The retainer where she was put
Was made of concrete. My father told me they had
Dug the grave first, then poured the concrete in, waited for
It to dry and harden, then hammered in six
Circular spikes in the four corners, two on either side
Of the middle. They lifted the concrete cast out with a crane.
My dad was going to be charged 300 dollars a day for the rental,
But because of the circumstances, Home Depot let us have it for free.

-

Where was she?
Where had she gone?
Would I see her face again?
Would she want me to
Meet her on the other side of the river?

-

I answered my cell phone.

"Make sure to bring flower's."
She had been crying. Her voice wavered the way sun light
Does on moving water.

"Make sure to bring flowers," she repeated, "And
That you wear what your father and I bought you."

I nodded my head with the receiver pressed up against my ear.
We both let out a sigh. My mom hung up. I put my phone in my back pocket.

-

Lately, I had been seeing a shrink about repetition. He liked to use the word cycle.

"Everything is repeated," I would tell him.

"Life is a cycle," he'd disagree so to get me talking.

"Can cycles be identical?"

"Technically not. Some cycles are extremely similar, but no two cycles are
Completely the same. Are two people's lives ever exactly the same?"

"I wouldn't know. I don't know that many people. Maybe."

"You know lots of people, Camden. You have told me about many of your friends."

"Are we talking about the seasons?" I asked, changing the subject, "Like fall, winter, spring, summer? We are born, we live, we die, and we are born again?"

"That's a very natural way of looking at it."

"I know it is." I inhaled deeply, swallowing air and wondered what time it was.

"If you are so sure, why look for validation from me?" He liked this one, I could
tell. I imagined him shopping for clothes and then exploding in aisle 16 because of a sale on jeans.

"The word cycle is used by people too afraid to use the word repetition. Everything is
Repeated for the next generation, the next group, the next of the next of the next. We shift things
Around, give things to one another to shift life to make it look different, but, things remain the same. Everything contains the primal function we were all doing and living from the very beginning, only now, there is more of a separation. Music is still music, words are still words, paintings are still paintings, love is still love, death is still death, only done differently and more intensely."

"We are talking about man furthering technology because we, as people and creatures, are
Statistically more prone to flee than fight?"

"Why do you think it has caught on so quick?" I touched both
Corners of my lips with my tongue and suddenly realized I hadn't eaten breakfast.

"It is a theory," the psych nodded, "A theory with, I am sure, many
Palpable facts you could make a very nice report with to prove...something." He
Was at a lost for words and I felt guilty that my mom was paying him $75 an hour.

"We are very split. There are too many of us. Too many hands spinning the china."

"Who is we Harry?" The psych hadn't looked up from his pen and pad of paper, until now. I could
Tell he was annoyed with me either because he was making no progress or because the session
Had just begun and I was already digging into him.

"Culture. The government. You, me, my dad, my mom, the taco bell cashier, the geniuses at Apple computers, a paper weight, my dead sister. We're all apart of these shifts, all putting in a certain amount of energy and lies to keep the protection of the projection going. The question I keep asking myself is: do I want to use my strengths to be apart of this cycle or not?"

His eyes flared open for a moment like he'd swallowed a firefly, not at the question I had posed for myself, but from what I would soon see was from the mention of my sister. He had something.

"I was notified by your mother that you may not want to talk about your recently deceased sister. Is It O.K. if I ask you some questions about her?"

I was leaning forward on the couch with my hands clasped in between my legs. The psych had looked up at me now. He was sweating at the top of his thin hairline. Observing that I was staring at his building perspiration, he, trying to be nonchalant, took out a thin, white napkin from his grey shirt pocket and dabbed the top of his head. The napkin looked like cheap toilet paper. I'd have offered him some water, but I had no water to give and I didn't know where the sink and cups were to give him any. I figured he did - it was his office - so I asked him for some. He pointed me in the direction of the bathroom. I got up and found a stack of paper cups. I poured myself a cup and went back to the couch, but instead of leaning forward, I sat back, relaxed, and let the expensive leather couch take the weight I had been carrying away.

"So," the psych maintained cooly, "Would it be alright if we were able to discuss your sister?"

I lifted the paper cup over my head and the psych's eyes, after I poured the water over my hair, my face, and clothes, was a mixture of what my mom's eyes looked at the funeral, defeated, confused, and with a loss of faith and hope. My father's eyes had only held hate, anger and the need to lash out at someone, but the only someone that would have fit the bill would have been God.

"Sure," I answered, "Let's talk about my sister."

-

I finished drying myself in the car. The psych had let me keep the towel.
I leaned out the window to look at myself in the side mirror. I looked fine.
Presentable. Accountable. Like I had been through something where I had
Faced my soul. Like I had used and abused my emotions. There was comb in my glove compartment, so I took it out and rushed it through my damp hair. Slicked back. The sun
Was out, no clouds, burning up the inside of my car. That taste that comes after
Finishing something that's supposed to do you good didn't come. I was left with an unsure hand.
Putting my keys in the ignition, I turned them, and felt the engine rumble in front of my legs.
The sun sat in the sky like a lazy hand and I had nowhere else to go but home.

-

"Let's go to the river today," my dad said over coffee and two over easy eggs on top
Of burnt wheat toast. "I'll drive and you and your sister can sit in the back and sing."

I looked over at Ally. She was gazing into her fruit bowl she had prepared for
herself because dad didn't understand the concept or how to make it. The lamp light above us
reflected in the smooth apricot yogurt and the flecks of granola scattered on top
looked like beige, jagged rocks. My dad's offer hung in the air and neither
of us bit the lure. I had just woken up and was unable to speak clearly, a decent
excuse. Ally was simply choosing to ignore him.

"What you think there Ally?" I asked her. I sipped my coffee. It needed more cream. I got
U, got it and brought the carton to the table.

"We can take the truck down there and load the back with the fishing poles and tackle
And inner tubes. We haven't...done that...in a long time," he said, chewing his food as he spoke.

Ally poked her fruit bowl with her spoon, silent.

"What you think, Cam?" My dad was desperate. He knew I'd say yes.

"Sure. I've got no plans this weekend."

"No schoolwork?"

"It can wait till Sunday. Only math and some reading."

"Ally, what do you think?" my dad asked, leaning over to her. I could see he was
Trying to be as courteous and gentle with her as he knew how to. I felt bad for him.

"Sure," she muttered, "That sounds like fun." I could barely hear her, but somehow,
I could tell she sounded happy.

"Perfect," my dad smiled, "We'll pack the car up Friday,
Drive up Saturday morning early, camp one night, then get back Sunday afternoon." He
Took a long sip of his coffee and swished it around in his mouth, then dug
His fork into the dry toast and ran his small steak knife over the eggs. A silent pop came from
The egg and the light orange yolk spilled out. "Perfect," he repeated, "Just great."

Ally poked a grape from her fruit bowl and dipped it into the yogurt.
I took another sip of my coffee and looked up into the fan, spinning above us.
We were going to the river.

-

"Your sister turns five today," my mom told me, "And that means
I want you to be on your best behavior."

I nodded, unsure what the point of a birthday was. I had had one before, or at
least I thought I did, and all I remembered was that I got presents and the colorful balloons
and the cake we all ate with fire kind of floating and burning above it. Somewhere
in that moment I remember thinking that the cake was going to catch on fire, then they, everyone,
some that I knew and some people I had never seen before, yelled and shouted to
blow the fire out, so I quickly did, but not because it was for a wish, which I later found out it was supposed to be for, but because I truly thought the cake was going to catch fire and they wanted me to take care of it. At that point, I was unsure what it meant to be alive or why to celebrate it all.

"This is her day, Camden," my father told me, "So I want you to be happy for your sister."

"I am," I said. I was wearing my favorite white and blue striped t-shirt and
New shoes that my mom had bought me for the party.

"Sometimes you have to think of other people," my mother continued, "And today is one
of those days. I don't want any crying because you didn't get any presents or that none of your
friends are at the party. There are going to be a lot of Ally's friends there, but not many
of your's...do you understand?"

"Yes, Mom."

"Do you understand, Cam?" My father repeated. His skin was the color of a burnt
pancake and he smelt like stale sugar and sun tan lotion. He was in front of me and was
holding a thin magazine with a man in a boat holding up a fish on a line on the cover.  

"Yes, Dad," I said again. I was hungry. I wanted mac n' cheese, my favorite food.

I had been on the floor, laying on my stomach watching Ren and Stimpy. They were standing in front of the television and I remember trying to wish them out of the way. Behind them were two, large bay windows where three palm trees stood in a row like tropical soldiers. I could see there was no wind because the three of them stood still, as if posing for someone. Their leaves were bright green, a mixture of the neon green Jello I used to love to eat and the orange Jolly Rancher my dad would always have in a tiny tray in the middle of the dining table. My mother hated having them there because it always tempted Ally and I, but he never moved it until he moved out.

"Do you like your show?" my mom asked, turning to see what I was watching.

I nodded, absently. Ren was licking Stimpy's eye because he was complaining about having
an eyelash in there. Stimpy was completely still and smiling like he does - dumb and content.

"Interesting..." my mother trailed off. She walked to the kitchen behind the couch and
Opened up the pantry for something. "You hungry, Camden?"

"I'm starving," my dad said, "Let me go check on Ally in the bedroom. She should be up
from her nap."

I got up from my stomach and sat back on my legs, "Do we have mac n' cheese?" I asked.

"Let me check."

She reached up for the cabinet over the stove where I could never reach and
Opened it. I rose slightly up from where I was sitting to see if I could see the glorious dark blue and orange package, but wasn't able to see over couch. I hovered there, still like a humming bird.

"You're in luck," I heard her say, "We've got one box left."

"Yay!" I screamed and got up, running into the kitchen.

"But," she smiled, stopping me, "You'll have to share it with your sister."

"No! I don't want to! I always have to share."

"What did we just talk about Camden?" she said, lightly stamping her foot.

I tried to remember, but couldn't. I shrugged.

"You need to learn to share, Camden. You also need to listen better when your father and I are talking to you. You and your sister are going to know each other a very long time and I want you to learn how to share now, so you two can be happy in the future."

"The future," I asked, "What's that?"

She paused, then said, "It's a time," she paused again, "Ahead of us."

"Do we know where it is?"

"Not exactly," she sighed.

"What's it look like?"

"No one really knows. People can only imagine it."

"Is it very far away?"

She opened the top of the blue and orange mac n' cheese box and poured the dry macaroni into a large silver ***, lifted the faucet, and let it run inside for five or seven seconds. She placed the *** on an unlit burner and turned to look at me. Her eyes looked far away and right there with me.  

"Closer then you think," she said and turned the burner on.

-

I turned into the taco bell parking lot. There was something I was trying to remember that was in my trunk, but I couldn't recall the picture. A haze blew over the windshield that was a mix of heat and wind; I wished to be somewhere else, someone else, someplace else, but, there I was, sitting there underneath the sun, like everyone else. If I was able, I would have unlocked the door to my car and opened the door and walked out - but - there was something else lingering underneath my fingernails, something I couldn't name.

"Two tacos," I said into my hand, "And a water."

"Pull to the window," the voice buzzed over the muffled speaker.

"Yes," I said through my split fingers.

In front of me, over a patch of clean cut green grass and a yellow, red, and orange Taco Bell signature sign, was a fresh gas station with a willow tree *** near the front entrance. He had a sign that hung around his neck that read Juice Please - Very Thirsty. How I knew this was because I had seen it every time I had been asked to fill up my dad's car every other Sunday. I had never given the tree a dollar, yet, I felt that I owed him something. I tried to pull up to the window, but my clutch was grinding and a cloud slunk overhead. I was tired and only wanted to eat.

"That'll be a two twenty-five," the voice said through the thick, clear glass.

"Yes," I said to myself, digging into my wallet for three dollars.

I ****** the three onto the thick plastic platform. A quick sweeping plastic brush pushed the bills toward the asker, and the bills were gone. I had no food. I had nothing. My money was gone and all I had was a gurgling car in front of me and an empty front seat beside me. A pair of clouds waded by my front shield window. A shadow drew itself out in front of me like a **** model. A beep. Sudden and behind me. There was sound. I looked over my shoulder and a black  2013 Cadillac was sitting there, windshield tinted grey, the driver a shadow. I was unsure what to do...so I pulled forward six inches, hoping the offer would be enough. I wasn't in the best neighborhood.

The window to the left of me slid open. An arm erupted forward with a plastic bag,
"75 cents is your change."

The hand dropped three quarters next to the plastic bag. I grabbed the bag with the two tacos and three quarters and quickly wound up my window. The face in front of me was a dangerous blur: smiling, frowning, not caring either way what happened to me next. The hands had gobbled up the three dollars and I was happy to see it go. Who needed money? I tossed the plastic bag onto the passenger seat and sped off two blocks for my grandma's house. Salvation. The holy land. A place with free hot sauce and two dog's that were stolen without paper's. Eden.

-

"What are you learning right now?" I asked Ally.

She hesitated, then said, "Something to do with science." She paused," Lot's to do with rock's."

"Rocks?" I stammered, not remembering a time when I learned about rocks in school, "What kind of rocks?"

"I don't know," she grinned, looking up at me, "All kinds."

I laughed and kicked a stone into the river. The sun was out and reflected on the water like an unpolished diamond. We had grown up a quarter mile away, but still, it felt foreign to us.

"I like it. There's some things you could see that you would never think to read about it in books."

I had read plenty off books. Most, I took little from, but Ally, I could see, had taken plenty.

"What are you doing in school?" Ally asked me.

"What do you mean?" I

From the Thames, I snake along the black
Serpent taking the Tube, London’s rack
On the Northern Line, the night lays ahead
I remember the town’s name at the top of my head

Camden is like a classy underground broad
Come along before you’re again on the road
I was a chick when I first came to Camden Town
At eighteen, now a woman I’m downtown

From gothic ***** clothing to Hare Krishna
Camden is kind of like Gingsberg’s California
It’s shabby and mystical, silly and lyrical
When I’m there please don’t give me a call

Camden is like a drunk crow looking for Poe
In between nails and leathers that glow
You would grab a dude and he’ll be beneath
Jack the Ripper roaming at Hampstead Heath

My New England, Camden was and is
Not because of bars and hashish drags
Camden possesses underneath her rags
The sweet scent of a quirky release

Deliciously deviant divine
Line up at the looming line
The black Northern Line inked
All throughout London, linked…

December 20, 2015 9:26 pm
London, Victoria

“I thought you said that they would come. “Ray said it with a sigh.
Outside the ballpark Chaos reigned as another city died.
At Camden Yards a game was played; no fans were let inside.
Terry sadly eyed the scene and fought the urge to cry.
For baseball represents the best that America could be,
until hatred triumphed teamwork, forging chains of misery.
The inner harbor is in flames and they’ll not soon subside
The bitter angels of our nature ruled as another city died.
In time the final out was made and the players left the field.
The home team lost, no save was made

And no one’s wounds were healed.

On 3/2/2016 at approximately 10:15 a.m. I was threatened by Bryan Pearsall as I was exiting the building where I reside. He made threats to me which contained language that no one should have to hear. I ignored his threats and continued on my daily routine. I proceeded to the 7-11 to purchase a cup of coffee. As I was walking out of the 7-11 into the parking lot Mr. Pearsall again approached me, making threatening remarks. I then noticed a police officer on State Street. I asked the police officer for assistance in this matter and he (the officer that was not wearing a name tag) refused to offer any help. I continued on to Main St. Walking down Camden Street I noticed another police officer on the other side of Main Street. His car was parked on Camden St blocking off traffic to Camden St. as there was construction going on that day. When I shouted out the Suspects name to confront him. The Suspect Bryan Pearsall then entered the Gateway School to hide an opened container of alcohol. The police officer who also was unidentifiable due to not displaying his name tag exclaimed "I'm not getting involved" and went in to his patrol car slamming the driver's side door. I then proceeded to enter the Johnson Public Library. I then used the computer's word processor to type up an affidavit. About twenty minutes later. The police officer that was blocking off Camden Street entered the library. He said that "that guy you tried to turn in is a cop. Watch what you say to cops"! I replied with "If he's a cop then I'm Corporal Christ! I'm pretty sure the police department wouldn't hire a drunken ******. "Oh" the unidentified officer continued "how do know THAT?" "Because he's lived across the hall from me for the past five years and I know from the drinking and puking and stupor that he is in fact a drunk ******." I retorted "Well, he's a cop" the officer replied, and then left the building. About a minute later, the suspect Bryan Pearsall entered the JPL. He stood about eight feet from me and stated that he was a cop. The woman that runs the circulation dept. overheard him and stated "Bryan Pearsall you get over here you ain't no cop and that officer is in trouble." (I thank the stars for honest people like Ellen.) After   I typed up my report, I headed towards the Hackensack Police Department. At that time I felt a little hungry and stopped for a late breakfast at the lucheonette. As soon as I finished eating I went to the front desk of the HPD to turn in my report. Not only did the Desk Seargent spat on me, he stated that he was not interested in helping scuzbags and continued spatting on me. I think now that I have no other choice but to take the law into my own hands. If the law won't help me, there is always the old fashion way to receive JUSTICE.

Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day,
Myriad summer colours of an abstract view,
Curling up between and under the far away.

I’m lost in the mix, a melting *** full of play,
My own shade of Dark, a subtle blended hue,
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day.

Beautiful retro splendour, asking me to stay,
Flower in her hair, white petals, edged blue,
Curling up between and under the far away.

Smiling, she raises my soul from feet of clay,
Dark and Stormy cocktail easing me through,
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day.

Cuban rhythm dancers give a riotous display,
Bohemian sight and sound unleashed on cue,
Curling up between and under the far away.

We sample dreams from an enchanted tray,
Allowing hearts, minds, and spirits to renew,
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day,
Curling up between and under the far away.

©Paul M Chafer 2015

AY, 'twas here, on this spot,
In that summer of yore,
Atalanta did not
Vote my presence a bore,
Nor reply to my tenderest talk "She had
heard all that nonsense before."

She'd the brooch I had bought
And the necklace and sash on,
And her heart, as I thought,
Was alive to my passion;
And she'd done up her hair in the style that
the Empress had brought into fashion.

I had been to the play
With my pearl of a Peri -
But, for all I could say,
She declared she was weary,
That "the place was so crowded and hot, and
she couldn't abide that Dundreary."

Then I thought "Lucky boy!
'Tis for YOU that she whimpers!"
And I noted with joy
Those sensational simpers:
And I said "This is scrumptious!" - a
phrase I had learned from the Devonshire shrimpers.

And I vowed "'Twill be said
I'm a fortunate fellow,
When the breakfast is spread,
When the topers are mellow,
When the foam of the bride-cake is white,
and the fierce orange-blossoms are yellow!"

O that languishing yawn!
O those eloquent eyes!
I was drunk with the dawn
Of a splendid surmise -
I was stung by a look, I was slain by a tear,
by a tempest of sighs.

Then I whispered "I see
The sweet secret thou keepest.
And the yearning for ME
That thou wistfully weepest!
And the question is 'License or Banns?',
though undoubtedly Banns are the cheapest."

"Be my Hero," said I,
"And let ME be Leander!"
But I lost her reply -
Something ending with "gander" -
For the omnibus rattled so loud that no
mortal could quite understand her.

Camden Lock
and the sky is
piercing me
grey again
And that Otis song is
playing in my head again

and there's a woman
on the street,
she's singing,
that change is gonna come
that a change is gonna come
again

And I can't speak English.
I can't speak French.
I can't sing or move my
feet
because she's afraid to die
and the night is getting
darker
and I am getting colder
and so am I,
so am I

and the underground
has stopped its roar
and the orange lights
are holding on
and the rain is trickling in the gutters
and so am I,
my darling,
so am I.

As the light made islands on the water,
ethereal bubbles frozen with warmth,
tucking tired beaks beneath wings, pigeons saunter,
into sleep, on tesselated petals, going forth.
That summer aura which sparks from you and thrums
moving dials to a sanguine solstace in me.
Hitting cold skin, the blood rush is autumn;
cathartic capillary trees with loose fingers and red leaves
and in these veins speeds my guttural london estuaries,
to syncopate their tide beats with yours.
Those mediterranean wine filled arteries
will encompass my imperfections to pearls.
From my idealist sonnets hearts you come
fixed on air, a changeable paint that can't run.

Like newborn fern fronds you unfolded your words
cut with castanet syllables peppered in.
Sentences ushered on as pacified herds
breathed out plumes, rippled fire, wind-thinned.
I then learned a beauty untamed, is a beauty rare.
Those eyes indeed are coffee dewdrops pierced by sun.
Those lips are pronounced like unbroken waves that tear,
on the cusp of unspoken words braced for freedom.
Core bright, i see the rose through the street's ornaments.
From the slight rise of your nose to those angular cheekbones,
further a picture of stunning complex arrangement;
identity of locked cogs, in you, are the pieces of home.
Islands on the canal of time; forever moments un-faded.
We aren't seen in a new light without becoming more illuminated.

I can smell ****, history and love
filling these vibrant streets at 3am.
Our caramel coated porcelain skin,
glows wildly under street lamps.

I’ve been hung, drawn and quartered,
by expectations and false notions of me,
but I’m past all of that, for now anyway,
as we haunt borrowed corridors.

We drink in our surroundings while we
shed our mundane bourgeois stresses,
and silent chrome giants watch us dance
around still horses to absent music.

“Mister Whitman, I am thankful that you have consented to give me some of your time so that  I can finished my article about you for the Gazette.”

“Please, Call me Walt. Everyone else does.”

The famous poet is just a little shorter than myself, his hair and beard grown quite Grey..  His study is modestly furnished. While he is certainly comfortable there is nothing about this room that speaks fo great wealth.

“Do you enjoy living here? It must be so calm compared to New York and Washington.”

“Camden is a good enough place to retire.  After all that I have witnessed, I am content to rest in my modest little house. The Widow Davis, my friend and housekeeper, keeps the place neat enough and permits me to keep on at my work. Sadly, the words no longer come easily to me. For you see, Son,  I had a mild stroke, some years ago, and afterwards the voice of my muse which used to sing loudly to me became a still tiny voice that I had to be very attentive to hear. Most of the time my muse is drowned out completely by the noises of human existence. Camden has grown considerably since the War Between the States. Even before Mother died, it was on its way to becoming a modern town, although not so grand as Philadelphia or Washington.”

“Walt, I’ve brought you and your guest some coffee and a Couple of those Butter cookies that you love.”.
“Thank you, Mary, that is most kind.”
“I’ll leave them here beside your desk on this little table. I am going out now to visit Anne Walker and I have to make a trip to the store for tonight’s dinner.”  I should be back in a couple of hours.”
“I probably don’t actually need the butter cookies, but I was brought up to be polite. At least with Mrs. Davis out and about this afternoon, it will give us quiet to finish up our interview. The light on these winter afternoons fades a little after Four O’clock and I find myself growing tired and sleepy along with the dying of the light. In my whole long life I have never been a man who loved winter. I have always been one to rejoice at the coming of spring.  I would make an exception only for the war years. During the War the killing slacked off a bit in the Winter, except in 62’ when that fool Burnside attacked St Mary’s Heights and ordered so many to their deaths.
Our hospital in Washington was busy after Fredericksburg. All those fine young men, boys really, some missing an eye, most a limb. The worse were the ones who were gut shot and a long time dying. For them there was nothing that we could do except to offer them some Morphine for the pain.”
“How did you get involved in the abolitionist movement?
“For several years after I left off teaching on Long Island, I edited and published newspapers. The work took me, for a time, to New Orleans before the war. The sight of the slave’s misery on the auction blocks and the way they were treated by their masters convinced me that Slavery had to end. I left that place and came back to Brooklyn to publish a Freeman’s Journal. That is what lead me to become a Republican and support Mr. Lincoln in 60’.”

“How did you become involved in the War effort as a volunteer Nurse?”

I was a abolitionist before and during the war. At first, I made it my mission to visit the wounded in the hospitals.  When it was my brother who was wounded, I travelled to Washington to nurse him back to health. It was there that I found my true calling; tending to the Union maimed and dying. I was not formally trained in the caring profession of Nursing but I learned by watching and then doing. I became proficient in tending to the sick and relieving the suffering of those about to die.   I have seldom been commercially successful with my writing, other than the one edition of Leaves of Grass which enjoyed strong sales after the war and earned me enough to buy and maintain this townhouse.  During the War and for several years afterward, I clerked in the Department of the interior.”
“How did it come about that you left the department?”

“It turned out that my immediate superior was not a fan of my poetry, and, once he found out that I was the same Walt Whitman who was the author of that scandalous book of verse; my employment was at an end.”   “It was all for the best, really. Mother was doing very poorly by then and my brother was not up to the task of caring for her.”  

“Do you think you will ever publish another book of verse?”

I will certainly try. It is just that as I told you previously, the words don’t come as easily as once they did.  For those ten years before during and after the war I was on fire with the pure bright flame of inspiration”. Now I don’t know if the world changed or I did. Both, I suspect.”

“The passions that excite us when we are young grow cool. They become replaced with tiredness and resignation.”
“Well Walt, for me your verse never grows old. It has been an honor to me you and I hope you enjoy my article when it appears in the Gazette.” “If I can successfully decipher my shorthand, I should have enough for a thousand words.”

Mister Whitman bade me farewell at the door.  As it turned out we would never meet again, unless it be on the streets of Heaven. His housekeeper found him the next morning.  He had passed in his sleep, perhaps from another stroke.  My editor helped me redraft my article and it became the obituary of a great American. The memory of our brief meeting remains seared in my memory.

when they write about existence i just think of:
blinking out of every instance -
snapshots of life, vibrating to
a culmination of sounds
preserved in the Bermudas,
or simply the overhaul of νεως
anywhere with internet access
and twitter account...
existential arguments: each
and every insistence exaggerated
and later gagged on...
just like i think of theatre and poetry:
i think of theatre as poetry on
the menopause...
theatre is poetry on menopause,
the last remaining depth of continued life
having a chance in the Darwinian cold
of absentee hearts and economic cheese
graters with broken bows playing
out-of-tune violins...
when they write the word existence,
i can't take them seriously,
they later come up with the somehow
happy alternative of what's called life...
such sad happiness when blue in green
opens up so lazily like 5 a.m. on the
Camden High Street in winter,
when it's still Armageddon bleak black
of ghosts chasing shadows into a
revenge against the grave...
some say you never really turn 30 when you
haven't bought Miles' Trafalgar Sq.
prior, meaning you lost out on being 30 when
you turn 40, and so on and so forth
in that Zeno paradox of two steps forward,
three steps back...
yes, the Grecian augmentation of the w...
less sharpened edges...
but still a Oui oh you... then a flamingo flamenco
with the teasing all blues...
i don't know...
whenever they write existence seriously
to later want it to underpin life as such,
i take their serious offensive on creating a
membrane of cushion and powdering and repeat
their seriousness, leaving life aside to
do its method on all of us:
existence - out of every instance... based or
biased as out every instance, the pickled gherkin
perseverance, persistence (dictionary mode),
out of every instance... a slaughtered bull
for pagan sacrifice meaning: insistence;
thus ex- instant into re- instant
i.e., out of (every) instant into a repeated instant -
that which we all keep secret,
that speciality of ours we do solo to keep
the nerve, to keep the homage, like
some did toward Catalonia... but in our own
very special way... it's not such a big
foreboding word after all...
it's rather mandible when the scalpel hyphen
cuts it open... just words, such words
that allow such things to take place...
cut life open... well... you end up with strife...
and that's what it is...
but at least cutting up the word existence provides
a bed, a cushion, some covers...
perhaps because of its etymology bias...
life is hardly up there in the etymological arithmetic
times table... cut the word life open... and you
get no game of words, no play, just the end result:
strife... but i would hardly attach
too much seriousness with the word existence,
as i already said but haven't:
the Cartesian maxim is subjective... it personally
relates a man's translation of life as pleasurable
with a pleasurable experience of thought alongside it...
true to say: physical exertion didn't give him
the biblical presence of work - harder for the mind
to make a sandwich that isn't there than for
the body to make a sandwich that is there...
hence the revision of Descartes: not that he was wrong,
he fooled everyone with a subjective statement
like an artist might create a piece of work...
because aren't there people out there that
experience the joys of life, but not that of thought?
while there are also those who experience more
joy from mere thought than from life itself
that joy of probing someone into action?
there are equal numbers of each...
and so translating thought into being he revealed
to me how translating ex- into re-
we can attribute a variant (metaphysical)
interpretation of the nadir of Einstein's parabola,
since we're no longer dealing with Newton's vector...
translating ex- to therefore mean re-,
we seek to guide ourselves toward that one
instant where all passions are lost...
or to put it more bluntly... ever watch the non-thinking
side of this? no? are you sure?
to translate ex- to therefore mean re-, never seen it?
never heard of drug addicts?
as in my case... it's not the addiction per se,
it's what i do with it that's leveraging me
to continue... i could have succumbed to
william styron's darkness visible -
but you see... i write while intoxicated...
the relaxation technique works simultaneously with
a chance to stretch my legs, and do what
the devil would have said regardless:
i make word of idle hand that would have
lifted a hammer... fair enough to the devil...
the devil makes work of idle hands...
well, idle hands make the devil into a caressed cat
when the mind excuses itself from idleness
that the body assumes, to later turn into a poker match.

London,
Beating heart of England,
Charismatic time-capsule thrumming to its own rhythm,
History looming, akin to massive waves splashing down,
Drenching all, the unwary, the scholar, soaking it up,
Savouring every scintillating droplet, blissful, hopeful,
Weaving through lives, changing with every moment,
Variety of race and creed, intermingling, jostling, noticing,
Sharing sight, sound, colour, scents, smiles and frowns,
Pulsing soul of people, thriving and alive, buzzing with spirit,
In Camden, easy-going, a friendly riot of textured-hazy-peace,
Artful structures of Belgravia, magnolia temples of affluence,
Lauding architectural finery while mere mortals pass through,
Mind swinging through centuries, flowing along the river artery,
Bridges carrying us home, keeping their own dark secrets,
Cranes rising high, creating modern palaces, new beginnings,
Old lives wreathed in the foggy past of legendry deeds,
Embellished beyond reality, ghosts crying out, warning,
We can never own this city, never know this city, not really,
Guardian dragon allows us entrance, pours herself upon us,
Takes our love, progresses while we observe,
All left behind, knowing, feeling, sensing,
We are but shadows in her Light,
Dust on her famous streets,
Blessed to know her,
To breathe her,
Love her,
London.

©Paul Chafer 2014

As I walked down, on my way
back from Camden Town- some sights I saw.
The squabbles on the streets,
the dancers with two left feet-
I saw the smokers blow rings,
upon cobbled stones surrounded by courts-
like kings.

Then the rain came pelting,
yet the old lady kept belting.
Out her soft tune.
The cats came to listen,
but the rain kept on glistening
till shelter was found.
What a day to go missing-
even if the downpour's *******
on my way home from Camden Town.

-Opening-

Some things are part of you
And yet you have no control.
Certain memories and habits are -
And my sister was just so.

On the morning of the funeral
Mum gave me a mint, a polo
I ****** it for a while
And felt the ‘o’
Dissolving into a thin hoop
Of mint on my tongue.

And somewhere in there was the memory
Of other moments spent
******* the ‘o’s of meditation
Years, sometimes decades ago.

There was no narrative to these memories
Save me
And during those moments that narrative
Could not see itself,
Or the relative position of its parts,
But moments do not need narrative
To be complete
Like Bryony,
I’ve found life to be
Oftentimes bad for me,
Like confectionary
And cut flowers
Short and sweet.

-1-

Bryony is now a rose,
But once upon a time
She was a mischievous
Kink in a hose.

At Kingswood Drive,
Ben and Bry on the same side:
“Daniel – help us out! The water’s stopped-
Look down the end and check that it’s not blocked.”

At last! A chance to be of use!
The baby bursts with pride -
Just as the hose unkinks
And sprays him in the eye.

-2-

Bryony ran away from home
To join the circus known as Camden Town
A world of orphans with piercings
Selling t-shirts to clowns.

I didn’t understand it,
Neither did mum and dad.
But we went to visit once, me and mum,
I must have been about six,
Can’t remember much,
But it must have been a good night –
Always is –
When you end up in high heels and a dress.
I was her little manniken
In a whole world of fashion.

-3-

“Dan? Pass my bag there with the moisturising lotion.”
I do so, and by return of post –
A vague memory of a smoky blond from photos.
I always thought she would be a model
When we were growing up.

I didn’t tell her until recently
When she’d acquired the cheekbones for it
But now her skin rippled
With dry amusement
At the notion.

-4-

At the hospice they admired
Her strong will and determination
To join the dots
Of visitors
With a shaky stubborn line
From declining throne
To the swing seat
In the garden.

“They’re lovely here.” She said.
They were not trying to change her,
They were helping her accept.


-Ending-

An ending fitting for a start
A rhyme she made me
Learn by heart
My earliest memory of her
Playing pattercake
And saying:

Make up, make up
Never, never break up.
Make up, make up
Never, never break up.

oh sure, forgiveness of sin... or perhaps crimes... or just fetishes? like John Paul II forgiving sin, once polite society answered and John Paul staged the forgiveness session in a prison cell... forgiveness alright, acted out, with all the preliminary provisions readied - ode to Mehmet Ali Ağca, forgiveness always played out great for photography when all the Chinese laws were passed - Siberia welcomes all keen joggers; but you know one thing? raised in a canine environment as a child i learned to attach a different perspective with felines:*

like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse - you keep teasing - you keep teasing - you keep teasing - you just wait... crocodile or boa insomniac - and when the opposite party has banked enough to cry about having lost it... you spit at your enemy's mother's face while ****** her; **** me! you get to prove god along the way! how's that for a Camden Market daytrip? and if you don't? well, it was a nice thought - feels like being a woman with a foetus craving doughnuts and pickles.

twisted mind, finger twisted,
twisted trigger
@ Killeen
& Camden

RA-TA-TAT-TAT...

twisted mind, finger twisted,
twisted trigger
@ San Diego
& Aurora

RA-TA-TAT-TAT...

twisted mind, finger twisted,
twisted trigger
@ Fairchild
& Fort Hood

RA-TA-TAT-TAT...

twisted mind, finger twisted,
twisted trigger
@ Columbine
& V. Tech

RA-TA-TAT-TAT...

twisted mind, finger twisted,
twisted trigger
@ Pearl
& Paducah

RA-TA-TAT-TAT...

twisted mind, finger twisted,
twisted trigger
@ Newtown
& Santa Barbara

RA-TA-TAT-TAT...

twisted minds, fingers twisted,
twisted triggers
@???
&???

broken system

broken lives
        
straight bullets

RA-TA-TAT-TAT...

~ P
#Twisted
(5/30/2014)

Meet me at the verge, the place where
Caledonian Road meets the river and the
Reckless thugs of Camden dare not travel,
Lest they find themselves back home, alone once more.

Meet me at midnight, before the
Gates break loose and spill the stragglers to the street,
And just after the last bus leaves the station,
And the tube stops, silent, dead.

Meet me for reasons unknown, for
Sake of impulse, of joy, of freedom,
To cast away what memory you might have
Of days less full and rich as this.

Meet me dressed in black and grey,
All the better for the night to swallow you whole,
Take you within, deep, as a lover to another,
Or a shipwreck lost within the sea.

Meet me with apathy and disdain,
With carefree abandon and slight
Mistrust, for you are more wary than I
And have seen darker evenings.

Meet me then and take my hand,
Through woollen gloves and shivering, and
Stare at me through condensed breath, as we
Share a smile and walk lightly away.

Cycling past buisness girls on his way through Camden town
between towering grey buildings and tourists that frown

The lights turns to red and like a one legged man at the curb
he drifts off to a land that to some, seems absurb

Where honey-eyed tales of piglet and Pooh
are driven  by toads tooting, ****- ****- poo

Peddling along the reeling, rolling,rambeling road some drunkard guy made
on famiular BBC air waves his voice often played

Through rich green ridings, wild moor and dales
2-50 stands the church clock that so sweetly never fails

Hatless on Ilkley, bathed and bathed in York
tea-time fancies at Harrogate, whilst watching like some Kes pearched hawk

Nodding and humming to  sounds of the Brighouse and Rastric bands
and still finding time to paddle a little,
                                                                                 on sun drenched Gigglewick sands

Red turns to green as he wobbles and peddles away down Boris's yellow brick road
To Settel, for supper with
                                                       Raty
                                                            ­         Mole
                                                            ­                         Badger
                                                                ­                                           and Toad

El olor del café y de los periódicos.
El domingo y su tedio. La mañana
y en la entrevista página esa vana
publicación de versos alegóricos

de un colega feliz. El hombre viejo
está postrado y blanco en su decente
habitación de pobre. Ociosamente
mira su cara en el cansado espejo.

Piensa, ya sin asombro, que esa cara
es él. La distraída mano toca
la turbia barba y saqueada boca.

No está lejos el fin. Su voz declara:
Casi no soy, pero mis versos ritman
la vida y su esplendor. Yo fui Walt Whitman.

"How old are you?" I ask.
"Guess!" she says and giggles.

Old enough to have a favourite brand of cider
And write poems about breaking up.
Old enough to say, "I don't do boys",
And hold Zoe's hair while Zoe's throwing up.
Old enough to wear a tu-tu in a half ironic way
And not rise to the bait, whatever chavie-di and chavie-dum might say.

We're dancing down the high street
Up the sunsplashed canal
Underneath the pirate bridge
It's like another town;
Camden's wearing make-up
Like a goth come out in Spring
The teens are taking over
And they're forcing us to sing
Bring yourself, bring a smile
Bring bring what you can bring
The teen's are taking over
And they're forcing us to sing.

"How old are you?" I ask.
Flirteen she says, and giggles.

He picked me up hitchhiking on Tylerfoote Xing
My years were twenty, headphones on and moshing
I sported cut-offs and my "Docs" on that stubborn hot day
My Mohawk was three colors, I was an obvious gay

Allen Ginsberg 1984 in front of Ma Trux
He pulled over in a dust cloud, this was my luck
"Where are you headed?" said he, "I'm on my way to SF"
"Just to town." said me, "that's far enough."

"Where are you from?" came a chortle with this query
"From New Jersey I hail, how 'bout you my deary?"
A gaff of a laugh came then and two words, "me too."
"Oh really?" came my sarcasm, "How lucky for you."

"To escape," I finished then a gaffing  stabbed further
He looked so odd, my fear was, " I hope I'm not murdered."
Obviously much older, a bit pudgy and bald
When he told me his name it meant nothing at all

Said he was from Newark, this did not impress me either
"Me? Camden," though he might guess from my wife-beater
"What's that music you've got?" said my chauffeur
"A mixed tape. The Clash, DK's and Psychedelic Furs"

"Pop it in the dash, lets have a listen my friend."
As he glared at my flesh, I thought, "this is my end"
He popped it out almost immediately and declared
"This is awful and loud, your generation makes me scared!"
  
We argued a bit about music and art
"Patti Smith is the greatest poet!" I told the old ****
"She's from Jersey too, like Walt Whitman and us."
Allen's reply, "Oh really, what's the fuss?"

"Whitman comes from Camden, I'm a poet like him"
Ginsberg said, "oh yeah, well let's hear some Slim"
So I began to recite from "Leaves Of Grass"
"Not Walt! Give me yours kid, I don't want to hear him, you ***."

So I threw at him my most recent, "Angel With A Pool Que"
He complimented me so nicely, I believed he spoke true
"Ever hear of Howl? I'm a poet too."
He recited dozens of lines and I thought "p-u"

My offer was, "It needs some work"
His exclamation was, "Do you know who I am, you ****?
I'm Allen Ginsberg, you mean you haven't heard of me?"
I exclaimed my name back, boldly emoting "don't you see?"

We laughed together it was a joyous moment in time
Then his hand moved to my knee as he blurted some rhyme
I picked it right up and placed it back on the steer
"If that's what you want Sir, I can walk from here"

He stopped his car there in the middle of the 49 highway
"I mean you no harm young man, I assumed you were gay"
I explained, "Of course I am, but we are not going there"
He was a perfect gentleman then on, with out even a swear

I inquired with my friends when I got to town
Of this charming old poet I left with a frown
They jumped and spun and called me "**** crazy"
One handed me Howl in hard cover; I felt dim as a daisy

warm-up.*

yep, and i turned a trombone into an elephant
trunk... and i didn't even touch anything,
i just looked at one thing, then looked at
the other thing, and then, boom! a synonymous
equation.

like i once said: at the quasi-end of capitalism
the far left will encourage everyone to have an artistic
expression, all the madmen also have art sessions
in asylums... art and the healing process...
please tell me when left politics begins to get
serious, the right would say: you want to escape
a job as a cashier? take l.s.d., forgot about the need
to "express yourself"... more harm than good...
but the prescription by a joke of leftist politics
is just that: become a closet artist,
or become a closet intellectual by simply donning
the groovy look of a beard and some chequered
shirt and ripped jeans and Converse sneakers,
or something, making you fit the profile of
an atypical Camden High Street shopper...

you see what i mean about art these days?
they said the same thing back when it was oil on canvas
or Dürer's carvings - people will spend millions
on paintings, that's how they understand the worth
of art, they invest in objects that the artist invested in also,
meaning buying and selling dynamics:
paint and canvases and brushes and renting messy
studios...

the modern artist overshadows all other artistic efforts,
the cheap stuff, poetry is cheap ****,
pennies from heaven... what? that's the reality...
i wish i could say: taking interest in poetry,
liking poetry, and other such statements are equivalent
to in-secret liking some pop song... given that
the pop song is actually psychologically crafted to
the make you an automaton in appreciating it.

so it's called art, the Turner Prize 2005 winner...
turned a "shed" (take a look at it,
that's a shed? how big is your garden?
looks more like a storage house on some Caribbean
island where pirates roamed in the 17th century,
given the size) into a boat, sailed it down a river,
then rebuilt the boat into a shed...

are we laughing now? no one these days can compete
with artists, there's no classical
notion of painting, or writing, engulfed by advertising:
advertisers use rhyming - the old notion of art
has become engulfed by advertising -
however good you are,
you have to be a carpenter or a sculptor of some sort,
the rest is nothing; so this leftist prescription of keeping a
creative side when living in the mundane world is sickening...
all the jobs went to Asia, a bankruptcy of production...
if they only allowed us to have meaningful jobs
we wouldn't have to hear the ******* of being prescribed
possessing a creative side...
                                                  in the quasi-end of
capitalism we're all artists... all of us...
                                                                    am i desperate
about this state of affairs? should i be?
                           i have my trombone turned into an elephant
artwork - all the best to Simon Starling,
i'd be too lazy to do something like that...
           what seems difficult to gulp down is how far
removed the 20th century is from today,
about how people appreciating art are primarily concerned
with large open spaces...
                          the idea of art these days fits perfectly
with the modern notion of claustrophobia...
it's supposed to be mingling with agoraphobia -
well, that's how i see it, who can tell if i'm right or wrong
if no opinion can actually be sustained by a prodding
conversation to deal with an opinion further?
well, we already know the end result of dialectics:
i know nothing - that's how the antique mouth of
Socrates changed, back when he invented it
i know nothing was a presupposition... leaving the
art barren, we know how it's going to end, which is why
we like strutting the peacock with sponge-like brains
of opinions.

i just look at the size of these art exhibitions -
massive open space rooms, a large piece of art, you
enter such a space and you attempt to mingle
the claustrophobia of a large crowd - and with such
a piece of artwork, notably it's size, you get the impression
of having a much larger reference in this world,
that you are more important than the world deems you to be,
well.. agoraphobia is a form of claustrophobia,
some phobias are synonymous,
                                                       a large open space, inside
a large piece of artwork...
                                             i feel big...
i live in a few square miles and don't really venture out...
well, that's apparently called life...
                 tiers of the many platitudes...
       or as i say?
keeping Shakespeare, for all his greatness is just about
making traffic... we're queuing - nothing more...
          it's not even about holding to the dear life -
it's holding to the life that passed and will never return -
making our contemporary interpretation of life
                                    a hush, when their's revived is a roar -
great trick... keep them with us long enough
so we get scared then the lions roar -
                  then watch them enter the classics domain
and become entertaining to a dozen people...
everything just seems to have a: u.b.d. (use by date)
and b.b.s. (best before date).

We like to dance
Feet moving in a trance
Transition to a different stance
All of us jump and prance

We get in a groove
People’s rhythmic motion is smooth
The head banging is proof
Dancer’s enjoying the beat and *****

With Deejay YouTube on rotation
Music revives the good sensation
As boys and girls pair up to charleston
The vibe is lively in Camden

Everyone is revelling
In the style of crip walking
Zimmer frames towards the ceiling
As the old start break dancing

i told you, the most volatile substance,
auto-combustion:
let's see:
the (ν / v'eh point) - touch on elocution,
almost δ'eh                   point -
but then the oddity: thievery -
hence coupling θ                and            φ,
well                     s                and             z (hardly an ß)
might also make a hush sh sh sound
for the eyes to spot with a şiş kebab being served
(kebaab if you're talking africān - prolonged
on dentistry's dire inspection) -
no diacritics and many eccentricities -
many accents, and a bowler hat at the
royal Ascot - peacock feathers to a flutter
ooh! firewood for the comedy scene -
the / d or v? veering point or the deepened
point? thyme - now that's a solitary τ (tau),
well, many more examples! ha!
thighs and thievery - theta cheese -
thrombosis - that - now that's definitely armed
with δ - thermometer - thick -
in-between scotch fudge - thinking -
throw - viably also famished - invariably
also alphabetically accounted for as: thrice -
and phosphorescent - pucker up now dear,
no point calling jane austen right now,
it's too late: better watch the jane austen book club,
now that's a great romance movie -
serious though, ah, there you have it,
though rather thought - another eccentricity
to curse periodic examples to rule:
vogue in that though - feta cheese in that latter -
no one dared to say: i vote, deer fur i am -
imagine that said in Chelsea or Camden -
you'd never get rid of those crack ******* junkies
following you to Waterloo shouting:
'we've found Napoleon! we've found Napoleon!
Napoleon! Napoleon!'

even hegel read jakob böhme                   (boo m'eh) -
to keep the democratic spirit - obviously the Kardashians don't
know a hairbrush from a toothbrush - but that hardly matters -
what matters is how Pearl Harbour turned into karaoke applause -
the idea of an american in europe: spaghetti slurping  -
even that considering the "special"
       relationship of anglophiles -
    anatomy of antagonism:
        spaghetti swindlers of talk -
slurping that tangle into an easily sold
global affair would never juice up the idea
to think about my neighbour as someone
i'd care to be;
          and as common with the postmortem
childhood educators, the curriculum of such
people always stated: learn otherwise -
       no wonder their screened the
personal vanities of Versailles in the 21st century
coming from the 18th and 17th century -
learn the truths concerning the genesis
of the 21st century in the 24th century at least...
i'm under the righteous impression:
most of the people i live with have
been savaged by science fiction,
and the slowness of science in itself
that they are tattooed with a care for now,
but never tomorrow... imagine living in a society
that pays its workers in month's wages than
in week's wages... can you imagine it?
the two re- debate: again quick (reflexive),
and the again slow (reflective) -
if i'm glorifying the latter than the former?
oh, that question... you have to reply with:
usury and why the libido of old men
equips young girls to the same libido,
and why young men are worthy of a war memorial
and the mud of trenches...
and why young men can't with enzyme-fervour
bind of the satiated young woman sexually
compete... and why so many say: **** it.
one *** spends its youth barraged by usury -
and all other hamster wheels,
the other *** parties with the cocksure crowd:
and then you expect a withstanding human bond?
ha ha.    forget it... hey lady, how's that old man
treating you? he's the pope, i know.
                         forged from the Martian
        ashen heat cooling: in how she thought
the two would meet and raise a family in the mythology
of Eden... when she got paid her student fees
by sugar daddies, and he got spit to extract feeding
handshakes - that only turned into jacking off
                                                                ­      gambles.    
  she now the happy soul fathomed as the bigoted
              entrenchment in this world: as forever
  and if only trying: then at least expecting war
to solidify the point.
                just the other day in Camden Market:
she's complaining about her libido with older men,
   he's complaining: your problem is that you go
for older men... oh ****, then all the problems of
natural correlative assertions, and children to
masquerade the real problems... and pop culture
and what's being gagged (apart from the gimp,
forever caged and clad in leather, and a mouth
that's really an ****) -           the children suffer
    from would otherwise been a beneficial anti-evolutionary
suggestion: that i was recipient of the outside environment,
rather than the inside environment of some benefiting
sir esquire toff -                 give me my tail and fur back!
   i don't care for gymnastics or vogue! give it back!
******! this ain't an improvement,
                 who heard of primeval predators building
guillotine scaffolds (although, i admit, that's humane) -
or ****** Mary being beheaded with a blunt blade -
or gas chambers... when i think of tigers i think of
humanity greater than man with his apple i7 phone -
i think of vampires... i find it hard to believe
we evolved from what was already perfect...
                   to improve what? we were always outsiders...
    narrators - then again, if i'm the sort of
"creationist" scumbag, then i can just say:
Chinese and Welsh dragons and dinosaurs...
   and to be honest: history is obsolete given the
two timescales of the big bang (what a ****** name
to start things off... heard a bang in a vacuum?) -
              and monkey -
                                             which is no wonder
why history died given the timescales, and why we
are overly saturated with journalism, the 24 hour reels
and nothing really happening in those 24 hour counting
                   mechanisms:
which is no surprise journalism resurrected a pseudo-dialectics,
   i.e. an opinions section - and there they are,
like third world dictators, unchallenged, journalistic
freedom is the last thing to fight for right now,
   not when journalists don't have any journalism to give,
  and invoke the need to be opinionated,
and in thus being the above said: unchallenged.
                 Colonel Falafel? sign me up!

El gobierno francés, ¿o fue el gobierno inglés?, puso una lápida
En esa casa de 8 Great College Street, Camden Town, Londres,
Adonde en una habitación Rimbaud y Verlaine, rara pareja,
Vivieron, bebieron, trabajaron, fornicaron,
Durante algunas breves semanas tormentosas.
Al acto inaugural asistieron sin duda embajador y alcalde,
Todos aquellos que fueran enemigos de Verlaine y Rimbaud cuando vivían.

Con la tristeza sórdida que va con lo que es pobre,
No la tristeza funeral de lo que es rico sin espíritu.
Cuando la tarde cae, como en el tiempo de ellos,
Sobre su acera, húmedo y gris el aire, un organillo
Suena, y los vecinos, de vuelta del trabajo,
Bailan unos, los jóvenes, los otros van a la taberna.

Corta fue la amistad singular de Verlaine el borracho
Y de Rimbaud el golfo, querellándose largamente.
Mas podemos pensar que acaso un buen instante
Hubo para los dos, al menos si recordaba cada uno
Que dejaron atrás la madre inaguantable y la aburrida esposa.
Pero la libertad no es de este mundo, y los libertos,
En ruptura con todo, tuvieron que pagarla a precio alto.

Sí, estuvieron ahí, la lápida lo dice, tras el muro,
Presos de su destino: la amistad imposible, la amargura
De la separación, el escándalo luego; y para éste
El proceso, la cárcel por dos años, gracias a sus costumbres
Que sociedad y ley condenan, hoy al menos; para aquél a solas
Errar desde un rincón a otro de la tierra,
Huyendo a nuestro mundo y su progreso renombrado.

El silencio del uno y la locuacidad banal del otro
Se compensaron. Rimbaud rechazó la mano que oprimía
Su vida; Verlaine la besa, aceptando su castigo.
Uno arrastra en el cinto el oro que ha ganado; el otro
Lo malgasta en ajenjo y mujerzuelas. Pero ambos
En entredicho siempre de las autoridades, de la gente
Que con trabajo ajeno se enriquece y triunfa.

Entonces hasta la negra prostituta tenía derecho de insultarlos;
Hoy, como el tiempo ha pasado, como pasa en el mundo,
Vida al margen de todo, sodomía, borrachera, versos escarnecidos,
Ya no importan en ellos, y Francia usa de ambos nombres y ambas obras
Para mayor gloria de Francia y su arte lógico.
Sus actos y sus pasos se investigan, dando al público
Detalles íntimos de sus vidas. Nadie se asusta ahora, ni protesta.

"¿Verlaine? Vaya, amigo mío, un sátiro, un verdadero sátiro.
Cuando de la mujer se trata; bien normal era el hombre,
Igual que usted y que yo. ¿Rimbaud? Católico sincero,
como está demostrado".
Y se recitan trozos del "Barco Ebrio" y del soneto a las "Vocales".
Mas de Verlaine no se recita nada, porque no está de moda
Como el otro, del que se lanzan textos falsos en edición de lujo;
Poetas mozos de todos los países hablan mucho de él en sus provincias.

¿Oyen los muertos lo que los vivos dicen luego de ellos?
Ojalá nada oigan: ha de ser un alivio ese silencio interminable
Para aquellos que vivieron por la palabra y murieron por ella,
Como Rimbaud y Verlaine. Pero el silencio allá no evita
Acá la farsa elogiosa repugnante. Alguna vez deseó uno
Que la humanidad tuviese una sola cabeza, para así cortársela.
Tal vez exageraba: si fuera sólo una cucaracha, y aplastarla.

Bad Day

Woke up alone, with tears in eye,
this answer, I hope to find the why,
one night stand, never said good-by.
Lost my ten year job,
boss was as a rich snob.
Caught my girl with the neighbor,
super huge line at The Department of Labor.
Ran out of gas, had to push my car,
worst dinner ever at my local bar.
News filled with corruption and ******,
me filled with high powered bi-polar.
Doing shots with reckless abandon,
all this plus living in Camden.
A true New Jersey **** hole,
drugs everywhere except birth control.
My best friend died last week,
there goes our hanging out winning streak.
Tomorrow will be a year since my parents death,
everyday I still have to catch my breath.
Left the bar with as female,
bigger than any sized whale.
She sat on my face, and I said holy fat,
don't remember much after that.
Sneaked out of the hotel, before me,
having a bad day, wouldn't you agree,
went home, and lost the house key.
Cut myself breaking a window,
felt like a hooked helpless minnow.
Can't blame this on the rain,
or the disease in my brain.
This was a long time coming,
my nervous breakdown was forthcoming.
I think now, I know the why,
life ***** and I'd rather die.
I'm so much better than that,
Getting rid of my welcome mat.
Played country backwards, to get my life back,
nothing but torture and an occasional hack.
Well now i know the reasons why,
I'm just a regular fall guy.

When I go to heaven
I want to see my dogs.
all of them, such faithful companions.
How do you say goodby  to such friends
Peter my first
a beagle, stubborn, a hunter with
the basset from across the street
white tipped tail faithfully wagging
as I returned each day from School.
Then Sampson, a blond Belgium Sheppard
Huge, faithful only to me
jumped the fence too many times
of the church pre-school across the street
wanting only to be part of the play
then too protective of our new born and
at 190 pounds too large for our small apartment
Then  found in England,
Beouf Beouf McTavish
a Yorkshire terrier that for some reason was
four times the Yorkey normal size
He thought he was a lion
jumped into the Canal in  Camden town
chasing ducks. We pulled him out and it
took three baths to clean him.
He loved to attack my next door neighbor
after we returned from England
who he had taken a dislike to
as my neighbor warily walked his dachshund
up and down our small cul-de-sac.
Then there was Boober, an Irish setter,
beautiful, but wild and dumb.
who loved to just run and then
pounce on our next door neighbor’s wife
who seemed to love the affection.
Booper true to his Irish temper, never obeyed
Then our Goldens
the perfect pets frolicking with our growing children
Brandy and Blake, the first pair
Brandy the runt of the litter
gentle and loving
so loved by my wife who always loved an underdog.
Blake the larger of the pair
my favorite, large and bold,
constantly bounding about
bullying Brandy
Faster, he got there first when a car didn’t stop
and lay bleeding in my arms
tears cascading down my eyes
too late to save him.
Then Brandy followed when years later
Cancer and she just stopped
She Watched faithfully as
the vet came to the house and peacefully put her down.
we planted a small tree over her grave and mourned.
Last was Maggie, another Golden,
loved by all, beautiful, intelligent,
affectionate, going everywhere with me
to the dump, where they gave her a cookie,
to the beach where she chased ***** until
I became tired and needed to head home, knowingly
she defiantly swam just out of reach, back and forth,
as  try as I might  to get her to come out, she’d defy.
Now there all passed on to doggy heaven where
I hope I’ll find them when I too move on.
they’ll respond to my call
faithfully bounding across a heavenly lawn
returning gleefully  to their aged master.
“Come on blue, You good dog you, I’m coming too”.

Today,
I promise,
I will finally write.

I'll write about the first time I tasted plums,
(Cool and wet and biting)

Or the soft euphoria of house parties and hookah smoke,
(Like cashmere and night in the blood- already heavy with *** and promise- while grinding out hallelujahs to bass and rhythm and cheap liquor)

Or the feeling of my father’s calloused palms when he took my tiny hands in his, my feet atop his own, and sang to me- riotously off key- the chorus of ‘My Girl’ in a tiny kitchen in Camden; Me laughing, hyena howling, and shouting ‘AGAIN! AGAIN!’ echoing until dizzied by the happy noise.

Today,
I promise,
I'll get it out.

I'll take pen to page, and tell you why I sometimes feel oddly bereft at the sight of a trail of some long departed snail or slug, iridescent in moonlight.

Or try to explain why the scent of lilacs remind me of my mother, that the taste of honeysuckle blooms and the feel of summer warm dirt in my hands makes me feel closer to her, and sometimes a taste of **** cherry pie will ease the gnawing ache of nostalgia and wanting of her more than any simple phone call ever could.

Or tell you how I feel scared and angry so much of the time, (Poor thing that I am- all brown skinned, fat and too loud- in the thin white crushing silence that hangs like a humid fog in streets and office buildings.)  How I feel so hunted in a world of poachers determined to use my teeth for piano keys, pluck my plumes for gaudy decoration, and consume me, a nameless  milk soaked calf, only to complain that all the bleeding I’m doing has soaked the plate and my tears have over salted the meat.

Today,
I promise,
I’ll make it plain.

I’ll be inspired by verses written on the thin onion skinned pages of a Bible my grandmother gave me,
find beauty in crushed glass sprinkled over cracked asphalt and potholes, and taste love – young and sweet – when biting into the soft, ripe flesh of a mango.

I’ll tell all my secrets to you, re-name you lover and villain, and share my most intimate spaces; crack open my rib cage and let you nestle in the pumping chambers of my heart, sustain you with the air of my lungs and food from my own soft belly; invite you with open arms and closed eyes inside of myself to read all the words I’ve scrawled in miles of veins and on sturdy spine.  


I promise,
It will be today.
And yes,

The dishes must be scrubbed, my winter coat needs a new button, and the cat must be fed.
These things will happen, like all things of daily realities: new socks and defrosting chicken and late student loan payments.    

But,

Today
I am searching for divinity in between the pages of moleskin note books and falling in love that tastes like honey and lavender and sweet raisin challah bread.
I am mapping out dance steps in hookah smoke and tiny kitchens.
I am lifting **** cherries and warm summer dirt in shaking palms as a ward against poachers searching for all the ivory and meat in me.
I am tracing holy verses across my grandmothers soft, thin skin; the scent of mangoes about the words; keeping her safe in soft spaces of my marrow.

Today,
I promise,
I will write.

two hundredth of a millisecond can be bought for one Satoshi,
a Satoshi is a hundred millionth of a bit-coin, or byte-coin -
whatever variation of the name - by the end of it there
will be 21 million of these coins in circulation; hot topic:
London, how this started to unravel come 1998,
slowly Hackney disappeared off the map as a hub of art
and whatnot, Camden came prior - they say central Paris
looks like a museum, as much can be said about central
London: no artistic vibe - we jumped ship, extortion -
in Silicon Valley 8 people share a three bedroom house,
$4000 a month's worth of rent, they're reduced to shift-sleeping,
a day divided into 8 hours, and as was noted,
this isn't a boat load from China , nerds and
app. entrepreneurs - in the end software will be
able to own money, imagine: Uber, taxi, driver-less cars -
the ancient lore of black cabs in London and the knowledge:
that proud A - Z gone, ****! gone! added to the fact that
there's nothing left to invest it - which is why, i assume,
is the reason why gambling adverts number more than
alcohol adverts... bet 3 6 5 et al. - if there's nothing to invest in,
then the only alternative it seems would be to gamble it away;
or at least being spurred to do so.

it's hard to imagine what literature will be like either,
let's face it - you look at the early 20th century
and it's there, you look at middle through to a quarter
past 1950 and it's still there - you look beyond that
and i really don't know what i'm supposed to be looking
out - i don't suppose there's an ignorance hovering
over my head - it just hasn't hit me in any way
relevant, given that in England only important
people get to write books - t.v. personalities, glamour
models, footballers - ghost writers are the norm -
England doesn't seem to appreciate important books
by unimportant people: the machine requires diluted
vegetable oil and a steep hill to get the car moving -
it requires this sort of image for marketing a book,
marketing a book, selling it, and perhaps reading it;
it's hardly moaning about the situation, it's the actual
situation - but as it turns out, there are alternatives -

              to count the number of birds in my vicinity,
              today i managed to finally identify
              a bird that was bothering me for some time,
              just today - put a description into
              the algorithm... a finch! but more precisely...
              a goldfinch! so let me count the number
              of birds i spot with my naked eyes:

               1. goldfinches
                                                        2. robins
3. canadian geese              4. mandrakes
5. crows                                                6. seagulls
     7. a crane                           8. sparrows
9. blackbirds                     10. a kestrel (once)
11. woodland pigeons             12. magpies
                               13. song thrushes;
                      14. swallows.

and to think, i don't have to leave the house to watch
such variety - i'm waiting for the day that they create an app
for birdwatching - but i'm pretty sure they won't,
unless it's birdwatching in a museum of stuffed animals.

it happened to me like it once did at the Gants Hill
Odeon, i supposed to see Jumaji,
instead i saw the Little Princess - with two old women
knitting - don't know how it happened -
the little girl got out of the attic like a revision of
Cinderella - somehow - later i ran skipping imitating
a deer hop home - i don't know, i must have been
10 at the time.

i said i was seeing Nabucco - but instead if was seeing
a version of operatic Goethe - (gef eh), read the work:
die leiden des jungen Werthers - the sorrows of youthful
Werthers - can everyone stop the ******* clapping
before the act is over, stop your provincial habits
like eating food without a knife only using the fork!
**** me... stop! you do it more so during ballet -
but in opera? please! stop that seagulls' flapping of wings!
mind you, that's how it goes these days -
tourists from home counties are seated -
pensioners - who apparently have no money -
i'm 30 this year, you think i wouldn't spot someone younger than
me in the oyster shell of an opera house dome?
a few, by a few i mean arithmetic of one palm of my hand -
that's about as many youths appreciating classics -
no more thereafter.
so i sat there, i was told it was Italian opera,
later i was told it was Wagner (i hate Wagner) -
but there were french horns in the orchestra and the opera
was done in french, what the ****?!
so adding the dot dot dots... the french are real bores
in Opera... the french can't do opera! for the love of god
they can't do opera! i admit a almost cried with
a dying wish and a toilet break when Werther sand his
last - i almost ****** a tear like salting a curry -
but the French CAN'T DO OPERA!
the German can, Italians too - let the French write philosophy,
the French CAN'T WRITE OPERA -
although the fourth act saved the entire spectacle -
i do admit with the back of my mind present
that the children's choir was a salvage point -
oh poor Werther - soft-spoken German, must be either
Saxon or slang - *verter - vide cor meum -
the French aren't allowed operatic expression -
banish them toward the ***** of Stendhal - banish them!
but you know... i can count almost half a year to
respect my memory since i last stood in an urban environment,
with Duck Trump accents demonising the air -
so tacky, so ******* out of place...
prosthetic limbs equated as people with their
tourist visa permits scaffolding the areas where
a Guinness sells at 5 quid while in provincial pubs it sells
well under 3 quid - i came up with a maxim along the way,
waving Kant's critique of pure reason along the way
(exaggeration, well and truly established, necessarily) -
a book contra a mobile phone use -
when i got back to the outer suburbs of London, or "London",
or simply greater, after seeing the panic in the central
sphere of commotion, i simply said the words:
an hour for them is a day for us.
an hour for them is a day for us - drop the paranoid
straitjacket clause revised -
there is clear distinction - in my fashion i was worth
less than £100 - most people where worth per item an excess
of that - London is an eerie place there days -
e.g. Sarah (33) communications manager -
an Arab stole her chance for a one-bedroom box or
something resembling living space -
Eve (24) -property guardian etc., 27 people sharing
one kitchen, quasi-squatting in a removable van of brick;
Aletheia (33) back with her parents in Brighton
(cue the scene from Hellraiser: Inferno - the last
scene, the noooooooooooooooooooooooo! and your childhood
bedroom) - well, d'uh; t'ah d'ah!
London is eerie - the only person smiling was me,
the rest of the people looked boxed, Hammersmith
Hamsterwheel types with duck-taped around their foreheads the
slogan: jog on... jog on, keep calm, keep on jogging.
you said Doreen or did i say Doreen and was this a
short-term memory placard advertising a "wish you were here"?
the French can't do opera - they're the same bores
in opera as the Germans are in thinking -
Jules Massenet did no wrong but undid so any wrongs -
but then crescendo! the most ****** fragment of the opera -
next to me a plump beauty with her boyfriend -
throughout the second act our arms were touching
and i rhymed my breathing to the rhythmic of hers -
clothed, neither naked, neither penetrating -
i guess the English pinnacle of ******, chaste -
in the third act our legs were touching sadistically knee to knee -
nonetheless London is to tacky - so eerie - so foreign -
so not imitable English - forget Soho or the East End
like you already forgot the folklore of the ancient
English smog of the 18th century chimneys -
it's gone - bye bye - it won't return - it was never intending
to return - it seems only Camden remains to be levelled -
or Vauxhall... we'll all be rich phantoms by then -
whether a real swimming pool for the rich or a virtual
swimming pool for the poor, it won't matter -
dreams will hardly be summoned for poetic partisan expression
bewildered as to whether the simulation or the actual partaking
are that far apart - it won't matter -
such a night in London i summed up with words:
for them an hour, for us a day - the discriminatory relativity
poker-handed us the ****** expressions that way -
but in the countryside... so much air, and so little
minute phobias grown into offshoots of skyscrapers -
so much air... so much air... so much air...
and no courtesan airs... bow... mm hmm... huh?
THE FRENCH CAN'T WRITE OPERAS!

When the sun slid down behind the buildings of Camden Town and the evening came to light
when the beggars of Mornington Crescent came out into the night to fire the West End and the good people took fright,
I was down in Goodge Street spilling the beans in the American church,perched on a pew,as you do,talking to a vicar,the slickest padre I ever did meet,
he talked to me in parables as if I was the arable land he sought,but Jesus and I had a deal,so I thought,
he went his way,I went mine until the divine light of reckoning came beckoning me,and I didn't think that this was the time.
But we all make mistakes and the winner takes all,I pondered on this as I walked through the hall of the ancients.

They smoke a lot of cones by the east-side lobby,
watch the sun come up in a habit-***-hobby.
Sweatshirts line the edge of the high-rise feature,
they pass their smoke through kisses, creature-to-creature.

The weeds hang over their heads in a brick-work reminder,
search-parties comb the woods, but they couldn't find her.
In the murmur of the city, with the street-kids drinking,
cooking up their schemes for a new-wave thinking.

The papers plaster words of in-group fear,
view the class-war that is coming near.
They don't vote for the parties that bring come-downs and blood;
they'd write a sing-song for freedom, if only they could.

They exchange love like high-fives, in teenage abandon,
now in their mid-twenties, still dreaming of Camden.
In the centrifuge of their small-town dissonance,
they toast to their cancer; to their short-lived innocence.