I don’t know what to say anymore,
Nothing can make this right.
You want so badly to save us,
But I don’t want to put up a fight.
We’re in a sinking ship here,
But you’ve still got buckets in your hands.
You keep screaming for me to help you,
But I can’t accept your demands.
You’re asking me to choose here:
“It’s either me or her.”
But you’ve played this game before with me,
So I’m taking her offer.

I won’t say goodbye
Even through she was the ice burg
I won’t say goodbye
Even though the last straw was her
I won’t say goodbye
I’m taking back my wings
I won’t say goodbye
And I’m the bird here that sings.

I don’t know what to write anymore.
Can’t pick up my pen and go.
You still beg me for the words,
But these words I’ll never show.
You fret over every word I said,
Like a moment stopped in time.
You scratch, I bleed and look at you,
And you say I crossed a line but,

I won’t say goodbye
Even through she was the ice burg
I won’t say goodbye
Even though the last straw was her
I won’t say goodbye
I’m taking back my wings
I won’t say goodbye
And I’m the bird here that sings.

And then you turn me around again,
And hold me ever close.
All I wanted was to love,
I’m such a lonely ghost.
Save me now I’m drowning,
This ship is going down.
The fires spreading rapidly,
And our bodies won’t be found.

I won’t say goodbye
Even through she was the ice burg
I won’t say goodbye
Even though the last straw was her
I won’t say goodbye
I’m taking back my wings
I won’t say goodbye
And I’m the bird here that sings.

"Go on forth young graduates,

And show us who you are

You're now our future leaders

We know you will go far"

And so commencement ended

Pictures done and people changed

Now, off to private parties

All orderly pre-arranged

But four young girls stood waiting

Until they were alone

"Let's head out to the party

And tomorrow, we shall phone,

Each other and we'll organize

Our final tete a tete

We'll plan something so special

A thing we haven't thought of yet!"

So, they went their separate ways

And they thought of all the places

That would hold a fitting luncheon

For their girls group "The 4 Aces""

They all got home around half past five

And all slept till half ten

After breakfast, phones were ringing

As they planned to meet again.

They picked a little tea house

called "Flavored Leaves of Green"

They would meet for a tea party

They would really make the scene

A week today they chose to meet

To celebrate together

They'd meet for tea and cakes

Regardless of the weather

And one more time, they'd choose to wear

The prom dress from that year

Big frilly hats, and long white gloves

and all that froo froo gear

The day arrived and they showed up

All ready for their tea

The Aces all decked again

Their luncheon was at three

The girls all talked about their plans

Of school and summer work

Two would council campers

While the other two would clerk

They loved their day and played the part

Of ladies with no cares

They knew it was the only time

They'd dine here, to be fair.

The final act of these four friends

Before they left and packed

Was to sign a pledge between them all

You could say, a small pact

"In twenty years from this day forth

We'll meet again for tea

On July twenty seventh

Of the year Two thousand three"

The sheet was signed and on their way

They booked their reservation

The girls all hugged and said goodbye

To end their celebration

Now time went by as it always does

And each girl went a different way

But in twenty years, they all looked forth

To meet again that day

The firtst Ace, Jill, went on to school

And married while she studied

She lost track of her Aces friends

Their paths were slightly muddied

She went to school in Omaha

A vet she chose to be

Her marriage lasted fifteen years

And...well, children...she had three.

Andi, chose to work instead

She left town to chase rainbows

She knew that here, her *** of gold

Would be wherever she chose

She moved out to Chicago

Where she was a big success

She became a photo artist

With a Lakeshore Drive address

Cindy, well...dear Cindy

Married five times through the years

Each one was shorter than the last

And one....just fifteen beers

They chose to split the very night

They they chose to become one

He left with her head bridesmaid

And the catfight....it was fun

Cindy spent two nights in jail

For beating up her beau

And she really laid a beating,

In her words, "Upon that **"

Lucy, never did leave town

But she let on that she did

For at high school graduation

She was pregnant with her kid

Her boy was born at Christmas

She did not even tell his dad

He was off to find his fortune

And she sometimes wished she had

But, she made up tales to tell her son

Of who his father was

But, she never told the truth to him

And that was her son's loss

She worked around the village

Never really getting out

She did her best for her son Jamie

There never was a doubt

She loved this boy with all her heart

And so she chose to stay

She'd sacrifice her future

And she'd dream of "just what may"

have happened to her if she left

If he had not been born

But, to her, a life with out him

Made her feel sad, forlorn

Twenty years past by so fast

The Aces plans were set

Each one had hoped the other

Would not dare to forget

Allthough good friends in high school

They'd never kept in touch

They went different directions

Their new lives, well....were their crutch

Cindy was the first to show

So, she stayed outside to smoke

When a voice came from behind her

And she knew just who had spoke

Lucy, grabbed her arm

And then she hugged her really tight

At least two of the four Aces

had remembered, got it right

They went inside to grab a seat

And Jill came in behind

And over by the bar was where

Andi, they would find

They all dressed up and wore big hats

And prom dresses as a lark

And they sat and told their stories

Of their lives till after dark

They vowed that they would stay in touch

And that they would converse

They all agreed they'd talk this time

And nothing could be worse

Than twenty years of silence

Between friends like the Four Aces

Even though they lived such different lives

They missed each other's faces

Another pact was signed this night

But this one for five years

To meet again for tea and cakes

And they signed it through their tears

Cindy left to catch her flight

and Andi left as well

Then Jill got up and hugged Lucy

And then she bade farewell

This left Lucy all alone

At the table all alone

When a gentleman came over

And he sat down with a groan

"Your party was successful"

Lucy smiled at his words

He was the tea house owner

A collector of rare birds

She thanked him for the party

It was one she could not miss

And on her way out past him

She gave him a light kiss

For not only did the tea room

Belong to this kind man

He was also her employer

For, 'twas his kitchen that she ran

You see, now it's been twenty years

Since they went to lead their lives

Some becoming so successful

Some becoming moms and wives

But Lucy, never left this burg

She raised her son alone

And she'd worked at this small tea house

It was her second home

She did not have the money

To come in as a guest

But her boss, was a sweetheart

And he'd made this night the best

Tomorrow she'd be back at work

Making meals for those who came

To the "Flavored leaves of Green"

and she'd be Lucy, once again..
..

the English are a very special breed of bigots, they don't engage in hypocrisy to suggest they feel superior with a decent moral compass, or to provide gentelmanly airs: pick out the pointless sorry when bumping into someone on the street - their inherent stage-fright at vulgarity hides something... the biggest asset of this constipated hypocrisy? what happens next... satire... so in being hypocrites they are awash in satirical humour... they laugh it off the minute they make some sort of allusion to a moral concern for something... given the current situation with the migrant crisis: where the majority are single men rather than Jewish families, you get the picture... it's amazing how they can change their hypocrisy into satire, and do so blatantly without a care in a world... i do wonder how the Icelanders would compare, both being island societies and all.

5 sq miles is all i need, to breath new air
and look at the same garbage of what life has to offer,
obviously the chanced and randomised
encounter with some *** on a bench
laughing our socks off, or a retired grandpa
getting away from the wife -
just like today - a fresh autumnal breeze:
i the cooling process to the heating up process,
don't know why, but there's as much
beauty in slow decay as in slow sprouting -
decay and its many colours never feels as ever
being monochromatic winter or summer -
it's the persistence of change - two transition
seasons, two plateau seasons: what a strange balance.
anyway, my usual (see how i invoked:
my life's so ******* boring, i decided to write
about it - like hell would i document it using
photographs: that's for the rich flashy people -
i'm more into the archaic mode - bought what i need,
and now i'm really using it) route was disrupted,
that's all it takes, walk a different English suburban
labyrinth and the world kaleidoscopes beyond
comparison; drank the strong beer (although,
ice cubes do make a difference when poured from
a can into a glass, Oranjeboom used to stand at
8.5%, just half a % shy from the *******
Special Brew - now it's at 7.5%, and, well, it taste
just about like candy-barley) - but that's what changing
habits does to you, my usual stroll became,
for some reason, electrifying - i censored my audience
on that ghoulish website i was introduced to at
university to 23 people, and i'm chirpier than
a sparrow - the newspapers were telling the truth:
for once - it just seemed that i was seeing less
network opportunities, and more ghost,
pointless memories of school, that everyone seems
to exploit in art (notably the smiths' soloist doing
the part of: oh how horrid those days of yore) -
dunno, liked the uniform, liked the topics,
never bothered having a social life in there,
everyone had extra four hours spare, i was doing
4 A-levels rather than 3, and every Wednesday i
would finish at 2:30 p.m. and head straight home
to beat the traffic - i picked up a girlfriend at the end
of my education, passed the exams and ****** off
to Edinburgh - most congregated with their social
networks from school in Canterbury -
the city was all i cared for, nowhere like it -
and perhaps the twinning of what i used to call
kiszka* (sh, or sz) that became haggis - whichever,
the fact that my father was taught the trade of roofing
by Scots, and that my favourite teacher was a Scot
too must have played on my romance at needing
to leave England - shame it wasn't for good, but never mind.
as for the fact the school was Catholic, i didn't leave
it having been confirmed, everyone else got to choose
a confirmation name, i was asking: why would anyone
even make the choice of being baptised in the first place?
too much sniffing in the library, reading about
the Gnostic heretics, who, as i suggested it to the r.e.
teacher (religious education) shared a similar doctrine
with what later became Islam: the phantom being
crucified and what not - now i do wish i could
have had a liberal education without religion playing
a pivotal role in my development, but then i'd
have missed out on the uniform, and the army-style
regime: i swear, no uniform and your whole life
ends up a nightmare from high school - because
we didn't develop an image issue, we didn't really
care to exploit our youth to side with a rebellious
stampede of making a mark - it would look ridiculous,
what with g.c.s.e. mathematics and talk of
photosynthesis in biology - ah, the disfranchised
youth of America, with their high school debacles
echoing a mortal's sense of eternity -
yes, my father was conscripted into the army,
he served the tenure of three years in Warsaw,
because he was tall and handsome we has put into
the household division, schooling in Poland
doesn't exactly use uniforms, well, i was enlisted
into the next best thing (apart from a grammar school),
yep, a faith school - he learnt a softer variation
of arbeit macht frei i.e. arbeit veredeln (work
ennobles) - or some variation of arbeit adeln - referring
to knights - the same rigour in his physical
activities are equated to the same standard in my
choice of utilising the necessary faculty: bullshitting -
not necessarily lying: unnecessarily telling the truth -
                          ^
                  telling the                 funny how you don't
                                           need the words there -
the verb structure already within lies -
                  but with truth, ****, you have express it
further, by some set standard;
but that's all it takes, a different route from the routine
zigzag, and i become more Columbus and less Kant.
a few things popped up -
a. i could blatantly write you a psychological profile
of homegrown terrorists - the filtering process?
grammar - you can decipher everything with grammar.
they're usually immigrants like me,
but they were probably born here,
having spent 8 years of my life in Poland as a child
already undermined any hope of the nicely ethnic cleansing
phrased: "assimilation" / "integration" process -
i couldn't **** the child and his knowledge of a language,
although the ones condemning being bilingual
would hardly bother learning another language,
which is exactly what English people on holiday are:
rude... when i went alone to Paris and slept in a hostel
i had to befriend someone who knew the language,
and managed to, on two occasions, because, otherwise,
i'd look like a complete idiot; great city, circa 2005 / 6.
they homegrown because they haven't realised that
they've been ethnically cleansed, so they take up talking
slang, and monosyllable Arabic to express their anger,
they've got the olive skin, but not the tongue of the desert,
me? i find it easier to write in English than in Polish,
but i could talk to you in the tongue, as i can read it:
i already said - philosophy in English, even with Locke?
nope... no can do... not while you heard such
things as: thinking, a dangerous endeavour...
the English can't write philosophy to save their life,
i can't read Sartre in English... it's just gibberish to me,
you need to know a continental tongue to read philosophy,
where else, other than in England will you find people
associating thinking as a tedium, rather than a medium?
nowhere! and these kids are disgruntled because they
have lost the capacity to identify with their parents,
they only see the insulating anger done unto their parents
by the society they live in and can only communicate
with what would provide an equilibrium to their situation:
their nativity of the mother tongue -
but since they haven't done that, then they act with
monstrosity - slang being their reality, slang as a way
to "modernise" their host language -
or at least change it, meaning that middle class folk
are like: huh?! a big ingredient in urban areas, obviously.
then they feel marginalised in blocks of flats...
a communist reality in eastern europe, and no one
complained... and the new way of housing people?
a bit plushier versions of their concrete counter-parts:
glass people (the social media advent) in glass houses.
b. *******, i wasn't going to expand a minor point
in my cognitive narrative from my walk that much...
this is the epitome of writing and the English suburban
labyrinth - everything looks the same, then take a step
elsewhere and boom... fresh air.
ah yes... what's with this deepest desire to cut off
subjectivity? it's happening all the time,
esp. noticeable in newspapers - the English abhor
the mere idea of subjectivity - everyone's supposed
to be a scientists... ask any chemist though:
the holy grail is subjectivity - i studied chemistry
but i read Milan Kundera - my director of studies
owned an Edward Hopper postcard in his office...
does a scientist really have to tell people who find
science hard and rather read a toothpaste's list of ingredients
(yes, chemistry is the only study area that
shows off English having being rooted in Saxony,
chemists compound nouns like everyday Germans
say: i ate a peppermint after dinner:
               pfefferminzeessennachdemwurst) -
all this desire to look "cool" and atheistic never translates
into collective atheism: of imitating an ant colony
and banishing god forever - all this
angst against subjectivity - the blind pursuit of
objectivity does only one thing: it guises subjectivity
in the dire need for psychology - logic of the soul,
or logic of breathing: a strange possibility,
i could have asked an asthmatic -
                                         and this constant, constant
nagging against poetry, from journalists and
psychiatrists alike, oh wait, you didn't write a 500 page
book which i wouldn't have read anyway:
you must be mad! sure thing doctor, mad as Duracell
bunny - gotta live the life, gotta live the life,
gotta run a marathon, got to travel to India for
a spiritual breakthrough, gotta this, gotta do that...
sit on your *** and enjoy the pleasure of thought
that never materialises into owning toilet blockage...
well, something like that.
pointing that out i don't understand why
the abhorrence of god is later translated into David Attenborough,
          or why there's no O in Edinburgh -
berg... burg... berg.. burg... and they never teach
you plain and simple: we have so many leopard spot
variations in our language, we're betting that it will
have a universal appeal to all of humanity, a true global
glutton tongue, encompassing an empire on which
the sun never sets... and some disgruntled white youths
fist fighting a question: but what's the real deal with
the basics?! too many particulars -
                   and that's what's bothering me,
i don't know whether to feel shame or sorrow,
definitely not happiness - i speak the blimmin' tongue better
than the natives! this is the funny part, i can speak of
English people like they're red indians - the natives -
ha ha hmm... it's probably devastating in terms of
the educational system, but i do, maybe that's why i
mentioned a patriotism to the language, but not the culture
that provided it... a patriotism toward the language,
so, in reality: rewriting being English - so very much
like 1066 at Hastings - Norman steps onto the shore...
right! Domesday Book... dome and doom... never figured
that one out either... oh sure, a few of them got
smart and kept a secular monopoly on language like
the priests used to... but it's subtle these days,
it's not a blatant **** in your face where you can't read...
i'm betting that English has the highest rate of
dyslexia among all the languages of the world...
perhaps the French? n'ah, they love their public intellectuals...
here's it's all: sing sing sing... sing along and Tokyo
at the pub on Fridays;
and they know i speak better native than the natives,
because the conversation usually goes into
not language per se, but the organic side of language,
organic meaning idiosyncratic, a posh way of saying: accent...
and that horrid: where you from?
i usually just say something along the lines
of a Greek: citizen of the world... or was that commerce
deal with China a fake?
that's what it means when acquiring the English language,
the diversity of accents, primarily because
other languages have already implied a standard encoding
of accents, those diacritical marks are there for a reason:
a heightened involvement in specification of the desired sounds,
whenever someone learns English... it's not there!
it's simply missing, given the monopoly, for one,
which means that the language does attach itself to
the host living in a host society - funny dynamic away from
the dust covered master and slave - in a very
specific way, namely whatever diacritical assimilation
the host had with his mother tongue becomes atypically
exemplified in English - since English has hidden
diacritical dynamics - which obviously ****** the natives
off who didn't get a decent education - as in:
someone spotting this out for them - namely
someone who acquired the language like a native,
unconsciously - first come first served dynamic,
and not someone who had to consciously learn it,
i.e. not from mama and papa... from primary school
playgrounds, from teachers... through strife...
and this is my antidote of the central Nietzschean doctrine:
the will to strife...                not necessarily strive,
but a will to strife...                   well, if they're going to
keep shunning subjectivity, leaving it far too late
and in the hands of psychologists, faking it intellectually
but otherwise being fundamental in expressing it
only musically in pop culture... we will never reach
the objectivity of the Chinese and the Indians, forget it!
but that's what we're being prescribed -
and culminating in paradoxically abhorring the idea
of god - but admiring nature in all its glory -
                        i'm not even going to argue a god
of disabled people... they're having a laugh with the idea
of god at the Para-Olympics - i'm not getting into a debate
concerning that idea - just a congested version of
the universal why - but in the variation of constant
bewilderment in a particular *huh?!

For far too long we have been victims of police brutality.
We came in peace but got treated like criminals on the 21st of October.
These are the very same men and women who we trust to protect us.
But they failed us dismally, barricaded us from expressing our concerns.
You could see the visuals all on TV, it was all too hard to believe.
The revolution will not be fully televised, it will be tweeted.
For far too long we’ve accepted the government’s mediocrity.
For far too long we’ve been victims of police brutality.
Your teargas, rubber bullets and stun grenades will never stop us.
Our parents were sold dreams in 1994, we’re just here for the refund.
Now it’s time to finally bump the cheese up, so what’s the hold-up for?
History is repeating itself in South Africa, what a time to be alive.
They’ve become worse than their oppressors but they won’t oppress us.
Sorry for the inconvenience, we are just trying to change the world.
We will keep protesting in Jo’burg, Pretoria and Cape Town until we’re heard.
There’s no amount of police brutality that can dampen our spirits and no gun you make can **** our souls.

Our parents were sold dreams in 1994, we’re just here for the refund.
Now it’s time to finally bump the cheese up, so why is there a hold-up?
Hold up, we’re tired of being victims of hate, fate and police brutality.
We came in peace but got treated like criminals on the 23rd of October.
For far too long we’ve accepted the government’s mediocrity.
Your riot police, rubber bullets and stun grenades will never stop us.
Sorry for the inconvenience, we are just trying to change the world.
When burning buildings come down, I just hope you’ll be ready for us all.
When burning buildings come down, we will effortlessly heed the call.

Hail in peace wherever you abode now, dear Nadine Gordimer
You white daughter of Africa, the pen-mistress of July’s people,
You are the lover of July, your holy months of literature
That similarly gave a ****** grave marriage to Maziz Kunene
The African saint of orature; And Okot P’ Bitek, the lion of Gulu,
July have wedded you to the sombre grave in the Jo’burg,
As its apparatchik, the menacing jaws of death feel humdinger!
O! Dear little daughter, cursed are the jaws of death
They have kept on wooing and wooing you relentlessly
They have yearned for your betrothal with mad jealous,
For your iconic position in white African literature,
In which you stand with soldierly embrace a Nobelite,
They have now taken you to their inner chamber nuptials in death,
Before anything; let them now pay dowry to your bothers;
J M Coetzee, Alex La Guma and Dennis Brutus,
For there’s is a competent herds boy, a black shepherd;
Ezekia Mphalele, his living soul will keep the cows
Off down Corner B of the troubled African Image.
Say hello for those you are with in the current realm,
Say hello to foremen and fore daughters of Africa
Those that chose to visit the realm of ancestor precociously;
Say hello to them; Angelo Maya and Doris Lessing,
Let their caged birds and blooming grass sing uproariously,
Marriama Ba and Margaret Ogola, African girls,
They had a long letter and the source of the river from black dialectics,
O! Dear old baby Nadine Gordimer, stand firm in face to face with nothing
Other than the present time you’re in; the Africa’s realm of living dead
To sing the ballads of anti-apartheid both in heaven and on earth,
The only true testament of your footprints on the global sands of times
That Nadine Gordimer, July’s white-African daughter is deadly alive!

1 | 31 Poems for August

I want to do more than just write poetry.
I want to paint pictures.
So be my muse and surrender your body as my canvas.
I’ll make every single swift stroke bring you to life.
I’ll show you what this brush of mine is capable of.
You are the sun that my sky yearns to hold.
Beautiful cocoa butter skin.
Your beauty is not only found on your exterior but every single place within.
I want to insert my poems in every single atom in this galaxy.
So that you can feel my love wherever you go.
From Pretoria to Toronto.
From Jo’burg to Moscow.
From Cape Town to Glasgow.
Static thoughts and kinetic conversations inspire my flow.
I have thoughts that my words cannot describe and I wish to share them with the world.
I wish to share them with you.
I love the way your eyes see past my smile and deep into the fibres of my soul.
I love the way your smile makes me whole.
Let’s become a poem our friends can always snap their fingers to.
I want to hold your body the way canvas portrays paint.
I want to kiss your lips while I gently hold your waist.
I want to do more than just write poetry.
I want to tell the world about you.
Let me tell the world about you.

Biorn, étrange cénobite,
Sur le plateau d'un roc pelé,
Hors du temps et du monde, habite
La tour d'un burg démantelé.

De sa porte l'esprit moderne
En vain soulève le marteau.
Biorn verrouille sa poterne
Et barricade son château.

Quand tous ont les yeux vers l'aurore
Biorn, sur son donjon perché,
A l'horizon contemple encore
La place du soleil couché.

Ame rétrospective, il loge
Dans son burg et dans le passé ;
Le pendule de son horloge
Depuis des siècles est cassé.

Sous ses ogives féodales
Il erre, éveillant les échos,
Et ses pas, sonnant sur les dalles,
Semblent suivis de pas égaux.

Il ne voit ni laïcs, ni prêtres,
Ni gentilshommes, ni bourgeois,
Mais les portraits de ses ancêtres
Causent avec lui quelquefois.

Et certains soirs, pour se distraire,
Trouvant manger seul ennuyeux,
Biorn, caprice funéraire,
Invite à souper ses aïeux.

Les fantômes, quand minuit sonne,
Viennent armés de pied en cap ;
Biorn, qui malgré lui frissonne,
Salue en haussant son hanap.

Pour s'asseoir, chaque panoplie
Fait un angle avec son genou,
Dont l'articulation plie
En grinçant comme un vieux verrou ;

Et tout d'une pièce, l'armure,
D'un corps absent gauche cercueil,
Rendant un creux et sourd murmure,
Tombe entre les bras du fauteuil.

Landgraves, rhingraves, burgraves,
Venus du ciel ou de l'enfer,
Ils sont tous là, muets et graves,
Les roides convives de fer !

Dans l'ombre, un rayon fauve indique
Un monstre, guivre, aigle à deux cous,
Pris au bestiaire héraldique
Sur les cimiers faussés de coups.

Du mufle des bêtes difformes
Dressant leurs ongles arrogants,
Partent des panaches énormes,
Des lambrequins extravagants ;

Mais les casques ouverts sont vides
Comme les timbres du blason ;
Seulement deux flammes livides
Y luisent d'étrange façon.

Toute la ferraille est assise
Dans la salle du vieux manoir,
Et, sur le mur, l'ombre indécise
Donne à chaque hôte un page noir.

Les liqueurs aux feux des bougies
Ont des pourpres d'un ton suspect ;
Les mets dans leurs sauces rougies
Prennent un singulier aspect.

Parfois un corselet miroite,
Un morion brille un moment ;
Une pièce qui se déboîte
Choit sur la nappe lourdement.

L'on entend les battements d'ailes
D'invisibles chauves-souris,
Et les drapeaux des infidèles
Palpitent le long du lambris.

Avec des mouvements fantasques
Courbant leurs phalanges d'airain,
Les gantelets versent aux casques
Des rasades de vin du Rhin,

Ou découpent au fil des dagues
Des sangliers sur des plats d'or...
Cependant passent des bruits vagues
Par les orgues du corridor.

D'une voix encore enrouée
Par l'humidité du caveau,
Max fredonne, ivresse enjouée,
Un lied, en treize cents, nouveau.

Albrecht, ayant le vin féroce,
Se querelle avec ses voisins,
Qu'il martèle, bossue et rosse,
Comme il faisait des Sarrasins.

Échauffé, Fritz ôte son casque,
Jadis par un crâne habité,
Ne pensant pas que sans son masque
Il semble un tronc décapité.

Bientôt ils roulent pêle-mêle
Sous la table, parmi les brocs,
Tête en bas, montrant la semelle
De leurs souliers courbés en crocs.

C'est un hideux champ de bataille
Où les pots heurtent les armets,
Où chaque mort par quelque entaille,
Au lieu de sang ***** des mets.

Et Biorn, le poing sur la cuisse,
Les contemple, morne et hagard,
Tandis que, par le vitrail suisse
L'aube jette son bleu regard.

La troupe, qu'un rayon traverse,
Pâlit comme au jour un flambeau,
Et le plus ivrogne se verse
Le coup d'étrier du tombeau.

Le coq chante, les spectres fuient
Et, reprenant un air hautain,
Sur l'oreiller de marbre appuient
Leurs têtes lourdes du festin !

.
Bleeding ripe woman,
wet naked stone;
honey rock dries--
fast star bone.
Dead memories change
just like laid,
wants fly open--
soul sky parade.
Sea moon dreams,
daddy heard stars--
known little face;
death drives cars.

________


Rainy days wash--
brick looking mud,
blank reality strings
dry midsummer blood.
Dog's child minds--
revolution spreads wings,
***** molten other
fraught angel sings.
Corner ocean waves--
milk sounds morbid,
freeing minnow slaves
gritty condor kid.

_________

Catch passing eclipse--
my suicidal dream!
Kissing dying lips,
conscience eagles' scream.
Roots stop barely--
silver burdened rhyme;
river's metal tracks
help God remind.
Lofty smokeless breeze--
bird's echo box.
Ice burg floating,
saturates frozen socks.

__*____

Rings pulled strangers
silk blossoms singing--
remembering ancient maps
deep words bringing.
Canon pirates' soup
dreamer's record stalkin',
river's whole amount--
dead man walkin'.
Instant scattered corona
clenching eagle drowning;
rubber slamming secrets--
reading Robert Browning.



.

He is the puppet master, that has
strung his strings through my
wooden hands, played fate in
my hollow days.

I am the puppet dancing to
every rhythm of it's somber tune,
playing psychic to his every wish.

I am the warrior, crying surrender
to me in my strongest days,
denying defeat after it's already
happened.

I am the warrior, oiling his guns
after using them on I-playing
slave in a world of freedom.

He is the ice burg that sank my
ship, when I almost reached
shore, teasing the land.

He is the mountain that blocks
my view of joy, blinding my
eye to know this.

Now I am the guilt in his
heart, playing nightmares in
his mind.

                                                                              SDPope

oh the joys of idyllic
small town life in this
whitewashed village where
everyone knows everyone
and everyone knows
everyone’s business

where the groceries are
overpriced and the taxes
are high and everyone but
the wife knows he’s cheating

where everything is a scandal
and nobody will admit to knowing
anything but they’ll still talk
about it behind closed doors

there are supposedly prostitutes
on main street but i only ever see
the drunk and drugged out there
and if someone is single there is
someone determined
to find them a match

all and all a very pleasant
charming life we lead here
what with all the arrests
and the highway department
yammering away on things
and the way the tops of the semis
scrape the bottom of the
traffic lights on their way though

something charming about
the way the sides of the buildings
all need a good power washing
and there’s probably lots of
good clean arsenic in
the water supply

scenic
a most sleepy
little burg
they say

spend some time
with us and
you’ll find a community
you’ll find a home

you’ll also
find a thing or two
you’ll wish
you didn’t know

I'd call you both my North Stars,
but then Trish would point out
there's only one,
and Chaney would argue
that if that's the case,
it would have to be her
and I would pull up images
of night skies in Calcutta
and Jo-burg and Rome
to prove that different views
show different stars,
so you two could agree I'm wrong,
something we all know I'll never admit.

So I'll squeeze your hands
and keep quiet,
looking up towards the sky
for guidance and light,
a constant reminder
of how to find home.

The waves collide against the ocean shore and covers up the footprints that lay before. As it breaks into sonority then to calmness; harmony is created. As we watch the dolphins swim, we grasp only peace and serenity. We feel the breeze in the wind and our feet cresting the sand. The dolphins echo in the far distance; yet it seems like they are within our reach. Their skin glistens from the beating of the sun. The ocean departs, but beauty is still found between the cracks of life and death. The church bell rings and wakes the mourners from their sleep. Everyone is preparing for the awake. Sorrow and sadness is within our hearts. Our flesh was ripped and torn apart; parasites were eaten away at our stomachs. We covered up the tears we had shed; as we walked in the funeral parlor and saw our friend dead.  


            The meaning of death is the ending of some one's life; it is a departure from this world onto the next. Death brings upon alterations for friends and family because we are force to say good-bye to an individual that was once part of our lives. The feeling of loneliness strikes through our hearts because a missing piece is gone. The ironic aspect about death is even though it brings sorrow, it awakens a fear in the depth of our souls. It is a sudden realization that death can happen at any moment. Rather we expect it or it raid with no warnings. The perspective of life alters, we stop taking so much for granted. The uncanny feeling we receive when we stand in front of a coffin; a dead corpse lays in it. Eventually their skin will decay and deteriorate; their bones will become brittle. Then only a skeleton will remain in the bed that once laid someone that was a part of this Earth. Now a tomb stone marks what is left of their body. With a quote that is engraved on their stone that represented them; a remembrance.

            The day approached and my heart and soul were in my throat; I felt as if I was paralyzed. I cried so hard that every time I spoke my voice would tremble. I was torn apart. My insides burned into flames; my organs were at a crisp turning into ashes. My head was pounding; confusion and disturbance ran through my mind. I could not embrace any clear thoughts. It felt like a thousand voices were contemplating in my head. My nerves showed through the shaking of my hands.  My entire body ached of pain; nails were piercing through every inch of my skin. I did not want to believe that she was dead. A part of me wished it was just a dream; I wasn’t ready to face reality. My thoughts gyrated around delusions. The last memory of Laura that I contemplated at her funeral was when I saw her, a week before she passed away. I glanced over at my perplex father; as he leaned forward for the entire ceremony with his head down. It was the first time that I saw my father cry and when I did, I felt the burning of souls trapped in Hell. His eyes were cloudy from the tears. His face became languish; as his hands shook from the nerves arousing. That day he lost his girlfriend, his best friend. Half of his heart was stolen and crumbled; a gap was formed and now remains empty. I could not read his mind, but I did not have to because his pain penetrated through everyone's body and emotions. His body was still, frozen like an ice burg; not even the sun could melt away my father's sorrow.

            It was time to say our good-byes. My father and I slumped down the aisle dragging stones behind us. We approached Laura's coffin and for a split moment he just gazed over her dead corpse. She laid in her peaceful bed, but she wasn’t awake--she was dead. Then my father took off his hat and pressed it against his chest. He leaned in to kiss Laura on her artic cheek. Just like Romeo kissing Juliet; my father said his farewell. Overhead rolled in a thunder storm and the pressure of rain began to pour down everyone's face. In an instant my father's love for Laura broke the glass of every window and stopped all movement in the funeral parlor. From that moment on I viewed my father differently. I knew right there that my father would never love another women as much as he loved Laura.

            When we left the funeral my father's and I relationship changed forever. Laura was the link that connected us; now there is a fissure that separates us. After facing death I finally understood the meaning of it. It is not a gathering for mourners to say good-bye to a love one, but rather a time to come together to celebrate a remembrance of a life. For even dolphins need time to rest forever at the bottom of the ocean. Laura's biggest dream was to swim with one; now she can forever rest in peace with them. Now I walk this Earth with Laura underneath my feet, with a gravestone reading “Remember me not as I am now, but as I use to be”.  

            In conclusion, life is a precious gift that is not meant to be taken for granted. Through Laura's death I realized the value of life and how it is too short to accumulate regrets, hatred and the past. I also embrace the life lesson that her death taught me; every day is another chance to grow, change, forgive, and to make a difference. My friend Laura will always impact my life forever. Death is a rude awakening to a human's eye; a realization that puts fear in our lives. Through Laura's death I discovered that in reality it is a natural beauty, not necessarily a final good-bye. I learned that a life truly never ends at death because the memories are what keep them alive. Just like the common prayer says, “Fill not your heart with pain and sorrow, but remember me in every tomorrow”. As I go on living my life I try to live it to the fullest. Laura's death awoken an acknowledgement that life is a gift, not a privilege and at any moment it can be abstracted from us.

I ask you to take me by the hand,
But you grab me by the soul
I never wanna let go
It's an out of the body experience
I’m dreaming, lucidly
And all I see,
Is how your eyes lock with mine,
Caught in such a divine, stare

And your hair?
I need no prayers
It has me believing,
When the light shines,
A halo atop your crown
Reflecting subtle shades of brown
And streaks of auburn, that burn
A feisty red color into your character,
That you are an angel,
When their strands hit the light,
At just the right angle

Forgive all my babble,
But I really love when the wind comes
And sweeps your hair to light of the sun,
It makes me become undone
Because pearlescent colors reveal themselves,
Within each and every strand
Like nature had planned,
This extravagant ban, for all genes obscene,
To be ousted and cleaned
From your code, like you know
The path you need to go,
To bring your heart closer,
To be one with my own

Forgive me, on shorthand
I made a list, unplanned,
To say why I like being your true biggest fan
I love for all the things that you stand,
And how you interlock with my hands,
Do you even understand?
When i’m feeling depressed,
Your love always expands,
My thoughts sink into you,
Like toes in the sand
I’m sailing a ship,
That isn’t one manned
And there is no other land
That has love that’s this grand,
The feelings so perfect
Everything else is so bland,
No matter how much you scanned
Beyond subconscious demands
You still make my heart go
bam, bam, bam
Like the drum of a band
I must give you a hand
Cause *******,
You are just so beautiful

Right down to that smile,
That’ll make me stay for a while
It is a drug that I need
And i’ll admit, I have greed
But I just can’t help
With the way that you wear it,
I always stare at it
Because it’s like no other souls,
You’ve been broken and cold
And know what it means to be happy
So the smiles not ******
It’s genuine and from the heart,
I wish to never be apart, from the gleam
That shines from those teeth
Because it’s the epitome of happiness

You have me wrapped in this, envelope
Sealed with a kiss from the lips
That are soft like your hips
They make me weak to the touch, I feel you
And your ever changing vibrations
I could never grow jaded
Or permanently faded
You’re an everlasting adventure
That I dare to go venture,
On and beyond,
Just the tip of the ice burg
I don’t know if you’ve heard,
But I like the flip side, of your mind
That can be dark at times
It keeps me from ever becoming so blind
To your light, and the fight
That comes to you at night,
When demons come play with thoughts that cause fright,
It reminds me, not to be
Condescending to views
Like I’m the only one who’s dark,
But now I know you

And yes it is true,
Your kiss tends to pursue
The dark inside me, and make it turn it a new
Leaf, When I speak
My mind clears and it peaks,
Your touch pushes my limits,
Making bad thoughts extinguish
If that doesn’t work,
I’m berserk, and won’t crack
You send chills up my back,
With oxytocin on the attack,
A neurotransmitter queen,
You make me a dopamine fiend,
For the love that you beam,
It sings and it screams

Like a light, down corridors of my heart
At the times they are dark
You make me restart
With a spark, and I feel
As it circulates through me
The feeling is bliss
Without it, I grow envy
Of others who have it,
I couldn’t begin to imagine
What it’d be like if I never established,
This feeling, I get
When I stare deep into your eyes
It’s like a world without lies,
Where people don’t have any knives,
To stab you in the heart or behind in the back,
Payback, doesn’t attack, me
When I’m together with you
The things that we do, bring those thoughts to subdue

Like laying with you, looking up to the sky
Through day and through night,
The view’s always alright,
If you’re right there, with your beautiful hair
Staring out with me, without even a care
In the world, they’ve been hurled,
The cares that we have,
We put them behind us,
Because the past is the past
The future is now
And we are the gifts that are within it
Two people alive,
Positivity emits,
A feeling that is like no ordinary other,
I think i’ve discovered
What it means to uncover,

My other half.

May you never convince yourself that your last, will ever truly be your last.
Withstand everything.
Even though all you see are apparitions of people from your past,
Do not lose sight of the moment.
Despite the fact ninety-nine percent of your thought process is spent trying to figure out exactly where things went wrong.
Use the one percent to let go...
Continue to breathe,
Continue to smile,
Continue to grow,
Become the Hydra.
Know that for every head severed from your body,
Two more will rise.
May your "Hello(s)" present themselves more often than your "Goodbye(s)"
Let the fires of your mind be forged by the words of infinite knowledge:
"Do, or do not. There is no try."
You are the steel bolt that binds this foggy, eight-thirty traffic jammed bridge together.
Or an ice-burg waiting patiently to capsize others.
You have only scratched the surface.
Keep searching...
Allow others to spend their lifetime on the quest of consistency.
Still the sun will rise and set.
Experience all you can, while you can.
Because every spec of dust is significant, and things happen for a reason.

The dream is large and
Hard to hug.
The work-a-days are long
And seem to get longer.

Heading home from work spent
On one of these days,
I see these words—
“Remember who you are”.

Remember who you are.

I, we, are:
Poets
Engineers
Architects
Scientists
Mathematicians
Enterta­iners,

Working the daily as:

Baristas
Bartenders
Forklift operators
Custodians
Truck drivers
Grocery store clerks—all noble
Honest posts, every one.

Daily I meander this mid-size burg
In a cranky van as a courier,
Acting as grease to lubricate
Said burg’s school district cogs.

I wonder…
I wonder how many work at these
Worthy and square occupations and
Either do not recognize or
Ignore the fire burning deepest
In their heart’s furnace.

I jaunt about remembering,
Always observing,
Always knowing the fire will
Spit out the next poem.

Remember who you are.
Remember it is a choice.

All that's left of me...*

Cross-legged in meditation at four AM.
Sitting in a provincial burg. Alone.
Completely comfortable with obscurity.
Ambition dead as ashes of embers.
Swallow emptiness as it swallows you.

This world holds no prizes worth winning.

Youth: dream dreams and lust.
Prime: chase success and love.
Age: write poems and be quiet.

What can a dead cat do but bounce?

You've done all you can for your fellow man.

Action is the province of the young;
there are reasons soldiers are only twenty.

People say go for it, time remains.
You know, you know, there's nowhere to go.

Everything important ends before it begins.

If all your words turned suddenly to gold,
at your core you would still be poor.

The things men chase: money, women, fame;
no longer matter at the end of the game.

Grab those pillows, sit down and see:
already all that you need to be.

moist eyes  fall upon the limp figurine
of a jewel encrusted snowman with a corncob knife.
i dream walk through the ether of our dislocated soul.
i comb the beach of our lost island
and build a raft from our bones
and a lock of your eyelashes,
flashing in the wink above -
your high cheeks
in the moon glamour of your perfect skin.
we smile untethering the harness
from our rogue star
we sally forth across the empty streets of Hell's burg. on the outskirts
of an astral cataract...
a laughing gloom with night's teeth tearing at the hem
of your lace robes and my nakedness.
with moist eyes drooling saltine gems
like dewdrops dripping from the lip of a cracked goblet of frozen fire.
our eyes that fall upon the void, weeping from the answer to a foolish prayer,
answered by a jealous god. our testament is dust and deep Love.
we have no other sky above, as is the custom of deep space...
we drift with our horses, across the nether bridge of our uncertainties....
and there
we part ways.
you go where the sun
has slain the moon.

i go where the moon's never been. and sleep in droves.

holding your hand like a grain of hope
and your heart like a golden
shadow
too heavy to lift
from the

unknown

“I never raised you to be afraid of love,”
Was what my mother told me as I cried into the phone.
You don’t really notice you’re cynical or broken till one day
You realize you can’t love somebody the way they deserve to be loved.
I don’t know if it was one hit that sank me,
One giant ice burg that brought me down;
Or if it was just years of small splinters,
Tearing me away from the inside.
When I look at you it feels right.
95% of the time I’m sure I’m wrong,
So this must be right, right?
I know we’re not on the playground anymore
And I can’t chase you, but if you ride around
On this merry-go-round with me I promise,
It’ll be worth it.
I’ve stopped sending you songs because they
Don’t mean the same to you as they do to me.
But that’s okay, I’m beginning to understand that
I don’t need you here for things to be beautiful.
I know we’re not on a playground. But you’re still it.

we become, what we inherit...
just as the current schism in islam...
there is no talk of wahabi shia...
is there? no! music! ding'ah ah ling'ah ling!
           the ******* tehran banjo!
     iranians love music and poetry is music to them!
what's happening?
                 it's within sunni islam...
well...
             let's go for it:
infantalism given the modern western
woman being... very *******
      sensible...
                     the malbork castle...
sure... but the battle?
     burg grünwald (green forest)...
                  it's really hard to hear the western
narrative with their transgender issues
and find yourself basically *******
out these terms... and being called a child
for it?
            that's ******* western... that really
deserves a slap in the face...
                  they're ******* annoying...
i know i live here... but they're like:
meh meh meh... me me me... meh... me... meh...
     master race *******...
   they're pretending to be the masters!
no wonder some islamic terrorist puts
them in their place!
        i'd sooner be scared by a fire-*******
on new-year's eve than the reaction...
goo goo mmm ha...
                          honestly? watching
the **** these people get up to in their
pornographic depictions?
        i'd probably rather **** a donkey
to hear a duck's quack when it *******...
                but sure... it's
infantile to have some sort of ethnic coordinates...
because forgetting your ethnicity
leaves you with free-radical pronouns...
           but i bow... your problems are
really needed in these days of concerns...
    ******* hell: clap... clap... clap... clap...
    well done!
                i'd rather be a child
with ethnic history posits than this zeitgeist
of modernity making problems
of grammatical terms, with no philosophy
book ever having used grammatical categories...
   wheeturd gonna blow the **** at
some paris venue!
                          there's no point pledging
an allegiance to the west...                  
              oh **** i wish there was some reason...
i just can't find enough reasons
to truly believe in the barbarity of darwinism
and then translating that into: defending retards.
i'd actually defend a ******...
                     but these are ultra-retards...
           i literally have no conscience
  about putting them into concentration camps
where scots teach them grammar;
sure, they get all the food they need, after all we need
them to come out well versed and over-weight!
       concentration camps where they teach them
nothing but grammar...
          i swear that would end up being more sadistic
than something out of north korea...
         but i am a sadistic *******...
and i'm ******! ***! ***! yo ** ** and a barrel
two more!

Everlasting: Romantic



If only my simple words could captivate every emotion that I am trying to convey. To summarize an illustrious story which I hold close to my dearest heart; then I would give you the entire world and then even more. From the deepest skies I would soar, just to bestow a higher power that you deserve; I would revive our love and mark every ocean shore for all to glance upon. My heart sets on fire and burns in blazing flames every time I hear you say “I Love You”. I lose control, my nerves kick in and I am frozen within time; with you everything seems endless. The taste of your sensational kiss halts my heart; for when we depart, I hold on to that very last kiss and cleanse to it compassionately; the thought of you ponders everlasting.

                              

                             Reminisce of Her Memory: Mystery



Blood shatter the wall, glass covered the floor. The smell of death lingered franticly throughout the whole house, like a graveyard that seizes corpses in their casket. The scenery made me reminisce about my wife’s death; I found her dead and inert, frozen like an ice burg. For some reason I upheld the same emotion that I portrayed at her death; she left me too soon, at times I still feel her presents. The gloves blanketed my solid hands, as I reach to retrieve the victim; they fell solemnly into my arms. I gazed into burning Hell; then Heaven appeared, she had return to me; I sat there holding my wife as she lied dead, then I woke from my dream.

Nhn aayna- e -saaz main go-mago yay kaifiat
Jaisay burg- o -bahar main ** koe chingari
Jiss kay sholon main bujhay yay dil rakh ki soorat
Jisss kay chahray main jalay angari.....

Main wo zaat hon jiss ka koe shahar nhn
Jo jahan chalay wahan aag lagay
Jiss kay bayan main naan zahar naan amar
Jiss kay wajood main dah-kain sab raaz chupay.....

Nhn asbaab koe, nhn imkaan koe
Mere zaat kay hisaab main nhn jaan koe
Phir bhe toofan-e- azam liay chalti hon
Kay meray dard ki intiha ki nhn intiha koe.......

We hadn’t seen it for a couple years,
The film being a bit difficult to watch
Without dropping a few bucks
To stream it in all its black-and-white glory,
(A prospect which would have brought a grim smile
To a certain white-haired small-town banker)
Our laser disc scratched, our VCR beyond obsolete,
But there have been enough viewings
That certain tableaus
(Flower petals strewn, the glycerin tears)
Remain as familiar as the views out the front door,
And so on a whim we drove up to the quaint burg
Which espouses its claim to be Capra’s inspiration
With a tenacity which belies the season
(Though one look at the bridge which sits astride
A wan offshoot of the Erie Canal
Is sufficient for a startling bit of déjà vu)
Finding ourselves by ourselves in a restaurant
(The times after all, and it a weeknight to boot)
Surprisingly open, even though the town fathers
Had opted hopefully to decorate, as per usual,
The village streets to be as Bedford Falls-esque as possible,
And as we sipped our soup and munched our salads
We mused on how wonder and anxiety
Could walk hand-in-hand
(As we did on the way in and again on the way out)
And though our laughter was a soft, muted thing,
It tinkled in the manner of such things
Which enabled seraphim to gain their wings.

coming back full circle... but not exactly...
rereading ted berrigan's sonnets
is like:
      unlike: my dreams, my love...
my thirst my youth that i gladly blind-spotted
and it passed me: with not bye-bye...
not that i am old enough
for a retrospection...
  but i also, don't suppose it can ever
be a mythological time
akin to... march, april, may of
a 1963 of the u.s. of a.
            i never go around the: h'american
love for acronyms...
i never will...
two best things out of this said continent /
nation... 20th century poetry and...
bourbon...
i would have added cornbread
to the list but i've never tried...
but my god
        they really did love their milk:
esp. via seeing it in movies and some
h.b.o. "what's not a soap opera"...
#metoo: i too love milk...
but... not when eating dinner...
on it's own... and if i feel congested
then milk in the morning
with some strawberries...
usually does the "trick"...
but unlike any other time in history
when words were written
somehow: democratically and not,
because of a churn of a behemoth of
talent: like: Shaky Pear...
               not all... spectacular?
exactly... but not one to really
allow himself a statue status...
  such was the prodigy of a people:
once upon a time...
once upon a time there was also
a soviet pact...
now i'll just focus on pedantic *******...
i.e. the colon...
how it is primarily a punctuation
mark of a prepositional nature
to fathom a rubric, a list...
e.g. in a supermarket, you will probably
find: watermelons, whiskey, eggs...
honey... butter...
or... it's employed as an emphasis
when otherwise italicised letters
would do as much
ergo...
   i do wish: you could
"vs." i do wish, you could...
          then again... the stress is not
on the pronoun of you...
but whether this one of a you:
could, would, should, will, no...

it's been a while since i've liked what
i write... i guess it must be
a while longer because this
just stinks of forced-jack-****
of... "scared of an empty canvas":
it screams! beg the crows to
pig me...
beg the crows to peck me...
beg the crows to pluck my eyes
out... beg the crows at the pig's trough
beg the crows: i'm an omelette
of minced flesh...
not an omelette a
tightening of herr burg & herr er
with glue of most certainly
egg... breadcrumbs...
maybe... may-be... flour...
of the relevant culture from the past
century:
thespian shadow-thieving -
what if John Wayne were to be staged
in a biopic of Lyndon B. Johnson...
just as a reminder:
where my southern comfort comes
from...
backtracking to: some ******* of
a little town where the meme
of the slender man roams...
it's hardly not terrible to have this
romantic, nostalgic view of
1960s h'america and not the 1950s...
if i were a german
bound to the 19th century's closure
it would have been
the mystery of the ancient Greeks:
so i'm told no great nostalgia
on the crux of the expansion
of Rome: not a lot of thinking
upon the shoulders beside...
       "thinkers" like Cicero and Seneca...
congested with names...
cruel underworld of
a crab-bucket...
fatty farts against not wind:
below an entire grey body of water
of: must we forget(?)
             beside all this reason to:
abstract...
the drawings in the caves of Lascaux...
at best Kandinsky attempted
to replicate the "blur":
at worst he replaced the ox
with a deconstructed something or
alienated the "other" of
a rectangle...
mind you: the X (chi) is a surd...
Las-Cow...
  lasso me in... escape the tumult of sounds...
today this one word
started boiling in me...
no use to converse with it / over it...
i'd sooner be found digesting some
offal: like beef intestines in a broth (
beef-comb): sooner me nibbling
on goat's hooves...
- the word?
oh... it involved tonne...
   but it was missing -ne...
        whatever the word was:
i still remember the word: cloud...
as i might remember...
clot... and cauliflower...
            to stand in the light of the most
abstract: outside of the realm
of space, time...
then to have to return to the glued realms...
like... before the discovery of
dinosaur bones...
people were drawing pictures
of dragons...
fire-breathing creatures...
fire from the meteor...
accepted orthodox narrative "parallel"...
to imagine dragons from what?
seagulls and wriggling spines of
lost eyelid serpents:
insomniac lizards?
             i abhor fatalism more than
i might ever like to join
the nihilistic gypsy circus of
alcohol and ***** ****:
  skin's between the muscle, the fat:
toward the bone(s)...
  this is too eerie, even for me:
i might like to lapse into
some variation of existentialism
with solipsism on the fore...
barrage of verbiage: perhaps some loan
word... perhaps:
notably in english: none...
in the clamours of the niche:
   claustrophobic esque nostalgia for...
words from worms...
the sound made by slugs
when digesting glass, ice and pressured rocks
that... time... devours...
where to begin a resurfacing narrative
from?
  historically - rather...
ahistorical - easier for the atheist...
easier for the atheist
than the a-historicist... no?
              much easier to be an atheist
than to be... so laughed at having to conjure
past events like they might
lead one into commanding an army
of figurines...
that there must be some mediocre events
worth more than...
the john f. kennedy's speech about...
moon, nationhood and one's place in it...
is more important than...
the charge of the winged
hussars at the siege of Vienna...
well then...
that in the beginning there was word
and the word was god:
honestly?
poetry would call it: counter evolution...
we didn't evolve from apes:
we devolved from apes...
we... fell...
        divine inspiration...
to have to explain a load of camel riddling
******* along the way of
the humps and the seven rivers,
the seven mountains etc.
why would i need clothes and... fashion...
if i could still be a 300lb gorilla
with my own fur?
why would i need bonsai tigers
as company when i could
have life most exciting...
most congenial: most social in a little
pride...
for a computer or a telephone
i abhor... for the letters i see...
i could take my mortal self to the highest
perch of the crown: that's a tree...
i would never have had to leave
Africa and wander: desolate toward
the ***** of Alaska or Siberia...
a dream-esque state of affairs...
Darwinism is too much of
an a posteriori perspective...
      
      it's not that i don't like it:
but it's one of those arguments: structured
to erase any if all history...
the impeding doom for the "individual":
some... "now"...
it's not like Philip Augustus, the Capetian would
be desired to have
a mention...
well... under darwinism it's unlike
the Copernican collective revolution...
solo-projects astound:
some common grounding with this: hearth...

my pet peeve is also with the people
that are bishops of Darwinism...
who can't see uselessness of
having to apply something
a posteriori... having to agitate the sleeper-cell
of the unit of man...
i don't see the point of waking
individuals one by one...
hell: altogether now: yes!
but at the same time...
it's useless... hindsight is useless...
notably when studying history...
it **** with the momentum of life!
darwinism has ******-off with the momentum
of life...
e.g. subjectivity is an illness!

thank **** i'm forever subject to gravity...
and the english crown... but not forever...
and how they cite: subjectivity ill...
yet they are subjected to the scientific facts...
"objectivity" round-up...
they don't object to the facts...
the science...
next to none snooker + poker ******* teasing
with pokers & a giggle... march...

intellectually not hardened:
by the preface of the hard boiled egg:
later, much later...
screamed against a tile upon a tile:
glued together with some mayo for
a paste...

    for an atheist to live without
either the concept of time,
"concept" aside: that there is time,
that there is space...
for pauper me to allocate the...
Fwench scoop on the matter: pyramids!
what space is: a barren creature...
what time is: an unforgiving ******
of replica of past events...
what "god" is...
a most forgiving Ottoman of
leisure...

not what i will do upon entry
into eternity:
but, rather... what i will not have
to "encounter":
i see no evolution:
perhaps the simplest explanation
that guarantee the mind of gravity
extending to the serpentine
of plants via phototropism...

we devolved to be so conscious
of so much that leave
us adding so little to what could
encapsulate us with details
of managing "the whole"...
we have our structures...
our striking contrasts of cataracts...
what we pet we ingest with
cancer what dies
sooner we have probably poached
or snookered into an ivory trade...

we evolved for a headache...
a bunch of walking abortions...
i see no gorilla enslave
a giraffe for ****'s sake...
a body of horse... exists...
from chowing / chewing on grass...
the dietary requirements
of the omnivore of a "hulk":
rattle my wheat basin!

what isn't atheism is: what's ahistorical?
remind me what is!
cosmopolitan superiority
of argument: "argument"?!
           leave me with
Odin and Slender Man...
leave me with the oldest superstitions that
allowed me to gravitate toward
a purpose that was never
about the crisis in stand-up comedy...

for christ's worth of cross
and if that's not bad:
i just wanted a broom...
or a *****...
if i were desperate enough:
a *****...
sell that ****(e) to Syrians
if you must...
when i asked for a shovel
i received a circumcision suppose...
i asked for a shovel...
not now when Israel has
been established to drivel against
goat, goad & gott...
i can replenish the Berliner
cosmopolitan scoop.... for hush, hush...
will h'america charade with
a white knight charge?

no... i bet so!
this new... nuanced... axis of heave!
and even still: "evil"....
how one tribe "allows" themselves
to "think" they are expatriates...
the other tribe didn't follow suite:
not enough powdered *******:
not enough cumin, coriander,
turmeric...
EASTERN EUROPE...
lesser former soviet ****...
oh sure... the expatriates of Xina...
and...

   lesser people of Yugoslavia...
Greek is not European:
PIGS...
      once upon a time: jarring...
add a year or so to the equation...
just plain ******* dandy / annoying...
the lesser Europe... EAST...
well... **** me: bon voyage and your
sharia!
niqab me later...
         ****'s a brownie of a cuckoldry
and lacklustre and still calls it:
the beacon for all people
to glorify: brain-drain manifest themselves in...
to champion!
i was late to the party...
your... masochists had priority status
to exam the arguments...
i have a mushroom's growth
of animosity for these supposed:
higher tier people, these natives:
oh god... i love the tongue...
i own it...
   from what i heard some of the natives
are dyslexic.

i've moved through several "mentors" in my life, i obviously started with someone like Milton, seriously, on poetic matters, i didn't start with Shakespeare for the sonnets, i found then too... too claustrophobic, rhyme in general is claustrophobic for me, it's such a lesser expression, i much prefer playing squash, squash over tennis, every single single, playing it... id est, obviously watching a tennis match is rather enjoyable, a bit like watching a magnolia tree bloom in spring, or any spring blossom when taking a walk at night: it's great watching it... but the practicality of playing tennis "goes missing" when you turn from spectator to player... let's face it... there's a football team's numbers' worth of aids... let me count.... dot dot dot: 6 ball girls / boys... an umpire... 6 vertical line judges... 4 horizontal line judges... what's that? **** me... more than a football team of assists... more like a rugby team... i started with this mentor... that soon passed... Bukowski... Will Alexander... i did a whole year of Ezra Pound and opera... why bemoan the trans-Atlantic slave trade?! any jazz... coming out of Africa... can you envision a world whereby music was explored as it was explored... by African-Americans (****** conjunctions, just the "retards", plough-labourers sold by their own tribesmen to instill a fervor for up-keeping their high status polygamy... mind you... no white girl can compete with this sort of Calypso... a Harley Dean... nope... not ever... car-nage)... can you? any new jazz coming out from Nigeria, or just the same, similar, ethnic *******? that's being overlooked... jazz was never ever to be born in Africa's *****... the antithesis of classical music... it required Africans to be forcibly moved to the "newly discovered" continent of America for jazz to be given birth... painful: like most original births are... but... we had the reconstruction of classical music through jazz which opened / paved he way for all the "other" / subsequent music genres... if i had any black fwends i'd tell them: **** it up... you don't realise what you gave us... compensation? for slavery?! oh sure sure... the Jews got their compensation payments for the Holocaust... and what did the Polacks get?! as, ahem... compensation? communism! we, "we": received diddly-squat! ******* and your "compensations": "reparations": ******* with your Marcus Garvey or otherwise: shut the **** up... this new born Christianity of the African continent is somehow sickening... no! i will not shut up... it is what it is! pranking supremos... grifters! spindlers! can you imagine? people have so little interest in music that they have to resort to talk-radio... they need to be talked to... and then they return: en masse... as a public decry of government policies being shuffled in shadow... beautiful world... a world so beautiful that it only requires one to **** a ******* to level the playing field... i keep myself intact: i focus on what's to be loved: first... id est: children and animals... that's it... it's not a sinking Titanic motto of women and children first... no... nothing's sinking: children and animals first... women... 4th... what's 3rd? male on male camaraderie... drunken men at public events tell me all the things women tend to "forget" to tell me: i do... although some... i have three tiers of women... the wedded ones, clearly bored... still doing: whatever... Lolitas and... prostitutes... obviously i champion the last of the three because the rest are too timid and by too timid i'm looking elsewhere... charm a totem... a fox... let a fox feast on your leftover food from dinner for a month: not a dog... but... maybe... either he was run-over or he figured out a "thought" of: well... isn't this weird... running drunk with deer... a harem of deer... that created a traffic conundrum... can i just be blunt? women aren't mysterious... they're just a ******* drag... drag... boo-ring... i watch married men pandering to their wives' demands and i'm thinking: not all fools are horses... some are just ******* donkeys... me? i tried... i failed... i tried i tried... i failed i failed... that's the beauty of rejection... there must be a chemical formula akin to adrenaline whereby you stomach rejection all the more easier... it's sort of on a whim... a: eh?... whatever... you start gluing your eyes on that Zeno paradox race between a turtle and a hare... or... reimagining... what if horses had to compete with camels... or... what if.... man tamed the bull and not the horse for battle?! hmm... the world is truly my oyster... but no... i don't do rhyme i don't do haikus... i think i'd find writing a haiku very: unsatisfactory... perhaps it's a relief to read... but writing one? no conversational overtones?! none of the blah-blah effect?! what?!

i never write from a source of "inspiration": forever the mu dane "rezoning" of me (N - ease honing: of reasoning)
i never write from a source of "inspiration",
reading the Latin classics taught me this one
"thing".... to never reiterate a square
of -ing                            -ed




    -ed                              -ing

first come the children, second the animals,
3rd the camaraderie, 4th, the women,
to un-stiffen: myself....
hell... if Walt Whitman could get away
celebrating himself... i guess i can too...
let's dance... facing the music...
to hell with tired old men writing poetry
once upon retired, salvaged.... "happy":
SAFE: yes... now is the ripe time...
the time to craft banknote meanings...
  whisper to the ******* wind!
i need myself in my youth:
in an element of brute!
      free! freed from ever having
ever stolen or murdered or otherwise...

children, animals, camaraderie, women....
a bit like women....
  Lolitas, wedded women...
prostitutes... the rest?! pass...
  seriously, pass... i rather be chasing deer
drunk in the night...
timid is not not mystifying...
timid is just boring...

  but in terms of language...
                the ancients knew a thing or two...
sure... they lived in a world governed by
geocentricism... but...
they could figure our minute patters in
physiognomy without making
a ******* science out of it!
of making an -ology: authorities on:
the reminder of the recluse super-intendant:
*******! seriously...
****-off...

if you were to give Atlas the weight of earth
by...
tectonic... shrapnel...
rather than the whole globular...

dead-weight... stones...
imagine carrying a dead-weight...
compared to... alive-weight...

same distinction between mass
and weight...
gravity... is dead? is dead? gravity prone?
***... imagine filling up a skip...
of stones...
then imagine...
  ******* a *******...

i have bruises on my arms
as if i were over-shooting too much ******...
goddess...
i peered at my shadow trying to
to unpeel it into nothing...
watching it... merge
with the shadow of trees: disappear...

i'm not a god... to hell with the Olympians:
i'm a TITAN!
i can see the pulsating blood in my protruding
veins as i liberate Sisyphus from
his slumbers... as i irritate:
wait a minute...
if the ancient Greeks deplored the Titans...
and invited the gods...
what did Christianity do...
if not make angels into saints?!

  i hate Christianity...
              it's a hatred with a passion that
leaves me... unable to find a girlfriend...
"unable"...
to hell with it... i can cook, i can clean,
i know how to iron shirts...
i do most of the d.i.y.
  and by then... the ones that are available are?
single mums... ****** is ******...
i'm not getting any replicas...
    so... so... as far as ancient customs go...
i'm not a Tiberius Caesar...
  ha ha... no no...
        fostering ******* is not on the menu...
although...
fostering... what's the equivalent of
a daughter born out of wedlock?

    me? i have a healthy mind... a keen mind...
that's what happens when you read Stendhal
and Marquis de Sade in your teens
and leave Ovid till your 30s?
******... "******"...
            i'm not investing in anything beside
an idea... a succulent thought...
something that's beyond a mere squeeze...

dość! enough!
      but no ść in Russian...
akin to šč
    i.e. szczypiorek - green onions...
chives even...
ever smell chives in bloom?!
bothersome addition of a "comma"
to the already defeated epsilon
  щ...
            or... strict woe woe Woe...

the most beautiful letter i ever came across?
Plato... Theaetetus... SO...
not in katakana... not in Hanguel...
in the near extinct Glagolitic Slavic scriptum:

M: Ⰿ
too many ******* vowels!
that's my reply?
the Germanic "question" regarding Slavic
languages employing "too many consonants!":
you people have been ****-hurt over
an Afghanistan-likeness inclusion
into the Roman Empire for for long
that all you get to say: too many consonants...
i say? i say?! you use too many vowels!

but i'm nice in person...
that's why i've decided to to this job...
i want to hone in on my crowd authority
"skills"...
**** knows... one day i might feel like
i want to perform!
i need good target practice!

i just woke up at 7am: the skip was supposed
to arrive between 7:30 and 9:30am...
i have "tattoos" on my arms from the dead-weight
i was lifting...
it's a bi different when you're making yourself
mandible during live-weight sessions of ***
with a "proxy"... *******...
i don't see the problem Jack the Ripper had a problem
with...
last time i checked?
prostitutes?! most hygienic creatures
there are... almost **** about it... like i'm
a **** about hygiene..
i seriously don't care who you sleep with but
at least i don't need to care about
having unprotected *** with one...
  because that's the best *** there is...
          and just imagine:
  when you can build-up such mutual trust with
a perfect stranger:
she judges your hygiene... and you judge her hygienic
standards: you meet on common ground...
an immediate trust bond ensues...
              it's oh so lovely than with some random
stranger picked up in a nightclub...
after all: she probably lives with flatmates
or still with her parents...
  and you still live with your parents because:
you're sort of good friends and the whole mother / father
son relationship is a bit post-modern...
but... well... the brothel is the middle ground...
you're not there to work in the garden
or cook dinners or do household chores...
  or read the Sunday newspaper...
  you're in a brothel to... basically do what
a butcher does in a butcher's shop...

long gone is the mentality of a Jack or
  for that matter Samuel Little...
                      why would i moralise women by way
of moralising them through: killing them?
at least these women... well... out of the... how many
i have slept with... only about 2 had a genuine
(nymphomaniac) love for the act...
    maybe 3... the rest were in the profession and still
hadn't managed to love the idea of ***
like the idea of *** was loved back in the 1960s...

i must have mentioned it once:
i'm not a gambling man...
but i am: when it comes to gambling with a ******...
it's more fun-tub-goochy-goo...
why take the thrill of life from life?!

she sends me a picture of herself behind
a driving wheel: no make-up...
she looks... hmm... as fresh as spring...
i send her a picture of blooming chives...
almost rosemary-like...
no... not rosemary... lavender... no!
quasi-fuschia!
most certainly fissile-like!
          that "rose" without the spines
of a mantis... the chives...
but most certainly the bishops' attire of bloom...
THISTLE! ****'s sake! THISTLE! THISTLE!
THISTLE THISTLE! THISTLE!
FA FA... FI FI... how many surds?!
fizz... isle... burg... doughnut... a load of *******!
did i, at least, get the spelling of fuschia right?!
chances are... no...
  
FUCHSIA...
                  bull riding... ****'s sake...

      but that's what it felt like: the inversion of rock climbing...
carrying these heaps of stones
from the garden into the skip...
    that's why i could never go back to the gym
and pump iron...
                    swimming, tick...
bicycle riding, tick...
    maybe i should revisit my former past-time
and hit a climbing wall in Hackney...
      
  but *** is also great exercise... between than doing
stomach crunches...
    only today i was coming back from a shift at Wembley...
late... late... just came in at 2am...
i was thinking of stopping over to see Khedra...
but then...
  oh you know... if it isn't some ancient perverted
evil of being stimulated by ******* as you groom
your female cat and she sticks her **** up
as you brush her... which wakes up a desire for a woman's
body by way of recoiling to the idea of *******...
then it's... the newly discovered "fetish" for south American
women... Argentinian women: milk-cows...
i don't think i've seen so many well-endowed women
in one evening...

  but... hmm... i can't go in for the act without untrimmed
***** fair... plus... i needed to see my Turkish barber:
yesterday...
  it will have to wait...
  plus pay-day today...
    finally! i've returned my my mental safety-net
of having the minimum £3000 in my now two bank accounts...

sometimes i walk up to a cash machine and people
print their statements and forget to take them...
my £3000 in "savings": they're not savings...
i just like to have this amount of money on the ready...
but other people?
my god... they really are living from pay-check
to pay-check... i don't think i've ever seen a statement
that read: £500+ on the account...
it's usually in the range of £10 to £200...

      on a daily basis this life is somehow worth living:
i'm being reminded of my literary diet...
it's good that i read Marquis de Sade as a teenager
and that only now i'm rediscovering Ovid...
  i think the reverse would have been...
very... very... grotesque.

Yay dil jura hai tum say
Kay tmharay muskuranay pay
Mere maut bhe ban jati hai burg-o-bahar,
Aur tmharay chup ** janay pay
Main bass saham si jati houn!...