NIMH layers simply changes form. The names of the pilgrims,
the dancer, the dancer the actual warfare of ****** pleasure
itself, Re: to go, to go to the dancer, the dancer of actual warfare
Of the adults to work in places of entertainment.
Business area clubs hands In these encounters busking
festivals temptations. English students. From only a translator.
He loses; Sexually road is exciting It is a tool striptease dancer.
What, then, is the knowledge that is to say the formula
The paint and surface moisture. In order to eliminate the need.
Something like a painting Or the greatest exotic ballerina.
That is hardly needed. Show the adult audience. A club is great
competition. Sometimes you can hire a stripper.
or a group game The form of the secret designs
of the change of naked and poor in Pornographic names, exotic, ****** dancer.
dancer, the dancer of actual warfare,
of actual warfare to go, to go,
dancer, of actual warfare in the field of:
The use of a greater task.
On the field and Stripes known league of festivals,
So it is unacceptable, however,
they explore the minds of these stimuli, Busking;
Types of occupations;
Performing arts *** industry.
1. anxiety difficult to do.
discordance or non-compliance;
often deliberately in this way. "mildly
The name of New Age music, or a partner or worries
1. Any plural number Anodes
or drug the medicine for pain.
In the 16th century: In English
Greek Anodes "painless" I.
The 'self' odunē "work".
In fact, when the gardens of unlimited colors.
Politics is a dense cloud of language. ||
streets, and in the school of the supplies.
Others, the tears of the analgesics ****.
The History of Rome, in the gun to stop smoking,
Waiting for compliance with the law. stupid
Standard black dog sleeping in the dark.
The first crucible. Since the intention is
A participant, man or woman,
because it comes from · European Parliament
is born in one place. Less food muffins.
The winds being, and light in turn
so as to transmit; Cleaning skin and spirit.
This is the way science works on the planet.
The first time discernment from the Gulf
sea bottom spot. from the heart.
For the fifth time, I hope to see the yellow,
I'm not sure what to do with. this? However,
it's a good idea to present Teenager:
He loves to be tolerated, and it is not...
I need to know the gardens which follow.
It is clear that height is named.
Until they become members of the world.
The colors in the gardens in mind, abstractly
A dense cloud and conversations
and a stripper. Some of the analgesic,
levers to change the world. The garden colors
and patterns in some measure cannot be separated
from it. The language, while watching a stripper.
This is the type of analgesic for the eggs 2,
and so on. The city, I will leave the corridor.
The arms of waiting for the application of the law.
Holy fool, light ||
When the dog runs in the shadow of the metal.
a kind of a cloak and that of the marine
salt in water, The first e. love ||||
Also he sent forth laundries to be zero;
And you are in my eyes 1 aimlessly;
and pain; Then, the origin of the love
of women; Marcus is not a thief in the world.
Life and death in the flesh, and the wind edge.
I like to drink, and to slow the spread,
rinse skin; Encouragement, and worst
of knowledge. The need for a healthy
planet Wi-Fi before. Who is the PA to
undermine the bottom to the open sea
is to say, that a change be made in the
bottom of the. In the heart of poverty;
Then look for the yellow section.
Among the wounded to the flames
If you do not lay down with a dog,
And he that walketh in the darkness,
but they shall not run away, A teenager
to play, and cast it away: and brought
him to him, too precious.
the distance in the world
This can result in out of the garden.
Is not it obvious that the depth of color?
This ingenuity. I The gardens are in the abstract
by color. And a dense cloud of languages
Strictly speaking, such an exchange.
The world is a garden and a sense of colors,
but also. ******* stripper low throat.
When the tears, the pain of it is sung,
or unable to act analgesic. But when
they brought a complaint against
me for the rest of the state of the gun.
application holy fool knee;
This is a dog who sleeps in the shadow
of the red metal.
Form salt-water No.
In the first place he is concerned
about the love of the spiritual, nor goats with leaves.
Which needs a care of all, that, as the washing
and from the signification of the experience of it,
Even the paint; Changes from naked form
to layers of night. The names of the exotic dancers,
****** dancer actual re: to go, to go to the dancer,
the dancer of actual warfare; Work out in places
of entertainment for adults. Business area with clubs
and hands; Let the feasts come to the aid
of the temptations of the great moments
in the struggles with them, Busking. English students.
A mere translator.
Him losing his ****** road is exciting; There is a tool
for striptease dancers. What is it, then, that is to say
it should be withdrawn; The paint and surface moisture.
Eliminate the need to use.
Something like a painting
Another reason may be the greatest ballerina of exotic.
That is hardly needed. Show the adult audience.
The club has a great competition.
Sometimes you can hire a stripper.
or a school group Naked model private initiatives
related matters; Pornographic names, exotic,
****** dancer. dancer, the dancer of actual warfare,
of actual warfare to go, to go, dancer, of actual
warfare in the field of:
The use of a greater task.
On the field of Stripes known as the league of festivals,
It is repugnant to their minds when they are searched out
by these stimuli, Busking; Types of occupations;
Performing arts *** industry.
1. anxieties is difficult to do.
discordance or non-compliance;
often deliberately in this way. "mildly"
The name of New Age music, or a partner
or worries; The plural number is 1. Any Anodes
of pain medicine or drug.
In the 16th century: In English
Greek Anodes "painless" I.
That "their" odunē "sorrow."

In fact, with the gardens and unlimited colors.
Politics and a dense cloud of language. |||
streets and in the school of the supplies.
Analgesic tearing **** and others. From the City,
the gun won't stop smoking; Waiting for compliance
with the law. stupid
Standard black dog sleeping in the dark.
The first metal water.
Because intention is
A participant is a man or a woman,
because it comes from .·. European Parliament
is born in one place. Less food muffins.
Winds and moisture to the promotion;
of Cleaning skin and spirit.
This is the way science works on the planet.
The first time, discerning the Gulf's sea bottom spot.
from her mind. For the fifth time, I hope to see
the yellow, I'm not sure what to do with.
this? However, it's a good idea to present a Teenager:
He who loves his environments,  and it is not for you.
I need to know the gardens which follow;
It is clear that height is named. Until they
become members of the world.
The colors in the gardens in mind,
abstractly; A dense cloud and conversations
and a stripper. Some of analgesic, the lever
to change the world. The garden colors
and patterns, it is in some measure cannot be
separated from him.
And the language while watching a stripper.
This kind of an analgesic, for her eggs, 2, and so on.
The History of Rome, I will, I will I leave
a remnant from the hallway.
The arms of waiting for the application
of the law. Holy fool, light ||
When the dog runs in the shadow
of the metal. the kind of the marine salt
water taffy with a scarf
The first out. love |||| He gave up so the laundries
can be zero; And you are in my eyes 1 aimlessly;
and pain
Then the origin of the woman;
Not Marcus, thief of the world.
Life and death in the flesh,
and the wind's edge. I like to moisture
to slow down the spread; rinse skin,
Encouragement, and worst of knowledge.
The need for a healthy planet Wi-Fi before.
Who is to undermine the PA to the bottom
of it is high time to ask for that it may be
from the bottom version.
In the heart of poverty look for the yellow
section. Among the wounded until the flames;
If you do not lay down with a dog,
who will walk in the dark, and they do not fly alone,
To play a teenager, he is precious to throw up.
on the distant world; This can result
in one of our gardens.
Is it not obvious that the depth of color?
At this scheme. I - The gardens are in the abstract
and in colors. And a dense cloud of languages;
The kind of strict exchange.
The world is a garden and a sense of colors,
but also. ******* stripper's low throat.
I sing the pain and tears are being,
or to conduct analgesic. I complained against
the rest of the gun state.
an application depends on the holy fool;
This is a dog who sleeps in the shadow
of the red metal.
Form salt-water No.
First we take care of the spiritual love leaves.
Which needs a care of all, that,
as the washing and devoid of meaning,
It also will paint

Layer Layer simply changes the form.
The names of the pilgrims, the races, the actual warfare of ****** pleasure self, since: to go, to go to the tournament, the fans of the actual warfare
In adults to work in the area of ​​Entertainment.
Local business councils
Have these next busking years tested.
English students.
From only a translator.
he lost
Road traffic is exciting
It is a tool striptease gay.
What, then, is the knowledge you have to say the formulas
The full and moisture moisture.
In order to eliminate the need.
Something like a full
Or large, big ballerina.
It's hardly needed.
Add older audience.
A club is a great competition.
Sometimes you can hire a stripper.
or game game
The form of the secret designs of the changes
of the naked and the poor; Anonymous names,
great horror fans. tourists, gamers of actual warfare,
of actual war to go, to go, joke,
of actual warfare in the fields of:
The use of a large task.
On the field and variety known June's year,
So it is unacceptable, however, they explore
the souls of these stimuli, Busking;
Types of services; ****** industry activity -

1. anxiety is difficult to do.
discordance or non-compliance;
This is a good solution. "mildly
The names of New Age music,
or a partner or problem 1. Any
more than Anodes or drug
medications for pain. In the 16th
century: In English Greek Anodes
"painless" I. The 'way' year's "work".

In fact, with the gardens and unlimited
colors. Politics and a dense cloud of language. ||
outside, and in the schools of the organization.
Another, the tears of the analgesics of the mammals.
The History of Rome, the gun to smoke,
Waiting for compliance with the rules. Karachi
Standard black dogs lie in the dark.
The first is Koro. Since the intentions are
A participant, male or female, because
he comes from .·. Our European Parliament
was born in one place. Less food muffins.
Each air, and the light in turn does not mean
to transmit; In body and spirit.
This is the technology method working
on earth. The first discernment of the
Gulf sea bottom spot.
from the heart. For the first time,
I hope to see the yellow, I'm not sure
what to do with. these? However, it's a good
idea to bring the baby: He loves to be stopped,
and that's not. I need to know the gardens
that followed. It is clear that no height is known.
Until they become members of the world.
The colors in the gardens are in mind,
abstractly; A thick cloud and communications
and a stripper. Some of the analgesic,
levers to change the world.
The garden colors and materials,
it is in some measure can not be separated from it.
Languages ​​while watching a stripper.
This is such analgesic for the eggs 2, and so on.
The city, I will put in the balconies.
The arms are waiting for the application material.
Light fool, light ||
When the dog runs the shadow of the metal.
we have a kind of coated and that of bath
salts in the water, First of all. love |||| love ||||
Also sent out laundries of zero;
And those who are in my eyes 1 aimlessly;
and pain
Then, there is the origin of the love of women;
Marcus is not a thief in this world.
Life and death in the body, and the ear of the ear.
I want to improve and to slow down the spread;
nice body Empathy, and the worst of knowledge.
The need for a healthy Wi-Fi life before.
Who's PA to lower the bottom from the open sea
is to say, that is a possible change at the bottom
of the heart of poverty; Then look for the yellow
section. Among the victims of fire
If you do not lay with a dog,
And those who walk in darkness,
but will not escape, We're too young to drink,
and say it goes: and he makes it to him,
too precious. the distance in the world
This can lead to getting out of the garden.
Is not it clear that color is colorful?
This ingenuity. Mo; The gardens are in the abstract
by color. And a dense cloud of languages
We're talking, such an exchange.
The passage is a garden and a sense of colors,
but also. Ale drinking stripper's small throat.
When the tears, the pain is slow, or strong
to work analgesic.
But when they took a complaint to me
for the rest of the state of the guns.
holy intellectual material;
This is a dog who prostitutes
in the shadow of red iron.
Form salt-water No.
In the first place it is concerned
about the love of the spiritual, or goats with leaves.
Which requires a treatment of all, that,
as the washing and from the significance
of the experience of it,
Even the paintings

Algal layer only changes form.
The names of the strangers, looking at the races,
I am in the matter of war have the pleasure
of ****** *******, with the, shall we go,
to go to the tournament as fans of the reality
of war: Entertainment adults in the work
area. Local business plans
This is the second year Busking tested.
English students.
On the translator.
That he lost the Road traffic is exciting
Gay Striptease is not a tool. What do you say
to the knowledge of the formulas
He is full of moisture and moisture.
In order to eliminate the need.
If something is full Or a great, great ballerina.
It's hardly necessary.
Add older audience.
A club is great competition. Sometimes you can hire a
great stripper. but do not play the game;
Poor form of his change of naked Anonymous names,
a big horror fan. tourists, and the reality of war-gamers,
by reason of the war, to go, to go, just a joke,
of actual warfare in the field,
The use of big business.
Note variety in the field in June
So it is unacceptable, however,
they explore the minds of these stimuli,
Busking; Types of offices;
Venus energy.

1. anxiety can be difficult.
discordance or non-compliance;
This is a good solution. "mildly
The names of New Age music, or a partner or a problem
1. Whatever the Anodes
or a drug for pain medications.
In the 16th century: In English
Greek Anodes "painless" I.
"And in its the way, it's years of work."
In fact, if the gardens of unlimited colors.
Politics and a dense cloud of language. ||
out of doors, especially of governance
and Latin in the study. Another's tears
and analgesics mammals.
From the City, the gun to smoke;
Waiting for compliance with the rules.
Karachi Standard black dogs lying
in the dark. The first is the Koro.
With a will, A participant, male and female,
because he came from .·. European Parliament
is born in one place.
Less food muffins. To transmit to each of the air,
the light, not the reverse;
Body and spirit. This is the work in the technology
field. The first discernment:
Gulf sea bottom spot. from the heart. first
I hope to see the yellow, I'm not sure what
to do with. this? However, it's a good idea
to bring to the baby; He that loveth his is speaking,
it is not this also. I need to know that Park
is following. It is clear that the height.
Until they become members of the world.
The colors in the gardens in mind, abstractly
A thick cloud communications and a stripper.
Some of the analgesic, in part levers to
change the world.
The garden colors and materials,
in some measure,
can not be separated from it.
Language while watching a stripper.
For an analgesic with 2 eggs and so on.
The city and laid on balconies.
Who is in the arms, waiting
for the application of the material.
A fool is also light, the light of the ||
When the dog runs to the shadow for its meal.
And we have some salt coated in water taffy
sales; First. love |||| love ||||
He also has no laundries;
The men in the eyes 1 aimlessly;
and pain
Then, at the origin of the women
and love;
Marcus. thief in the world.
Death and ****** ear.
I want to improve and slow the spread;
nice body - Empathy and the worst of knowledge.
The need for a healthy life before Wi-Fi.
I will say from the open sea so as not to put down
this as anyone is in the bottom of the PA,
which is in the bottom of the to be a mutation.
In the heart of poverty;
Then look for the yellow section.
Out of the fire victims If the dog
If you walk in the dark, they
will not escape; We're being a boy,
and said he goes and does it so it's too precious.
the distance in the world
This can lead to getting out of the garden.
Is it not so it is clear, is the fact that color is put to flight?
This intelligence. No. In the gardens, and,
apart from the color. And a dense cloud
of languages; We have spoken to the exchange.
By doing so, since the garden and in the sense
of colors, but also.
Small stripper ale sore throat.
When the tears, the pain, slow to take strong drink,
analgesic. When, however, to me, he complained
of the torments of the rest of the state.
St. intellectual material;
Fair prostitutes carried the dog.
Form salt-water No.
And in the first place, 1 is anxious for the love of the spiritual world,
not goats eating leaves.
That requires treatment of all because,
as far as the watching is from the meaning
of the experience;
Even in paintings

I don’t want to perpetuate the produce – consume loop
but when I don’t, I feel like such a lazy moocher
Could I play guitar near after dark bars for $23 an hour?
Victor and I did that once, for $11.50 each
Untaxed, that’s better than my dour real job
So, if I really made my place at a street corner, I’d be a smart earner

But then I’d be a fixture, like the accordion man and the bums with PVC buckets
The bar goers would soon hate me for chumping them out of their cash
with three gritty “Heart of Gold” covers
Then soon the mediocre bums would jump me and Riot, my guitar
She’ll smash into the walk under a Irish flag in front of Murphy’s Law,
while drinkers whoop and punch the air
The bucket goes over my head
and the accordion bellows squeeze round my neck

Street performers.

Busking. Panhandling. Begging.

An artist’s most submissive position.

Music’s all-powerful mystery beholden to pocket change.

Until a blind man, guitar in hand,

On the Blue Line platform,

Plucks from an unsuspecting heart

An unmistakable theme-

“What can you say about a 25-year-old girl who died?”

An unmistakable love story...

One bill and some coins in his collection basket,

A mysterious, gentle reminder-

Dynamics come wholly undone.

I drop in my all-powerful dollar,

All aboard the train.

Down here and now will I

Write for the first time in nearly three years.

We’d been to concert at the Town Hall. It was a Saturday night and still early for a Saturday Night Out. So many people on the streets. The girls barely dressed, the boys bouncing around in t-shirts. Older people threaded along the pavements walking purposefully, but ‘properly’ dressed, and now making their way, as we were, for the station.

I know He noticed her because He stopped, momentarily. We were holding hands. He loves to hold my hand. That evening I remember squeezing his hand firmly as if to say how pleased I was He was here and I was not walking to the station alone. I have done this, walking to the station alone, so often. It is good to have someone close at such times, someone to talk to about the performance, the music, what is going on around us. We walked right past them.

I noticed the man first and then the child. He was very tall, very dark, wearing a black leather jacket I think. He was not scruffy so much as untidy, dark and untidy, with curly hair that did not know a comb. He was busking. He sang an incomprehensible song in a language I didn’t recognize, playing an electric guitar plugged into a small amplifier by his feat. He turned from side to side as he sang as though looking for an audience. I remember his trainers and the soft guitar case open on the pavement with a smattering of coins. Then, this child.

Over the last two days I’ve examined the scene in my memory. I’ve sought to recall as much as I can about this little girl. She was not that little I think for her age, perhaps seven or eight. Stocky. Thick golden brown hair. A sensible skirt covering her knees, a fawn jumper with some sparkly decoration. Tights or long socks perhaps. Proper shoes. I keep examining my mind’s photo. What I recall most vividly was her large smiling eyes and her expression. This is my daddy, it said. He’s singing and I’m here looking after him. I’m his smiley girl here on the city street. It’s late. Other children back home would be in bed, but I’m here smiling at the people passing.

Yesterday we talked about this couple, the little girl mostly. He brought the subject up. He’d been thinking about her too. He’d been puzzling over the two of them. As a pair they seemed so physically different, hardly father and daughter. It was the (possible) daughter’s gaze, her twinkling eyes that had spoken to him - as they had spoken to me. This is my daddy, those eyes and that smiley face had said. And she was holding a bear.

Why did I not mention the bear until now? Of course, she was holding her bear. She had both arms around her bear. She was hugging her bear to herself. It was a mild evening for March – she wore no coat. He looked a good bear, not too old or small, not the kind of bear she’d been given in infancy, perhaps recently acquired but well-loved, well-hugged. A bear that seemed entirely right for her age, for her slightly old fashioned clothes. The sort of clothes I might have worn as a child. I think of a photo of me at that age dressed in a Cloth-Kits dress, with an Alice band, with glasses and lots of curly hair.  

He said ‘I’ve been wondering about the two of them. Did they have a home? Where would they go to when it became late?’ Was there a mother? Was she working somewhere on that Saturday night and the father had to take the girl. Was she wearing her best clothes? She looked OK. A glowing, healthy face, a face that reflected the bright, coloured lights of the city street.’

Suddenly, I realised there were tears in his eyes. I thought, He is imagining a story. He is imagining a story of this seven year old who should have been tucked up in bed with her bear, like my little boy with his blue blanket. He was imagining her life., her past in some Eastern European town, where she went to school, where she had friends and relatives, where she had been born and brought up, and been loved. And now the girl was here in this not so distant city. Perhaps illegally, without the papers, smuggled in as so many are. Her father, swarthy, even a tinge of the Roma perhaps, but she so different. It was the golden brown hair. Thick hair, a ribbon tied in it. A pink ribbon.

He had thought of his little girl, now fifteen, only when she was that age, seven. Oddly similar in some ways, the thick hair, the smiley face, a different but ever present bear, an infant’s bear, not a bear she’d take with her except in a bag. A bear not to be seen with at seven, but loved.

‘I’ll call her Katya,’ He said. The girl, not the bear.

And later He did. Every few days He would mention her – just in passing. ‘Do you think Katya’s  at school today?’ ‘I was in the city this afternoon, but I didn’t see Katya.’

He wrote about her and her father. A little story. I haven’t read it. He just told me He’d written it; He’d thought of following them in his imagination. He was a little embarrassed telling me this, and He didn’t offer to show me the story, which is unusual because when He mentions He’s written something He usually does. And so I wonder. I wonder how long this memory will stay with him and whether He will follow this couple (and her bear) into the future, create a story for them to live in.

Perhaps it will bring him the peace He does not have. The peace I try to give him when He is with me at home and we sit in my little house, at my table eating toast with Marmite after I’ve been out late whilst He’s sat on my settee and read – in peace at being in my home. I know He feels cast adrift from his family and He can’t be part of mine, yet a while. Perhaps it’s like being in another country. Perhaps He thinks, at least that busker had his child with him, his shining star, his ever-smiley girl.

Yet He is thinking of his smiley girl, smiley still at fifteen, still loving her dad despite what He’s done, despite the fact that she sees him so seldom. Despite the fact that He is only occasionally with her, and she knowing I, his lover, his young woman, his companion and friend, has captured his heart and thoughts.

I think of Katya too. I think of my older girl, so loved and circled about with love and admiration by her respective families and our friends. She is so special and so beautiful, as I was special at eleven, as I think I was beautiful at eleven, just on the brink of that transformation that will take her towards becoming a teenager – and the rest.  

We were lying in bed the Saturday morning before seeing Katya and I was telling him about my childhood. He’d asked me about zebra finches. Walking in his nearby park He had admired their bright red beaks in the park’s newly-restored aviary. I told him about a parrot in a park close to my childhood home, a parrot I passed as I went to school. I described for him my walk to school, meeting up with my friends, passing the parrot. I know how happy it made him to hear me talk about such things. He said so later, embracing me in the kitchen. ’I so love to hear you talk about your childhood.’ I could feel he was moved to say this. It was important. I realised then just how deeply he loved me. That it was important. That he imagined me as a child. That He wanted to know that part of me. He’s rarely asked about the stuff in between. Of my former lovers I’ve said a little. He has said a little about his past liaisons and affaires, but knows I am uncomfortable when he does. So we leave this. But childhood, That’s so different, because it is that precious, precious time of shelter and care: when we begin to discover who we are and who and what we love.

Where is Katya now? In a messy room she shares with her parents in a house shared with economic migrants, where she has a few belongings in three plastic bags. In one, her best clothes she wears to stand on the city street on a Saturday night with her daddy. In another a jumble of not so clean clothes she rotates each day. She has her sleeping bag, her bear, her warm coat and gloves. There’s a few magazines she’s found about the house. English is puzzling. She learnt a little at school back home, and from the TV of course, those American soaps. If she was here in my house I would stand her in the shower, wash her thick hair, put her clothes in the machine, sit her on my bed in my daughter’s clothes with some picture books, introduce her to my cats, we would bake some buns. I would give her a small gift of my love to take away with her and she would look on me with her smiley face, her sparkling eyes and let me hold her bear.

And later when I saw him I would tell him that Katya had been with me for a little, and tears would fall, mine and his, knowing that only in our dreams could we make this so.

The land it's name was faraway.
A land so pretty,
The land where fairies play.
The grass verdant and succulent.
Glows in the midday sun.
The trees bow inadvertently to the fairies passing by.
Fairies bearing various gender.
Girl folk with flowing straw like hair, bound with strands of strawberry flair.
Menfolk wearing doublet and hoes.
Black and green.
Obvious features, all fairy men folk sport a pointed nose.
Elder folk, they have aching knees.
Hair tinged with tiger stripes of grey and black.
Could have been zebra stripes,but the elderly fairies, can be just a little spritely, temperamental at times.
They sit under willow trees.
Writing, busking rhymes.
Listen without witness, you'll swear you'll hear them sing.
Leave a pretty penny in the spot where you have been.
Walk silently away.
Peer over your left shoulder and you may just glimpse the fairy queen.
If you should be so lucky.
(c)Livvi

once you've read enough, or what's
called a respectable "bank account"
in literary terms, you fall back
on poetry, journalism and book reviews...
which springs to mind
a comparison between being a violinist
in an opera, playing a concerto or
being a street vendor, busking out
alternatives to the satanic cartwheels
of rubber tires slicing up a defiant cement road
in a busy hub on the Embankment -
i still want to cry every time i
hear bob marley's redemption song
or the other bob's north country blues,
i don't know, it just happens like period
pains, it's a grudge brimming near
the boiling point of water or the melting point
of iron that's lucky for chefs and for blacksmiths...
i am picking up the pieces of an empire,
the british rubble and a world in chaotic chuckles...
as they said of the roman degeneracy...
that ****** fascination with cuisine...
too any fast-food outlets...
no, but indeed, when you've become satiated with
a personal taste for reading, you
end up reading book reviews...
but i don't understand why a dominic would
read a book by a luke concerning drugs and warfare,
as picked up: 'odin's men rushed forward without
armour, were as mad as dogs or wolves,
bit their shields, and were as strong as bears or
wild oxen...' citing Snorri Sturluson...
the missing clue? magic mushrooms.
also worth mentioning: the 1814 Swedish-Norwegian
war... magic mushrooms aplenty...
in 1945 Soviets in Hungary dubbed the 'rabid dogs'
(indeed no " " enclosure, i trust the man's
descriptive certainty, indeed they were rabid
and dogs and there's no ambiguity to be invoked)
swallowing fly agaric...
american pilots in Afghanistan caffeine+
i.e. amphetamines...
Homer's heroes drunk (why is it that when a poet
is company during a war it becomes iconic
and almost glorious to keep the blood-thirst up?
like that idiocy of warring in the Napoleonic times,
a line of men, walk among canon fire and
stand 20 metres apart and just shoot...
like the post-Napoleonic war strategy of killing
civilians, huh?)... as too the heavy drinking
with king Harold prior to 1066 Hastings...
through to Vietnam, 1971 -
51% of GIs smoked marijuana, 28% took hard
drugs (******) and 31% used psychedelics...
****** was high as ****... a Michael Jackson of his day...
the ****** Eudodal... the luftwaffe on Pervitin
(earliest patent for crystal ****) and too
the Panzer men, e.g. a Gerd Schmücle.
sober citation at the end of the review
quoting a soviet surgeon:
                        'women and wine
                         are all very fine,
                         but a real man needs more:
                         the sweet taste of war.'
sometimes i'm in that aspect of things, almost gladly
i'd take up a trunk of wood and bash about
the field - but i realised poetry is a great war
you fight solo, and there's no brotherhood idealism,
solo, solo, all the way through...
but this still doesn't explain why a boy would
read blue material, as above mentioned,
and a girl would read pink material...
a jessica reading sounds and sweet airs:
                                        the forgotten women of
              classical music...
gentrification in the making... why wouldn't a boy
read pink material? too much of a crane driver or
a lorry nomad in him, to simply sit down
and hear a diva with 'oh, what ****!'
citing the Duke of Mantua's envoy that was Barbara
Strozzi play the clarinet?
you know why i'm cynical about feminism?
it's too distracted, it wants to spread its influence into
every human endeavour, positively speaking
it's what woman always boast about:
feminism is multitasking... it has to be relevant in
every realm of thinking... first of all it should focus
on one, and stop this quasi-plagiarism it's doing
at the moment in every aspect of cognition -
i say, the founding mother, the matriarch of
******* is feminism - honey... can't **** all the time,
gotta forage and hunt and build houses too!

Your shrill, yet oddly pleasant sound, echoes loudly down the long corridor.
I try to ignore you as the jaunty sound clashes with my melancholy mood,
Yet I find the notes and melodies cling to my mind like tissue stuck to a shoe,
Hanging on for it's own amusement,
Ignorant of my desire not to be teased nor humoured at this anxious time.

I feel I shouldn't like your racket,
My naïve ears and young years sense, not only an inappropriate comedy in your sound,
But also a daunting undertone,
Adding to my sense of having been plunged into deep icy waters.

Perhaps your music soothes those who are leaving,
Your high happy notes providing optimism and assurance of recovery,
Or of a restful sleep enveloping dear ones.
For me, however, at the point of no-return in my pilgrimage,
I hear only the low notes,
Out of time with my quickened pulse,
And lending a foreboding soundtrack to my slow deliberate steps.

But you play for no pay,
Busking in this hospital,
Doing good both night and day.
Yes, you are well known in this place,
Admired for the hours you commit to this space where lives can hang in the balance,
And where your instrument by day is a sharp sleek scalpel,
Invasive in its desire to alleviate suffering,
Your steady, practiced hand rehearsed and well versed in the methodically planned procedure of a surgical concerto.

But out of hours your instrument of choice lends you a voice,
Allowing flourishes and improvisations.
But were you aware that for visitors like me who visited repeatedly,
The clarinet would take on a significance beyond other instruments,
Taking me instantly back to bittersweet memories of visiting my family,
As, in turn, they aged and became unwell and recovered and became unwell again.

Now I am older and a little wiser,
I reflect and ruminate on this period;
My memories of family are more than just hospital visits,
And I wonder if I could ask one thing of you?
Why no Rhapsody in Blue?!

A missed alarm
- A hurried departure
From home to bus to bus
- To craft fair!
All handmade, all ingenious.
And reused items appeal to this sustainability-freak.
"There's not much for your kind here"
But just as I say it we spy a stall
And the goth finds Cthulu,
A skull,
An eye,
A snake with which to adorn himself
Amidst the usual background of 'Oh, he looks like Russell brand'

His cousin was riding.
Riding the plastic spastic twirl-around bull.
"Another turn? Go on, your dad didn't see you!"
She shakes her head, almost shy
But is lifted and hoisted on once more,
Smiling and giggling and kicking away.
The operator has success,
Short-lived;
She jumps right off and back to her father,
Uncles and cousins all grin.

- To cafe!
Entrance a ramp,
The outside already proclaims the spaces brilliance
Narrow hall with piano stating 'closed'
Walls adorned with old newspapers
Light fixtures are bottles
Door handle a coffee grinder
Tables old school desks,
Mismatched chairs and couches and plates;
This sustainability freak is in heaven.
The Goth smiles
"I knew you'd like it"
And even the menu provides
My dietary restrictions no obstacle.
I have a smoothie.
It's amazing.

"Judging from your case I would say you play heavy metal"
I giggle; Incorrect.
"Are you going to play for us?"
The waitress asks
We look at each other; are we?
And after our meal we do;
The radio is turned off in response.
Young children play on my violin
Their parents more concerned than I
"Be careful! It's delicate!"
We serenade the coffee and the tables and the birdie on the wall
We serenade customers and workers and the owner as well
We serenade to perfect
We serenade to give back to this space so beautiful
We serenade half in hope of being asked to perform
Of being paid to perform.
The owner enjoys; the possibility is open.
The workers enjoy; "you made today worth it"
The customers enjoy,
One chucks coins to our guitar case
A suggestion of busking
We drain our complimentary drinks and tip the coins
Wander onwards, sated, and glowing.

- To old acquaintances
Who tell scandalous tales
Of the Goth's little brother
"Tell your folks I look after him...
He's hilarious when he's wasted"
The goth queries
"And when I'm wasted?"
"Oh it makes no difference; you're hilarious sober too!"
It's truth.
No one could argue except the Goth himself;
"I'm glad you have a terrible sense of humour"

- To Opshop, closed.
And then the car,
Family bubbling around us
Excited voices clamour with stories
With news
We arrive in a field of green,
Children swinging on a tyre
An old meeting house is dwarfed
Beside the new, uncompleted
A chair in the sky
Seats white fingers
Coated from work;
Yet his is the best view.
"Uncle... Aunty... Cousin.."
Names drift into the air
I won't catch them.
"This is only a small portion of my family;
You should see the group photo!"

An older man teases
"Get your hair cut!
Oi, why haven't you told your son to cut his hair?!"
And his father expertly replies
"He can do what he likes with his hair"
His mother
"Why haven't you died yours then? It's all grey!"
Smiles spread wide at their cheek.

A bell tolls
Signals the slow meandering;
No urgency
We sit, grass beneath us
Sky above
Trees and field all around.
These three buildings so connected.
The prayer starts,
In foreign tongue
Yet not foreign
- It is the language this land first heard
Aside from sea and bird and sun
An occasional group "ah" in response
Teenagers mock; "aye"
Babies fuss,
Children wriggle
Even adults chatter to one another
Come and go as they please
Informal.
I am wrapped in his love.
And all of their love.
Lying in his arms
With sun warming me,
Love warming me,
I send it back.

And then chairs are moved
The tables to be laid
Inside this time
"Come here, you don't want to do the chores, do you?"
A crafty cousin teaches evasion maneuvers
We kick a ball,
The goth looks almost joyful
The usual "Me, sports? Eww"
Forgotten, or put aside.
Shoes back on now
"Your feet could do with some sunlight"
The cousin protests.

We eat with our hands;
For me there are oranges
And chicken salad
I put ethics aside
To sate hunger.

We swing.
The children are playing elsewhere
We claim the rope as ours.
An upside down ladder?
A missing rung?
There's more air than step.
Together we swing.

"Who do you belong to then?"
Caught off guard
"I belong to myself"
The goth smiles at my assertion
"How'd you get here, who brought you?"
I gesture with my foot
"You're so rude! You didn't even introduce me to your girlfriend! I'm his Aunty, that makes me his, and your Aunty too now."
He clasps my hand
"That's how easy it is in my family"

We serenade once more.
Nervousness closes throat
How to express oneself?
I feel small and shrunken
Push myself to claim space
- I do belong here
The love swells around me
Tall poppy syndrome must be beaten into me;
I'm trying to convince myself
I'm not being overbearing
- They want to hear us.
And they're impressed
"Oh what a beautiful voice"
"They do sound wonderful together"
All laugh as Grandma joins in
"That's Nan trying to out do them"

With Promises to jam next time,
We take the scenic exit,
Past those who have past
Past the past itself
Graves decorated with All Blacks flags,
With decks of cards,
With guitars.
Love. Even here,
Love and celebration.

- To friends
Reiki, a goodbye card, packing and kittens, markets and dinner
- The candles glow was soft,
Too soft for menus.
"I wonder why those baskets are all locked up...
Ha! Basket cases!"
We draw a piece to make Dali proud
And jest of eating candle wax
Bellies hunger.
But foods arrival prevents such oddity.
Eating pizza with knives and forks?
I decline, fingers once more.
Restaurant etiquette is not my style
Mine is puffy to their flat
- The perks of being gluten free?
And we leave them to their dessert.
With much sorrow.
"Thank you for enriching my experience here"
No, thank you. Thank you thank you thank you thank you.

"Goodbye!"
I greet
"Have a wonderful life!"
A different good bye.
And we cry as we hug,
No tears, just noise.
To cheer ourselves.
"Waahhhhh"
We giggle and depart.

Surrounded by darkness
Traffic roars overhead
Rocking support beams
They creak
Pigeons shuffle now and then
A dim light is irresistible death
Beyond the trees ripples fold and swell
And I am here with him.
Our own little patch of night time
Folding and swelling around us.
"Now you're the one keeping us awake"
I cannot argue.
This moments magic is worth tomorrow's tiredness.

One more friend to visit.
She saved us a piece!
Oh dietary constraints!
Cheesecake, for me?
And delish!
Hazelnutty and chocolate!
Nutella like.
We ***** about sudden illness
About food restrictions
About fad diets
Apparently the 20's is when the **** goes down.
Our bodies are complaining now.
Maybe we'll figure out what they're trying to say,
- Eventually.
Speak English, **** you!

- To the tent!
And blessed sleep.
It's technically tomorrow now.
Well, it's today.
"Thank you for touching my feet that time"
I curl up in his arms,
And all the world is golden
This illness raises its angry lil head
And his caring melts me
Thank you thank you thank you thank you.

Thank you for this beautiful most perfect day.
Thank you.

There's  a world outside my little square window
that overlooks fields and woodlands and sunsets
and that world overlooks a bustling avenue with
shutters on windows and constant, humming traffic.
There's a world outside my little square window
that keeps wakes me with the same sun every morning
and the same old singing birds,
and that world rouses me with a different kind of music;
of people and chatter and busking and life.
There's a world outside my little square window,
a world I would never have been tired of exploring,
and that world is named Paris.

I’m literally sitting here. Literally. I’m figuratively doing nothing. This time allows me to think. Contemplate; the future of this mess we call adolescence. You look at the clock. Tick tock…kids stepping over my feet, as I literally sit here. Figuratively doing nothing. I’m breathing. Writing. Forming a collection of words in this memo. They don’t fit together, realistically. I would go for a smoke, but I have no cigarettes. I am a sixteen year old, who is too awkward too phone her boyfriend’s home phone, and too awkward just to pop round. I have to see miss in an hour, there’s a kid who’s sad and I have to talk to him.
   Apparently I am confident. I’m not. I just listen to powerful music which makes me feel like I can be a queen. That’s the idea. To feel comfortable you need to not care, and look after yourself. You are queen, you care for your subjects. You rule with fair point. You go out and buy yourself a crown, or shoplift one. I don’t know, just whatever makes you feel like the main *****. Find what you like about yourself and spark it. Make what you like stand out. Find the things you dislike about yourself and show it off. I don’t like my **** but hey, just shake it a bit and it’s like simple twerking. I have thunder thighs which consist of a fair amount of muscle; I have perfected the **** drop. I have become stronger because of what I put myself through. I am the only one who can hear my thoughts. So if at first you’re thinking ‘******* I’m terrified, what if I look like a ****’ fake it.

After acting like this powerful alter ego you can become her. She takes over at times. I can switch between quiet, shy Sophia; into the proud, queen ***** Patricia. Patricia the stripper. I admit this is my alter ego. She wears red lipstick, a leopard coat and thigh highs. She owns a tiara and blows bubbles in her gum. She struts to punk music and breaths arctic monkeys. She dances to jack white, ***** wiggles and all. She sings Kate Nash and the kooks, because she needs to keep her showgirl ship with class and talent as well as outright hot radiation. She has no idea what she is doing, as long as everyone is happy and entertained; she is satisfied with her life. She loves everyone because they all contain a characteristic she adores.

I also have another alter ego who has no name. This is the first time I’m referring to her as her own alter ego. She’s like a ****** of crows. An unkind of ravens. She wears dangerously applied dark makeup. She always wears full black. She’s pretty much a Goth who thrives on shock, horror and Edgar Allen Poe. Her favorite author is Stephan king and she has murderous thoughts. She pouts. She is, oh so pouty; with darkened lips of a cherry flavor. She makes sassy comments which sometimes come out as unintended bitchiness. She scares people, but they call her cool. She’s a bass player, with a strong stance and a black bra and thong set. She smokes like a chimney. She has ash-ened dark lungs like her mind. She’s my biting ***** ego. She hates anything that’s negative in the human spectrum of life. Ironic. She can’t stand hate but embodies it. She smiles at kids playing or people busking. Under the black shell intended to scared, she has the interior of a marshmallow. Fluffy hair, pastel teddy choker, and a love for giggling. She smells or strawberries, cherries and bubble-gum. She is actually really happy; this drives people mad as they can’t label her…neither can I, unless this pinkie paradise is one of her own. Like all my egos…she is happy.

Life’s all getting and giving,
I’ve only myself to give.
What shall I do for a living?
I’ve only one life to live.
End it?  I’ll not find another.
Spend it? But how shall I best?
Sure the wise plan is to live like a man
And Luck may look after the rest!
Largesse! Largesse, Fortune!
Give or hold at your will.
If I’ve no care for Fortune,
Fortune must follow me still.

Bad Luck, she is never a lady
But the commonest ***** on the street,
Shuffling, shabby and shady,
Shameless to pass or meet.
Walk with her once—it’s a weakness!
Talk to her twice. It’s a crime!
****** her away when she gives you “good day”
And the besom won’t board you next time.
Largesse! Largesse, Fortune!
What is Your Ladyship’s mood?
If I have no care for Fortune,
My Fortune is bound to be good!

Good Luck she is never a lady
But the cursedest quean alive!
Tricksy,  wincing  and  jady,
Kittle to lead or drive.
Greet her—she’s hailing a stranger!
Meet her—she’s busking to leave.
Let her alone for a shrew  to the bone,
And the ***** comes plucking your sleeve!
Largesse!  Largesse, Fortune!
I’ll neither follow nor flee.
If I don’t run after Fortune,
Fortune must run after me!

What do all these unread books mean,
a life that must move, but intends to someday have
more time to sit and ponder?
Or am I slothful from the smudged screen gleam?
Endless tool possibilities, you've become my lvl. 70 distraction
No capture, no defeating
just the monster in the cave
without an escape rope, or even matches
Go so crazy
I wanna light my shirt on fire in protest
and forget to take it off first
I wish for old days of street loitering gossip, and busking
How'd we lose it so fast?
You can't even find the picnic spot without a digital pamphlet
so excuse me as I lament
the dying days
I hardly lived

it was the
summer
of 13

when a city
consumed in a
Cronut crazed
heat wave

amped
the tenderloin

slicing the underbelly
of Hell's Kitchen

packing meat for
Russian oligarchs
pouring fistfuls
of petrol rubles
down the
thirsty gullets
of glutinous
developers

their distended
bellies welling
with aching
avarice
from an
extended
stay at an
All You Can Eat
zero interest
smorgasbord
courtesy of
Uncle Sam’s Diner
somewhere off the
West End

getting fat
on the land
reclaimed
and rebuilt
on the dust
and detritus
of an expired
Great Society

Bloomie's metropolis
rising on the rubble
of razed neighborhoods....

the vertical leaps
shooting ever upward
the heady windows
framing portraits
of endless replication
offering the amenities
of the vain comfort
found in ghettos of
soulless high rises
and the billowing
gray perspective
of blanched out
street cafes
brewing $9 lattes
and big box
boutiques busy
busking the
latest rage
of sweat repelling
yoga mats and
wearable apps

America’s Mayor
Giuliani paved the way
he arrested all
the squeegee men
confiscated their Windex
dumped it down
the sewers and filled all
vacancies at Rikers

a year after Sandy
rolled up the Hudson
breaching the banks
of West Street
licking the streets
clean of urban
flotsam the
surging boom
bloomed

Bloomie bankrolled
a red carpet
for his global
fraternity of
plutocrats
unleashing a
tsunami of
shekels

washing away
the fading
memories of
Captain Sully’s
cool headed
lunch pail
heroism proving
that 727’s can
walk on water
was now passe

Lou Reed
left town
the wild side
monetized by
the belching
banality of
Urban Hipsters

millennial
babes in toy land
embarked on an endless
shopping spree
where credit limits
never expire and
giddy narcissism
greased with entitlement
orders up room service
as the next course
in this endless
movable feast

Music Selection
Philip Glass
The Hours



9/8/13
NYC
jbm

Where my heart should be, there is an ache or a pain,
Yes that physical geography, I shrug with vague disdain,
I thought that had turned to stone oh so long ago.

My eyes well with tears, I feel emotions and I am glad,
But it is my fears, that want to stop the drumbeat so bad,
I had hoped for longer to get it right, or left, of centre.

Years became months and they turned to weeks, then days,
For excitement a walk amongst the freaks but the mundane won't go away,
Finally realizing I was the main attraction, the reason they showed up.

Busking my talent, to take risks, to make it rich, to feel alive,
What they threw was pennies, and insults, I barely survived,
But no one threw the one thing I needed most, something real.

An honest healthy heart, that beats a steady sound,
That is strong and fair and built to sincerely care, pound-pound,
Wires are getting crossed, on emotional waves I am tossed.

A short circuit in a bilge pump, thump sputter thump,
Water instead of blood finds a way through my rooted stump,
of a body full of remorse for the course my life has run.

There is no race for which I am fit, I plead no contest,
I would not pass any test, if I was allowed to write my best,
Down so low, found in the bottom of a heel print in the snow.

Yet, I have hope, I have a yearning to throw words down, and
with my voice lift their sounds to echo 'round, breathing air,
forcing sound to get my blood to break past clogs.

Yet, I will write, and live to write another day,
Whether it is by resuscitation, or heart-healthy habits stay
the course, spew the filth, to find a measure of peaceful treasure.

Writing in the moment.


©DWE022013

English Language Learners
Definition of stripper: a performer
who removes his or her clothing
in a sexually exciting way: a
dancer who does a striptease: a tool
that you use to remove something
such as paint from a surface: a liquid
chemical that you use to remove
something such as paint from
a surface. A stripper or exotic dancer
is a person whose occupation involves
performing striptease in a public adult
entertainment venue such as a *******.
At times, a stripper may be hired
to perform at bachelor parties or other
private event. Related jobs: **** modeling,
******* Names: exotic dancer, ******
dancer, go-go dancer, dancer; Fields of
employment: adult entertainment Activity
sectors: strip clubs, exhibitions, festivals,
competitions, busking; Occupation types:
Performing Arts, *** industry

Anodyne 1. Not likely to provoke
dissent or offense; inoffensive,
often deliberately so. "anodyne
New Age music"  noun: anodyne;
plural noun: anodynes 1. Any
painkilling drug or medicine.
Mid 16th century:  via Latin from
Greek anōdunos ‘painless,’ 1.
from an- ‘without’ + odunē ‘pain.’

For me, gardens and colors in the abstract,
the politics and the dense cloud of the language | ||
and the strips of equipment of the school
of Analgesic to tear the **** and the rest
of the city, stop smoking against the weapon,
waiting for the law to be fulfilled. A fool
is sacred, it is red when a dog sleeps, in the gloomy
metal with the type of water for the first time.
Attention is drawn to the fact that, in the case
of a man or woman who is a member of the
European Parliament; he or she is born in a place
other than a minor, To the muffins of the flesh.
and the winds are in on the promotion of moisture,
the cleansing of the skin and the breaths,
and the science that only works on one planet.
The first time the PA version was requested,
the sea led to the bay of the ******
from the edge of the mind. By the fifth time,
waiting for yellow. I'm not sure what to do with
it; it's a good idea to have it,  but it's a teenager,
who likes environments, and that's what you
need to know. Even the garden when following
her is not obvious in the depth of color
until the genital lips become a world for me;
gardens and colors in mind, and in the abstract,
cops and a thick cloud of language and a stripper
kind of painkilling, a lever to change the world;
for the garden and the colors are in a sense  apart
from the cops' fragrance of the tongue; a stripper
kind of painkiller, pain hatches **** and the rest
of the city, I will leave him that pisseth
against the gun to wait for the law enforcement
of the fool that is a holy one, it is red, when he ||
is sleeping with the dog in the shadow of the metal
with a salty scarf of the kind of seawater to
carry on our care first; the spirit of the love ||||
of the leaves of a guide to all the clinicals and washes:
and I, 1, putting on makeup of the eyes,
and pain
as well as the origin of the woman,
nor a bad thing, Laura is the the thief of the world's
death both in the flesh and the wind's edge;
like unto slow moisture propagation,
cleared of the skin
and breath, and the worst is the science
of working on a healthy planet, wi-fi is the first
to ask for the PA version's subarbor driven
into captivity's trick by the poverty of the mind,
to yourselves, for the fifth time, wait for the yellow
flames, or be hurt, as long as my kindred,
unless he has fallen asleep with the dog,
and goes through the darkness and does not fly,
the lore now clear, the teenager sending stones
and dirt away from them, this is the world;
that has to go into the garden and following it
is it not evident than in the depth of color
on the lips of the genital lips; for me
gardens and colors in mind are abstract,
cops and a thick cloud of language and
a stripper kind of painstaking leveling of the changing
the world
for the garden and the colors in a sense but in addition
to the bass flavor of the bass tongue stripper;
kind painkiller in pain tearing at her *****
and the rest of the city,
I will leave him whispering against the gun
waiting for law enforcement; a fool is sacred,
it is red where the dog sleeps, the metal shadow
with salt of the type of water for n we bring
first our care, the spirit of the love of the leaves
of a guide to all the clinics and washing:
I too,     I put on the makeup of the eyes,
and the pain and the origin of the woman,
nor is it a bad thing, like the thief in his death world
at the edge of the flesh and the winds slow spread
of moisture cleansed by the skin and breathing,
and the worse the science is by working
on a healthy planet,  it will be the first to demand
the version of the PA that is led to trick trick t
the poverty of mind
for for the fifth time, wait for the yellow flames,
or be hurt, as long as my relative if he has slept
with the dog got through the dark
by not flying, he is now clearly a teenager
sending stones and dirt away from them;
this is the world that has to go down
to the garden and get buried although
it is not apparent from the depth
of the rosy color of the pink genitals lips.

Denudation is an erosive process of breaking
and removing the rocks from the surface
of the earth. It is the wearing away
of the terrestrial land by weathering, erosion,
moving water, ice waves. Denudation is the
result of two main processes, Endogenous
and exogenous. In geology, denudation involves
the processes that cause the wearing away
of the Earth's surface by moving water, by ice,
by wind and by waves, leading to a reduction
in elevation and in relief, land forms
and landscapes. Medical Definition
of denudation: the act or process of removing
surface layers as of skin or an outer covering
as of myelin also: the condition that results
from this. In medicine denudation refers
to the loss of surface layers, such as the
epithelium. Denudation coupled with pealing
and cracking of skin gives rise to "crazy pavement
dermatosis" pattern seen in Kwashiorkor
or Kwashiorkor-Marasmus complex.

Ooah, get your finger out, get your *** in gear, split skin, stinging flesh, unhealed for all to see, my

Grandad died of ******* cancer partly, tell me, what does she know, that do they know, grey world,

some more soon, no don't, I'm going, why didn't you say, will I be worth, am I needed anymore,

who are they, don't say there names Tigz what ever I ask, blood, fire, hold me, hair, warm, don't go,

shiver, visions, sequences, pantheism, hippie, music, teaching, busking, concerts, grade eight,

sociology, not in control, keep clean, happily ever after, I love you, lonely, scared, scarred,

traumatised, ill, why couldn't I help, holiday, gone, guilty, old, compasion fatigue, failing, tired,

delusional, Josh I won't see someone do it again, you're saying words I've heard before, neither's

good Callum, no I can't step back, what did I do, sin, past, present, future, what did you say, I don't

understand, is that all it took, setting sun, please please help me!!!!!

New York City,
Said the same by masses
Yet reflected upon
Uniquely by individuals
To some it's just a place to visit
And they would never live there
To others,
New York is a haven
A shoppers delight
An amusement park
The city so nice they named it twice
Those who are lucky enough
To have been to New York
You always have at least
One crazy story
The definition of crazy being,
"Possessed by enthusiasm of excitement"
Meaning,
"This one time I was in Bushwick
And I gave a guy directions,
Then he invited me to a cannabis cup.
It was crazy."
Or there's this other definition
Of crazy meaning,
"Fooling or impractical. Senseless"
Crazy New York stories often
Associated with the second definition
Usually involve a homeless person
And urination
Whose ***** it is,
Well that's another story
I can sum up my New York
Story in a minute
If you live here
That's all strangers ask you anyways,
"Where you from friend?"
So I've rehearsed my story a bit
I've gotten pretty good
At expeditiously answering
The questions that follow,
"So what made you
Move to New York?"
"So do you go
To school for it?"
"Where do you work?"
And,
"Do you have
A cigarette?"
My answers,
"I followed a group of friends
To document their experience
As rising musicians
Eventually “Train Robbers”
Was formed and I
Shot an abundance of videos of those
Said musicians busking.
They would preform inside of
60 miles per hour subway cars,
Finish a song or two
Collect the loot
Then bail
Hence, “Train Robbers”.”
I’m mostly self-taught
In the fields of film making
Writing,
Photography,
As well as guitar,
The guitar you can tell
After months of watching
Then later re-watching
In the editing room
These musicians,
Counting up all that easy money
Stacking all the ones
Then forcefully folding
The *** of bills
Into their pockets,
I too then started to play guitar
On the subway.
And no, I don’t have
A cigarette.”

A lone flower stays
Where the broken vase lays
Busking in the sun's dying rays.
Will it thrive or will it die?
The leaves look to the light
Petals gently curling in sight

As the sun sets
There is no room left for regret
As with all that's said and done
It is not uncertain
It cannot be undone
Don't look back and carry on.

As the flower dies,  
The stars watch the moon rise.

Crouching beggar upturned cup
Singing children hunger sup
Mongrel bounds on a short chain
We are all caught in the rain

Policeman standing proud
Busking waifs are singing loud
******* lies where it was lain
We are all caught in the rain

Pigeons bobbing strut right by
Seagulls scream with glinting eye
Old man mutters 'not insane'
We are all caught in the rain

Babies hold up their palms
Mothers push them in their prams
Babies google their necks crane
We are all caught in the rain.

mourning in our mornings of the sickness of lack of love which has dawned upon us
So dark a world, the angels would frown busking at the thorns of dusk to awaken us
How women loved when they vowed to die for love
how much more when they lived to love and lived by way of loving


oh but material, this fake monster that dares go to war with the ethereal
succumbing norms embrace the watmth of the hug of the surreal
and it keeps on knocking and knocking but the ears of the people were shut and soon they would forget what it felt like to love
and man or wounders of earth would rip the purity once more overwhelmed by the magnitude and magnificence of woman
helpless and bewildered, man he turns to violence to fight for his own right

but in these bouts all these fights; they leave scars so deep that they become  orifices
and the essence of woman is darkened to sin and repels all things good
becoming a vacuum that ***** out the purity and well intentions of kind men
birthing underdeveloped zygotes that populate the thinking in society
these halflings tattooed with stereotypes and false beliefs impinging a doctrine that overthrows the goodness of the male gender


so all she will know women are the evil deeds of men and the good becomes illusive
somebody rigged this program , new versions and updates are slow to process
so the image woman has of herself is low
an image of weakness, inferiority and inadequacy
the few men who do come to love, barely make it beyond the firewall of servitude of self-righteous gods and and immortal godesses but what does this have to do with love?


How is it building up the image of the possibility of good men and the freeing of violent and dysfunctional men?
How do these systems and rituals build and culminate once more the image of divine woman?
where man was and is and shall be maleandfemale integrated


There are many religions and sacred beliefs but if God or Divine Source does indeed exist then we as descendants of It/He/She/Them; should have their encoding in our DNA and that is the scribe within our conscience
our hearts
our sincere feelings
our authentic being
our celestial roots

when women loved; men went to space during *******
men built houses as fit as temples
love and marriage were separate entities
children never left home
self was fulfilled because of the freed feminine energy of creativity and spirituality within each of us
before patriarchal systems and woman-oppressing religions
when women loved men forgot about war because to their women they were equal and complete


so now relationships fake and dysfunctional
angry men and vindictive women
children at the helm of injustice
some spend time in the garden to restore
some are in the park not to look for a parking for they have found their place on the bench
they warm the bench not to get fired up before getting onto the field but to keep warm from the coldness all around:
the lack of love and sincerity or refining tranquility

Many have forgotten how to feel for many things are manufactured like products
and people engineered like parts sold off into the market
each business protecting its culture and creed no matter who bleeds
what would Mother nature say if woman still loved?

probably cry that love is being aborted and darkness recycled so material continues to industrialize.

When women loved
love was the only deal and righteous will

Too cold and wet for busking, said she with perfect voice.
Survival, song dependent, she really has no choice.
Vocals loaded, always heard.
Appreciated by the listener, the perfect singing bird.
The song thrush and the warbler, performed together beautifully to treat the watching crowd.
(c)Livvi

When I left you
There was nothing left
For me to give

A slap on the ***
Feet firm on the ground
And that's all I had

No moon over Manhattan
No Bambi eyes on the prize
Just two hands, two feet

Ten fingers, ten toes

You'd think I'd at least
Have wrapped you
Bandana blue

Tied you to a post
And slung you over shoulder
See saw of gravitas

Instead I had empty pockets
Hole sewn into the hem
So that when money went in

It just fell out again

I think you're better off
Busking on the street
Earning pennies for thoughts

People will take pity
A gift that's more than
What I was given

But then again
What do I really know
I left my dignity behind

So long ago

I'd learnt not to trust the light at the end of the tunnel
  emotions were a bark of a dog in a kernel
which when detected I found another channel
my way of living, life has got no manual
I'd learnt to treat with suspicion the cloudy sky
from there sprouted lightning and thunder in the rain
and passion was but within freedom a camouflaged chain
I'd learnt to be my own man,to pave my way
without expecting to see another day
I'd learnt that much as she ached, patience paid
the chicken hatches twenty one if a day after her egg's laid
I'd learnt to hear what in silence they spoke
cause it was useless listening to them talk
I'd learnt to take on fate, to take charge
to pay attention,the bird's melody could be a dirge
I'd learnt to love them without blindly trusting
to see the inside beauty rather than momentary busking
I'd learnt to tell none about my hopes for my future
few thought such would be reality, not even my tutor
to just listen to my quiet and believe in God's powers
to till my garden and seed my favourite April showers
I'd learnt to smile with my teeth, as long as they're white
rather than in vain keep trying to explain my plight
to a kind who will do whatever it takes not to fathom
In a volatile electron packed world I'd always be an atom
I'd learnt , better trust instincts instead of opinions
to evade minefields and blaring missiles and canyons
I'd learnt to find pleasure in the burden of my cross
to find adventures in the risky seas of my prowess
I'd learnt to be my own man,to laugh after I've grieved
when I realised I would have lost less had I believed
By the end of the first chapter, the cruelty in the pages
I'd learnt to be brave, I'd learnt after what seemed like ages