I.

One night at the Troubadour I spotted this extraordinary girl.

So I asked who she was.

‘A professional,’

That was my introduction that on a scale of one to ten

there were women who were fifteens—beautiful, bright, witty, and

oh, by the way, they worked.

Once I became aware,

I saw these women everywhere.

And I came to learn that most of them were connected to Alex



II.

She had a printer engrave a calling card

that featured a bird of paradise

borrowed from a Tiffany silver pattern

and,
under it,

Alex’s Aviary,

Beautiful and Exotic birds.



A few were women you’d see lunching at Le Dôme:

pampered arm pieces with expensive tastes

and a hint of a delicious but remote sexuality.

Many more were fresh-faced, athletic, tanned, freckled

the quintessential California girl

That you’d take for sorority queens or future BMW owners.





III.

The mechanism of Alex’s sudden notoriety is byzantine,

as these things always are.

One of her girls took up with a rotter,

the couple had a fight,

he went to the police,

the police had an undercover detective visit

(who just happened to be an attractive woman)

and ask to work for her,

she all but embraced her

—and by April of 1988 the district attorney had enough evidence

to charge her with two counts of pandering

and one of pimping.

For Alex, who is fifty-six

and has a heart condition and diabetes,

the stakes may be high.

A conviction carries the guarantee of incarceration.

For the forces of law and order,

the stakes may be higher.

Alex has let it be known that she will subpoena

every cop she’s ever met to testify at her trial.

And the revelations this might produce

—perhaps that Alex compromised policemen

by making girls available to them,

—perhaps that Alex had a deal with the police to provide information

in exchange for their blind eye to her activities

—could be hugely embarrassing to the police and the district attorney.

For Alex’s socially correct clients and friends,

for the socially correct wives of her clients and friends

and for a handful of movie and television executives

who have no idea they are dating or

married to former Alex girls,

the stakes are highest of all.



IV.

Alex’s black book is said to be a catalogue of
Le Tout Los Angeles.

In her head are the ****** secrets

of many of the city’s most important men,

to say nothing of visiting businessmen and Arab princes.

If she decides to warble,

either at her trial or in a book,

her song will shatter more than glass.





V.

A decade ago, I went to lunch at Ma Maison,

There were supposed to have been ten people there,

but only four came.

One of them was a short woman

who called me a few days later and invited me to lunch.

When I arrived, the table was set for two.

I didn’t know who Alex was or what she did,

but she knew the important facts of my situation:

I was getting divorced from a very wealthy man

and doing the legal work myself

to avail lawyers who wanted to get a big settlement for me.


Occasionally, she said, I get a call for a tall, dark-haired,

slender, flat-chested woman

—and I don’t have any.

It wouldn’t be a frequent thing.

There’d be weekends away, sometimes in Palm Springs,

sometimes in Europe.

The men will be elegant,

you’ll have your own room

—there would be no outward signs of impropriety.

And you’d get $10,000 to $20,000 for a weekend.





VI.

The tall, slender, flat-chested brunette

didn’t think it was right for her.

Alex handed her a business card

and suggested that she think about it.

To her surprise, she did

—for an entire week.

This was 1978, and $20,000 then

was like $40,000 now,

I knew it was hooking,

but Alex had never mentioned ***.



Our whole conversation seemed to be about something else.



VII.

I was born in Manila

to a Spanish-Filipina mother and German father,

and when I was twelve

a Japanese soldier came into our house

with his bayonet pointed at us,

ready to do us in.

He locked us in and set the house on fire.

I haven’t been scared by much since that.



My mother always struck me as goofy,

so I jumped on a bus and ran away,

I got off in Oakland,

saw a help-wanted sign on a parish house,

and went in.

I got $200 a month for taking care of four priests.

I spent all the money on pastries for the parish house.

But I didn’t care.

It felt safe.

And the priests sparked my interest in the domestic arts

—in linen, in crystal.



A new priest arrived.

He was unpleasant,

so on a vacation in Los Angeles I took a pedestrian job,

still a teenager,

married a scientist.

We separated eight years later,

he took our two sons to another state

threatened to keep them if I didn’t agree to a divorce.

Keep them I said and hung up.

It’s not that I don’t have a maternal instinct

—though I don’t,

I just hate to be manipulated.



My second husband,

an alcoholic,

had Frank Sinatra blue eyes, and possibly

—I never knew for sure—

had a big career in the underworld

as a contract killer.

Years before we got serious,

he was going out with a famous L.A. ******,

She and her friends were so elegant

that I started spending time with them in beauty salons.

They were so fancy,

so smart

—and they knew incredible people,

like the millionaire who sat in his suite all day

just writing $5,000 checks to girls.



VIII.

I was a florist.

We got to talking.

She was a madam from England

who wanted to sell her book and go home.

I bought it for $5,000.

My husband thought it was cute.

Now you’re getting your feet wet.

Three months later,

he died.

After eleven years of marriage,

just like that.

And of the names in the book

it turned out

that half of the men were also dead.

When I began the men were old and the women were ugly.



IX.

It was like a lunch party you or I would give,

Great food Alex had cooked herself.

Major giggles with old pals.

And then,

instead of chocolate After Eight,

she served three women After Three



This man has seen a bit of life

beyond Los Angeles,

so I asked him how Alex’s stable

compared with that of Madam Claude,

the legendary Parisian procuress.

Oh, these aren’t at all like Claude’s girls,

A Claude girl was perfectly dressed and multilingual

—you could take her to the opera

and she’d understand it.





He told me that when she was 40

she looked at herself in the mirror

and said

Disgusting.

People over 40

should not have ***.

But She Was Clear That She Never Liked It

even when she was young.

Besides, she saw all the street business

go to the tall,

beautiful girls.

She thought that she never had a chance

competing against them.

Instead,

she would take their money by managing them.





X.

Going to a ****** was not looked down upon then.

It was before the pill;

Girls weren’t giving it away.

Claude specialized in

failed models and actresses,

ones who just missed the cut.

But just because they failed

in those impossible professions

didn’t mean they weren’t beautiful,

fabulous.



Like Avis

in those days,

those girls tried harder.

Her place was off the Champs,

just above a branch of the Rothschild bank, where I had an account.

Once I met her,

I was constantly making withdrawals and heading upstairs.





XI.

We took the lift

and Claude greeted us at the door.

My impression was that of the director

of an haute couture house,

very subdued,

beige and gray, very little makeup.

She took us into a lounge and made us drinks,

Whiskey,

Cognac.

There was no maid.

We made small talk for 15 minutes.

How was the weekend?

What’s the weather like in Deauville?

Then she made the segue. ‘I understand you’d like to see some jeunes filles?’

She always used ‘jeunes filles.’

This was Claude’s polite way of saying 18 to 25.

She left and soon returned

with two very tall

jeunes filles,

One was blonde.

This is Eva from Austria.

She’s here studying painting.

And a brunette,

very different,

but also very fine.

This is Claudia from Germany.

She’s a dancer.

She took the girls back into the apartment and returned by herself.

I gave my English guest first choice.

He picked the blonde.

And wasn’t disappointed.

Each bedroom had its own bidet.

There was some nice

polite conversation, and then



It was slightly formal,

but it was high-quality.

He paid Claude

200 francs,

not to the girls

In 1965, 200 francs was about $40.

Pretty girls on Rue Saint-Denis

could be had for 40 francs

so you can see the premium.

Still, it wasn’t out of reach for mere mortals.

You didn’t have to be J. Paul Getty.





XII.

A lot of them

were models at

Christian Dior

or other couture houses.

She liked Scandinavians.

That was the look then

—cold, tall, perfect.

It was cheap for the quality.

They all used her.

The best people wanted

the best women.

Elementary supply and demand.



XIII.

She had a camp number tattooed on her wrist. I saw it.

She showed it to me and Rubi.

She was proud she had survived.

We talked about the camp for hours.

It was even more fascinating than the girls.



She was Jewish

I’m certain of that.

She was horrified at the Jewish collaborators

at the camp who herded

their fellow Jews

into the gas chambers.

That was the greatest betrayal in her life.



XIV.

She was this sad,

lonely little woman.

Later, Patrick told me who she was.

I was bowled over.

It was like meeting Al Capone.

I met two of the girls

who worked for her.

One was what you would expect

Tall

Blonde

Model.

But the other looked like a Rat

Then one night

she came out

all dressed up,

I didn’t even recognize her.

She was even better than the first girl.

Claude liked to transform women like that.

That was her art.

It was very odd,

my cousin told me.

There was not much furniture

and an awful lot of telephones.

“Allô oui,”



XV.

I had so many lunches

with Claude at Ma Maison

She was vicious.

One day,

Margaux Hemingway,

at the height of her beauty, walked by.

Une bonne

—the French for maid

was how Claude cut her dead.

She reduced

the entire world

to rich men wanting *** and

poor women wanting money.

She’d love to page through Vogue and see someone

and say,

When I met her

she was called

Marlene

and she had a hideous nose

and now she’s a princess.

Or she’d see someone and say

Let’s see if she kisses me or not.

It was like

I made her,

and I can destroy her.

She was obsessed

with “fixing” people

—with Saint Laurent clothes,

with Cartier watches,

with Winston jewels,

with Vuitton luggage,

with plastic surgeons.



XVI.

Her prison number was

888

which was good luck in China

but not in California.

‘Ocho ocho ocho,’ she liked to repeat

Even in jail, she was always working,

always recruiting stunning women.

She had a beautiful Mexican cellmate

and gave her Robert Evans’s number

as the first person she should call

when she was released.



XVII.

Never have *** on the first date.



XVIII.

There will always be prostitution,

The prostitution of misery.

And the prostitution of bourgeois luxury.

They will both go on forever.



“Allô oui,”



It was so exciting to hear a millionaire

or a head of state ask,

in a little boy’s voice,

for the one thing

that only you could provide

It's not how beautiful you are, it's how you relate

--it's mostly dialogue.



She was tiny, blond, perfectly coiffed and Chanel-clad.

The French Woman: The Arab Prince, the Japanese Diplomat, the Greek Tycoon, the C.I.A. Bureau Chief — She Possessed Them All!



XIX.

She was like a slave driver in the American South

Once she took a *******,

the makeover put the girl in debt,

because Claude paid all the bills to

Dior,

Vuitton,

to the hairdressers,

to the doctors,

and the girls had to work to pay them off.

It was ****** indentured servitude.



My Swans.



It reached the point

where if you walked into a room

in London

or Rome

as much as Paris

because the girls were transportable,

and saw a girl who was

better-dressed,

better-looking,

and more distinguished than the others

you presumed

it was a girl from Claude.

It was, without doubt,

the finest *** operation ever run in the history of mankind.



**.

The girl had to be

exactly what was needed

so I had to teach her everything she didn’t know.

I played a little the role of Pygmalion.

There were basic things that absolutely had to be done.

It consisted

at the start

of the physical aspect

“surgical intervention”

to give this way of being

that was different from other girls.

Often they had to be transformed

into dream creatures

because at the start

they were not at all



Often I had to teach them how to dress.

Often they needed help

to repair

what nature had given them

which was not so beautiful.

At first they had to be tall,

with pretty gestures,

good manners.

I had lots of noses done,

chins,

teeth,

*******.

There was a lot to do.



Eight times out of ten

I had to teach them how to behave in society.

There were official dinners, suppers, weekends,

and they needed to have conversation.

I insisted they learn to speak English,

read

certain books.

I interrogated them on what they read.

It wasn’t easy.

Each time something wasn’t working,

I was obliged to say so.



You were very demanding?

I was ferocious.



It’s difficult

to teach a girl how to walk into Maxim’s

without looking

ill at ease

when they’ve never been there,

to go into an airport,

to go to the Ritz,

or the Crillon

or the Dorchester.

To find yourself

in front of a king,

three princes,

four ministers,

and five ambassadors at an official dinner.

There were the wives of those people!

Day after day

one had to explain,

explain again,

start again.

It took about two years.

There would always be a man

who would then say of her,

‘But she’s absolutely exceptional. What is that girl doing here?’ ”





XXI.

A New York publisher who visited

the Palace Hotel

in Saint Moritz

in the early seventies told me,

I met a whole bunch of them there.

They were lovely.

The johns wanted everyone to know who they were.

I remember it being said

Giovanni’s Madame Claude girl is going to be there.

You asked them where they came from and they all said

Neuilly.

Claude liked girls from good families.

More to the point she had invented their backgrounds.



I have known,

because of what I did,

some exceptional and fascinating men.

I’ve known some exceptional women too,

but that was less interesting

because I made them myself.



Ah, this question of the handbag.

You would be amazed by how much dust accumulates.

Or how often women’s shoe heels are scuffed.





XXII.

She would examine their teeth and finally she would make them undress.



That was a difficult moment

When they arrived they were very shy,

a bit frightened.

At the beginning when I take a look,

it’s a question of seeing if the silhouette

and the gestures are pretty.

Then there was a disagreeable moment.

I said,

I’m sorry about this unpleasantness,

but I have to ask you to get undressed,

because I can’t talk about you unless I see you.

Believe me, I was embarrassed,

just as they were,

but it had to be done,

not out of voyeurism, not at all

—I don’t like les dames horizontales.



It was very funny

because there were always two reactions.

A young girl,

very sure of herself,

very beautiful,

très bien,

would say

Yes,

Get up, and get undressed.

There was nothing to hide, everything was perfect.



There were those who

would start timidly

to take off their dress

and I would say

I knew already.

The rest is not sadism, but nearly.

I knew what I was going to find.

I would say,

Maybe you should take off your bra,

and I knew it wasn’t going to be

beautiful.

Because otherwise she would have taken it off easily.

No problem.

There were damages that could be mended.

There were some ******* that could be redone,

some not

Sometimes it can be deceptive,

you know,

you see a pretty girl,

a pretty face,

all elegant and slim,

well dressed,

and when you see her naked

it is a catastrophe.



I could judge their physical qualities,

I could judge if she was pretty, intelligent, and cultivated,

but I didn’t know how she was in bed.

So I had some boys,

good friends,

who told me exactly.

I would ring them up and say,

There’s a new one.

And afterwards they’d ring back and say,

Not bad,

Could be better, or

Nulle.



Or,

on the contrary,

She’s perfect.

And I would sometimes have to tell the girls

what they didn’t know.

A pleasant assignment?

No.

They paid.



XXIII.

Often at the beginning

they had an ami de coeur

in other words,

oh,

a journalist, a photographer, a type like that,

someone in the cinema,

an actor, not very well known.

As time went by

It became difficult

because they didn’t have a lot of time for him.

The fact of physically changing,

becoming prettier,

changing mentally to live with millionaires,

produced a certain imbalance

between them

and the little boyfriend

who had not evolved

and had stayed in his milieu.

At the end of a certain time

she would say,

I’m so much better than him. Why am I with this boy?

And they would break up by themselves.



Remember,

this was instant elevation.

For most of them it was a dream existence,

provided they liked the ***,

and those that didn’t never lasted long.

A lot of the clients were young,

and didn’t treat them like tarts but like someone from their own class.

They would buy you presents,

take you on trips.



XXIV.

For me, *** was something very accessoire

I think after a certain age

there are certain spectacles one should not give to others

Now I have a penchant for solitude.

Love, it’s a complete destroyer,

It’s impossible,

a horror,

l’angoisse.

It’s the only time in my life I was jealous.

I’m not a jealous person, but I was épouvantable.

He was jealous too.

We broke plates over each other’s heads;

we became jealous about each other’s pasts.

I said one day

It’s finished.

Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and say:

Break my legs,

give me scarlet fever,

an attack of TB, but never that.

Not that.



XXV.

I called her into my office

Let us not exaggerate,

I sent her away.

She came back looking for employment,

but was fired again, this time for drugs.

She made menacing phone calls.

Then she arrived at the Rue de Boulainvilliers with a gun.

She shot three bullets

I was dressed in the fashion of Courrèges at this moment

He did very padded things.

I had a padded dress with a little jacket on top.

The bullet

—merci, Monsieur Courrèges

—stuck in the padding.

I was thrown forward onto the telephone.

I had one thought which went through my head:

I will die like Kennedy.

I turned round and put my hand up in a reflex.

The second bullet went through my hand.

I have two dead fingers.

It’s most useful for removing bottle tops.

In the corridor I was saved from the third bullet

because she was very tall

and I am quite petite, so it passed over my head.



XXVI.

There were men

who could decapitate,

****, and bomb their rivals

who would be frightened of me.

I would ask them how was the girl,

and they’d say

Not bad

and then

But I’m not complaining.

I was a little sadistic to them sometimes.

Some women have known powerful men because they’re their lover.

But I’ve known them all.

I had them all

here.



She will take many state secrets with her.



XXVI.

I don’t like ugly people

probably because when I was young

I wasn’t beautiful at all.

I was ugly and I suffered for it,

although not to the point of obsession.

Now that I’m an old woman,

I’m not so bad.

And that’s why

I’ve always been surrounded by people

Who

were

beautiful.

And the best way to have beautiful people around me

was to make them.

I made them very pretty.





XXVII.

I wouldn’t call what Alex gives you

‘advice,’

She spares you Nothing.

She makes a list of what she wants done,

and she really gets into it

I mean, she wants you to get your arms waxed.

She gives you names of people who do good facials.

She tells you what to buy at Neiman Marcus.

She’s put off by anything flashy,

and if you don’t dress conservatively, she’s got no problem telling you,

in front of an audience,

You look like a cheap *****!

I used to wear what I wanted when I went out

then change in the car into a frumpy sweater

when I went to give her the money she’d always go,

Oh, you look beautiful!



Marry your boyfriend,

It’s better than going to prison.

When you go out with her,

she’ll buy you a present; she’s incredibly generous that way.

And she’ll always tell you to save money and get out.

It’s frustrating to her when girls call at the end of the month

and say they need rent money.

She wants to see you do well.





We had a schedule, with cards that indicated a client’s name,

what he liked,

the names of the girls he’d seen,

and how long he’d been with them.

And I only hired girls who had another career

—if my clients had a choice between drop-dead-gorgeous

and beautiful-and-interesting,

they’d tend to take beautiful-and-interesting.

These men wanted to talk.

If they spent two hours with a girl,

they usually spent only five or ten minutes in bed.



I get the feeling that in Los Angeles, men are more concerned with looks.



XXVIII.

That was my big idea

Not to expand the book by aggressive marketing

but to make sure that nobody

mistook my girls for run-of-the-mill hookers.

And I kept my roster fresh.

This was not a business where you peddle your ***,

get exploited,

and then are cast off.

I screen clients. I’ve never sent girls to weirdos.

I let the men know:

no violence,

no costumes,

no fudge-packing.

And I talked to my girls. I’d tell them:

Two and a half years and you’re burned out.

Save your money.

This is like a hangar

—you come in, refuel, and take off.

It’s not a vacation, it’s not a goof.

This buys the singing lessons,

the dancing lessons,

the glossies.

This is to help you pay for what your parents couldn’t provide.

It’s an honorable way station—a lot of stars did this.



XXIX.

To say someone was a Claude girl is an honour, not a slur.



Une femme terrible.

She despised men and women alike.

Men were wallets. Women were holes.



By the 80s,

if you were a brunette,

the sky was the limit.

The Saudis

They’d call for half a dozen of Alex’s finest,

ignore them all evening while they

chatted,

ate,

and played cards,

and then, around midnight,

take the women inside for a fast few minutes of ***.



They’d order women up like pizza.



Since my second husband died,

I only met one man who was right for me,

He was a sheikh.

I visited him in Europe

twenty-eight times

in the five years I knew him

and I never slept with him.

He’d say

I think you fly all the way here just to tease me,

but he introduced me

by phone

to all his powerful friends.

When I was in Los Angeles, he called me twice a day.

That’s why I never went out

he would have been disappointed.



***.

Listen to me

This is a woman’s business.

When a woman does it, it’s fun

there’s a giggle in it

when a man’s involved,

he’s ******,

he’s a ****.

He may know how to keep girls in line,

and he may make money,

but he doesn’t know what I do.

I tell guys: You’re getting a nice girl.

She’s young,

She’s pleasant,

She can do things

she can certainly make love.

She’s not a rocket scientist, but she’s everything else.



The world’s richest and most powerful men, the announcer teased.

An income “in the millions,” said the arresting officer.

Pina Colapinto

A petite call girl,

who once slid between the sheets of royalty,

a green-eyed blonde helped the police get the indictment.

They really dolled her up

She looks great.

Never!

What I told her was: ‘Wash that ******.’





XXXI.

Madam Alex died at 7 p.m.

Saturday at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center,

where she had been in intensive care after recent open heart surgery

We all held her hand when they took her off the life support

This was the passing of a legend.

Because she was the mother superior of prostitution.

She was one of the richest women on earth.

The world came to her.

She never had to leave the house.

She was like Hugh Hefner in that way.


It's like losing a friend

In all the years we played cat and mouse,

she never once tried to corrupt me.

We had a lot of fun.


To those who knew her

she was as constant

as she was colorful

always ready with a good tidbit of gossip

and a gourmet lunch for two.

She entertained, even after her conviction on pandering charges,

from the comfy depths of her blue four-poster bed at her home near Doheny Drive,

surrounded by knickknacks and meowing cats,

which she fed fresh shrimp from blue china plates.



XXXII.

She stole my business,

my books,

my girls,

my guys.

I had a good run.

My creatures.

Make Mommy happy

Oh! He is the most enchanting cat that I have ever known.



She was, how can I say it,

classy.

When she first hired me

she thought I was too young to take her case.

I was 43.

I'm going to give you some gray hairs by the time this is over.

She was right.





XXXIII.

I was fond of Heidi

But she has a streak that is so vindictive.



If there is pure evil, it is Madame Alex.





XXXIV.

I was born and raised in L.A.

My dad was a famous pediatrician.

When he died, they donated a bench to him at the Griffith Park Observatory.



I think that Heidi wanted to try her wings

pretty early,

and I think that she met some people

who sort of took all her potential

and gave it a sharp turn



She knew nothing.

She was like a little parrot who repeated what she was supposed to say.



Alex and I had a very intense relationship;

I was kind of like the daughter she loved and hated,

so she was abusive and loving at the same time.



Look, I know Madam Alex was great at what she did

but it's like this:

What took her years to build,

I built in one.

The high end is the high end,

and no one has a higher end than me.

In this business, no one steals clients.

There's just better service.



XXXV.

You were not allowed to have long hair

You were not allowed to be too pretty

You were not allowed to wear too much makeup or be too glamorous

Because someone would fall in love with you and take you away.

And then she loses the business



XXXVI.

I was pursued because

come on

in our lifetime,

we will never see another girl of my age

who lived the way I did,

who did what I did so quickly,

I made so many enemies.

Some people had been in this line of business

for their whole lives, 30 or 40 years,

and I came in and cornered the market.

Men don't like that.

Women don't like that.

No one liked it.



I had this spiritual awakening watching an Oprah Winfrey video.

I was doing this 500-hour drug class

and one day the teacher showed us this video,

called something like Make It Happen.

Usually in class I would bring a notebook

and write a letter to my brother or my journal,

but all of a sudden this grabbed my attention

and I understood everything she said.

It hit me and it changed me a lot.

It made me feel,

Accept yourself for who you are.

I saw a deeper meaning in it

but who knows, I might have just been getting my period that day!



XXXVII.

Hello, Gina!

You movie star!

Yes you are!

Gina G!

Hello my friend,

Hello my friend,

Hello my movie star,

Ruby! Ruby Boobie!

Braaawk!

Except so many women say,

Come on, Heidi

you gotta do the brothel for us; don't let us down.

It would be kind of fun opening up an exclusive resort,

and I'll make it really nice,

like the Beverly Hills Hotel

It'll feel private; you'll have your own bungalow.

The only problem out here is the climate—it's so brutal.

Charles Manson was captured a half hour from Pahrump.



I said, Joe! What are you doing?

You gotta get, like,

a garter belt and encase it in something

and write,

This belonged to Suzette Whatever,

who entertained the Flying Tigers during World War II.

Get, like, some weird tools and write,

These were the first abortion tools in the brothel,

you know what I mean?

Just make some **** up!

So I came out here to do some research

And then I realized,

What am I doing?

I'm Heidi Fleiss. I don't need anyone.

I can do this.

When I was doing my research, in three months

I saw land go from 30 thousand an acre

to 50 thousand an acre,

and then it was going for 70K!

It's urban sprawl

—we're only one hour from Las Vegas.

Out here the casinos are only going to get bigger,

prostitution is legal, it's only getting better.





XXXVIII.

The truth is

deep down inside,

I just can't do business with him

He's the type of guy who buys Cup o' Noodles soup for three cents

and makes his hookers buy it back from him for $5.

It's not my style at all.

Who wants to be 75 and facing federal charges?

It was different at my age when I

at least...come on, I lived really well.

I was 22,

25 at the time?

It was fun then, but now I wouldn't want

to deal with all that *******

—the girls and blah blah blah.

But the money was really good.



I would've told someone they were out of their ******* mind

if they'd said in five years I'd be living with all these animals like this.

It's hard-core; how I live;

It's totally a nonfunctional atmosphere for me

It's hard to get anything done because

It’s so time-consuming.

I feel like they're good luck though....

I do feel that if I ever get rid of them,

I will be jinxed and cursed the rest of my life

and nothing I do will ever work again.



Guys kind of are a hindrance to me

Certainly I have no problem getting laid or anything.

But a man is not a priority in my life.

I mean, it's crazy, but I really have fun with my parrots.



XXXIX.

I started a babysitting circle when I wasn't much older than 9

And soon all the parents in the neighborhood

wanted me to watch over their children.

Even then I had an innate business sense.

I started farming out my friends

to meet the demand.

My mother showered me with love and my father,

a pediatrician,

would ask me at the dinner table,

What did you learn today?

I ran my neighborhood.

I just pick up a hustle really easily,

I was a waitress and I met an older guy who looked like Santa Claus.



Alex was a 5' 3" bald-headed Filipina

in a transparent muu muu.

We hit it off.

I didn't know at the time that I was there to pay off the guy's gambling debt.

It's in and out,

over and out.

Do you think some big-time producer

or actor is going to go to the clubs and hustle?



Columbia Pictures executive says:

I haven’t done anything that should cause any concern.

Jeez, it's like the Nixon enemies list.

I hope I'm on it.

If I'm not, it means I must not be big enough

for people to gossip about me.



That's right ladies and gentlemen.

I am an alleged madam and that is a $25 *****!

If you live out here,

you've got to hate people.

You've got to be pretty antisocial

How you gonna come out here with only 86 people?

That's Fred.

He's digging to China.

You look good.

Yeah, you too.

It's coming along here.

Yeah, it is.

I wanted to buy that lot there, but I guess it's gone?

That's mine, man! That's all me.

Really?

I thought there was a lot between us.

No. We're neighbors.



He's a cute guy

He's entertaining.

See, I kind of did do something shady to him.

I thought my property went all the way back

and butted up against his.

But there was one lot between us right there.

He said he was buying it,

but I saw the 'For Sale' sign still up there,

So I went and called the broker and said,

I'm an all-cash buyer.

So I really bought it out from under him.

But he's got plenty of room, and I need the space for my parrots.

Pahrump will always be Pahrump, but Crystal is going to be nice

All you need are four or five fancy houses and it'll flush everyone out

and it'll be a nice area.

They're all kind of weird here, but these people will go.

Like this guy here,

someone needs to **** him.

I was just saying to my dad that these parrots are born to a really ******-up world

He goes, Heidi, no, no; the world is a beautiful garden.

It's just, people are destroying it.

I’m looking into green building options

I don't want anything polluting,

I want a huge auditorium,

but it'll be like a jungle where my birds can really fly!

Where they can really do what they're supposed to do.

There were over 300 birds in there!

That lady,

She ran the exotic-birds department for the Tropicana Hotel,

which is a huge job.

She called me once at 3:30 in the morning

Come over here and help me feed this baby!

Some baby parrot.

And I ran over there in my pajamas

—I knew there was something else wrong

and she was like

Get me my oxygen!

Get me this, get me that.

I called my dad; he was like,

I don't know, honey, you better call the paramedics.

They ended up getting a helicopter.

And they were taking her away

in the wind with her IV and blood and everything

and she goes, Heidi, you take care of my birds.

And she dies the next day.

She was just a super-duper person.



XL.

I relate to the lifestyle she had before,

Now, I'm just a citizen.

I'm clean,

I'm sober,

I'm married,

I work at Wal-Mart.

I'm proud to say I know her. I look into her eyes

and we relate.





I got out in 2000,

so I've been sending her money for seven years

She was…whatever.

Girlfriend?

Yeah, maybe.

But ***, I tried like two times,

and I'm just not gay.

She gets out in about eight or nine months

and I told her I would get her a house.

But nowhere near me.

I didn't touch her,

but I'd be, like...

a funny story:

I told her,

Don't you ever ******* think

about contacting me in the real world.

I'm not a lesbian.

Then about two years ago, I got an e-mail from her,

or she called me and said, 'Google my name.'

So I Googled her name,

and she has this huge company.

Huge!

She won, like, Woman of the Year awards.

So I called her and I go,

Not bad.

She goes, 'Well, I did all that because you called me a loser.'

I go, '****, I should've called you more names

you probably would've found the cure for cancer by now.



XLI.

No person shall be employed by the licensee

who has ever been convicted of

a felony involving moral turpitude

But I qualify,

I mean, big deal, so I'm a convicted felon.

Being in the *** industry, you can't be so squeaky-clean.

You've got to be hustling.

Nighttime is really enchanting here

It's like a whole 'nother world out here, it really is

I’m so far removed from my social life and old surroundings.

Who was it, Oscar Wilde, I think, who said

people can adjust to anything.

I was perfectly adjusted in the penitentiary,

and I was perfectly adjusted to living in a château in France.



We had done those drug addiction shows together

Dr. Drew.

Afterward we were friendly

and he'd call me every now and then.

He'd act like he had his stuff together.

But it was all a lie.

Everything is a lie.

I brought him to a Humane Society event at Paramount Studios last year.

He was just such a mess.

So out of it.

He stole money from my purse.

He's such a drug addict because he's so afraid of being fat.

He liked horse ****, though. He did like horse ****.

This one woman that would have *** with a horse on the internet,

He told me that’s his favorite actress.

Better than Meryl Streep.



XLII.

The cops could see

why these women were taking over trade.

Girls with these looks charged upwards of $500 an hour.

The Russians had undercut them with a bargain rate of $150 an hour.

One thing they are not is lazy.

In the USSR

they grew up with no religion, no morality.

Prostitution is not considered a bad thing.

In fact, it’s considered a great way to make money.

That’s why it’s exploding here.

What we saw was just a tip of the iceberg.

These girls didn’t come over here expecting to be nannies.

They knew exactly what they wanted and what they were getting into.

The madam who organized this raid

was making $4 million a year,

laundered through Russian-owned banks in New York City

These are brutal people.

They are all backstabbers.

They’re entrepreneurs.

They’re looking at $10,000 a month for turning tricks.

For them, that’s the American dream.



XLIII.

If you’re not into something,

don’t be into it

But,

if you want to take some whipped cream,

put it between your toes,

have your dog licking it up and,

at the same time,

have your girlfriend poke you in the eye,

then that’s fine.

That’s a little weird but we shouldn’t judge.



She was my best friend then

and I consider her one of my best friends now,

because when I was going through Riker’s

and everyone abandoned me,

including my boyfriend,

I was hysterical,

crying,

and she was the one that was there.

And, when somebody needed to step up to the plate,

that’s who did, and I have an immense amount of

loyalty, respect, and love for her.

And if she’s going to prison for eight years

—that’s what she’s sentenced for

—I’ll go there,

and I’ll go there every week,

for eight years.

That’s the type of person I am.

now i know why i might engage with writing obscene
poems, chauvinism included, but still there
is no burning excuse in my mind with the way
western society actively desires censorship of certain
words, i already attributed censoring obscene
words as worse than what this tactic precipitates into:
the apathetic spread of *******, and violence
in general... it crosses my mind that sparring with violent
language cushions people from violet action...
to utilise violent language with that: pardon my French
attitude does more good than evil on the users...
how many road rage incidents could have been avoided
if people were unable to watch their tongue:
somehow we're making language sterile, by actively
pursuing this sort of censorship: which is not even
remotely politically related / motivated, we're bringing
an anaemic status quo in how fluidly we speak -
we desire to not hear the sometimes funny and the sometimes
awful... but we choose to see the god-fearing horrific...
ask any blind-man about music and he'd say:
well, i can dance to it in a nucleus position, centrally
gravitational pull - but ask the deaf man about
what he has to say when seeing **** written to counter
obscenity, as in cartoon-like: f&%£! it's just plain silly,
pocket-sized expression of psychotic behaviours,
rummaging through them i find only one source of inspiration:
the fact that we're in this blind-man's garden of innocence,
somehow dressed in the camouflage of censorship such
a tiny problem, that it does indeed require 23 mattresses
for the princess to not feel the frozen *** agitating her...
this sort of censorship in its application is under
a false sense of purpose, it really doesn't change people's
behaviour for the better, it doesn't pacify them, in does
the reverse: it infuriates, it makes violence more potent...
i'm still trying to figure out why such words
will make our perceptions saintly... unless of course
that's the reason behind them, as way of invoking an
anaesthetic placebo, a placebo that's actually active rather
than passive - presuming the anaesthetic placebo gives
way to an aesthetic active apathy-inducing ingredient...
meaning we can't bare to hear swear words, but we can
gladly watch 20 hours of 20 : 1 ****... censoring **** ****
**** **** will not escape Newtonian physics...
given our current scenario, Newtonian physics is far
more important than Einstein's relativity, i'd hate to be
in denial about cause & effect... as began with Socrates,
i too abhor moral relativism... of course Newton got
the gravity bit wrong, but i like the simpler version...
plus... there was no Romance with Einstein...
no apple, no tree, no Voltaire... meaning we don't necessarily
write history collectively, with all of us starting from
the big bang or the view from the Galapagos islands...
we don't... we continue writing history not from a
collective consciousness genesis... or from the collective
unconscious genesis - that's Jung with his archetypes
(devil, god, wise man, mother, father etc.) rather than
dreams (Freud) - we can chose were to write the future...
it's not so much ignorance as arm-chair intellectualism,
it's not about the safety of understanding something,
but the comfort of choosing to understand something...
which is pretty much to my excuse for my previous poems...
Heidegger... and that concept of Dasein -
i never bothered to understand it to the point of
reacting subjectively to it, by that i mean an interest
in writing about it, an interpolation of the subject with
alternative variations... i objectified it, i also countered it
when objectifying the concept turned out to be an
everyday object, shortening my quest.
the counter? hiersein, i.e. being here, here denoting a
solipsistic classification of awareness with / in the world -
which is basically me in my room, admiring my library,
my record collection, my torn sneakers, everything that
is classified exclusive to what dasein evolves into
when all its grammatical weaving only express a verb,
i.e. concern... so i thought, given this what can hiersein
(being here / nonchalance) actually show me as
my lack of interest in: "changing the world".
it became obvious yesterday, i had a hard time when i
didn't read the day's copy of the times (more on this later),
instead i had to suffice with construction site media,
you might have heard of this newspaper: the daily star,
at 20 pence a pop, you will see what £1.20 makes to
your psyche... but that's basically it, i objectified Heidegger's
concept and made it into an everyday object, in this
case and as the only case available: a newspaper -
and the trick is? well, with a newspaper like daily star
you don't actually experience dasein - it's completely
missing in this style of media, and that's worrying given
my barbaric poetry of yesterday... it's missing, not there,
such object-for-object chirality is what gives birth to
hiersein (being here); but today i returned to my usual
media diet, a flicked through the times and the natural
balance of personal objects and a fresh impersonal object
coexisted - the newspaper is truly the most adequate
compounded expression of Heidegger's dasein -
which i attribute to the constant need to emphasise an
empathy with others... empathising is a neutral form
of sympathising, since sympathy is sourced in shared
experiences: **** victims (e.g.) - therefore empathy is
something that in the ontological structuring of dasein,
which opposes the ontological structuring of hiersein,
which is structured by apathy; there is nothing else for
me to write, apart from the compendium proof
of the disparity of sources, i.e. headlines and subheadings:

- prior compendium -

i will never understand the point of autobiographies,
the majority of autobiographies are written
on a p.s. basis, after the facts / actions,
never immediately, concerning ideas /
solidified thoughts, thoughts condensed into idea
that allow thinking / cognitive narration to
continue regardless with what's being achieved...
i haven't anything autobiographical dissimilar
with something biographical...
Plato wrote that wonderful biography like
Shakespearean theatre, but i guess his critics felt
the claustrophobic tug & pull of mermaids...
still the problem ascends heights unparalleled -
even with ghost writers doing the leg-work...
cheap-buggers never learned to write, let alone read,
and here they are writing biographies...
ah, **** it... they're only sketches... whether biographic
or autobiographic... they're still mere sketches...
if this was the art world the revenue would come
posthumously, when it comes to literacy
nothing really distinguishes poets from
those prescribing pedestrian signs...
the Olympians can moan at the vacant stadium...
that there's a hierarchy in sports,
with the favoured monochrome idealisation
of where the bunny money is in the whirlpool
of the rabbit hole investment: football, volleyball...
but the literary events are the same...
people love to lie that they read the bestseller to
its full extent... but treat books like chairs and tables...
inertia prone half finished, sat on for 2 weeks of
the entire year... the Olympians are very much
like poets, and i care to distance myself from either
demand for more interest being invoked...
i like esoteric sports, i like esoteric writing...
but that's how it stand: poets are Olympians where
novelists are footballers, who retire at 30 and
then think about what to do with their wages
that are 10x higher than the everyday labourer...
start a restaurant, buy a strip of houses in Liverpool
like Michael Owen? good guess, here's to exploiting
youth disgracefully... that's what they're getting,
and these are the dilemma points to consider...
they're the equivalent gladiators of our time,
Rome was just a sleeper before it awoke once more...
but i'll never understand why these
people decided to exploit literature for gain...
all these academics with their pristine purity of discovery
are pacified when dictating print,
what poet, has a chance in hell, to appear gladly
excavated from Plato's cave of television?
about none.
i too was focusing on 20th century literature,
before 21st literature came about...
and i thought, oh god: they're really going to create
a totalitarian democracy, every artist will be
strip-searched for adding cinnamon and chilli to their
writing to bounce away from conformist
sober and sane extraction of alter wordings...
this 21st scene will become polarised...
we'll have the extinction of One Direction over a joint,
while the Rolling Stones drank a keg of whiskey
and pulled off a show... we'll have moralisation
of the fans to subdue the artists, which will mean
no artist will ably create a zeitgeist to rebel... everyone
will suddenly experience a weird sort of communism...
the worst kind... it will mean having
all the mental freedoms without the ability to
economise a coup... basically an inertia, an immediate
fatality... we can't economise a coup...
which boils down to why so many autobiographies
aren't really biographic, but rather consolidating,
by the meaning: autobiographic i intended to relate
the everyday... the most secretive account of life:
the everyday... this is stressing Proust,
even though i preferred Joyce over Proust i keep
the everyday the prime ideal: the only detail,
so that an autobiography can make sense,
automation of writing, like breathing or sneezing...
not some monetary-spinning device 20 years after
the facts... 20 years later you're pretty much writing
fiction... i am all for the biosphere of expanding
Alveoli... but when did you ever read an autobiography
that mentioned the taste of weak coffee
from the Friday of 20th of August 2016? never;
you read autobiographies
like you read self-help books...  waiting for
all that experience regurgitating motivational talk
about reaching a plateau of comparative success...
i can understand autobiographies written by the elders,
i understand biographies written about people
posthumously - but the tragedy is, given the spinning
wheel of money? we're getting "auto" biographies
written toward their 3rd volume renditions of
people aged 30... let alone 40... so much for
western society having the upper hand on political matters...
just saying: sort your own **** before trying
to sort other people's problems...
i could understand if these autobiographies were written
as described: automaton solo... but they're not...
before the compendium it's this everlasting presence
of a desired body of power being depicted:
prior the monopoly of knowledge, there was a monopoly
of literacy... given that 99% of us are literate, it
actually doesn't mean a third donkey's *******
whether we can read, or write, we got shelved in controlling
this once priestly vanity, we got taught bureaucracy alongside...
but the monopoly of literacy is way past us,
we're being convened in the ability to monopolise knowledge,
(oh please, don't let the paranoia seep in,
remember yourself when reading me, once in a while,
i don't drag you to phantasmagorical heights, even if i could,
i'd prefer you being agile in learning how to be bored
than letting your repel the same boredom i too share,
well... but **** me if you want to be the next Lenin) -
and the easiest way to monopolise knowledge? the media...
you basically need a lot of facts, and an evolved version
of dialectics, dialectics being the prime enemy of democracy
(it's not an alternative political model like despotism as
we are held to believe, it's actually dialectics,
suppressing other forms of collectivisation is the one
sure method of suppressing the attempt at dialectics
(individualism) - by making people overly opinionated,
ergo: the inability to engage with opinions, blind-alleys
throughout all plausible attempts to do so) -
so once you have enough facts to fiddle with the Rubik's cube
of juxtaposition, you end up with the ultra-scientific
form of dialectics... the matter of opinion in relation
to truth without a relative uniformity that prescribes
the status quo stasis is a debate about how accurate
we all are: i.e., is that true to the closest centimetre,
or the closest millimetre? it's a bit like watching a Zeno
paradox:
                 10.1                           and 10.01
      which one's tortoise and which is Achilles?
well, you know; ah ****! the compendium of the two
newspapers which got me slightly depressed...

- the compendium -

a. daily star

- B. BRO SAM'S SECRET 'NERVOUS BREAKDOWN'
- Laura & Jason's baby joy
- Robbie (Williams) £1.6M a night!
- BREXIT BOOST ON JOB FRONT
- ANGE DAD BACKS TRUMP
- JR'S wife Linda set to Holly
- Edd's no Beverly Hills flop
(Lana among cow *******)
- LAURA: OUR TINY TROTTS WILL BE WORLD-BEATERS
- FURY AT BAD LOSERS' SLURS
- 'Jealous sis' jibes
- MAKE YOUR KID AN OLYMPICS ACE
- Peaty: I want to be a rapper
- TV girl really ill
- **** SAM, 'ON THE BRINK OF BREAKDOWN'
- COSTA ***** HELL
- CAGING ANJEM WILL INSPIRE NEW JIHADIS
- POG'S LOADED AGENT BUYS CAPONE'S LAIR
- I'll make Kylie a pop star
- JEZ DOESN'T KNOW ANT FROM HIS DEC
- GUILTY OF DEMONIC SAVAGERY
- Great British Rake In
- Britain is *******
- BAYWATCH U.K.
- Va Va Vroom
- JUST JANE: My lover snubs plea to get wed
- HART: I'LL DECIDE WHEN TO GO.

b. the times

- Boy victim becomes a symbol of Assad's war
- US Olympics swimmers invented robbery tale, say Rio police
- Make us sell healthy food, supermarkets implore May (P.M.)
- Lost weekend of the lying best man
- fears over free speech delay law to silence hate preacher
- Met's 'commuter cops' live in France
- Husbands happiest when they earn half as much as wives
- Socialists plot to drive Britain left
- Fake human sacrifice filmed at European high altar of physics
- Officers investigated over ex-footballer's Taser death
- Number of pupils taking languages at record low
   (Mandarin @ 2,849 - % decrease of 8.1,
    alarmingly religious studies 27,032 up by 4.9%
    and psychology of status 59,469 up by 4.3%....
    meaning the mad will soon be diagnosing the sane
   as mad, just because the curriculum said so)
- Top grades add up to 100% at the school for maths prodigies
- Deprived sixth formers thrive on competition
- European students rush to get into British universities
- DVLA earns £10m selling driver's details
- Mystery over Kenyan death of aristocrat
- Journalist who voted twice reported to police for
  'fraud'
- Tomato tax threatens European trade war
- Love story of the Pantomime
- Homeless conmen fleeced widow, 81
- Brownlee brothers at the Olympics...
- Hopeful shoppers give sales a lift after Brexit vote
- MoD guard could be stood down despite terrot threat
- Owners spit mansion after failing to sell
- The job with international appeal: saving our hedgehogs
- Finch warns unborn chicks if weather gets warm
- Migrant violence rises after decline in policing around Jungle
- Longest road tunnel promises a relaxing ride under Pennines
- Mothers step up to drive Tube trains through night
(rowdy teens ageing exponentially on a Saturday night
when not getting a lift, ******...)
-MP's deal with bookmaker to be investigated
- Ebola nurse 'hid high temperature'
- Shoesmith's ex-huspand kept child *******
- Morpurgo war tale springs into life
- Supergran fights off teenage muggers
- IVF is more successful for white women
OPINION SECTION
- Great political fiction is good for democracy
- the BBC is leaving its audiences in the dark
- airline food? just pass me the gin and tonic
- Modern Olympics began on the fields of Rugby
/ greasy polls, holding firm, tongue tied,
  call for compulsory targets to tackle obesity,
second in line, mindfulness course, cost of planning,
puffins v. ship rats.... and all future letters to the editor /
- Moscow presses Turkey for access to US airbases
- Hundreds killed each month in Assad's jails
- Putin bans celebration of defeated KGB coup
(another James Bond movie on the cards,
i'm assured, and with a moral carte blanche) -
Hollande clams Carla Bruni spied concerning his
use of diapers...
- Euthanasia tourists flock Belgian A & E from France,
  where a revival of ****** made people dress shark-fin
  sharp on the catwalk...
- Mosquito pesticide linkage application = intersex /
   East German women
- Haiti cholera linked to Nepalese **** and ***** via
  the

it's almost beautiful, we created the thing called
money, in order to turn tribalism
into a myth of Eden (alone, stark naked) -
          it's almost as if we deviated from
creating it and asking for family values,
            but never got them,
       i'm trying to imagine a Russia where
Rasputin wrote a book
that might have resounded with Nietzsche's
ubermensch - but thankfully precipitated into
world war i & ii... fancy the interlude:
a cold war i, now the cold war ii...
you should be happy, to be honest, it's the best
status quo you'll ever get...
but **** me, 1970s disco craze: even i'm
like Mozart-who?
               a little notebook, and my getting
drunk thoughts in it, funny how drink intellect
knows all too well about the: diminished responsibility
white flag -
              as with the **** chokes come the
drunk-and-writing-a-poem jokes,
                                i'd say blame Al Capone!
you know how many diacritical distinctions i could
insert into that surname? diacritical marks
are ulterior forces at-be when all punctuation goes
*******, not sentences, but words -
Cá       ponè - cockney slang Capone on the phone:
        we had fun: because you really don't say
Cáponé like you might say a torero's olé, do you?!
me? i find it grand to paint syllables with
diacritical marks, i mean: it's not even a blank canvas,
shame the semi-colon isn't minded in distinction,
but still, i already know that poets are scared of
punctuation, hence breaking the lines and not
engaging in a paragraph... tying shoelaces seems about
fine when it comes to modern poets,
talk about knitting jumpers, or scarfs by grannies -
sold as doing that same activity on shredded wheat cereal:
- = a hanging pause (suspense);
       , = necessary pause (or the expected
in a rhythmic cyclone);
   then i say to all my would be assassins:
you'll be doing me a massive favour, to be honest.
at times it really is the age of trusting entertainers
and not the media and certainly not the politicians -
it's almost stating the obvious.
i was in St. Petersburg for a month, and every time
i wanted to go to a danceclub to dance she refused me....
me and my naiveness in thinking that people could
actually be seduced by good...
      i don't mean being exposed to a tsunami
among the other elemental congregations of Shiva
there goes my belief in people being good to each other...
shoom! gone... bye bi!
(origins of dyslexia? maybe).
                                 she took me to the opera and
she started her snarling condescending approach to
the new-rich girls in the next booth...
     **** me, relationships leave me so ill-equipped
i actually find it staggering that i had any...
                 i must have been really naive in believing
that people could do good that i ended up
   a hermetic pessimist or misanthrope -
i never expected to be one, or share the juices of such
a calibration of humankind:
but it's funny how a movement overstates the cartesian
sum and never the cogito,
and when you by chance encounter the actual cogito
organising a movement, you represent nothing
representative of the movement's sum,
because the cogito is actually so staggeringly
divergent from being affiliated to the (e.g.)
         French revolution's guillotine locomotive.
when utilising only one hand in writing?
a black notebooks is written into at a rhombic degree,
yep, slant.
        i have two or three decent points to make,
but, obviously, i have to utilise verbiage to state them,
let's compare that to building a thousand homes
before the leaning tower of Pisa comes along
and people say: wow! in the immediate sense i
will require compensating that exception with
enough social housing for the tower to actually be erected:
that's natural: regurgitating maxims from no experience
would be an equivalence to an exoskeleton:
no experience, no harm... and where's the fun in that?

(interlude no. 1)

almost 15 minutes in an opera house, long enough
for the march from your seat into the street and a smoke,
  i still can't understand while people adopted money
for the demand of talking to each other via pebbles,
we are in our billions and made it so demanding to
only appeal to the few for company... i mean, should
i be sad? we made our company so unbearable because
of engaging in the concept of money that we later had
adapt to books as the conversations we need to have
among people we can't even talk about the weather to.
people always think that talking about money is
shallow... as if it's some really necessary version of
the crucifix (which to my mind sounds like a name for
a charity and the need to be thankful for it being there),
then again: something so geometrically pure
hanging over us and then comes Rodin's the kiss:
that really is a miracle - walking on water can hide itself,
turning water into wine (40 days & nights in the desert would
do that to you, every time you rehydrated, any liquid
would be intoxicating).
             oh hell, i have the notebook narrative,
i need to take a break after having written the unexpected
intro, and subsequent interlude.

it seems to me that language can never be sampled,
sampling language
is anti-scientific,
because it breaches an objectification of things,
which sad,
    are the Balkan states Slavic, Christian or Turkish?
i'm asking because a Greek said
it's Byzantine, and then lapping allah illha Allah
turkish took to Istambul...
*how best to defame a god with ensnarled capitals,
each, levelled,
                                only Islam will reign under the
praise of my name, which alone, will sing my praise.
   to move mountains, one must move throngs.
          to move people you expect them to become
mountains: or sun-tanned noon
  having been charcoaled into obliteration.
     one thought: an ottoman janissary: and vlad
the lesser crucifier and the adamant
impaler, who said that homosexuality shouldn't matter....
   imagine the comparative pain...
i can't: therefore i won't.
                     thus the black scripts of notation...
better than uttering original maxims,
          as in... better to engage in transcendentalº
dialectics
     ºin ref. to Nietzsche: the masses do not hold
an opinion on sanity: hence my concordance
with "him" - and insanity in individuals (self-dividing
                      duos in calamity of one):
insane individuals are rare: but conglomerates are
the norm - thus an agreement of shared truths
that has no debate to support it, because it has been
"plagiarised",
   the transcendental aspect is the lack of dialectics
(replaced with diacritics),
     and also the historical novelty of shared observation
with a disparity of a century's worth of history:
governing still the caveman and the modern man,
            as if the two were mutually compatible.
that one could rewrite the other, and so too true in
reverse.
   i find it harsh having to relinquish the authority
of language, as my own it used,
but only when school-friends suggest it, those
with ******* family members do i foremostly
experience it as my own: well... thanks to you
i'm not a plumber because your father detonated
the atom bomb and never bothered checking what
the gorilla did next with the grand censor of fertility
to protect an aesthetic...
           but then again: you were always Irish.
oo! well: sodomite that oops... it'll be worth something
in 30 years' time. strange how it must read...
Holocaust deniers also have the same lysergic trip.
             insanity in individuals is rare,
among groups it's the norm, within a framework
of Nietzsche: thus an agreement of shared truths,
that has no debate to support it,
because it has been "plagiarised" (necessarily experienced
more than once),
   ºthe transcendental aspect is the actual lack of
dialectics, and also the historical shared novelty of sharing
of observation (the tsunami cult, the earthquake cult)
with a disparity of range toward the century-range...
   philosophy infamously aks purposively
unsolvable questions: or questions that require many
more questions... or what is known as a transcript
of Aristotelian awe: of those who commit to error
with that science of pure wording, to spur people on;
philosophers are the adventurers in error:
only because this engages them in providing a "gravity"
locus... for others to hone onto and correct...
(oh how i'd believe had there been a Koranic surah
on the mindful hoplites)...
         purposively erroring: philosophy;
philosophers are pioneers: birches... scientists
are all but oak: auburn well established.
       but what of transcendental dialectic that expands
into shared truths (as experience) within the dual-disparity
of nearing death and the dawn of the 20th century
   and never-nearing a life at the dawn of the 21st century?
excluding dialectics and diacritics has given us
such a society, where everything is nearly snowflake
lucratively dissolvable and gentle...
                   few people utter truths,
even fewer utter truths than need to be debated...
             for the over-lord truth is mono, or glue...
        but still the tactic of avoiding certain truths
for the necessity of sitting in an armchair rather than
on a cold pavement... for in their pluralism
they express as many universal traits of non-experience,
as they subsequently express enough
    particular traits of experience
(translate rhyming into philosophy and you get this...
going cross-eyed in allocating an understanding,
summarised by the word zez).
hence the unwinding: universals (x, ÷):
       and particulars (+, -):
    of time, and how to encourage abstracting
worded coordination into an advanced literacy rate,
that'll fail, because literacy is power that requires
labouring anyway.
  because you did say "encapsulating a zoo"
readied to perpetrate a staging of a freak-show.
examples: universals (x, ÷):
       and particulars (+, -)        are zeniths in
the narrative compensation to nothing -
        in literature a surprise turn of the plot,
a summarisation, as such stand-out moments,
or quotes: here is a version of encoding verbal
"mathematical" synonymity -
         i too would wish to create a language
that doesn't abide by the language of miles,
but that of metres, but then there's the thesaurus
distinction between metres in deviations of
centimetres and nano in close-proximity
          ruby, crimson, burgundy, bled throughout the week
until pale grey and with an epitaph.
      language never brings us together,
it never did, we all wished to be cats and have said
meow... but we rarely and will never say...
that's nearing toward shame...
  i absolve humanity of the original sin...
                    if sinning was so original i would suggest
other forms of compensating it rather than prayer:
i'm thinking of the original shame...
it's that story of a serial killer who believed he
had no universal traits concerning him,
he had no systematisation of conscience,
he denied having a sense of guilt...
          it's hard to believe such things,
given the ceiling is the universe...
        it's hard to become a rat in a solipsistic maze...
that's ****** had to believe...
                   to deny having universal a priori
is also to deny particular a posteriori...
                           even though nothing really happened
apart from god laughing and man yawning
and the devil crying. it's very hard to believe people
these days, even though they deserve it,
                    it's hard to summate oneself in being
able to;
  thank god philosophers didn't complicate simple words
with remnants of Latin like psychologists did,
there's the prior (a priori) and there's the after (a posteriori),
or the two within a-: without a prior (to) / priority -
                  or without an after / an imitable vogue / trend /
    zeitgeist.
          can you write something like someone disclosing the fudge
of what's technically an arithmetic summary?          
no intelligence is being undermined here,
         what's being undermined is what's critically an optical
   java transitory period.                                                    

(int­erlude no. 2)

the laziest philosophers always write about the word
philosophy without actually philosophising,
you can say as much when saying: i'm thinking about thought.
of all the professions, philosophers don't know theirs...
it's true, if you do it, you do it not-knowing / unconsciously.
modernity does in fact overprescribe the word genius
because it doesn't give practitioners of philosophy any
credit in the slightest of actually being recipients of
life... every time a thought spawns from nothing
the limitation of expressing it is: you don't exist;
soon enough you hang up having any competence in language
and say to people you thought you knew: adios amigos,
good luck: then you wonder why they're so
prematurely depressed, and then you forget about them
and think of a million Chinese carpenters:
simply because it's less depressingly so.
     do you ever write encapsulating a rhombus on a page
with your literary / wanking hand? i know i do,
write in a notebook askew - or that's what's called the
future of absurdity: i'm thinking about thought -
some later claim morality, and some later claim god -
        that should sound more simply as: ought i?
    but it doesn't... hey, here's to self-projecting ****** -
it's not even that good people invented god,
  it's that evil people did...
                  which is always a bit ****** having that
microchip in my abstract mind (the brain) i sometimes
try to get rid off while acting as an atheist for pop super!
       does that sound highly idealistic?
it probably does... have i an influential counter to it?
n'ah. thinking about thought without the either or of
ought leaves me asking outside the box / transcendental
questions about what self is ingested by that
Pontius Pilate... talk of the "true" self and talk of
the "false" self: who the **** is the narrator then?
are we all bleaching our handshakes these days to
give a handshake?!
    some men would claim to be the husbands of that
insatiable "woman" that's Sophia,
         who, after all, is better equipped to satiate 3
men, than a man to satiated 3 women:
the trinity of ****, vaginal: oral - funny that,
how perfectly that plays against all those years of
practising to a demand of the churches': kneel!
i'll just watch you **** him off while Mary Magdalene
spread the schematic that resulted in the Islamic
******* analing the "respected".

(interlude no. 3)

just can't be bothered mate...
  never did so much charity work pour into
      herr Herrman's charity chest of
the never thought of set of poems.

- and a day later, just a blank,
what a formidable evening,
why do i queue for even a trombone, violin,
       a viola, trumpet or a sax to add to my voice?
but in musicological terms: that's exactly what i'm doing.
it's hard to not see this as a cure:
with 16,713 views matta's echo babylon is
truly the antithesis of Prokofiev, or any other,
as might call it: windy character.
        classical music was bound to tornados and
zephyrs - modern music is the epitome of rhythmic
sampling, drum eroded violins,
           and other things happened, too.
rhombus within the framework of the hand-written prior,
on tiny scraps of rectangular paper,
because it's easier to write like that: slanting
and therefore for the imagery of cascading -
and as the pronoun revolution dies down,
                    and the voices go unheard,
   people will start to think about thought
and later thought per se for transcendental purposes...
     because choice will be ejected from
having competent access to it: namely?
   i can't see those **** the ***** protests seriously
if people can't take to shooting guns,
          i mean real rebellion... obviously i'm egging
on the situation and spraying gasoline on it
(obviously), but if the French give you the statue of
liberty as a present, you get to look at the appendix,
and start thinking: where are the guns, so
it looks like a genuine protest? i thought the idea of
being able to own guns (by the people), was to suggest
that if the government was electorally undesired,
people could start shooting... the tongue isn't
a

.
                                J o h n
                              Dillinger
                       ­    "P retty Boy"
                           F l oyd "Baby
                          Face"    Nelson
                 ­          Al   "Scarface"
                           Capone  "Ma
                           c h i ne   Gun"
                           Kelly  Charles
                          "Lucky" Lucia
                           no     B u g s y
                           Siegel    Carlo
                           Gambino Jack
                           Diamond Tom
                           Devaney Jame
                           s Coonan  D a
          wood Ibrahcan       Kray  Brothers
        Demetrius Flenory  Joaquin Guzman
          James  Burke           Meyer Lansky
             Bonnie                         Clyde

As Valentine Day is upon us now
Sending a message to our loves
Like chocolate and flowers
With pictures of white doves

Think back to 1929
And of The North Side Gang...men who
Got a different type of message
And it wasn't I Love You

It was on the North Side
Al Capone's gang took down nine
They massacred these gangsters
They crossed the prohibition line

Five years before they also
Killed the gangs leader in his shop
His front was selling flowers
Hey, it's Chicago....where's a cop?

Now eighty five years later
The gangsters aren't as bold
But, on Valentines they're still there
Running Chicago in the cold

With prices for fresh roses
Through the roof....you know the powers
Are run like gangsters years before
By the people selling FLOWERS.

.As I sat here all alone,I thought about 'ol Al Capone.So I got some water to fill my gun--and I commenced to shooting everyone.The bullets dripped off of their faces and hair.Bullet casings were scattered-- everywhere.Oh, how silentthe sirens would wail,just like the waggingof a puppy dog's tail.I was shootin' from the streetfrom my safety zonefrom my long, black Lincoln--I was Al Capone.Somehow, somebody got a hold of my gun,and I'm tellin' ya, I ain't no fool.No copper is ever gonna take me alive--so I ran and I jumped in my pool..

Uhh..(Yeah2)..I'm feeling this one man,..Uhh..(Yeah man6)..burn up & listen Yeah man..Uhh

/This for (my ****** Disciples2)/2..
Yeah this (for my2) (My ****** Disciple ******3)..
/Yeah This is for (my ****** Disciples *****2)/2
(Yeah This is for my ****** Disciples2).. Yeah. for my ****** Disciples..Yeah..(my ****** Disciples2)..yeah..This is for all of (my ****** Disciple ******3)..yeah..This is (for my ****** Disciples2)..yeah This is (for all of my ****** Disciple ******2)..Yeah (my ****** Disciple ******2)...Uhh
(We mobbing2)..Yeah *****,..(we mobbing4)..Uhh, This is for my ****** Disciple ******,Yeah..(we mobbing4)..Uhh, This is for my ****** Disciple ******, Yeah..(we mobbing3)..Yeah we mobbing.. Yeah ***** (we mobbing3)..(***** we mobbing2)..Yeah
(we mobbing..2)

Yeah ***** we mobbing..we robbing Uncle Sam, for all of his loot homie, forget being a Uncle Tom *** ***** mane,..(we mobbing3)..,Yeah ***** we Thugging, Uhh, we standing tall man, yeah ***** (we mobbing..3)
We doing whatever we want ***** (Yeah2)..for real man,..Uhh..I'm one of the realest rappers that's still here my *****, it seems like all of my real ones getting killed, disappearing, or leaving the game, I guess they time what's up like Kobes, no disrespect to none of the ogs, I gotta give thanks because they all paved the way for a younging like me to rise above all of the fakes..

OFTR we rising up mane, like grass that hasn't been cut for weeks, Aye,..(I'm wit all of my ****** Disciples2) yeah..my ****** Disciple ******, & we disturbing the peace, & killing stages every city we in ..Aye mane..like Al Capone, We just being gangsters yeah,..Like a real gangsta I move in silence my *****, **** having friends,.. I don't talk to nobody, I got too much dope to sell  man..Noo I can't trust too many of these ******* & ****** these days, they all look like snakes dawg.. & They been shedding tryna blend in, but I see right through all of that fake fucc ****..Yeah

I know that these **** boys been plotting to rob me, Ayo they better not rob me, if they know whats best foe em mane..then Yeah they better not try it, Noo, they don't like me, no they don't gotta like me but yall ******* will respect me tho,..& that's Fo sure, Fo sho,..Noo them demons won't stop me, they can't hurt me..,I'm protected by the Grace of Jesus, Thanks,.. Aye..
Why y'all hating,all of you ignorant ******* can learn something from me homie..just (pay attention2)

Don't trust nobody2
Nobody at all mane, because these ***** *** ****** will sacrifice yo *** for the money just like P.Diddy did to Biggie, just like Suge Knight did to Pac mane..Uhh..
I had to take my shades off so I could see clearly , mentally, Uhh, Lyrically, I'm killing thee Occultic wicked ways that has been introduced into hip hop mane, literally, I dugged up some graves & learned from the best,..Aye I'm the best physically..My mentality is helping my ****** out,not just getting to the money forget being selfish when we can all become rich & legends.. Uhh

Aye,Yeah, roll up that dank my ***** & get paid , man money  ain't everything my *****, Ayo I remember I didn't even pay bills, mane I usta to just sit around my mama house imaginating, & rhyme all day, people said I wasn't doing nothing but being lazy *****, people said I wasn't ever gonna amount to nothing *****, but they didn't know Yeah, they didn't know that I had alot dope, ***** that George Jung, Yeah I had that dope,, & I was getting high off of my own supply, choking, that **** was so different & potent, so I always knew that deep down inside  that somebody mind would fall in line wit OFTR AGENDA, Yeah..Uhh

I'm wit my ****** Disciples *****,..(Yeah *****, we mobbing2)..(we mobbing*2)..mobbing, This is for all of my ****** Disciple ******, Yeah, This is for my ****** Disciples *****, Aye, OFTR Yeah we mobbing like the 50s *****, Uhh..(I'm so ready *2)..for whatever..
This is for my ****** Disciples..Yeah
The ****** Disciples my *****.
Let's mob man..Uhh

Prohibition began one hundred years ago in the USA.
People had their right to drink ***** taken away.
This made people unhappy and they began to whine.
And this caused Al Capone to start peddling moonshine.
Capone was evil and because of him, people were killed.
On December 5 1933, the 18th Amendment was repealed.
People were very happy because prohibition came to an end.
They were as giddy as school girls to have the right to drink again.

-
Shaping molten sin into wrought iron ******.
Rusted rivet's sparks sail down the spiral staircase
and scatters like fireflies on the stone.
Guitars scream as they lead the band to slaughter,
thinking they own the streets like Al Capone.

Molten metallic music with a razors edge
mollifies the faithful like mutton to the ledge.
Mayhem ensues with a sonic boom as
bolts of rock & roll illuminate the room.

We're heading toward a revolution,
we always heard you wanted one.
They bought the lie of evolution,
burnt their skin waiting for the Son.

It's just a heavy metal observation,
you allowed the lyrics to take their toll.
Today we see the damage is done,
the insane have unhinged their soul.

Off course it was destined to happen
when you have some do-gooder saps next door
they keep on borrowing money you don't pay back
you break their door down and they did nothing
you harass, you put **** on their dogs, you vandalized their car
they rose above it all, who the hell do they think they are
then you put the 'shake down on them and they laughed
com'on, what else to do, you go in for the ****

So it came to pass
cold January morning
went out for the  dailies, Mrs had left for work
barely 20 minutes gone, from the street could see our front door ajar
Oh, forgetful Mrs, probably forgot something, had dashed back
got nearer, no car in usual parking space, run upstairs
all the electronics gone, money left on cabinet gone
new triple-system video gone, we've been robbed
Never been burgled before, a very new experience to me
do people actually do things like this, wow, unbelievable
in early morning daylight as well, wow. oh dear, what the f--king hell
mobiles not yet small portables thing, landline ripped out
wow, wow, wow I went from room to room
then went out to the veranda outside
guess who's there smirking, Mama Capone herself
well people, I am cool, but this was now a step too far

I lost my rag and exploded
how dare you effing cheap common thieves burgle us
how could you be so base, ungrateful, gross and vile
look at you, you don't work, spend yours effing day drinking
and drugging while people like us go out to earn an honest living
you are a scrounger, a total waste of space, a total disgrace
how ****** dare you, you ungrateful amoral trash
and more
it was double barrel stuff, I saw red, I bent over backwards
to live and let live
I have given all I could, I had been generous and charitable
and this pounce think they can do this, no way
I told her her story and it wasn't a pleasant read

To say she was shocked was an understatement
they had only known this cool quiet fellow and his small dainty wife, who looked like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth
they expected a cowered man, softened up by their antics
They got a Mau-mau warrior in full pelt, a Tiger roaring thunder  
I was mad, I wasn't having this no more
( it has since gone down in folklore history, they all talk about his temper )
with me its easy, its don't trouble trouble or if you do, then
expect trouble to trouble you, right back

Mama Capone suddenly realized you can't judge a book by its cover,
She went ashen white you could see the shock in her eyes
she was shaking and trembling
but Mama Capone recovered enough to mutter something about
its Bobby,she stammered, I was still effing and blinding in her ugly face
I am going to have you evicted, I said, you and your family
have been nothing but trouble from the minute you arrived

You're the foreigner. Mama Capone replied, you are the one
that's going to be sent back to your jungle, the racist ***** replied
but it was days before Hate Crime Laws, it was not today
East London in those days had '**** Out' on all walls
Asian kids were harassed and beaten up regularly, Asian men
went out in pairs and never walked the street at night,
black men carried cutlasses and were mostly belligerent

I, carried a copy of the Guardian and never experienced Racism
I was everybody's friend, was colour blind, I was just that kind of guy
Until now...until now.....until now
More was to come, I had stood up and called out thieves and gangsters, now, I was told I was going to be taught a lesson
in the University of Life

Mama Capone had scuttled off into her hovel, shaking and trembling
In a red mist, I went to look for a Public phone to call the Police
and my wife
Now...the dye is cast....its war
but not my war!

Now I'm An UNTOUCHABLE... !!!
UNLIKE.... Cliff Huxtable... !!!
Or YES I Mean... " Bill "... !!!

I'm UNTOUCHABLY... ILL...
When It Comes To My Will... !!!

I Lyrically ****...
Well I Hope... NOT ****.... !!!

But WILL- FULLY Build...
Verse That INSTILS...
UNTOUCHABLE Levels...
of Using Your MENTAL... !!!

Stencilled Pencilled...
... Mental Rhymes....

Kinda Like UNTOUCHABLE Guys...
When It Comes To The Mic... !!!

ME... Well INDEED...
Some Do Believe...
That I Flow My Rhymes Alright...

Now That's A Humble Line...
UNTOUCHABLY Designed...
To Let... YOU Decide...
If I Flow Like MIKE... ?!?
AIR JORDAN Like... !!!!!!

Well ONE THING I'll Claim... !!!
Is That My Wordplay...
Deserves A Place...
In Halls Where Fame...

ONLY HOLD What's GREAT... !!!!!

But Skill On A Mic' Is NOT A Claim...
I... Choose To MAKE... !!!

Because UNTOUCHABLE Names... !!!
DESERVE.... Such PRAISE...
In How They're Viewed...
And That's The TRUTH... !!!!!

I'm UNTOUCHABLE Yeah...
Just Like... " JERU' "... !!!

Because I've Walked Through...
Where... DARKNESS RULES... !!!

But Moved TOO COOL...
For UNTOUCHABLE Crews...
To... Want To PULL...
Their TOOLS And ABUSE...

Because They KNEW...

" Big Virge Is Cool !
AND UNTOUCHABLE Dude ! "

Because I Choose...
To Just... " Hang Loose "...

EVEN WHEN Violence Is Used...
Because of... Moods...
UNTOUCHABLY Crude... !!!

Where IGNORANCE Moves...
To... FEEDING FEUDS... !!!!!

I RISE......... ABOVE.......
So DO NOT Touch...
The... IGNORANT... !!!!!!

Because In TRUTH...
They're UNTOUCHABLE Too... !!!!

Because of How...
Their Energies Sound...

FAR TOO LOUD.... !!!!!!
For Me To Receive... !!!!!!!!
Because Like THIEVES...

They Feed DECEIT And ROBBERY... !!!
of Things I KEEP... UNTOUCHABLE... !!!

Like The Way My CHI...
DENIES These FIENDS...

A Chance of Getting...
TOO CLOSE To....... ME...

UNTOUCHABLE... IS...
The Theme of THIS Piece...
Because YES It's TRUE... !!!!

My Poetry Is UNTOUCHABLY....
A Way For Me To Offer YOU...
A Piece of..... ME.....

A Piece of My Heart...
And YES... My Soul... !!!

Now It Can Get DARK...
Like...... Al Capone...... !!!!!

But Shows MORE LOVE...
Than... GANGSTER Thugs... !!!!
It's More Like... " NESS "... !!!
When I EXPRESS... !!!!!!

NOT ELLIOT....
Or... Loch MONSTER Bred... !!!

I'm Just Blessed With A... NESS...
That Moulds And Blends In...

With......... " FINESSE ".......... !!!!!!!

That's ME... BIG VIRGE... !!!

So My Final Words...
In TRUTH... " ACCEPT "...

That When It Comes To...
... Government...
Their Court Systems...
And FEDERAL Friends...

They'll TRY Their Best... !!!
To Cause... PROBLEMS...

BUT NO Matter WHAT... !?!
They TRY TO.... PULL....
My SPIRIT Will Stay UNCRUSHABLE... !!!

So I'll... ETERNALLY Be...

...... " UNTOUCHABLE "..... !!!

Eyelash blinkered in hubris Rubik’s knight
Elevation of pogrom ennobled by triaged triumph minus the cynic summation of all light
Littoral swank bronzed like starlet fantasia with a Carey mountaintop jeer
Reichstag extinguished blaring sirens of cacophony capers to benumbed Linkin Park cheer
Knells intrepid by quakes of remonstrance staged in histrionic applause
Southern Colonies shifting in Charleston surgical in orderly slugabed dogged laws
Slipshod through ribbacles of rengall zenkidu among the sertivine poison ivy
Grimace at gamboled rivulets of a moribund Vanilla Sky for departed wiseacres of savvy dicey ICE toxic Harvey Dent slimy
A mannequin Marx Ralph alienated the truest alien by pioneering disdain of a hostage giraffe summiting a Swiss Alp
Master of time 12th bradycardia for Generator design parked beneath escarpments of base aphasia milquetoast in killjoy Strickland nickels away from a gubbertushed mouth
LOST legend enunciating the furor of epochs of egalitarian traipse
Trapped by the bootlick of a wrinkle of Van Winkle revolutionary agape
Curved by soliliquy master of belletrist prose
The vogue can’t help but bunt, balk, denounce the remembrance of Lady Madonna pose
We beat the muckrakers of rummaged lisp of culinary suns that the sons of privilege are emoluments to apolaustic zeal first known to transmogrified nuns, before the poppies made the few into many and the notion of an insuperable line of infinity into a spherical nullification of the concept of none
Estrapade engorges the fustilug magnet of the kitsch Kenosha Chicago Demolition drive-by-derbies “once read”
That two kings one Titanic by skin-color dashed dreams the other both the coins of tails eloped with heady dreams of head
Sacrifice shadow dancing with pettifoggery in slumps of aboriginal dances of marsupial rice
Native to extortion gouged blind as Samson exacts lachrymose cremations of Pikes Peak trick-or-treat aghast with fright
Temples raised in 46 years cemented never in the Mumbo Jumbo politics of those lacking the oceanic schadenfreude among queers
That by their exclusion the panmixia of fluid alchemy is dauntless scrabble limited by NORAD notions of Tears for Fears
Henpecked rooster awakens the serfdom of Ronald’s (sly spy) Drugs sailing with dovetails of elapse downtrodden in modern clubs
Drunken *** addict sell-out charlatans berated  by Ingram Angles sent by maleficence are the grubhub of Harriet Tubman torching promising tapestries with rugged rugs
Slinging the bait of fish-hook dimples on freckled effigies of ****** humiliation outmantled by Mickey weight
I thunder a fulgurant explosion against recrimination of white-collar criminals that philander saturnalia in pretense with facetious swarpollock freight
Crooks of tyranny exhort the paranoiacs of indemnity to sunken canned soup applause of a Warhol extortion
Berating my audience with drooling slavers of inelegant tortoise byzantine like an Istanbul dredged with intortion
Mr Deeds is not a champion of BRE Properties nor the pinnacles of inertia, a psychiatric squeeze
My orange juice is not a car chase against treecheese in terminal punitive disease
Soaring with the prosperous tongue against the walloped nativism of pounced impounds having too much fun
I let the other guardians of the order of salvation pivot vitriol in loaded dice against Orangutans of Swedish minted gum
Caesar died for the seizure of Anglican pride of a namesake percolating millenia for Brutus in the Washington Bullets of a conquered Ottawa on strike carnal with Chauvinism in regional divide
Never has there been a more hollow trope than the agency of deep state defamation of a scurrilous backbite of gnashing pride
Lost to pollster tricks of acquiescence and caricatures of a menacing personage Swift on the Riff but never the snarling Menace of a Blondie Biff
I tower above the anthills of conformity of luxury in Jamaican Bob Sled Teams testing the curiosity of enlightened “What Ifs”
Canada Dry for striking people enthused by Rye abides in the memory of reform that skulks the skunks that make every Scudworth cry
Because a Dental Dam damsel living in streets of peril fascinated by distance is the contortion of entreaty in the pasquinade of attempts at American Pie
May the city of a figurative crucifixion burn with the irony of a thousand suns as Wendy’s burgers unload on prejudice with albatrosses of winsome puns
Fixed data interpolated by convenient lies of serial killers who aim for blue skies shanked in Oswald infamy for the imposture of any flashbang revenge against cinematic guns
I blacklist the Zemeckis villainy as a trudge of travesty
Hedged lies blinkered by Batman and Robin puns redeemed by Dinosaurs of Amnesty
Obviously belittled by futures etched by a more honest infinity
Because 88 keys are not a stroke because the infinite bees know the parlance of divinity
Invited lissome taxidermies of Capone against teetotalers of parvanimity of vainglory overthrown
Showers the honest hominist reckoning of a world where neither crudity of know-nothing radical polarization owns every inept baritone
Crusading a secular war because the gubbertushed eccedentesiast spinsters of Santa Cruz deserve a gassy overtone
Torch the SC Pacific Avenue for peace
Let the world unite behind a singularity with purpose in ventilation of Speedman’s release
That antithetical Jacks of many names are wed with the progeny of enduring lists of NSA protection rather than rentgourge Denver PD eager to chaos decimated by the decimals of a region forever boycott and impeached
To the decisive curling of the frolicked Abandoned Pool servitude crass disasters are the sheol of impudent flagrant overreach
Regnant on the turmoil of invented throne
I scowl at the chicanery of Capone’s Chicago sweltering with Kenosha infamy tossing contortionist strippers a vulcanized bone in a DIA Diamond that even 11,500 years of knowledge is surpassed in condemnation of screaming E.T. calling the right home
Speak Now because the reach of forever is God appeased not by a kowtow but a mobilized ambition for Why? When? And How?
History will remember gentility as the kind steward rather than a Disco Demolition Derby of urbacity venerating a seasonal Golden Cow
Hipsters flock with folly to South African extortion for freebooters who bootlick the aceldama of war against the sublime currency of a winner surrounded by thugs
TOO MANY URBAN KIDS ARE TAUGHT BY REDUCTIVE TAUTOLOGY TO HATE The United States of America RATHER THAN NURTURING SYNCRETISM IN PATRIOTIC HUGS
Imperfect in design with disagreement in plainest sight
Sometimes libertarianism with a Democratic twinge is clearly in the right that should believe in reform even when the footloose girouettism is too tight
Yet forestalled for authentic grit the grisly rentgourge of venal abysses knows the countermand against Rand with hyperboles of the clearest *******
The true flock congregates around scepters built not with militant graft but a promenade of sultry dance for the defiant C.L.I.T.
Exercise with the Rock knowing school buses of dogmatism inferior are distraught
Dying dogmatism is a peacock of industry the yeggs can easily unlock rather than truckle with truculent Scottish Rites tasty with Connery Scotch
Defenders of the misleading staircase because of the carapace of Hovering pertinacity easily won and bought
Neither scary nor deliberate streets are rumpus of elevations of unbounded anarchy considerate but robbed by the illiterate
That the delegated mansion will be robbed by the cooperation of the remorseful idiot recognizing his snide mendaciloquence in destructive Roswell Records limerick
Scowls are on petrol and patrol hoping Tesla is a short of bravado too intrepid to sanction free-for-all profligacy in alleys that bowl
To the Emerald Street lie of hypes of perdition rather than merely a seasonal token embarrassment coal
The fossilized future is the irrevocable past because more respect is needed than the ***** of a maskirovka caste
Diamond Lightning in Bhagavad Gita prancing with the delusion of the everlasting mummification of Brawndo ash
Dinner with Egyptsy malingers on tomes etched flippant in integrity and all about the curated snare of kitsch cash
The cache valley of LASER tag shattered like Joseph Smith flagellating the confederate hayday with articulate gnash
Fast & Furious the amused by Suburban subway know the trailblazer trashes of The Stupids’ being Einstein about Boogie Dubs rather rash
Streaking through a Tucker rule the Buccaneers live for the SoulSeek of a riddled ruler benighted of prerogative of Roger Goodell bumping in his Ferrari the tucked serenade of Tool
Wrong band because they linger in the shadow dancing backpages of scandals of Norweigan hourglasses of shameful hush hush Vikings mining furloughs of pulverized anticipation sand
Humbled retinue shelves the ossified limpid droll drool
As the haze of submarines scouting pridefall galls of indolence betraying innocence becomes moral cigarettes of Menthol Kool
Reparations for chappy chapstick games of bowery riches
The urbane needs to read, discern and maneuver against whiplash found in Navi witches
Swapping homes with crack addict legalese an *** to a bronzed party crackling with cackles Home Alone
Knows a toiletry of escape gullible like Seahawks wishing they could contain a fumbled season by Mahomes
Jones methamphetamine paranoiac manure desiccated by folksy homilies of brimstone cremation deserts his flock to abide by a flagging wayward temptress
Decimated by the agency of time his Austin crenellation flounders in grimace of the untimely swoon his covert empress
Blinded by the light of darkness in subversion
Excoriated for the deeds of his permission to demote commotion into only an acquiescent dance with barbed etch-a-sketch conclusion- a half-baked *******
Quacksalver poetaster wrinkled with hatred simpering paranoia strangled by Hendrix abeyance of turgid delusion
Lurid underground Princeton gilds infested with defected dementia in cozens in the fritty of heralded mistress SHE appointed
Sandlot ravens cloistered the bravado of thirst for chosen words scrappy in clawed henpecks the pointless illegal sanctioned to brusque witticism anointed
Lamps of pathway sparkle with coruscated stargazer Winslet dreamy swank illustrious by providence
Engrenage of delopes of pettifoggery identity staggers the woozy dismal day of disjointed wounds on Native sons Denver can’t damage in a lonely campaign for the prodigal bends of Overlook Lorraine Motel bent
Intrepid in gallantry I swoop the scrivello tusked with might
Penetrating the vivid dreams of the serenade of alpenglow daylight
That love might rule over chance and probability above the specter of dynasty prodigy progeny tithing gravity in rent
Yet this taper of majestic poise will outfox even the careless gambles of the prodigal son Mr Sender already traipsed conquered and went
The mountaintop is so clear from the cloister of authenticity drinking Eminence Front of the WHO rather than the coherence of the near
Because titans shepherd the good flock without insult and not quavering with insuperable time flackey with tremulous fear
I dare this day to outlast benighted ignorance of the narrow gate of a persecution tsunami on a Lisbon tear
Because galloping ahead of the internecine sheds the serpentine craft of 3:1 Genesis met with the worst fleeced fleer
Not auctioned off like ******* vogue to the disfavor of poor taste
I am the true Royal Flush that can always count on the aced basic but mostly acidic flourish of a jest in bass predicated on the basis for Mozart pH
Today could be the summit of acclimated prodigy in startled degrees temerity could never bet against
Because you better bet the Bros and Cos of civilization are skilled in ostentation of Sterling Pound defense
Never offensive to the liturgy of triumph beckoning an apocalypse now tentative memory on a Manifest Destiny frontier rarely on wickers of extinguished cattle ranchers knowing the gamut of acumen to defend a fortress with the best fencing James Bond could dispense
Now is either a cordial joke of a flagrant anarchy balking at destiny
Or the sunrise majesty of the twelve tribes and beyond defeating the stingy bees of infamy
Your choice doesn’t defeat my voice
But your action heralds my loyalty with a triumphant Victoria of an age not for agelast geeks intimidated but living clairvoyance with fidelity to the right choice for the right time to swim in elegant rejoice
(1977 Words)

no wonder i watch *******, it's a moral struggle these  days  downing a whiskey trying to down america 1930s. al capone would  have  laughed with me i'm sure, and shouted: cuba! cuba! fiddle  castrato!  well, there was the violin to mind in tao when the  castratos  masturbated;. oh look... the pope! where’s my bishop purple  and cardinal red? down the toilet, with the goldfish i’m assured: bobs  the necktie password concerning the onomatopoeia the bubbles made when  appearing: bubbles are called bob... ok?*

it was only an old man attired
in the usual monochrome of gray,
so i walked,
scratched a stone wall,
and by the 2nd gesture similis i
pulled my hand scratching toward my chest
to resemble a stone heart:
equivalent chinese? small is european stone:
writing this i missed six knuckles and felt the rest.

i'm pretty sure they have home, but i can't be too sure...
              they seem to like me...
                 there was this "ghost" of a cat
in my garden tonight...
    a bonsai version of my 10kg maine ****...
it's the second time i've seen him
in my garden...
      the first time i wanted to feed this
poor orphan... i started shaking a plastic
bag of cat treats asking him for
     trust...
                 didn't work...
       just today i was playing my "imaginary"
drum-kit with my hands...
                 variations, culminating
                                in my right hand's index
tapping against my left hand's knuckle...
               and my left hand's index tapping
    against the right leg's knee...
     truly... the (Χ pose... on the windowsill
                         χ)
            drumming away, enjoying the song
jestem psem by lao che "too much"...
            this drumming imitation without an actual
instrument: african cultures call drumming
                                    a medicinal approach to
your mental health...
              too be honest? it's not exactly a beijing
pharmacy where this advice comes from...
evidently you can catch the curiosity of "stray"
cats coming into your garden...
so i tried to feed the poor thing...
         i changed my tactic tonight...
              cats are naturally distrusting, and it's hard
to build up a trust to the point where they
can relax all godly and be fed easily...
               so what happened...
                    (i don't know what *** this ginger
bonsai was)... but i'm guessing female because
my ginger hulk became interested too much...
he's castrated, as all cats bought from
            pedigree sellers...
                                i do know that cats are
very protective of the space they occupy...
                like people and the time they lived in...
but ***** **** *** happens when cats do it...
      dogs and permission...
                                (i'll get onto the ******* question)...
  but i really did want to feed the poor thing...
   honestly? what do you have to a cat
                 for them to go "missing"?
                                      how can cats go "missing"?
      i remember seeing this guy tie his dog to a bench
and then run away... sooner than no sooner
the dog was a stray, and he found a friend... another
dog that ran from the opposite gate of the park
where he was left in...
                  oh right: so this bonsai ginger...
evidently i interested him to come back to my garden
with my drumming using my hands and the rest
of my body acting as the kit...
            i thought of another tactic...
          i took a little plate, sprinkled it with cat treats
and took it outside into the garden,
             then i went away to put on my shoes,
went back to see if the orphan moved... he was still
"agitated" by the scent of my cats sitting
                     tense in contemplation...
                 i took the remains of the cat treats
   and showed him: it's not poison...
        and then i threw of them into my mouth...
CRUNCH... CRUNCH... CRUNCH...
                they're not that bad...
                                   all i know is that if i eat a few
cat treats (dry, felix goody bag) -
                    all i know is that i won't have to have
the same problem as people eating maynard's wine gums,
or rowntree's fruit pastels...
                                 i like my teeth,
     and i like the sugar: lactose... i drink milk first thing
in the morning to stop myself imitating tuberculosis
      of the larynx lined by marmite phlegm left by
the previous day's tobacco...
                            it almost feels like ice-cream...
           so i left this plate of cat treats on a little plate
in the garden as gently as possible so as to not
frighten the poor thing... and went out to buy
two bottles of 70cl of whiskey and a bottle of ms. pepsi...
  they call me a gentleman in the supermarket...
          huh?       and today's compliment from
the cashier tarah: matt... you lost weight.
                really? must be the alcohol diet combating
drinking water.          and it does happen...
i look overweight: but i'm just bloated from the "abuse"
of alcohol.
                   i'm not going to repent... it might attract
the next al capone in the american era of speakeasies;
a story that parallels what happened in poland after
the second world war... some regions of poland had
no idea what coffee was... honest to god, 20th century
and there were regions in poland where coffee wasn't
drank... my maternal great-grandfather actually
          poured coffee into the river of my local town...
they didn't know what to do with it!
                    i'm guessing: if you live in a chai culture
(tea, samovar) you won't know what comes invading,
new...              but they were given loads and loads
of coffee (the detail missing? were they bags of
coffee beans or ground-down coffee? don't know) -
but they got rid of it, giving the river a mouth to
eat it... this is mid 20th century...
                      a bit like: did the americans know what
to do with alcohol in the zeitgeist of prohibition?
i don't think so: butterfly here, tornado over there -
i'm pretty sure they didn't know what to do with alcohol.
*******?
                       well obviously i'd wish to have it snipped,
don't get me wrong... and if this could be a graphic
novel it could well be with what i write next:
           i couldn't.
                           no... two protruding veins on it that
went from the base and encircled the "excess" of skin...
if they cut it of: i'd be dead bleeding from my ******* "pride",
that would later translate into: well... now i guess
i can do **** with a girl.
                                 it's one thing that i imitate after
being taught by pronography and risk pulling it back
and wondering: will these two veins be ruptured?
           well... shoving it into a soft pouch of a **** i'm
guessing: not really... if i did it in reverse via the ****?
probably.
                           but am i going around saying:
do this! do this! i learned this in school: circumcised males
are *****... bombastic retards too dependent on
female genitals... because if you're circumcised and have
to resort to *******: you missed the whole
biblical narrative on the point... jerking off is only
permitted with *******... well: i don't who got *****
prior to being allowed the decision to alter those regions
of the body... but it's certainly sad to be "predestined"
to have such parts... but don't worry: you can choose
whether to have a crew-cut or a mohawk or a mullet:
informed choice... you won't get it down south...
               thankfully i know that revising down south
is not open to me... two serpent-veins encricle the region
that could be "revised"...
                          definitely improved...
                        but it's hard to hear the egyptian argument
of the female counterpart...
         are these really drives to craft a civilisation
         because for a man: it's so necessary to please
women? when you don't have the improvement you turn
to other pleasures... music? prime. alcohol? another prime.
a work ethic? also a prime.
                        i might not play, a ******* clarinet,
but i can tap out a drum beat...
                that's what i love about modern music:
there was once the term americana...
   now there's another: the perfect example of
africaana (ā) - drums... which counters all the hot air
   and burning horse manes of violins that
classical music represents.
                           again: a complete lack of drums!

the cat? i earned its trust, came back from the supermarket
and almost all the cat treats were gone...
            well... they're not that bad... coarse, sure,
but then cats have frictive tongues, they have sandpaper
tongues (if you were ever licked by a cat on the hand)...
         but at least
                                 he trusted me.
         i can only call it the tactic of: look, i'll eat what
i'm about to give you, it's a cold march night and
you can find whatever pleasurable nook (and there are
a few) in the garden and sleep there;
         come back tomorrow, and i'll leave you moist
cat food (that... i won't eat... dry cat food i can eat,
brush my teeth after... wet cat food? no no).

It's just me against the world
[Girl:]
Oooohhh, oooohhh
[2Pac:]
Nuttin to lose...
It's just me against the world baby
[Girl:]
Oahhhh, oahhhahh
[2Pac:]
I got nuttin to lose
It's just me against the world
[Girl:]
Oh-hahhh
[2Pac:]
Stuck in the game
Me against the world baby

[Verse 1: 2Pac]
Can you picture my prophecy?
Stress in the city, the cops is hot for me
The projects is full of bullets, the bodies is droppin
There ain't no stoppin me
Constantly movin while makin millions
Witnessin killings, leavin dead bodies in abandoned buildings
Can't raise the children cause they're illin
Addicted to killin and the appeal from the cap peelin
Without feelin, but will they last or be blasted?
Hard headed *******
Maybe he'll listen in his casket - the aftermath
More bodies being buried - I'm losing my homies in a hurry
They're relocating to the cemetary
Got me worried, stressin, my vision's blurried
The question is will I live? No one in the world loves me
I'm headed for danger, don't trust strangers
Put one in the chamber whenever I'm feelin this anger
Don't wanna make excuses, cause this is how it is
What's the use unless we're shootin no one notices the youth
It's just me against the world baby

[Girl:]
Me against the world
[2Pac:]
It's just me against the world
[Girl:]
Ooooh yeah, ooo-hooo
[2Pac:]
It's just me against the world
[Girl:]
Me against the world
[2Pac:]
Cause it's just me against the world baby
[Girl:]
Hey!
[2Pac:]
Me against the world
[Girl:]
Ooooh yeah
[2Pac:]
I got nuttin to lose
It's just me against the world baby
[Girl:]
I got nothing to lose

[Verse 2: Dramacydal]
Could somebody help me? I'm out here all by myself
See ladies in stores, Baby Capone's, livin wealthy
Pictures of my birth on this Earth is what I'm dreamin
Seein Daddy's *****, full of crooked demons, already crazy
And screamin I guess them nightmares as a child
Had me scared, but left me prepared for a while
Is there another route? For a crooked Outlaw
Veteran, a villian, a young ****, who one day shall fall

Everday there's mo' death, and plus I'm dough-less
I'm seein mo' reasons for me to proceed with thievin
Scheme on the scheming and leave they peeps grieving
Cause ain't no bucks to stack up, my nuts is backed up
I'm bout to act up, go load the Mac up, now watch me klacka
Tried makin fat cuts, but yo it ain't workin
And Evil's lurking, I can see him smirking
When I gets to pervin, so what?
Go put some work in, and make my mail, makin sales
Risking 25 with a 'L', but oh well

[Girl:]
Me against the world
[2Pac:]
With nuttin to lose
It's just me against the world
[Girl:]
Ooh yeah... oooh-ooooh
[2Pac:]
It's just me against the world baby
[Girl:]
Me against the world
[2Pac:]
I got nuttin to lose
It's just me against the world
[Girl:]
Oahhhohh
[2Pac:]
Ha ha
It's just me against the world baby
[Girl:]
Ha-ahh, HA-AHH!
[2Pac:]
With nuttin to lose
It's just me against the world baby
[Girl:]
Me against the world, hoahhh
[2Pac:]
Me against the world
I got nuttin to lose
It's just me against the world baby
[Girl:]
Ha-hahh (hehe) heyy!

[Verse 3: 2Pac]
With all this extra stressin
The question I wonder is after death, after my last breath
When will I finally get to rest? Through this supression
They punish the people that's askin questions
And those that possess, steal from the ones without possessions
The message I stress: to make it stop study your lessons
Don't settle for less - even a genius asks-es questions
Be grateful for blessings
Don't ever change, keep your essence
The power is in the people and politics we address
Always do your best, don't let the pressure make you panic
And when you get stranded
And things don't go the way you planned it
Dreamin of riches, in a position of makin a difference
Politicians and hypocrites, they don't wanna listen
If I'm insane, it's the fame made a brother change
It wasn't nuttin like the game
It's just me against the world

[Girl:]
Me against the world
[2Pac:]
Nuttin to lose
It's just me against the world baby
[Girl:]
Me against the world
[2Pac:]
Got me stuck in the game
It's just me against the world
[Girl:]
Oahahhhh
[2Pac:]
I'd be ashamed to lose
It's just me against the world baby
[Girl:]
Me against the world

[Outro: 2Pac]
Heh, hahahahahahah
That's right
I know it seem hard sometimes but uhh
Remember one thing
Through every dark night, there's a bright day after that
So no matter how hard it get, stick your chest out
Keep your head up, and handle it

[Girl:]
Me against the world [x3]

Swerves the verve of voluptuous curves
That ******* clad lies become ironclad wides or wives
That the uxorious mission is a useful instrument of precision
That a denuded forest becomes the acme of toon and television
Let us garble our quotes and refrain from prolonged oaks
That whisk the memorial flames beneath the softly and the constricted spoke
I wrangle with big swells and tumescent lips
Labial love is liquid rushing to impress my scent and my lisp
Flamingos careen the specialty of wide-nosed oxygen
The toxic ragamuffin does lack the characteristic halogen
Runny tears on whitewashed days, scrape the pond of excess
**** of waifs and wastrel sways the world’s columns stand ever more proud
The future has two authors a converging future and an approximated past
Leeching on to the dastardly knockers of hacked brass tax
We then linger and malinger with germs that flippantly exercise the *******
That exorcise the ruffled harbinger in an incomplete rhyme
Sordid yet sublime, a city breaking on through to the mother side
Of the brother’s promise, to bequeath love lost and undressed
Unbuttoned snooze caffeinate my coffee
Established crews scour my pastiche of laundry
I need a confirmation that some littoral joke isn’t anymore creative than a hoarded broke
Broken in fracture, illuminated by rapture, the panacea of pain disaster
The deliverance of fragrance yet to gain and yet to lose,….. refrain poetaster
Simpered friction swipes the edict of election
As ******* becomes the Olympus of defection
But ponder no more these quodlibets of regaled glory
The amaranthine time has been proferring the same tried and true Love Story
Arranged or deranged, the best will *** and the rest will come
Thereby we become the litter of Medulla Pons surviving on Jack-and-Dandy ***
Remember this in many ways we are a shining city paid for by the mentally ill
Waylaid with the marble of the ultimate rocketship dumb enough to thrill
We soak and absorb the truest bright and the weakest light
As the fraternal order of the lambent moon becomes an extraterrestrial communion rather than an aghast fright
John Derry offers me two geese and I offer to fleece the homespun danger of the moral police
But Capone cannot cap the stone with signature and artistry alone
He cannot unfurl the booth bonfire and the broken home
But his evaded taxes are relaxed because of meritocratic classes
Of wisdom becoming wizardry and idiocy becoming harlotry of sinister waste crass plastics
Limpid with freckled frowns and monolithic and nomothetic pounds
Of zeros escalading a spawn-trout upward voyage and a quiet pillage of a bear-eaten town
Benign rumors of soaring afflictions and deloused tumors swarm the pasquinade village
A Potemkin place where gays get spayed covertly by laying a nescient egg deceased and weighed
In the navy we are not, but thanks to the gravy we are bought and we are sold
And of course you must trim the bushes before they scowl in the fold
Hedged bets on arts, squirts and debts
Of hottest flirts, car washed shirts and wrangled King Tut **** and Cleopatra wet
To this history I owe a greater than perfect debt
A Raider with influential sweat
A gamboler with a frisky totem of regret
Radiant sun says goodnight
Glazed to beat you, you fearful fitful 1997 willful fright

Al Capone called a hit from some Chicago hideout
and there was a ****** of a bunch of other mobsters
and a reporter came in and said I had more brains on my shoes
than in my head
and isn't that funny?

I took a risk, I know I'm a crazy loon when it comes to guys
some guy I don't even like that much but I turn to him in my
pain trying to get through my days, now
and I try to get him to go out but no there are excuses
and suggestions of him drinking a bunch of beers when one
makes him whoozy
and it was a Thursday, and I was back after two days
trying to plan my new life and everyone there was so nice
so I come back to "that place" to do my sentence, and
I can't find him at his normal spot--he's hiding in a little room
in a bunch of chemicals
and we talk and I ask him about going out after work
and he states flatly I have a date

And it's like I've been hit by an invisible bomb
I don't know what registered on my face
adrenaline rush in my stomach and just trying to fake it kool
like no big deal, I can't get you to come out, but
his ex girlfriend set him up with a woman and he "has to" go
and I translate in my mind, you "want to" go
and it feels sickening things were a
little more hopeful, driving through the fields of Monterey and a friendly
department at Cal State Monterey Bay

And wind, and sand dunes, and a hope for a better future
and now this. So I stammer out a couple of lame things
and he tells me he doesn't like girlfriends and will be single until he's 75
and I don't know what happens then and he's 41 and only been with someone for three
months, tops and I just sit there,

the kids, high school romance all around and hearts and chocolate and balloons
and stuffed animals and they ask me what I'm doing for Valentine's day
and I say, the guy I liked just told me he's going out with someone else

So I come home and mix up some crystal light and ***** like four times
until i'm talking to myself in a Southern Accent and explaining to myself
why this hurts and my cat lies across my face and purrs so all I can hear
is a smooth soothing sound and I cry and cry

And I know, I'm not ready for the dating game.  Because if I was
I'd have someone up my sleeve too and I'd be comparing and contrasting
and all of that
but I don't
I just took a risk on a flirt and I knew I could get hurt

and all the empty desperation of my child self abandoned floods back
in and my friend says you don't want him, really

and it's true and I cry again and nothing makes sense

reinvention of the jazzy period? 1920s, don't tell me!
1930s ****** and Capone and the Pacinos - chi:
   or cha cha: capuχino - hence the missing c -
   truant Capote wrote a bestseller meanwhile -
grizzly ra - and some bling to boot: always a favour;
oh i don't mind - it minds itself:
philosophers are removal van people:
boxes wherever you look: per se a,
per se b, per se c, per se d. i grew a beard because
i thought: might as well fiddle with it, get itchy
with pretending violin playing - always better than
counting money - grew one to counter the fiddler on the roof:
meaning? fiddle of the chin - you lucky people are so funny,
i got university education and can't laugh -
it's hilarity multiplied by Clinton: sure, the rich can do
anything... but nothing publicly - attention span of goldfish,
keeping an image or brushing your teeth to a routine:
hello dentistry, o'la chemists with toothpastes!
plus the deficit, plus Gorbachev and a hungover.
well, you do look like the generation that spawned
the first world war - cocktails and chandelier champagne
popsy-turvy - hunched burp - ****** warfare;
jazz poker or jazzy blackjack? you look so ******* familiar
that it isn't even funny... the populists are goose-marching
but you still need a partying excuse
to **** at a reed to breath under the blood-bath
waters of minimal exertion -
       Fritz Ferdinand also said:
                      fry 'em up, the young will
become un-bored - savages of the dance-floor
will need but one excuse: the airy-fairy one...
then the Zeppelins and the donnerkrieg -
or the thundering prior - rather than pre-,
  tropismuskrieg - alternative the compass read alter
N - north - the revisionist segment that's
a compass to mind: the equivalent of north
in human dynamism: K - krieg - war...
somehow potassium too -
                                 war
  
         peace                                  modernity

               ­               antiquity

           the model moral movement: krieg -

                                       krieg (K)

         frieden (F)                                        zeitnah (Z)

                                      antike (A)        

the fakz - the facts - and nothing else - sure
i was limiting myself to a skew, or a rhombus -
not exactly what you were thinking of:
chaka demus & pliers - tease me tease me tease
                                         got a spare cup of sugar
                   and a screwdriver? oh no... till i lose
   my t.v. license and my zombie soul;
are these the same ******* that got shifted to America?
don't blame me for what the ****** royal did
  to the ****** pauper - you have a basketball team,
and a dozen rappers - what's the... ahem... problem?

you know how you can tell that women want
shorter  ****** encounters than men?
prostitutes.
   you know what they do...
they apply the secondary "*******",
to tighten the grib on
the penetrating object... i.e. they squeeze you
   invoking lamda
   the anti-chruchill Λ (lambda)...
huh?           don't ******* huh me...
          the index and middle
finger squeezes you...
   works magic when you've
be circumcised... but when you haven't,
and you **** while pulling
your ******* back exposing
the spartan "skin-head"?
         the c-ring is near your
head, rather than at
the base...
   so you're basically wearing
a bow-tie of flesh...
   handy jerking off,
      with the fleshy burqa...
and during *******,
imitating the monotheistic
aesthetic...
        two protruding veins,
you'd think they'd be
bursting at this point...
  even a ukranian *******
complained:
  when are you going to finish!
seems almost sad
   that women prefer quick
*** rather than athletic ***...
but the older the *******,
the more she's prone
to invent a second *****...
   her index & *******...
squeezing your phallus toward
a premature *******...
     kinda hard
   when you pull your *******
back and choke your member...
at the neck, rather than some
fetish at the base...
           sometimes you can go
for an hour and not *******...
and the ******* is like:
huh?! completely neutralised...
bewildered to say the least...
       i have no moral suggestion
at this point...
   i'm into catching moths with my
bare hands...
               i'm just trying to think
what sort of face i'd pull
when talking with someone
who hasn't
appropriated the jest of
a *******'s worth...
         there's still the minding
of the second-layer of genitals...
   it's almost ****, had i tried,
but i haven't, but it must feel just
the same...
        penetrating a vegan-jain-n'ah...
with a ******* trying to
speed things up    Λ
                       index    middle
         fingers, working their "magic"...
pretty pretty p'ooh,
                     i'm choking my **** by
pulling my ******* back...
i'm imitating circumcision...
           you're goon'ah 'av'
                                      to try 'arder!
         why do brothels always
have the perfume of bourbon
infusing them to solidifying
     a memory, unlike anything other
than blooming flowers
  in the evening, of spring?
           it's the anti-thesis of
b &  b (bed & breakfast) -
                    brothels & bourbon...
with all that ****,
america is softcore in terms
of ***... you celebrate strip-clubs,
but you don't celebrate brothels...
  you know what a strip-club looks
like in greece?
   a stripper places a green plastic
tag next to your drink...
   it's the green "light" to go ahead,
and head for a private audience...
            european strippers are like:
who the **** bothers with so much
tease but no action, if not
mid-western goodie-good-shoe girls
equivalent to those
with men having a fetish for dorothy?
that's borderline ****** prone dynamics...
i love recycling, i actually
love taking out the trash...
    only yesterday i was squashing
6 maggots in a napkin...
                   a woman that only
likes to tease, or wears the burqa
of a strip-tease?
             listen... i'd rather **** 6 maggots
while taking out the trash,
   wishing i could have impaled them
on a fishing hook, and caught myself
some dinner...
                   saying that,
america seems backwards...
  it's all tease... but no action...
                    get mauled by a ******,
   **** the gaping and gasping and
   pervert insinuating: look but don't touch...
this isn't a ******* art gallery,
   this isn't a church, or a temple...
            i have ten eyes at my finger-tips,
i'd love to use the eye down south
rather than feel infuriated by the two
in my cranium...
                           with all that ****,
it's almost asking for an al capone in terms
of selling fleshy cushions and duvets...
   to me america will always be the
first to have the nuclear weapon,
be always the second to send
a man into space
(slavs chose a dog
   germans chose a monkey,
       tells you a lot
about the collective psi;
   i'd have sent a baby elephant)...
    the first & only idiots to ban
   alcohol...
      and yes, i agree, it's great,
but whatever music and film
   they produce,
i can't have a high opinion
of them...
   i know i should...
   but if i was living in that tornado-ridden
mass of land,
         i'd be in the middle...
in the "boring" places...
                         or at least that's
how i imagine myself living...
         away from the schizoid
export of twins americana
                      n.y.              vs.               l.a.;
i met a mongolian in amsterdam
once...
           i was looking into
the void-eyes of history...
                 i imagine looking into
the eyes of a native of the continent
            to be a likewise telling of: wow!
saying that, a welcome revision -
the more you shame brothels,
and glorify strip-clubs?
   the more **** you're going to produce...
i have absolutely no idea
as to why america is founded upon
strip-clubs... more teasing than actual
muddy waters of juice...
                  the american notion of
strip-clubs before brothels is
very much like the act of prohibition
in my eyes...
                           i hope, hard as ****,
to never visit that puritan continent,
  when a ****** rebellion is always protruding
around every corner...
  where a ****** rebellion,
           can never be a ****** liberation.

The lady skeleton walked with her companions
The man of iron, the doll, the lawsuit, Al Capone, and a ninja
On a night where you can be what you want
And no one can judge you

Got on my grey and black hoodie
Will I get shot today
Got on my grey and black hoodie
Would I get stopped today
Got on my grey and black hoodie
Pulled over by a cop today
Got on my grey and black hoodie
Lord will I die today

Being a black man in America is a struggle
Vision distorted what I know is a river some see as a puddle
It's folks that say racism is dead
Yet if I wear a grey and black hoodie
I may get hit with black lead
By a cop
Or laid to rest from another black man like the guy that killed my pop
It's two realities I face
The truth of who I am
And the lies tied to my race
No not all black men are  thugs
Even though some are
No not all black men sell drugs
Even though some do
I'm   neither  one of them dudes
So should I wear a suit?
Like AL Capone?
I simply wear what I'm accustomed to
Does my long bread make me a muslim?
When honestly I'm growing it out like my savior you know the King of the Jews
I'm familiar with racial slurs
God has blessed me to be great with words
And still to this day when customers open their door I'm treated like a *****
Who are you?
Company name branded on my uniform
I guess I'm seen as a criminal should I wear an orange jumper
Man this is crazy
I just want to feed my wife and take care of my home.
Should me and my wife birth a child
I'm concerned about the future that's ahead of our black babies
Through  all this discrimination and hate black skin is resilient
Built to absorb sun rays
But that Vitamin D
Doesn't make me Clark Kent
Captain America black in the comics now
I wonder if they will blackout superman
At the end of the day none of this should bother me
I should have tougher skin
But if a rhinoceros takes enough shots it will die at the end
I have on my grey and black hoodie
Despite our differences  we are humans, women and men
Now there's  insight so can we attempt to be friends?

It was midnight in Manhattan and the cats were out
they donned themselves with their scarves, and their masks
the caper was set to hit each flat
cause boy were they hungry for some tasty rats
To be in The Feral Cat Club was as cool as it got
See -they'd developed a language that kept them on top
Hell, they ran that town like a bunch of Capone's
but they ran in packs instead of alone
There was Fatty, n' Johnny, and Frankie n' Joe
paired up with Sally n' Bonnie, and Talkie n' Moe
between Broadway, and 42nd they made their move
Meow, meow, meeeeeeeeeeeow,  said Fatty to Moe
(this was the call they needed to duck n' lay low)
It meant The Animal Cat wagon was passing by slow
Meow, mow, said Frankie to all
which told everyone he saw a major haul
Sally whispered she was tired of rats n' could they please try
a wonderful place they had all just passed by
it was the new restaurant with meatballs out back
(cause some lame waiter had thrown out a sack)
So they all had a vote, and the meatballs won
placing white napkins beneath furry whiskers for fun
They're all so glad that they've upgraded their style
Now when you see them they can do nothing but smile!

When the raps are givin'
Lyrically by me
I'll leave ya  head spinnin'
Like a disco ball
Haters on the gall
But all I do is make one phone call
I got homies to hoes pack 44s
Check the iced chromed door
Of jeep four by four
Ya sweet as a nectarine
When I hit the scene
I turn ****** skin green
Brooklyn bounce more to the ounce
The drunker I get
The harder I hit
The more some ones bound for a casket
No remorse check the source
I was credited before I was edited
The Black Capone
I'm raps chaperone its my love jones
Me and my ***** my gun
Close like lelo and stitch
Got multiple attitude so I'm rude switch
Personalities
So nobody can keep a tally on me
Its me the big the biggest competitor
Leave ya competition in sweaters
Cuz I'm cold as anartica
Glocks stay blazin' hot than africa
Bomb flows like Boston massacre
Who asking ya?
About me the only yosef mos def
With the mathematics statics
I crash it if ya show y'***? I'll cash it
Put you on the corner
Reckless ruthless as Ike to Tina Turner
Embrace the dread **** the feds
Still taking my daily bread
Born sinner this is the philosophy of a winner
Ya unknown like Brian Skinner
Thinner ya need up ya weight son
Cuz ya falling lame son uh the don
Back to set the record straight
If ya gotta problem I'll.make ya death date
U see me I see u
Bullets hit ya temple now ya in ICU
Cuz I'm young witty and nasty and clean
Saw ya ******' head off if ya know what I mean??

Blood appears red, it is actually blue
Since a very young age, I have been obsessed with you.

You've cast a spell on me, the most potent of magic
Even introduced me to torture, so powerful, so tragic

Fighting is brilliant, killing is even better
Especially when bringing an end, to your fiercest competitor.

I desperately crave to see you, it drives me insane
Showers of red rain, welcome to pain

Al Capone knew you well, to Curtis Jackson, you are no stranger
Wherever you go, there always seems to be danger.

Im thinking of you now, and im sure I will later
Violence, my love, there is none greater.

Alpha Pistols
It’s a nice warm summer’s evening in 2004
The cool man was on top of the Manchester tower block
He fires down with various guns at his lower targets
There is a builders yard two hundred metres away
The fork lift trucks zip about and disturb his sleep
When they reverse their beeper goes Beep Beep!
This riles the man and makes him madly dance
Round his one bedroom flat on the 22nd floor

He grabs all of his guns in a heavy holdall and rushes up
To the very top of the building where he can pop them
While wearing only his bleached white Y-fronts
He sits down by the edge and gets ready for war
From up here he can hear the fork lifts beeping
He grimaces and shakes his head then opens his bag
And removes a small tape player then presses play
The 12 inch version of So Alive by Love and Rockets

His chrome and ivory Colt 45 follows with three clips
Clicking off the safety he aims at the reversing trucks
Their blinking orange light and street lights illuminate
Y-front man aims and fires at the small trucks
His gun is loud and follows thru the muggy night air
Bullets spark off concrete blocks and one hits home
Going thru the windscreen and shocking the operator
Quickly reloading he fires again till the mags are empty

There are 30 different fork trucks in the yard and area
He killed one driver and wounded another in the leg
They are all instructed to to their job while able and alive
Next he gets a 45 calibre Grease Gun with long barrel
He opens the shoulder support and readies his toy
He stands up and sprays the yard from the hip
His grin sez it all as his sub gun blazes away
Two fork lifts collide and drop their pallets of bricks
Reloading he fires at the upended yellow trucks

Their gas bottles explode and cremate the drivers
His song is on a loop and goes on forever
With raised arms and eye to the sky he dances
Round and round he spins to the goth song
Next he grabs his Al Capone 45 Tommy Gun
It has a round mag full of bullets good to go
Standing and firing from the shoulder he goes
The recoil pushes him away from the roof edge

He leans into it and the muzzle flash is serene
The slugs impact all over the yard and 6 trucks
Snapping chains piercing tyres hitting drivers
Two are killed one hurt three are terrified
They still operate their vehicles as ordered
Second mag time and more damage below
A gas bottle blows in an orange blast of debris
While this occurs beepers still beep and lights flash
It’s a huge yard and there are many targets still

Slowly but surely he eliminates them like a surgeon
His next gun is a BAR Browning Automatic Rifle
This he shoots on single shot bipod lying down
It’s a powerful 7.62mm gun and simply superb
Each shot hits home and kills 4 operators dead
Explodes rear 3 mounted gas bottles and more
But the BAR does full auto too and he we go!
*** ****** full ******* auto 30 shot mag wham

Soon empty rounds down range more hits
The fire has been devastating attrition mounts
There are far less fork lifts now in use there
Burning trucks and dead or dying operators cry
In his head he’s the rock n roll man on a roll
I’ve got more guns to fire and now it’s my cod piece
Browning 7.62mm machine gun with bipod
I quickly pull the parts from my bag to assemble
Then a belt of 250 rounds with 1 in 5 red tracer

Happy it’s ready I click off the safety and fire
I’m sat down and hose fire downwards
I slowly move the gun left to right left to right
Impacts spark and in the night air tracer guided
My 250 bullets lasts fifteen seconds and is it
Nothing intact remains below working wise
I took out 30 fork lift trucks and operators
Many are dead some injured others hiding
Lastly I use my M1 Garand rifle with blank ammo

I fire eight rifle grenades at the builders’ yard
I pop a grenade on the end angle up and fire
The blank shell launches the grenade up and down
It takes seconds to fall and hit and Bang Boom Blam!
I fire 8 at random spots of the huge yard
There are no more reverse beepers sounding
All fork lift truck use ceases forever due to me
Now I can peacefully sleep in my room at night
Do not destroy my slumber!