I was hungry enough to eat the **** end of a skunk.  I felt like gobbling the whole mound of concrete that is half an hour closer from becoming a part of my room.  Make that a quarter. I guess my tummy has had enough grumbling, like a seething network of volcanoes ready to devour Hawaii.  I am sure as exhausted as a zombie after a “battle of life and death” handling a plethora of carpentry tools which I have managed to rummage from our dismal basement.  I’m quite serious with the phrase “battle of life and death”.  I get to have this Obsessive Compulsive Syndrome which gulps a huge amount of my rhythm compelling me to put things in place especially in my chamber.  At times, a weltered pen could instigate an emotional havoc.  Or perhaps an inappropriate collaboration of curtain hues and mattresses would be ample to spin the color wheel concept out of my brain.  But now, my walls have done it.  Well, it was just a microscopic sight of a divine crevice, but how in the world could that escape my eyes?  Without a second thought, I approved an avid proposal from my subconscious – a full concrete room renovation.  And that’s how it brings me here, smothering the last square inch of the genius blueprint with this porridge of lime and clay, the hell with chemistry!  I have found out that my room has achieved the piquancy of a sizzling summer noon, thanks to the mist of dust and the precipitating drops of sweat that come tingling down my overheating body.  Ah! At least my system tells me that I’m not a promising patient of ****** dysfunction.  When the last patch has been perfectly planed in place, I drew my last ounce of pure strength and plunged into my most formidable bed, congratulating myself for a job well done. Alas! A thirty-minute nap and I’m ready for a superb coffee and doughnut delight.

I woke up from a cat’s screech. I peeped through the window. The nap breaker was a Cheshire, one with a dimmer fur, the stripes of gray suppressing the darker color.  Its tail enjoyed dancing around its rear, connoting either fear or excitement. It sure has a distinctive mischievous grin.  The feline was on the verge of climbing up the roof by jumping from a gutter about five feet away.  It seemed to have slipped but has managed to bring its **** next to the roof tiles. It stared at me with intent, giving me the macabre look from its glaring eyes.  It’s as if I’m being watched, stalked and examined in a way I couldn’t see, bringing me that feeling of guilt, of remorse.  Urgh! That’s why I hate cats.  Though I’m planning to keep one, I’ll reconsider it.  But what pains me more is to discover that my alarm was not able to do the job and so I slept three hours more than planned.  I looked down and saw the city lights flashing one by one, the beams glowing like a barrier of radiance diffusing into the gloom of the night. I guess this was the price I have to pay. I traded my snack with a peaceful hibernation, turning the coffee into a glass of iced tea and the doughnut into a great dinner with me, myself and I.

I have learned to cook since I was ten.  My mother believed that culinary prowess could be inherited from generation to generation.  And so, she put her trust on me and I haven’t failed her ever since.  This gourmet brilliance proves to be very useful at times of solitude when you got bored of ordering other’s recipes and decided to make your own buffet.  I remembered her telling me that all food would taste good if there is the chef’s heart flavored in it.  Cooking is an art, combining the loops and the whoops of seasonings and spices to the medley of meat and herbs.  Tonight, I decided that my dinner would equal breakfast, satisfying the grudge that I got from skipping my  diabetic snack attack.  A beef stew and a side of paella made my stomach die in joy, appeased at last that my gears are energized for my routinely nocturnal bookworming activity.

I normally hide under my sheets at nine but tonight, I shall break the rules. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll fix the rules next time. Just this time to spare for I have gained interest on this book entitled “100 Years of Solitude”, talking about how one could live happily even alone, just by creating the world you have ever dreamed of. Gabriel García Márquez is dumping the “no man is an island” concept which anyway sounds inspiring to me.  Finally, I jumped into bed thanking Him for letting me outrun another day living alone in a comfortable apartment, free from all sorts of vexation.  I wished for a better life at school, which gives me an imagery of dull monochromatic memories.  I am not that famous but I can be someday.

A heavy beam of sunlight pierced through my window, refracting on the ***** white floor and creeping up to the mahogany table just right at the corner.  It intercepted with the glass pyramid and created a beautiful prism that glittered all around my room.  It was a really majestic scenery, one that I luckily happen to see every morning, a good optic background, I guess. Two hours before class time – that’s where my pattern starts.  Take a bath, eat, brush teeth, groom, check the doors and power, then I’m off to go. Everybody follows a certain kind of pattern, that’s for sure. Whether you wear different types of clothes everyday or use competing brands of toothpaste, clothes are clothes and toothpastes are toothpastes.  As humanity finds more and more complexities in life, they become wired to doing the things and involving the events which they think would give happiness to them and simplify their equation of life.

As a proof, there’s Mrs. Lanny Honeycut from the house next door. She usually sprinkles her daisies every ten in the morning, wearing that friendly neighborhood smile. On their patio, you could never miss a day seeing her husband, Mr. Blake Honeycut reading the daily papers with a round of tea, jam and bread spread on his table.  On the busy intersection stands traffic enforcer, Red Mayer, waving his arms to and fro while wearing that aura of valor, never seem to get tired of doing the same thing over and over again. Thousands go out for work and go back to sleep everyday and that's the status quo we're talking about. Even inside the academic arena, you can still hold on to that thought; I mean the size of the population doing the same pattern at the same time – my schoolmates, enemies and… friends? Well, I’m not quite sure with the last one, but it’s this: they all make a fun of me.  They say I’m a dork, a nerd, a geek, a freak, and etc.  I wonder if they mean everything that they say or say everything that they mean.  Either way you put it, I’m not buying it. I am not what they say I am.  I just like being alone and that’s where I do best.

And as always, the school is crowded with busy people rushing through the corridors. Others are beating the deadlines while some are happy they could breathe for another break. But no matter how busy everybody could be, there is always a time spent for “information dissemination” or chitchats. But only this time, the topic discussed is the same.  I could hear it on the entire campus, everywhere in the perimeter. Another student in the university is missing leaving no trace of existence.  It’s been going on like this for over two months now and the university council has taken their best courses of action to unknot this mystery while campaigns have been running on TV’s and vigils were spent. Not that I don’t care but it seems that this is also happening to other places, I mean, this is not the only school where maniacs could exist and become professional serial rapists in the making. By the way, this is already the 12th case on the record. Weren’t people overreacting to the issue? Isn’t the case overrated? Did they reject the possibility that these people ran away because they got pregnant, messed up or something like that? Soon, the university area was covered with security troops roaming around like a swarm of bees, buzzing and sometimes boozing all the time.

I guess that’s what happens when you hang out too much with friends who are just jesters plotting your own jeopardy. I don’t think it would be good at all to be bothered with things like that because sometimes, it’s also useful not to have any use at all.  Like the king being admired by his kingdom amidst his sloth and compromises.  But that doesn’t mean I’m not friendly anymore. Actually, if it happens that I got company, I would magnanimously offer a treat at my place.  But the thing is, who would likely do that? I’d cross my fingers on it.

Wishes do come true even for a loner like me.  I think I have a fan. No, that would be too sublime. She’s hot and she’s hotter when you’ll know she’s so cool. Quite a paradox, but that’s just reality.  We came to know each other on our lab class. Her name’s Athena, fitting for her twisted logic and good humor. It makes me burn a lot of calories when I talk to her more than a 5-mile marathon could squirt. We were lab partners and we get along well. I just couldn’t figure out where she got the courage to befriend me. I do regard myself as unwelcoming species, but I might work on it when someone tries to knock the door. We juxtapose ideas. Yes, that’s what makes our conversations spin like a merry-go-round. But we enjoy it nevertheless, evident by the crescent smile we both generate out of the craziest topics in store. Once, she interrogated my way of settling wars with enemies. Well, I told her it was my habit of treating them to my house and giving them souvenirs to show how sorry I could be. She snickered and her eyes glowed like the Andromeda and her face shun the whole universe. Oh, I can do this all day long, if only I got hold of time and space.

Today, she asked me if it would be okay if she’ll stay at my place till nine when her dad could be home and she would be able to call her and ask to pick her up. She reasoned out that otherwise, the night would be scary because she’ll be alone in their house, no company, no security. I was puzzled how the thought of being alone could scare her. It is like freedom from any constraints, no ties, and no limits. But I couldn’t blame her. She’s too fragile, too vulnerable to handle it with herself.  With the speed of the light, I accepted the favor.  Well, that goes even without saying.

It was past six thirty when we arrived at my immaculate apartment. It’s great to be an“ OC” sometimes, I said to myself.  I thought of a winner dinner, one that would make her visit worth reminiscing. I preferred Italian.  I cooked her lasagna and drenched the dinner with sherry. We talked a lot until we run out of resorts. I guess she planned it, or I planned it, synergy perhaps.

The clock ticked nine and there’s no sight of her father’s getaway car. But there’s no sign of worry in her countenance either. I surmise it didn’t reach her inkling yet to phone her dad.  She was busy dissecting my kitchen and living room with her very playful eyes. That doesn’t trouble me though. That’s just as instinctive as any other first time guest could get. She grappled her attention on my antique collection of prehistoric movies, like the Scarlet Letter, The count of Monte Cristo and the likes. She happened to love them too. Well, that makes her more beautiful to me, other than the satin white dress she wears. Suddenly, she got the impulse of going to my room. She said there’s nothing more exciting to see than a gentleman’s bedroom. I startled from the request, but before I could say anything, she leaped straight to my chamber with the gestures of an imp. It’s weird to be in this kind of circumstance because I don’t often invite a lot of visitants to my room. I ain’t no hotel crew, bowing down and waving his hand to the chamber’s destination and leading the VIPs to their cabins. Yet this time, it’s the other way around: it’s my cabin.

But now it’s too late to stop her. She molested the **** and I giggled for some reason. Finally, the door opened a crack and a bend of light escaped from inside. She stepped in, and I followed. She was filled with awe not because my room is all made of gold nor did it resemble a royalty’s den. It was the exaggerated neatness and order that greeted her. In some unknown vortex of my deepest imagining, it made me feel like I’ve been through this instance before. The flashback is not so vivid as it appears, but something tells me this isn’t the first time. Deja vu could be working on it, I infer,although I don’t really believe in those forms of conceptualizations. Perhaps it’s the sherry’s spell infiltrating my mental prognosis. But something, I guess, isn’t really right.

I caught her opening a red box that was hidden behind my cabinet. I tried to steal it away from her but she fought back and it came tossing down the floor. Numerous items spilled from the case. A purple head band with the glittering initials ANNE, a ruby embedded bracelet, and a Nokia handy phone exposed the secrecy. This isn’t going to go along well and fine, I guess. A strong surge of desire came from my core. It tried to envelop my entirety and control me like a lifeless puppet. I felt the tip of the pyramid glass in my hand and I succumbed to lose my consciousness.

Morning came and it felt better than ever. It was a ***** Saturday. There she lies beautifully on the deck, like an immortal bud of red rose trapped in golden amber. The cellophane fits her well, and there’s no doubt she’ll be complaining anymore. I already prepared a cozy place for her deep sleep: A 5x2 feet wall engravement which I was busy molding last night. It wasn’t easy making her go to bed but still it ended up smooth and sound. I helped her get up and fitted her in place.I turned on the radio as I reached for my dear carpentry tools. The news was still nailed on it. But this time, the missing case struck for the 13th turn. Ahh, the hell with society! They never really get a way to deal with it.

I was busy patching the last mound of concrete that is half an hour closer from becoming a part of my room. Make that a quarter. I guess there’s no end to this divine crevice issue. It must be following a pattern too. But I can handle it, thanks to this vicarious personality. I wonder if I could get the chance to invite another visitor in my place. But if I do, I would certainly offer the best treatment they could ever have.

All I know beyond
a flicker of a flame of a
doubt is that, for whatever
inexplicable reason, you are
fascinating

and each and every day, every
moment with you brings new
light into the equation

so bring on the days and
build up a lifetime

Sanded down,
handed down
heirlooms
for boardrooms.

Directors prospecting for
antique positions,
commission based,
cyanide laced contracts,
small print that annihilates,
dilating the pupils ,restrictive
and
pencils that scribble out names in
a ledger.

Forever indebted,
a debit individual.
All residual profit
reinvested,
future proofed
heirlooms.

what's given forth may come out true
we lose at first just so we learn
the complex tricks and in our turn

teach each young one to pay their due
expend a little and discern
what's given forth may come out true

each change will mean the world made new
by other hands and thus we yearn
to see the old fires once more burn
what's given forth may come out true

I often remember with a lot of thrill in my spine every time I reflect on the Writings of Miguna Miguna in his book peeling Back the Masks, a certain sub-plot that most of Kenyan students in Canada, America, Britain, Germany or Australia often fail to go through pre-university examinations and then they opt for faculty friendly courses like carpentry and electrical-wire man offered at some polytechnics in this countries. Then these students end up living as informal sector workers in the Diaspora, and hence putting themselves into a cash strapped condition that they don’t easily come back home. This is also the same texture of revelations I have been encountering for the past five months of my regular reading of the literary pages of The Saturday Nation, in which a most of Kenyans write alongside some foreigners, but notably Professor Austin Bukenya as the foreign writer, Bukenya himself being a Ugandan.
The revelations are that the writers who were regularly writing on these pages sometimes ago have gradually waned up, not because of anything but due to their intellectual irrelevance. Mostly caused by a defect of intellectual inferiority. They were the likes of Evans Mwangi; Mwangi was forthrightly coming up with a tribally fine-tuned niche in the name of being Ngugi wa Thiong’o scholar. He had a specialization in writing about Ngugi because Ngugi is his tribesman, they are both Kikuyu’s.He also had substantial writings on Ngugi’s children; Mukoma, Lee, Nducu and Wanjiku wa Ngugi, who are in similar stretch of their father struggling to be established as writers. But all in all, Professor Evans Mwangi has already ended up as an intellectual without consequences.
Another writer in point was one; Dr Tom Odhiambo, who also teaches literature at the University of Nairobi. He had been writing on the same pages but with a strong bent towards Luo Chauvinism and stark Conspiracy against Luhyia veteran literary Critic Professor Chris Wanjala.
The only Kenyan literary activist who has been trying to remain globally vogue in his literary writings on this platform is Dr Godwin Siundu; he often displays Global relevance through his pataphorous approach to literary appreciations and criticism.
But whatsoever the case, professor Bukenya has towered seriously above these Kenyans.Bukenya’s command of English language and literary command has no match on the Kenyan literary market. Bukenya Tackles globalectics of literature as Kenyans struggle with tribalism of their home literature.Ethinicity is the enemy of Kenyan literature and as well an established foe of any other Kenyan professional perspective.
Why Kenyans are threatened with intellectual suffocation when exposed to otherness is because of a few reasons. As cited above ethinicism remains a dominant factor. But also, lack of homogenous public language, absence of ideology in their political history, failure of politics to achieve common nationalism and corruption in the public sector are contributing forces among others.
Your consecutive  look at the literary pages of  the Saturday Nation of the previous three weekends will be an empirical testimony to this position.Bukenya’s stories have surveyed dialectics of English language, aging of African literature , translation and greatness of Uganda orature with a focus on Okot P’ Bitek. And this weekend he has beautifully lime-lighted on Julius Nyerere’s Intellectual tigritude. Nyerere’s as the killer of colonialism but while at the same time he lingered as the staunch lover of Shakespeare.
This is simply a farcical repetition of the previous tragic history, as reflected in the words of Karl Marx in his 18th Brumaire, which made the Ugandan educated Sudanese Poet, Taban Reneket Makititiyong Lo Liyong to look at Kenya’s literary poverty and then take a synechedochal stand to decry that east Africa is a literary desert. He was right, but in a sense he did not mean east Africa per se, he meant Kenya .Kenya at that time had only an English Department at the University of Nairobi. The department was poorly performing in terms of research. It was desperately tethered duplicating of the European classics as its literary overture.
But when the foreign and radical blood came to Kenya, in guest of helping Kenya to overcome the fog in the seasons end from colonial mire to literary and cultural freedom, Native Kenyans were surprisingly never friendly to them at all at all. Some of the intellectuals who had come to Kenya that time were the greats like :Ezekiel Mphalele from south Africa, Okot p’ Bitek from Uganda,Okello Oculii from Uganda,Ayi Kwei Armah from Ghana, Joie De Graft from Ghana, Walter Rodney from Guyana, Austeen Bukenya from Uganda and Taban Lo Liyong from Uganda.
All of these foreigners in Kenya have later on been absolved by time and history  as literary greats.They have proved clear intellectual and literary superlativety  over and above all Kenyans. The point of contrite is that, Kenyans of that era did not give them a chance to share their intellectual resource with the peasants and masses of Kenya. Instead Kenyan bureaucrats began their usual came of intimidation and tribal nagging whenever intellectually outshone.
Austeen Bukenya was condemned into poverty at Machakos girls high school to be an English teacher or a teacher of English without a salary. Liyong and Pitek were perpetually witch-hunted out of University of Nairobi by Ngugi and Wanjala. Rodney and Armah were frustrated until they desperately moved to Tanzania from where they wrote their respective oeuvres. Armah wrote Why are we Blessed, While Rodney wrote the world famous book How Europe Underdeveloped Africa. Mphalele was frustrated to oblivion, only for him to die mysteriously when on a literary tour in West Africa.
But sadly enough, the Kenyans who were seriously illiterate, in the  likes of : Daniel Moi, Jomo Kenyatta, Ezekiel Barengtunny  and many intellectuals so-so’s shamelessly made themselves to be  chancellors of the Universities .They were chancellors who never went beyond class seven of primary schools in their child hood. They then became bovaristic if not atavistic only to begin writing lame books like Nyayo Philosophy, Suffering without Bitterness, Facing Mount Kenya and other literary trash of the same calibre. It is this intellectual sludge that they again turned to impose as compulsory reading materials on sons and daughters of poor Kenyans.
By
Alexander K. Opicho
Eldoret, Kenya.

Today he's so drunk,took a step forward
And two steps back
Drunk something transparent last night
Came to work today with tough luck
Told stories,when he was in puberty
While listening to a song,entitled
Bohemian Rhapsody

Though he was quick,
And full of strength and youthfulness
He is old and tired
And purely ruthless
He hates the songs, that he can sing
He talks about the strength and bronze he had those days,

I think of him as a powerful man,
Someone to look up to as a matured man
But,I can notice his grim and despair
Running through his eyes like ,a quantum flare

I sent him home with all my trust
Hoping to see him tomorrow with all my luck
Hope to work and drink with him while being tough
For he is the one who builds my house
My dungeon,and where I can keep my flock

Once upon a time
and once only
there lived an unsightly man

and though he was very kind and hard-working
no woman got
more than one step closer to him

after a while
seeing he cannot find his soulmate
the man left the village and built himself a cabin
in the woods

all day long
he chopped wood
picked fruit and herbs
occupied himself with carpentry and animal husbandry
and grafted all sorts of trees in spring

from time to time
the villagers came to see him
asking for advice on how to heal their wounds
ordering a door
or a bed
and less often
a coffin

but the man in the woods
though more and more sought-after
was
more and more miserable
as time went by

one day
unable to possess his soul anymore
wove a rope
and went to the oldest oak
to hang himself
but the oak
who had seen so much in its life
but never a man so wretched
broke the branch he was hanging on
then covered him with leaves
so that no one could find him
right next to its trunk

but
underneath the leaves
our man fell asleep at once
and woke up before God
and he said to Him
Lord
You know that ever since I was a child
I have been careful not to tread on ants
or any kind of crawlers
I have not stolen
I have not lied
I have worked all my life
for all that I earned
inspite of these
I am really miserable
that no woman wants me

and the Lord said
I know you very well
there is hardly anyone as kind as you out there
but as much as I love you
I cannot create a woman so unbeautiful
to love you
but
you can

look
from the dried oak branches
you can shape a woman's body
fill it with clay and wrap it in leaves
and I will take care of the rest

so, after he woke up
our hero
worked on his clay creature for three whole days
but fearing she would reject him
he made her even more unattractive than he was

on the third day
he called God
and asked Him to give her life
and the Lord
as promised
blew the breath of life into the woman

seeing this wonder
the man was grateful to the Lord
then woke her up gently
with a kiss on the forehead
she then opened her eyes and asked him:
who are you
and why are you
so hideous that you are scaring me

to which he cried and said
forgive me
I am your servant
The Lord made me like this
to protect you from wild beasts
but I am hard-working and wise
to care for you how I know best

but she closed her eyes
and then he understood
to only care for her
in secret

and as he loved her more and more
her ugliness began to fade
becoming more beautiful with every passing day

soon
a young villager came to ask for remedies for his mother
and not little was his surprise
when he saw the most beautiful woman
he had ever seen
and she saw him, too
and understood what love is
oh, how she whined that night

seeing all this
the man who dreamt too much
told her the following day
look
I know it is time to go our separate ways
I cared for you as well as I could
and I hope you are not dissatisfied with anything
go with that handsome young man
and should you need anything
look for me
if you can bear to look me in the eye
and so she did

years later
while keeping himself busy with a bee garden
the man in the woods felt her presence behind him
but, afraid not to scare her,
he did not turn around
and she cried out:
I eventually learned the whole story
so I came to ask for your forgiveness
and look into your eyes
and the man
who had stopped dreaming for a long time
turned around and was astonished
to see before him
the most unsightly woman in the world
but he did not mind
so, he cared for her
just like that first day
and she regained her beauty and happiness
and perhaps
the man in the woods would have never learnt
why his woman caressed him with so much joy
if one day he did not look in the water of a spring
and see
the most handsome man
there has ever been
out there

her mouth was sandpaper.

her mouth was sandpaper
and she spoke like
a smooth surface,
words scraped into fluidity
like a wooden sphere,
turned over behind teeth ‘til all friction
is lost.
she spoke like the walls of a birdhouse
in the room of a dead carpenter:
pretty unassembled things.

her mouth was sandpaper
and every kiss chafed,
rubbing raw my lips
and tongue
crafting with each touch
drawing blood like
juice from an apple,
like sap
from wood already cut from the tree.

her mouth was sandpaper
and she told me
i bite my lips,
rip at
the inside of my mouth,
cannibalize myself cell
by cell.
bone saws in her mouth.
the only difference between teeth of jaws
and saws
is mercy
(and she swallowed her mercy long ago).

her mouth was sandpaper
and she spoke like a carpenter’s hands:
rough palms,
tough pads,
a utilitarian artist
a crafter of dead flesh.
a mortician for dryads
and kodama.
the art and the artist
in lips
tongue
and teeth.

her mouth was sandpaper
and i brought mine to hers
again and again,
her bitten-rough lips
opening like doors to
purgatory.
less entrapment than addiction -
returning once more to nails and hammers,
hell’s blacksmiths below
heaven’s painters above.
coming back home
to the space between,
to bone saws
and a carpenter’s hands.

her mouth was sandpaper
and her voice was carpentry,
her teeth bone saws
her words
birdhouse walls.
her mouth was purgatory
but her hands
were hands.

her mouth was sandpaper.
i held her hand
and chafed my lips raw.

an atypical journalistic interview sessions only lasts a few minutes: you know, you know, you knows... mostly arranged by eager liars and boxing-ring butchers of the chop & jabbed jobless... or as i like to call it to their faces when they recuperate at rock concerts with their slaughterhouse day-jobs: head-banging meat-heads; you know, one of the lads, yeah man, you know - can i start speaking sing-language from now on? i swear they're speaking sign-language already, i understand them in the boxing ring... outside of the boxing ring... huh?!

the same with modern music, it just loves
Bach or Chopin accents / diacritics / samples...
Salmonella Dub's song *problems,
i don't know why it acquires the said critique,
moby's porcelain...
these are accents of once world know narratives,
the narratives are gone, but the
accents remain... once we had Chopin's piano,
now we have transition pieces
akin to Thomas Newman's 18 from the American
Beauty soundtrack... now the Emperors say:
too few notes... cos it's a real tear-jerking masterpiece...
finally people of all professional categorisation learned
punctuation and the assembling of data,
the point of shelving things... of
not keeping thought for the purpose of simplified
narration, but as a way to escape into idea identifying
post-narrative ensured dynamos...
what remains of classical music, is but
a sense of diacritical marks not applied to language,
what is left as a wasteland...
the modern version of classical music is but an accent
of what classical music used to be: the alphabet,
the narrative, the narrative arrangement...
we're left with accents... the piano is an accent...
something Mozart used to touch...
when Mozart wrote the a b c,
                   Thomas Newman just wrote the acute
                           above the c...
    because classical music is so scarce, so rare
that it requires an elephant and a poacher,
but hardly the egg...
                                       so when Mozart wrote
a b c... modern licks of the piano
                   wrote a jingle... licks...
              modern resurrection of the classical
narrative, when Mozart wrote his bit,
Charlie Harper wrote the acute sign above something
resembling a character named C to make him into
chimney, thus the scalpel ', yes, that's the linguistic
scalpel         '                      , which isn't a comma,
to dissect words...             play me a ******* Irish medley
you ****!                        
                           sophism says: all punctuation marks
              revolve around securing emphasis.
tell that to a twelve year old, and in telling them that:
how to create an ontology to differentiate them from
politicians and establishing them as
                                          eager hands that became
                 the roots of modern China, and the principle:
         family, root, family, root,
                             or your granny with far more to worried
about than you standing over her grave, meaning
she ******* herself in a care home and you were like:
     but my life!
                                  i moved my great-grandmother into
my grandmother's house... they sarcastically called me
a beneficiary at her funeral, you know how family is...
they're always ******* cannibal, they want you to have
three arms so they can chew one of them off
and instigate the lazy option: Satellite Plato TV in
their homes... to lazy to even have a decent thought:
forget thought leading to morality,
let's just keep it French enlightenment: thought
precipitating into existence... which is hardly any sort
of triangular or rhombus square definition of
behavioural patterns of macaques.
for ****'s sake: when Chopin wrote c, modern
music sampled the same piano as the acute sign above
c, i.e. ć, dissection: Moby's Porcelain is Chopin i.e. c,
the two together are ć... which is read
by dissecting the words itch cheese chi chee and
putting them back together like some sort of Frankenstein
in order to just get the acute sense of stressed c...
CTRL... C and P... then it's either just African drumming
as in excess rhythmic when it was once woodwind
sections... so Chopin without Moby's Porcelain would
just be c... with Porcelain we get ć... it's not a representation
of an itch, or a twitch... it's just ticklish, mind you,
the two are inseparable: and the rest i just like
to call ambience, or anything you could never claim to
make an onomatopoeia out of - if only it was
that simple: i'd call the practice of onomatopoeia the
craft of carpentry or stone-masonry -
knock on wood: get a whale's mating call in the deep blue...
******* magic in the desert of pampered journalism...
pampered journalism... i like that, i like it like
the idea of defending Saddam Hussein... pampered
journalism... here's a fake... oh, and another...
here's another fake... mascara drool here... and another
one here... **** me, a miniature golf course of ideas...
hard not to be pruning the delusional idea of
"this is Utopia" by western media's *******
into a handkerchief that's designed into fishnets of *****
than that of tearful sympathies with:
well the animal stories always sum things up, don't they?

"Loads of guys talk to Rhi"
On a day such statements and possible insinuations don't **** me off
they actually entertain me.

What do people think of me?
What do they really see?
Used to be a source of teenage paranoia
Now I'm more intrigued

It's 6 am,
After party at Mag's house!
Everyone's sleepy
Sun's coming up
Smokers coming in and out from the balcony
Sliding doors
Dawn chorus
Sat in the darkest corner
On a wicker chair
Tryin to go unseen
Feelin I look a state
Makeup has started to fade
No longer hiding me
No one in this room
Would know though
About that insecurity
Had me Avoidin mirrors
When out since the age of 15
That's a long time to not be
able to face yourself

But now this young guys facing me
I've sparked an interest you see
Half cut Johny who I shared the car journey
Back with has been spreading the word
That I do carpentry
And he's intrigued
So he's crouched down beside me
Eyes wide open,
Probing me, testing my knowledge
Rollin off his story of going off the rails
And joining the army
But how carpentry gives him some peace
I smile, I listen, I speak
Shake his hand
As he introduces himself as Steve
Asks if he's steppin on anyone's toes
Cause he believes the Dj
That's followed us back
For the after party
Is my boyfriend
Cause we were talkin
And he was stood next to me
I laugh at how fast
Assumptions are made
In the dark
It's kinda funny
He feels awkward now
Says it's nice to meet me
Leaves
Sigh of relief

Why do loads of guys talk to Rhi?
The banter most probably

Hear Dj taking the Micky
(Turns out to be his name ironically)
As he walks back in
Tryin to set up his sound system
Steve says get some Scart leads
We're cracking up
I say something off the cuff, witty
He Spuds me
I'm a "bro" after all right

What do you do?
I dance
But you was stood behind me all night!
Ha! No, just for a bit,
I was watching what you was doin
He starts telling me about beats per minute
I ask him bout the Djing
How I'm interested in doin it
We Banter about how he'd teach me
How I'd be his prodigy
I think he means it

Says we got him in trouble with the club
For changing up his set
Cause we were goin in
We were feelin it
Asks me to guess where he's from
I say You look mixed race
But I bet your Cypriot
Says he's Half Turk, half Greek
That's why things didn't work out
between Mummy and Daddy
Chuckles softly

He's a Barber during the week
Cut Rita Oras hair the other day
Shows me the tweet
He's likable, pretty sweet
Says he's glad I'm there
Cause he doesn't know anyone here
And he'd have no one to talk to
A shy dj
Looks like Drake
Kind of a giveaway
His Nose is running
I say
what have you been sniffing
Grinning teeth
Smiles and shakes his head
How can you say that
To Someone you've just met?!
You're cheeky!
Asks if I smoke or do drugs
When I reply no
He jokingly asks to marry me
I say where's the ring?
He gets out his keys
Puts it on my finger we laugh
Who knew getting a wife
would be that easy?
Calm down sunshine!
my games more stealthy

But I reiterate
"loads of guys talk to Rhi"

What do they mean?
I'm a guys girl
Always have always will be
If this night has confirmed anything
It's that
Certain females just don't warm to me
Give them a compliment
They're ******* me
Make a joke
They're ******* me
Dance by one
Accidentally knock her phone
Out her hand she sits down immediately
Face of thunder
I Say sorry,
Skulk off awkwardly
Beat myself up about it momentarily
Then get annoyed and think **** it
Head back to where I'm meant to be
Just the dance floor and me
Where I get smiles and laughs and looks
I can't quite decipher
"White gyal skanker!"
Mutter out apologies as I stand on
Some guys toes
Tells me no worries I'm a dancer

Hell I'm a flirt too!
I speak to guys cause
it's what I know how to do
It's easy conversation
It's fun
But I know that when this nights over
it's all said and done
No need to mention
I have no true intention
Of speaking to or seeing these people again
Maybe I should
Maybe that's how I'll make connections
But for now I'm tired but it's a good tired
I feel at peace
There's something wonderfully dreamy
About the after party
People slowly waking up from the make believe of the night
As they're fighting off sleep
DJ Micky making his way out the door
Shoutin back
Make sure you message me!

I won't

For now It's time to head home
I take my leave
As I exit
Wave bye to Steve

Thinkin Why is it guys talk to me?

For the same reasons anyone would really
I listen
I guess maybe I put them at ease

Snowflakes scraped underneath fingernail tips
When the charcoal was pressed harder.
As often as the cheetah runs with the crocodiles by the nile
They do not look for each other.

As often as the bees sing
Only once could they muster poison and sting
With a clockwork, shelter and carpentry of honey.
The fruitness of a living body.

The sound that gets lost in the woods
Gets lost and carried
Flying through the whispers between the branches and twigs.
All the creatures are all but lost
Yet the striking fur
Shocks
Hunters into firing hot shells across
and the falcon fell.

A shouting cull
The silence that meant that wildly blooms have been collected.
A bouquet was calling the passing hours
Wrapped in the scraped white spirit of the wooden towers.

Sitting in this dusty old attic
listening to the shingles flapping in the wind
I flip through a dog-eared book from my childhood.

As I skip through the pages,
I look up and notice the fine inlaid
carpentry work of an old chest.

Going over, leaving prints on the dusty floor,
I lift the lid.  With reptilian slowness
a lazy fat spider edges away.

Inside this trove of ancient treasure,
magnificent finds of days gone by.
Mementos of a honeymoon, a parachute jump.
Gramma's best biscuit recipe.  A photo of
Sam the hound with spittle running down his jowls.
A picture of a babe at his mother's ******.

A permutation of these tucked away articles
give meaning to a life well and truly lived.  
Closing the pages of these treasures I
wander away to watch my grandchildren
make memories of their own.

The boards creak and moan
from time and poor carpentry
The nails gripped by aged wood
have become crust collected and
shrunken to form

The bare walls once displayed
the smiling faces
of past eons but now
there are only the faded remnants
of square foundations
of lives that once
hung on the wall

The stairs complain
like an old man
from unsubstantiated fears
The second floor
seems solid only responding
to the remarks of my shoes

The old bedroom
once the center of attraction
overlooks the buckled sidewalks
and **** infested yards
of a street that now has no cars
or people passing by

I stand in silence for the moment
and the moment stands silent for me
And for that moment
I lay in time's eternal graveyard
in hopes of reviving dead dreams

Dad spoke of his father today.
I listened with Friday
Beer breath and keen
Ears, as he said:

I hope to God your brother
And you won't remember
Me as a ****
Fool when I'm gone,

Then coughed that gurgle-rasp
That promises significant
Changes in a son's
Life within

Not too distant a
Future.
Those **** cigarettes.
Half a lung gone, surgery

Scar a part of that back
That I remember I thought
Would carry me
Forever.

We never spoke too emotionally.
He does it more and
More, and all I can do is
Prepare,

And to speak such truths as:
Dad. You've impressed our
Friends, charmed our women,
Driven us through snow storms

And late nights
To get us to -or home from- either.
Fed us, chopped wood through
Summers to keep us warm through

Winters.
Taught us languages and carpentry,
History and poetry,
Classical wrestling and chivalry.

You've made us laugh since
Before we knew how to.
I think of you whenever I smell
Sawdust, new guitar strings, and smoke

(Only minutes old, his cough
Was the first sound I reacted to...)
Your memory is safe.
Whenever your time comes

To leave us to the strength of our
Own arms and souls,
Trust that your rest is well earned.
He laughed a little,  

Eyes wet from coughing
And whatever.
I could die content tomorrow,  
Having told him.

Some giants don't fall.
They just lie down.
Not to wither away and die.
But to retire,

The way oak trees,
Mountains, revolutionary ideas
And gods
Retire.

Before I breathed
A young man held my mother
coaxed her with unpracticed grace
from Irish Catholic garments between
rough sheets that smelled
like carpentry and dirt.
In photographs from back then
we have the same wrinkled eyebrows,
the same reddish beards,
but different creases
kissing the corners of our eyes.

There are canyons in my knuckles
carved out by cold.
Not New Mexico cracks
in too-hot soil,
but staff-lines of the song
New England skin sings—
I cannot deny I was born here.

My father wears gloves now when he works outside
Says he never used to, but
the pain maybe got too much
Too many winters laying palms flat
against elm, ash, sycamore,
feeling for a pulse
counting on his wrist,
waiting for a murmur, subtle hush
in the rhythm;
telling symptom
of a faulty valve.

I work weekends at a veterinary clinic
and the doctor there does this, too,
though sometimes, being held,
cats purr too loud to listen
and I must reach across the room
and turn the handle on the faucet;
Most cats fear water.

Well Father, I cannot drink from the soil
and I do not always land on my feet
But father, listen to my heartbeat
Put your hand on my chest
and don’t fear as my body
creaks in the wind—

Hear it?

Father
My boughs, my winter-catchers
are thin, but
it is not root-rot, moth, parasite;
I am not felled
like the beard you hacked from your chin
the day you decided to love, to suffer
the rest of your life
with that Irish Catholic girl—
This is merely my first season.
Brush the snow from my shoulders.

Please
comfort me
quietly,
like skin,
cracking:
“My son
my sapling
you’ll grow.”

Walker Staples 15 March 2013

Rock n’ roll music, Folger’s, and paint-smeared hands.
Dresser drawers filled to the brim with undeveloped camera film.
Blue bonnets and overgrown grass, pecans and crunching fall leaves.
Dirt roads and river-rocks, typewriters, polaroid cameras, and feather-quill pens.
Those hand-me-down blue eyes and brown ones that are “sometimes hazel.”
Crystal clusters and Lord of the Rings.
Countless mosquito bites and play-pretend games in the clubhouse.
Early-birds and night-owls.
Trudy; and Randy Hayes.
“Don’t touch everything you see,” and “If you say you’re bored, I’ll find work for you to do.”
Sweet tea and okra and southern dishes blackened and drenched in cheese or gravy.
Grandma always burned everything to make sure it was fully cooked, and to her, it was never burned, just “well-done.”
Cigarettes and carpentry and cookbooks. Wild blackberries and birthday parties at the lake.
Sleeping in all day and staying up all night and procrastination.  
Shepherd's Pie, potatoes, and four-leaf clovers.
“Nil Desperandum. Never Despairing.”  
I’m from a whole house that eats eggs for breakfast, and I’m allergic to eggs.
And trees as tall as buildings and buildings as tall as trees.
“You should never take the lord’s name in vain,” and “Jesus loves you, so you should love others.”
Day-dreams and stargazing and thunderstorms.
“All or nothing,” and “There is no try, only do.”
Old family pictures in dust-glittered frames.
We are crystals. We have facets, each one makes us who we are.
With only one window of our lives to express, we’d merely be glass.
I am a part of each of these things just as much as they are each a part of me.

Lugnut
Plug not,
Flung not
For want not.
A bit of huney,
A bit of stick
The screwdriver
As in carpentry tool,
Come here quick.
Drill,
Trill,
Frills
Hammer up
And let me lie a little.
On to the miter box.

Brian Molko was already doing the current wannabe-trend of trans-sexuality long before trans-sexuality was a common "thing"... tracing back some ulterior taboo settings... today on my way to work i spotted my first trans-******: wow! obviously he had manly hands... large... he was tall... he had large feet... but slender legs... and a face, with all that necessary make-up of eyeliner... hair? not very long... shoulder length... yes... a deep voice... but then again my godmother has a husky voice from all the smoking and drinking... but i fancied him... the dynamic on the tube was magnifying... three women sat beside him while he was talking to his geeky (maybe, probably) boyfriend, a plump chap with eyeglasses... i couldn't stop thinking: ah... the solidarity of men... when in shortage of supply of women, men will find alternative avenues to compensate for women, men will find women in men... the idea that i might be a transphobe never occurred to me: but it did occur to me that women: for all their supposed glorification of acceptance would never allow men to be attracted to men who are: beyond merely the thespian gay-lord, *******... ally... this... "freak"... i fancied this man... i could omit all the stressed "imperfections"... but such a feminine-feline face... it really suited him... i wanted to kiss him... i was thinking... i'll tend to the "oysters" and all the tender bits and bites of being with him... andd do the butcher's work with a *******... problem solved... this skin-head middle-aged (i'm coming to middle age, or life expectancy, not the lottery of mortality, mind you) sat next to me and was sort of nudging me with a shadow missing in the full-glare of the lights of the tube... you fancy him? insinuations via body-language: yeah... i do... is it wrong? nope! check the women sitting next to him... do you fancy them? nope... me too... of the three or four women sitting next to this trans-****** specimen... none had a lovelier face... mutations just... "happen"... the eureka-oops moments... i could seriously forget about the shared dimensions of large hands twice as big as that of a geisha, same with the feet... i could forget the baritone voice... i really fancied this boy... in a way that gay-lords just make it difficult having mingled with actors too much and not retaining an aura of: suspense and: something in me is frigid, alien... i shouldn't but... hell... i really should! i will! benevolent London that is... he was prettier than all the women i saw that day... like my grandfather once said: there are no ugly women... there are only abandoned... if not abandoned then neglected women... to think that women could ever be neglected: says as much about neglected men... men will find alternative avenues to women when the women self-exfoliate in their "privilege" of: first-come-first-served-and-thus-the-only-served menu... **** that! but what was special about this trans-****** specimen? it reminded me of the time i fancied Brian Molko, still do... in a non-gay sort of way... in a Plato the Plumber there's a blocked toilet of reincarnation afloat... it was actually, sort-of, actually-sort-of-funny watching the women on the same carriage trying to read my reaction... for once a man was more attractive than a woman to me! wow! being accused of trans-phobia... in London? well... only if you can't pull it off! it's like saying: coulrophobia! fear of clowns! with the clowns being without make-up? conflating the Apex Twin gargoyle from Window-Licker?! yeah... scary ****! the grin that's the length of the equator... i couldn't be attracted to a standard homosexual... Thespian leeching or intellectually pleasing akin to a Douglas Murray... or body-building blah blah... but this trans-****** specimen? that's an affront to a woman... all women... a man can have a prettier face to a woman's if... a man deems the exampled woman to be nothing more than akin to a lineage of... never arrived at cosmopolitanism... beetroot countryside proud... all red and irritated... i fancied this one... i was one step away from askig him: can i have your number? again, to reiterate: i didn't mind the deep voice... i didn't mind the size of hands that could match mine or the size of feet that could match mine... i was... infatuated with the magic dust of PIXIES! maybe that's what i learned from going to the brothel... but if you're going to play the trans-****** game... can you please avoid the mishandling of the Hippocratic oath... so little is actually necessary to accomplish a ****-heterosexual confusion-attraction that leaves women feeling inadequate: you, wouldn't even want to begin to believe! i'm now currently thinking of that film: the Odd Couple... Walter Matthau as Oscar Madison and Jack Lemmon as Felix Unger... Felix being the male-feminine counterpart of the feminine-man slob child pampered to: or however this quadratic works... i wouldn't be doing the cleaning and the cooking out of a feminine dignity to avoid doing the hard work of society's demands... no... i'd be perfecting my cooking to match up to the sort of food available upon heading out to a restaurant, i.e. not eating out... i've seen some car-crashes of trans-****** attempts... but this one stuck out for me because i started to think along the lines of: who needs women if men can appear prettier than women?! i'll just close my eyes when hand meets hand... it's a sickly sweet sensation but i could stomach it: if the conversation was kept to a satisfying lubrication: and it wouldn't be even remotely associated to the feminist-gay "commonwealth"... alliance... i don't need homosexuals to tell me XY&Z... i'm actually grooving this trans-****** trend: if spotting the exacting specimen to curtail all the wannabes... if there's an authentic Brian Molko specimen walking around... wow! reimagining being *** starved on the Western Front... a few guys with more artistic inclinations... rather than the rough sea-faring roughage of **** on the spot job done become involved... prettier faces than those of women... i could: no! i would succumb! it's just the terror in the eyes and on the faces of women... hey presto! a stick has two ends! freeze eggs... follow a career... demand a car a mortgage blah blah... my my... what a curiosity this trans-****** worked up to a perfection specimen of disphoria awoke in me... good enough cushioning blanket of sleeping with enough prostitutes... now i really want to sleep with a man... which is not gay... i'm bored of prostitutes... they're like any other woman: you pay them... yet they still complain as if you haven't paid them when not getting a hard-on because of (x) tiredness, (**) distraction, (***) life... per se... whatever... but those female faces... i pretended to be snoozing... they knew i knew... i kept an itch of a blink at this specimen... woman: ANGRY... no... actually... not angry... woman... what the **** is going on? of the times i went to a gay club and didn't pick up a Francis Bacon i wondered: did i drink enough? homosexual lust and all that same-for-same feminine-pro erotica of the jealous stone-rub-stone-offensive... the trans-****** "confusion" is a bright light... if done properly... done... naturally... i'm mesmerised... without... obviously... without... people succumbing to the breaking of the Hippocratic-oath... obviously... i despise the gay-pride movement... at least the authentic trans-sexuality movement is subtle... it's philosophically laden with a curiosity of more lips and less **** stressing fist-*******... this morphing of the pareidolia toward: seeing a female in a man's face... or seeing a man in a woman's face... hardly gender dysphoria... *****-utopia and... just as children look alike, regardless of ***... so do old people... also regardless of ***... but to achieve a heterosexual attraction in the realm of trans-genderism? it can't be forced... it has to happen ha-ha-naturally! i'm laughing at myself... only briefly... i'm more inclined to see the female in a man without seeing the homosexual... because homosexuality is like that quote from... no... not Human Traffic... about being gay and eating *****... how... eating ***** is not for real men... while ******* **** is all All Spice Alles Mensch... whatever... the gays are too proud might as well look out for the shy, proper, proper shy... trans-sexuals without any anti-Hippocratic-Oath mishandling(s)... the women become jittery thus...

i should have come home and reflected on spending
the past several hours on a shift
in Bishop's Park, overlooking Putney Bridge
watching the tide of Thames' recede back into the great
mouth before mingling with the salty waters
of the North Sea...
     all loved-up with the cold the dark and the wind
putting on some Woljiech Kilar soundtrack music
from Dracula - love remembered...
well... i was in the mood for something like that:
i put the track on... nope... can't feel it...
i'm tired, i'm cold i need to put on something to groove
to... we ain't going out like that - Cypress Hill...
tiredness swells the imitation pigeon-strut
in my head... bouncy-Billy will also ask for a chance
to express himself...
    the joke ran with Martin's team (Chelsea)
losing for the first time since 2006 to Fulham...
         the police officers were in a good number...
they even brought their horses...
two stood across from us when the final whistle was
blown... one of them started "laughing": if that's
what horses do, i.e. laugh...
no onomatopoeia here: hey Martin! even the horses
are laughing that Fulham beat Chelsea in the most
local derby of London...
    Craven Cottage is what? a mile at max two from
Stamford Bridge...
          one can only love the ever infuriated Martin...
but still the Thames receding...
   at first glace i might have stretched across
the balustrade and probably touched the surface of
the water... by the end of the shift when the river-bed
started to be exposed i started to wonder:
all that volume and now apparent air where once
there was water...
  no river in the world akin to the Thames...
tide in and tide out... at Westminster it's a river
that rid itself of the kettle and is nonetheless standstill
and boiling - during the day...
while eating a chicken wrap of torsos and tortillas
talking to a Norwegian who came over to watch
the football for the week...
last time he was here in the 1980s... have things changed?
the oyster one-touch travel card...
sure... it has just become a little bit more expensive:
but nothing has changed that much...
but during the night, and if its windy... well: clearly
there's a flow... a tide in or a tide out...
by the time i got to Goodmayes i walked past the brothel:
thank god i have nothing more to prove
thank god i have satiated my base needs and that's that...
what am i looking for? a compliment to a pharma-knock-out
of generic painkillers in the form of a bottle
of whiskey...
    too tired to **** not tired enough to think:
maybe i could fall in love again...
   fall in love... fall in love: but... ugh...
               fall in love and not pamper a woman's needs
with all those basic "tattoos" of courtship...
i might as well ask any future father-in-law:
so... where's my cow, my wedding dowry?
                     where's the pick-me-up to work with?
well if manna from heaven will not drop into my lap...
i hardly think... who the hell needs a car in London?
given the oncoming ULEZ restrictions?
bicycle, underground and the trains, plenty of buses...

today i was sent the most odd message from a coworker
who i am supposed to do a shift at the ice rink
on Sunday...
i was rather surprised - a "box" i never thought i would
unbox (as it were)...
i'll be honest... she's damaged - seriously damaged:
i'm on the "top" of the pile of damaged goods...
a mythological schizoid - ageing - each year turns
out easier as the madness spreads around me:
madness or the crushing mundaneness -
mundaneness or mediocrity -
    in a democracy it's all and the same: in the grey yolk
of bureaucracy -
         pushing letters through keyholes that leave
no door open: unless playing the "system" like
a criminal or a mummy with five different shades
of children from five different fathers...

                       the trouble with Russian girls is that...
they don't like a boy who appreciates music by Placebo...
huge disagreement... her take on Nancy Boy was
rigid and could never be biding: no appreciation of the music
for you... well... that be that...

this girl is hurt... i am hurt: everyone's hurt...
but i still find reasons to find silly happiness in cooking
cleaning, general groundwork labour of changing
the garden - some carpentry: cycling...
keeping up appearances of a well-kept diet
and perfumery of all sorts... at least dressing like
my idol Karl Lagerfeld... like an animal wears its fur...

she even changed her name to Frankie -
Frankie... i.e. is that Franklin, Frank?
no... it's actually Francesca...
the running joke with another girl i work with
runs along the line:
wouldn't that be something, to put on your CV
if you managed to convert her?
convert? or reconvert?
after all she has managed to produce offspring...
god knows why she's not in contact with her daughter...
but it's not like she was always a lesbian...
forced lesbian... it's not something a priori:
it's a posteriori...
after the facts that include: her biological father
beating her biological mum...
her biological mum abandoning her and her siblings
to escape with her dear life...
    how her step-father is like her biological father
but then the problem arises: the mother is unhinged
and now her step-father is facing splitting up with her
mother... of all the siblings she's the only one
keeping contact with her mother...
the other siblings, at least one... is ******* up to
her biological father who was: the greatest intersexual
boxer of the domestic environment to have ever lived
(in her eyes at least, i bet Tina Turner could compensate
such allowances of vanity)...

she used to be a man's woman once...
but now she switched... ******* without all
the Hippocratic misdeeds of the modern, current, narrative,
cutting off ******* and other genitals,
hormonal treatments... it's almost as if Joseph Mengele
died in body but his spirit lived on...
it's like a never-ending Auschwitz or at least
encryptions of mad-scientists for thirst of knowledge
have continued on a side-note of eugenics...
but at least with the closure of the 20th century
there was safe ******* experiments undertaken
by individuals without any authority of government:
the boys would grow their hair long and put
on eyeliner...
    perhaps even use girly perfumes or wear
dresses, nail-polish... hell... even sniff ******* or wear
them... but not with medical authority creating
irreversible ****** changes...
the girls would put on more weight or work out
and pretend to be East Germany's Olympians...
cut their hair short... who came the Pixie girls...
get tattoos wear signets: those bulky rings worth not
a gram of gold but their own worth of bulk...
    and like Francesca get an undercut with a Mohawk...
change their tone of voice... defence defence defence...
and become suddenly less and less agreeable...
still retaining a feminine smile and the odd feminine giggle
that could be unearthed...
or like with her text...
'hey... i want to go ice-skating after our shift...
do you think you'd be up for it?'
sure... although i only ice-skated twice in my life...
a long time ago, 13? i fell every single time...
i looked like someone who escaped from having
suffered from Polio...
i'll still look like someone who suffered from childhood
Polio akin to Israel Vibration's
Wiss", "Apple Gabriel", "Skelly"
      or Ian "Lane" Drury...
                                    instead i sent her a text replying:
sure... but i'll look like a spider equipped with
roller blades... i'll need to bring a casual set of trousers
just in case i fall and rip my work trousers...
'ha ha ha ha(insert crying with laughter emoticons)...'

oh sure... it's not a date... i'm not just going on a date...
we're not going for dinner...
i'm going ice-skating with a lesbian...
a butch-lesbian a hiding woman...
tattoos six-pack and muscle...
no wonder: only hours prior i was admiring
a would-be Brian Molko on the tube...
        
she followed up with a text of yet more defence:
but i'm skint - it will cost £10.50 for an hour
and a bit...
      we'll see i reply... as if she was implying:
if we can't get in for free... would you be willing
to pay?
i didn't reply with agreement to paying for...
then again: i'm not thinking about ***,
or homosexual conversion therapy...
i just don't remember when a girl last asked me to
go on a date with her... after all:
isn't a girl asking a boy to go ice skating with her
sort of asking a boy to go on a date?
she said she was quiet adapted to ice skating:
she owns a pair (of ice skates)... and i'll be the hilarious
polio walker / spider strapped with roller blades
trying to swim in quicksand...
mind you... i'm trying to rid myself of the past two
interactions in the brothel... terrible ***...
that one with the madam where i was limp...
the fate of the Sabine men gripped me...
i won't deny it...
second time... she calls herself my favourite:
she isn't... she's deluded... to the amazement of the other
girls i like to **** in the brothel...
i only extended my per usual 30min stay
by clocking up an extra 30min because i was so close
to climaxing from a *******: knock knock on the door...
time's up... no... not this time...
i'm going to finish... ergo...
but even she has paved her way onto a path of too much
physical augmentation...
if the **** don't come first... then the duck quack lips
reveal themselves first... she's an aging *******
and she has never done anything in terms of work
prior... no laundry no till service...
pregnant aged 14 and in the profession aged 16...
this is the murk and the sully of the gallows
of everyone: once, former, youthful idealism of love...
trotting a horse with broken legs like
waking up into birth by a man sitting in akimbo
for too long... standing up with numbed legs...
moving awkwardly...

obviously i was going to be robbed of Khadra and Mona...
Mona became stupid for getting pregnant
with a customer... hmm... i wonder who...
last time i saw her i teased her without a ******
and this massive fright gripped her face
because i was only teasing and she thought i was
a premature ejaculator... clearly a ****** was subsequently
used and the deposit in it: **** knows...
she should know... i haven't seen her since...

i think i'll text Francesca (Frankie) and tell her...
bring your skates girl... if we can't get in for free i'll
pay for the two of us...
only two shifts prior she was insinuating about
going for a pint: i just replied: i would...
but i had to help my father write the fortnightly
invoice and send it in...
like tomorrow... tomorrow i'll have to help my mother
with the taxes and VAT...
they're getting a new accountant and she lied
about doing her taxes on a spreadsheet...
**** me... i probably used Microsoft Excel twice...
twice, properly... but since i only used it twice...
i'm a bit rusty... so much worth of secondary school
education or the university...
   they taught us the bare minimum of real-world
life-long tools of the onslaught of technology -
   hammer and scythe i can use to count heads...
oh well: there's bound to be some crash-course for dummies
on the internet...

i waited until 9pm for the three of us to sit down to
eat some fajitas...
i overdid it using Kashmiri chilly powder
and three fresh chillies in making the pineapple salsa...
but the hotness neutralised itself with the addition
of the tomato salsa i made... and the guacamole...
the sour cream and obviously cheese, esp. cheddar
neutralises all possible excess spices...
we ate, chatted... one big ******* family,
me, father and mother and my "brother" and "sister"...
well... at least the cats meow and don't bark...
oddly enough: i'm happy... mediocre sort of:
that scene from Hellraiser: Inferno...
were the protagonist - a corrupt police officer -
is forced into a nightmare of having to relive his
eternity in his childhood's bedroom...
living with his parents...
shouldn't the horror be... your parents getting divorced?
i don't know why mine are still together...
they must be freaks... i must be a mutant:
well... born only two weeks after Chernobyl:
no riddles, only clues...
     i keep the conversation going...
i help around the house...
  
                        Frankie dealt me two nuggets of hashish
in the past 4 months... once i was desperate
when the hashish ran out so she gave me the number
of a marijuana dealer: great green all the way from
America... i only used the service once...
maybe that's me being bulletproof...
i'm cutting down on drinking and i will never return
to smoking marijuana to achieve a Buddha-esque glow
meditating while high and hungry...
weighing in at 78kg... it's a bit of a yoyo with me these
days... from 99kg through to 103kg...
but then... i pinch myself: i summon the ***** to pinch
back... hmm! no man-****... so i could try out for
some amateur rugby matches...

a butch lesbian asking a boy for a date to go
ice skating... i feel... truly terrible for all the conventional women...
i would have offered a cinema date...
she beat me to the better sort of entertainment...
she said: let's go ice skating...
i would have retorted: i do own two bicycles...
how about we go cycling in the night...
round and round Raphael's Park...
round and round... and if we're lucky...
and if the winter air aligns itself with some idiot
setting off fireworks... we can get snippets of whiffs
of imitation autumn... as if the leaves of the trees
have fallen in the dry crisp air and someone
set them alight and there's no rot and knee-deep
digging of plush-decay exfoliating a sickness
in the air... how's that?

i'll send her the text... hell... i'll pay for her...
i'm not interested in ***...
she might be a butch-lesbian trying to hide her
femininity... but she still smiles like a woman...

oh sure... i remember the last conventional:
heterosexual date i was on...
we met in a sweaty night-club... if we kissed we kissed:
i don't remember... she gave me her phone-number
i gave her mine... i was in the company of
about 3 girls who i met elsewhere, otherwise:
also randomly...
at least one made something of her life...
she ****** off to Norway - totally off-the-grid...
by now probably breeding huskies for sleighs...

the next time we met... i bought two bottles of wine...
the "date"? a job interview... we talked...
subsequently we went to a pub while i had a pint...
she was feeling claustrophobic...
i was the alcoholic and she became the **** of boredom...
she excused herself: some prior engagement
with her girlfriends... i guess she thought she got away...
i way happy to get away by same mechanisation
of oppositional psychology...
all this talk within the confines of carpe diem that
centred upon: what do you / what's you living
should i think about life insurance - will we live to be 70
years old?
well... that's the cherry on top with Francesca...
you want to go ice-skating? sure...
you want to go cycling with me in the night?
sure... life insurance / what do you for a living?
how much do you earn?
             can we live a little outside a prison within a prison?!

so much for Dawid Bovie's idea of the androgynous man:
if i'm to be surrounded by "butch" lesbian
and prostitutes: that's my lot then...
i'm not going to succumb to the CV-project-veritas
in-vitro infanticide females with CHOICE
like... my spunking into a bucket and calling it:
falling asleep with the sound of rain
trickling trickling on a metallic roof...
in the night when the horrors come and horrors
claim all the little details of frailty
of mortality...

                  for every tear-jerking sympathy for
a Romeo there's the mantis of
   a Judith kissing the decapitated head of
                                                             Holofernes:
**** it... the prostitutes i truly loved ******* are either:
pregnant or on "holiday"...
i passed the brothel only two nights ago...
i spotted a man walking out from the door...
he froze like a doe in the headlights and didn't move
until i turned my head and kept walking...
i was about to blast out with wind and voice:
no shame in having to share women
we will never impregnate!
start thinking like a woman, dear man...
think on ground of evolutionary bias...
for every women there's this boast of:
50% of men reproduced successfully...
while all the whole lot of them the 100% of train-wrecks
and Piccadilly butcher's antics with the flab
have... their greatest success story to ever live...
i could be worse off... than right now...
i could have married an ugly woman:
by definition: if a most feminine man
grows his hair long and applies some slapstick
makeover creases of eyeliner...
i can forgive him his match-for-match size
of hands... height... size of shoe...
but never an ugly woman... UGLY...
that goes beyond mere the physical-glass...
i'm talking: character... there's no prime-ego
LEGO building block... no architect's corner stone...
there's nothing to work with...
just everything to work around...
to avoid...
                    
    if: for ****'s sake... i'm not planning: i'm providing
the revenue... i want to go ice-skating!
she doesn't have any money? i have "too much"...
i don't: but for the worth of life in life that's only
to supposed to span a month's worth of living it...
hell: i have no better idea to pass the time...

at one point i found out that Francesca has some Irish
roots... you're Aye-Reesh?!
              really? never would have conjured up
a sharing of ******* on a leprechaun...
**** it for good luck... like circumcision:
that's apparently Hebrew for: good luck...
with the addition of: ensuring your bride to be
be donning a niqab and all those "other"...
culturally sensitive, exclusive terms of
cultural-dis-appropriation: or whatever the **** is
coming out of H'America...
             once upon a time when that cultural export
was relevant: these days: nothing new to be
found... except the abandoned moon...

well... i sent the text... sure... i'll pay for the ice-skating...
but you have to promise me to go cycling
with me during the warmer months
with me... don't worry about having a bicycle...
you can have my mountain-bicycle
i use for the winter months
while i'll get on my summer month
road-bicycle...
we'll head toward Thurrock...
and elsewhere that's Essex friendly
and far away from London outer-suburbia...
fresh... fresh...
Jean Claude van Dame...
                       Fresh: that's her idea of working out
before the shift... and then going ice-skating...
FooR x Majestic x Dread MC...

                oh well... life in Loon-downs...
or is that: no apples... i'm sure there are no apples...
if she takes the bait...
i.e. i pay for both of us going ice-skating tomorrow...
she better go cycling with me during the
summer months...
she says no to ice-skating tomorrow
i'll become Trojan in my own defense...
if she wants to be all ******* lesbian defensive...
i can be defensive too...
i'll arm myself with enough brothel visits to erase:
first... comes... oh my grandmother disappointed
me... i could have been there for my
grandfather stabbing himself in the leg
while entering the state of AGONIA...

                    i could have been there: she? trying to protect
me against the advent of mortality?
or her... biting my grandfather's alcoholism she
induced by being a terrible woman?
his last pleasures?
crossword puzzles... cycling, fishing,
rekindling with the day-tripper postcard sender
vouch! you're the simulation tourist with
his... grand... chill... no... not -dren...
his... sole and only grand-child... i.e. me...
him buying me the books i read over the summer holidays...

women are so ape so cruel...
i stopped believing in what's idealistic and rare before
me: which i can't replicate...
i'm happy being freed from:
i don't earn the sort of money that the state
demands taxing me... weird? no!
i don't earn enough to be taxed!
weird... i'm sort of pretending to be a jellyfish
afloat... simulating gravity:
gravity is always a simulation in the medium
of water...
                by air contra vacuum:
the mountain breathes in winter a cascade of
frigid snow slides down...
a Michael Schumacher goes skiing...
****** races cars at 200kmh... one loose turn and twist:
cranium like an opening of a watermelon...
jellyfish fighting for life dead-locked style
in a sick-bed while people nearest to him
think about magic-spells: how best to live without
him: how best to milk the cow with *****
instead of milk... hmm hmm hmm...

if she wants to go on a date with me to go ice-skating...
and i'm supposed to be paying for it...
she better be readied to go cycling with me
during the summer months...
if that's not going to happen:
she shouldn't have suggested
going ice-skating in the first place, for ****'s sake...
like: anything by Bricktop in ****** is
Shakespeare to me... perhaps even more...
living with the times...

                                oh well some well: Samuel!
Samuel: you're not Samantha... learn to become
a transvestite first... before we employ the ****
Hippocrates to mutilate you, o.k. darling?
    learn to grow your hair long...
learn to put on make-up... learn to wear dresses...
learn to sniff female underwear...
Samuel! Samuel! you're not Samantha (yet)!
we will not give you up to the Joseph "Hip-replacing-******"
Mengele: shy away from everything American
in the realm of: worth being culturally exported
and influencing foreign cultures: esp.
in the basin of the origins of the English ZZZUNGE...
that's England...
                  
HIPS FOR KNEES!
                    America: beacon, former: beacon of the world
to come... came one Cain for every second cannibal
no Satan was spawned: at least that's Iranian paranoia
covered: converted, shut the doors on Tehran...
bigger whoops happened when...
Garry Glitter became pop once more
with the release of the Joker movie
and that mad dance scene...
on the 132 steps where Shakespeare Avenue
meets Anderson Avenue...

    i will never, ever... visit... anything... remotely...
resembling... or being curated as being:
North America... i've had too much north american
cultural anemia...
             prior to words not being so much politcal
as agent orange doing all the "talking"...
                                  
  tam tam tam dam dam dam... ditto... do no more than
the necessary "evil": just, bass: on the base
on insinuation;
hell... if the afro-cosmopolitan is the new "cool",
the new "groove"...
let's just keep it... marred: in murk: in murky.

bricks may solidify a house,
fine carpentry may add a finish,
and a serious household will love its foundation

take her heart anew
she has only a memory for a man
her house is empty without you
~~
..circa 1986..(C)2013 Spiros Zafiris
..channeled; spirit Ram
~~

for all my pain that made me by you
for all my hurting in what you do
for all the days I spend beside you
for every smile i see when i look to you
for our three years that I can't forget, it too
will be a sworn 'never forget' emblem
carved upon everything capable of
architecture or carpentry mandible,
now as forever!
i once lived in a shadow, but
you illuminated me and i lost my shadow
hence, now, i live in the light as a blossom
of embodiment with a tiara of curves
and caused you to take to saying my skin was
a mehndi shade halo surrounding the sunset sun...
I'm thinking about you as if you were still mine
I know it's my fault that i let you go
but forgive me, what else I can do
I hope that if you can hear me now, and i know you do:
I would tell you that I will never give up to bring you back
But what if I can't ?!
will you come and light my darkness?
will you come and wipe off my tears?
In the middle of everything I know that I will fail, because without you I'm such a weak girl
I don't want the rest of my life to be just a memory
of you, because i want you in flesh, real,
now! I am asking you to come back.... to be mine
I can't hold on anymore without you
in the least... I adooooooooooooooooooooooore you

The snow will be melting soon,
Can't help but wonder what is in store,
The boys all work so hard in the yard,
Tossing 'round lumber and abuse,
But I got these soft hands,
I've been sleeping around trying to match up my shoe,
Born with such thin skin,
I concede to tumble with the leaves.

I saw her late last night...
She is a parasite... for these sore eyes,
I try to make it hide,
It bubbles over if I have a little bit too much rye.

Wishing is for fools,
But I guess I always did rush in for you,
Carpentry tools,
Let's build a bridge to burn on the evening news.

I am a leaf, shed, homeless,
drifting in through a hole in the carpentry --
a skeleton among skeleton relatives,
dusting the shuffle-worn surface
of our mother's planked-out chest.

even wording an intellectual debate
focusing on the word: warrior,
is, to me, something of a ****-in-your-underwear
and then swing it around like a missile
and hope that the other monkey is dead...

what do i find in terms of persistent Darwinism?
media akin to Groundhog day replication,
a distrust of media and politics
doesn't go anywhere akin to El Dorado,
it goes to areas of grey and thistles, and weeds,
and trying to defend a political system
that monopolises on the media? e.g. Iraq.

what's the modern trait of the **** sapiens?
he's not intimidated by the advertisement
industry to spend, he saves his buck...
modern **** sapiens feels no regret at not
having the chance to procreate with neanderthal
women who shout rather than moan,
modern **** sapiens isn't wooed by the ooh's and
the ah's of a modern public audience,
modern **** sapiens man isn't ready to turn
women into butchers in Afghanistan,
or what Sappho called: butch, butch, butchy, butch-butch,
      target practice for the *****:
   now your chance to shoot a machinegun.

the **** sapiens doesn't get the Coliseum,
in whatever shape or form as the modern solution
to what would otherwise be: watching paint dry,
    there's no football Sunday over brunch to
holler and cheer and get things done.

the **** sapiens man will not mate with a neanderthal
woman of these times... he has no need to lose
his integrity to mate with these over-sexualised creatures...
modern **** sapiens lives in a time when
science has lost its mojo,
and became arrogant like a chef cooking up
Sicilian pasta in Chuckle Street...
   modern **** sapiens man does not grace procreating
with the mannequins of neanderthal women...
oversexualised and almost Somali in caricature,
which is hardly 5 brats running around for the stately
                 feeding...

modern **** sapiens isn't interested in how offensive you
sound, or how uninteresting you actually are,
the 26 digits on your tongue will never quill a
woodpecker readied for carpentry...
you have physicists for that and that ancient gauge
of sclera iris and pupil: which kinda looks
like clouds, green, brown, blue, grey,
              pupil and to whatever necessary telescope
for the constellations / twinkle in the eye...

     the modern **** sapiens doesn't want to procreate
with modern neanderthal women because
he thinks his feces will smell of mustard...
          he's ashamed about the way sport has
replaced national identity,
              and that watching ***** do the exodus from
a ******* and assimilate into a genesis of an ****
has become magnified into 22 wankers kicking
a ball between two fishnet stocking pair of legs...
              neanderthal women get it,
**** sapiens man doesn't... he's wondering why
there haven't been many drunk intellectuals...
                to state this case.

**** sapiens man is wondering why this isn't even
an insult... by a version of a continuum
best addressed when worded, rather than
    chess-chanced on a board of fixations and
cheap-labour and psychiatrically guised excuses
that are in concerto: lethargy etiam propus.

   **** sapiens is wondering why history froze,
and this be the new ice age...
and why only one day gets a mention,
he's wondering why there's no media sabbath...
         i.e.: when no news happens.

**** sapiens is bewildered by this fresh zeitgeist
of having a need to speak...
  **** sapiens is wondering: why Ned the Destroyer?
**** sapiens is asking: what about the think?
       **** sapiens says of neanderthals:
i guess they really need to talk
because they cannot accept the monotheistic concept
of thought, and stress the democratic: blah blah brechen
to protest, stitch placards and walk a lot and do
cathedral bells a justice of repeating chants: kneel
to pray! tramps aren't trump! etc.

**** sapiens says: they once imagined telepathic
with telekinetic and then they said no to Marxism...
now there don't seem to be that many individuals around
apart from those in suicidal succor.

all in all, **** sapiens simply says:
i will not fornicate with these neanderthal women!
i don't care what my genetic prenup would look like,
    it might look ugly, it might look pretty...
            if we're going down this route...
there's me: exit,
                and then these women:
            lamenting what queen Sheeba said to
king Solomon:
                          the copper skinned will rule the world.

well, here's me and my automated reliance on
extinction...
                           i'm taking a bow...
i'm bowing out...
                                i find only one sensual solace in
this world...
                    music...
                           ­         i'm bowing out of the rest
that comes like a Mongolian revival of a horde...
          and even if there was a love for a woman worth
defending... i already declassified it as
neanderthal... so much for Darwinism when uncoupled
from theology and coupled to history;
evidently my mind is a bit blank when i try to go beyond
the written records... nice gallery by the way...
sure, the shrunken coccyx gave it away...
and i wish i was... doing acrobatics on trees, still;

**** sapiens said of neanderthals:
if only you had an immune system built to
                                        not succumb to advertisement!

but **** sapiens man said: poach the ivory,
but the elephant will play you a trumpet underwater,
      and you'll ask: why?
              because if the elephant farted you'd
get a methane jacuzzi, and not a quasi-jazz concert...
that wasn't even meant to be funny.

For some, poetry comes naturally
But for me its like carpentry

It takes nails, wood, glue, and time
To build these words that hopefully rhyme

In the end I hope these walls survive
So the beauty that lives within will thrive

To grow into ones colorful crest
To inspire fledgling poets building their first nest.

-when he began transforming his guest room...for me.

-our first Christmas after he moved me home and created our mantle from my old place.

-all over him after his days of doing carpentry with his Dad this spring.

- his scent I crave each day when he returns to our haven after a day of work.

-all over him again last Saturday as he sanded an antique cabinet for me.

I’ll never tire of the scent of sawdust. The scent is etched into my olfactory memories as one so sweet- blood sweat, tears and sawdust.
He puts all of himself into us.
For me and to me, he is love.
And I’ll never tire of the scent of sawdust.

a Darwinist's wet-dream, a youth's depression... i'm not surprised why the two share the same phenomenological plateau: after the said school morphed into existentialism and hit a brick wall with English utilitarianism, it's no wonder it started drawing on parallels - in the 19th century you had the fable of premature dementia - in the 21st century you'll find it hard too curb the fable of premature depression... less schizoids take their own life than premature depressed - the phenomenon of Darwinism's inquiry of the sea-turtles as naturally and intrinsically worthy pity meant that teenagers suffering from premature (unnatural) depression were simply told: aw... you'll get better... we'll just keep looking at the cruelty of nature for inspiration in the realm of sympathy... like ******* will... pharaohs of the food chain... you produced the architectural pointlessness of pyramids... myriads of the crucifix, and the cult of the tombstones... my grandmother visiting the grave of my grandparents almost every, single, day; her son couldn't care less... attaching personalities to inanimate products like cars or planes or Toy Story didn't help, either... but finding Nemo was a bit like finding the great white shark - Darwinism and Disney shouldn't mingle - pity doesn't last outside of what's petted - dogs and cats - you pity an animal outside the realm of what's pitied, you might as well be worth sushi.*

if fame isn't clenched within mortality -
if fame exists in the realm
of posthumous affairs - it exists
for the immortals to judge whether
it out be resurrected -
to be minded in the daily affairs of
inhaled oxygen -
only because the Coliseum was never minded,
but the Caesar's thumb was...
when i see fame i see only c.c.t.v.
"metaphors" - what is fame anyway?
we have a culture of fame surrounding us!
but we can hardly fathom why so many
scientists are left anonymous with their
anaesthetics and antibiotics -
in this world, what's useful is left anonymous,
what's useless is best cited - and constantly
refreshed - what is fame?
what if not cloning? it's such a shame to
be productive in aiming for such goals
rather than attempting carpentry's prodigy son -
if fame is becoming near butcher's worth of
**** and the buttocks exposed -
then fame has became absolutely devalued -
just after the 20th century the game changed -
we have devalued fame... as we have devalued currency -
fame just becomes a Friday newspaper
on the underground train foot-printed with ink-smears
and that other running-mascara -
as with so many billionaires, so with to many
famous people - the last anarchic act before the
insignificance of insects at a picnic bundle of folded
napkins became apparent - we reached the insect
paradox - not lizard cold blooded essence,
but the phobia blooded essence of insects -
the easily replaced - Auschwitz replenished within
a free society... numbers... satellite navigation -
never had i seen Narcissus so petrified with a mirror -
given that someone stole his mirror and the mirror
was shared among so many... Narcissus, synonym of
solipsism, was never so petrified as he was now -
the insect number overcame the feline king's presence -
not much thought concerning the poachers -
the insect-like numbering less the feline king's
presence - the mane completely cinematographic, suited
only for an intro roar - nothing imitable -
it was all slightly less panicky than expected -
so easily squashed the insects were, as we played gods -
but in number we became the most resembling them -
as if by prerogative to prior life on this earth...
we thumb-pressed a fly to death... as we knew in our
waking-dream that something too awaited us to be minded
as the prime venture we gave our thumb to act upon...
that, cold, lizard-like insignificance -
long before our science fiction dreams became realistic -
we realised something counter our current projection
of interests - from the tier of the cold blooded,
to the tier of the hot blooded, into the tier of
the exoskeleton where blood is confused with mush and
bone, where porridge is both brain tissue and liver tissue -
where beings are more emotionally resilient toward
phonetic stresses, as in units of encoded sounds,
and there this sense of coherency -
we look at dinosaurs with superiority of that famous
example of a brain in a pickle jar that's an anaconda -
the snake - but we're also spied against with insects -
they're looking at us - let us speak in terms of Darwinism
as is loved by those citing adaptability and 1 millions years -
well... we have all the time in the world -
the serpent the most abstract remnant of the dinosaurs
is looking at us... and he's saying: look toward the termite
mounds, and the ants as if you were Solomon...
they are the last evolutionary caricatures readied to usurp
your laughter with seriousness... they are neither
cold nor hot blooded... but simply hard-skinned
and uniform in aquatic assemblage contained within -
as once was Mars inhabitable, when Earth wasn't -
given those millions of years - capturing the speed of light
reduced our note-keeping of history as an act of
derelict intelligence - thus from capturing the speed of
light, into a history of day-to-day-day-by-day -
the plagiarism of 20th century art in the 21st -
the speed of light and the expanse of Darwinism -
strobe light historical-science - flash blink flash blink;
what is fame if we're entertained by the paupers in this realm
these days? we're not watching fame worked for,
as something resurrected out of light of interest, selflessly
attired to be cruelly exploited for selfish reasons -
watching the television (my "metaphor" for Plato's Cave)
is like watching homeless people on the street -
i see paupers of fame being paid to be paupers of fame -
the exploits of c.c.t.v. paranoia - the beggars eating lice
or maggots to support their claim to fame...
just like homeless people... the t.v. is the technological
replication of the cave, shadows... shadows...
when Mars was inhabitable Earth was the prior Venus -
the inhabitants of Mars left... and isn't Darwinism dangerous
when it comes to history? imagine two minutes tomorrow
after two p.m. - is that possible with the given kaleidoscope
of interests? Earth was once inhabitable, purest volcanic -
sending probes to Mars has already unearthed our lack
of common sense unity - communism failed,
the sea lion had his harem - we're not built to communicate
with insects' inherent dictatorial precision - hence we're less
bound to succeed in the theory of evolution -
we evolve to be selfish - we don't evolve to be collectively
minded - esp. given money - insects do that...
we're not insects... unless only in our delusional or orbit of hope...
i just wonder what resemblance we will take
to have given the abstract dinosaur - the serpent -
watching the insects evolve from the Tales of Gulliver
into the green-skinned fables of our science-fiction fancy;
what i've written down just now, will not give me fame...
it has already outlived me... it is outside of human history -
just like what modern Darwinism encapsulates,
national history when trying to govern assimilation of
immigrants with the significance of the year 1066...
and then the canvas of: millions of years ago...
the second big bang... although this one being more
complicated than based upon atoms and sub-atomic particles...
too much colour... too much ready geometry of spheres...
NO ******* WONDER THE CHEMISTS WERE LIKE:
**** IT... LET'S BECOME ALCOHOLIC BACHELORS...
THESE PEOPLE LEFT TO RIGHT ARE TOO AWE-STRICKEN
THAT IT'S POINTLESS TO TELL A STORY OF A
SATURDAY NIGHT ****-UP IN GLASGOW.

Without you, without the flirty melancholy,
     Without your memory, without love poetry,
Which from leaf to leaf sets off
Into yellow crisps, and sad crimson,
     Congregating somewhere,
Crackling at every strut, a pixie,
     Graceful, treading on,

I will, I would seem as though the root,
Which, in vain, motions its longing,
Long arm, no hand, nor palm,
     A lone finger, saying that I miss you,
No wind to disintegrate, no lungs,
A heart, meditative of emptiness,
     Dreaming of carpentry.

The dormant doormat of yours,
Even that, could not welcome me,
     Without you.

Without you, it is only you
That moves, not me,
     Not even time.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

Fatherhood is like carpentry,
Crafted with patience and care,
Each piece measured and cut with precision,
To build a home that's strong and fair.

The foundation, a steady base,
A father's love unwavering,
Like sturdy beams that hold up walls,
Through storms and winds unrelenting.

A father's guidance, like a level,
Ensuring every step is straight,
Teaching lessons, shaping character,
Like a master craftsman with every trait.

As children grow and set leave,
Fortified wings are left empty,
He never left until the job was done,
His masterpiece finally won.

So here's to all the fathers out there,
Your dedication, like carpentry,
Is a labor of love that never fades,
And builds a legacy for eternity.