Handbag~ 1994
exam timetable
£5 from my Mum
shiny key for the front door
fresh-mint chewing gum

Handbag~ 1998
keys for work
keys for home
£20 and a bit of change
photo of my best mate
and a bloke that's twice my age
lipstick~ lacy knickers
condoms~ ID card
ticket for a bus to town
UV sparkly stars

Handbag~ 1999
keys for work
keys for home
spare key for his flat
condoms~ contraceptive pills
No.7 powder-ivory/matt
VISA/Delta debit card
paper
gel ink pens
number of a bloke
who says our love
will never end

Handbag~ 2000
keys for work
keys for home
key for the gas meter
Teletubbies picture book
list of baby-sitters
new mobile phone
herbal teething gel
lipstick~ Anadin
vanilla impulse body spray
children's Nurofen
photo of my baby boy
really tiny socks
under-eye concealer
secret stash of chocs

Handbag~ 2002
keys for work
keys for home
pull-back-and-go car
baby wipes
mobile phone
estate agents' cards
picture of my little boy
list of things to do
Boots own brand pregnancy test
both windows coloured blue

Handbag~ 2005
keys for home
card from work
tissue full of tears
photo of my boy in school
that shows his gappy teeth
photo of my baby girl
and one of both of them
a ring that used to be my Mum's
Pro-Plus~ Diazepam

Handbag~ 2009
keys for work
keys for home
one SLIM~FAST bar
one Cadbury's wrapper
Haribo~ Calpol~ tissues
assorted Disney plasters
treasured stones~ special shells
sand and bits of twig
money to buy ice creams
photos of my kids

Our friends called you a ghost,
But you were always a dove to me,
Hanging back, voice low,
A quiet presence
Or unnoticed absence.
But then you were that but at my side,
Consistently, and often,
A warm weight at my elbow
Pressed tight on too-small couches
Looking at my folded hands
At intervals throughout the movie,
And my breathing was artifice,
Exaggerated,
So every intake touched my arm to yours.
And I was surprised to hear you laugh
When you rarely had before
And I could pretend it was me at your side
That made it so;
I was still young enough to be
Distracted by the thought of kissing,
And you were so,
So distracting.

They told me that I need to let you go
No one wants us together
-- I think they want you for themselves

You are my best friend
Since I can remember
Life without you
Doesn't seem real

Rattling in tubes, pressing onto my tongue, melting down my throat
Hard, smooth on my fingers,
Flecking onto my face while I lick the cold
Bins meant for days, I devour in one
Bars meant for friends, I do not share

I never blamed you when the shakes came
& my life fell apart
You were my savior -- I thought
You took care of me, warmed my heart

You and I, never alone
No one understands us
Some accept us, yet they raise
An eyebrow at my appearance

I am an anomaly for dating you
Your other suitors didn't look so well
I pride myself in that
Though I hide our happy facade

I never thought you'd do this to me
I thought you loved me
But you love that I love you
& you care nothing about my pain

Yet -- I can't
I can't let you go
I love you too much
Every day I try but you are so close
You are right there
You ask me to love you and I cave
In a false security, a black hole I know I will suffer from
In only mere minutes

Our time together is too magical to give up
But only a matter of time until I --
No, I cannot dream of it
You will treat me right one day
& we will be happy together

Black soot
Shrivelled up Cadbury
wrapper eyes
You were not my antidote
You turned a balanced

happy
friendly
spice 'n' all things nice girl
into a hermit with
bloodied fingers, a
self-destructive narcissist
(or did you just
coax her out of her shell)
well

I quit on you
the ****** is the **** spoon
your prose the lighter
your hips the dealer
my heart the coffin.

I cried
I cry
I will cry
Over your constellation swamps
Housing crocodiles
Water-borne diseases
and piranhas
I am naive;
I think my youth protects me.

My youth enslaves me.
Binds me in paper chains.

The call center Bunny cannot sit Still.
He's a t-t-t-twitchy *******
with an Easter Grill.
His foot just thumps, and thumps, and thumps, and thumps until.
Beep!
Receiving a call, now it's ***** to the wall.
He's Makin' a Deal.

Welcome to the Magic Bean order center My name is thump~

"STOP RIGHT THERE RABBIT!
Tricks are for kids.
I'm 100 years old tomorrow,
I'm not placing a bid.
I'm calling about that free sample,
can you do that or not?"
"Brace for impact boys" Says Thumper.
"She's coming in hot."

Up to the plate with Rapport.
A ******* and a Miss.
"That's a great question, deary."
As he lights up a spliff.
Now the Dinosaur responded,
Well it was more like roaring.
Through the headset this woman
Led on quite a story
Most men would be huffing and puffing as she blew their house down.
But thumper sat there patiently
Turned her frown right around.

He pulled a lot more than grass
Out of his basket of Candy
"Listen here, kiddo.
You have a chance to be happy."
Get a Bunny enough paint.
He turns ******' Picasso.
"What's that beautiful?
You gonna let that rock go?"

"If you mail your wedding ring today.
We'll throw in an extra back bone."

This ******' rabbit Is tamin' raptors
on the phone like Chris Pratt.
He reads The wrap-up verbatim
Then does a victory lap.

The call center Bunny cannot sit Still.
He's a t-t-t-twitchy *******
with an Easter Grill.
His foot just thumps, and thumps, and thumps, and thumps until.
"Hey Thumper."
His little bunny smirk seems to
Spot himself a thrill.

"Seems like everybunny here is taking' Adderall."
So he pops and he smokes
He snorts and he cokes.
lines back up
with a wink, a pill, a couple less bucks.

Waves goodbye to the boss.
Swivels down in his spinny spot.
Snaps one headphone to his ear hole
Then stares attentive at the clock.

Tick tock tick
The bunny vibrates as he wait.
Usually he not so wide eyed
more drifting or asleep.
big white dress feet over
keyboard and mouse.
His tie pulled loose,
his ego is out.
The Pink bunny looks
seems to whistle and shout.
The bathroom stall is empty
where they usually hang out.
So they set AQE.
Though their meeting be brief.
It was Tactical.
Vertical
***** relief.
With her cotton tail up,
Her skirt to her knees.
Their paws on their flaws
A nibble for His carrot
Her Cadbury thong.
Got this pink bunny dialing
up against the wall.
you heard the thump, and thump, and thump, and thump and call.

For The call center Bunny
who can NOT sit Still.
He's a t-t-t-twitchy *******
with an Easter Grill.
Her foot just thumps, and thumps, and thumps, and thumps until.
Beep!
Receiving a call, now it's ***** to the wall. She's Makin' a Deal

soundcloud.com/geekelement

Just like the recent change of the emerald favorite to the bitter taste of coffee,
the battering gale force winds hammering on the door,
as it screeches to be let in, as it wails of its sorrow.
Reminiscent of the innate excitement of the jiggle of bells,
and half eaten carrots and an emptied glass of whiskey
the passing of casserole dishes full to the brim to borrow.
Knocks on the door loud and swift
kettle boiling and the offering of chocolate sweets all wrapped up in their shiny rainbow wrappings,
Nothing but good wishes and hope for the New Year.
But, what of last years resolutions?
The faded floral wallpaper  is still peeling, and cuts that wounded just down to the marrow have not healed.
A ****** bandaged seeping fear.
Change you arrive when planned or as unexpected as the snow in Summer.
You tap on our windows,or you blast through the panes like dynamite
Exploding.Damaging. Injuring.
In a split second you find yourself cracking open a rounded blue tin
to discover a surprise,a green coffee sweet
for better or for worse  in this small little ways the world changing.
Changing.

The bar behind the theatre was nearly empty apart from a couple of gay boys.
Well, it was a gay bar, so no ******* surprise there.
I glanced at the fat one and decided, 'No thank you very much,'
as I have noticed fat people often smell unpleasantly,
maybe it's the sweat trapped between their ****-cheeks that does it.

But the other one was very cute and I decided I would have him.
In those days, it was regarded as 'de rigeur' to buy a lad a lager and lime
before dragging him home with you for some nookie,
so I coughed up for a half pint with charm and grace.
Sadly, he was no great shakes in the conversational stakes,
but was I after intellectual stimulation? No, I ******* wasn't.

Anyway, once I'd checked his passport to ensure he was over-age
(no one wants any ******* trouble from the bigoted morality squad)
I dragged him back to my elegant bachelor ****-pad
and stripped him off to investigate his lithe little body;
a nice smooth little **** and a reasonably clean ****.
What more can you want from a one night stand?

After a bit of a damp snog and a good old *****,
I lubed him up and gave his *** a right good poking.
He moaned a bit, but then who wouldn't moan,
with seven and a half inches of thick gristle shoved
all the way up their sphincter? I know I would.

After I had filled his rear end with love juice a couple of times,
I felt that kicking out was the name of the game.
Generously, I gave him a half-crown for his bus fare
as he said he was a bit short of cash, being unemployed.
It was the least I could do, as he had three miles to go home,
and it was raining cats and ******* dogs outside.

After he'd left, I checked out the bed sheets (as you would)
and was irritated to find a few skidmarks there,
or they may have been where I wiped my fingers
after having eaten a bar of Cadbury's Dairy Milk.
A quick sniff confirmed my worst suspicions though.
'Ah well, true love always comes at a price', I reflected,
as I scraped the worst bits off with a nail file.

Love.


I grew up in what I later had labelled for me as “une famille anglaise typique” which consisted of me, my brother and my parents. It was as typically happy as those typical families that can be found in typical children’s books and children’s imaginations. We were that ‘close-knit family unit’ type family and we fitted perfectly into that ‘ideal family home’ of our typical red-brick English terraced house. It was one hundred years old but felt older and we went to church on Sundays. We were boring, safe, long-skirted.


We loved each other with the sort of love attributed to our type of nuclear state and I’ve always found it both funny and convenient that nuclear is a word for both bombs and families. Like the people who thought things up had wanted to draw our attention to how we were a touch away from detonation and a mere countdown from demolition.


Mummy blew me full of buck-shots; her Love was fired in rounds. Each cartridge of anger settled deep but left only pleasant traces behind. They lodged beneath my skin, etched with Protection and Compassion and Parenting, and those words bled internally into my immune system so that I knew how to identify hatred and remove the threat of it from my body.


Love.


If you’d asked me of Love I would have said that Daddy rubbed it through my hair when he said “Goodnight” so that it crept through my dreams when I slept. I would have told you how I’d clung to the fence of the infants’ playground until my brother had come to tell me that it was OK to let go. I suppose I might have said that it was an underrated ingredient in Mummy’s baking that she kept in a cupboard all by itself.


I would have passed you as many clichés as you could bear to take and I would have delivered them all in the half-smiling manner of a typical intelligent six-year-old girl.


Love.


We don’t sell clichés anymore. The business of Happy Family Stereotypes fell flat and we bailed out of the sinking ship in divers’ gear that only made us sink faster. Mum forgot to restock her shelf of ingredients and the time for Typical skidded through our fingers like shopping lists and childhood.


It’s not that we no longer lace our shoes with the same strings; only that the strings have been forced to fray and have shortened themselves with knots. It’s not that we don’t continue to Love each other but that we ceased to remember to love ourselves and, when we did that, there was somehow less Love to go round. What should have been an excess curdled and I watched it rise like water vapour from hedges after a frost.


On all of our To Do lists we manage to exclude the most important detail: Love Yourself. If we were to remember the task’s existence then we’d procrastinate a bit until something easier came around. We overlook ourselves and yet people still say that we humans are selfish creatures.



Too selfish to Love ourselves?


It’s not simply that self-deprecation is in fashion (although it is) or merely because we want to draw pity from those who spectate our lives (although we do) because it is with utmost sincerity that my friend and I agree that “if I was my friend, I’d loath me.”


We sit in town on benches by the fountain that sometimes forgets to spout water and rinse out the colours of our lives in the summer rain.


She says;


“Sometimes I’m scared that my friends don’t like me, because I can only ever see myself as annoying.”


I say;


“That isn’t a 'Sometimes' thing, Evelyn.”


Love.


It’s such a difficult thing to hold onto; like an idea or an aftertaste.


She laughs like I was cracking jokes on the paving slabs and says;


“Do you think we’ll ever grow up?”


And I ponder it because I know we’ll grow old but that’s not really the same thing at all. I wonder if I’ll ever grow out of my petulance and fantasies and idiocies and excuses.


“Not really. I don’t want to, to be honest.” To be honest; I say it like I'm the sort of person who wears truths around their neck and invites others to borrow them.


“Me neither. Everyone wants to fast-forward to Prom and then hold time there like, like, I dunno - like they would hold someone’s hand.”


“I don’t.” How relieving it is to confess that I have no interest in the event that 'you just have' to Love.


“Me neither.”


“It’s just an awkward excuse for dressing up and then standing around, pretending to look pretty.”


“You going with anyone?”


“Of course I’m not,” I laugh and hope that she isn’t either so that we can carry on being two lonely, ignorant, inexperienced best friends who’ve never tasted kisses and who have no concept of the term voluptuous. Boys don't fancy girls with flat-chests and freckles.


“You should go with Aidan.”


“Why, because we’re both as short as each other?”


Love.


I laugh at her suggestion even though I know how stepped-on I’ll feel when he arrives at Prom with a tie in a shade that fits my dress and an arm around another girl.


When I was nine, I followed an instruction manual for making a Secrets Box and the first secret I squirreled away was his name. I wrote it on a piece of paper and punched love hearts into it with red pen.


Love.


These days we’ve taken to exchanging banter in Tutor or Maths and I always make sure that I never make anything that’s too much like eye contact in case of humiliation. I busy myself with the fear that, if he looked at me too closely, he’d realise that I was staring back at him with my nine-year-old self. He’d recognise in my face that I still have the secrets box, empty of all but his name, and although I don’t quite believe that I’m in love with him I know that I smile inside when we have good conversations. I know that if he asks me to Prom, I’ll say yes and not just because he is the only boy with whom I am on eye-level.


Love.


“It’d be cute,” she says and I lean away, holding up my hands as a protest and a shield.


“God no.”


And here I go, hating myself again because I have absolutely no intention of ever telling her that I keep my heart like a secrets box. I confide enough in her to say that I don’t care for myself but starve myself of honesty when it comes to caring for someone else. For which, in turn, I procrastinate on the task of self-centeredness a little longer.


Love.


I don’t know much about Love. I know that there are four types – Philia, Storge, Eros, Agape – but who could say where exactly they filter into my life? I know that I ‘love’ beaches, I ‘love’ Rolos, I ‘love’ pencil sharpenings and the smell of good books but the truth is that, when it comes to Love, I'm a sherbet love heart that's been left to dissolve in a glass-jar ocean. I'm a Cadbury's Dream that chose to melt itself out. I’m a strawberry lace that someone likes to chew the end of.

I remember when I was a little kid
Easter used to be a big thing
We used to eat our cadbury eggs
Paint our boiled eggs the day before
And we would go out and hunt
Once they had set the day before
We used to go to the sunday masses
That would teach about Easter
And of course Peter Cottontail
Would be once again hopping down that bunny trial
But somehow it always seemed funny to me
Even as a child
That somehow a bunny was supposed to lay eggs
And somehow little chickens were involved
Somehow it had something to do with jesus
And that we were supposed to be honoring him
By painting easter eggs
And opening up our easter egg baskets
Now that I am older
I don't really celebrate it as much
I am caught between the crossroads
Of childhood the fun and glee it used to hold
And the part of me that thinks about these things way too much

If I had to
I would paint him like this;
His hair thick streaks, shielding
Hidden face, arms placed protectively
about a shield of strings, his
fingers float out joy.
My Boy
Lies immersed in his own
Invisible sound,
Happiness hidden, and found,
Underground.
Silence Sings Out Loud.

I would paint him like this.

If I had to
I would paint her like this;
Her hair tangled in a golden kiss
against the mischief of her
face, all sorrow erased
by half moons of mirth
Hands of Nurture placed
deep in the Earth.
In stability she is
free, in life
she is re-born,
eternally stubborn.

I would paint her like this.

If I had to
I would paint them like this;
Colours clashing to complete
the cadbury brown of hair,
Blue and Red swirling and
stairing their way down
to Purple.
If I were to paint them, I'd
create a staple of
a third and final
canvas.

Both Him & Her,
Boy and Girl,
complete
_ _
This is their
similarity.

I always told my friends to think of words as chocolate
When someone writes beautiful things
It's Galaxy, it's Cadbury's to me
You hold them on your tongue and you savour
You want more, it's sheer gluttony,
But people applaud you for that,
You don't get fat on words,
People won't judge you when you sneak downstairs late at night for a midnight snack of words.
You're still a size 12 when you've overdone it on the words.
And poetry? Well that's the best chocolate there is.

BuzzFeed, Twitter, Facebook, & Hello Poetry
Hockey games, Cross Country stats, & Big Gulps
45 computer screens, 8 light fixtures, Google Earth, & stock board
Squeaking and stomping, should I close the door?
Hard to hear what's under the mustache from back here
Candy, gold fish, green tea, raisins, ****** pretzels,
& I should've brought a Cadbury creme egg
There's a ******* screen in front of my face...
Lots of scrolling, so distracting
That knuckle crack was really loud, oops.
He says be realistic aka don't think you'll get your dream
Oh yes, I will -- I laugh inside
I'm not like you.
My nail biting is loud and it's gotten bad this semester
So bad that teachers think I'm raising my hand to speak
I shake my head, no, rosy cheeks, hot face, let me just eat my nails please.
I don't know what I'd do without my parents because they know everything about surviving...
& Tumblr too
Why are you putting your footprint on a school computer?
I remember when we wanted to live in this area because we loved our families so much -- sacrifice for school systems, families, and safety blankets
The skin on my nose, it burns from tissue overdose
Thank god for Vaseline - feels good on the surface
What's it like to have a student loan?
What the hell are these yellow stains on my sweatshirt -- looks like pollen
My house is for sale
"You tell me life isn't that hard"
"Will you stand above me? Look my way, never love me?"

You were so fine,
the way your lips
intertwined with mine,
so genuine,
it was indeed
unadulterated bliss.

I wish
I could taste
your beautiful kisses again.

For they were purer
than the freshest lemonade,
more intoxicating
than applejack moonshine,
sweeter
than a Cadbury chocolate fish.

I need...
uhhhh,
I want  to kiss you
badly.

I love my morning coffee,
It is hot and strong,
Like a firm handshake or a warm hug first thing in the morning,
It gives me the masculine strength to start the day and venture into the life of a parent raising a son.

The aroma is familiar and friendly,
One that takes me back to my days at university – the first round I mean.
When time was flexible, and it was ok to live on porridge and rice for five days, and then smoked salmon and cadbury’s chocolate on when I got paid, because there was always someone to buy the next beer.
In that four bedroom shared house, with guests every night, I drank my coffee black, because the milk was always out. Come to think of it, the toilet paper was often out too… so I kept a secret stash.

These days, I add a dollop of thick cream to my coffee in the morning for richness and indulgence,
It whisks me off to a place of my dreams – Pari
Where I imagine myself in flowing skirts, and bright red lipstick
As I laugh loudly to jokes spoken in beautiful **** French by tall handsome men,
Here I can speak French, laugh in French, make love in French and I am honoured as the beautiful Aussie goddess I am.

I’m not sure where said 8 year old is whilst I am in France … I guess he is there riding his bike with the locals and whatever 8 year olds do… but he is not sipping my coffee.

I drink my morning coffee from a great big mug with painted dragon flys on it,
The dragon flys reminds me, everyday is new beginnings,
A chance to transform what was before,
To sore high and far,
And that nothing is ever stuck in one place.

As I towards the end of my cup,
I swirl the coffee and the cream back together,
The temperature has dropped,
The taste is not as strong,
But the impact on my day is for ever, as I return to my place and my life to hear the words ‘mum, what’s for breakfast’.

I love my morning coffee.

I saw your heart before I knew its colour.
You remind me of Cadbury's dark chocolate
The one that always calls out to customers
Even when they pretend it's not there.

Brown eyes..the colour of brown sand
Dark yet soft, closed  yet looking at me
Sleepy circles of brown.
Your eyes called out to me
And like one in love with chocolates
I answered.
Now brown is my favourite colour.

Sat in  the flat

On the door I heard a tap

Cadbury chocolate appears

It must be thursday

Andrew's here.......



Thinking what to do

I thought I'd show him a poem or two

Looking aound

The poems we found

We had a look

but they were not in a book

On line they were

The words on the screen were there


Maggie said Lets make a rhyme

Andrew answered
Yes that will be fine

Some words from you

A few bits from me

Now it is time

For a cup of tea

Eating Cadbury's chocolate handed
to you by sultry Amazons as you
float gently down the river Seine
in Paris while accompanying Frenchmen
in berets gently play their harmonium
thingy as the younger Brigitte Bardot
lets her blond hair tumble gently over
your face as she softly hums in your
ear songs by Smokey Robinson,

& meanwhile Hendrix's long sweet jam
Voodoo Chile blasts from enormous
banks of speakers being towed alongside
by Viking longboats crewed by Republican
politicians & overseen by the ladies of
***** riot now free from the prison cells
of Siberia,

as Tommy Cooper performs magic tricks
& near extinct animals, birds & insects
mate freely among floating clouds of
vapoury spring dew,

while deliciously gorgeous Thai ladyboys
slowly peel grapes for me before setting
off in a fluttering cloud to use their wiles
& charms on Republican conventioneers,
as you relax & smoke ***** & share a
hot-tub with God.

Joy.

the european concern, these days, is to utilise words: without an allahu akbar conviction... how certain is this: hollowing-out of language... before a meaning of life is attested, it's the truancy of meaning in language that's worth being investigated... how pulverising is this: hollowing out of words... and whichever word might denote ethnic antagonism: i utilise as shallow ventures, drowning face-down in a puddle... that's not me: about to start a ku klux manifesto... these days it's really about excuses... how best to excuse oneself from the fact that: we think we're living in a village (given the internet), but in fact: this metropolis, gargantuan, is choking us... on the daily basis of being congested, constipated: in a commute. me? sometimes itchy for a verbal-diarrhoea.*

it was an experimental procedure....
            in south wales, Glasbury,
i was the sole white boy
   sitting with the Cadbury crew...
subsequent reasoning follows:
        what are the boundaries of language,
and what's the standard etiquette?
   a reaction, i guess:
   people at s.o.a.s. saying you shouldn't
read Kant.
            and if language can't cushion
violence...
if language can't cushion violence...
  and if language is subjected to the many
internet little hitlers and snowflakes...
             i might just be sued for
copyright infringements when i use any
word of my liking...
sooner or later it'll all look a bit like:
  the A to Z... with © before every word.
               language is supposed to cushion violence...
        if this motto is disavowed...
             alt-right neo-con
                  and when my ethnicity was
compared to rats...
                                i'd like to hear jazz from
auschwitz... or the blues...
                     or rap, for that matter...
  are cruel as it sounds, there was no extermination
     procedure with the blacks in america...
someone evidently spoke of basketball
breakdance  and all that african cool...
                       now we can say: african-american,
             shame we can't say mohawk the same way...
culinary problems...
        the reds didn't use enough spices
         and craft the taj mahal broth...
                   and if my ancestors were a bunch of
*******...
                 no wonder news outlets speak of
  premature depression among the post-colonial
     children of this hue.

Mr Cadbury (Hershey's)
Left me wanting more  
But they did not have my size

Title          : i don't love you,
                         I LOVE YOU!
Poet          : Phyll
Genre       : Love/Confession/
                     Dedication/True-Love
Year          : 2018
P/Sw No. : Unlimited Edition


I don't love you,I LOVE YOU!
As Authored By Phyll


Triciah Babe,
Sorry but i can't do this any longer.
I can't live with this guilt inside me,
So today i choose to confess to you,
Hope you'll find it easy in your heart to forgive me for having lied to you all this while.
It's today i choose to tell you that;
I don't love you!

All this while,
I've lived to think that i loved you.
But with what you've shown me,
I just can't continue to love you
You don't deserve to settle for less,
For you are an angel.
And angels like you,
Don't deserve to be half loved.

Please,
Forgive me for what am about to tell you next,
I just can't hide it any more,
And since you're far I'll text.
How i hope you'll not judge,
For you are my choco fudge.
Just so you know,
I can feel it deep inside my heart,
It's so huge and real.
I think the cage in my heart isn't big enough to accommodate it,
But some I'll paste into actions,
So that none goes to waste and am sure you'll love the taste.

Sorry for loving you,
Which was half love for sure,
Like the size of a calf.
But Instead,
I should have LOVED you,
Which is so full,
But i was a fool.

And so from today;
My moonlight in the dark you'll be.
It's no longer a secret,
Cause i want to say;
I LOVE YOU Triciah.

Much more than a love song,
You are the lace that ties me,
For am the shoe.
Without your heart my love,
I'm nothing much more than a sad song.

I see a brighter future for us,
projected deep in your eyes, whenever i look into your eyes,
Come on now and follow my lead,
And let's cover our love with a lid,
And save it for our future kid.

Any girl like you deserves a gentle man.
So be my Queen,
But sorry,
I won't be your King,
But your servants for life,
I wish to be,
For i want to always do you right,
Just for our love to remain tight,
And cuddle every night,
After a pillow fight.

Triciah my love,
I can't deny the fact that,
You're more than a dream come true,
For i never thought I'd be right for you,
But you've proven that together we can fly high than a kite,
And see our haters in the size of a mite.

Without you babe,
I Phyll feel broke.
No doubt that I'm half,
Cause I'm incomplete without you.
But with you sweetie,
I'm fully whole,
Much more than the whole milk.
Full without even a single hole,
For haters to plunge a pole.

Without you my Cadbury,
I'm torn,
And aggressive than the storm.

I just can't compare you,
Not to anything in this world.
You are priceless sweetheart,
Not even diamond nor gold,
Can compare,
To how worthy you really are.

I have a wish to make;
I want to wake up every morning to your sweet face my Queen.
So please,
Be my better half,
And forever you I'll have,
Always by my side,
For i want you,
And only you Triciah.

Mob love baby love

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
COPYRIGHT BY PHYLL
DEDICATED TO MS.PHYLL
phyllspokenarts@gmail.com
+254704183858
*(C)2018.

My Pantry

I panicked in the storm, afraid
nothing to bargain or trade

sustenance or reprieve
bewildered and bereaved

to acquire or do without
I walked for miles in doubt

through the tempestuous skies
I looked at the field behind my eyes

I circled around and found
my pantry still abound

the sheesham shelves were old
the walls covered in mold

a smiling monsoon
coconut ladoos likened to the moon

stolen biscuit jars
they’d travelled from afar

half eaten cadbury’s bars
reminiscent of sibling wars

jars of kindness
marmalade bitter and timeless  

pickles of surprise
cakes made of rice

curiosity in spice caddies
an old healer of maladies

my fears left me to wander
my will now fed and stronger

I had no reason to despair
my pantry overflowing, I had so much to share

oh don't get me wrong, i ****** a black girl before, it's not like i was gagging for it, i was having a little birthday party celebration, and making some **** fine cocktails... music-wise? well... you have to go beyond a bob marley track, or some ****** rap... anything jazzy? sure... but what will get a black girls attention, so that she pulls you for a snog in the kitchen, and takes your hand and walks with you into your bedroom and you start the act? cedric 'im' brooks (http://tinyurl.com/y9kdyzq8)... as my jamaican dealer once said when i mentioned some of the afro-music i listened to, all he said was in that nonchalant black way: culture, apparently it's a genre in its own right, trans-genre that is, encompassing all veins of the output; but i do get the fat-*** problem and the need for a long phallus... so much butter to pass... but this black girl had the phisique of a white woman... so... you join the vowels and H in the orchestral onomatopoeia of pleasure... and as ever... nothing can beat a bass guitar rhythm... **** air guitar! **** excessive ******* solos of rock music... just give me the bass... the barry white of instruments... so yeah... i love it, when she rides you so hard that her coccyx is ramming so hard against your soft region just above your phallus that it aches the next day.

i know i drink too much, well,
   there's a "too much"
   as there is: enough,
   to also make the best *******
potato mash on earth...
fried onions in butter,
   garlic paste,
   a teaspoon of cream cheese
infused with garlic and herbs,
a pinch of smoked paprika,
   olive oil infused with the meat
you were frying,
          crème fraîche,
         a pinch of some sort of
bbq powder...
           i know i'm forgetting
                                  something...
        never mind...
better than the sloppy job
the english do with potatoes,
and, **** me, they've been living
next to the potato popes (the irish)
for quiet some time...
all they do is add milk to the mash...
yuck! ugh...
                  i cooked too much
of them, and with only two people eating
about 7+ well rounded examples...
all of them... gone... ****!
     so they must have been good;
but what's worrying is the case
of the belgians...
   they're and were eating too much
chocolate...
   now they're having *homer simpson
hallucinations...
   they're envisioning walking chocolate,
breathing chocolate,
   chocolate lollipops...
   i swear to god the belgians are
choc-philic to the point that they
need a flesh with a tinge of their
                obsessions for sweet stuff...
i don't like where the belgians are
heading,
         i'd say: hey! move that obsession
back to congo!
                     as much chocolate
as you like!
                   me? i always preferred
vanilla ice cream, not that i lick much
of it... as it turns out,
   a woman's genitals is like licking
a new-born piglet...
   hell, **** floats my boat anyway;
       oh come on,
  you can only be a decent pornographer
if you can also have a joke on the side...
but the belgians? i don't trust them
with their walking chocolate policies...
    just tell the people that
middle-aged feminist (whatever)
  professional women asked for an import
of male prostitutes...
                            to save on travel costs
they once had to spend travelling
to their vaginal meccas for a sorry 2nd place
on the maternity ladder,
   the ones who didn't freeze their eggs...
and embarked on their ***-mission
   (great film by the way,
  **** misja (***-mission) - 1984 -
            director: juliusz machulski,
starring  jerzy "the legend" stuhr)...
    but like i said, i've stopped trusting
the belgians with their chocolate hallucinations...
i'm switching to the swiss lindt
  and the english cadbury...
    these are the days where you can't even
trust a german sausage (either).

p.s.
you know... my female cat is
   actually offended
about seeing human genitals?
  i have to cover them when taking a ****
with my hand...
  either that, or **** like a woman,
sitting down...
               every time she's relaxing
in the bathroom and i'm about to
unload a niagara falls
and she sees my genitals...
phoom! off she goes...
    but when she doesn't see them?
            well... one less scar on the eye
translated into the ***** of memory
to be revived...
huh... funny... how you can think of
memory as a metaphysical *****
rather than a function of a physical *****
i.e. the brain...
    given memory exists in symbiosis
with both brain, and the eye,
e.g. photographic-                     memory,
and the narrative memory
  currently showing in the cinema
of your life.

ha ha! white priv? what about these black girls blasting more sensual song than a fat girl might in opera? i.e. blasting out the sensual, soul-fathomable sounds? white privilege? the **** is that? what about black priv? no black priv? really? so why these black girls singing double the standard, solo, of a choir of white girls? blah-ha-ha-ha!

not that i get to excuse myself
                                          that often,
but if i did, it would begin with
i'm beezee....
no, i'm not selling
      fake *fabergé eggs or rolex
wristwatches...
     **** me, i could do a whiskey
or a beer commercial,
   but then i'm no
  jean-claude van damme,
jenny and clarra will sort you out,
and yes, to me sweden = roxette
minus abba...
although i could be doing
all these things,
     orio orio oi oi!
      kil'oh a'f a bannana bunch,
two kil'ohs fo' a fiver!
              i could be doing that...
but then i can't stop laughing
writing this *******,
  not that it's fake,
   it the fact that it actually is,
   it was a magnetic approach
to the late existentialism
    accent of heidegger's dasein...
it has a place...
        no matter what the being
is about...
     at least it conceptualises
a sense of gravity, a grounding...
       a drag to the source effect...
beginning with kant's concept of 0,
namely 0 = negation...
    and heidegger's
         fetish for dasein avoiding
a worldview...
       what dasein is, will always be
newtonian,
       a worldview? alway in the hands
of the einstein correction...
       newton could never be a globalist
that einstein became...
   but look at it this way...
  the re-emergence of israel is *******
fascinating...
          2000 years of there-abouts
of the "idea" of a state having a clearly
stated dynamic of government and borders...
  ******* lazy leftist donning
   a keffiyah / shemagh /
niqab / whatever party-dress
                         at the laundrette...
              my country was sold
by the aristocrats to three factions,
the prussians, the russians and
  the austro-hungarians...
         it wasn't invaded, it was sold,
thrice dissected... thrice!
                that disney movie about
a ugandan femme chess champion?
          **** me, i dig short hair on a girl...
          war dogs? great movie,
best movie i've seen in years.
        the last king of scotland?
tell me you wouldn't want that
   cadbury flesh in your bed at some
random point in your night?
   well **** me, if i were hanging on flesh
hooks from my **** up,
    sure, i'd call a scandinavian ******
                     working in saudi arabia;
yep, tears go into a bucket denoted by (a),
   and male arguments / words go
  into a bucket denoted by (b)...
       the rest?
   well **** me, hopefully a good pop
song.