Well, it’s thanks to my friend, Neillie, that I'm standing here today;
He captured me down at his shop as I reached out to pay.
He said, “I have a job for you, and you've twelve weeks to prepare.”
I thought, my God - he wants his toenails clipped or help to dye his hair...

Now, a toast that's for the ladies; Lord, wherever will I start?
He said, “That's nothing rude and nothing crude, something from the heart.”
So, I scratched my head and searched my soul; I was’nae getting far.
It seems that Neillie's harsh restrictions took out half my repertoire.

Anyway - oh the Bard, he loved the ladies, and oh how they loved him back;
Seems a poem's all it took those days to get them in the sack.
No wonder he liked writing of the love that hid within,
Which explains his suave and healthy look, and how he kept so trim.

If only it were like that now; I’d write for all I'm worth,
Grabbing every chance I could each day to nail another verse.
And my wife, she would be pleased for me at all my new attention,
And I'd be thin from running scared from too much pain to mention.

Now, once my business took me roaming to each corner of Great Britain,
So, I catalogued the ladies; just the ones that I was smitten.
Well, Welsh girls they took hours to please, and the Irish take some beating,
And the English girls are very, very nice if your ears can take their bleating.
Ah, but Scottish girls are best by far; as steady as a rock,
But, if by chance your eye should stray, you'll wake withoot your ****.

So I married one, with no regrets; best move that I've made yet,
And I love her dear, with all my heart, in a life with no regret.
For like the Bard, I settled down when love could get no hotter,
But compared to him and his wondrous works, sure I'm just a ditty jotter.

Oh Sweet Ladies, you are dear to us - where would we be without you?
In wrinkled clothes and motley beards in a house of straw and cow poo.
Without you we would just exist - watching football in a bar;
Just sitting, drinking, laughing, eating, drinking…..and sleeping in the car.

Dear, Sweet Ladies, we don’t kid ourselves; we know you have us beat,
Hence why we hold the doors for you, and chairs each time you seat.
We love to do the chivalrous stuff - it makes us look the strongest,
You see, we have to make the most of things - you live the fecking longest.

Well, at last it’s time for me to stop - and give you chance to mingle,
And I'll make peace with my dear wife, before I'm Facebook status: single.
Now, gentlemen, I ask you all - please charge and raise your glasses,
And join me in a bumper toast: “To the beauty of the Lassies.”

The old order changeth, yielding place to new

-Tennyson, Idylls of the King

Like dinosaurs our institutions gasp
In spasms of existential death; they pass
At first unnoticed by the casual unobserver
Who trips over a covenant that isn’t there

If you vote they give you a sticker

The ephemeral Constitution changed
Like sweaty skivvies by each president
Law libraries catalogued for pulp
By obedient functionaries in tees

If you vote they give you a sticker

The faithful escorted out of the cathedral
By a bored security guard on overtime
The altar linens for sale at Goodwill
And the sanctuary repurposed on T.V.

If you vote they give you a sticker

Some of The Just Plain Folks cheer for the Reds
And the others cheer only for the Blues
As the reincarnation of Jack Chick
Blesses their four-wheelers and plastic caps

If you vote they give you a sticker

Election placards on abandoned buildings
Promise again prosperity for all
The **** lab cooks behind The Kute Kidz
Private Academy of the Dance and Math

If you vote they give you a sticker

An outreach of the Bright Light Free Will
Missionary Temple of the Lord Jesus Christ
Of the Lamb Sanctified 501C The Reverend Doctor Master Bishop Billy-Bob Hairdo PhD, DD a-brangin’ Messages and His Esteemed Lady Apostle Heather

If you vote they give you a sticker

And blessed be the Holy AR-15
God gave to His People to defend themselves
Here in the freest country in the world
Which you can find behind the barbed-wire fence

If you vote they give you a sticker

While fleets of luxury presidential jets
Arc high over our public housing projects
Reminding us of our prosperity
Here in the richest country in the world

If you vote they give you a sticker

And them Jews for Jesus I guess they’re all right
But them other Jews they just ain’t no good
Nor them Cath’lics nor them Mormons neither
And don’t you get me started on them Baptists

(We seem to have been otherwise engaged)

“The old order changeth, yielding place to new” –
(But neither cares at all for me or you)

But if you vote they give you a sticker

Truth is the product of the pursuit of knowledge.
Though most people, I have found, do not embrace but fear knowledge.
I believe this to be due to the fact that knowledge is something that cannot be tailored to an individual.

What is, is.
Whether you like it or not.
Knowledge can often be daunting and go against the very foundation of everything you hold "true".

But truth is not there to keep you complacent, it's there to drive you, it's what you should live for.
The pursuit of knowledge is an ongoing process, constantly evolving.

One day you can feel without a shadow of a doubt that you "know" something,
and the next day be proven utterly wrong.

This is why it confuses me so that people hold steadfast to antiquated "truths",
catalogued by humans, and passed down through generations.

Like high school gossip, slipping from one grimy hand into the next,
riddled with the stains of ignorance and manipulation.

Knowledge can often isolate.
Spark hatred in those comfortably numb.

But those on the pursuit are not to be feared or confined,
they're to be celebrated and joined!

Because truth is freedom, and it will only unify.

Don't give up, don't give in.

the death
of self, exhaled, borne upon
wafts of
air, and
I, with my self-conscious
prose and pretensions
of intellectualism,
and I, dreaded I -
there is a beauty in
ideology; even wastrelism,
being the muck of the earth and
much reviled by Proper Gentlemen,
has its allure and adherents
those disciples of Dionysus,
bacchanalia becoming banal by
sheer repetition:
*****, *****, *****, shotgunned beers, and then-
TEQUIIIILA!!
crowed at the top of their lungs,
memory expunged by
hepatic-processed organic compounds.
of course, these mannerisms are simply
beneath you, disdainfully
catalogued by keen eyes:
no, your form of forgettance
is much more forceful, much less
fanciful and romanticized:
your amnesia is
absolute,
it required nothing less than
total dedication, mortification,
death of self as you
expatiated lusts, loves,
aught but ambitions remain,
and now, you have triumphed:
you stand solitary, skyscrapers
shining for your personal
pleasure, yet you can find,
none.

These poems are an extension of me,
A pressure valve to keep my mind from exploding,
These poems are sieves catching grotesqueries
To be turned into something palatable

Poetry somehow doesn't pop without pain,
Somehow inadequate without lurking demons
Fueling passion and longing and fury

These cataclysms are documented and catalogued,
These emotions and stories memorialized,
Their existence in the world a fossil record
Of memories too precious to lose

German refugee husband: “Liebchen – sweetness – what watch?”

German refugee wife: “Ten watch.”

Husband: “Such watch?”

Carl the Bartender: “You will get along beautifully in America.”

                                      -Casablanca

I­ check the time on my retirement watch
(A Seiko; they did not think much of me)
And consider that there is no time at all
Unless Creation is some sort of clock

Childhood is watchless, timeless, careless, free
But adults must be catalogued and timed:
Bulova, Timex, Rolex, and Longines
And even a railway Regulator

I check the time on my retirement watch -
And hustle off to my chapter two job

The mind gets clogged with cobwebs with the steady march of years
“’Twas time,” I decided, “to spring clean between the ears”
The hinges were all rusted on the doorway to my mind
But I entered the dark abyss, not sure what I would find

I was faced with such a jumble of accumulated junk
That for a second I hesitated, and almost did a bunk
But I was driven by a request from a mind still young and fresh
And drew courage from her kindness and continued on my quest

It looked so dark and gloomy as I crept through memory’s vaults
The largest room, and darkest contained the list of all my faults
That room was just plain scary, so I softly closed that door
And went deeper into the labyrinth, determined to explore

Long forgotten smiles began glimmer in one room
And I gathered these around me to drive away the gloom
The more I gathered, the more appeared with a soft and friendly light
I freely spread them all around and made the whole place bright

I swept up unfounded doubts, threw out some groundless fears
And scrubbed the grime from my mind with a bucket full of tears
I catalogued my memories and looked at what I had
I moved the happy ones to the fore, but retained some that were sad

Though sad, they were genuine and had earned their rightful place
But I moved them towards the back so they wouldn’t cloud my face
Jealousy and envy just didn’t want to leave
But I managed to evict them with a super mental heave

I took a break and looked around to see what progress I had made
A top coat of happy memories had made the sorrows fade
I filled a bucket with my achievements, and things that made me proud
And tossed it in the room of faults. Boy! Was the conflict loud.

I gave thanks to the inspiration that first drove me to this task
The improvements that I felt were much more than I could ask
Before I attacked the cobwebs, I never realised
The different perspectives that you gain when your mind is youthenised

Huddled within boundaries highlighted by the craftier. Stubbornly, yet unwillingly willing, escorted to the connoisseurs of morality. Structured, consistent, but reembodied into randomness, the more the merrier.
Spoiled, unripened, famished and fat.
Pleasant, fresh, fit, chubby and… adolescent.
In the name of manipulation, and its ***** messengers, we honour the catalogued pious. To Venus; the untrue, the shameful, the blasphemous. We serve peace and love, abandon the lies of Gods, join your cherished sisters below.

i was born at the heart of a ribbon jam
      my analog pulse
tap
   tap
      tapping
out the lyrics of my fight song

since day one
india ink sludge blood has flowed
     from my dog-earred heart
          straight through to my ball-point fingertips

my DNA lays in cursive wait
     leaping from the pages
        into the light
at every aching plot twist

card catalogued depictions
   
  not of how events factually unfolded
          but of how it seems they could have unravelled
if this were a paperback i'd planned to read
   and re-read
alike

but alas
when the lights go out
     that's it for this round
          and i'll be down for the count
          no matter how hard i fight

but words...
words know not death
     solely evolution

they change their shape
   their time
      their place

a word can only fade
     like aerosol on dust colored cinder

a single word will outlive one hundred empires
   one thousand governments
      ten thousand authors
and so
   it's within articulation that my loyalty lay
   and in my words that i'll find my home

here
in the lowercase swoops and loops
   of the 'A's
      and the 'E's
      and the 'D's
      and the 'G's

...and those little cursive 'Z's that hang just the same as mom's old hammock

           yeah
           home

with every inhalation of stale inhabitation
     i'll exhale a poem

my regenerative reincarnation through catalytic creation

America the Brave,
did you ever look beyond the porch, and see the smoke?
I have felt each gunshot wound and bookmarked each media news story
and even catalogued some photographs
for you to look over again.
because it seems you have a strange habit of forgetting
all the times
where places that children should be learning and laughing
began to look like cemeteries, the doors closing like a cruel purgatory,
when another **** maniac rages in with a legal firearm –
“mommy, I’m okay, but all my friends are dead.”
red crayons will never look the same—
I’ve found that bleach does not clean out
the stains on the carpet and words alone do not console the masses.

America the Free,
have you heard the terrifying orchestra of screeching tires on pavement?
didn’t you learn that running away is the same as running to meet a date with the reaper?
America, please tell me why
I cannot look for safety in a blue uniform, tell me why
the word “police” inspires more fear and pain
than it stands for justice?
there, in the empty streets, are the echoes of the voices in the night that you failed to hear when the sound of
sirens drowned the world in shades of wrong--
“I can’t breathe.”
“I don’t have a gun, stop shooting.”
“please don’t let me die.”
I stand at the gates between crossroads but nobody looks each other
even if there’s the unspoken truth
that some of us are more likely to be studying obituaries than studying to
be finishing our high school and college degrees.

America the Bold,
  please listen when I tell you that there is a pain you cannot hide
beneath IPhones and reality television,
when all I see is hallowed eyes,
empty hands, and
more parents that shouldn’t have to know
what it’s like to buy caskets in mass production, before they even knew how to read, before they could sing praises of your liberty, before they even had a chance to pray for a different fate, one they actually deserved.

America the Beautiful,
for all your Spacious skies, and amber waves…
have you looked at the ugliness of your ****** palms?

I

in the dark starvation is real.
In dark, the emesis that fills my
cheeks is a currency I soak inside, animal
coinage, the fine
bulbous talons of Sepiidae.

Savagely, pelagically
starving made me rich when
Muskrat’s claws pull apart delicate meat.
Sad Spanish blood, I would like you
to panic about what has been lost.
No body, no crime—we are all cannibals; so the muskrat ate
flesh from the dugong-heavy remora

a parallax of sorts occurs
when I cannot find my own entrails—
perhaps they are ruminating in my gut—
boiling in my optic nerve.

But–I found little boys betting quarters for eating bowels
of goat. I was small enough to fit through
playground gates so I could swing
swing in earthquakes, and portents
ride out this day on the waves—to succeed

foothills, grasses, and bath salts
by the creek. I got my quarters.
They asked me who made me as Mountain
Dew dribbled down my chest.
Infant teeth shattered my infant

fists and I did not eat divvied livers and
Victim watchers.
I wrote on
my protruding
viscera
proverbs from my ancient days


–extraordinary porch things, depleted
Phosphorus, and, on bendable limbs
I catalogued my windscraped knees.

How does one so young
become
so fed up with
hunger.

II

Starving made me easier to tie.
easier to lift.
my ancient autopsy of starvation
made me feel gutted out
like Finished
ice-cream containers.
Made me able to hold my breath for
up to six minutes—starving
made me full of Household Gods and rickety
rosaries,

small brown globular clusters,
1 arcsecond of stress
capable of aligning me
with spring-loaded washers

I pop one nut—two—
Dental Work can be a rhizome,
ordering wee-soldiers from
its tethered nodes without
lactation, laceration, infection into
my sleep-deprived throat,
Choking on bird chirps
and x-ray bursts

below the cradle where
my android sleeps. I
have named him The Alabaster.
(Synching The Alabaster.)
The Alabaster–Allie–is a kind of boat
that I have hole-punched into; like
children of the deep I have hurled
nearby rocks into its lungs.
I have wrenched crumbs of my honeymoon
sidewalk, for a beast that panics.
I would trade
the last of the dugongs
for a muskrat’s smile–
now there exists a cult for Plastic
that the spotlights started,

and in the night it will not
end with the filter feeder sinking
to the depth of the imagined water column,
spinning in the Gyre disposal.
There isn’t a colander large enough
to sift through the pejorative waste.

I knew the night would be fraught.
It makes my fusiform body necessary for
transport. Makes Monophyletic solid consumption
trucks and ACE arms reach for
well-behaved spearfish bodies.
Makes days disappear and cold
seem like simmering.
Makes staying out of sight
a trim.

And I told them,
the Fusiforms and Balusters, that
the spearfish would devour the hero who comes
from afar bearing the gift of travel–
Tully-Fisher, with his cottonseed oil
“Manufactured in USA” in
compounding pharmacies.
He made me.
And I told him:

to Tell me to trawl for something less
plastic than my second
self–that I which exists
in Mary Poppins cannons, compact
intimacies, medical and portable–

to dig within my throat, discover a nurdle
that failed to photodegrade during the the day
the Sirenia sang,
the Muskrat gnawed off his leg and hand
fed it to the remora.
III

My mouth is parched
for diagnosis of rickets, for
my un-mineralized bones.
I need RR Lyrae, Statistical π,
population “II”s
to stand in for my night.
I need Sweetened,
Spoonfuls of BB pellets and
Spoonfuls of cepheids to help
the tetany go down,

myopathic infants and
ricket Rosary symbols only work
in sacrifice–In this sense,
I have constructed a panic
architecture–Craniotabes are too
vast. Prions and viroids have seeped
through,

Infections more than dreams,
for injured muskrats who yearn for
the last real mermaid’s smile,
or tears if that would smash open
the cluttered ocean and scatter
the unwanted hosts multiplying
in my spinal fluid.

In day there is no more starvation–
the remora bring me
Libations and admire
my six pack rings mobile.
My connective obligatory.

Under my fingernails are thin
crisps that may somehow create equilibrium.
Although I nibble them regularly
I can’t always swallow.
Surrounded by a dense fog of fleas
my tongue is itching.
My teeth are scratching, scraping
away the space that will always be there.


The antique aisle at the local international
superstore is handing out shriveled
heads of past didactic patients.
But I tell them it’s not what’s there that matters
it’s what’s not there. And in my case
there’s a surplus of nothing that
I can live without.

on this page i write pain, and the html censor revises it with flower... need for a positive vocabulary feedback of life in general?! what is this hippy ****, what's the point of writing the raw when you're revised as well done, missing the Tartar alt.?!

variations on E.C.T. as catalogued by
Sylvia Plath in the Bell Jar -
Ken Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest -
mute Indian the winner in that one -
Hubert Selby Jr's Requiem for a Dream -
or perhaps from?
never mind - the mild electric chair
for therapeutic purposes, gamer crew and
the virtual reality mask - so many profess
to needing one - IQ enhancing stereotypes -
but there's me with a bottle of whiskey
and some spare time -
the professionals speak of an undoubted
pain threshold -
so instead of outright killing each other
we masked it behind outright necessity of
turning **** sapiens into guinea pigs -
clap... clap... clap... clap... and that clap
already resounds prior to this marking and forth
toward another century of the desert of
Darwinism - ever hear that joke?
a chemist, and physicist and a Darwinist
enter a bar - a chemist orders Hapsburg 98% proof
absinthe, a physicist order a shandy,
while the theoretical biologist (Darwinist)
orders a gene atlas and pseudo **** safety pins to mark
his route should he be drunk, and should be,
but isn't, he's on a rampage of walkie-talkie steroids
befitting only the tongue - raps and raps
without rhymes - 'buddy, drink something!'
'i'll drink a smoothie of aborted fetuses,
in that Christian calendar: the feast day of a would
be Mozart', oh hell, a would-be ****** too...
you have to much capacity and the claustrophobic
area of expression, believe me, they won't let
you fill your full potential -
take to rank, take to surgical instructions -
the man in charge at Oxford says:
please don't use frightening words electroshock therapeutics -
but i swear that's what it was?
treating momentary lapses in apathy - angry,
jealous, psychopathy - i.e. people uncomfortable
with the idea of Σ (totality, given neurology and
the brain myth, found elsewhere, or in / as total) / soul -
leave them be, we need psychopaths to give us
consumer gratification for the and in with the existence
of corporate sister nationhood -
well, unless you want a start-up in the sense of
a French Revolution - that one's booked:
only in America - elsewhere we're just Palestinians,
throwing rocks and paper-drones at metal -
testing out Newton and not the Einstein's parabola -
algebraic notation *x (time) hyphenation y (space) -
which means given algebra there's a third missing,
from Kantian standpoint of 0 - a z... god?
or, wait, refrain from Darwinism's anti-social collective
of a personal will - oh i don't know, improvise!
but what critique came to Communism (post-theoretical
socialism) came to the project of a multiculturalism -
this time round it wasn't the Pope that undermined it -
still, people confuse an attack on Communism
with an attack on Martial Law - the actual critique
came against Martial Law years December 13, 1981 to July 22, 1983,
we feared the Soviet invasion - why do you think
my communist party member grandfather lives
without complaint? of course the first to complain
are the farmers - before them the nobles drank,
got bored, cured boredom with borderline paedophilia -
the bemoaning - the king ****** me last at Versailles -
i lost my virginity and i subsequently lost my
ideal, i defined reality with a symptom.
so once we warred and killed each other -
but since we're a bit more pacified these days -
we decided to internalise warring with each other,
and instead of killing each other we decided to
experiment on each other - the reinterpretation of
E.S.T. into E.C.T.; prices start at £89.00 for the basic
kit to imitate death row simulation... you the funny
thing is... once you've experienced a brain haemorrhage
you became a slight sadist - you want the pain to come
to finish you off - some say the soul is bound to bones -
animation, pure and simple - that the non-existence of
soul is proved by the remain of bones - but that's
whiffed away with the Hindu practice of cremation -
and that's dark comedy given the Nazis -
it's almost like the Nazis wanted to end the debate,
the already Gothic practise of burial and bone-keeping -
as if invoking the geometry the soul would pick up first,
the abstracts of mechanisation, the canvas readied for
ether muscles and juice - ****** ended up
Hinduism on amphetamines; ****, i think i lost a bracket (
somewhere... oh well, i guess i must end with ).

I hid you under layers
Bright lies I told myself
In order to forget.
The words you sent
Once catalogued & treasured
Stopped my progress
Or the days that passed.
My eyes closed
Trying to unthink you —
A ghost in the attic,
The pain I can't be without.
I erased emails.
Messages.
Phone numbers.
My heart. My soul.
Yet you still remain.

A museum, a post office, a hoard of trinkets:
Think of all these things, and beyond them.
A room, vast as knowledge, filled clumsily
From top to tail with books and songs and poems and pictures;
Accoutrements of one life, lived.
All is quiet, save for the slow, sonorous ticking of time.
All is still.

Until:


A pale silver sliver of a
Jewel, locked loose in its box, starts to slip forward from
The chests and crates and jars and
Begins to roll, threads its winding way through
The labyrinth of shelves,
Picking up speed,
Brought back from beyond by
A ****** of song, a whisper of
Heartache…


… and drunk as a skunk I am roaming, reeling
Raw from a gig with the lads.
And as we chorus, cradling
Dreams and hearts and
Each other in our arms,
The night above is infinite
And the ground below is solid
And the starlight flows like our laughter
As we stumble home.


Time does not stand still. It never does. But in that moment, a
Measure of starlight, a ****** of song, come together and
Crystallise.
And deep in the recesses of the room
A pale silver sliver of a jewel
Is catalogued, logged, noted and filed
Before being locked away, for who knows how long…


…and then I am back. The gem once more
Is in its rough box, the key in the lock
While on the radio, a song ends.
All is quiet, save for the ticking of the clock
And the scratching of my pen.
All is still.

you plan to trap
to take a cut-
a ripening peach
with sugar bait?

you soil yourself
remove all sense
when all you have
you desecrate

her body sees, her body sees

'I'll take it now
she's just the size
to make me big
bend over chick

for she won't see
to mists she'll flee
I'll do a trick
with my joystick'

her inside sees, her inside sees

it's not all past
in spurting spray
a laughing squirt
bull at a gate

to steal a bud
the harshest crime
to rob a child
her life dictate

her body tells, her body tells

for it is seen
and registered
it's catalogued
in Judge's file

the breakage raw
her broken selves
you callous brute
are facing trial

and all can see
as you do now
the lies you told
you *******

If music were Arrhythmic it would consider us
On tinsel wire lit into net to beads
Eternally reaping
The clink of solar windmills
Echoing, echoing until it becomes flesh,
Tired, ringing decibels
Filling with water and becoming eyes
So that Death is a character
Swimming just past the horizon;
Collisions become heartbeats
Become locomotive thoughts
Charging westerly winds
Until our faces hone, stormed
And born.
Only my soul is left to fall,
Cygnus x-1 in a pool,
My life a distant call
Catalogued by the stars,
Noted for declination; classified pulsar
My words are dust in another’s space
But they recall fire and I blazed;
                                              Numerically, years;
                                               Physically, rage
And the only thing that breathed were dreams
And they sail, eternally, past the rhyme (Time)
They’ll still float when I return to haunt you;
They cast no light but they guide and sigh.  
Alive

I crawled away from you
The way a dog deserts its pack to die
And you all
Watched me make my slow progress across the floor
Inch
By
Inch
And you did nothing.
You saw, and I saw you see
And you saw me see you pretend to know nothing.
And now I am alive again
Awake and able.
The shadows of my suffering still follow at my heels, trying to trip me as I walk, and scurry behind doorjambs and under tablecloths when I turn to catch them but,
I no longer crawl.
I no longer struggle.
And as I have woken and made my weary way back to humanity
I have found that my complete transformation
My journey into hell and through the fires-
The torment that forged me into something utterly new,
I find that you look past it
Let your eyes slide over me like you used to
Unwilling to ask,
Unwilling to know and yet your false knowing sets off bombs
The ones I walk so lightly over
Grenades buried beneath the tender green new grass
Which covers the battlefield where I fought for my life, for my status as a human being, for my place in this world,
And you say "We all fight."
"Everyone struggles."
Of course
To hurt is to be human. Everybody does-
But not everyone
Sits back and watches another crumble to dust,
Not everyone says
Well
It isn't my problem if they can't cope,
Not everyone looks with eyes
So cold
Upon a bleeding, broken thing
And concludes that because it bleeds when beaten it invites its wounds.
And as you look past me
As you name me by a word I no longer recognize
All I can think is that
I fought
I won
At a cost
And I am still not fully healed,
And yet I am the same to you
Either way
You who are supposed to see
You who are supposed to be
Observers
Of the human condition-
Observers, not bystanders!
Nowhere is it written that you must take notes--
'Oh yes, see how her lip trembles as she cries
See how she fights for breath.'
Nowhere is it set down in stone that you can't
Get up and at least pretend to be like they are
These people you look at
And study
And pin to your pages like butterflies catalogued.
Can you feel? Did you
Feel?
Did you look into my eyes and see me
Decimated
And blame me? And never ask me the truth? And create your own?
Did you really think I could forget being
In the center of a circle
Of lies I had to agree with to survive
Shredding my pride for the sake of my place?
My place, indeed,
In a place where emotions are bought and sold
But never owned or treasured.
You watched me fight
Life or death
You, whose arms I've fallen into when I could have hit the floor,
You who I am supposed to trust with my soul and its dark wounded parts
You who I am supposed to grow with.
You watched me and
You let me
Fight
Alone.

Big whack stack
of monetary memories
catalogued in dream states
vibrating at different subconscious frequencies....

With the headphones in I listen
to the past and future collide
into a cosmic harmonious kaleidoscope
of the present moment--
piercing through my perception
of right/left conscious thought
moving so molten fast
wielding each side together seamlessly.

so...
I catalogued it-

You asked-
sorry...Assigned.
here's the sheet.

name an event, puzzle through your own
tumbling thoughts and
show me the reason.

right here, line three
it was a bad day.

line four shows my
neurosis.

will laying it
all out be
the cure

the fixer?

I've made lists,
but no matter how many I make
for you

for me
the

writing is still
on the wall.

To describe beauty—isn't by sight,
rather insight.
The mind is beautiful,
a *** *****; pleasing of the know how it shows,
of how much experiences it has catalogued.
As the heart—filled with passion flowing,
lips of course express the words of love.
The hands place action to the physical of one's
love to their own, given once by another.

To a resting place, is a forest of ten thousand
trees,
Where sweet nothings echo into their final bite
of one's words bark.
So as the two make love, under the canopy of
two's embrace—
Seems the passionate partaking, wisps the morning energy
for the day, and a reason to leave.

Too passionate beings, two lovers making
love.
Under covenant, as the circling ring,
she is his, as she calls to him.
He greets her always with a wet kiss.

It's bliss; ignorant forgetfulness.
"I forgot what we were even fighting about"

It has never been right to **** your patients, and yet
You've got consent to drop bombs they won't live through to regret
Radiate them entirely from the inside to the outside
But the dawning realization is that the victims cannot hide
As they sit with blood all pumping in their veins
Checking their pulse to see how much time remains
Until they're carted out, just another toe tag
And the coroner zips up yet another black bag
Recognition is the lowest form of understanding
Yet you slap a name on something and you're suddenly commanding
As though you're the only person who knows what to do
But the people without white coats know about as much as you
They can recognize the pain and they know that it's a stall
Years of people in your care and you've never cured it all
They voice that they are hopeful that their loved one will pull through
But beneath it all they know that the good outcomes are few
So they sit and hold the hands of the people they still love
Knowing that they soon will leave this place, and to cherish moments of
Full coherence and the times when the whole family’s together
As though this were just another storm the family could weather
It’s the end of an era, they all know within
And their forceful denial doesn’t deny Death the win
As he swoops with his cape and his scythe there in hand
And slices at the soul and drags it back to his land
So the patient flat lines, and you hang your head
You don’t have to tell the family; they that know he’s dead
It doesn’t faze you as much as it did years ago
When you still questioned your faith and wondered where we all go
When the candle is snuffed and our life-line is cut
Leaving the survivors with guilt in their gut
See, you finally stopped caring about such questionings
Because the doubting left you thinking that you just did little things
So you tried to cut it out, and leave all that in the past
Trying to convince yourself that your doings would last
Like your time here on Earth was going to count when it ended
And your soul would escape on angel wings suspended
But some nights when you’re by yourself, in the loneliness you dread
Little voices come and whisper the thoughts deep within your head
Saying that people don’t get what they deserve, not usually
They only get what they get, and any fool could see
That receiving any hand, doesn’t mean it wasn’t stacked
Doesn’t mean the cards were shuffled, doesn’t mean they weren’t tracked
Could be that the same ace you had was given to two
And the other ace-holder played it faster than you
Leaving you without the years you were going to live
Striking from you all the phrases and the love you were to give
Like a river struck a dam, your lifespan was shorter
You would sooner take the train of death, handing obol to the porter
Sometimes it just doesn’t matter how well you played the game
Because Death isn’t specific and he treats us all the same
Age, rank, or affiliation won’t hold his scythe at bay
When he’s marked you as his target that he’s next to take away
And the voices in your head speak this into your ear
Just when you think it’s silent and you’ve nothing to fear
You’ve put your time in at the hospital, and you know you’re doing good
But you’re physically not well, and why isn’t quite understood
You should be happy to be helping those with the issues you’re resolving
But you begin to feel the hamster wheel by itself revolving
No longer are you choosing, though your choices led you here
The voices tell you different, but you don’t let yourself hear
What are you doing? Is it truly what you want?
Was life just meant for misery, and happiness a taunt?
You’re surrounded by the ailing, and you look them in the eye
Your oncologist’s senses approximate when they’ll die
You feel like a colonel leading unknowing young men
To the front lines to get shot at again and again
Promising the mothers as you take the boys away
That their sons will be fine and live another day
When you know in your heart that that isn’t the case
And most would be shipped home flag over their face
Those remaining are surrounded by the chosen of the draft
The unstable cannon fodder, and the ones that love this craft
Yet whether in your care, or out there in the field
The soldiers that you know cannot force Death to yield
While he may get distracted and pick off the others first
Sometimes it’s not the pain, but anticipation that’s the worst
When the strike is slow and silent, like a bullet that would glide
As your eyes were peeled forward, to strike you in the side
Spilling forth the gray that mattered, and your buddy whirls ‘round
Looking for the shooting culprit, but he’s nowhere to be found
Now that Death’s incoming, he goes through the motions
He’s seen it all before, the incantations and potions
The desperation amuses him but the thing he loves most
Is slowly pressing Fear in the body of a host
And when it’s ripe and lovely, dripping when they speak
That’s when he knows he’s got them, that’s when he knows they’re weak
Your soldiers fall beside their foes, all you do is hold the clipboard
Looking frantic at the file of every single lost ward
“It wasn’t me, it was Death!” but that’s not a diagnosis
And claiming that you see him, is a sure sign of psychosis
So you zip up your mouth, and throw out the key
Knowing that your battle’s over, and you cry suddenly
The tears just escape you and fall without warning
As you’re dressing up plain for more bad news this morning
You’re crying for each patient, for every second that they’ve lost
For all the days they couldn’t have because someone said that was the cost
Their hand wasn’t their choice, and they played them through, no folding
But they just couldn’t beat the royal flush dealer was holding
When they up and away, though you try not to remember
The moment’s locked in your head, like a fire’s last ember
All it needs is a stirring, something sharp to ignite it
And this morning it’s too much and you simply can’t fight it
You give in to the tears and they cleanse your red eyes
And you feel cleansed from within as though you’ve washed out your lies
Because you care about the patients, and the voices that once spoke
You’ve thrown all away, and the locks on you broke
It’s simply a matter of dealing with loss
And overcoming the pains that once were your boss
So you straighten your tie and prepare for today
Knowing that if things aren’t good, then crying’s okay
But mobilization, and actions are key
In changing the outcomes positively
A cleansing is needed, but you have to schedule the day
When one brain half leads, and the other goes away
Death’s not a thing that’s stupid or crazy
To cry about, and though finality’s hazy
And you still haven’t sorted through all of your doubt
There’s a fine chance you know what living and dying’s about
Now whether or not you believe there’s life after
It’s a good rule of thumb to cause people laughter
Be kind to your friends, be kind to your foes
Offer up hope to those with or without woes
Be good of heart and if you die, so be it done
That you among others, will be a missed one
It’s not about fairness of life, or longevity
Though it is disappointing to live life with brevity
If you’re active and friendly, you’ll be leaving a mark
Though your body decomposes, your spirit left a spark
Like those embers of memory you stirred up that morning
Pieces of you will revive without warning
In the lives of the people you touched and affected
Your Jolly Roger, in pieces, is erected
And you’ll stowaway like in a book by Robert Louis
But in the heart of a young one, a young man, who is
Training to do what you did, for the masses
Working alongside other young lads and lasses
Your profession and traits still exist, and that’s grand
Just knowing that you were a part, gave a hand
To a new generation, of leaders and lovers
And though they may not sing Bob Dylan covers
They’re connected to you through time and space
And the goodness you’ve done could not be erased
When you go, let it be at your time, and remember
Even if you think not, you’re somebody’s ember
Yes, your life has been catalogued by people that love you
Because feelings don’t change when people walk up above you
So when you’ve life to its fullest and slip into your last covers
Do not doubt you’ll live on in your friends and lovers
Now these life-living tips are not costly and no scam
But now we return to our usual program

I want to paint the colours of the rainbow on everything I see
I want to splash the light frothy foam of my less-than-awesome cappuccino onto this page
I want these black, white, and grey squiggly lines to capture the moments that make my days

All the heavy thoughts and deep emotion poured out and catalogued through the ages
The stories of our greatest, deepest, and weakest selves
The highs, the lows, the darkest, the brightest times
Odes to lost love, songs of beauty,
Essays on the human condition -
All worthy subjects for immortalization

But I'd like to save a little corner of the page for -
My daily fights with that abrasive flaming-red outdated alarm clock
The late afternoon sun filtering through the slats on the early twentieth-century windows in the stairwell of my office building
The discarded spider web hanging forlornly from the hardback Oxford dictionary in the bottommost corner of my bookshelf
The rusted signage on the dilapidated building on the corner, that was once a hub of commerce in this ever changing, ever constant, city by the sea
One of these days what was by the sea may become​ part of it;

I want to remember what once was -
Not because of its aspirations to grandeur, or the many, varied battles fought over it;
It is not always attractive or easy to love, it is often old, tired, confused, even ******, in the evening lights that misunderstand its cracks and crevices
But it has stood here, and drowned here in the deluge of hungry people and high tides and poor drainage and unrepentant rains and it has survived and thrived and been home to so many millions and saviour to so many more
And I am loath to let its inheritance fade and fall into the abyss of forgotten things..

What is this mystery
we desire & call
love?
We all seek it
knowing or not
if it's in our
hearts.
We're driven to ask
whether it exists
at all, giving us
the perspective to see
that nothing exists
without it.
You don't read this poem
without love's
****** embrace.
Its creative power
pours the essence
of being.
The affinity
chemicals express
for each other
is catalogued
& categorized
into processes
& methods, evidence
of a mind crying
for absolute understanding.
We love truth
not for its beauty
but for its simplicity,
which carries beauty
in its form.
Yet the simple truths
sting the most,
like fear's glance
or the reaper's lance.
Let's follow the simple
truth that love is
all there is (for
The Beatles weren't lying)
& there's no reason why
love & death aren't
one & the same.
Perhaps life is
an expression of love
for the finer things
& death is our love
for the endless.
One moment we grow
tired of nothing,
swayed by love's
desire to be known,
born into another
universal fling.

Continue to lie to him
And to lie with me
For it is love not lust which is so bittersweet
By and by come
You who would allow
My poison to condemn everything you shall ever love
Then you and I can prostrate upon
The altar you hold so dear and that I know so well

At least for a moment
I will then trudge in to the horizon scorned by the sun
Leaving you in solidarity

So like the others I can be catalogued—
Stocked upon your shelf a token
Your conquered warrior king
Victim to your feral grin and unbound locks
Now fodder for your written emotions

For every night you close your eyes
You will remember the night where
Our chests heaved in synchronicity
And your cries were silenced
By the beating of your heart

There I will become the best piece of literature you will ever write
And you will become my most beloved sin

Two heads
rest upon the bed
where genetics went haywire.
A simple mistake
with a complicated result
often too much for some to take.
Little cat, tumbling to life
two faces morphed and mewing
stumbling right to eternal sleep.
But it's not a life lost-no
it's a spectacle,
tiny monster,
floating in a jar
for nothing but "oohs", "aahs", and study.
Nobody mourns the little cat,
a second face deeming it unworthy
of concern.
Did mama cat know
her precious baby wasn't called a "kitten"?
but a Janus Monster,
a freak of nature,
a prime scientific diamond.
Little monster cat won't get a coffin,
it'll be jarred-catalogued-and stored,
burried in dust instead of dirt.

they did not know she had millions, neither did she. just collected one item at a time, cared fully for         each one of them.                                                                                                         catalogued in eternally.



words affect us deeply.   voices  come and go.                                           while the worlds spins with  people’s chaos and confusion.       yet.           above the noise of the day     they show me birds and insects          did you know they cross their fragile legs?





did you find a pin there, did you pick it up and stick it?   did you stay safe, wrap the shawl around and hold    it   close?        did you see my life breaking, bring me pins for mending? …



stick in be safe , despite the pain and raddled cotton threads.   to hold my life, hold the rusty hinges, prepare the coats of varnish again     .                    remember your mother’s pins, my friend.

be well in your mending.



she asked what it is all about. just everyday things to look at, nothing to buy, like in a museum with strings and labels.

sbm.

we're standing at the corner of the
bar and for the first twenty minutes i'm
scared I didn't lock my car door.

I'm wondering why people are so fragile--
how some feel like staunch walls and others
bone china, how when you hold them, some
feel like they have been here and others like
they have been nowhere, as if you might
fall straight  through them because you
should know better than to lean on a shoji

When I touch people I feel their sadness--
bodies have shields but I've missed that
stair step, forgot there was a ledge there,
groped for the light switch and found                                air
he isn't a body, he's a hurt, a walking,
talking, immortalized pain.  


Sometimes I find myself desperately searching
for something witty, for a laugh, for an old topic
we've already discussed.   I ask did you get home safe?
by default because worry is the only place to go that's fair
territory, to care is to succeed, thrive in your propensity to brood

I'm still standing at the bar in a peach cardigan
the bartender squeezing in and out of the opening
and some biker with a gnarly gray beard buys us
shots of jameson which is pretty fitting but there's
still a full 4.30 worth of Redds in my hand that I
won't much touch--


Greetings from Inside My Head, a postcard I should
have sent out years ago, halls and halls of literature I've
written about each day, catalogued in scenarios, in fantasies
in trucks beds, events that lasted no longer than ten seconds
I've written monologues about people's fingers and how the
sunlight falls on different shoulders, every moment is a
stanza, every Alpha state a macrocosm, I'm in a room
full of well-oiled people and they're made up of tea
leaves, soot, black leather and molasses.

it's 11:33 and everyone's facing away from me for a moment
I keep telling Jessica she looks like she's crying, ironically, I didn't
know that's what happens when you're hammered.  I shake
someone's hand, my name is somewhere out there on the pool
table, knocked around and lost down a hole like a billiard ball
like with anything, comfort requires the right kind of place
with a specific time zone, the one that comes with certain
people and my clock keeps spinning,

spinning

spinning.

I knew him. He transferred into my eigth grade class somewhere past half way into the year. A friend raved about how the new kid was so quick to lend her a pencil. I didn't care.

He was in my PE class and even though he looked so athletic, he could never catch a ball. He was always a good sport about it, even as the other kids started to make fun of him behind his back. He talked differently, using big words, often incorrectly, and with a surprisingly hopeful inflection. He was loud. Not only did I not care, I contributed to his ridicule. It seemed good natured and I just wanted to fit in.

We all just wanted to fit in.

Coincidentally, we transferred together to a different highschool; we both didn't fit in, but for different reasons. He was in my home room. He was friendly and outgoing and always did what he could to try and make other students laugh. I couldn't tell if he knew they were laughing at him. I didn't care.

At first when he ran into me in the hallways, he would smile and try to talk to me. Mine a more familiar face to a boy stranded in a sea of strangers. I would only talk briefly and displayed no emotion, save impatientness. I didn't care.

He eventually caught on to my apathy, and left me alone. He preferred the company of those who laughed. At least an insult was a response.

We were all skippers, but he had been condemned to sail alone.

He twerked in a dance off at a school pep rally. He did his best to get in front of a camera when the broadcast kids came around. He was always extremely polite to our homeroom teacher. He talked a lot in home room. I sat in the corner and pretended no one existed. Before he would try and make everyone laugh, he would still say hi to me. I didn't care.

I joined the chess club for a while. At maybe my third meeting he came in and began to ask the teacher about something. I think it was the death penalty. I didn't care, so I didn't remember. At the end of the chat, he thanked the teacher for his weekly moral lesson. I never thought about it.

He said his morals were different from the rest of the world. I hear he shot himself. He said not to mourn his death but to celebrate his life.

I never did that. I never cared.

Even now, his life is catalogued in my brain as part of an awkward eighth grade year for me, part of home rooms I hated going to, part of a school that made me vaguely uncomfortable. Caring now is a lie, a lie to say I did all I could for a broken soul, that I am only an innocent bystander. I never cared, so I can't pretend that I did now.

I'm not guilty of his death. No one is guilty of his death. The blood is mixed with the dirt as his ashes will soon be. The blood is on the dirt, not our hands. But we walk on this dirt, we till this soil, we plant our futures here in this ground. It's time we all started taking better care of it.

I feel myself at the
Edge of this great
Desperate
Chasm
Where the pebbles
Beside by my toes
Break away to
Hurl themselves
Into this fearful unknown

Four books at this bedside

It's not yet eight o'clock

But I cannot bring myself to
Crack any of them
Right now
To escape this weight
Another restless night

I am overwhelmed
This flood of reminiscence
And desperation
Pressing down and drawing out
The last air of these
Over-worn lungs

I can count names on
Catalogued fingertips
I can see faces, somehow,
In faltering memory



I hurl impatient prayers
At the ceiling of
This dark room
In hopes the Lord still
Seeks out sinners

Even those foul as me

re.: a mini-psychotic detour -
it's off the stream! it's off the stream!
it's been catalogued in: latest!
it's off the stream! i'm aiming to reach
1million words and...
it's off the stream... so the word
count will not be incorporated...

oddly enough i still know how
to use a toaster - and a kettle -
i am also fabled with having to perform
week long chemistry experiments...
why i didn't look into the basics
of

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funny that... how ever many of years
in school, then at university...
i was teased with this language...
for half a semester at university...
the rest of the time school was...
a bit like being in prison...
making sure the prison guards had
a job, were paid...
same with school...
the teachers were paid...

did they teach us basic computer language?
no... i'm pretty sure they didn't...
were we all expected to go to the coalmine
first... before being told to...

which isn't so much lazy as...
i can still remember chalk and chalkboard
at school...
and the holy trinity of (
                                    {      [
how many crescent moons - and altering
a piece of: would be paper?

oh my god... e. e. cummings wasn't even
born...
can you imagine if e. e. cummings
was born 20 years ago...
and started smashing out his:

stand-
;still)

i was honestly being technologicaly
paranoid...
about to cite archive numbers
of "missing" / "shadow-banned"
poo'ems...

e.g. 3479319, 3482972, 3485309,
3484258, 3483083, 3480751,
3480555, 3478158 etc.

but how is that even an over-hyped
reaction - when you're only scratching
the bare minimum -
of what's nonetheless, to me:
a 2 dimensional canvas...

and the point of school was to ensure
that we could fathom our naiveness even more so...
nothing of importance...
just passing the time...
it's not like they could have taught
us to code -
school is not some preface for:
all the subsequent self-taught mechanisms
you will ever encounter:
further on life...

why did i go to school?
why is the cult of school and the nostalgia
culture associated with: popular kids,
nerdy kids, bowling for columbine...
the everyday leftover kids -
i don't even remember being
taught grammar: proper...
we were told... as long as you sound
coherent...
nature came - nurture ****** off somewhere...
but nature didn't come
with <basic> or not so </end of>
with this sort of <bracket>
and this sort of (bracket)
and this sort of {bracket}
and this sort of [bracket] -

"back in the day" you'd read some heidegger
and not "bother" to code -
" " implies /misnomer
/metaphor - solo....

as: burgundy < red
     red being the base marker...
     given that rose < red (is also)...
     since burgundy > red
     since: burgundy ≈ purple...

<approx>
     cardinal < crimson
                                           </approx>

a "debate", and another debate -
in a thesaurus entry...
red - cardinal, crimson, burgundy appear
<sim>
           cardinal < burgundy
                                             </sim>

that is... cardinal ~ burgundy
   ergo cardinal > crimson...
or do we call these the prefixes: quasi~
and pseudo≈?

cerise and all that's suddenly expected to turn
into fluorescence of some underwater Florence...
from carmine and maroon -
brown starts to creep in...

     bobby vinton - blue on blue and...
spaghetti westerns -
somehow i wish to be held in the hands
of a coroner -
i should really think about
donating my body to a medical school -
and bobby has another great track:
velvet blue...
sure... he's no sam cook...
all the way riddled with h'american
suburbia psychopathy:
a smile can hide a thousand
little lies...
a smile is something anti-stoic...
because... the shine of the ivory sheen...

and all i can think of...
not even beginning sentences -
esp. not ending them -
the narrative went with the baby
and the bathwater -
the canary had a coalmine -
the budgerigar had a cage...
the sparrow were tattooed
along with swallows onto convicts
bodies in some jean-genet
minor *****-porky-teen-flick...

tender-bits from some Olaf or Oleg...
or better still an Olga...
recitations would also require:
bumblebees and petula clark!

and that one song that surfed right
above my head and started towing
a hoarding of kippahs
and a... my my... all those
abrahamic beards turned into sabbath
bound brooms for the fwench
brides of boredom...

some might say it's:
strawberry alarm clock -
incense and peppermints...

      as Herman's Hermits aged much worse
than a Donovan...
no milk today and the three kingfishers...

welcome citations...
what's more apparent? someone is clogging
up the arteries of time...
the veins are... the veins that stretch as far
back as jazz from the 1920s...
through to the wock and woll of the 50s...
don't get me started on what's the leftover
of the 90s of the 20th century...

new beginnings they will cite...
here's one... if e. e. cummings was to be born...

swing low
sweet ca

rr
y on

(pass the freedoms pappy
or uncle shylock not interested

- notes on finland the elsewhere estonia,
latvia and li... i will not give lithuania up
that easily... the once grand duchy...
married to the crown -
and all my hitorical adventures -
the sensible today...
the modern sensibility the current man!
me and my historical... what did i call them?

no... they're not idiosyncracies...
they're... detours in infantalism...
but if e. e. cummings was born circa...
and he - he would mosty certainly
succumb to code logic poetics...

bracket (a) "bracket" <b> bracket {c} bracket [d]...
!red is blue -
outright negation...
!red isn't red - the "is" is therefore questionable...
for some reason: no, it doesn't have to be:
but it's blue... blue is !red

should a mr. buckling bucktooth still
be introduced?
well: we do need to indroduce a next to nothing
worth nothing new: cipher unit...

a faux pas needs to have an addressee -
namely me - and i need to wallow in infuriated
agony of a petty detail that no life will
require to cherish!

- and that i am to be fond of tomorrow in that
the only promise that awaits me there is:
me baking a four tier cake - literally...

how terrible a faux pas becomes -
a bull so enraged by red that he becomes blinded
and no longer is able to hone onto
the originating crux -

even somehow "somewhere" with a dasein in
tow... intermitten years...
no... not without a T attached...
and even by now as by then:
that's a misnomer...

- apparently tautology is not a logical
fallacy... but something worth
a thesaurus rex and peacock's: "age of discovery"...
how we can all speak a language
of aphorisms and verb conjectures -
as ever: nouns retain their form as being
the most complete category of everyday
toils - a hammer will never become
an iron shrapnel hanging by a hook chin
off the clide edge of a nail's head...

set with time in mind - temporal thinking...
otherwise set with space in mind -
spatial thinking -
otherwise: when thinking was simply
thinking - exploring the moral architecture...
with that moral-theta of 'ought... and i:
probably not...

save me from linguo-savvy h'american
media pundits and their acronyms!
the boss, the bot the bot, the boss...
the bottom liner - the beatnik and the bolshevik
and... some other b- prefixed outlier...

- otherwise: it's pretty **** evil...
for movies to showcase the hygienic act of
washing ones teeth...
washing the teeth...
spitting out the remaining toothpaste
(oh jeez louis! why don't they simply,
swallow it?)...
and then... not rinsing their mouths?
at this point... rinsing the mouth...
after having just washed the teeth using
toothpaste... is probably as much good
as using mouthwash to begin with...
no one; no one rinses their mouths
after brushing their teeth on film?!

i've too many dreams about teeth
to know - i am actually the sole proprietor of
a memory of my great-grandfather...
and how... he would eat 20 sugar cubes
a day... smoke 40...
and have his first tooth pulled out...
aged 62...
myth, history... journalism?
i dream about teeth...
i would have clearly asked for:
and he dreamed about moths...
but then... oh Eden is still in my grasp...
i can see the next forbidden fruit
hanging...
her name is Layla... and she's...
borderline 16 years old...
i see my Eden already...
i see the forbidden fruit...
apparently i never left...
as i was never apparently Adam...

problem is: you already know what
the forbidden fruit is...
and it's bothering you that i know
what the forbidden fruit is, for me...
now comes the juggling act
of me entertaining not making my will
into a resolve... which is to not:
act upon it...
maybe the apple was too complicated...
maybe a Layla circa 16 is...
a more obvious deterrent...

i think it's also called:
the prosecutor's *****...
but... enough gob and enougn dosh...
you can be the new st. andrew of windsor...
even in the taxi driver the ****
is 0... negated...

my my... what sort of language could
even become so casual...
the burning bridges of informality...
strapped to the formal tool of
orientating one's spatial creed of:
for the exchange of goods and services...
long gone the per se
of a school and a playground...

or some do... want to find and rekindle
the brotherhood of childhood...
they'll join the army...
they'll commit themselves to crime...
some men... it's hardly the adventure riddle
first lady's history society of
rhode island's desperate housewife club...
but...
it's hardly a deviation from imagining
how fudge is packed,
or for that matter: sausages...

a major faux pas...
some e. e. cummings... and what would never
become a code(d) poo'em...
but... for what today had to offer:
and what i had to offer today;
it's enough... it's peaches and cream...
a well balanced butterfly of reciprocation...
it's a death... but a death with a promise
of returning: in situ...
although in situ is always a flexible
requirement when reincarnation is fiddled
with.

they are very rough when they sing
their vibratos are intergalactic
high and zigzagged with enormous BOOMS!
and crash into sky
and into Earth

but on Earth they translate the sounds to be birds
and bird wings—they’ve come to call it:
an ornithological phenomenon
how these tiny bodies can emit crashing sounds
from their larynx and feathers
and make them echo around the solar system
is a mystery or two

but no one suspects them
on top of their mountains
surrounded by red sand
tracked with utility vehicles, rovers,
so succulent-free
that you aim to drink the earth
and blink when their proximals help them float
against a martian cold

they bring to the desert false colours;
hues of yellows, greens, and purples
and behind them they leave feathers,
ticklish things to be found by astronaut-scientists
citizens of sand and rocks
which accumulate as field notes tell of their history:
they won’t be catalogued
but they will be arranged by locality

awhile, a time ago, wrote:

“the oven's writing warmth,
still faint discernible,
giving off the aroma of heated ink,
upon a skin-smooth page..”

                         <>

my words returned by the commentator-in-chief:

“Tells me why the best part of my
time with her was spent in the kitchen.”^

lay fallow my emotive, a response due catalogued
but unfulfilled till today, oh hell it is a moody way,
partly cloudy day, raining in between sunny  brief teasing episodic.

perfect.

for the mixed mood, a melancholia of innocence with a dash of a salty, self-reflective hazing, choosing careful words when I write without clear direction, you want to rush outside, get set up, and then surrender-retreat inside to the comfort zone, the hearty, all-involving,  kitchen where the ink is always kept on warm on the glass topped oven, and the dripping-coffee-machine never shuts down, at-the-ready stale crackers in the cupboard, and all these writing utensils at the two-handy, when she comes in, and with a quick surveying, kicks me out, to make us accoladed good food, with these words:

“my darling only love poetry man, render unto me, this captaincy,
my fiefdom now, and herein are kept my ingredients and tools, whe my words are secreted.”  You mistake the warmth here as a necessary condition for thy composition, but not so, the warmth required travels in the hearth of the body, get thee to the nook, to the sunroom, or our bed where I catch you prepositioning conjunctions to join weeping verbs, adjective so riotous their beauteous is stolen by God i’m the fall, thoughts worthy of becoming verses and stanzas, the exclaim the wonders of thy perspective, thy goodly nature, thy odor of freshly stirred vocabulary, an alluring stew in a new ***, surrender this cooking place to me in order that you might chef a new creation, half mine, half yours, all ours.”

A constipated mind, needs brain fiber to thrive
But an outdated grind, bleeds just to stay alive

Despair, no more, fore at day's end, in his easy chair
His beat up feet, feel better because of the street

I dreadfully miss school, because of the days I played sick
Instead of staring away the day watching the clock tick
The time was finally free, scheduled for no one else but me
Then the universe explained exactly who you're meant to be

Those feelings that pervade overwhelm like a soft parade
Memories are catalogued until your mind's marathon is jogged
You close your eyes to recreate, the music sounds, it's not to late
No time to waste,  remember the smells and that sumptuous taste

The memories are always so vivid and sweet,
Yet the feelings are forever frozen and complete

You can chase a ghost all the way to the grave
Dying is for everyone, but living's for the brave

my love is gone...
my love has gone next door
my love popped round
to perform frottage with the hedgerow
and lust after the new lawnmower


whilst i built 'The Good Life'
my heart got distracted
it grew a cavernous attraction to the neighbours
and their immaculate lawn

my love is licking their heavy curtains
chasing their well groomed dog
watching their home entertainment centre
and kipping on their sofa
(made comfortable with extra science)
my love has repelled from me
to ****** toward another life
a life neatly removed from a catalogue
and free of creative revolution