behind velvet cloth I saw your quail's eggs,
I saw your gentleman's relish too,
protruding as it was,
an Etonian slap to the face of the marmite jar which
it was reluctantly sat next to.

and although the relish would happily admit that
to sit next to marmite was certainly preferable
to finding oneself positioned next to Bovril or Cup-a-Soup,
it certainly was a far cry from the delicatessen counter
he was once accustomed to.

oh the delicatessen!
how the tear ducts performed with nostalgic aplomb
as memories of stuffed vine leaves and caramelised baby shallots
filtered back to the gentleman.

what he'd have given to be back there now,
to once again share the company of proper food,
of handmade chutneys and pickles,
not this common oafish tar.
this brutish black gunk.

'You may not have been factory made'
retorted Marmite,
'or contain E325,'
'but that isn't to say that your place on this shelf
is any more valid than mine.'

you know about as much about copyright laws, as i do, about shoelaces; what's the word... oops?*

and what did i decide to cook today?
oh, just some hungarian goulash sauce -
extra paprika - pork -
served on a potato "pancake" -
mixed potatoes with flour, an egg,
salt & pepper, more paprika -
fried onions & bacon, and, would you
believe it? brussels pâté...
i was desperate: there was no lard
in the house...
   served on two grand leaves of
col lettuce: yummy as a sunset glazing
a hyacinth;
and no, on a flower it's called
caramelised butter effect,
   it's not actually called photosynthesis
at those moments.

i'm still bewildered by these people who
"just happen" to dictate a "reality"
by calling the dasein of events a case of:
on the internet, vs. the real world.
utterly bewildering...
no, i'm still bewildered -
let me tell you a little story...
do you know how much mail
i get through the door each year?
perhaps 4 letters...
        reality check: the b.b.c. is broke,
it's actually the broke broadcasting corporation,
the british bit flew out the window,
they're airing shows from the years
MMXV & MMXVI primarily -
oh look who's coming with the surprise -
no, it's not *pacman: the ol' jolly roger
by the name of jimmus savillius -
****** broke the bank with his antics,
not the b.b.c. is a dog with three legs,
broke! ha ha!
             there's still something
bothering me... what part of "reality"
are these people pushing, that can't see
the duality, instead choosing a dichotomy
of the existence of the internet,
ah, either they're too young,
or the internet itself is too young,
and they haven't seen the shredder impact
of the internet on the high street...
when was i at a local high street?
honest to god, heart on my shoulder,
hand on my other heart singing the regional
anthem... can't remember...
if you only get 4 letters through the post
a year, and even less emails -
unless of course you tell people your email
address...
   either i'm the biggest loser, or the biggest
winner in this fiasco...
   i get as many emails as i get actual,
post-office letters...
    **** me, lucky you if it's a handwritten
letter, without an electronically generic
signature, you must be santa claus!
ah, pretty pretty, esp. since it was written
in green and purple crayon...
     get in there my son, you're bound
to enter the major league of *******
and *** fiddlers: just make sure you mention
the black component preference,
like, you know who.
           i can't believe they're coming for these
people, i swear to god, if someone working
class was to read the saturday or the sunday
times supplements, they'd go gargamel
bonkers... as i once explained the smurfs to
a scaffolder and his girlfriend walking
from an off-lice, as we both joked:
   she's short enough for the blue...
god, her reaction as impeccable:
heaven sent no hell apart from a woman's
fury at being either scolded or joked about;
works every time,
  so, gentlemen! can we return to our
drinking?
                  and they said in pop culture that
grief was an aphrodisiac - twice down
the shoot, thrice with the shakers as **** it is...
as it turns out so is male humour is a gemini
with grief...
     the furious vagi... and i knight her:
            n'ah...
                        i still don't get where
or when the reality check will take shape...
how much of "real" life on the internet
is not mere commentary?
... ... ... ... i'm giving you some time to answer...
whatever happened to the intricacies
of the "real" world and the internet?
what about those hacks, what about
internet banking,
   what has suddenly become so unreal
about the internet?
oh right, so we can hold a welsh f-u f-off (V)
to the publishers, and bypass their
bad taste in prose?
          thinking about it: i think it is...
oh sure, we'll earn a few collateral badges
of those who fell with weak psyches -
but to say, the most splendid, known
to man, ever imagined ******* -
well... you'd be a fool to distinguish
the internet as a wachowski construct...
listen mon, you're saving the amazon,
pixel by pixel by pixel alone...
   but you've also woken the eyes of
beelzebub -
          and the irish are pounding -
and the russians stopped drinking for a month -
and the poles decide:
it's our time to march with the gob!
i still can't believe that people can't
fathom a simple newtonian calculus
of integrating two entities -
     and making them as one -
      personally?
i'm an impatient person, or, rather:
i don't like people wrestling with me over
copyright, copy what? what?!
there's only one page on the internet
that respects copyright laws... wattpad...
no other page on the internet disallows
the ctrl c through to ctrl p...
not one... ******* if you think anything
about "copyright" laws in the 21st century...
one page, one page out of a billion,
that respects copyright, and what do they do?
they kick me off it, because in
privy i asked a girl where she was from,
to get the feel of what inspires her...
like in that film the passengers -
where the girl says: i could write all day
with a view of the chrysler building...
  well then... UP YOURS!

So there’s a girl across the street
A girl to whom he’s grown accrete
A girl he’s just to scared to greet
But yet still he sits and hopes

You see she’s in love with Darren
However Darren’s in love with Karen
And Karen sits and stares at Bob, who’s probably gay, probably not,
But still he drools over Linda,
Who’s stare is blank and barren,
Pointed at the anti-nerd, football loving, guru Darren.

Yes it’s really that simple,
Forget love triangle, more love enneadecagon,
Gone,
That reminds him, as it hits his head like a hadron,
Gone,
Are his hopes of him and the girl across the street.

Her features to him, were long developed similes,
They came to his brain, seamlessly, chemically,
Of course he’s never express these feelings formally,
But to him they acted as a soothing love remedy.

Her eyes were golden like caramelised sugar,
Or the enticing qualities of slowly melting butter,
Each eye, a galaxy waiting to be discovered,
And yes he means the chocolate bar.

Her hair is crimson like strawberry laces,
Which reminds him of the disadvantages of having braces,
But he braces himself as though it’s his duty,
Braces himself for an overwhelming amount of beauty.

She talks to him about all the awful things that guys do,
She then says she wishes that more guys were like you,
She says she wants that guy to show up this year,
But what she doesn’t see, is that that he’s standing right here.

So there’s a guy across the street
A guy to whom she’s grown accrete
A guy she’s just to scared to greet
But yet still she sits and hopes

You see he’s in love with her neighbour,
A chore that she knows can be a labour,
Yet she knows she can be the saviour,
Because she is even greater

So one day to no surprise, he’s looking out with eager eyes, they lock eyes, butterflies, quite surprised, more butterflies, they remain like that til sunrise, emotions start to normalise, then fluctuate because of those **** butterflies.

So there’s a girl across the street
A girl to whom he’s grown accrete
A girl he wasn’t scared to meet
And now they live and bond

Because that girls in love with Darren,
However Darren’s in love with Karen,
But who cares,
They have each other for the rest of their days

And beyond.

You wonder why I dwell in the dark,
You wonder why I never call back,
You wonder why I be a lost sane,
I wonder if I’ll ever see you again,

Evading the city flare,
Evading to the mellow lair,
Evading the caramelised routine,
Evading a contagious whine,

A thing of pity, years and hence,
A sweet  obsession, that only commence,
You wonder if I have lost every sense,
I wonder if I ever made any sense,

You wonder why I invest so much,
You wonder why I run on loss,
You wonder what became of us,
I wonder if it's fantasy or lust,

Come! Come! Sure let's reshape our maps,
What has been and maybe perhaps,
Swoosh! Whoosh! Be undone and done!
How awfully convenient, is it not, hon?!

Exuberant creatures they flatter me often,
Those lofty lot, enticing I find none,
Sure I shall allow an unbiased  trial!
Sheath the heart, her eyes a biased thrill!

Never mention my poached heart,
And we'll get along just fine, love,
And be forever entwined,
In that same old fairytale, concubine!

You wonder why I am a repugnant aristocrat,
You wonder why I am a narcissist in grave dearth,
You wonder why I am a deception to change,
I wonder how passionately I was never your gain...

Of course I am not an island of my own,
Of course I am but a mere fraction of the whole,
Oh! Tempting balms! they embrace me so,
Quite the way you wrapped me Cozy, long ago,

You wonder why I am stuck in a rut,
You wonder why I choose not to be smart,
You wonder why I wait without disgust,
I wonder where my rescue boat is lost….

You wonder why I let the years fly by,
You wonder why I live in the bygone and deny,
You wonder why I never forget your voice,
You wonder why I keep every memory alive,

I wonder if I'll ever see you again,
I wonder if it will all be the same.....

Cute little thing,
Two rows down.
With her dark locks
Encompassing her caramelised skin.
Those pretty eyes above her pretty lips,
May sell pretty dreams and witty lies.
But beauty,
A man’s Achilles heel,
Has my heart racing like a McLaren wheel.
If only the erratic beats within my chest she could feel.

Her skin without blemish,
At least unto mine eyes.
Her legs without ending,
Forever locked in a dance
That only I can see,
The way she walks she speaks my language,
The way she writes she speaks my language,
When she smiles she speaks my language,
When she sighs she speaks my language.

When her guards fall,
She falls,
Into my love filled arms
A whittled down version of my masculinity puts up arms
And emasculation rears its head.
We lie within this room of red.
Satin silk sheets,
Icing on the bed.

Ultimate fantasy --
Visions of falsified ecstasy
Holding her lying next to me,
Sitting two rows down.

I could not tell you of where, when or how
Or why or whence or with whom
It began.
All I can speak of is what I perceive
My neurons oblivious of floor plan.

Gray matter confabulates my wisdom,
Muddles synaptic impulse.
Confused nerves,
Travel unsheathed in an unpatterned grid
Relay scrambled message with undue verve.

Concerto fifth, notes ripple through the air
I hear not this music rich
But I see
Colours of infinite depth ebb and flow
Sounds live in my eyes, lines swirl and flurry.

Waning sun kissing the horizon deep
I see not this beauty pure
But I smell
Warm scent of sweet cinnamon and jasmine
Pictures translated to redolent swell.

Olfactory bliss of soft infant kiss
I smell not this fragrance warm
But I feel
Velvet satin touch caressing my skin
Scents flow as mercury on fingers sealed.

Hypnotic pressure of pebbles underfoot
I feel not this kneading joy
But I taste
Caramelised coat cut by bold sour storm
Tactility morphs into scrumptious paste.

Palate aglow under five course repast
I taste not this saucy feast
But I hear
Melodious blend of pitch and cadence
Flavour unwrapped in acoustics of my ear.

My topsy-turvy world
Created
By my poor flummoxed nerves.
Never a listless moment
Dished up by
Crossing neurons as they swerve.

I like the way your name
Fits inside my mouth
When it rolls around,
Swishing gainst my
teeth, like a forbidden
candy kept, in younger
days, tightly pressed in
under my tongue, melting
there- into caramelised bliss.
It fits so perfectly behind my
Curtain lips that screen it off-
for one Clumsy moment only
-and then it is unleashed,
Lost, released. like you
and me, as teenagers,
Looking awkwardly
at each other- For
One uneasy beat,
frozen- and then
Leaping,
A pair
of
giddy frogs.

POETS AND SINGERS AND DANCERS AND BELL RINGERS

ARE IN MY HOUSE TONIGHT, I PARTY WITH ANGELS

AND ALL I EAT IS BAGLES, AND THAT MAKES ME FEEL SO DIVINE

I WENT TO THE POETRY SLAM, WITH VOICES IN MY HEAD SAYING POETRY IS FOR GEEKS

BUT I AM A GOOD PARTY POET, WHERE EVERY POEM

EXPLAINS HOW I WANNA PARTY HARDY WON’T STARDY

MOVE IT ON UP, MOVE IT ON UP

AND SHOW US HOW TO HAVE FUN

AND TONIGHT THERE WAS A POET BLASTER WHO HATED POETS

SHOOTING AT ANYONE GOING OUT FOR SMOKES

YOU SEE WE HAD TO DESIGN A WEAPON TO **** POETS

AND MINE WAS TOO EXTREME, FOR THEM

YOU SEE, I DEVELOPED CANNON ***** AND 1 BILLION AMMO HERE AND 1 BILLION AMMO THERE

AND BULLETS, AND LOADS OF OTHER STUFF AND POINTED IT AT THE POET READING

AND BLASTED HIS HEAD OFF, SORT OF WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME TONIGHT

MY OLD MATES, SAYING, IS BRIAN INTO WRITING POEMS AND THEN THEY SAY POEMS ARE BORING

AND I SAY, NO MATE NO, YOUR BORING, SURE I AM DISABLED, BUT IT DOESN’T STOP ME FROM WRITING A GREAT POEM THOUGH

DISABLE DISABLE I MIGHT BE A BIT DISABLED, IT’S NOT MY STYLE TO NOT JOT IT DOWN, YEAH IN A POEM YA SEE

I HAD COKE TO DRINK AS WELL AS A PACKET OF CARAMELISED ONION AND SOUR CREAM CHIPS, ****** AWESOME DUDES

I AM DISABLED, TOO DISABLED, FOR THE GOING TO BED MEN OR KIDS OR LADIES

I DON’T WIN VERY MUCH, BUT THE ORGANISER REALLY LIKES MY WORK

I PARTY LIKE I GET HEADACHES FROM CHAMPAGNE, THE PURE ALCOHOL DOES WEIRD THINGS TO THE BRAIN

AND MY FAVE, THE SCHITZOPHRENIC MACARENA, IT GOES LIKE THIS

1 2 3 4 DO THE SCHITZOPHRENIC, FROM THE FIRST DIAGNOSIS TO MY CURRNT SITUATION

AND NOW, WITH MEDICATION, I CAN BE REFORMED, OH YEAH MATE YEAH, I AM SCHITZOPHRENIC

AND FLY BURGERS ARE GOOD ENOUGH TO EAT, FLY BURGERS ARE SUCH A TASTY TREAT

JUST CATCH A BLOWIE BETWEEN TWO BUTTERED BUNS, ADD SOME LETTUCE AND TOMATO AND HAVE SO MUCH FUN

YOU SEE MY POEMS TALK, ABOUT HASPPINESS FOR A GREAT PARTY, HAPPINESS FOR GREAT ART

AND HAPPINESS FOR THE OLD SMELLY MAN WHO FARTS, WHILE HE PLAYS AND BEATS ME AT DARTS

MOVING ON UP, MOVING ON UP MOVING ON UP, MAKING AN EGG SIT RIGHT IN THE CUP

THEN WENT OVER TO PAT HIS PUP, AS HE ENJOYS MOVING ON UP

post scriptum to having tasted
        pszeniczniak,
these gents know their craft,
music, art and tattooed skin
notably on shoulder blades...
      hmm...
           as the monks of so long
ago used to say: **** the harem,
give us the brewery,
   times when the ecclesiastical
class did something useful,
like brewed beer...
             how far from Kolbudy
  to Marienburg?
                          it's still teutonic
territory were talking,
                  no wonder that when
no brick lay on brick in Warsaw
                 after the '44 uprising,
the red brick Marienburg behemoth
lay asleep, untouched...
                     just like the Greeks should
thank the Turks for keeping
   Hagia Sophia intact...
                                   the 2nd installment
from amber brewery?
           koźlak...
                    an intense canvas
   with no subtle hints of what is nonetheless
not an overpowering brush stroke
of caramelised-hops.

3rd night of your typical ordeal...
sober then tired
then drunk from tiredness
then sober from tiredness...
I would have never admitted
O the luxury spent
Scribbling to no avail a veil
and it isn't even winter yet
so the air is the cool and warm
zenith of autumn
with the sun being somewhat
forgiving...
if only I had all my fingers attired
to a keyboard not this twinkle
and twiddling thumbs on a shmartfoonz
on my way to "work"...
any association with arguments
of personal space dissociated
crammed into a late running northern line
just four stops from Morgate
to Elephant & Castle...
two blonds not a nightclub dance floor
awkwardness...
and the whiff I got...
of their hair... soapy and not...
a perfume of candyfloss...
and more...
that absinthe soaked sugar cube
being set alight and caramelised
on a spoon... a ****** a heroine of scents...
and oh how I miss sleeping in the night
the agony of a farewell to the sultry hours
where one can become infuriated
with so many details the day allows
whereby the same details in the night
become o O so monstrously bigger...
the senses seemingly dimmed
but also more acute...
all that could be missing is a ritual
best associated with the prancing of
naked witches at a sabbath-*****-****...
came the night from the 17th to the 18th
of September: super harvest moon...
where the wolf to the past participle
of: no... past simple... to (have) been...
a wolf? So what would be the past
complex?
For all the rigidity of grammar...
     a flow of language that doesn't abide
by rules: each to his own version of
a workaround collapse: imperfectly strident.
Nocturnes no. 16 in F major
John Field...
                                 and until 7am...
that rubric of songs on the radio
simply overflows with minutes of
meaning in the hours of banality.