Some people work out
to get totally bulked
some people work out
to get totally slim
sometimes one just
never knows which
will result
but when all gets going
the most beautiful part
is to get the body
flowing
getting the body
moving
getting the body
grooving
it is so beautiful
to feel a tug
of ****** movement
never felt
where it was felt
with any strength before.

Keeping the body
beautiful
means keeping up the
motion
movement is beauty
when done with
will and devotion
the body is ageless
when rejecting the
notion
that time is an
enemy like
zero pdf lotion.

Keep working out
how you will
be it lifting
be it dancing
be it running
or groovy prancing
let your self
cry out for more
let yourself
stretch
to reduce being
sore.

Let the body move
so that you sweat
straight from the heart
the more you move
and work it hard
you create
body art.

We sat on the bulked viewing the sounds no words need be shared for sometimes in silence we say far more.
The sunset was upon us and the ***** was kicking in to that perfect sense of a warm buzz and the waters draw poetic in the truest sence .

There were shared stories with added lies simply a understanding of a crossroads part.
The road had ran it's course now the chapter was done and so my own would continue.

Were the  ******* headed now man.
My friend asked in a mild laugh curious yet knowing no matter the direction we
had different stories to write.

I have know clue think I'll just chase the sunset till the highways lends me her thoughts once again.

My friend simply shook his head .
Sometime I really can't begin to fathom what goes on in that head of yours bud.

Hell sometimes I wonder myself I had to think.

It's always on these rides when the air is one with the nights empty promise
I truly grasp the thoughts and understand my roads always best traveled alone.

The drug's  the ***** simply a mask for others to understand my less than
understandable  actions there always has to be something in which to place the blame now doesn't there?

I try not to question and as the road's endless roll drew me yet again I cared less
for the logic and simply gave in to the need to know what lay over the next hill.
I'd far rather die with my boots on than waste away in regret.

Live while you can for times a commodity  none can afford to waste my friends.

And as I hit the on ramp bound for nowhere and eager to see it all.
I had to think to the moments shared for they were far more meaningful to friends than I.

Sometimes a lone wolfs howl isn't for emptiness of the fear of isolation.
It's the understanding of one's self that truly drives the one's who chase the highways line.

I viewed the sunset a chapters close for the moment and a   endless thirst of highways vice
I so desired eternal.
She's a cruel mistress to some but on this nights ride her embrace is all I ever did need
for now.

Stay Crazy

Gonzo

Oh, the fine attire.  
Women in low cut, grand gowns.
Men in their finest plumage.
Strutting Peacocks, aiming to draw attention.

I wore tails of silk, with fine brocade work as the trim, down the sleek lapels.  I dressed entirely in black.  From head to toe.

I looked splendid!
I stood out from the Peacocks, as a Raven would
stand out among Doves.
Cunning as a Raven too.  She had not one suspicion.

I was at my best.
Charming, witty, a mystery.  Women fall for that.

I slowly, cunningly stalk my prey.  A vision in gold.
I danced with her.  Her gold, a perfect foil to my black.
I charmed her sweetly.  I maneuvered her easily.

I had previous, had the chance to find the spot,
where she would become mine.  Such a pretty throat.  One that I will drown within.

Once outside, hidden, strategically from all eyes, I began my "dance".
I gaze down into her eyes.  Her precious heart begins to race.  I can feel her blood.  It calls to me with it's song.
A song of need.
Her breaths slowed and deepened.  Her eyes remained locked with mine.

I let her see then, the glory of what I am.  She wanted to scream.  But, I had control now.  

My incisors grew.  Their points very sharp indeed.  My muscles bulked.  I ruined my fine new coat.  Split the shoulder seams right out.


I toyed with her.  I kiss her lips so gently.  She trembled for me.  I tried to hold back, wanting to prolong her fear.

Blood lust is, what is.  I could smell her rich, thick blood.  I wanted it all.  I wanted to bathe in it.  Feel it glide over my skin.

My fangs sank deep.  Drawing up the precious blood.  Elixir of life.
As I fed, I heard her heart slowing with each draw I took.  

And just before death could claim her, I released her from her thrall, to scream.  It was the last sound I heard as the men came running.  I took my leave.

I am a monster.
I do it well and I love it so.
Soon the sun shall rise again.
I will sleep as the dead.


~Lord Kellington

If it were I, a hunkered mass
Of unkempt hair and tangled rags,
Lain prone beneath the underpass,
Enclaved in chattel bulked-out bags,

If it were I, alone, afraid,
Tight-bitten lips in silent prayer,
And listless eyes, all hope decayed,
And slumped, oppressed, done by despair,

And if you cast my shadowed shape,
Would you come seek my name?
Or look as I for quick escape,
And thence to bear my shame.

I am a pandora's box.

Let loose upon an unsuspecting society.
Once my night life begins,
complications arise.

Let me pen an example.
Keep in mind, it was not my fault.
well, not entirely.

I awoke in my usual good humor.  
I dressed with my usual care.
I gave more than adequate time to
the choice of parties to crash.
I fed Crystal.  Picked up her toys; dead mice and a human ear she had gathered from some unsavory alleyway. Kissed her upon her flea ridden cantankerous little head.

Then I stepped outside of my crypt.

Pandemonium ensued!

Young lads running hither and yon.
Screaming!  ****** functions letting loose.
Not mine, I should add.

You see, it was all quite innocent.
Upon my stepping into the moonlight, one of the young bucks, at that exact same time, jumped out from behind the bushes.  Which flank my lair.

He had on the most ghastly costume.
Red cape.  Black tie and tails.  Fake fangs!  
Fake blood dripping from whitened lips.

I may have over reacted....a tad.
My preternatural instincts erupted.
I saw, briefly mind you, a rival in my territory.
I went from the Gentleman of night time adventures, to my full Monstrous glory, in the blink of an eye.

I dropped six inches of battle fang.  I bulked up to three times my normal, quite muscular, size.
Ruining yet another splendid jacket.  
Oh, what to tell my tailor?

There you have it!
Young men, out and about, on an All Hallow Eve's lark.
Running about as if the Devil himself were after them.

When it was only I.


~Lord Kellington


I hope you have enjoyed our little journey with Lord Kellington.  In what must be just a snippet of his long lived life.  
I grew to love his wit, his charm, his devil may care attitude and his kitten..Crystal.
But, the time has come.
I now close the cover on this dusty Tome, to place it, reverently, upon my bookshelf.  Maybe, on a stormy, wind swept night, I may take it down, to open it once again.
Or perhaps, Lord Kellington, is at this very moment searching for his lost Diaries.  To save them from prying eyes, such as ours.  Wanting to **** all who now know his secret.
He could be in your home right now.
Hear that sound?  It wasn't a floor board, nor the house settling.  Nor the wind.
As you are now engrossed with your reading of my warning, he could be standing behind you....right now.
Reaching out with hands like claws.  Fangs, ready to rip out your throat...
                    LOOK OUT!!

Happy Halloween  
Bwwwwwaaahahahahahaa

the link between us
was made so young
it grew so quickly
and bulked so strong
the link between us
was made so long
it grew us so near
and tied the knot so tight
the link between us
was rusting so fast
it stretched so far
and did not break so easily
the link between us
was broken to so many peices
it shattered so far apart
and was left to be so alone

The ground beneath trembles in fear
as people realise the attack is near.
No time to pack they run towards land
fear in their eyes, a child in each hand.

The ocean drags back revealing the reef
while onlookers watch in disbelief.
A wall of white horses gallop ashore,
eager to destroy what was there before.

Screams drowned out by the roar of the beast,
charging ahead, hungry to feast.
The wave reaches out with a cold heavy hand
and snatches the palm trees from the sand.

This hand born by the stomach of the sea,
bulked by plates, coughed out, set free.
A bully of a giant fed with dread,
a tall curved spine and white froth on its head.

As the wave devours the town,
its once blue belly turns murky brown.
The further it travels the more it hunches,
snatching rooftops and throwing punches.

Where the wave passed through a carpet now lies,
lingering devastation and distant cries.
Amongst lost lives bodies are found,
homes destroyed, spirits drowned.

teiko
are you still there?
holding to the promise
dreaming of another atmosphere
a sky for us
soaring and lit
flitted with weaving arcs
bulked with brightenings
a sky so perfused with wings
there's no room for anything else
a sky that can't hold a moment
of a cloud
teiko are you still there?
your mind weighing lighter
than mine
poured into another hemisphere
biding
holding place
for just the two of us

a demonic silence and calm preserves this place
i call home:
today i was recovering from working
at the AC/DC gig at Wembley: henchman man:
wager man... wagey...
such pivotal hierarchies in the high viz
community outside of the construction industry:
human chess
it would seem: is the end result
of this working dynamic...

                   i'd call it my dream period but it's
more or less my nostalgic impromptu
retrospection thinking of myself writing in my mid-20s
but i really can't see:
in the classical period music was innovative:
it inspired philosophers such as Nietzsche
but these days i can't say: much about music...
it became an art form relegated to the piles
of dung of Beelzebub's ****** archiving of important
matters:
a total messy ******* he is...

            coughed up whiskey into my nose
which was a sobering experience
like a Pakistani girl
telling out in full claustrophobic no personal
space antic of taking a lift
imploring me to stand in front of her
imploring me to smell my skin and my ***
and my love to block out
someone else's bad personal hygiene...
and then i said: well: like nicotine
like caffeine: a whiff of ammonia: a chemical salt
or acid
          someone's poor personal hygiene can
become a stimulant: especially if you add to that
the torrential rain:

but my dry period?
i was young and not boring enough:
so i'd pick up a book and take out a snippet
and work with that:
i suppose i could rehash that youthful distress
by picking up
Ulysses - i don't remember any of it:






                                                      / /

nothing: nothing comes to mind...
         so when music used to be innovative in the infancy
now hardly irrelevant
but AC/DC are not an innovative band
if say: Deep Purple and Led Zeppelin were...
or god forbid someone take up the Q of Pink "barber" Floyd
because that's not Nirvana relevant?

i guess music of the 20th century
might require someone listening to classical and reflecting:

weird antics for the closure of a day
and it's impeding reopening after a nap
circa 8pm through to 12am
in the day made perfect timing to
send off a Taylor Swift t-shirt:
medium... almost a large:
regardless: she wanted to have it scented with me
so i rubbed the early stink from lying
in bed first...
then walked around in it...
then took a shower:
didn't use deodorant (but squeezed some in
when i finished packing the package
to get the plastic smell out...
the air around the item)
i rubbed myself cleaner than mirror versus
the glass
in i guess: if i can remember:
was a honeycomb and macadamia nuts
soap...
          then i washed my hair with Argan oil
infusion...
and beard too: ah: maybe the shampoo was
the macadamia nuts infusion
and the soap was just the honeycomb infusion...

but no deodorant on the body:
just into the back...

friendship bands
and me playing with my mother's makeup drawer
while writing her a letter
some little nothing something perhaps sweet
and to think i'm suited to a Christian girl
and i'm supposedly this Catholic
which is supposedly a novelty in America
like J.F.K was a novel Catholic
in the land of Protests and hyper-inflated individualism
that's so fake it beggars-belief...

Soup, joint and sweet. Never know whose
thoughts you're chewing. Then who'd wash up
all the plates and forks? Might be all feeding on
tabloids that time. Teeth getting worse and worse.

J. J. Ulysses page 217 reprinted Penguin classic 2000

as i said: innovative: music once was
no longer so and
it's a shame that those who wrote music are
more alive than some people
who are alive and haven't been gifted with
much: but as in that Dead Can Dance song
about great men:
Solomon, Caesar, Socrates... and there is a third:
how fortunate the man with none...
how fortunate that no one should remember

but even then what's that to life: expected...
if anything: a kind surprise to an otherwise unwarranted
***** of the hope...
some higher demand the everyday expectation
to the materialistic grit (spoken like a true
teenager)...
but just so: my riches are in books and in music
records:
at least one painting of my own:
a sitter in Grey
by Candlelight...
a sword from the forest i called my Cossack
SHASHKA...
              
           just a breaking of a night within night
to tip over the scales of time from day x
to day y
                      by nocturnal musings:
    having signed the Last Will of my parents
i am now the inheritor de facto
of this house and garden:
it's almost comical when
Joe stood before me at cordon 6
wearing a Quadrant Supervisor bib and
almost gesticulating at:
well: why haven't you been promoted?
well: who gives a ****
it's a wash-a-hand-hand-washing-hand
not nepotism but quasi-nepotism
of the family breakdown and making new friends
in the playground
so children are growing up my lord
but the elementary
and the pedagogy remains the same:
perhaps if with children you can pretend
to be an adult with responsibilities
when when in psychiatry you pretend to be a god
because that's not me saying:
Prometheus my Guide:
but at least you have to pretend to be a god
since god is so abstract
and that's what people required other people to
become: in just the verb and noun orientation
of this delicate ballet...
not by any stretch of imagining grandiosity
not in any way profound
there's the nearing of the bad grammar god
and his fetish is pronouns
and being a Dyslexic his favorite demonic ****
is at the pulpit of a pseudo-Protestant
i.e. Protestantism against itself:
dying off without a Catholic antagonist since that
path deviated and found root
in the life now enjoyed by the Spanish, French,
Italians, Pollacks...

                         i could mention the Irish but is there
a point of mentioning the Irish as Catholics
and not simply as the Irish:
the sublime masochists... which the Pollacks can't be
but what's horrible about us is
a Catholic Work Ethos that we don't share
with anyone: beside the Irish: in that span of rubric:

Spanish
French
Italians
Porto-Geese (easier, i'm not going to spell it correctly)...

ah... jeez: what a Chopin's nocturnes sort of
night:
it's blessedly raining outside and it feels like
the proper July:
did i forget to mention that there's a lesson
in geography to be had, right about now?

it bothered me: the English mentality
concerning Eastern Europe:
Poland is Central Europe with Germany
you ******* PLEB...
deafness and more deafness: no intellectual music
no conversation:
just innocent bystanders: collateral ditto virus...
geography bothered me in the lexicon:
is that common speech of man? hmm:
gonna get myself a Jane Austen tattoo...
not on my skin: but on the silk
bothered by the wind
itching inside my mind like no other caged ego
to thought or being:
just ego-nothing
beside what is already available
with i-think and i'm-not: i-am...

                           familialism: something
borrowed from Anti-Oedipus: i don't understand
the French intellect so well:
please can i gravitate towards German High Intellect
with some dabbing in Scandinavian:
everyday-ism?

   the French have a freakish morbid intellect
bent on destruction and painting with language:
i don't want to paint when i write...
i want to abstract: find solutions:
complications:
impasses...
              facts: i don't want to find bad grammar
and a chemistry lab
of boorish wordings overtly hyphenated into
compounds like di-hydroxy-carbonate blah blah...

who is the real psychotic?
i have no knowledge of a Spanish intellect...
Italian maybe with Machiavelli but
that's irrelevant:
Giuseppe Belli:     (o.k. **** me, shoot me
my youth was greatly invoked to age beyond
my peers because of Dante: *******
and yeah yeah ******* twice
because i had Horace and Ovid in my life)

inzomma, da la predica de jjeri,
ggira che tt'ariggira, in concrusione
venissimo a ccapi cche sso mmisteri...

      just look how Latin devolved...
to sign language and spitting
and eyes darting and foundations
like Rome and the Italians is an observational
view point of a mountain range
some weirdly anthropological
no people discovered or conquered
so aboriginal blah
i mean: just looking at the language
that's Italian: that used to be Latin:
it's a bit like looking at the Polynesians
originally from Taiwan:
perhaps they didn't gain height
rowing all that time no sight of horses
but they bulked up
and i can see something Oriental about
them with the exception of their tailoring
to a darker color of skin: complexion...

bad Latin to come:

in brevi, et ex sermon nos accepit
summa summarum,
                          idiom: say how it is... to:
            obtusis-lingua-acuere:
blunt tongue sharpening...
               videtur: mysterium est mysterium...

perhaps that's the non-authoritative
variation on Latin:
certainly not Italian: or what happened
when Germanic blood of the Lombard
achieved the fold to the Razor and Papacy:
the Pope a Drowning Man...

that lesson in geography:
well... whenever listening to a meteorological
dial-up
with a person in the luminary of a quasi-fire
that's the t.v. screen:
believe me in 100 years what will
the t.v. beside a fireplace
a radio and then what will internet access be

i'm listening to my favorite nocturne:
i've currently digested:
47 minutes:

nocturne in B♭minor op 9 no 1
     "         "   " minor op 9 no 2
and the list goes on and on
but i'm too lazy to type each song out...
but it would look pretty:
i gather there's that aesthetic concern
and if i wanted to spend years
on art
i'd become a grave sculptor...
not some celebrated Rodin bound
to the museum:
CENTAUR and the Urmahlullu...

in some there's this tease toward anticipating
Wagner's Das Reihngold: the entry
of the gods into Valhalla:

         like we all know the play on Les Mars

♯C
#****

       ah! subliminal! HELMHOLTZ! HELMHOLTZ!
just like
Les Marseillas... apparently a right wing
revival, non?
but instead a Fringe Red seeking majority?
i did say: Serenity Red:
not simply - but the left was becoming
constipated communicative-ly: all lively...

number: first: 1812:
ah yes: Tchaikovsky and the Polish Plumbers
Orchestra...
some Dostojnie: Igrzyska:
  
               geography!
England is part of Scandinavia!
England: Scotland:
Ireland:
this is not Western Europe!
this is Scandinavian Territory!
if Poland is Eastern Europe:
collectively...
blah Ukraine blah Czechia
blah Lithuania and not Russia
blah Romania
and blah some more maybe even Greek
and Turkish:
forget Serbia Croat

but England is Scandinavia:
it's not WESTERN EUROPE:
what is western Europe but an Atlantis
figment of the imagination
if Germany is Central Europe
and Poland too
have to look at the planet from sunrise
have to rotate the planet into
vertigo mode horizontal....
not some meteorological Chinese script
the westerners read weather
at X Greenwich
and Y equator: Kenya:
Z? the winds and casual tornadoes?

  England is Scandinavia
in temperament and feels:
                   it's not Western Europe:
there never was: beside
as the bad apple export to America...
Scandi to the north
while the also northern bunch
finding recliners and cheaper weather:
the Goths via the Spaniards
and the Berbers
toward Argentina...

               then again to a waltz:
still a nocturne waltz...

                       but that piece with
the reverbretating insinuation of the piano
working as a bass guitar...
not the waltz no 7 in c (sharp) minor
op 64,2

                absolved from the hierarchy of cultures:
that Germany transliterated
away from a superiority complex
of ethnocentrism of white via white versus:
such heightened exploration dynamic:
peace to mind: a piece of:
the langui: a **** in boots and a freakish:
i don't event want to remember
dreams...

         if no longer ethnocentric then cocktails
in Berlin with a hyper-inflation
of race mixing like
it couldn't be a sand story:
this new Dune
not a desert
but a "jungle" of Concrete:
this Nedu:
        planet of sand without wind
this concrete grey
this fudge packing:
this also glass and mirror and mannequin...
this planet we live on
i give a name:

           Nedu.
        formerly called Earth:
              Nē̆dû has spoken and spoke at its
crux of nadir: thus.