtle persuasion that ignores minority fringes of opinion that occupy that majority that cowcatchers brush aside rather with cruel contemptuous unkempt slippery agenda for drivel that spawns ingeminated redoubled explosions in participle bias rather than conglomerate arraignment of arrayed brooked swamps turgid not with the pettier travesty but the charade of a brokered ceremonial calculation against the wrikpond spurious by degeneration into corruptible complicity that thrives in obscurantism but never obscurity when the omnified owns a capitalized swiftboat of never a temulentia but always an optimism in the curvature of lineaments into the self-educated shepherd of the ultimate autarky rather than insubordination in the scrappy schlep of demographic ripples of swift enrichment at great personal flops in the floppy disk of a Democratic enrichment rather than a parched rectiserial hidebound tome. A quirky time stanched by tomes of patricide against family ingratiated by parrots to anthem but lacking the lettered verve of ignoble but parsed parsecs of finite light captivated into prismatic conscience we launch the demerited ploys of foible into the heralded controversy rather than the unheralded mercenary hands behind dogmatic ripostes livid because of the suave prestidigitation of the sublime mastery of the syncopated irony of mismatch attuned to radical rhythm we become bloated slaves to a rich lineage decried widely in attempts of covert coup raxes of a largesse of continual primipara perversions of courted cotqueans of uxorious justice that by defalcating from tributary orthobiosis in specious conjecture esteemed by rattled martexts aspiring for fraternal solidarity with the ****** esteem masquerading as the auctioned flivver that the merchandise of fluminous optimism cannot be an effusive blanch of blarney bolstered by bumptious bromides of brunt blackmail but rather the artform of subterfuge needs the insidious and invidious traction of creepy Thriller subtlety to garner the vapid traction of immobilized discontent foster to malcontent rarely abridged by even the most polite courtesy of diplomacy because of inherently insatiable demand that it skulks in undetected quarters flexing in the shadowy penumbra of transparent crackjaw enigma becoming an obvious blister or a gabble of raw jaundice sweltering into thermolysis by the eventual convergence rather than the improbable divergence of fissile time beckoning its own flashy revolution while denaturing the very presence of delusion as a herald more of the authenticity of animadversion rather than the sclerotic carapace of ragged asphyxiation in the aplomb whisper entombed forever by milquetoast inefficacy in hypersensitivity rather than a flourished malfeasance of a predatory grip upon seizure among catatonic graves of incontinence braving tribulation for crucibles of the most prosodemic surgeries of the furtive froward recalcitrance of deliberation in ignominy that enables that transmogrified skyscraper of Titanic lies to become a sunken vessel of harbored prestige lost on penultimate dice rather than winning pokerish villiany. Essentially the jeer of Morel Under a Disco is a winning brandished authority to chug the capers of inscrutable difference in blandishment imposture to cavort with an elegant plot twist that enthralls abiding decay to revert into a primordial confidence of livelihood to deter the frogmarch of time into the despairing quagmires of a livid balkanization of a simultagnosia of ageotropic monoideism fomented on fervor that leads to the paralysis of privacy and the expedited furor of moribund depraved proclivity so that the offset of morale and rationale can outfit civilization to brave the tempests of cordial divisions cemented by courtesy in order to safeguard against the yeggs of paranoia seeking ultimately the craven caper of disillusioned subconsciously felt retraction of indelible deeds into evaporated constructs that vanish too quickly to spawn the vigor of a cadged and utilitarian expanse of reiterative generativity that sustains the spanned sapience of primordial alacrity to ensure that brevity in outlook becomes longevity in subsistence because without a logical positivism grounded in unshakable tenets of God the demoralization of the vast majority is ensured and entombed in aimless squalor that leads to sheepish temerity compounded by wistful latency in regretful regression rather than a spandex bluster of a bravado of obesity to weather the persnickety wednongues of perdurable badges of instinctual shame slandered into prima facie denatured transmogrified cultures seeking cosmogony out of ordinary bricolage because the eventful triage of the nimble eludes parochial sight while the vastly capable outfox and outpace with such frenetic verve that they fasten against accident and transcend against heterochrony in ridicule that the unseasonable but seminal sauce flavors better the partially indentured optimism of a curated matriotism better than it serves the obviously interminable cycle of listless demiurges of malcontent that fuel conflagration rather than reformation to their own remorseful peril. Thereby, it is obviously concluded that to micromanage a society you must exert the capacity of a selective magnetism obviously predicated on demassified capacities for oaths of gratitude to endear and endure in the humane heart for the majority that sway few but encounter many that they find proper scruple grounded on axiomatic God to sustain not a lifeless priggish inclination but a bounded felicity that is not a carapace of an indigenous and insidious decadence to the extent pursuits of happiness swelter among the marginalized majority bereaved in powerless squalor slave to temptation not to derelict fascination but to provide aim to aimlessness and predicate their worldviews not on Racial Identity Theory which postulates too many counterintuitive pessimisms that are essentially neutered fustilug predicates of a world that requires such drastic seismic reforms in societal dynamics that the earthquake capable of such a realignment would exceed a 10.5 on the Richter scale which is 32x more powerful than the biggest earthquake in recorded history that would be so catastrophic in its implicit implication of the pretense that the consummation of the theory achieves the traction necessary to jostle every crowd into alignment that the collateral damage would endanger the very integrity and vitality of the Republic itself while exerting a tremendous existential dread of radical permutation that enables many travesties that abnegate the prerogatives of a privileged society in search of a facetiously engineered impossible utopia that could only be achieved by a dictatorial authoritarianism working in concert with benumbed sloganeering to engineer pessimism and malcontent rather than nurture the fair-natured optimism of a society that flourishes because it assumes naturally that the universe conspires in the favor of prosperity. If any hint of casuistry is evident in these postulates I wouldn’t be surprised but for rhetorical sanctity it is necessary for a nation bereaved of national icons not to despise the captive imagination of tyrannical transparency but grow from the liberating and partially liberal parable of a life maximized in limber for romantic enthralled growth that heralds with due consideration the paragons of time with reverence rather than soundbyte enslavement of parochial interminable twinges of a newborn and widely shared collective guilt of a decisively antinomian and pessimistic view on the evolution of human societies beyond catchy kitsch verve nexilities of bravado mutilating thirsts for inclusive mandates that are Boa Constrictors prowling with serpentine vitriol to vastly over-represent extreme fringes to dissuade nuclear families in an overt ploy of depopulation because the truer pathway to liberation is one that feeds the hot hand in the casino and bets that the winners will always win by deregulating their ability to bet large sums because of a transcendent supersolid mastery of time that the march and demarche of a boundless prosperity gouged by the fair demands of egalitarianism enables the card counter to achieve such a decisive advantage that his indentured socially coerced eleemosynary inclination to feed the flock endures throughout all epochs because of the necessary and incumbent scruples of God-fearing men to distribute their winnings won by cheating time to conquer time itself.

From the movement of bright water dancing what surprise pleasure there is flood and white
Water rafting gentle falling rain or the more memorizing gray mist by its draping cloak normal
Surroundings become mystical but for timeless enhancement to appear in water and light and
The smallest movement to the soul it is an entry way into beauty comfort and the perfect
Amount of dazzle a mere kiss from nature that embodies sanctuary a certain amount of
Disbelief but it is the boldest statement from awareness you can shift your body and soul along
This gilded avenue we didn’t even mention ice and its hold on the imagination it stands to
Reason when the earth is covered by three quarters of its surface by water then the two
Extremes that is evident in tears that can be sorrow or joy the practical reality is that even tears
Of sorrow are curative in their nature they are the only thing that is strong enough to engage
Pain and loneliness they give it crystal clearness a lucid endowment you are given the freedom
To seek and find the answer that will turn back even a tidal wave of grief if windows can be
Rendered magical by the presence of rain upon their surface much glory will be found when
You look out at the world with your eyes filled with tears the spirit has raised from great depths
Now it is free flowing suspended behind these eyes of blessedness the greatest earthly power
Exist the human mind distillation ability to capture wonder be amazed at the sight of a butterfly
Especially when it is only the briefest spectacle that follows on to give portent and complete
Knowledge of spring itself streams waterfalls a panorama that glistens that bulges and thrills
With all matter of life blossoms flowers that are never more intriguing when they have the cast
Of moisture on them fragrance is wafting in all directions of the earth’s domain the sight and
Sounds of a new born calf its fragile state it bawls for mother and the life she provides you are
The sum total of all this were you not created as the top masterpiece with a word or a smile
And Just the tilt of your head you are splashing generating emotional waves that all humans
Crave By sunlight and moonlight you are the power that banishes heartfelt hurts when you look
In the Mirror you’re the essence of true life a new field that is budding the crowning
Achievement of a Holy contract that is established in the earth for this reason happiness is
Yours to express and invest in each life you can give at this level and not be greatly rewarded
You were not made a slave but as a fount and a treasure of purist water too continuously
Provide climate control through you life will never be a desert but a garden for all to flourish
and reach their potential

Wanted Ad Poem
1/31/2014

I've decided enough is enough.
I'm putting out an advertisement on every dating website,
It will read at the top:
Wanted

Man or Woman,
scratch that binary.
Regardless of gender or sexuality,
Seeking a person who can communicate.
Someone who chooses words wisely
and even better knows how to use them,
not to wound you, but to woo you.

Physical features need not apply
all stripes, squares, and bulges of variety are acceptable,
as long as they limit their smoking to while drinking,
I can't stand a cigarette smell on furniture in the house.
That was a simple request.

Maybe I should ask for something in greater detail.
Must appreciate new experiences,
whether of the culinary variety
or involving outdoorsy adventures.
Don't worry about being good at it,
I only know how to pitch one kind of tent after all.
Although I admit I am savvy with a spatula in the kitchen.

TV isn't a big deal, neither are books or music.
Those things tend to blend when you meet someone anyways.
But the really important one is to enjoy cuddling.
When I say cuddling I mean the Olympic sport!

Apply the golden standard,
have at least 2 of the 5:
car, apartment, job, schooling, beautiful smile.
A laugh that makes me smile is worth bonus points.
... whatever you're supposed to do with those - I have no clue.

Voila - It seems like I need to meet myself
and fall in love with what I see.
Because lately when I look in the mirror,
there's a stranger staring back at me.
Someone who I don't know or ask how he's doing.
Lately I don't even take the time to say hello.

I think this guy has a lot of potential,
but I'm scared to really let him into my life,
you see I heard he is insecure at times
and might not like me back in that kinda way.

I need to figure out a way to make him
fall deeply, madly, in love with me.

I should pamper him,
take him out to dinner just the two of us.
We don't need others' company after all.

I should take a walk with him outside
for no real reason at all..
We could even go somewhere in public,
maybe to a club or store at the mall,

I should just show him these things so he can understand
that he doesn't need others' company at all.
He is fine with just me in his life,
the best part is he'd have nobody else to please.
Nobody else to cast on him their needs.
Nobody else to keep him from being free.

It seems like all this stranger needs
is everything in my wanted ad.
It seems like all I need is me,
if I could just learn to appreciate my own company.

A leviathan i'm beneath my skin:swimming
bulges veiny skeleton rippling dusted morsels
of
           muscular innovations

infinite minute orbs bustling scarlet oxygen
my limbs

            w,Re'tHe my copper hugeness

i'm so tiny, in your heat, innumerable witless drips of
sweaty hours drawn long nights groaning
in your skinny monument
i'm hip and teeths and fist     and gnashing
thigh  purple delicate spiderweb of bloodshot
moans
              hey
                     VENUS and cupid a cushion for his pins

in your nudeness. i'm skin just crumbling to your fingers
           in the finite naked cells of your palm
i love you

                      darling

They must not hear of
things that have gone on,
under this roof,
during these hours,
they would scream at the top of their lungs,

You do not want to know,
pressing intentions
why his waist bulges over his belt,
why his face is so red,
a murky sky,
eyes slits in ebony stone.

she is gone,
someone must know why,
others are left to guess and to gossip,
hens clucking,
you must not know,
what they whisper with thickened tongues,

There is a kind of pride,
in being the one that sees and knows,
nervous,
menaced by petty stimulants,
Events become like a sepsis,
webbed,
sickness  multiplying,

years kind pass like temporary paralysis,
fear is  a currency,
sometimes.

There is a face
That lingered
So constantly
Her name
was Cindy
I thought at first
She wanted to help
But now I see
That she hates me
‘Purge it!’
She screamed
Standing over me
I obeyed
Since it was all
I was capable of
She told me
She loved me
When I looked
In the mirror
She revealed
My hideous flabs
Bulges and bumps
And was encouraging
When I tried
To banish them
But then
After a time
I realized
That face
In the mirror
Was only me.

I buy the cheapest cigarettes
that I can find
sometimes subsisting solely
on my own fears

too busy counting
and alphabetizing
all of my past traumas
to get to work on time

I’m too young to
feel this old
I’m tired of being
so tired

I’m still waiting
for my life to start—
I’m dreaming of a day
that I can feel young—

as young as these
bones that creak under me
and this flesh that bulges and
sags

as young as these eyes
that do nothing but stretch
and dilate
I’m always so afraid

but I don’t see ghosts anymore
it’s trite to say that what I fear is myself
but I know, I know how evil I can be
and I’m afraid of everything

how do I keep going under
the weight of myself?
why do I try when all I do
is waste so rapidly away?

You walked with Jane
as you passed by
the water tower
she talked

of the various breeds
of cattle
there were some
for meat

others for milk
some for both
she pointed out
some cows

in a field nearby
and told you
their breed
have you ever seen

a calf born?
she said
no
you said

not seen anything
like that
let's go to the farm
I think they have a cow

that is due to drop
she said
so you turned up
the drive

that led to the farm
where you worked
some evenings
after school

or at weekends
she walked and talked
you listened
looking at her

dark hair tied back
with a green ribbon
her dark eyes shone
with sunlight

you looked away
at that moment
watching the farm dog
pass by

with its one good eye
(it had bitten you once
and you were wary of it)
a cowman

was at the side
of a shed
clearing out
has the new calf

been born yet?
she asked
he looked at her
then at you

no not yet
he said
but should be soon
want to watch then?

he said
gazing at you
kind of grinning
yes

Jane said
Benedict here
hasn't seen a birth
oh of course

these Londoners
haven't nought
he said
hang about a moment

and we'll go across
he said
you looked at Jane
she was silent

looking around the farm
have you seen
a calf being born?
you asked

many times
she said
ever since
I could stand

I’ve been near
cattle and sheep
I know most breeds
of both

she added softly
after a few minutes
the cowman walked
you both over to the cowshed

over the yard
and opened up
the half door
there she is

he said
waiting to drop
you and Jane
peered over

the half door
at a cow by the wall
looking at you
disinterestedly

her tail flapping
away flies
shouldn't be long now
the cowman said

never seen
a calf born then?
he said to you
no not yet

you said
don't suppose
you Londoners
see much of cows

he said smiling
no not at all in London
you said
he looked at Jane

then at the cow
which was standing still
making noises
then moving

then standing still again
I was about 5
when my old dad
took me to see

a calf born
the cowman said
all that blood and stuff
near made me

want to puke
first time
you looked at Jane
her hands

on the door top
her eyes focused
on the cow
she had on blue jeans

and boots
and a yellowy top
with small bulges
of *******

there she goes
the cowman said
and you gazed
at the cow

and a head appeared
as if by magic
out of the rear
of the cow

and it hung there
momentarily
then it slid out
and dropped

to the straw filled floor
covered in blood
and stuff
and the cow

licked the calf
and you watched
fascinated
at the new life

laying there
moving
the cow licking
the legs moving

the head turning
that's how it is
the cowman said
easy one that

and you moved closer
to Jane
smelling her scent
her warmth near you

her arm next to yours
what will you call it?
Jane asked
don't know yet

the cowman said
might call it Benedict
if it's a bull calf
and Jane

if it's a heifer
he smiled at you both
and opened up
the lower door

and went in
then closed it up again
there you are
she said

now you've seen
a calf born
you nodded
and you walked back

out of the yard
and up the drive
let's go back to my house
she said

Mum'll give us
tea and cake
and we can tell her
about the calf  

ok
you said
walking beside her
sensing her nearness

her hand close to yours
you wanting to hold it
but not doing so
walking there

beneath the sun's
warmth and glow.

how many decimal points would it take to create
                                                                ­a 2 = 2 scenario?
maybe the cultured swine in me asks such
questions, or perhaps i don't have
enough practical, matrimonial and
heterosexual worries in my life to ask
such a question in the first place?
would it take 2 = 2.00000000000000002?
how many denials
             then?
       maybe i'm asking a question like this
to start trending a nuanced vogue
amidst
            the most discriminated form of
humanity, namely white heterosexual men?
hmm... perhaps.
      last night i watched a movie adaptation
of a video game: can i just say that
Mario Bros. worked, but
the intricacy of game becoming movie can
only work when you get sore thumbs...
can these people: who play or design such games
ever write a novel? nearing two hours into
the movie and i was chanting with a variety
of onomatopoeias a zombie apocalypse
best summarised by the words: agony drool...
well d'uh.. e ragrammaton is a sneaky ******,
pops up everywhere in language,
      while looking for the post-Heraclitean logos
within the framework of phonos
  i came across the surd dynamic of four:
well, three, the H-twins and the trigonometric W
of sine and cosine, leaving Y as the tangen
and a focal point of convergence...
    and Jesus paid no respect the name -
i could tattoo pharisee on my *** and burp
    through it... there, four prime surds...
in Sanskrit: dhaal... you sort of jump over the h
and add a macron: dāl... but let's face it:
the aesthetic is sorta missing, what you hear
and what you see are cued combatants...
              why am i writing this? i just received
Monday's newspaper... could i be less
reactionary about the world inviting itself into
my pleb-bound world? can someone please
usher these gnats from my halo?
no... well... hence the reaction.
          and so much more vitality comes from
self-loathing than from self-love...
   life is more colourful, and so much less
lies-fudge-packed-between-the-sardines-to-an-ideology...
     catch you on a Friday night when it's not
so pristine? sure thing babe... sure thing my
tweaser plucked runny-mascara piglet...
we'll be snorkelling in mud by then.
could anyone think of a reason of mixing mayonnaise
with horseradish?
          but seriously... when did people forget
the concept of polyphony that Bach (ich?
see, the phonos already retracts the polygamy
shared by the same spelling) - say chequers and
cheese in german... chaka demus & pliers
and venting out a tension in the Caribbean quarter
of London, postscript August:
and it always rains... rains daggers and lip-kissing
anger of: ******, not enough scotch-**** chillies.
      and that's saying enough before Shaggy Dry Fuss
came on the scene with: wozzin' me.
   the real whizz kid right there... question is:
alter Paris? Jim Morrison's grave is taller than the Eiffel,
well, all the bums go there and steal the naive
    groupies leaving bottles of wine and joints at
the grave... but yeah... they called it cut-up post-Tzara
with Burroughs,     a zillion things that crept up on me
while i wasn't thinking about Juliet...
                and the reality of a shopping spree,
and all the cliches imaginable...
        perhaps truths too...
                    but even the writing said it was originally
theirs... Bach was already prescribing polyphony...
        let's say multilayered convo....
                       let's say: vogue of millennials'
distractive tendency... and that's so so so much clearer
than what poetry can become:
       a deaf man's tapping to a jazzy / hip-hop beat...
   a tenacious d's   one note song: ******* too,
rhyme... grr...         why do people write poetry as
if they're talking to Muhammad's Aisha prior to
skinning the grape?
                    why don't they talk to poetry as they might
talk to a *******?
                     who are "they" (yes, not paranoid, just
an obscurity with no vectors or index pointy pointy
*******
           the oyster)
                              which brings me to the controversy...
do you think rapists are masochists? or sado-masochists?
there was me on a date, i brought the movie and she
brought the bed and dinner...
                     see, i ask because something odd happened...
first of all was the Victorian practice of *******
under the bed-sheets rather than on top and all bulges
in full view like serpentine lizards (fat? i tend to
see it as seafood)...   yeah... but in the brothel
she would fake arousal for my eyes to see and slobber
her oyster in butter... or l'oreal cream...
   fair enough... but i'm wondering: this one time
she felt so so guilty after getting a genuine ****** on
the job... obviously that's hard... but on this one
authentic anglo-saxon date i got ****** by a dry ****...
       so either rapists are self-endorsing masochists
and all the women they **** have dry ***** due
to fear... or... yeah, that glistening or...
             is this a prescription piece? no, i'm just curious
why prostitutes smother their foreskins with
beauty cream so it doesn't hurt, and this one
pristine puritan babe was all Saharan pouch deepfryer...
                which is why i'm wondering...
   if a ******* can cream-up, and a good upstanding
girl with a decent job in a grammar school with
free accommodation on site can't....
                       you might as well shove your prometheus
        into a tube consisting of sandpaper.
                                         some also call it
    scratching your 5 o'clock shadow.

We are a subway.
We ride encroaching on our own spaces.
We bundle and fold each other
into outer significant dimensions.
Our arms harden to tree trunks
while our blood begs to flow freely under the elevated pressure,
grounding our Earthly existence.
This track beats on without destination,
regardless of bumps and bulges in the pathways,
our starting point forgotten light years before.

We try sharpening the images melting under this velocity,
and our eyes flicker back and forth attempting to follow these quickening pictures.
But we ride on,
crushed by the pressures of the Earth,
decaying the love we housed in storage,
now rationed up our stabilizing arms,
holding us averagely comfortable in this close proximity.

who would i consider to be the greatest teachers on women?
Stendhal, Marquis de Sade, Ovid...
Flaubert: most certainly Flaubert... but now most certainly
Ovid too...
i might go as far as to drop Knausgaard into the equation
(oddly enough)...
how else would i have learned a little bit about women
if not men who learned about women and recorded
their findings... i might even whisper the name Nietzsche
to further my "question"...

it started with her showing me her leg...
   some ugly spider bit it in two places: she was so disgruntled
about it... she showed the bite: started to squeeze it:
if i could have guessed: if she could bend so far low
she would have probably tried biting that piece of flesh
out of her...
i told her a worthwhile remedy:
OCET SPIRITUSOWY (10%) you can go into and ******
delicatessen and buy it... rub it onto the bite mark...

but that still didn't lift the mood: i felt awkward...
i can sniff a lie from a mile away: women are the greatest
liars when they speak: unfortunately:
they're the worst liars when they don't speak...
you can lie by speaking lies...
but you can also lie by not telling the truth:
i.e. by not talking...
a burning thought oozes out on the body and the body
cannot lie...
there was some ill in the air...
the entire room was on fire... even she said:
why is it so hot in this room when outside it's cool?
the entire room was on fire...

i think she was furious with me...
i promised her that i would come on said day and i did:
perhaps i've become too predictable for her liking?
something ill was in the air...
it wasn't just the spider bite and her annoyance
with it: a woman can make the smallest irk
into a deluge of irks...
   the smallest thing can become the greatest discomfort
for a woman...
i could feel it: although she said nothing
when i asked her if she was o.k., whether she was tired...
something strange about her eyes...

ah... eye-lash extensions: i didn't compliment
on them... i noticed something different about them...
after a super-quick quickie:
i don't know... there's something potent about
the ******* position in front of two mirrors...
her kneeling on the bed me standing by the bed
thrusting... maybe i was too tired ergo too *****
i couldn't perform to her pleasure: only to my own...
thankfully my male pride wasn't hurt...
i always brush off under-performing by laughing
after the ******...
i'm not going to explain myself beyond:
not every woman climaxes every time during *******:
not every man can go on for an hour
without climaxing... i told her just that:
it depends what mindset i'm wearing...
  sometimes it takes me as much time as it might
take a woodland pigeon... enough time to only
balance on the female while flapping its wings...
sometimes in the ******* i'm peering
into the eyes of a mantis and hoping she will not
eat me afterwards: ergo: i try to not deposit any
albino tadpoles into her...

afterwards we lay ****-naked side by side
on the bed... then i noticed her elongated eyelashes...
we talked about them... how they're new
and are itching her eyes...
woman: natural born sadists and that sadism concerning
beauty to boot...
i said: you noticed the trend among black girls?
camel eyes: eye-lashes for thick and long they could
possibly brush their eye-brows...
and nails... my god... you can't do anything with nails
that long... and hair?! once upon a time black girls
adored their afro curls... now?
they're imitating white women's hair... Asian women's hair:
they even employ wigs to imitate that raven slickness...
i remember a time in high school when black girls
would use vaseline cream to smooth out their afros...
she agreed about the nails and eye-lashes:

come on! you can't make a ******* sandwich with nails
that long...
nails... i looked at her nails... she showed me that
she needed a manicure... she showed me some designs
from the internet that she'd like to have...
then she showed me her toenails...
that's another thing... i knew something was wrong...
she didn't take her socks off during *******...
that's a major sign that something is wrong...
seriously! who the hell ***** with their socks on?
it's like that Iron Maiden song: die with your boots
on...
something was seriously wrong...
maybe it was me: maybe it wasn't me...
it's too late for that...

once upon a time women were the greatest mysteries
of the literary world...
men would spend aeons contemplating
their mysteries: and if not mysterious per se...
then men would mystify them!
now? women are sabotaging themselves...
they're exposing themselves in ways so crude so...
sick... so... unappealing...
it's hard to mystify women these days...
me? hardly having lost touch with reality:
i've lost touch with an un-reality...
with romanticism...
              
Michaela, as a woman? not every man's cup of tea...
but then again i like large women...
not obese... when she lay back and feigned tiredness
putting her leg on top of mine...
chatting... i played her Le Trio Joubran's
Majaz... and told her the story about how i first
heard the song...
i was in Amsterdam with this Egyptian guy...
i was drinking beer, he was smoking ****...
then he gave me a drag of the ****
and told me to put his headphones on... he played
the song: and i showed her my reaction:
my JAW DROPPED... my eyes closed...
i was suspended in a "falling gravity"...
no... in a "whirling gravity" of my own empty canvas
presence... an implosion of Heidegger's dasein...
there was no "there"... there was either
sein or nichtsein and hier...

ha ha... i was talking to my father today in the car
as he helped me get my second bicycle
get driven the repair shop... finally!
i'll get my mountain bicycle up to speed...
i'll get off the roads and head into the wilderness...
£80... not a bad deal for the repairs needed...
and he mentioned that there's this Romanian
woman working the hoist on the construction
site... he said that the most difficult word in Romanian
is... 11...
unsprezece - uns... one... pre: before... zece...
i need diacritical markers for this one...
or? just employ Italian...
unsprezecce...              unsprezeče...
hell... with the expansion of the European Union...
of the Polacks that came in 2008... most have left...
only a few remain...
but the Romanians stuck to their guns...
after all: they can easily mingle with the hordes from
Asia... come to think of it:
England is starting to glisten with a demographic
akin to Brazil... i think i'm going to start calling
England Brazil no. 2... it's clearly post-racial
in what ecosystem we have...
black boys loving white girls...
white boys not really into any other race:
well... i have my exceptions... Turkish and Romanian...
but that's me...

but sort of woman in what sort of mood doesn't
take her socks off during ***?!
i find it most irritable: not ******* in the dim
lights with your socks on...
maybe the ill and the fire in the air
was my own self evaporating into their air...
irritated by this lack of aesthetic...
maybe it wasn't her: maybe it was me...
then again: she's was already thinking about going
back to Romania...

better than being a rock star...
what i wouldn't give: none of my books...
to become a blues-man... a Howlin' Wolf...
then again: i wouldn't do nothing: absolutely: nothing...
having spent 2 years of my 20s reading
up on Heidegger...
i'm good... if i get really thirsty: i'll just buy
half a watermelon and gorge on it like
it might be a woman's ******... i'll get my beard wet
and try not to bring either ****** or umbrella:
cheap *** ******* little questionable
little me...
i didn't say i'm a millionaire...
but i said i spent more money than a millionaire...
love those lyrics...
blues and ***... ******* becomes
distasteful after a while:
the while you realise those people are
actors... and *** is hardly acting:
*** comes around to you in its most authentic
claim of your self you can ever have...
while ******* disrupts all of that...

it's never going to be a pornographic flick
when real life hits the fan...
the **** can lie as a pile dragging itself to the status
of diamond among flies on
some random hill...

tube strikes... only start working from 8am...
of course i'll be late for my shift at Fulham...
but i'm still drinking...
enough of whiskey and enough of the blues
and enough of thinking about thinking about ***...
i'm not going back to the brothel
until Michaela ***** off to Romania on the 28th of this month...
i already have two girls in my sight...
deer-in-headlights... sitting pretty: sitting scared...

i need to become more unpredictable...
i need to ensure the girl takes her socks off...
Michaela is very much unlike Khadijah...
she doesn't wash herself after ***...
and she's the one asking me for extra pay
for unprotected ***...
at least Khadijah washed herself...
i washed her... she washed me after *******...
i like *** + hygiene...
must be a Turkish "thing"...

                        no... i'm not going to feel **** about
myself... there's no point:
i simply can't change other people by pretending
to change myself... i'lll wait until Michaela is out
of the picture... she put me off *** for a bit...
i can sink into a diet of sexless days...
but no... you don't get away with being sloppy...
you don't get to **** with your socks on!

she might have thought that i didn't notice that
she had eye-lash extension...
what's with the socks?!
  you forgot you were wearing shoes,
or something?!
******* while still having your socks on...
oh man oh man oh man...
that's why the room was on fire!
**** it!  start donning fishnet stockings!
i could manage that...
start donning long knee-teasing leather boots!
i could stomach that! but socks?!
i can't stomach that...
           i'm expected to put on a ******
while... a woman is not expected to take her socks off?!
throw rocks at me! throw 'em!

there are just aesthetic standards...
that's the last time i paid so much eye-candy on a woman
no prior man would pay her her dues...
me neither: i have skin like it's worth
grating a grand cheddar cheese on...
but... tender... i can: be...
she just felt bored... and i felt predicable:
onto the next...
maybe she flashed her phone before my eyes
to boot: showcasing her grand achievement
of a bambino outside of wedlock:
probably raised by her grandparents...

Darwinism is a scam in my cards...
either Poker or Blackjack...
i'm a sore loser with genes that ought to be replicated...
20-20 vision... pretty **** good hearing...
i've never broken a bone in my body...
if i get hurt and my bones are affect?
i create bone outgrowths... bulges of bone...
genetically? i'm not too bad...
but in terms of reality: i'm not a safe-bet...
and guess what? i like mediocre people...
shadow-grey-people...
i like them: they make good traffic obstacles...
they make me churn out a practice
in spatial awareness...
i can denote them to THINGS and rob them of
the status of NOUNS...
something... this thing... that thing...
whatever... no bother... i'm casual like that...

hey! like for like!
Michaela: the 28th of this month better come sooner
than you leaving for Romania! make sure you have
your socks on! all the time!
that ****** me off... a woman that keeps her socks
on during *** is like... is like... a woman eating a meal
without a knife when a knife and fork is required!
or a man... for that matter...
socks during *** is just a massive turn-off:
i best finish early... i'm ******* clocking-out...
no! not on a whim! i'm clocking out because aesthetics
and the blues and thinking about what *** is about...
Eden...
not talking... groaning and moaning...
onomatopoeias...
                        
hmm! that's why the room was on fire!
i finished early because? she was wearing socks...
that's why the air in the room felt ill!
because she never bothered to wash herself
after we had ***... Khadijah did...
each time... i showcased washing my genitals after every
genitals:
i might be a brute... but: in terms of hygiene:
i'm pretty exacting regarding what's appealing
                                               and what isn't...

i can't stand filthy people...
show me a rat...
             show me a bunch of rats...
i'll show you a pretty cheese chamber with plenty
of the right sort of gas...
i'm not joking...
   i wish... oh i wish i were joking...

                      by now... does it even matter?
by now i don't think it even matters...
should it matter shouldn't it?
it never really matter given enough time...
             time truly flies: regardless of whether you're
having fun or not...
by the drop, the drip, the drool or either blood
or water... or a sprinkle of salt or sand...
what's good is wasted over so much time...
while what's bad... wastes the mind over a time
best entrusted in keeping a memory of the good times...

my beard! my ******* violin!
i stroke it and imagine playing a sad sad... song;
but the cynic in me: laughs...
just like a dog looks up at his master when being walked on
a leash!

While not everybody naps
Simply everybody craps.
If you don’t you’re a goner
I swear by my honor
There’s no substitute for it
So just get used to it.
It’s like boogers, you see
It’s not talked of openly.

The public has an allergy
Of what can be said honestly.
You can admit to burping
But must do so excusing
As if you had taken a dump
Instead of expelling a lump
Of non-poisonous gas.
Society is a ***.

And while we’re at it
We live in a world here
Where ******* are reshaped
And formed by a brassiere
But no crotch bulges for men
Especially not big shaped ones.
As I have already implied
Society is a mean son-of-a-gun.

Breastfeeding an infant is
Seen as some kind of ****
But under-aged girls in bikinis?
That is why men were born.
They were put on earth to see
And love nature and its gifts.
But women in public should
Not show uncovered ****.

Just remember this and
You will do very well.
Being natural is for sure
The best way to go to hell.
You must always look to
The bluenosed of society
To shape your fine sense
Of decency and propriety.

A natural person, as God made
Is surely just the Devil’s work.
Because the Devil is more
Important that that God ****.
God and Santa make lists
And punish us by and bye
But Satan does it right now
And then spits in your eye.

So, be the proper citizen
And don’t do what is natural.
Following on nature’s bent
Will do you no good at all.
Even though the Bible won’t
Agree to this simple plan
Just look around you to learn
What is in society’s plan.

Not every riddle has an answer
Some doors don’t have a key
Some people are too far gone
For even the kind hearted to reach

Vacant eyes
Skinny arms
Bruises
Bulges
Broken bodies
But there is beauty left
Somewhere in that tragic mess

Maybe I can find their code
Type it out so they will know
I cry out of love
And that is why I have to go

From the movement of bright water dancing what surprise pleasure there is flood and white
Water rafting gentle falling rain or the more memorizing gray mist by its draping cloak normal
Surroundings become mystical but for timeless enhancement to appear in water and light and
The smallest movement to the soul it is an entry way into beauty comfort and the perfect
Amount of dazzle a mere kiss from nature that embodies sanctuary a certain amount of
Disbelief but it is the boldest statement from awareness you can shift your body and soul along
This gilded avenue we didn’t even mention ice and its hold on the imagination it stands to
Reason when the earth is covered by three quarters of its surface by water then the two
Extremes that is evident in tears that can be sorrow or joy the practical reality is that even tears
Of sorrow are curative in their nature they are the only thing that is strong enough to engage
Pain and loneliness they give it crystal clearness a lucid endowment you are given the freedom
To seek and find the answer that will turn back even a tidal wave of grief if windows can be
Rendered magical by the presence of rain upon their surface much glory will be found when
You look out at the world with your eyes filled with tears the spirit has raised from great depths
Now it is free flowing suspended behind these eyes of blessedness the greatest earthly power
Exist the human mind distillation ability to capture wonder be amazed at the sight of a butterfly
Especially when it is only the briefest spectacle that follows on to give portent and complete
Knowledge of spring itself streams waterfalls a panorama that glistens that bulges and thrills
With all matter of life blossoms flowers that are never more intriguing when they have the cast
Of moisture on them fragrance is wafting in all directions of the earth’s domain the sight and
Sounds of a new born calf its fragile state it bawls for mother and the life she provides you are
The sum total of all this were you not created as the top masterpiece with a word or a smile
And Just the tilt of your head you are splashing generating emotional waves that all humans
Crave By sunlight and moonlight you are the power that banishes heartfelt hurts when you look
In the Mirror you’re the essence of true life a new field that is budding the crowning
Achievement of a Holy contract that is established in the earth for this reason happiness is
Yours to express and invest in each life you can give at this level and not be greatly rewarded
You were not made a slave but as a fount and a treasure of purist water too continuously
Provide climate control through you life will never be a desert but a garden for all to flourish
and reach their potential

My heart is a squishy stone
I toss out
across this green-gray gloss
mosquitoes skim
but the odds were always slim
it would skip with any vim given
its mix of bulges
and irregular beats
Let’s not mention that
surprising lack of heft
currently keeping it afloat
There it lies not quite flat
a maroon lily pad
I’ll lay piddling wagers
some nomadic creature
can make a home
Maybe the crawdad whose squeak
nothing like a fog-horn warns,
“Frog dress is on the marsh”
I swear I can hear
her bull groaning,
“The slippery *****
can’t stay clothed”
Newly hitched
this bogged-down daddy’s got
a passel of polliwogs to feed
and he needs
the lean of her tender
slimy legs for support
The crickets and I
might inwardly snigger
but from such
small giggles bred
is the manly laugh of strife
and that’s when
my heart slinks slowly back

Why are you looking at me like that?
'So one day this tenebrous look will repeat on you as an
unsheathed star, and in the aftermath of that
luminous wound all the angels of my intent
will leak therefrom.'
'Having seen--your heart will assume that wound,
and my music will come out of your eyes!'
A music whose movements constrict, a time-lame
twine only a serpent may undo--you knew!
How went the all, how went its nothing...that diabolical tune?
I hear it through feeling, it's so haunting I look over shoulders
I never knew I had.
You left panning cameras half-blind, live with feed, to every
nuanced detail.
Your minute release of messianic trailers doomed to never premiere,
neglecting to bow your head, and proclaim: It Is Finished...)))
It was more than the lay of the land, such was your art of survival,
hence war.
It's messier than they story--when two human beings come together,
what's gospel cross references  googleplexes...all but to betray a lack
of designation...human, being?
The poppies are everywhere, I stuff their dreams!
I see hearts skewering hearts--lights out, lights in...their
truest sutra: "form is emptiness, emptiness is form."
Our decline was so steady, you said you saw the beauty in ugly...
so now we're both transfixed in near catatonia.
The poppies are everywhere...I see you chopping off your locks
at odd angles, listening to Tori Amos--hoping they won't follow
you cursedly...your face waxed in eye-melt.
So erriely sentient, surfacing glimmers of nonlocal breaks of news.
You roared down that Kansas highway, one foot on gas, the other on
dashboard...that flat, unending highway where we saw the eastern
sun set, catching our dust-black wind as detracted distance.
Where: "kyrie elieison, down the road we must travel" sooth-said through the radio...ahead, the poppy-pigmented end of the line,
warning the last of the sun sets west.
That night when we retired to that Kansas motel, we were never
more parched in our lives.
Yes, and like the pickled western crawlers you can purchase in some
gas stations...the devil was in the details, a poppy between his teeth.

Today, I fell into a dead stare on the sun, (unblinking) as I write this
the pen emerges from a neon-green orb, blotting letters.
As this sight settles...I will like to tell you how I saw the
sun rattle its rim, and flicker its pregnant bulges in messages,
that cradle ripples to havens of purity.
Today, here--now, the sun will set east nor west...with love, nor
hate.
The sun has set...the poppies pause for a moment of magnanimity.

My reclamations lay in the corner: your old hoodie, a book, my memories  resting upon the shelf of youth, collecting dust.
I paw at them as if this was a game, as if I'm waiting in the jungle until someone rolls a 5 or an eight.  
As if jumangi was more than TV crews and cameras.
I drag my finger over the book, leather bound and gold laced pages.
I etch your name in the dust because it's sweeter than any childhood fantasy.
My pregnant mind bulges with a  love that's more fierce than a thousand fire-breathing dragons.
I created a cottage out of pieces of our history,  hidden memories lurk like dwarves.
I wrap myself inside your clothes, fragrance like poisoned Apple's, I breath you in.
I could dream of you for eternity as I accept my "sleeping death".