the heat has made me feel as limp as a reed
my air conditioner is going at full speed
these excessively hot days are too much to bear
one longs for the days to be less fair

it is like a furnace in this particular territory
and one's thoughts turn to a lower degree
for a lovely cool breeze to come this way
would most certainly make my day

but alas the sun has it's switch at the highest setting
and it is causing one to be constantly sweating
one's energy levels are completely drained
the over abundance of sun has me thoroughly caned

this old year in its last hours
checks its tie
its coat tails
its long trousers
spats
its insalubrious look
gets ready for one last stand
at the times square of our minds

sick in singapore she wrote
i rather be caned that live one more day
and i concurred i rather she'd be caned
than i
here in ohio i hear some winter birds
i swear and i attest
their forlorn cries carry far
and sometimes i believe i see their shapes
remotely flitting far
their cries carry far
here in ohio
where the winter snow came and went in two whole days
its surprising whereabouts both seen and felt
now we are back to flimsy silver lace affixed on
windows

infirm in beijing she said
they all spit!
i took that as a sign she was getting well
here in the post soltice winter there is hope
for longer days ahoy
the maritime soul departs in yet another lost boat
inexplicably tied to the date

sick in mazatlan she said the water makes me puke
i heard later she bought a boat to sail from the west coast
down to the panama canal then up the east coast to new yor
k
that was her plan
but no she gave it up after she bought the boat
she realized she would have to fill it with ***** and nothing
else
choice give up the ship or sink under the influence
i hear the "Rosa Linda" i still tied in long beach pier

I mourn such passing as the days
disclose and hide in a foggy patina of misremembrance
see this was her coat her gloves
the angle of her visor gave us more of her
than i can just now tell i cant even remember the color
of her eyes
and yet firmly believe that we once met

as i get ready to welcome a new year
back to the chalk line
on your marks
ready
set
go to my habitual everyday

here in ohio some winter birds
pester the air with their calls

perhaps they know something about time
I don't know

anyway, let's go meet another minute hour or day

sick  in
ohio i say

Chaucer. Cantebury Tales Thunk Another Time

might be
unimaginable to most

Urbanites of several recent generations
in
These untie-ted states

city folk have never told stories
by the mile,

with piles of rocks marking trail tailin's

so old
that trail, marked by that pile o'rocks been
so long since foot trod that path

only scratches on the rocks say which way we
all
got
here. Today, as we call it.

Hueta, esta dia, right now

here. Walk a while, we're off to find reason
to believe.
Someone I heard thinks we all do.

I believe we do.
---Wha'bou' un believe? D'jewthank we'all'kin?
kin we all un be lieve,
leaven well left alone, hill folk, some say...

...hidden things thought thank worth,
beauty, as an idea,

for instance.

Sunsets.
... ...Yes, and the early morning does
have gold
{}
In'er mouth,
privilege all ovahdat.
Got the rot
all dug

dig it, all dug out cavity, crowned in gold

turn that empty cavity inside out, the wise hermit's cave is paved.
Plenty room for all his eukaryotic friends

then flouride, po-luted our ****** fluids.

Play that song on that ***'ar wit thraystrangs, po'man lute
Jew or juice harp
poing poing poing y'ken?

and keep time wit' the walkin' drum. Do that
dentist drill dance, then sing us a
song o'six penitents
patient sufferers o'the way thangsbe,

left well enough alone.

Strange love was to my tale as, that Bannon guy
might be today. Trump's last quarter email player?
Y'know the guy. He's Youtube famous. Bannon,
(Steve,

or Bruce? )
No, Bruce Banner, was the hulk of burning credulity, the pile
symbol
driver. Digging down to bedrock
.... That's how the Macedonian kid did, at Tyrus. ( ify'wishy'knew)

Pier pressing past the farthest reach of tide.

Past where pearls take graunular expansion to

knackerin' gnosymagi  levels of possible hidden glory believeable by few.

Teller, the infamous Mr. Teller, he taught me duality.
Im balance, make fission, break, slam fuseconfuse, blow

don't burn the whole higgsian bubble to expel the very idea of anti matter, it may be useful,
rightusable or ible

Moby grandular totally tubular, what a clam can do.
According to that story, why not feed swine pearls? I'll tell you.

we may come back to right here, this here here,
if 'n' only

if we do not forget where we saw that

landmark a cient elder mustaset

Straggler mumbler, you okeh? Y'got a story.

I'll listen. It's yetawhile
t' can't we bury it.

---
is the granularity of perception adjustable or ible?

We are li'ble to learn, 'fwee

live so long. Said the old caned creature, in the way back.


-------
At the edge of credulity, eh

how far is how ever, far or ever, time space

same same, but

right. Re
al ity ness realreal reason able ibility

we, you and I, this state of least sharable ible ness
we, at this point,

dancing hermetical waxen winged shoes into flames. Teller level flames.

-------
what lies did I un believe? All of'em.

You seem real. (dear reader)

A pier past the last tugged tide, into the deep

-----

peace, in fly-over country on a sunny day.

Ah, where I live, there in
my peace valley overwitch the marines fly every day

and I talk, in my revery, basking in the sun with my lizard brain in heaven
I talk to the cadre controling machines named for
subjected peoples, Apaches of all sorts.

I knew Johnny. And I knew his brother, Jonah.

Johnny Appleseed and Jonah Whalepuke.

They could been twins, save
the smell and wind's role in the story, when it all

stirs. SSTop and ask, dear reader, is this safe, this place?

Adlebraned idyl word forms framing un imaginable worlds.

Goodness gracious sakes alive gnostic means

you know. Here's one we agree on:

Heretic tic, there a tic tic time you re

call the warning bout finding one's ownself in the book of life?

This is that. You can't get past it on your knees,

this is the bar, you don't pass it, you cross it.

Who inherits the wind if the meek inherit the earth?

inspire expire it is breathing, all the way down.

bubbles. ity bubbles ify bubbles some time bubbles

awefilled imagined bubbles in bubble forever,

mazed bubble pops

those aren't real. Gnostic heretic is one who thinks
he thinks and has all the knowledge

in the real world,

in his hand, and
it ain't even five gee. We can go faster or deeper. You choose.
We gotta understand what standing and under mean as a thing

we can miss. aitia indicates wisdom is not pre packed with
understanding.

She says, you should know by now.

Nothing missing, nothing broken, though ye walk

through the valley of
your own shadow death as I drip drip drip

hear me, gotcha once, gotcha twice

ripples in time can you hear me now?

Thanks.

Seed. Time. Harvest. Information re
garding the entire process

was intentional. You reap what you sow. That is kharma.

Life ain't fair eventually. The good guys always win. It's in the hermit's will.

You can read. It's said, the man
wombed or un, who can and don't's no better armed then than
the critter that can't

read the sign that said stop.

The young poetess^ writes:

Sitting on the edge of brilliance,
that cuts my youthful pride to shreds,
are the verbal shards of bards,
poets, beyond my experience.

Expelling their lifeblood,
I can, but only,
place my hands upon
their open wounds
murmuring hopeful platitudes,
praying that their blood spilled,
is not their excellence drained,
their wisdom wasted and stained!

The old hoary replies:

Wishful thirsty drinkers
from the cups of youth are we.

We 'presumed' ancient bards
have lived to regret the
burden of our accumulations,
the weightiness of our pages,
owning insights, steeped,
fermented, wine-to-vinegar,
spoiled by age, time-wasted.

Our words, product of visions
grown dim and simp,
under no duress,
we-eager confess!

Better poets were we,
when possessed of
blood hotter, skin smoother,
brow clearer, innocent of fear!

Your eager cuts run
zesty red and freely,
Ours, clotted ones,
anemic, yellowed from
the curse of the boundaries
of too much experience,
purchased pricey rules,
murderers of our uninhibited courage.

You cogitate with
passions unlined, unruled.
We shuffle, bemoan
our drizzling days,
waiting for relief,
and yet, rue
our inevitable conclusion.

We curse our fate, our slow dissolution.

You bless the opportunistic rising sun,
enervated by energies unbounded,
You animate for answers, solutions!

We sit caned and quiet, acidic,
damning Solomon and his caustic words -
There is nothing new under the sun.

Perhaps we know a word or two more than you.
Gladly we'd trade that for youthful hands
that pray, point and scribe, with the eagerness
that sets words upon paper of spirits enflamed!

Time, our master, has shred our writs to pieces,
yet, you young poetess, greet the morn, confident, saying
**today I will give birth to the first of many, masterpieces.

When they taught me I hardly paid them a heed
now I know my teachers were benefactors indeed
I regret the curses I held in my mind for them
their punishments were blessings not something to condemn!

Sadly those days they seemed to point their gun
on me for unlearned lessons homework not done
for such small lapses the teachers made a huge fuss
pulled my ears made me stand outside the class!

Some of them more zealous went a little far
caned ******* the back plucked out my hair
it appeared so barbaric at my expense their fun
they only knew it wouldn't harm me in the long run!

Such punishments I did never willingly embrace
ran around the room sending them on a chase
in fueled fury with faces in anger red
often flew their duster toward my head!

In life those torments have borne fruit
the running around standing on one foot
they have made my leg muscles quite strong
helped me hold my balance without support for long!

My ears too have still remained intensely keen
my hairs for my age haven't grown too thin
the pulling and plucking had done me no harm
but made my hair root healthy and firm!

*The teachers for sure were prudent and wise
punishment they meted out was blessing in disguise
so if you ever cursed them make amends and repent
say, thank you dear teachers for all the punishment!

But I always called her Ma'am

*I remember  like it was yesterday
the first time I met her
I was being punished  for running away
from the orphanage yet again.
I had used up my warnings and this time
I was going to be caned.
I knew the rules 12 strokes on the bare bottom
applied by matron.
I shrieked in agony begging for mercy
but they were all delivered with full purchase
mercy was in short supply in that place.
That’s when the door opened
she had heard my screams in the corridor.
and I saw her for the first time
so beautiful with clear pale blue eyes
she looked so kind. She walked up to me
what have they done to you? She cried.
Put on your pants young man she said.
I did not know how to address a nun
so I called her Ma'am.
She did not seem to mind.
I sobbed I can't ma'am I am too sore.
She hugged me as I sobbed
holding my head to her breast.
Even through her habit
I could feel her softness
like that of the mother
I never knew or held.
The tears flowed and flowed
not just from the pain and shame
of my beating.
But from all the abandonment,
loss, pain and sadness
of my young life.
she said softly cry
let it out tears are gods
safety valve purge the pain.
I cried for twenty minutes.
I was a lifer who adopts 14 year old boys
apparently nobody.
She placed ice packs on my caned bottom.
Then she prayed for the saints to bless me.
She met with me every day caring and kindness.
so lovely her face radiant her heart so kind.
She stopped me from running away again.
We Read great books by important authors.
Learned poetry and discussed its meaning.
It occurred to me she was my only friend.
What I did not know
was I was falling in love with her.
In the foggy corridor that joins
boyhood and manhood.
I was lost and confused.
She took me the mission where the
lost and homeless came and we served free food.
I would have followed her to the moon.
I have never met anyone before or since
so pure and beautiful.
She was relocated three years later
to a mission in Africa.  I was desolate.
I begged to go with her.
I even asked her to marry me
she was gentle to my young heart.
if I was single I would marry you in a heartbeat
she said.
But I am already married to my faith.
Showing me her gold ring
i am a bride of Christ.
She died a few years later
her weekly letter stopped coming.
It was a bad case of malaria
but I know that God needed her in heaven
to light up it's dark corners.
Even now after all this time
long passed the college days
I owed to her.
I know her prayer to the Saints
that she said for me was answered.
I met a beautiful lady at college
we are married with two wonderful children.
At last my own family.
On the holidays we all serve food
at the mission.
When we get home on the portrait wall
at the center of all our pictures
is a black and white framed portrait of
a nun with the most beautiful face.
My daughter ask who is the pretty lady. Daddy.
I say its Sister Angelica honey.
But I always called her Ma'am.

I can feel me
******* breaking under gray skies
As I dream of red eyes
And green grass
CPT Slime and Rasta's daft laughs
And the taste of tobacco on your tongue
While I wash up in SlimeyG's kitchen

Good God, if I wasn't there, that infamous week would've been filthy!

We can feel
The bass ******* it through the sideboard
SlmieyG's lounge walls are shaking hard
And we cackle bare
When Big Gay tumbles grinning downstairs
So I stick the kettle on

Good God, we caned a litre of milk in one round of teas!

I can hear
Those slimey green dawgs singing loud
When we bring Tom's cake out
And his face is a chuffin' picture
At the realisation of the six-layers' topper
So throw him a Clipper

Good God - eighteen, eighteen, EIGHTEEN tokes to clear it!

So, will you?
Can we all get together? We'll feel alright
For just one more warm hazy night
And when we sing these songs
Of freedom, we'll laugh in peace together. So long
To misery, my brothers

Bar Born The Tasked Rascals, Art So Set Apart,

As If Not Of This Excepted Floor To Have A Soap Box Well Lit And Sound Bound As To Announce The Service Of All Mankind.

These Hell Bound Sounded Hound, Cranking Out A Numbness Of Flashing Rights To The Clearest Inner Outside Light, All Bug Repellent In Its Shaded Cast, As If The Main Mast Full Gale And Expecting The White Whale To Summon The Squall Of All, The White Bl;blizzard Of Darkened Davy Jones Host.

Late For The Event In Our Black Sly Right Tight Ties, Tux Not The Occasion Of Such A Dinner In The Coral Castles And Measured Counted And Weighed Sand Grains In Hand, All Ring Around The Rosie And Pocket Full Of  We Are The World.

Is It Insulting To Find A Tear Of The Torn Sided Fine, I'm Fine, **** Son, He Said He Is Fine... Is It? Is It Really Fine To Be So Kind As To Look Endlessly For The Truer Shine Of Ones Kine?

Wasted And Laid Barren In The Worlds Cup Over Flowing In The Digital Futures Markets, As We The Rip Torn, Black Eyed Beauties Of The Breeded Horse Smart
Before The Cart As It Was Said On A Wednesday Clay Shaped Self As The Potter Fell Over From A Heart Attack Just By The Mention Of My **** Name.

Was It This Simple Setting To Round In The Tails Tucked And ******, So Sad The Signs Were Of Mine Own Hand In The Mixed Bag Of Tricks All To Call The Summons A Court So Full Of Our Truths And Burdens And Labors Of Love And Hate, So Late This Judgement Of Set Aside The Ritual Tribes Dance To Call In The Rain, Only , As If, To Walk In The Birth Of A Giants Framed Hunch Back To Back And Caned By Cains Marked Hand.

To You This Might Seem A Tale So Riddled In Riddles A Rippling Crass Shaven ***, A Holler In Yonder Holler Or That Of A Dieing Mans Need To Cast Blame In The Way To Say, How Were We Ever Insane To Think On A Moments Notice Again That Shove To The Edge Of Wonder And Fulfillment Did He Dare To Craft A Sinking Ships Last Gasp, Or Were It A Was Not Of Lifted Simpleton And Worries Nots, To Blur The Feelings We All Seem To Hang Close To Our Hearts As To Say In A Screaming Tones Silent As Dogs Whimpers Oh , For Gods Sake , Forget Me Not...

The Cast Of Unwitting Jerry Cans Half Empty From The Storm Troopers Gaze, They The False And Amazed Wonders Of The Free World To Tempt Your Massive Thought And Considerations And Brain Power Looking Eye To Eye Through These Cell Phone Towers Of Joyous Tizzy And Spinning A Dice Of Little Means To A Giving.
What Does One Find? A Mere Chance To Work This Entire Poem And Line Into A Trout Of Creek Feed Leisure Time?

Or Is It Ones Worth To Graft The Strangest Brew In The Me And You, For All Time, Due To The Constraints Of The Time, Time And Half A Time Notion For Us To Hang This Heart Of Mine On.

I Do Declare, That In A Star Upon My Wishing Fest'iva And Nova In The Go No And No Doze Moments In Clear And Unfettered Satiation In Full Regalia A Black Mass So Fryer Tuck That You Can Not Star Too Long For The Sake Of The Pornographic Nature Of Thier Thrusting Fuckery In The Tupperware Tasted Cakes And Lemonaded Hast To Widen The Soul Of A Young Generations Boats They Care To Float , Yet To Prison My Dear Captain For The Sense Of Revenge Is Upon The Shoulders Of Those So Bewildered And Lost As To Find Sovereign Thought One Un-steal Able And Last We Could Count, One Above And Beyond The Coat You Brought To Warm Your Bones In Cigar Shaped Houses Floating Not Thine Boat With Stolen Blood Soaked And Still Depending On The Boys Heart Well To Wish Your Sudden Captivity In Audience And Nature To Stroke A Hearts Choke, For I The Warden And The Boastful  **** To Say, Oh Dear Friend They Think This Turn About Fair In Play Is Nothing But A Hopeful And Sick Joke...
Wisen This And That Cat Of Their Lost Abundance In Hate Filled Crafting Law And Law Out Has Your Trust Of Ever Kept Wasteful Play Dates Upon The Bare Backs Of Us And Our Children , Oh No , No, They Will Surly Not Take Your Announcement Of True Give A **** And Care In Such A Wondrously Deep Falling Hazy Gaze, No, They Are The Turds They Are About To **** Upon The Very Day They Proclaimed For Pigs To Never Fly.
Has This Been Lost In The Translation Of Brilliant Minds Eye To The Worded Version Of The By And By The Way, This Is Our **** House And We Are Now Here To Play The Hail Mary Of The **** Day, Or Was It That We Were To Gateraid The Bench Warmers And Arm Chair The Play By Play, All **** And Hands Out Of Reach, To Breach The Wealth Of Those So Ready To Cast Us A Lot Of Heart Ache And Diverse Diversions Of Race Hate And War Upon Every Shore?
I Say, Stand And Be Brilliant Whether They Can Understand A ******* Word You Say, For Truly It Is Only The Call To The Right And The Left, For They Left Us In Harms Way Day After Day, That Is Till Today, For You Are My Brother And My Sister, And On This What Do You Have To Say?
I Say, Take The Power Back My ***, We Are The Power And Its Planted State Of Non Affair In Foreign Affairs To The Truth Be This Our Back Yard Is Our Forward Guard And Today Is The Day We Defend The Whistles And Blowers Of The Stated Truth Among The Liars And Thieves, For If We Dare Not To Defend These True Human Beings, Then Whom Will Find The Basket To Round The Ends Of The Pews Of The Needed Death Total In The Burial Of Not Their Own Corpse But The Nature Of A Word And Its Meaning, For Freedom Will Then Be A Marketable Stock Traded And Made You A Trader On The Gold And Bar None, Son, We Will Have Lost In Every Single Sum.

So ? What Shall We Say On The Day, After Today, Is It Called To My Marrow, A Bone To Pick Or It Be Said, My Love And My Grace Held High And Loud In This Place, For Tomorrow Is Ours In Every Way And Let The Truth Ring Of Loves Grace And Abundance Was Set Free In The Hearts Of All Mankind, For Ours Is The Ever After And None Shall Steal What Resides In Our Hearts,



None Apart From The Part As A Whole, And None A Hole For The Whole To Find Reason Nor Scored Cause To Abhor The Truth Of Ones Core Who Longs At All Cost To Be Free. If I Must Choose Freedom Or Peace, I Choose Freedom At The Very Cost Of Peace, For If Peace Is Without Freedom, Then Whose Peace Is It You Speak And Whose Freedom Did That Peace Cost Them?  As The Obvious Price For The Few To Enjoy A Peace Where The Masses Are Far From At Peace Nor Are That In Any Way Free.

O’Brien took
the comic
Sutcliffe was holding
and said

what the ****
you got here Sutcliffe?
give it back O’Brien
he went to ******

back the comic
O’Brien held it away
hey Davies
see what Sutcliffe’s

got inside
the comic cover
and he showed Davies
the magazine

of women
in all states
of undress
look at the **** on her

Davies said
give it back
Sutcliffe said
O’Brien showed you

the centre fold
of some woman
posing in a position
you thought

most uncomfortable
come on O’Brien
give it to me
in case a prefect sees it

and we're hauled
in front of Thompson
and get caned
O’Brien scanned

through more pages
with Davies looking
over his shoulder
where did you get

this magazine from Sutcliffe?
found it
he said
where?

Davies asked
somewhere
Sutcliffe muttered
where somewhere?

O’Brien said
Sutcliffe looked at you
then around
the playground

of the school
under my old man's shoes
in the cupboard
he said quietly

you looked at O’Brien
gaping at the magazine
his eyes peering intently
look at her Davies

fancy waking up
with her beside you huh?
Davies grinned
and pulled the page

to show you
the woman had a mole
on her left breast
you noticed

Sutcliffe snatched back
the magazine
and pulled
the comic cover

back in place
Davies laughed
and O’Brien said
you're a *****

young man Sutcliffe
you enjoyed the look
Sutcliffe said
as he stuffed

the comic into
his inside
coat pocket
and buttoned it up

any more under
your old man's shoes?
O’Brien asked
no

Sutcliffe said
just that one
shame
Davies said

you noticed
Mr Austin’s
sports car drive
into the playground

his pockmarked face
staring at you
from his car seat
Austin’s arrived

Sutcliffe said
you all watched
as he parked his car
then looked away

as he made his way
towards you all
the sky was grey
the start of Fall.

Frosty the snowman was scarlet stained.
Stripes all across him and the surrounding snow.
Instead of the white Christmas everyone had been wishing for,
It was now a candy caned Christmas.
The smell of pine and turkey dinner ran through the streets.
But when you entered that small yellow house,
it smelled of something odd.
Something off.
In a season where many houses are filled with the joy,
of baby Jesus and his birth,
this house smelled of something different.
Something off.
What was that smell?
All the kids rushed to open their presents.
Wrapped in tissue and ribbons.
Big grand ribbons.
But there was one last gift that had been forgotten.
One last gift tucked far in the back.
The last thing opened was her.
Her red ribbon wrapped wrists.
Merry Christmas.

if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

and a decent poem this could have been, but then two
distractions came -
       one of less concern than the other:

a. a program on u.f.o. sightings,
         not so much the subject matter,
but the journalistic ridicule of what was later
    translated into a "sensible" branch
of phenomenology - the branch filled with
awe and fear - unlike the branch that deals
with: 'oh, there's but a simple explanation
behind it all',
               the hardship of seemingly
good intentions in making others believe
something tends to end with a crucifixion in
one way or another - the lesser crucifixion?
evidently stigmatism -
                      perhaps a more unfathomable
experience - no hand in the cookie jar
but nonetheless the hand being caned -
later, much much later the talk of
ostracising ostriches - ducking for cover
   when a less mainstream scientists comes
along and takes out equipment to
understand certain phenomena -
          perhaps without the layman's blinking
incomprehensibility - but at least
         not journalistic poking fun off -
     or how the ostriches always talk about
the faculty of imagination overpowering
the senses - casually phrased: you must have
been imagining things... well... **** me!
why did they invent hallucinogenic drugs
given that imagination can suddenly invoke
a hallucination so potent?

b. first it started with your face,
                 then it started with a mirror
and a face in it in some nightclub bathroom -
some look terrible in mirrors
       the movement disguises the many
apparently or non-apparent imperfections -
that trick of morality that beauty (is but
a short lived tyranny) needs to almost
nervously twitch for the participant in
a brief spell of Narcissism,
  so they take the photo, call it a selfie and
say: if i look good in a selfie, the image
in the mirror doesn't matter...
                           they actually look better in
the mirror than in the selfie -
   but then i decided i had enough of the culture,
only a day before, started to look more and
more at my shadow - maybe the
shape of the nearly skin head made me curious,
so i said to myself: tomorrow night,
   when you're sober, go out and make an
album of photographs.
              hence the distraction b... putting the album
together... from colour, to b & w aesthetic,
   fiddling with enough exposure and contrast
to get the shapes out (not a brilliant camera) -
but apart from my anti-selfie i
took two photographs of modern relics -
    they having dismantled them...
                 *phoneboxes!
  i remember walking home with a few beers
when it started raining... good thing that
      one of them had the top glass window
smashed and it wasn't there...
              a great bar it turns out...
yep, a beer or two in a phonebox and
the nostalgia of having pockets filled with coins -
   and that ramous number oh eight-hundred
    R E V E R S E        0800 7 3 8 3 7 7 3
(just like the American say it) - on the other line
a person would hear the automated message:
someone is calling you from... would you like
to pay for the call?
             relics, truly... or minibars when it rains
or cubicles to **** in... why not? anyone using it
for anything else?
                  and so it was today,
after watching the vice presidential discussion
i picked the quietest moment in the night
3:30 a.m., the quietest moment in the night -
30 minutes out, started counting the number of
steps it would take for a concrete shadow
under a streetlamp would fizzle out and become
less and less visible, until another streetlamp
gave back a full-bodied concrete form,
the less blurry and fizzling out after ~34 steps...
it takes about 34 steps for the shadow to fizzle
out when looking at it when created by
a passed streetlamp, as said, another streetlamp
replenishes the lost density of the shadow.

which brings me onto... overpriced books.
        now, stopping drinking could help me buy socks,
or a new pair of shoes...
  but...
                              i haven't picked up a book
recently that would grab my attention...
                 and the last time i wrote poetry while
also reading a book, not since the time of Ezra's Cantos,
and that's donkey's years away, it would seem.
     but by chance i came across one...
the most expensive book i ever bought was in
Edinburgh, £28.50 and in brackets
             [cheapest online £60.30 inc. shipment]...
but the book i'm going to reference seemingly
fell from the sky... Ponderings II - VI:
Black Notebooks 1931 - 1938 by Heidegger -
which stands at £30.10 from a second-party
retailer on Amazon... otherwise it's £50.00!
i am mad enough to buy this book, hence the strict
regime of alternative drinking nights...
           but that's beside the point...
i don't care to compliment the translation,
       this is the first insight into Heidegger stripped
bare from what i consider to be the hardest books
to read - the devilishness of youth -
2 ****** years and a few good books and much
poetry in between enabled i finished that
   monstrosity that is being and time -
but these ponderings? a complete and utter
revelation! well... it's no good looking at it
if you haven't read the magnum opus -
        i can say enough in that he does treat
aphorisms with a slight disdain, or rather as stepping
stones to create an alternative narrative,
    aphorism that have a different impact in a sense
that they are not isolated to just one isolated incident,
     i guess it's phenomenological in a sense
that phenomenons weave a narrative whether in
a cause and effect scenario, alternatively
        either cause, or effect; i thought i write this
poem before writing something less lucid when
relaxing with the whiskey during the end of the shift...
   and all because what's revealed from this
is how to answer the above question -
      if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around
to hear it, does it make a sound?
    if you look up all the Anglophone answers to
the question, you end up reaching the escape
route into buddhism, pop culture jokes
          and a general impracticality of it all
being related to perception and that horrid word
reality.
                i don't like this approach at all -
the easiest escape route is to approach buddhism -
that's the standard practice in English societies,
to escape into buddhism and chime jar jar jam and
joe who was later known of om -
     the book in question (ponderings ii - vi)
shows the skeleton of what is otherwise an Alcatraz
of prose in that systematic height of composition,
and that's how the concept of dasein enters
like a behemoth - in these ponderings dasein
is stripped to the bare essential of: being & there -
that's how i saw that ****** question answered -
it's not really a question of perception
    but a question of concern - and i have started
to really adore how the Germans always manage
to provide a higher tier of logic than the English,
the de facto argument of logic is:
   if i use words, i am logical -
   which doesn't not mean i categorising further
and suggesting i'm also rational,
          because that's beside the point -
illogical expression is something incomprehensible
for a logical person: sign language -
        but that's not to say something illogical
is irrational -
                    what i am suggesting is
that by using words i am logical -
            i can also be irrational, but nonetheless logical,
in the same way as i can be rational
    using the same starting point -
                                but in saying that i can be irrational
cannot mean that i'm illogical -
       because i am still using the basic blueprint: words.
this is the avenue where this £30.10 priced book
on Amazon leaves you wandering -
              but not on its own...
   as already stated...                   and i never
thought i'd be able to say it: reading philosophy
in English has suddenly become comprehensible
and rather enjoyable to me...
         by the looks of it... this will be the only
book on philosophy in English in my library
(the history of western philosophy doesn't count),
given that all the rest of them are in Polish...
      well... with the exception of Nietzsche,
he's pompous enough to be read in English,
         reflections from Scotland,
        on the faded and ever more fading former
Empire.

forced words on paper
scratched nails on chalk bored
stiff caned laughter
smiles to mask a wound
stitches to hide a broken heart.
this is what the world is standing on
but we can change
we can rebuild
we are strong
WE CAN DO IT.

Latin Mortality

People coping carelessly,
Dissociating, crossly, staring crassly,
Stilled in fantasy and logic phallusies,
Yet time ticks and life leaks,

Money makes me more,
Under false guise of one who seeks,
Love, height, esteem, sight, seeking a dream,
Bulky bags, brimming bucks, books and buffets,

Broad, full or empty,
Doesn’t matter the stacked inventory,
It’s how the items are used,
Momento Mori,

Was your energy used efficiently?
Will you grow in elegance and prosperity?
Effortless legacies echoing down corridors of time,
What will you be remembered for?

Are you fine with what you’ve left unsaid?
Who you’ve led or wed?
Who you’ve fed a lie or made cry?
Always remember you will die,

Ten good deeds?
A score?
Does it outweigh the dark?
Do you care which heavenly bells hark?

Strong formidable, body healthy,
A traumatized mind stares at a reflection,
That of a skeleton,
Drained, caned, infamy preordained,

Bogged down by mental mortal chains,
Social strains, driving him insane,
Perspectively it will never end,
Even death is just another time encapsulated den,

Forever adding details,
To a undefined gory story,
Forever and always,
Momento Mori...

Valueless how nothing lasts forever, life is an empty bucket
Who would care if you didn't exist, if I didn't exist?
Feeling as empty as my old jean's pockets
Open bottle and drink happily
Of course until happy
Only to finish up with the abused opposites
By my blurred eyes, I seem to be nakedly nacred
Questioning whether I'm real, is sadly consecrated
Questioning if its love... rapidly grows vapid
Close, as the unhappy body drawn to my noteworthy pace
Close, as the rain that draws attention to my morbid habits
My happiness is a circle collapsing into a dreaded mess
Erroneous notion that we're all little gambits
As it pays to be negative
It can't be right, I know we're all not evasive
Two days of being convinced, that I am not actually homeless
Face emotionless with xanax on my left wrist
I'm addicted to my truest sense, that'll forever be hidden
Open bottle and drink happily
Of course until happy
Lacked ones open highway road, lonesome wind please blow away
Tie a silk scarf around my neck, and kiss on my benighted soul
As goes below, unnameable
Sniffing more than air and watching my issues blow away
Out my nostrils into the tissue of my flawed escape
Open bottle and drink happily
Of course until happy
My head is swimming from wine
I'm about to spit bedraggled japes
Soon to overflow, soon to dilapidate
Fit my body, warm my old sane mind
Torch patience, I'm a ******* light
Without actually breathing
I somehow stay alive
In my eminent vintage bucket
Of taint time and caned wine

Can you hear them? The screams.
Turmoil, pain, guilt, shame.
Humanity is lost.
Our souls are as broken as the pavement,
as chipped as the doll’s porcelain face.
We ask questions we deem meaningful;
what are we doing to make a difference?
In a world with souls black as tar, is there a difference to be made?
What will you do when you grow up?
Is it possible to grow up in a world where even the adults are surrounded by toys, spending all day in daycares?
How much money will you make?
Money that will buy you proverbial joy, but will burn with you in a temporal hell
Royal we.
We are doomed. 
Society is dead.
Heathens.
You scoff, you shudder, you fear.
Truth.
Humanity is hedonistic, selfish, sick, broken.
Prehistoric.
Don your black lace, cover your visage with veils; look away from the future for there is no future. Not here, in a world as flat as the screens we see it through.
Flashes and glimpses.
History books,
Juxtapose our worlds.
We are no longer the people of the past;
nor those of the future.
Back in the day.
Get off my lawn.
Laughter.
Caned, Alone, Confused.
Disabled.
What were your parents thinking?

Blame a generation but, who raised them?
Cracked Soul.
Death comes.
We run, where?
Accept your fate.
Humanity is fallen.
The time has come.
Bravery.
Staunch Courage.
Look Death in the face and smirk?
Cut down.
Over.
Souls as black as tar.
Broken like the teapot on the floor.
Liquid, from the cracks.
Your standards.
Who are you?
Doesn’t matter.
End it.
He did.
Tears. Why?
 Humanity is over.
Fallen.
Gone.
Prehistoric.

Ripped from his crypt, he
Rips past fast and furious.
Curious, she sits
On her rocking chair and stares
At this fair spirit.
Lit from head to toe like a
Flaming diamond, sun
Reflecting off towards the
Direction he is
Going, she is dying to
Touch this free demon.
Fed up with the fact she lost
Her identity,
Longing for mischief or a
Flare of forgotten
Passion, she leaps after him,
At least the best she
Can with her caned up legs. His
Eyes stay fixed on the
Road, leaving but dust behind
For this craven and
Ravenous old woman. She
Thus sits back down in
Her chair. But now in her mind
She’s thunder, lightning
Cold hot-momma with flaring
Hair, flagging down those
Low-riding demons with her
***** and her ***,
Wolfing them down, or at least
Until the day she
Dies. Then she’ll ride with them, a
Flaming raven, a
Demon, ripped from her own crypt.

candy-caned straws,

carry me down a nightly drawl,

where i can draw you with sleight,

i forget you by sun.

where drinkers can sin to forget,

then forget the sin.

when the crazy can write,

without a single eye to spy,

this lonely island of mine,

where many have crossed or died.

I love the virus
when humans die
It is boon to us
they must multiply

Pain and sorrow
in dinghy cages
tears we swallow
down the ages
Killed for fun
or just for greed
We are one
in woe indeed
we run amok
in bush and tide
for guns stalk
our horn and hide
vanishing green
forests blazed
we die unseen
plight unfazed
tamed and displayed
in circus and zoos
chained and caned
We suffer abuse!!!

let this holy virus spread
till human freedom is lost
let them loose daily bread
cause every pain has a cost!!!!

An ode by an animal

When will I be able to get out this slender column
bottle?
When will the Owner take the cap away?
He's flicking around it
His hand I can see
but I can't see any other else beside my own.

My tears could compose into a snowball
inside the glass tall bottle
He wouldn't let anyone turn the cap
I don't know his reasons .

I don't know how long
The walls are so slippery, I am pushed down again
It's not just me, others like me, in the sames
are trapped, are batoned, are caned,
inside the tiny hollow bottle .

In our own bottles
it's no less than prison
The hope is the cap
But, When?
Will the cap be opened?
Knock, knock
Is Thou actually listening us?