I want to have a drink with the bulldogs because of their great premiership win
You see they never gave in against the swans and I guarantee that at the party they will get rolling drunk
And say to Sydney go and suckeggs
I know I go for Sydney but the bulldogs deserved that win oh yeah
I will love to have a drink the bulldogs because they deserved their win
I will love to have a drink with Vance joy as he opens up the party with some very good singing and everyone in the crowd are partying with him
All over the flaming MCG
You see the bulldogs are the champions of the year 2016
Now let's see how good they can defend their mighty premiership in the next year
I would live for a drink with the bulldogs and party with them oh yeah and I wanna say to them bulldogs fight and bulldogs roar let's do our very best to party all night on October 1 with the team of the mighty west
You see my late father really loved to see the underdogs win
And at the end of the night he would love to have a methane smoothie with them after the Saturday party is over
You see I would love to have a beer with the bulldogs
Because they are the underdogs
You see let's congratulate the team from the bulldog breed
The team from the mighty west
Get drunk buddy

Playin' games.
=============
Jay Text Sandman aka Skitz Text

Set the timer click click now the clock is tick tockin'.
I came to play the game. Like a KNIK KNAK knockin'.
Your rhyme flow is slow you know like PLAYDOUGH.
I gobble up fine rhymes like a HUNGRY HIPPO.
Like SUBBUTEO I kick it.
Shruggin' off your challenge like BUCKAROO kickin'..
..up ****. I sunk your BATTLESHIP.
You played out your game of CHARADES. That's it.
I dig deep in me rhyme dictionary.
You scrawl on the the wall like palsy PICTIONARY.
Not strugglin'. I'm jugglin' the rhymes in me head.
Slam dunk. KERPLUNK. Nuff said.
No, never. No way. Who am I kiddin'?
You know I got the rhymes. And I got the rhythm.
I confess. Like a game of CHESS.
Checkmate. No debate. Not a pretty pawn missin'. *  

It’s the end of the games like RIP,
I Multikill MC’s like COD,
Keep your mind on your MINECRAFT can’t catch me,
Cause Skitz is EC's Artillery,
droppin bombs watch the FALLOUT or you’re Dogmeat
FAR CRY from the old days of CRT
So your attempt is DOOMed best clear the room,
SWAT’s get Swatted Mic shotgun BOOM!,
Blast backdraft will destroy your CIV,
No cheat codes PAC em up MAN time to give,
RESPEC- to the PORTAL gun hangin’ on me hip,
You’ve got HALF a LIFE left faster than NO CLIP
But I said no cheatin’ Hackers get Hacked up,
No Multiplayer,cause you’ve no backup,
I’m glorying in the games we play,
Checkmate VS XBOX  pass to Jay.

Chorus
Not mentionin' names. We're playin' games.
Energetic and poetic and it's Jay to blame.
Set the mic aflame. We burn it up now.
Set the timer click, click.  

When I flex it's hectic. Like SCALEXTRIC.
Switch lanes to PERFECTION.
I've a MONOPOLY in this game.
Don't pass go. Go straight to jail.
You fall like DOMINOES. I leap like a salmon.
Tisk tisk. Big RISK. Now I have BACKGAMMON.
Stamina. A steady hand OPERATION.
Ace up me sleeve and I'm just playin' PATIENCE.
Got me POKERface on.
Read 'em and weep as the game plays on.
I got a dead mans hand but I animate the mic.
BULLDOGS charge. You know I'll reach the other side.
Back to me den.
Repeat after me like SIMON SAYS.
RED ROVER, RED ROVER. I call Jay over.
You think it's over ?
No my friend. *  

Not mentionin' names. We're playin' games.
Energetic and poetic Schizophrenic to blame.
Set the mic aflame. We burn it up now.
Set the timer click, click.  

This Steam Machine is heatin' up a treat
So don’t be TEKKEN the ****,just feel the beat,
This KOMBAT’s MORTAL to enemies,
But it’s a full HEALTH PACK to Fans of E.C.,
So OverClock your CPU,
get your Soundcard Jumpin like chimps in SIM ZOO,
drop DICE on ICE from here to Timbuktoo,
STREET FIGHTER’s and Writers BIOSHOCKin' you

Not mentionin' names. We're playin' games.
Energetic and poetic Schizophrenic to blame.
Set the mic aflame. We burn it up now.
Set the timer click, click.  

I SPY with my little eye.
Somethin' beginnin' with J. I let fly.
As your JENGA tower wobbles.
I smile. You drop tiles. Dropped your poxy box of SCRABBLE.
Look out. That could spell disaster.
Triple word score as the rhymes rip past ya. Blast ya.
Quick out the trap like The Flash playin' SNAP.
Check the lyrical master. *
As the Dungeon Dragon spreads his wings-lets fly
playin' the game the pied piper pies,
catch you rats in me MOUSETRAP its a snap,
"cause I wrote the rhymes that broke the bulls back"
I'm the KING OF THE HILL I got ya QUICKSCOPIN'
in THE SHADOWS OF MORDOR prayin' and hopin'
for a hero like MARIO to bust you loose,
Jay's SNAKE'n' up the LADDER time to twist the noose

Not mentionin' names. We're playin' games.
Energetic and poetic E.C. to blame.
Set the mic aflame. We burn it up now.
Set the timer click, click.  

What ya think ?              
Me rhymes kink, bend and fold like TWISTER.
A wicked rhythm like DOUBLE DUTCH. Skip, skip.
Like EVEL KNIEVEL. Flywheel spinnin'.
Rev it up. Dump the clutch.        
See me grinnin'. Knockin' down the pin and..
SPIROGRAPH lines in me rhyme. I'm spinnin..
..out of control. You can't cope with me GYROSCOPE.
I bring you back to the beginnin'.*

Not mentionin' names. We're playin' games.
Energetic and poetic E.C. to blame.
Set the mic aflame. We burn it up now.
Set the timer click, click.

hi dudes

i am in a good mood, i am doing the bbq tomorrow

and i tipped

kangaroos over essendon kangaroos won

adelaide over st kilda adelaide won

hawthorn over melbourne hawthorn won

GWS over carlton, GWS won

sydney over geelong, sydney won

west coast over gold coast, west coast won

and if fremantle beat western bulldogs

and collingwood beat richmond

and port adelaide beat brisbane

i have tipped all the winners of this round

i am doing the bbq tomorrow in kippax

hoping i grab the second full winner

party zone with sue longways



hi everyone, my name is sue longways and what a night we have for you

you see i will start with a great song, here it goes

one look in your eyes makes me feel oh continental

diamonds are a girls best friend

parties are fun for girls and also guys yeah

we have diamonds which is a girls best friend

me, sue longways is partying every day and night oh yeah

diamonds oh diamonds are a girl’s best friend

and now here is sue about to interview kendoll from scullin

sue’   hi everyone welcome back to party zone and as you might be aware

the GWS footy team beat hawthorn and sydney beat melbourne

a win for sydney against melbourne and what a walloping win for the canberra raiders

and ken doll how did you feel about those victories

kendoll’  well, it was great to see the swans and GWS, and the mighty raiders, well, that is a shock result

for them, and i was glancing the internet, and i saw belconnen magpies first grade side

nearly got a 200 game

sue’  yeah you were telling me back stage

kendoll’    and another thing, as i was watching the swans, the warriors beat the sharks and the cowboys beat

thje bulldogs and

sue’   yeah talking about rugby league, you promised us, you will sing the green machine song in a tu tu if they beat the titans

so why not try it

kendoll’  ok i will just get my tu tu

ken doll puts his tu tu on with a bit of a laugh

kendoll’   we’re the bad and mean green machine,

fearsome men from the ACT

don’t try and stop these men in green

or we will hit ys hit ya hit ya, till you see green

sue’  how do you feel mr kendoll

kendoll’   i feel great, UP THE RAIDERS, SWANS AND DOCKERS AND GWS, what a great performance these teams

played for us tonight

sue’  thanks kendoll and now we will go to tina dermott from casey, tina, how are you feeling tonight

tina’   i feel like singing

not a dime i cannot pay my rent

i can barely make it through the week

saturday night is party night i want to meet a girl

but right now i cannot make my ends meet

i am always working slaving every day

gotta get a break from that same old same old

i need a chance just to get away

this is what i say

i need nothing but a good time

how can i resist, i saw belconnen magpies

almost get 200, i feel really really pumped, oh yeah

sue’  yeah it was great to see the magpies get 196 points today, and it was also great to see the raiders get 56

tina’   yeah, and i just came from the sports bar, and fremantle dockers beat essendon, i feel like singing

freo, oh free heavho

free way to go, we beat the bombers easily so

free way to go, we’re the mighty fremantle dockers

free way to go, we’re the best team oh yeah we are so

free way to go, we are the free dockers

sue’  yeah go the mighty dockers and thanks tina, go the  dockers and now we have larry king jar with us

larry’  yeah sue, i feel like old 80s trash so i will sing old 80s trash

last night i was dreaming

i was locked in a prison cell

when i woke up i was screaming

calling out your name

and the judge and the the jury, put the blame on me

they won’t go for my story, they will lock me away

only you can set me free, cause i am guilty, guilty

guilty as a guy can be

dreaming yeah makes me feel so ALIVE, oh yeah

of love in the first degree

sue’  yeah, that is a wonderful song, thank you larry and now here is marcus from higgins

marcus hi sue, and i am singing my song, we’re not going to take it, the lines to get in civic nightclubs

you see we have the right to get in there

ya know party on saturday night party night yeah

i can’t understand why this line is taking so **** long

and there is some weird odour, smells like a combination of dirt and snot yeah

yeah it is the person next to me, boy does he really pong

i said i am not going to take it, i really am into breaking point

i can’t take these nightclub lines no more

my mates call me a little girlie others said i was an oldie

i can’t take these nightclub lines anymore

sue’  way to go marcus, the nightclub owners should allow heaps of people in, but then your packed in like sardines, what can we do

and our last guest is fred from gar ran

fred’  yeah, i will sing hallueiah

i hear the swans and the giants did win

and the raiders and the cowboys won

we don’t really care for losing do, us

go the mighty free ,man, and adfelaide, who are the pride of SA

yeah, this is the big moment we sing halleiah

sue’   ok dudes, i hope you enjoyed party zone tonight. if ya want to meet these people, pop round to the city club before 2 am ok

ands PARTY HARDY won’t stardy

England played today, what a ****-up grandiose style, glass bottle like hail flew down on Marseilles, water-canons, all kinds of crowd dispersers, true grit on the former great, now belittled, nation-state in d' hood reduced to a pitch with 20 idiots running around kicking about Charles' 1st head, and too fidgety skeletons tagged to A.S.B.O.S. tags playing puppets in a rectangle... i stopped watching the match for a cigarette break, the free-kick went in, Saturay, Tesco closing at 10pm, i took to wearing an Australian Open t-shirt, i've never seen so many funerals drinking a beer on my way home - prior it it was all gorilla chanting and Tarzan... i only learned of Tsar Putin dipping his ***** in the **** of Crimea a few minutes later.

your typical Saturday night, next door  neighbour's
trying out an alt. Y.M.C.A. with disco funk,
i guess it spreads easily this day, feel the grooves
or lined Rodin - ape-**** up my *** -
music so loud coming from my neighbour's canopy
i should be asking for canapés - after all Euro 2016
kicked off, scarf-hooligans of Moscow made
Marseilles home-turf , two Brits at the draw
in hospital, faces kicked-in, real bulldogs,
asthmatics at the end of it - conversation turned into a tour
of the Cairngorms or the western outlets...
a lot of Scottish impromptu with **** **** freckles!
gee ginger! aye fucky ***** ****!
Anglo users love interchanging the vowels for emphasis
to differentiate geographic regions -
but this one book review got me -
entitled ***** state by a feminist -
the ugly child abusing father is a punter -
listen, if it were't for prostitutes i'd be a priest
7 years in, acne on my Richie, one ****** in,
kiss on the mouth several times, hell, the guilt trip,
poor boy poor girl, skin cream lubrication,
talk of doctor's appointments, ******* a *****,
i'd get the Scandinavia model if the girls weren't fickle,
the hand is hardly a plastic surgeon of the female
genitalia ***** - bony M... you must be talking
about ******* - ***** M...
Jesus no more the son of god than the patron saint
of prostitutes... the poor guy feels the aches of touch
while the rich boys sushi off a stripper in Billions...
i don't have strong dialectical encouraging to dispute
or discuss - i too am too blame, ask my dermatologist...
so my neighbours threw a party,
on the set-list?
Cheryl Lynn - Got to Be Real; Oliver Cheatham,
Get Down Saturday Night; Edwin Starr - Contact;
and then the one off from One Direction - History -
the DJ suddenly experiences the jitters neurotically
changing songs before they finish - midwestern horror,
Ohio or Iowa hammer masscare, excerpt from
Pink Floyd's anti-fascist anti-educationalist march,
dangly on the Cenotaph -
persona qui umbra-grata (person agreeably welcome
as a shadow) - yep, me and the ex_machina routine...
i know the feminist argument smocking pipe handy
clean for more pages, but ever hear a ******* ******
or laugh with you? if i didn't use up the profession
i'd be the buying type abusive father forever,
who the **** needs **** trips when the moment can please
twos? i'd be up against a Cosmopolitan Magazine Quizzes...
the "perfect boyfriend" types, later coverage in
psychological advice columns... but wait...
all that ******* advice about something being indestructible
in us, about us, beginning with this keen appeal to
atheism already defaults a logic behind the essential
characteristic of the existence pertaining to a psyche -
by destroying god we also resolved to more easily disqualify
the in-destructibility of the soul,
constrained, a study of noumenons, with logic application,
as if with the omni- prefix to the non-essentials of god -
logic destroyed the compatible qualification of soul
ownership, reduced, it gave us the advent of prayer
and the necessity of a god, rather than our selves,
via souls - something without deductive parameters to
cursor and pre- of the experience quickened to
argument with dis- and later -qualificatio;
the кaцaпс fought with Mongols... you think there's
a fair bet for your hooliganism in Marseilles?
well... it all boils down to two identifiers of nationalism:
parade with the royal family near St. James' park
or gut a pig in the south of France...
Wales will not bow this time, given that they're
not getting paid for their national pride dribble,
they'll ******* up... make more adverts with your superstars...
strange that, well, America has idiosyncratic sports,
i never understood the cheese-ball of oval either to the throw -
yes, baseballs makes more sense than cricket,
but you have to understand rugby before you
start crowdsurfing your *** in nappies -
the high expression of nationalism is so Joker-faced
with the Windsor ******, nationalism and a king never match
up to how Mao or ****** would have it...
and the alternative is football hooliganism...
i walked for my whiskey and beer just after the 75th minute,
along the way i met so many funerals, donning my
Australian Open T-Shirt... well, you, know,
a different type of spectator sport - i heard the rabbis
of the oval where deemed cricket tourists when kicking
a penalty through the H architecture -
cricketers are tourists, oval jerker-offs are Wallabies...
Australia in the Eurovision song-contest... oh yeah,
i'm mad... mad about Abba.. Matt in Memphis,
an Eve Cassidy moment, Sia's chandelier cover-up,
the truest form of plagiarism - the cover is better
without all the computing morphings...
oh sure, i could play the dating game...
9 years in and i had two authentic ***** in my day...
one was a black single mum who took me back
to her flat in Stratford, dragged her baby girl from the bed
to the floor, and her baby son, didn't want me to
penetrate her, tucked my **** in between her thighs,
i stopped, was woken by her son in the middle of the night,
took him and laid him on my chest and we fell asleep...
so yeah, prostitution is ALL BAD... coming from a theorist
who hasn't experienced the drudgery of lives "unexpected"
via eventualities akin to Chernobyl... given that the most
paranoid nation scared and scaring others concerning
a nuclear holocaust is the only one to set two off... two!
Pearl Harbour was an army attack on an army base...
what the Americans did was just a very quick Holocaust.

I'm a Prisoner Trapped Inside a
Little Rectangular Marvel
Which knows, to six decimal ...'s,
My position on Earth

And the irony is that...
Electronically found,
I feel lost.

Way before we knew about
Jeep *** EssSs...
I lived 300 miles away,
In a little town called
Bettendorf, Iowa.

Few days after last
Christmas.
I made the journey
Back. To the
Former.
Place I existed, survived,
Lived, thrived (albeit briefly)

I took my family with me.
Or, I went with my family.
The four of us in the same vehicle,
Anyhow.
300 miles in December.
There was snow everywhere
Else. Not on the road, thank
You.

You leave bits and pieces of
Yourself in the place that is
The home for your feet, blistered
And toe-stubbing sidewalks and
Your hands grasping frozen Gym-
Door handles on Minus 10 Saturdays
When you bundle up and slog 1.3 miles
To play Dodgeball all Saturday afternoon.
(And returning it's twice as cold and dark is
Edging its fangs over the dim, muted horizon)

You sweat in the summer. Profusely,
Drops of the stuff watering brown
Grass. You bleed in the snow,
Stark red on even pastier
White, though it feels
Painful only in the abstract.
Sometimes numbness is better
Than painness.

You get blisters from raking leaves
In that season that seems
To have gone palavering somewhere
East of here.

These fringes of leavings, like
The tiny toenail clippings you spy
As you use a foreign bathroom, balefully
Eyeballing someone else's Medicine
Cabinet of Curiosities.

So we went to the place
Formerly known as home.

You can travel a linear or
Non-line-like distance back
To the place where you cut
Your teeth on life, and life cut
Its own bicuspids on you, but fading,
Fading,
Only the shimmering
Ephemeral memory of an
Equally diaphanous memory
Of those teethmarks exist.

Or, succinctly put:
The past is dead.
Long live the passed!
(But not the vaporous
Kind)

Still, we pine for the earlier
Times, younger and much,
Much more innocent, gull-
Able, even: When time had
Not yet painted and varnished
Us so much, the years piling on
Our faces deeply and thickly,
Lined canyons of worry criss-
Crossing our brows, the feet
Of those ****** crows nestling
Where our eyes end in points;
The sagging, the
Lowering of once springly,
Spritely flesh. 3 chins.
Since when do I need two
Extra chins?
**** you, Gravity!
**** you to Heck!

We travel back on new
Roads over the great
Old ones that used to be
Concave asphalt trips to
Anywhere and Nowhere
Special, they all were, even
The ones that led to hilarious
Dead ends.

Wow! There used to be a
(Insert memory here)
But hey! Lookit that!
A Yarn Barn. Hmm.

And oh! I lost my
(Insert memory here)
In that very back parking
Lots of Tots? What kinda name
Is that for a Pre-School!
Open on CHRISTMAS? Whaaaat?
My hometown has lost
Its mind.

And then silence, as the
future that passed us by
Reasserts itself so strongly-
It might as well be screaming
At us from useless billboards
Selling crap we don't need.

This place is a foreign
Country to me. I don't know
When it stopped being home
And now, I really don't care.
Let's do this thing, family, this
Familial obligation, and then kick
The stupid dust from this town
Off our tailpipes.
Go, Bettendorf!
Go, Bulldogs!
Go, next-town-over!
Go on with your bad
Selves.
Because, people of these
Towns, in 30, or 25, or 12, or
4 years, you'll blink, and find
That you no longer recognize
The place you can't call
Home any longer.

men are singing in my head singing lyrics of tim minchin with me

you see they will play this music singing with me saying it is my body

and i live in it, it’s 7 parts  skin and 13 parts water and the men are

laughing with me saying it’s my body and i live in it

you see despite us partying and vomiting blood yeah

you see it is my body and it’s fine, ya see i fill it completely with wine

and i live in the dark side and every man was saying yeah your cool

just like this singer tim minchin, he is so radical, dude

i can have a dark side i can have a dark side, i can have a dark side

2 poofs and 300 virgins, well the men are probably saying to me, tim minchin sux

but i think tim min chin rules, dudes

i think that tim minchin is radically awesome dude, you see the men are singing tim minchin

with me, because i am still a family person, and it’s true i am a family person

i wrote a letter to yin din olin and he told me i was the worst person i have ever met

then the men said, tim minchin is cool man and i said, yeah he is

and this is my earth and i am proud of it

i walk around the earth picking up ***** off shoes

and then i use turpentine to squeeze all the hooligan out of me

but i know it’s hard oh it can be mighty hard, dad never became involved with my sports when i was a kid

he made it up to me as an adult, but i was always a pure cool family person, he didn’t understand me

i liked playing basketball, i liked playing ten pin bowling, it made me feel like cool guy

you see i feel comfortable with the men who like heavy metal or tim minchin like when

i listen to him all the men say to me ummmmm you are cool, ummmmmm you are cool

you are going to live in paradise, with a 10 ft **** and a few hundred virgins

i hate people who don’t give money to the poor, but i don’t want to call them ***** because

i always believe in hard work, even if it is hard work cleaning my brain out

you see we are sticking a ***** up ya **** while tim min chin is singing it, and of course we feel cool

i tim minchin, he reminds me of fun and games with the young dudes

you see i was looking for a way to bring that atmosphere back, and tim brings it to me

my dad doesn’t understand what kind of cool kid i was trying to be like

tim is singing the good book, the good book is the best song, i like tim minchin

i am writing my old body out of me, but i am a person not a robot

a person who likes tim minchin

you see i liked daddy, he was a nice person on the couch, but dad to me in the 80s was a couch daddy

but i had to yell at him to get him to treat me like a family person, ya see i was teasing dad when

i was saying i was a hooligan, just a tease don’t ya know

i was teasing dad when i said, i wanna stab ya in the back

because i wanted heavy medallists to be men for me, NOT DAD, well, back then anyway

because, i believed in being cool, and i got vibes from dad, he didn’t wanna be cool

so i hear all the men singing with me, each song tim sang

ya know each song he sang,

dads wasn’t perfect, but buddha said love thy father

because you only get one and when he goes

i was going completely crazy, listening to tim minchin’s really cool music

and the men are laughing and joking with me, as i listen to the great tim minchin

ya see, there was so much i never told dad, and now it’s too late

because all the ladies in the house come on let me hear ya say ayoh ayoh

all the fellas in the house RAIDERS SUX, RAIDERS SUX

all the conservos in the house say MONEY MONEY MONEY

all the poor people in the house say WHERE IS OUR FUCKEN LOOT YA ******’ ******

i like the bearded men talking to me when i listen to tim, because he is totally radical dude

i am not discussed by the time in the 90s where all my personalities split out of my bodies

so i can choose what personality i take with me, i love heavy metal, so i sing heavy metal with those nice australian men

you see i hear voices of people saying i am someone people hate, but i want to be someone people like

i don’t want to sing heavy metal with dad, his next life betty campbell, will be in a different generation to me

the fad generation was dads, not mine, and i sang a song

not a dime, i cannot pay my rent

i can barely make it through the week

it’s saturday night, and it’s PARTY night

and i can meet a girl

but i struggle to make my ends meet

i am listening to tim minchin every day

he is totally radical dude

i feel i am in a cranky mood, but really i am in a happy mood yeah

happy like brian allan, and i am not a loser who takes drugs to get me by

i have no problem with people who take drugs, just respect my view that i don’t like taking drugs

the raiders sux, because the bulldogs beat them 41 to 34, and the swans beat the hawks

the men are singing tim minchin with me like they sang heavy metal music

i don’t wanna be someone people hate, i wanna be liked for being the person, i want to be

not the person that dad wanted me to be, not the person that hooligans wanted me to be

respect me, i want to be a cool party dude who LOVES TIM MINCHIN, radical STUFF

Women’s afl

Round 1

Geelong. 3. 6. 24
Collingwood. 3. 5. 23


Bulldogs. 2. 6. 18
Adelaide. 1. 11. 17


Kangaroos. 7. 10. 52
Carlton 2. 4. 16



Fremantle 9. 5. 59
Melbourne 8. 7. 55


Brisbane. 4. 5. 29
GWS. 4. 3. 27

Some very close games
Shows that women’s afl can be very exciting not as high scoring as the men but the women played very well
Well done to Geelong bulldogs kangaroos Fremantle and Brisbane
The champions are upon us today
Each game was exciting to play
Each team played well but only one winner is allowed
Unless it is a draw

Mile after mile
the endless motorway
spews out its metal contortions

hum your V6 engine
rock with impatience
under branded lime-green
sun strip protectors
brimming with breeders
of brooding black BMWs
7-seater convertible prowess
gleaming off-roaders
go faster striped boy-racers
silver slick steamroller Range Rovers
revving executive supremacy
nestled annoyingly
behind a Grand Jeep Cherokee

all stop in motion
by a pedestrian button
for a little old lady
with shopping,
And me.

So many people
in so many cars
gas guzzling
un-muzzled bulldogs
drooling to be first
the excesses of acceleration
the freedom to roam
to gloat or to garner

well you can all stay in line
with the press of a button
and a finger like mine
Moses in green spandex
parts the Metal Sea
for a little old lady
with shopping,
And me.

There's a broken banjo in my birthright,
It was tied to were I wonder
Hidden between John Henry's Hammer,
and the hobbling post on Humble Hill.

I've walked this far on the blame in my grit,
pushed to by tailwind sunsets,
So kick me a mea culpa kneejerk
hardball, and sandstone my stonewall.

Forget storms in the cradle,
I found dustbowls in my waiting room,
Chasing rabbits in a wordwind,
plinking at the vermin as
they rolled into town with the rest of us,

*****, but soaring, Carrion pigeon in the clouds
not getting caught up in admiring the reflections
in all the silver linings,
Just... Flying.

narcissus couldn't manage
the glory of wax work wings.
But Icarus knew real beauty.
He felt it.
When he hit the ground

The heat of floating zeroes
blasting his broken bones
into the obsidian of desert floors...
See, angels can be as jealous as God.

Anywhere can be as lonley as the long plains
of Kansas,
Empty canvas trampled by dog and pony shows
as cowboys rode mules muddy miles
through ****** brambles
to drive herds of bulldogs and lions
from the hunting grounds of dragons
to the safety of home
from High, High, Horses.
Under the shadows of eagles.

But the devil never waits at the crossroads, people.
He lays in lies.
And six shooters,
Under Dog Collars,
with the blood and scars
of everyday life,
and the beaten bodies of
seraphim, fallen to **** the well,
with their phoenix ash.

Sheep and shepherds are never friends,
Ones happiness is the other's hunger.
Dont get me wrong, wolves get hungry too,
But at least their honest about the arrangement.

funny story, yeah, it's a funny one with you and the door-stoppers, i read the Brothers Karamazov; d'uh...

and you want t hear the quote? the salt on the wounds?
to angels - vision of god's throne,
to insects - sensual lust. i love the hyphen just hanging there
for unnecessary ambiguity when it comes to punctuation,
hanging in the air, a ******'s hanky with *gone with the wind
soundtrack, oh look here, sexed the
pomp crew that said ******* to their mothers
are angling with a free-spirit of fancies,
they kept me poor for a reason that
suggests i have to pay up a second time,
i didn't get their B.D.S.M.,
i'm praying for an early death
or a death by Islamic terrorism -
did you get it the first time round? n'ah 'ah,
second time? n'ah 'ah... third time?
least likely... what with Polish vermin to mind
i'd be scared to be a sheep, the Poles might
nibble on the shanks, i wouldn't be too sure
should they pacify with message of love
and gathering together...
once vermin, vermin forever, a bit like
those asthmatic british bulldogs ******* up
phlegm to breathe -
but back to the Dostoevsky quote,
*** is overrated - insects can have this domain,
wait for the cool-down,
the clown, and other jeopardy takers to juggle
the rest - it doesn't take celibacy per se to
ensure a strategy - just a rightfully placed
misogyny - and there was one waiting -
take your little Himmler off the crucifix
and see where you stand in the chicken prior
the egg argument - what a foul-mouthed *******
your saviour is... i hardly think he ever used
a toothbrush to mind the words later
of deity fatherhood - i'm not anti-Semitic,
but he's the only reason why i have every right to be;
along with every other Jew in the equation of
concerns - i don't like him, he was crucified,
i have no predestination lingo to boot,
i may have been baptised but i consciously chose to not
be confirmed, i don't have to like him, i'm not
expected to, the rule of the jungle is:
whatever comes your way - his poker hand is that
he was sold by Judas - he claims the foundations of
monetary exchanges, i was born into this ****-pile of
aggression toward thinking any thinking can be claimed
to be a madness... that old cat & mouse game in
England... if no one profits from madness then no
one is mad... who's earning my due renegade ego and who's
starving? i wasn't born to necessarily like him,
capital punishment was served, the Romans didn't
ask the Jews to build the Coliseum, or the Hanging
Barbers' Beards of Gladiators in Garden Form either...
hence the religious exploration, who he agitated...
the only time the Jews were left intact without
a curse of pointless architecture akin to Babylon's
hanging gardens or Egypt's pyramids and this
**** comes along and says that Sunday should be a
rightful trading day, and so we have it, Sunday and
the supermarkets are open till 4p.m., i don't like him
because he was one of the instigators of modern insomnia;
can we please take a break? nope, n'ah, not happening,
so there we have it, not one philosophical day
of retrospection, of introversion, or reflection,
constantly in the REFLEX mode we head toward
having a civilisation based on the non-existence of sleep,
24h New York, London, waiting for the ultimate pick-me-up
of dementia precipitating after we broke the rules
of the existence of sleep being abolished;
oh sure, he drove the traders from the temple and gave
us a house of prayer - ****** should have been
****** on Sabbath rather than agitating Zealots in
the wheat fields - fishermen like St. Peter were
literate back in those days? no chance! even a tax-collector
like Matthew knew more arithmetic than grammar;
the new testament begins with a bad joke by a few
Greeks concerning the tetra-grammaton -
is it Mark's gospel and Luke's that are similar?

Who is this old man sitting in the tattered old chair,
Yelling French at Mad Dog Vachon,
Bragging about the Crusher's capacity for beer,
Chortling at the desolation of the British Bull Dogs?

Smoking his cigars to their very ends in his old pipe,
Spitting plug tobacco juice
Mostly in the can beside us as my Grandma gags....
The French they speak to each other
Should include requests for pardon....

This raving lunatic is my Grandpa Charles,
And I am five and six and seven,
Sitting on his lap,
Believing every word the Gospel truth:
Seeing Vachon as the savior of French Canada,
The Bulldogs for the evil nation they proclaim,
Kegs of beer as quantities strong men crush.

This old Frenchman whose horse days are done,
Who barely knows to sit still
Though he is a passenger now,
Beside my father...
Knows magical tricks to stun and spell me:
Pushing his teeth out with his tongue,
Leaking smoke from his ears,
Tamping burning coals with his thumb...
An old man who refuses to be old,
Who sits and raves at wrestlers on TV.

Did you know that where you were born the water goes down the plughole in the other direction?
I don’t suppose you do know because you’re still rather small.
And also, why would you have noticed?

Did you know that you were born somewhere with no reason to fear spiders?
That although ugly their bites would cause no harm
And also that you were born to a land with no koalas?

Did you know that the sun didn’t feel as much heat where you were born?
That people wore wetsuits to go in the sea
And beaches were more often walked down than lay upon?

I hope that this you do know
And that now you’re there you know to play in the sand
And feel your feet in the sea

Did you know that where you were born people barbequed only in the summer?
And in winter where you were born snow fell and lakes froze?
You’ve seen snow before, did you know?

Did you know that where you were born there’s no eucalyptus or kangaroos?
What we do have is squirrels, badgers and bulldogs
And a lot of cold rain

Did you know that you’ve been to the queens house?
Have you noticed that the Queen makes you seem nearer?
Because even with the distance our Queen is your Queen
We can both call her ‘The Queen’

Did you know that when you were born Mummy was more worried about losing your woolly hat than wearing sunscreen?
It was so cold where you were born that Mummy couldn’t feel her fingers
And Daddy always wore jeans

I bet you didn’t know that where you were born people ate yogurt and pasta
That yoagurt and parsta were not spoken of
And people asked how you were, not how you were going?

Did you know you lived your first year in a country the whole world was looking at?
You probably don’t remember the Jubilee or Olympics
But you were here whilst the world was watching

There’s a lot of things you might not know
But one day you’ll realise perhaps you did know
For just because you’re upside down now
We’re still here
And we hold your memories of the land where you were born

But meanwhile whilst you’re there
We’ll be loving you
Which is really no different all the way over there
Than it is here, where you were born

I am the walrus walking, with Lucy in the sky with her diamonds, talking about going to Mr. Kites show tonight and then we'd have dinner at the Octopus's garden in the shade with Father MacKenzie. She said that Rocky raccoon was going to be at the show too and I remembered that Lady Madonna will stay for a bit if she earns enough money. I bet you didn't know that Sgt. Pepper's lonely hearts band will be there to play a bit. They are going to arrive in the yellow submarine with the nowhere man. then they are going to strawberry fields to play. I am going to meet up with them tomorrow at Abbey road and then go visit Jojo with them. From there we'd go to play for the Blue meanies and their bulldogs. What a wonderful place Beatle world is, but I have a ticket to ride the Magic mystery bus back to reality. Too bad I can't stay awhile longer!

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all down the street
Came a howling of wind and a lashing of sleet
The stockings were hung by the 50 inch plasma
And parents were snoring like bulldogs with asthma

The children were nestled in cosy wee places
With smug little grins on their villainous faces
Their mum in her nightie and I in my skin
Were of Christmassy spirit, specifically Gin

When out in the garden, a moaning was heard
I sprang to my feet without breathing a word
With a hint of a stagger and stumbling feet
I went to the curtains all sly and discreet

And what did I spy as I peeped through the crack?
No jolly fat Santa or magical sack
It was as I had feared but had always expected
The zombies were here and St. Nick was infected!

His sled, with a frenzy of giblets, was smitten
And was pulled by a mob of the people he’d bitten
He threatened and jabbed them to get them to run
And struck at their heads with the **** of his gun

“Now Arnie, now Johnny, Now Barrak Obama
On Oprah, on Beckham and on Dalai Lama
On half of Madonna and Samuel L. Jackson
And run for your lives at the sound of the claxon”

The sled rose aloft dragging corpses behind
Like a wedding day prank from a murderous mind
And with more than a hint of the melodramatic
An almighty crash rattled down from the attic

Still dressed, as it were, in my birthday attire
Some pants and a chainsaw, my only desire
I crept on my tippy-toes, ever so soft
And I heard a grim sound from the stairs to the loft

I searched for a weapon and first within sight
Was the bottle of ***** for Boxing Day night
I ran from the bedroom to battle my foe
I turned to the stairs, but now where did he go?

When a breath on my neck made me shiver and freeze
And a trickle of ***** advanced to my knees
I came to my senses and spun on the spot
And before me pulsating with maggots and rot

There stood zombie Santa, he drooled as he leered
His eyes filled with hunger and blood in his beard
I screamed and I bolted, I ran down the stairs
I bounced and I bounded and leapt them in pairs

I rounded the corner and flung back the door
I flicked on the light but could journey no more
The windows were gone and in every direction
Were lurching the victims of zombie infection

They lunged and they nibbled and ripped me apart
They tore out my liver and chewed on my heart
My giblets, like tinsel, were strung on the tree
And beneath lay the presents in puddles of me

And while they made meals of my pieces of mind
Upstairs there was gore of a similar kind
The missus was mangled and minced in her sleep
And Santa selected the pieces he’d keep

The children still snoozed with not even a groan
The zombies sensed evil, and left them alone
Their work was complete so they hastened away
To the attic they galloped to rev up the sleigh

With a scrape and a grind and a clatter of slate
They took to the air to continue their spate
And the voice of St. Nick could be heard from the sky
“Merry Christmas to all and to all……

DIE!”

Captured in the psych ward part 8




You see after Martin Kelly's sister arrived at the hospital to pick up her
Brother's body and take him back with her to England,,Robert had a sleepless
Night, and decided to go out and watch the TV cause he was too ****** bored
And he had a lot on his mind, you know, really Robery wanted to go,,and being
A kid, he didn't know much about respect and Kate came out and said, would
You fucken turn this TV down, it is keeping me up all night, and Robert told Kate
To *******, and Ron just got up out of bed after getting a phone call from his
Grandson Billy, who was 12 Years old and coming to stay this weekend, which
Is 2 days away, and work was so tight, he really couldn't get time off, but he did
Have some extra over time credits he could use, but Ron liked to use them on
Big holidays, but having his grandson come over, is a big holiday, so he went into
Work today, like normal, go to the cafe talk to the Fran and dan, and today's topic
Was about families, mainly because Ron said his grandson billy was coming in 3 days
And Fran said she had 2 kids, no grandkids, and Dan, said that she has 1 son named
Bill, who was 12, and every night, bill runs around me and my hubby all time and then
Ron said, well my grandson is 11, how about we meet, over the weekend, and both of our kids can meet each other, and Dan said, ok if you were living in a run down property
In the middle of the Victorian alps, I would love you to come and Ron, these are modern times, why the **** are you in a run down property for, you should be getting heaps of
Money from this cafe and dan said, well, you would think so, wouldn't you, but my dad
Wanted me and the kids to live with him, I have to get my family up at 4-00 in the morning
To get here on time, and Ron said, life is a *****, well, we can meet at my place, you are
An adult, well yes, said Dan, I will let you know, and then Dan went to the HDU to check on his patients and he was told that Robert has been sitting watching TV all night, and
He hasn't had breakfast, maybe we should see to have him released, I don't think he very
Well, and he might be under suicide watch, he is too young for this place and Ron said, ok
I will have a word with him, so he went over to Robert and said Robbie what's up and Robert said, well, I have been in here too long, and the patients are too weird, like that stupid phoney that arrived here at 3 this morning, who sat next to me, and Ron curious about what Robert was saying, said, who was this phoney, and he was this was man who had the hood type jacket and blue and white canterbury bulldogs shorts and Ron said, he
Is the night time volunteer who works here at night, to look after younger people like yourself, if they can't sleep, to make them feel better, and Robert said, maybe, if I knew that, I might not have been so rude, now thanks to you I feel worst, no he ain't allowed to
Say he is a volunteer, cause, he is there for you guys, but, he ain't allowed to ignore you
For being rude either, ok I will have this dude look after you in the future, and Robert said,
No you fucken ****, I want out of this hell hole, this is clearly not working for me and
Ron spent the day trying to find out what is wrong with Robert, while the nurses handled
The medication, and Ron said, I really think this boy isn't ill, so we shouldn't push drugs down him, and Naomi suddenly came out saying, we are captured captured captured
Us young dudes have been captured in the psych ward today, Naomi and Robert and
Ron came out and tried to settle naomi down but this was hard, and Naomi was still refusing medication. And the staff because of this still say she is threat to people around her, and when Ron had finished talking to Robert, he had a few words with brad, as well
As Susan and Pete. And mind you Pete was having a lot of problems and yes Ron took
His time off to look after his grandson and, said he won't be back till Wednesday of next
Week, and Robert and Naomi were sitting there watching TV together, and patty came out
Saying that he missed the plane to Washington dc and needs a private jet, and said, can I go on the Internet, to book myself on one and the nurses, said, you can't expect a free ride
And the doctor said, ok patty roe, sit down and I will make you a hot chocolate and patty
Roe said, neh, I need to get to the white house, I am meeting Obama and the doctor said
Here is the medication that is right for you at the moment, go to your bed, and relax, cause
This place is close to prison, ya can't expect a free ride here and Susan said, yeah, you will
Never get a free ride to the states in your situation ya **** and Ron went home, to get the
House ready for his grandson, and he is off work till Wednesday he is happy and
He visited the cafe and told Fran and Dan that he will bring his grandson in


Sent from my iPad

**** the sun
**** the clover
**** the grass
**** the blue skies
**** the fluffy clouds
**** the trees
**** my shadow
**** this pen
**** the prairie grasses
**** the oxygen
**** the fungus eating that tree
**** the singing birds
**** the humid air
**** the peaceful afternoon
**** that ever present drone
**** the space between two objects
**** the white butterfly flying randomly
**** the birds mating
**** my finger prints
**** my fingernails
**** consciousness behind my eyelids
**** the wine in my eyes
**** bees
**** ants
**** flowers
**** the humid afternoon breeze
**** the sign that says private property keep out
**** the mating calls
**** the chirping birds
**** good health
**** bad breath
**** instant gratification
**** ****
**** black/white spotted cats
**** the tree shadows
**** the swaying grasses
**** the yellow garden hose
**** the chaquita banana box
**** getting lucky
**** guys walking their bulldogs
**** the thin grasses
**** the sun on my back and neck
**** the indoors
**** the outdoors

ach, leave the city to grown-ups
give me the fields that rush up and fly
into the scuffs and ****** noses
of piley-on and bulldogs

I like to drink, oh yeah


I drink a beer at a funeral and remember the dead
And all the things that they liked to talk about at the pub
Like there is nothing more to life than drinking a whole case of VB
I drink a beer at a wedding of my best mate
Saying that I remember when you were knee high to a grasshopper
And you tried to give me advice about the dangers of binge drinking
Yeah, I told ya, but I still drink it, and so did you, mind you
I drink a beer at work, when the boss ain't watching
Yes, that was very fun, yes, it was, we never got caught
I drink a beer for Australia winning in the cricket
And, boy did I get ****** that night
I drink a beer at the tennis this year,
And I made a toast to Djokovic, when he won the Aussie open
3 years in a row
I drink a beer for the Sydney Swans, and to Malceski for winning
Them the 2012 grand final
I drank a beer for the bulldogs in the rugby league
But the storm ****** beat us, oh no, I can't understand
Maybe it was the referee
I drink a beer to The Australian labor party
Yeah let's keep Tony Abbott out, yes that will be cool, go Julia
I drink a beer for my best mate, who was robbed last night
And I drink a beer, to remind myself that it was me
That warned him, not to hang with losers like him
I drink a beer to the weather for being nice to me
So I can go out and drink a beer to everyone in the world
And most of all I will drink a beer only when the weather is dry
First sight of rain, I go home and next time it's dry, mate
I will drink another beer, to the good and bad things in my life
Yes, I love to drink, oh yeah

To my beloved family,
mourning alone
without a sanctuary to
gather,
And to
the 49 bodies my
eyes know only as
that:
My body calls you
my own
and feels your absence
achingly.

He crawled into our homes
as children.
He took his position,
aimed, and unloaded
from the disappointed eyes
of our fathers.
He shot his rounds
of shame in the words of
our mothers.
But he did not leave us there.

He found us again
in the pews.
We threw our bodies
face down
under the altar,
eyes closed and bodies heaving.
He held us in his sight
through the prayers of our pastors
that erased you and I.
He called for support
from the holy assembly,
teaching them to gag
again
and again
and again
and again
and called us Abomination.
But he did not leave us there.

He placed the target on
our chests
when we sat quietly in class.
We sat there drawing pictures from
our dreams;
pictures of dancing bears and
rainbows and flowers
and tall queens.
His war cry, “******,”
echoed in the halls as
we counted each step towards the
shelter of home.
But he did not leave us there.

So you and I,
we found each other.
We held each other close and
wiped the tears away with
the gauze we knew to
carry
close at hand.

We built our own
sanctuary
And sent out a search party
to invite our God.
I remember our surprise
when we found that she was
already there,
laughing and dancing as our priests
conducted their holy music.

We invited the tall queens and dancing bears
that we thought only existed in
our minds;
bulldogs in tuxedos and foxes and a
princess. And we all
laughed and cried
and danced and
kissed

Because we were safe.

And our walls and hymns and
sacred prayers
kept him from finding us.
But he did not leave us there.

He found us again.

They call him Omar, son of ISIS.
We call him natural fate,
familiar face,
child and messenger
of every word and deed and stare and sermon
we have ever run from.

In the midst of celebrating our life
you ran,
trampling over those you loved as he
hunted us like dumb animals.

You ran for the exits as our family was
mown down,
member by member.
Each scream systematically and
irreversibly
silenced.

In your final moment you
let out a desperate cry,
fingers still on a keyboard;
your words forever unfinished,
forever unsent
to the mothers who
still loved us.

I heard your cry that night.

I heard it as I left
another sanctuary.
I clasped my heaving chest
trying to hold it together.
I ran my hands along my body,
pushing fingers into bullet holes
that I felt
from miles away.

Are you a football fan?

Are you into BIG TIME college football, where my
home town, Georgia Bulldogs are defending, two-time
national champions? Their season began last week
or maybe you’re an NFL fan (they start playing this week).

Ivy league college football starts next week and if you're
not excited about it, maybe you don’t understand it.

Before games there are parties with pizza and chicken wings.
Do NOT go to a frat house on a game day - just don’t.

If you’re going to throw a college football game
you’ll need two teams of players in safety uniforms
and at least one football (that’s what they fight over).

You need a crowd - two crowds really - and a stadium
where everyone could, in theory, sit. There should be
flags, banners, hats and jerseys in riotous team colors.

You’ll need two marching bands and school mascots.
A bulldog will do (Yale), or if you can’t afford that, you could
dress someone up as a huge-headed pilgrim (Harvard).

Of course, as with any big sporting event you’ll need skimpily
dressed girls to toss in the air and assorted food and drink to sell.
There will be lots and lots of cars, and police and ambulances
standing by in case it’s all too much or someone gets hurt.

Cheerleaders are there to whip the crowd into a vocal frenzy,
soon everyone’s yelling things like “DE-fense,” “push em back,”
“Harvard *****” and “No, really, Harvard *****.”

The ideal game should include a bitter rivalry like Yale vs Harvard.
While everyone knows Yale is better academically, there’s a small
chance that Harvard could win the game - which makes it scary.
We won last year and we’ll play them again this year, in November.

Anyway, whatever flavor of football you like:
It’s football season people!

Rabbits on the moon

So much of the universe I didn’t know,
Like the Antarctic dolphins that live in the snow.
Or the ostrich of Scotland that wears a pink kilt,
And the Icelandic sunflowers that never shall wilt.
There’s kittens than swim in the cold baltic sea,
Or the cobras of Poland with raspberry ***.
There are turtles with shells made of musical twine,
And bulldogs in France that crush grapes into wine.
The are sloths up In Finland that wear woolly hats,
Made from the hair of some ginger Swiss cats.
There are budgies that swim in the seas deepest cracks,
And hamsters in Egypt with humps on their backs.
But nothing compares to my favourite ****** toon,
Did you know there are wild rabbits that live on the moon?
They are scary and angry and take people from tours.
They pull at their legs, just like I’m pulling yours.

Back at the back of the running dog pack and
there's no looking back in the pack.

I growl my resistance to change and
put distance between us.

We eat on the go because nothing can slow us from reaching the destination we chose, but not one dog of us knows where that destination might be.

I am back, but I may as well pack up my bags
and go back to wherever
it was that I came from.

When no one knows where we are going and the road is so long how can it be wrong to make right and turn risk into a brisk walk away.

Back to the pack through the cranks and the ranks of the bulldogs, into the wheels and the cogs of machine driven scenery,
how green are we
that we couldn't see the wood for the barking?
How could we not know that mad dogs only go to the pound?

I stick around for a while, but my heart isn't in it
If there's a collar
I wear it?
but swear it's
for the lady
to choose.

Saturday morning bus trips
through the land of antelope,
To casinos and alleys,
with a sense of hope,

With multicolored ***** unpacked,
and special shoes upon our feet,
Now has come the time
that we shall compete.

Ten pins lined up like soldiers, standing 60 feet away,
With them, it has now come time to play,
But before we start a ritual that spreads the chilling fogs
dogs, on me, dogs on three, 1-2-3, dogs.

With a swing of the arm and flick of the wrist, driving our thumb into the air,
The spinning ball heads down the lane, seemingly without care.
If we hit our mark, with timing and speed, nothing can stop it,
The roaring ball hooks, right into the pocket.

With pins spinning and bouncing nothing can still stand,
An X upon the scoreboard, just like we had planned,
And if for some reason, a pin or two is left standing there,
We will take aim and roll again, picking up a spare.

Two games down individually, but we are not done,
Time for some baker bowling fun.
7 of these for us, working as a team,
We knock down pins, like a well-oiled machine.

And at the end when we emerge we are victorious
Another tournament won isn't it glorious,
Thanks to all our coaches, and especially coach Ken,
We will miss him next year but will smile and think of him

It's never clear to me where the dreams begin and
where the memories begin
but I know they both begin
to make sense after the first dozen times and
then once they make sense they cease to be interesting and
begin to bore me and
so I focus on waking up to both and
setting both feet on the cold stone floor where the **** and
the puke has already dripped through the cracks left
by the dance leaving a dry yellow stain just so
I know for sure I'm home and
not still in the in-between domain. And
I try to recall the detail but fail again,
so I start a new story where I'm the hero and
not a victim this time and
where there's no need for heroes cos everyone is in
a cooperative mood which makes me mad
- what's the point of a hero when
there's no heroism called for
- which makes me wonder who
called me here at this time of the night
when crows and bulldogs are the only ones awake and
are the only creatures who care about the size of the moon, oh and
me of course, so what's
that make me? some cross between a black arts symbol and
a patriot looking for a fight to justify the distrust and
anger I feel about the world

- blast and ******, I need a *** and
I need to puke so I lay back down, curl into my fetal and
let nature do it's worse. The warmth soothes me at first, but
soon enough the chill takes hold and
I wonder when mum will come and
tell me it's time for school.

The answer is exactly 30 seconds later and
as usual she notices nothing,
so imagination it is then
- not such a blessing then,
despite what the teacher said.

It's never clear to me where the dreams begin and where the memories begin but I know they both begin to make sense after the first dozen times and then once they make sense they cease to be interesting and begin to bore me and so I focus on waking up to both and setting both feet on the cold stone floor where the **** and the puke has already dripped through the cracks left by the dance and have left a dry yellow stain just so I know for sure I'm home and not still in the in between domain. And I try to recall the detail but fail again, so I start a new story where I'm the hero and not a victim this time and where there's no need for heroes cos everyone is in a cooperative mood which makes me mad - what's the point of a hero when there's no heroism called for - which makes me wonder who called me here at this time of the night when crows and bulldogs are the only ones awake and the only creatures who care about the size of the moon, oh and me of course, so what's that make me, some cross between a black arts symbol and a patriot looking for a fight to justify the distrust and anger I feel about the world - blast and ******, I need a *** and I need to puke so I lay back down, curl into my fetal and let nature do it's worse. The warmth sooths me for a while, but soon enough the chill takes hold and I wonder when mum will come and tell me it's time for school.
The answer is exactly 30 seconds later - and as usual she notices nothing, so imagination it is then - not such a blessing despite what the poet said.

oh sorry...

    great movie review...

   paul-keel paul-kee,

another day
  in a never-ending
tomorrow,

  i must be either assimilant
or neither of the proper sense,
being lied to,
  told: you threw a pint
glass across the pub floor...
****** pub mind you...

  fowever much i find i find
your daughters fascinating,
i hope they end up
like your daughters of rotherham,
you pigs you
            bulldogs of slobbering
conscience...
   not fit for either the army
or the police force!

             i leave you with only
one, only one ultimatum:
              you have no excuses!
        degenarates! ****** fascists!
stop imitating arabs and *******
your cousins!
one ultimatum!
   only one ultimatum!
                  you have no excuses!
and that's the ultimatum!

you better do likewise akin to
the picts,
  start deep-frying mars candy bars,
and pretending to look ugly...
to ward off those who might
bite into a 'aggis neeps & tatties
for a better worth of a christian
trinity!

           send an irishman with a sentence
of heritage to scotland
to learn of the celt... and the gaelic!
         send the scoot
to reeshland...
                      and tell him the same fabble
of the gael!
then tire, of tomorrow.
  
and those pompous **** ways  
of the english...
   their pretentiousness
and their manners,
          and their good-attempting-tough
pair of shoes...
        no, these *******
were no match in their
angevin days...
            overcome by one sickly
augustus...
                  christened philip...
              
  let's agree, at least their daughters
are becoming bilingual,
in the most unsophisticated way...
     but who am i to avenge?
     well, not me,
   apparently i threw a pint glass
across the pub floor...
  apparently i was the invader!
   sometimes invading a place
can be the most passive act of self-assertion...

question the irish, question the picts,
question the longbowmen
that the welsh are...
              and then ask:
    are you sure you have a daughter,
and not mere alimony?
oh, that's right... a pakistani go-free card,
well, who could blame you for your
grand-grand-grandfather's colonial past...
who could blame you!?
   who could blame you
like you blame the neo-fascists for
the holocaust?!

minority report ***** and *****.

When the Georgia Bulldogs win my overall mood
is lighter , the afternoon sun shines brighter
New stars appear in the night sky
The smile on my face won't go away -
no matter how hard I try* ..

don't worry, you're not a communist party member,
but hell, what a world of difference it turned
out to be for my grandfather, retired prior to hitting 60,
or thereabouts - seems it would have been quiet
o.k. to have been born in 1939, and having the memory
of herr bittebonbon, an ss man giving me sweets,
so sweet that my hands would stick together;
just saying...

now i don't really understand which communist
"party" you adhere to, twitter, facebook,
tumblr, whatever,
   we are the generation of *users - the "pioneers" -
we were the ones stuck to the screen writing
in chat rooms when m.s.n. was still breathing,
just prior to microsoft having to invoke hunts
for pedophiles -
                  just before they closed -
and just before acronyms were pop -
    and less complicated -
      just before english started to mutate,
deform, started to look uglier by the day,
like some drunken irish boxer getting too many
knuckle kisses -
            i've forgotten how to feel...
stupendous? arty farty? what's the word...
   pomp-riddled, popish?
                ****, the world escapes me -
but for people who don't know what chat rooms
were... right at the turn of the century...
   i feel for you...
          then comes the other thought -
always, always, better an unpredictable tornado
of whirling thrills, than that mundane
straight train-track load of thought:
sober, unchanging, and if not in some relativistic
muddle, then clearly in the north-north parallel
magnetic repelling mind-set...
              yawn.
      i didn't say: don't use it -
          as i am always reminded:
alcohol was created by people, for people -
yep, and i feel like a god downing a litre of whiskey
per night...
        mind you, that's better than glorifying
the other way... if a hermit does harm to himself:
he is only doing harm to himself,
   so... you can shove that a.a. ******* 12 steps
up yir **** and trot along...
             i have but one step,
visit your grandparents in your native land
and ensure you: keep up appearances -
  i was always the grand liar when sober,
then go back to england and stare at the trenches,
and the existential blackmail of:
more babies! more babies! more white babies!
besides the point, a woman can write the most
blissful romantic poem, and it has the same fate
as a newspaper, same day it was printed,
it falls into a gutter, or becomes desperado
toilet paper; i never knew why ****-eroticism
was so perfect in this medium:
  honestly? gay guys never seem to shut up
or have a narrow set of interests...
   oops...
        nonetheless it still feels like social media
is communism lite,
                  the corporate media is ballistic -
to no real surprise... don't you just love the term
dittohead? i have to look up the german
(sorry, i have a fetish for the language) -
ah!      ebensokopf, ebensokopfs...
         and then news from the construction site...
those ******* english hogs...
   lazy-*** "professionals" -
                 do nothing all day, expecting that:
oh, just a few slavs, they can do the work for us...
if i were you, i'd get the bangladeshi or
the irish on board... then again, you might like
to consider an arab or a sub-saharan workforce -
  ******* hogs, and bulldogs,
really gets under my collar,
  when people dissolve a respect for honest
and high tier labour... is it me, or has capitalism
completely lost the notion of respecting labour?
at least communism respected labour, work,
    whether it be a plumbing issue,
an electric issue...
           and not some poncy "vintage" antique
dealer's ******* of a mahogany table...
            what is the western world build on these
days these? their native workforce
     who have two left hands -
yep, pointing outwards - unfathomable that
western people fell for the perils of
       software "technicians" on social media -
     they are geared on the software of reality,
which looks kind'ah ******, from what i've seen -
while eastern europe has fun with the hardware
side of things;
   oh, by the way, if you're attempting to buy
a flat in london? don't bother,
  the english have terrible skills on industrial scale
projects...
   i've seen the pictures...
     perhaps elsewhere in england,
   but in london, you'll be lucky to spot a dozen
of english trades people -
managers, sure, obviously...
   but the rest?
           tumbleweed moment;
  at least we know what the irish are famous for
other than river-dancing... laying concrete...
and the scots? roofing; and the poles? ah you know,
roofing & a bunch of other trades -
zdrowie na budowie, zdrowie na budowie,
zdrowie.... na     bu.... do... wie;
and another point, why are people of my
generation afraid of having parents?
    the cohabitants?
             let's turn that one around:
you shall not be embarrassed to have parents...
under whatever circumstance you find
yourself in...
    because it got be thinking:
   we reached that stage of single mothers
         and their ***** donor / i.v.f. *******?
i'm waiting for those ****-offs to hit 20 years!