We are a global society
When we want oranges in the fruit bowl,
When we want out of our rut
Just long enough
To brown in a patch of Spanish sun.
We are a global society
When the Japanese car breaks down
And we are in need of a cheap fix
To keep food on the table,
Some Latvian mechanic
Who helps us find our way home.

We are our own nation,
An island nation,
When the zeroes run low
And there are spaces,
Foreign faces,
To which we can point
And blame.

We are a global society
With our sweat-shop chic,
American coffee chains
Selling Colombian ground beans,
Frappuccinos in plastic cups-
Made in China
And served by a Romanian barista
In Italian heels.
We are a global society
When the demand is high
And the payment is low.

We are our own nation,
An island nation,
When hands reach out for help
And our pockets are too shallow,
Our time, too brief
To commit to a unity
We feel is dragging us down.

We are a global society
When the football is on,
When the lager is Belgian
And the supermodel, Greek.
When we cradle that bag of Cheetos
After smoking too much ****.
We are a global society
When oppression is overt,
Caricatured in bulletin posters,
Threatening to land
Upon our own front door.

We are our own nation,
An island nation,
When poverty seems contagious,
When we have to clean up
Someone else’s mess,
Still we scar the Middle East
Only half-interested in an exit.

We are a global society
When we get sick,
When we borrow another doctor
For our ailing NHS.
When cities of white people burn,
We are a global society,
When Africa is divided,
We are nowhere to be seen.
Prime mover of the commonwealth
Yet we fall beneath the breadline
And living easy is so rare.

We are our own nation,
An island nation,
Under the false flag
Of a golden age
We were conned to believe in.
Our nation, our island nation,
Lost amongst a sea of misinformation.

I.
The people look like flowers at last - sick thoughts of dead men strike the clock winding backwards and ignite to illuminate my approach,
The people look like,
Cigarette burns,
Bullet wounds,
Casualties of Rollins' war with himself,
Of Ellis' numb utopia,
Of the Bukowski cynic suicide,
Of the thoughtless progeny of deadbeat generations desperate to push back,
Every street corner is holy, baptized in the blood of those who died believing,
A thousand fists moved to release a thousand frustrations, and a celebrity endorsement for each overdose death,
Angel mine, abate your gutter wars and mob mentalities,
The tattoo ink has dried and the clubs are closed for the night,
Where are the revolutionaries to go now?

II.
The revenge of the skinhead minority,
The born again soul of a fallen brother,
The madman defiant in publicized rage, the faces of the enemy painted with crosshairs on TV screens,
And the damaged finally able to stand on their own,
Damaged and unrepentant,
Damaged and brilliant,
Damaged with criminal record eyes,
with paranoia brain, with X's tattooed into calloused knuckles,
with track marked arms,
Damaged, the unstoppable tide of the righteous youth - caricatured in the spray painted stencils of their testaments

III.
The spoiled children of an undefinable zeitgeist with nothing to lose,
In ecstasy binges these angels hallucinated manifest destiny through non prescription lenses,
Studying traffic patterns I remember how people are afraid to merge and everybody is looking for just the right amount of trouble,
A fire dies and another is born almost immediately,
Careless ramblings in careless county - a land I'm sure was promised to someone, somewhere, sometime
But after the gold rush nobody could cash out fast enough,
I can't cash out fast enough -
Every girl has got the guilty smile of a teenage runaway living out a Janis Joplin fantasy, and all the boys line up like addicts itching to cop,
The air is so heavy nobody can hold a thought - and when I speak, It's the accent, they say, they can always tell,

IV.
Taxi rides in laser show utopia,
Sicilian saint newly minted tells me about the ******* machine and it's ravenous posturing -
be present & be seen,
Fake it till you make it,
Cop killers singing confessions for beer on the street corner,
While the socialist manifests itself in mispronounced beverages and faux-marked Russian volumes,
avant-garde hyperrealism & ritualistic sacrifice,
There was something about *** and dying on the radio I couldn't be bothered to hear,
A drunken brawl over a bad bet made, disappointing street race, police sirens distant growing moreso,
In ****** bars where ladies always drink free, I rewatch the fall of a ***** old man from the penthouse to the street all over again,
If you haven't figured it out by now,
Don't try

V.
In dreams I walk the Pacific Coast Highway dead of night, barefooted soul alive and naked in the Western night like a Jim Morrison poem, the traveler that never arrives, watching the sunrise form halos over the Sierra Nevada, like a girl I know back East who talks a great deal about plans, the best of which never even have an aftertaste of freedom
There is the same sublime anthems playing on every radio and palm trees forming crosses for any messiah who is willing to claim them,
Last train out of Anaheim as the tessellating California skies swell and give, catch and release,
I see the roofs of tenements lit up by Disneyland,
ocean reflecting the glare from Heaven,
faces of the impoverished reflecting the glare from Heaven,
everybody getting sunburned from the glare from Heaven,
I watch the lovers depart for Santa Ana,
Elderly Asian tourists for Irvine,
Hipsters for San Juan,
and the rest of the destitute ******* for Oceanside en route to San Diego,
There but by the grace of God go the drunk kids spilling out of greyhound buses, sitting till dawn contemplating skylines reflected on the bay, finding romance in every moan of living Earth,
wide eyed at possibility of removing themselves from the equation and finding the answer,
Neil Young harmonicas drift listless above Spanish villas,
Everybody talking like something bad was gonna happen but I couldn't see much thru the windows past the tourist burly shouldered slumbering beast,
I think it was somewhere between Yuma and Dallas, with Mexico stretched out like an invitation to an anarchist rally where I was haunted first,
I'm haunted by El Campo Santo, paved over restless Indian graves in the shadow of the hanging tree,
By La Calavera Catrina blessing the sinners as they pass, hollow faced and sunken on the ***** Spanish streets of their ancestral Apartheid home,
I'm haunted by Calvary, 3000 spirits hanging around unsure of what comes next,
I'm haunted by the faces of the beggars I couldn't spare a cigarette for,
In dreams the Western night releases me and I leave California a shade lighter,
And the handful of stars that manage to burn through the haze seem to promise me:
"You may be gone, but your shadow lives on without you"

To draw a comical square, simply refrain from closing one side, leaving the line open at a wide angle. Caption your drawing with the words "The Square as Comedian."

It is simple, and yet sublime;
Incapturable.

You need not go in,
Take away the man, destabilising the economy
That you so love
Letting them die

You need not assassinate and collaborate,
Scheme and puncture
Spheres of influence that stretch and bubble
In Latin America and Southern Asia,

You need not sign secrets away
Safe and deep
In silos and bunkers
Where Armageddon sleeps.

You need not supply, buy and axchange
Implements of violence and rage,
Picking sides in civil war, tribal conlflict
And bigger,
In lands you do not understand
Lands where the mountains resonate with holiness,
Lands of spiritual awakening awaiting for the young;
Concepts you can’t grasp, that don’t sit well

You need leave them be.
Enough has been done,
Not always with bad intention
But rarely for the greater good
Enough has been said and bought and replaced
Captured, shot at, disgraced,
Caricatured into funny cartoons
Taken over, the masters’ role assumed.

For all the radars and sonar
It seems impossible to listen;
Simple, yet sublime.
Incapturable.
Irreplaceable.

you rise and fall like a symphony
(My silk screen diaphanous breeze)

I swim through your History,
(the coral reef of vivid crazy textured nonsense love)
saturated by the light refracted
into your marine metropolis

I coalesce into your voice
(melted butter creamed currant pastry)
and unfurl evenly.
(your solvent arms
propel my luck to fill every container
of your buoyant sounds)

you dance on my sidewalks like
Charlie Brown’s gang
(bobbing caricatured spreading smiley joke random)
you take my crinkling brow
and soften its creases
like newly pugged clay

Be my crutch,
my original thought,
my epiphany,
(reshaping nuance unforeseen renew reold aspiration),
my false laugh
(when I get hurt and love you too much to show it)
my recorded comfort
weaving precious merriment around my every gesture

Following the bloodstains home,
we tread the land with bristled soles,
to cleanse the souls of the wide-eyed youth,
spectacular fireworks to alter the truth,
tar the land, and pepper the streets,
concrete the corner where strangers meet,
the placebo joy of the modern life,
left vacant in the money-man's wake,
a cardboard lot left to decay,
oh, this is my Britain of today.

The newsrooms are clinical,
policies in place to reduce moral outrage,
to reduce it to a hysterical mess,
a cartoon-disaster of life's distress,
so the public in fear, exist but not live,
to fight the recession; you must give, give, give,
give, your life to your freedom
to live without choice,
you can sign a slip,
to mimic a voice
and to ensure the vow of regular pay,
oh, this is my Britain of today.

A history of salvation,
we lend heroes to established truth,
we parade on corners in our concrete joy,
rejoice in the miracle of the new royal boy,
who shall live in fat, and live in health,
sacred tender to the country's wealth,
of empire and power of totalities,
of stone-walled cities,
and Northern breeze,
the Jack tattooed on imperial flags,
oh, this is my Britain of today.

A stream of entertainment,
how it pounds the floor in seamless sound,
how it drizzles the walls in a trophy glitz,
a hypnotic and false, synthetic blitz,
of caffeine veins, and digital sea,
of attention-span in atrophy.
Wait not on thoughts, instead mind-chatter,
you say “don't talk on dark topic,
and keep depth away!”
oh, this is my Britain of today.

Following the apathy home,
I tread the land in heavy-worn soles,
to cleanse my soul of restricted air,
to dream of travel, to fortunes fair,
but in this bliss of a greener grass;
it is for Britain I hold communal mass.
For each Blair, I know, is a Rupert Brooke,
each levelled city, there's Wilfred's book,
or some Dickensian dream of caricatured past,
where only tyranny is built to last,
for each liberty taken, is Huxley's piece,
is Lessing's thoughts and Shelley's release,
and the meander of Avon through grey rain,
adds desperate poetry for the lives still slain,
so we can live in peace, and in sugared tea,
with red wine lips on the periphery;
in those day's hard living,
in those days' worth spent,
with only a book
and blood descent,
the community dances in the advent of May,
oh, this is my Britain of yesterday.

darwinism killed music off:
i moved to scotland for three
years, to the soundtrack
of for the love of a princess,
instead i got a foreign
exchange student from grenoble
studying the death defying
practice of psychology
who said i spoke no organics
in terms of tongue, ****** her
while she crawled into my bed
and lost my virginity like a fox,
on the sly, to the motto i caricatured
saying to fifty thousand pound debt:
only idiots educate themselves these
days -
this atheism non-congregating will
not succeed, it will fail, it will fail, it,
will, fail!
a postcard from a Lebanese girl i asked
for a date to see some moving pictures
didn't help (when i was at high school)...
she read the book the hours
a year later (a virginia woolf adaptation)...
spare the boy! spare the boy for ****'s sake!
old stiff collar ***** **** bureaucrat
just said: verzweiflung verzagen eine gedanke -
für beweis ex pluralismus
(despair despaired a thought - for proof out of
pluralism).

you can recognise it easily, in that abode
which recognises it,
where a man who loves thought
rather than wisdom, because he accounts
wisdom as too much factual provision...
there in the music, where his thought it scrambled
and literally non-existent.

i thought that *demdike stare would never
produce anything as haunting as they
already have,
but it wasn't them who produced the most
haunting piece of music known to me,
it was susumu yokota's tears of a poet
that's receptively glorified into an allowance
of what comfort might come
from households of ten million chinese
and a few europeans as singletons of that status sibling:
but still in the fathomed depth of violin or cello,
like that of ola gjeilo...
i'm happy for my melancholy... it is amply biding
intelligence with it... only because the rhythm section
is given unto string instruments rather than bam-bam
buckling drums heartless... lullaby rhythm i call it...
i love my sadness, because i can appreciate beauty
with a tear... and no one is invited...
and it's that kind of loneliness that turns me into
a goose... awaiting the pumpkin cindarella carriage
with surprise... if tear be shed, led it be shed at the pinnacle
of man's expression, not the sombre minute silence
of the slain in war of fingerprinted blood and mud...
let it be... decisively... from what appears as a lack of imagination
due to the engraved into cipher geometry of
the chaotic stone's face... let it be man abstracting
himself against so many patterns of chaos...
thus in turn bringing order and subsequent layering...
let man come with an elongation of each noted grievance
fully embodied and consumed...
to rise higher in an assertion of likened to angelic choir...
or will it simply be a story of those who self-love and loath
love by prizing their handy ******* the perfectly caricatured
of female genitalia... and the resolve of explaining those
who wish to embody the act of death to thus differentiate the two,
of those who self-love love occupying themselves
to not take up a sacrifice, and of those who's self-death die
by a known hand in the viscinity of visibility?
i am of no content strength willing to pride myself
as expressing either, or a deviation from,
for i do not speak in the realm of human continuity
that does not express either...
for i am not content with it, and never will be...
due to the merchants and what life is expected to be,
for if shakespeare wrote the merchant of mecca...
and left venice in the judgment of byzantium...
it would not be a pound of flesh to be sacrificed...
but a pound of flesh multiplied by a thousand if not more
and thus allowing the plagiarism of the thousand's
irrelevence and the least expected but the most hoped for discard,
for some future bound example of only one man.

p.s. i dont have the instant glorification concern
when using social media...
i have to be simply content with instant dis-satisfaction
and continue down the road with simulated non-existence
in terms of what invisible / cognitive narcissism
can discard of to expose recognising me;
honestly, atheism ought to begin the argument
concerning the non-exitence of god with the non-existence
of thought... by crossing the street too early for
a traffic accident... or the holocaust - after all god
is a word that's foundational in an expression of egoism
or at least self-autonomy to build a house without the mormons;
i know this language to a point where i deconstruct
the prime fuctioning words of co-ordination
without necessarily deconstructing the nouns
due to ha-shem, or deconstructring the verbs / actions
because of the fact that i think and am taken
aback by some of the action undertaken by people:
like ******, ****, theft, like lying, laceration or faking;
but with deconstruction come spelling mistakes
as the easiest casualties to improve on: the pawns in the game
are given the ordeal of democracy, and this democracy
is a numerous number of spelling mistakes
that feel shameful from the other side of this pixel mirror
having to be fed a life, and thus in life recognised
as accessible to be corrected for a higher reason thus taken.

Chaos is a ladder to a more conducive unknown,
A daredevil chance at advancement and progress.
Maybe it’s defeatist to react to it with scorn.

Being in the belly of the beast’s sickening to the bone,
Discomfiting and a tad demeaning, fraught with distress
Chaos is a ladder to a more conducive unknown.

One might wonder how much one can condone.
Being caught in the crosshairs is the best moment to assess.
Maybe it’s defeatist to react to it with scorn.

A stiff upper lip to mask a frown
Will keep the peace so as not to appear under duress
Chaos is a ladder to a more conducive unknown.

It’s fairly hard to be attuned to adversity, everyone’s a greenhorn
Nevertheless, it should spur us to be hot on the heels of success
Maybe it’s defeatist to react to it with scorn.

Superstition takes one’s eyes off the prize, hence likely to bemoan
Fallibility rather than take the bull by its horns; a caricatured mess
Chaos is a ladder to a more conducive unknown,
Maybe it’s defeatist to react to it with scorn.

(alternately titled: idolizing childhood's end
today April 25th, 2021
generates elusive warm treasured memories).

Akin to significance my eldest sister
felt toward her “*******” –
(totally tubular fuzzy bendable contrivances
analogous to an outsize pipe cleaner)
until she became a tweener
my Matty Mattel Doll (circa mid 1960's)
meant the webbed wide world  
with promise of much greener pastures
on the Apollo space age horizon
where virtual Oculus virtual reality dwelt
amongst Carib ****** indigenous tribes.

No matter yours truly then
fast approaching his decade number seven  
of twentieth century tantalizing
figurative future promises held sway
(namely technologically
Luddite intimations spawned),
I zealously, fervently,
and desperately clung
to battered Matty Mattel doll.

Any child with creative artistic bents
(including this scribe),
whose innate sensibilities and cents
severely limited me drawing
stick figures, more so dense
macabre satisfactorily applying
beard or mustache as stylish elements
applying magic marker to picture printed
faces forged into fences
of famous people popular
within culture club, both gents
or gals, whose retouched photographs
beggared ****** pents
sieve looming hair of men and women,
while simultaneously rents
sing preoccupied to access
excel lent glue, which caricatured outlook
devoid of common sense
I held said goofy looking doll
appeared contrived of household padding material,
and short scraps from circus tents
of yarn for do whit yourself based artisans
into trash bin of history project went.

Even than orange ranked as the new black
charming plaything sophistication did lack
plus batteries not required
to hear voice activated track.

This (think) abhor ridge gin null snippets
red + yellow colored strands
atop kepi twas pseudo hair,
sans manufactured eunuchs
adorned head lands
with avast capita lone linkedin
fingerhut dishabille curls,
could easily construct trolling grandstands
a similar facsimile re: globular molded,
incorporated, glommed,
fragile Ostrich egg shape
contrived head (vis a vis Plaster of Paris
overcovering NON GMO gluten free
partially hydrogenated brands
inflated balloon) to affect trademark
globular fuzzy noggin dry as Acklands.

The simple plain plaything included
a fitbit lifesaver size plastic ring
said small circular loop perfect “O”pening
to get jammed below first knuckle the King
Kong of index finger affixed to a short string
(when pulled to extent tub buckle did bring
taut tether) activated
moon face fixed bug eyed ping
pong blank stare to utter garbled syllables
asper one who nipped viz suckle something.

Despite the drabness, homeliness,
lacquered painted trapped
xyst Yarmulke cheap flatness,
I loved ragged slapped
around, and still iconic schlepped treasure
(uber voiceless with rapt
zealous application bridging elementary
functioning gizmo), initiating mapped
jabbering lock lipped absolute zero prattling.

Sometimes well worn action hero lapped
exhilaration, (got tossed in the air, booted
as football, succor silently accepted flapped
sear sucker punches from robed buck
after favorite fictitious "brother" chapped
accompanied my scrawny body
at bath time) to adapt.

Nonetheless, this adored
billed idol kept me secure,
especially on rare occasions
that found this contemplative lad, a lore
ring dutiful, fun loving kid
under the weather, or hospitalized for
minor adenoids removal,
which entailed post surgical recovery
swallowing quite a chore.

Oh yes, this non gendered plaything
nondescript featureless
sewn seams showed zero differentiation,
no matter to tell this August, cherished, fondled
kiddie piece de resistance lacked ****** identity.

Absent reproductive organs
(eh, nada so significant omission)
cuz, this seemingly resistant
quirky plaything, who unfairly re
ceived punishing physical
indiscriminate treatment, yet still
connection omnipotent bond existed
as if goofy guise happened
to be extended part of mine kempf.

Upon reflection, asper
childhood memento (nary a clue
what triggered remembrance
of things past yesterday comprised
true value), an aha moment awoke
to attempt to cap cha vague
essence about pretend friend designed in 1955,
and based on a concept by Mattel co-founder
Elliot Handler.

The character “Matty”
derived from the name Mattel.

The nom de plume a concatenation of sorts
derived after founders,
Harold Mattson and Elliot Handler.

A brainstorm session
yielded concurrence viz the hybrid name
of Matt + El (short for Elliot).

Love is of the divine;
it persists where its origin dies,
and it is absolute,
singular,
for it is love.
It can be a short lived romance,
or a moment of affection for a passing stranger,
or a hug from a long lost friend
but love will always find you.
It will whisper your name on the wind,
and it is in the embrace of an incoming wave,
and high above us,
in the clouds,
where a caricatured mouse
waves down to you,
before dissolving back to mist.

The severed strands of Septembers past
Milled about with thoughts of youth
Partaking prematurely from the fount of regret
Distinguishing between the add ons and what nots they had gathered on the road
They glance skeptically in my direction

This is no fun, no fun at all
Even if all my notions of the word were reborn and rearranged
I can’t conceive of any merriment or mirth
Hidden below or dangling above this misbegotten meet

And who arranges such gatherings
Most likely midwifes with tattered stockings
And little left to do
But peruse the petulant prose which portrayed me in such a pale light

Feigning reinforcement resolves to root out this weekend repast
And charge headlong screaming freedom and forget me nots
At any shallow head which might turn this way
I’ve forgotten what to say
Twirl another strand of hair stuck awkwardly on the forehead of the universe

And we were all waiting like blind acorns in twisted tunics
As the caravan of caricatured contestants collided
With the haughty holdings of the hallowed harbinger
And whispered all my secrets in the air
Just as the rendered remnants of my hidden heart
Gave way to the scattering winds of this solemn September
Fortune flitted in and flared her skirt for me
And smiled… just smiled

chopping two heads of garlic for:
however long that might have lasted -
each tooth cut into a fine matrix
of miniature cubes -
cut to the point where a fattiness
oozes from each garlic tooth:
sticky saliva-esque ('l) and it's not...
the kind that comes bursting
with onions spitting venom -
how bewildered to be answering
the door when a delivery man
has just dropped a package
and you've also... just been cutting
onions...
   a tear that has to transcend
both grief, happiness and pangs of
beauty -
the garlic?
     the feel of fingers after having
fingered and slobbered and
come glutton on the equivalent
of **** and a devil's dozen
of oysters -
                a recipe for pickled
cucumbers: that they were cucumbers
that would become gherkins...
yes... thinly sliced 4kg of cucumbers
to 1kg of sugar... this and that:
some curry powder...
left in 2tbsp of salt to gush with brine...
and then... the pasteurißation
process - fudge packed into jars...
the lids not fully twisted on...
some breathing room -
"baked" in an oven at 120 degrees
for less than an hour...
taken out... the lids firmly ******* on...
then the jars flipped upside down
to stand...
for safe-keeping...
to boil the impurities away...
boil giddy broth and all that scratching
youth of cucumber away
for a smoothness accustomed
to marble...
funny that... the onion - how it is
the only vegetable to have some variation
of a venom and is still
the only metaphor of a snake -
the tears i shed over these Baßil plucks...
   in english: ß is an interchange:
once a sharpened S...
i know of sharpening eSSeS...
cute acute is the final form:
           ślizg (off ślizgać: to slide -
i.e. one has the slang attache -
a bit like: having the groove)...
you can almost hear it: at the end of
each hush: it's never a hush:
it's a huś of a librarian...
        a howl of it might i add...      
- crude caron is the: not yet blunt...
meat-eater.... teeth indentations... grooves...
          shackles...
the crown: šaro-
             followed by two halves
of a crown -ść               i.e. greyness -
which is still not borrowing from
the ingenuity of the russians:
szczera (too many consonants my ***...
too many vowels you roman dogs!)
   SH-CH -
                       Š + Č = Ш + Ч = Щ
        we could have the "ingenuity" process
of this evolution of... an "apostrophe"
from the depths...
   but... catherine the great was
a german lass... and even though: Ц
sits proud and could have been...
                    it wasn't... since...

Ц ≠ CH(eap)
         or CZ(art)
           or ČaXa...
      it could have: what was it...
a mirror inquisition of mu to begin with?
give me 100 years and a book burning
and i could "correct" this burden...
so it ******* fits...
i'd even call in the mongols to implement
this change...

the germans already say: цentrum
and write zentrum - herr tseit!
                                 herr schtick-a-lot: цar...
щerość  - truthfulness...
                                         / ščerość:
two coronas halved -
or... sharpened...
                     and to think... this little adventure
has me dancing above a latin script!
and... deviating from some ur-greek...

we could do this minor change:
"pan-slavic" borrowings from
the 19the century in the balkans
under the ottomans -
           this hypered breathing tool
to extract the yet Siberia - Hades bride
a near pristine ****** -
in this cosmopolitan confused multi-
of an english...
i am here to express and drag back
into the "darkness" of the east
memento...

  that the greek had names for
some of their letters: omicron, omega,
alpha, beta, gamma...
but that the latins had:
vowel-and-consonant: syllables
instead of proper names...
delta - a sensation for a prefix letter...
and a suffix name scoop...

cut my ***** off and feed me
operatic candy...
when you open a bag of
    chimichurri chimichurri:
chim chim churri...
no... when you open a bag
of been-sprouts after
the best-before-date...
    you know the perfume if you have
ever... fermented grapes:
it's that in-between scent
of fermentation -
it's quiet off-putting...
but it's passable...
              but english is both
the currency of the present...
the language of empire
the lingua franca: although:
the crescent moon in the shackles
of the sheikhs:
who moved these youths into
europe if not the project harem...
and fatso old cat laze'ohs of
the woman's drudge:
a heaving tide of custard flesh...
boiling with lazy bop-bop of
bubbles...
                    we can discuss it in
english: never mind the natives...
we came, we saw...
some of us didn't bothered feeling
at home...
although: we once hoped to be...
never... *******... mind!

i'm here for two "letters"... well...
sounds... in the russian text...
great orthographer that i am:
the english can have their metaphysical
this certain debate that...
that uncertain debate this...
it's not like the english will ever
employ diacritical markers...
a recurrent theme: a stressor on my mind...
it will never be allowed
a pop fission - it will not claim
an epidemic status -
mind you:
the priests the psychiatrists and the
prostitutes... minor of the 3:
the four horseman... the "poet":
the poo-etcetera...
  try try, try bring fail...
"ignore, ignore": "happiness"
will find its trail...

                 but once! in a time of...
poesy and cerebral palsy!
sound: ping pongs of echoes pf
dying elephants or whales...
            the stomach of the disgruntled
indigestion that's the best assumed
presence of: sea...
            
it's become certain:
in youth to write while listening to music...
tone deaf i: too could reach
a tornado of words... that...
let's be frank: i never recite what i write...
i write best from what's
yet to be seen... i uncover what's hidden...
i don't pretend to measure sounds...
if my voice had the same sensation
to encompass blowing into a saxophone...
no... a horn...
this monotone gravity of breve -
this great aeon bespoke sloth of
an otherwise riddling tongue turned
into an ancient worming from:
from a time when man did not pass
onto his futures -
a memory of some ancient - fabled oned -
a once that turned out to be:
full of replicas! i.e. archetypical
wounds... that forever bleed...

best this written in a silence that
wakes up with an imitation wind...
two letters... russian... beside ur-greek
to me... exported to as far east
as Kamchatka.... which is practically
north of Tokyo -

it's a contested scenario... this...
Цц vs. Чч -
if it was handwritten for the envisioning
of... the:        Ш + Ц = Щ
i'm sold... aren't you sold?
  ah... envious of handwriting fluidity -
now: digit plucking - each letter a solipsistic
"counterstrike"...
     yes... looks like we have ourselves...
the... *****...
             clearly...   zee... ШИЦ!

inversion of mooment - the crows are
near tonight: they are quarreling with the gods...
or perhaps that's just the ***** foxes
teasing leather -
   that i write and there's no music
to distract me: elevate this already
impossible...

i go to sleep with alarm bells ringing...
robert duncan's realisation that he was a poet
aged 17... upon leaving high-school
i did stand before the entire cohort
of my contemporaries and recited a poem:
over which i cried two days prior...
an epileptic seizure gripped
my body from neck down...
but i did manage a recitation...
    i was supposed to become a chemist
now i'm looking for a part-time occupation
in the n.h.s. as having:
good organisational skills and...
a sense of humour...
or some BICS: for... part time gigs at
the ol' B... B... C...
i don't mind i just want something
to execute an elevated trance of
robotics to let my mind wander...
outside the confines of robo-brutus-robos:
anti-caesar: oh look! "us"!

two "inconveniences" of the 20th century
motivate me...
the despots and the shan franshishko poets...
there's that famous gozilla
of a tornado... there's that...
Bulgakov centre piece of a collection
of... best kept hush-hush among
the moth community...

   that language toys with me that
i don't want to have a competence with it
concerning that i don't have a narrrative
that i'm all tickety-fuckety
when it comes to clocks and eternal silences...
a clock on earth... vacuum...
a boiling kettle on pluto...
given only these two ***** for juggling...
it's... kinda boring... isn't it?
how is one expected to juggle
only two *****?
two oranges... better image... get go image!
i juggle time... i juggle space...
both so impossibly impersonal:
i'd loot a grave for an epitaph that
might make an irish joke down
a pub about them...

       and they kept 'em "*******" in the sports
and kept 'em prized athletes... coz cousing
'arab?
well... they knew those hebs
were expendable from the ghetto-go
prior to the gassing stipends...
it's not these whites keep:
samson strength of david-esque
ingenuity...
it's not like the hebs matter in the world
of sporting events...
gift of the gab... i guess that's what
prizes them above all else...
gifts of "superstition"...
to me? there is enough phonetic evidence
to summon me to showcase
that... the tetragrammaton is...
a spider in a web of english:
surd H(atches)...

        a breath of a dying man
about to... pOUNCE!
but the jews were never cotton pickers...
they were never athletes -
if they ever built the pyramids...
i wonder...
it's not like... they... possibly...
hebrews are intellectual creatures:
they are not... about to be caricatured
with fully functioning limbs
readied for the ******* colliseum...
unless they might me...
nero's torches...
and the greek conspiracy -
after all...
           wouldn't the greeks have
conspired....
to topple rome...
in order to therefore...
retain a dominance of power:
byzantine: years after the western
"concept" crumbled?

you don't keeps jews to have
the masses entertained:
you keep the ******* to falsetto
the ******* roll-a-bit sort of gimmick...
run around... kick a coconut...
come back with a lion's golden mane...
jason and the argonauts...
casimir and the ******* cosmotaunts:

*** note on biGGer?
better: sniGGer!
i count less in niGerian -
the offensive sound - less by scent
of "things": a heb is not a jew is  yew:
from a ***...
you can't leave these tracers or:
otherwise we: shun the *****!
that's great: i too spell a sound without
a necessity to connote malice...
but of course: borrowed lithuanian
that i am: under the hellish
anglo-saxon brute manifesto...
all is glacier and glycerine and
toughening of Karen east of any
that's east... the mouthful of
the Danube...

       to "bleep" out a sound to
mishandle the necessity of meaning:
if the blacks can own a ******
why can't i... not own a ******
in his stead of... to tattoo myself
all aryan:
the jew that never made it to
the coliseum as a gladiator -
this burning ***** hair floss of
st. peter's crux...

  we are still in favour of african
mind: less productive:
readily this body made...
there's now clue as to why
a thought concerning:
Proteus - Herr Frankenstein's monster:
Einzstein: Zuerst- also a -stein / - shtein...
zweite-christus-und-stein!

it's unlike a must it's not this
competition with: social inclusive standards:
of what?
the saxon: project that -
one year excluded the irish...
other year: made great fictions
surrounding Libya...
i have before me a history:
that in part i cannot inherit...
i have these... fickle restrictions:
panderings: walking on egg-shell
moments for...

in my own wery brittle: sam's son:
didn't herr voltzwitz stress:
son of sam-
         em... -uel
                 or... -son?
                          jacob my dear fiction...
continue: bring forth
these nuanced goods...

and my two morning synchs...
a cat that wakes me come nearing 5am:
to watch him: entertain myself...
him taking a **** or a ****...
into a tight bundle of imitation
sahara...
or another... to attire her with
creases of the hand...
to pet her... so that she feels
obliged to sleep in my bed...

there i was concerning myself:
does my beard reveal the cubism
of a violin?!
i still have two russian letters on
my mind...
i'll burn them into my forehead
so that i can allow myself to sleep...
but besides?
there's this, courtous conversation
i am to be having - past participle
and future: yes... i mean no...
i will not be having this
african gladiators contra the yiddish
intellectual sludge extension:
no anglo-saxon sensibility will
save me from this: it's own...
hidden lick o' "squander"...

   pandering... for... enough ******
autonomy... to clean offices...
and find the joy of a mind's escapism...
pandering to who beside
the ******* tended to orators
and giggling politicians?

this is enough of a night's vanquish...
to have: as i have: have tamed.

p.s. there's no proof in you "not being" racist
by having ****** a black girl...
i just wonder: could it have been enough
when the trans-racial incorporation
sequence to create the copper-skin
pseudo-arabs begun...
when it was still a taboo...
   not now... i don't know vot "vey"
vont.... or'zzz dunst noot vont...
lebanon?

             i can see myself, though...
******* some copper-skin imitation
h'arab as far tainted as:
lemon-squinting: there's no sunrise:
come the blessings of beijing...
yeah... i too would like to marinade...
or at least have that prawn flesh
tenderness:
to be able to cook in enough
critic acid... without the use
of over boiling water...
it's called tenderising or:
some other magic word...

            *** notes: yes yes...
thoroughly throughout...
fishing for russian nazis...
            ah ha ha...         deaf-tone... joke.

Thus yours truly resigns himself
June first two thousand and twenty three
to imagine being gifted with untold riches
courtesy  female named Jean E.

This ***** (caricatured familiarly
epitomized, demonized, characterized...
countless Chaplinesque productions,
Dickensian tales,
oil paintings from artistic
hands of great masters,
and other anonymous
exquisite craftsman, et cetera)
remembers practically nothing
of nine month stay in utero
birth, childhood nor early adulthood
my amorphous gauzy,
hazy fractal memories
solely comprise fractured,
fragmented and splintered collection
of miserable memories
character wry zing living
hellacious hand to mouth
hard scrapple existence.

Past wispy vestiges of wretchedness
present woebegone existence, which seems
a worse fate than death
overpowering urge to survive
summoning up one
barely audible l'chaim utterance
against depredations rustling
grim reaper found nothing
but defeat daily dismal
grinding away of last shreds
repurposed driven life fending off real
and imagined threats sought salvation
vividly encased within
preserved imagination,
an existence awash
with trappings of southern comfort
provided by Jim Beam.

Yours truly dug deep
with bony introspective strength
in tandem with fantasy notions knocking
around in figurative
heady noggin like cranial carapace
to muster every ounce
of strength escaping
chronic confrontation
endless streak of bleakness
cursed with brutish, nasty
nefarious fate as a measly

looking human varmint,
this grimy, grungy, rangy,
et cetera looking besotted being
clung with all might
within mine five foot ten inch
and one hundred
and fifty plus pound body
to transcend twerking terrestrial travesty
tweeting and tweaking
fickle finger of fate against favor.

I tapped atavistic survival skills
summoning willpower
to stay alive drinking butter bear
heavy cross of dirt poor poverty
borne no matter
a hard-core skeptic at heart,
this cynic plaintively
called divine intervention
to help this human piece
of flotsam and jetsam

to cope living like a doleful
junkyard dog essentially
abandoned, ignored, cancelled
and shunned vagrant
frequently raged against
Deus ex machina manacled movement
found figurative amidst
literal unlovely bones
slim pickens with demons
that tormented psyche

while traipsing along litter strewn
condemned boulevard of broken dreams,
torn and well-worn shoe
kicked discarded items
weather beaten hands reflexively bent
to retrieve accouterments
comprising colorful jagged shard,
previously housed cheap fermented liquor
nothing but crud filled
remnant of dog gone
boozehounds’ favorite drink.

Although never drawn
to drown sorrows
by turning to the bottle,
cigarettes nor drugs
(a respect for thyself existed),
an automatic reflex caught
eye-catching attention
comprising anonymous drunkard’s signature
lost memento and wireless device entity
constituted a dullish metallic object,
which turned out to be a heavily damaged
slender MOTORAZR (long obsolete) phone.

Out of foolish embarrassment
qua natural instinct,
i raddled then rubbed
remnant once containing
amber liquid of the gods’
irrational explanation in mockery
against cosmic consciousness, my mouth
jabber walk key talky like
into mobile phone these chapped,
course and cracked fingers
slid across unbroken surface
of antiquated bottle in tandem
with parched lips uttering
cockamamie pretend plea, a crackle, snap
and pop delivered a lifelike being whose
corporeal essence resembled a goddess.

The mp3 player issued magically
syncopated beats indicative per favorite
saved playlist tunes former owner
of electronic contraption
without a shadow of doubt,
this vision and auditory music definitely
brought sobered Punch
to this Judy schuss schlepper.

I clapped these nearly deaf ears, thence
rubbed mine-gnarled hands
across myopic eyes.

These twin ****** motions
executed just to dismiss
stray chance of experiencing hallucination
a maiden suddenly appeared
in plain view,
which disbelief found me
pretending to conduct
make believe conversation
via encrusted cell phone
while speaking a matter of fact tone of voice.

She (in a hypnotic, lilting,
melodic and sing song tone)
responded with casual chit chat
genie hill (Alladin like)
everyday, general friendly conversation
eventually ensued fraught
with apprehension and self
consciousness) before purpose
of her presence
became clear, an intuitive
understanding took place
akin to acute telepathic Sikh sixth sense.

Immediate difficulty arose
to think of one wish
to abet grievous humiliation
and immersion in miserable
penury, which might be abrogated
once and for all
with immediacy by simple syllabic voicing
for a pile of crisply minted money, yet
rather than blurt out immediate offering
for untold material commodities
and resplendent riches,
i surprised myself and
communicated a desire
for female friendship.

A gamesome, genteel, gentle gal who would
surrender herself for cries
and whispers seemed
more important than any pile of wealth aware
cha self-actualization about
my utter decrepitude
appeared as immediate
deterrent toward attaining
a bona fide sincere relationship, an ordinary
and reasonable ambition appeared as lofty goal.

Self absorbed in rambling
longing of body, mind
and heart, I quickly became oblivious
to imaged or real corporeal presence
who spurred outpouring
tears of joy per this
ostracized and unwanted vermin eyes
while loosening the tongue in an effort
to picture the escape
from pernicious malady
crushing breathing room
of abominable existence.

Lips shut tight also
prevented the woebegone loss
what appeared as some
divine trickster who conjured
such a muse out of thin air
upon winding down
this unrehearsed recitation,
a painstaking effort
got made to open the eyelids very slowly.

Lo and behold, when manifestation
in actual dolled up guise
of a gorgeous gal stood still as a statue,
and remained rapt
with attention provenance
and provenance found pleasure
in my prattle, and promise
got uttered by lovely lass
to remain a permanent
die-hard companion
no matter many considered
this paperback writer wannabe
nothing but wretched
pestilence of the earth.

This groveling gremlin
of a human felt like a beast alongside
one beautiful babe, who came across
as genuinely modest and passionate
to promulgate profound sharing of body,
mind and spirit triage, where homelessness
and pennilessness mattered not a whit
to this literally spellbinding goddess,
who seemed to materialize out the heavens
in the likeness sans Betsy Ross.

The question how
and where did this muse
render herself to appear
out of thin air puzzled,
and quizzed curiosity
assessed and gleaned no matter
not one word uttered,
thus necessity for conversation
seemed superfluous for we both
seemed able to converse
by autosuggestion of this,
that or the other query.

I (by the way) seemed
to be more intrigued
in this angelic spirit
come to life viz comedy of errors
that punctuated anonymous
life with angst king lear
riddled tragedy suddenly took
a most pleasant unexpectedly
found that all’s well
that ends well with this leery king
from southeastern Pennsylvania
possesses great expectations
by dickens no matter the field
of whet dreams populated
with slim (shady) T. Boone Pickens.

Equals twenty one thirty 22:30 military time
future time traveler looks back one century ago,
oceanic waterways overladen with green slime,
yours truly attempted crafting id est feeble rhyme
far from madding crowd, nevertheless yet lovely
bones and flesh quite spry, still considered prime
(moost procreative, prodigious, and progressive)

stage, since (case ye didn't know) approximately
eight score orbitz round Earth's sun still noontime
chronologically analogous to protracted lunchtime
whereat the average offspring jetson or (daughter)
can be sweet as apple pie or sour as lemon or lime
cell metabolism catalytic converter courtesy enzyme
routine medical procedure costs about one dime.

Me - born fifty nine years into twentieth century alive
eight score and three years secret condiment iz chive
and well (still hashtagged as precocious) with drive
to safely, sidestep, and surmount establishmentarian
archaic, formulaic, and mosaic Judaic/Christian hive
found synchronicity within Unitarian Church more so
parents introduced dogmatic, ethic, fundamentalistic
jargonistic, kinetic, linguistic, pluralistic, quixotic I've
discovered compatibility with non religious teaching

wry master of words (me) take poetic license to jive
reasonably rhyming nope heart tickle early misthrive
moost definitely ***** deeds done dirt cheap (trick)
super tramping space cowboy lobbing power-drive
re: frequently innocent prelapsarian double entendre
(Jean Jacques Rousseau) Noble Savage he doth strive
even though hanky panky tinged entire his/her story,
**** sapiens animal husbandry hastily did wive.

Formalities encompass chalice lighting ma yoyo
wing liberal Democratic political bent embraces XO
shorthand for virtual affectionate charisma minister
Reverend Margret O'Neal imparts open greeting
congregation Sunday at ten thirty AM courtesy zoom
bajillion years after proto humans experienced woe
countless figurative early Brady bunched bro doggie
dimples encountered necessity to escape cohabitation
(marital covenant alien), yet quasi marital brouhaha
ofttimes witnessed altercation begetting re: thorough
out baby with bath water phenomena, which literal
cruel fate heavily peppered past (mine) accounting

lamely explaining Pink Floyd momentary status quo
upended accompanied courtesy lapse of reason no
definitive evidence to substantiate claim, yet I know
without shadowed doubt every friggin forebear (***
pining to savor manumission, versus cotton pickin)
back breaking stoop labor think indentured escrow
harking back to days of our lives (mainly bonobo
nasty, short and brutus creatures millenniums ago
unsung simian kindred beings suffering figurative
ruffled horse feathers nsync with bird in hand dodo

which latter species long extinct (as Dutch good eats)
now non sequitur (sea quitter) mine homeboys/girls
comprising Harris eventual clan (of craven lionized
"scapegoats" set genealogical precedent, and grew
some real winners gentiles, who commingled and
intermarried, and united proudly to kvetch as Jew)
eventually acquiring redeeming qualities conveniently
best caricatured as features exhibited by Mister MaGoo
invariably dear reader "fake" anecdote ye will poo poo
as well how storied and fabled coronavirus (COVID-19)
medical technicians reference quaint pandemic setting

figurative global stage brethren and sistern microbes
made webbed, wide world wish for said good ole days
cuz, communiqué done being crafted about six hours
marine hated, armies of beastie boys slain 2122 yahoo
the darndest, latest microscopic bugaboo nearly slew
entire population, hence envision terra firma with
divine providence absolute zero people as edenic
provenance (metaphorically offering tabula rasa view.

I exhibit health and virility at one hundred and
64 years astride planet earth, whereby spouse,
(who remained married to yours truly for about
one century – which elapsed in blink of an eye)
long since gave up the ghost, which found me
receptive to possible mission to date women
(strong of body, mind, and spirit with frontier
spirit) young enough to be my granddaughter.  

Circa December 4th, 2123, or 1212 military time,
yours truly attempted crafting id est feeble rhyme
far from madding crowd, nevertheless yet lovely
bones and flesh quite spry, still considered prime
(moost procreative, prodigious, and progressive)
stage, since (case ye didn't know) approximately
eight score orbitz round Earth's sun still noontime
chronologically analogous to protracted lunchtime
whereat the average offspring jetson or (daughter)

Born twenty three years into twenty second century alive
and well (still hashtagged as precocious) with drive
to safely, sidestep, and surmount establishmentarian
archaic, formulaic, and mosaic Judaic/Christian give
wry master of words (me) take poetic license to jive
reasonably rhyming nope heart tickle early misthrive
moost definitely ***** deeds done dirt cheap (trick)
super tramping space cowboy lobbing power-drive
re: frequently innocent prelapsarian double entendre
(Jean Jacques Rousseau) Noble Savage he doth strive
even though hanky panky tinged entire his/her story,
**** sapiens animal husbandry hastily did wive.

Bajillion years after proto humans experienced woe
countless figurative early Brady bunched bro doggie
dimples encountered necessity to escape cohabitation
(marital covenant alien), yet quasi marital brouhaha
ofttimes witnessed altercation begetting re: thorough
out baby with bath water phenomena, which literal
cruel fate heavily peppered past (mine) accounting
lamely explaining Pink Floyd momentary status quo
upended accompanied courtesy lapse of reason no

definitive evidence to substantiate claim, yet I know
without shadowed doubt every friggin forebear (***
pining to savor manumission, versus cotton pickin)
back breaking stoop labor think indentured escrow
harking back to days of our lives (mainly bonobo
nasty, short and brutus creatures millenniums ago
unsung simian kindred beings suffering figurative
ruffled horse feathers nsync with bird in hand dodo
which latter species long extinct (as Dutch good eats)

now non sequitur (sea quitter) mine homeboys/girls
comprising Harris eventual clan (of craven lionized
"scapegoats" set genealogical precedent, and grew
some real winners gentiles, who commingled and
intermarried, and united proudly to kvetch as Jew)
eventually acquiring redeeming qualities conveniently
best caricatured as features exhibited by Mister MaGoo
invariably dear reader "fake" anecdote ye will poo poo
as well how storied and fabled coronavirus (COVID-19)

medical technicians reference quaint pandemic setting
figurative global stage brethren and sistern microbes
made webbed, wide world wish for said good ole days
cuz, communique done being crafted about six hours
marine hated, armies of beastie boys slain 2123 yahoo
the darndest, latest microscopic bugaboo nearly slew
entire population, hence envision terra firma with
divine providence absolute zero people as edenic
provenance (metaphorically offering tabula rasa view.

The following poem tweaked
courtesy original author who crafted
literary endeavor some couple years ago.

Now circa August 20th, 2122,
or 1930 military time,
yours truly attempted
drafting id est feeble rhyme
far from madding crowd,
nevertheless yet lovely
bones and flesh quite spry,
still considered prime
moost procreative, prodigious,
professorial and progressive

stage coach, since he capitalized
palsied belles-lettres
(case ye didn't know) approximately
eight score plus orbitz round
Earth's sun still noontime
chronologically - analogous
to protracted lunchtime,
whereat in summer re:
an average offspring royal
jetson or judicious daughter

born twenty two years
into twenty second century alive
and well (still hashtagged
as precocious) with drive
to safely, sidestep,
and surmount establishmentarian
archaic, formulaic, and
mosaic Judaic/Christian give
wry master of words (me)
take poetic license to jive
reasonably rhyming nope
heart tickle early bird misthrive

moost definitely ***** deeds
done dirt cheap (trick)
super tramping space
cowboy hobbing lobbying power-drive
re: frequently innocent
prelapsarian double entendre
(Jean Jacques Rousseau)
Noble Savage he doth strive
even though hanky panky
tinged entire his/her story,
**** sapiens animal husbandry
hastily did (oh Henry) wive.

Bajillion years after
proto humans experienced woe
countless figurative early
Brady bunched bro doggie
dimples encountered necessity
to escape cohabitation
(marital covenant alien),
yet quasi unbridled brouhaha
ofttimes witnessed altercation
begetting re: thorough

out baby with
bath water phenomena, which literal
cruel fate heavily peppered past (mine,
piper who got quite petered out) accounting
lamely explaining Pink Floyd
momentary status quo
upended accompanied courtesy
lapse of reason no

definitive evidence to substantiate claim,
yet I know
without darkly shadowed doubt
every friggin forebear ***
pining to savor manumission,
versus cotton pickin
back breaking stoop labor
think indentured escrow
harking back as webbed wide world turns
to days of our lives mainly bonobo

nasty, short and brute
**** creatures millenniums ago
unsung bipedal simian
kindred beings suffering figurative
ruffled horse feathers nsync
with bird in hand dodo
which latter species
long extinct (as Dutch good eats)

now non sequitur (sea quitter)
mine homeboys/girls
comprising Harris eventual
clan of craven lionized
"scapegoats" set genealogical precedent,
and (fantastically grew
like nose of Pinocchio,
some real winners gentiles,
who commingled and
intermarried, and united proudly
to kvetch as Jew

eventually acquiring
redeeming qualities conveniently
best caricatured as features
exhibited by Mister MaGoo
invariably dear reader
"fake" anecdote ye will poo poo
as well how storied and fabled
coronavirus (COVID-19)

medical technicians reference
quaint pandemic setting
figurative global stage
brethren and cistern microbes
made webbed, wide world
wish for said good ole days
cuz, communique done
being crafted about six hours

marine hated, armies
of Linkin Park - foo fighting
beastie boys slayed 2122 yahoos,
the darndest, hastiest, latest,
paunchiest piloted
microscopic bugaboo nearly slew
entire population, hence
envision terra firma with
divine providence
absolute zero people as edenic
provenance metaphorically
offering tabula rasa view.

No don (except me)
doth trumpet within the aborted
barren reach of freedoms within expansive realm,
I annexed courtesy manifest destiny,
which peoples now inhabiting said jurisdiction
circumscribed by following coordinates -
Latitude: 40° 16' 22.20" N
Longitude: -75° 29' 29.39" W
and for better or worse

must abide by decrees
promulgation declared today May 21st, 2024,
whence Poet of Perkiomen Valley
issues proclamation,
regarding any living person
paying blind obedience
lest posse comitatus act enforced
otherwise Herr Harris
will bring to fore active duty personnel

to "execute the laws";
however, there be disagreement
over whether this language
may apply to troops used
in an advisory, support, disaster response,
or other homeland defense role,
as opposed to domestic law enforcement
to challenge aforesaid claims
which forthwith ownership of said territory

foremost allows, enables and provides
yours truly to enact legislation,
and especially restitution of comstock act
predicated upon due diligence
guaranteeing appropriation
of all and every rights affecting
master and slave
linkedin with said domain.

Welcome to the dictatorship
(er rather presidency)
of Putin diehard adherent.

Matter of fact, a favorite author of mine
crafted the following words of inspiration,
which evocation will help shed figurative light
on caricatures of terror reign as forty fifth president
targeted by political cartoonists,
but struggled to come up with an image that sticks.

In october 2016, Vanity Fair
made a video of four of its cartoonists—
Edward Sorel, Steve Brodner,
Philip Burke, and Robert Risko—
drawing Donald Trump.

They clearly enjoyed themselves,
exploring every aspect of his physique:
 his “girth,” the fact that
“there’s so much of him” (Burke);
the hair that “essentially closely a beret
flipped forward on his head” (Risko);
the eyes that show “greed, disdain” (Burke);
the “marvelously rat like” nose (Brodner);
the mouth a “sphincter muscle” (Risko);
the “******” look (Sorel);
the ****** features that resemble
“**** holes in the snow” (Brodner).

And now? How have artists and cartoonists
dealt with Trump since he became president?
We’ve seen cartoons of the orange
potus smooching Vladimir Putin
and groping the Statue of Liberty.
We’ve seen him drawn (by Barry Blitt
in The New Yorker) as a fat-assed golfer
driving ***** into the White House.
We’ve seen him caricatured (by Pat Oliphant

for The Nib) as a preening SS officer
being heiled by Steve Bannon.
We’ve seen him portrayed
(by Signe Wilkinson of the Philadelphia
Daily News) linking arms
with a Confederate and a ****.
We’ve seen him depicted
(by Mike Luckovich
of The Atlanta Journal-Constitution)

as Jabba the Hutt, holding Lady Liberty in chains.
We’ve seen him represented (by Matt Wuerker
in Politico) as a kook in a straitjacket.
We’ve seen him rendered
(by Ann Telnaes of The Washington Post)
as a red-faced fathead sitting
on the toilet while he plots
to pull out of the Paris climate accord.

Putin (also fell prey
to his fair share of cartoonists)
not only as Vlad the Impaler reincarnate
(a notion in mind of at least one writer),
but also various and sundry other manifestations.

The self styled ruthless ****
classified as a voivode
(prince) of Wallachia
(part of modern Romania).

Surrounded by enemies
that included the Hungarians,
the Ottomans, his younger brother,
and Walachian nobility,
Vlad employed extremely
cruel gruesome measures
to inspire fear in those
who opposed him.

He earned his nickname
by impaling his enemies on stakes.

No argument Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin
equals and invariably
will outrank Vlad the Impaler
the second son of Vlad Dracul
who became ruler of Wallachia in 1436.

Impossible mission to comprehend
propensity exhibiting characteristics
linkedin as impish, hellish, ghoulish... fiend
whereby pathological pretensions
besotted (punch drunk with delight)
to incinerate, eradicate, annihilate,
essentially to deplorably,
heinously, loathingly... interblend
all manner of atrocious, deleterious,
insidious, opprobrious, vicious... lend
ding his own vainglorious
trademark to offend
**** sapiens who strive toward
repairing ruptures versus to rend
usurpation of life, liberty
and continuity of civilization to upend.

Worst nightmare scenario
unfolding before our collective eyes
Ukraine suffers blitzkrieg
Russian soldiers devastatingly
carpet bomb major metropolitan areas
civilian population suffers
major loss of innocent lives
linkedin with accompanied
psychological fallout, especially affecting
babies, children and youth.

All commands issued by autocratic monster
probably housed within secure bunker,
meanwhile countless thousands
or millions of battle fatigued people hunker
among ruins gingerly negotiating
their way thru rubble analogous to spelunker.

Though yours truly removed (think physically),
where chaos and pandemonium
run amuck and terror unruly,
overt rampant upheaval plagues
long established generations of Slavic peoples,
this commonplace American
experiences vicarious grief,
when tragedy viewed online
and/or television heart wrenching images
also evoke anger being
linkedin to most abominable, horrible,
reprehensible, creatures
that roamed the terrestrial firm
since time immemorial.

Major war crimes against humanity
necessitate urgent punishment,
if in fact such a global entity exists
to condemn and convict the incontestable tyrant,
yet never in the annals of twenty first century
geopolitical webbed zeitgeist
did self anointed sovereign
access nuclear weapons
to obliterate fellow Earthlings.

On the surface it seems that I don't take too much personal but my energy beneath is personified as a mad man. Does the mind play tricks or do I get in that man's way because I always have a logical explanation referring to human nature as to why it's not that man's day, I can't cry a river for him cause then my fluidity goes dry. Reserve brain fluid and chemicals for better chemistry, reacting only to a man that could never be taken out of his element, cause then the math is simple and I find no problem to second guess anything, although the feeling is growing inside that I've become caricatured on the surface. Who have I become?