THE CHICK in the egg picks at the shell, cracks open one oval world, and enters another oval world.

"Cheep ... cheep ... cheep" is the salutation of the newcomer, the emigrant, the casual at the gates of the new world.

"Cheep ... cheep" ... from oval to oval, sunset to sunset, star to star.

It is at the door of this house, this teeny weeny eggshell exit, it is here men say a riddle and jeer each other: who are you? where do you go from here?

(In the academies many books, at the circus many sacks of peanuts, at the club rooms many cigar butts.)

"Cheep ... cheep" ... from oval to oval, sunset to sunset, star to star.

Tail turned to red sunset on a juniper crown a lone magpie cawks.

Mad at Oryoki in the shrine-room -- Thistles blossomed late afternoon.

Put on my shirt and took it off in the sun walking the path to lunch.

A dandelion seed floats above the marsh grass with the mosquitos.

At 4 A.M. the two middleaged men sleeping together holding hands.

In the half-light of dawn a few birds warble under the Pleiades.

Sky reddens behind fir trees, larks twitter, sparrows cheep cheep cheep
       cheep cheep.
      
                                        July 1983

Caught shoplifting ran out the department store at sunrise and woke up.

                                        August 1983

Soft sweet meadow
radiating its breath of life;
sounding its serenity
in echoes of the mind's eye

Living in this flat land
lay plush
in wild, multicolored-flowery-pockets in greenery
blankets "Sweet Meadow"  with fresh quickened
fragrance

And by our bedroom window
with a summer night's soft evening breeze
mellow cheeeping can be heard from way way down below
seemingly luring us to...

.. "OPEN WIDER THE WINDOW...
              ...AND LISTEN!!
Chant dear chorus
as violinist in "Cricket Suits"
join this cantor
that swings with rhythm
with wheezing sounding bugs, AH HUMMING!!
and an intermission of
Cha  Cheep,  Cha  Cheep
that breaks the nocturnal entomological singing
with ephemeral intermissions

Be bewitched by brillance as
tunes fly and z i n g
their little
whistle
songs so sweet a talent
unseen
little bugs sweetly sing
their little
tale of talent
in "Soft Sweet Meadow"

Comforted by vibrating frequencies
the air is electrical clasping
our good-inner child
as this meadow
unfolds its truth
being beneficial
to us all

We journey not too far
for this field draws us
to its delightful *****
We irresistibly suckle on its daytime scenic eye-filling foliage
later eliciting dreams made of peaceful slumber

Cha Cheep,  Cha Cheep and good night...

cheep paint chipping from your nails
makes shapes like animals
reminding us why were here
birds on telephone wires
make silhouette in your windows
create create destroy
create destroy create
oil paintings painted from memory's
that never really happened
because when you draw from what you know
you find depth you never knew existed

The world farmers day
We are celebrating valentine and friendship day
It is the time to celebrate world  farmers day
farmer o farmer you are the great worrier
  you feed the world
  you make the world better and you are the great !
Today it’s the time to honor our farmers
It the time to say jai jawan jai kissan
It’s the time give honor to our farmer
Who work for us to get better food .
Today nobody wants to be farmer
Because farmer job people fills cheep
But we have to under stand
Without farmer we cannot live ,
Farmer o farmer you make the world better
You work under the open sky
Today is the time for celebrate world farmers day .

From the Songs of the Arcturians

In an Octopuses Garden

On the edge of the Luna Sea

Turquoise and aquamarine hues

Chasing away the blues

Synesthesia is complete

The monkey goes cheep, cheep, cheep

When I see you
I tend to smile
Not all day
But for a while
I watch you as you turn around
I remember every single sound
I watch you as you look at me
That’s when I see your beauty
I start to frown when you look away
I guess away is where you’ll stay
I go into a dreamy gaze
In my dream I was in a maze
Having you would be my prize
If I get you is a surprise
Right, left, forward and back
Trying to trace my every track
Boundary here boundary there
Boundaries located everywhere!!!
I touch the side I touch the ground
I try to locate every sound
I hear the birds start to cheep
I only hear one other peep
“Help me, Help me” I hear ahead
“Help me, help me if you can.”
I knew it was her I could only tell
It wasn’t the place nor the smell
It was the sense of my crush in fear
It was a cry only my love can hear
I try my best I sprint ahead
If I was not with you I might as well be dead
I turn the corner and I see
The brightness of her beauty

gotta have lunchtime nap!
forty winks.
i could afford,maybe more,

please dear lord;
i implore

keep the knocking hordes from my door.
switch the phone to silent
the mobile off,
comuputer quieted,
laptop too.

please heavenly father: make mute the zoo.

remove the marking
from the couch,
hurry now,
just push... it on the floor.
my nap time,
is dwindling away.

but,
without some, sombulance,
my semblance of calm acceptance will,
be blown away so,

dear god on high:
as i lay me down to sleep, can you converse,
with the sparrow
outside the window,
about stopping,
it's cheery,
              *fucken cheep

This ****** with binoculars
sat waiting in the blind,
half hidden by the rushes
That grew tall on either side.
Perhaps I’d spot a Peregrine
or a hawk on the attack.
My camera is beside me, and,
should I catch one in the act.
I’d photograph a mating pair
(but artfully, with tact.)

So far there’s just a flock of wrens
Not much this day I see.
I start to get the strange sensation
that they’re here observing me.

Charlie the gnome needed a home
and so he looked around,
the garden shed too big he said
and too high off the ground.

The bar b que would never do
the ash would make me sneeze,
so on I go look high look low
in and around the trees.

The bird box white would be too tight
with chicks that chirp and cheep,
and constant song the whole day long
I'd never get to sleep.

The kennels large but then there's Sarge
and all his smelly toys,
plus after dark he likes to bark
and make a lot of noise.

The house I found is out of bound
too many folk in there,
so I'll stay out and look about
as I don't like to share.

A wooden crate there by the gate
would make a perfect home,
it's not too small or wide nor tall
it's just right for this gnome.

I need a door and windows four
some carpet and a bed,
a rocking chair would look good there
or maybe there instead.

Yes this is fine and it's all mine
with roses all around,
the place it seems straight from my dreams
is what I think I've found.

Charlie the gnome no more will roam
his house is warm and bright,
with flower beds of blues and reds
and picket fence of white.








A wooden crate down by the gate

i

i think why not to let
but proved the query set
a double somersault-twist
or kiss your sweet lips..

can  end in cold death-
still the birds in the trees
go cheep or not at all..
i have reason to not question..

ii

i have memories return from the crib
it is all just part of the aging process
we beetle by saying that can´t be right
the lights´ get bright and bright..!

birds talk to us but i don´t hear voices
we become preoccupied with prices..
i recall four blackjacks  a penny
dying has a long curious way..

i am pretty sure i am someone else
absolute and completely and yet
these early feelings as blithe pictures
remain constant..



iii


more work less ******* about
but creation is just living
some absolute and indistinct
(it is tough being a poet..)..

iv

lily says,for it is her,
you don´t play no more,
only i say in mind
the years don´t lie
content´ s fragile store..
repetition dulls the brightest
core..eventually a silent purr ask´ s why
not why not..

v

why write poetry says lily
because it is a futile act
of achieving something perfectly..
we like that..


or like stubbing one´ s little toe
a rabbit from a dream hat
in a vain effort to retain what
remains of my memory..

lily why not or why bother..
lily red diamond from her
eyes sparking like a star is
just a ******* star baby..

she half nelson bottle wine
why do anything..a sign
a metaphor an hieroglyph
love and hate lily..

or the little bird in the agaves
i would like to shoot that one
hate and love lily
porquoi-pas..

vi

i read o twenty years before actually commiting to paper
not much but i knew the stuff i loved and kept there
i know it was charles bukowski i loved his funky gear
thank you norwegion liz for lending me his books dear..

ham on rye and factotum you say don´t lose them mf
i swore i would not lose them i would not lose them kf
kind friend..but i lost them i lost them..df..
dumb ******..


i leant them to someone that swore the same
they suffered an horrendous head..crang..
on and the books lost the books got lost..
there was scant satisfaction in plaster form..

maybe they went to a happy home
so not my fault that his drunk poems
god is he fun liz i hear your laugh then
such a wild sound ..generous so!

you said i should write and thank you
only human to encourage me true
and always a good drinking companion
you bought decent wine..

i adored cognac o..that was my poison
you always attracted van gelis errant tounge
unpleasant but one had to watch him..
that was his fun..

and then backgammon
goes a bit faint then..
i would like to say i won
you told me roland was cheating..

i think it was fun to play him anyway
esspicially on cement truck day..
not that he ever bought me a drink
not that i liked cement..

i lived with roland actually
this stopped any conversation
i met him by accident in eilat
that place was a laugh..

i think i enjoyed the second time
first loads of day jobs though i
played in the streets..and living with
the russians..

that a blast lily..my immediate neighbor
we never spoke..and the police pulled his hair
and yet not a squeak..a match box of grass cheap
i went to silently get a light..

he did say never run boy..
i thought alright for you
alright,
who was playing late night
in the soft quiet night..

so i was nosy
within the deepest hush
a glass and bottle jungle
impossible this silence

and i could hear him swallow
once the army ran through
i was tucked up in bead reading
by hopeless candle light..

i met roland in the peace cafe
a misnomer if ever there was
he picked me up and tossed me
around..

hey mike we got ****** and under
the landing planes roaring down
aint had hash like that in so many
years..

there was the red lion and at seven
free food and a drink and a movie
i read miguel cervantes..they
play the eye of the tiger later..

then the hard rock cafe with killer
egg and chips
i worked with an architect and made
a few shekals.

vii

i got out of there man i went south
dhab a quiet hut and goats..
that is the life right there..
o the corral beauties..

the stars as glimpsed through the palm..
pretty carpet and soften-songs of balm
brain blown and fly blown
and then back to town..

which came as a shock then
i had a drink and a very nice mention
for the cafe at the bus station..
i salut the the patience of the librarians..

It seems that these days nothing is real
The world around me shimmers artificially
Women will have procedures done to fit into the world of plastic
Men find it more simple to use cheep tricks to get a night of love
People on the street dress to make the illusion of perfection
Little girls stuff their bra's and paint on geisha faces pretending to be grown up
The sad truth is that,
Nobody is genuine anymore

Nouns and verbs swirls. Word anarchy. Everyone a poet.

Pay no attention to my browsing history. I’m a writer, not a serial killer.
Women never want much, only everything you are or will be.
He said he would stuff my taco unlike any man before him,
and boy did he! I've always wanted a man who could cook.
Someday's you just know that the jail time was worth it.
Cows who give milk for free never know what a respectable farmer is.
Relearn the dying art of thinking before you ******* speak.
I scream. You scream. We come.  Police come. Awkward.
Thought it was a loofah but it turned out to be steel wool.
Sixty is the new 40. Try getting your ***** to believe that.
The only fact is that you'll never understand anything at all.
I never flirt with danger but danger just insists on it.
He lost me at: Do you prefer the ropes really, really tight?
She dumped me because I just stood there with my moves unbusted.
Watching internet *** is like ******* without arms.
I bet that pride of yours doesn't enjoy snuggling like I do.
You don't have to be desperately lonely to tweet, but it helps.

Say anything you like. After all, only everyone will see it.

Forth from the dust and din,
The crush, the heat, the many-spotted glare,
The odour and sense of life and lust aflare,
The wrangle and jangle of unrests,
Let us take horse, Dear Heart, take horse and win--
As from swart August to the green lap of May--
To quietness and the fresh and fragrant *******
Of the still, delicious night, not yet aware
In any of her innumerable nests
Of that first sudden plash of dawn,
Clear, sapphirine, luminous, large,
Which tells that soon the flowing springs of day
In deep and ever deeper eddies drawn
Forward and up, in wider and wider way,
Shall float the sands, and brim the shores,
On this our lith of the World, as round it roars
And spins into the outlook of the Sun
(The Lord's first gift, the Lord's especial charge),
With light, with living light, from marge to marge
Until the course He set and staked be run.

Through street and square, through square and street,
Each with his home-grown quality of dark
And violated silence, loud and fleet,
Waylaid by a merry ghost at every lamp,
The hansom wheels and plunges.  Hark, O, hark,
Sweet, how the old mare's bit and chain
Ring back a rough refrain
Upon the marked and cheerful *****
Of her four shoes!  Here is the Park,
And O, the languid midsummer wafts adust,
The tired midsummer blooms!
O, the mysterious distances, the glooms
Romantic, the august
And solemn shapes!  At night this City of Trees
Turns to a tryst of vague and strange
And monstrous Majesties,
Let loose from some dim underworld to range
These terrene vistas till their twilight sets:
When, dispossessed of wonderfulness, they stand
Beggared and common, plain to all the land
For stooks of leaves!  And lo! the Wizard Hour,
His silent, shining sorcery winged with power!
Still, still the streets, between their carcanets
Of linking gold, are avenues of sleep.
But see how gable ends and parapets
In gradual beauty and significance
Emerge!  And did you hear
That little twitter-and-cheep,
Breaking inordinately loud and clear
On this still, spectral, exquisite atmosphere?
'Tis a first nest at matins!  And behold
A rakehell cat--how furtive and acold!
A spent witch homing from some infamous dance--
Obscene, quick-trotting, see her tip and fade
Through shadowy railings into a pit of shade!
And now! a little wind and shy,
The smell of ships (that earnest of romance),
A sense of space and water, and thereby
A lamplit bridge ouching the troubled sky,
And look, O, look! a tangle of silver gleams
And dusky lights, our River and all his dreams,
His dreams that never save in our deaths can die.

What miracle is happening in the air,
Charging the very texture of the gray
With something luminous and rare?
The night goes out like an ill-parcelled fire,
And, as one lights a candle, it is day.
The extinguisher, that perks it like a spire
On the little formal church, is not yet green
Across the water:  but the house-tops nigher,
The corner-lines, the chimneys--look how clean,
How new, how naked!  See the batch of boats,
Here at the stairs, washed in the fresh-sprung beam!
And those are barges that were goblin floats,
Black, hag-steered, fraught with devilry and dream!
And in the piles the water frolics clear,
The ripples into loose rings wander and flee,
And we--we can behold that could but hear
The ancient River singing as he goes,
New-mailed in morning, to the ancient Sea.
The gas burns lank and jaded in its glass:
The old Ruffian soon shall yawn himself awake,
And light his pipe, and shoulder his tools, and take
His hobnailed way to work!

Let us too pass--
Pass ere the sun leaps and your shadow shows--
Through these long, blindfold rows
Of casements staring blind to right and left,
Each with his gaze turned inward on some piece
Of life in death's own likeness--Life bereft
Of living looks as by the Great Release--
Pass to an exquisite night's more exquisite close!

Reach upon reach of burial--so they feel,
These colonies of dreams!  And as we steal
Homeward together, but for the buxom breeze,
Fitfully frolicking to heel
With news of dawn-drenched woods and tumbling seas,
We might--thus awed, thus lonely that we are--
Be wandering some dispeopled star,
Some world of memories and unbroken graves,
So broods the abounding Silence near and far:
Till even your footfall craves
Forgiveness of the majesty it braves.

A dormant waste land of white
Turns into lush beauty overnight.

Spring itself is given away by the daffodil flowers
Whom have impeccable timing powers.

The momma birds are tweet, tweet, tweeting
And the baby birds are cheep, cheep, cheeping.

And the sunlight,
Oh the sunlight!

Through the leafy canopy I see it shine-
I sit back and smile because this day is all mine.

I can't believe it's finally here,
My favorite season of the year!

I sit outside in the cold, feeling the air wake up my skin.
I see three deer and think of Corky. I hope to see her again,

Although I am in nature, away from the city’s cars,
I can still hear one from afar.

I also hear several bird calls. One says “wee weee!”
While another answers with “cheep cheep” and another “tweet!”

I pray I will be spiritually ready to hear the messages,
Hmmm, I hope at breakfast there’ll be sausages.

When you decide to wash the car, make sure of your stability
Don't lose your footing, or any form of your own credibility
Some driveways are a dangerous place, they can be a liability
Knees get grazed through carelessness, but that's your responsibility

You've slipped down the embankment, you wasn't banking on a stumble
Coming into contact with the concrete, giving you good cause to grumble
Is it possible that your garden, has got loose parts that crumble
Or was it due to clumsiness, that made you fall and tumble

Water splashing on the car, but it wasn't that translucent
You ended up with ****** knees, from your unruly movement
Bucket dropping did not help, with your clean car improvement
I can't say that your actions, didn't cause us some amusement

We had a laugh at your expense, because your knees got scuffed
Spilling water on the path, is when your legs we're stuffed
You didn't look too happy, so I guess you wasn't chuffed
Because you fell, it'll be some time before the car gets buffed

One thing I will mention, we would not have seen you fall
If you didn't have that camera, that you wanted to install
But it has served it's purpose, cos we have seen it all
You was not completely focused, and you wasn't on the ball

Security has now been viewed, splashed water not in stealth
Is it worth the hassle, when you clean the car yourself
You don't want to trip and fall, and damage your leg health
Take it to the car wash, cos it doesn't cost much wealth

Your unfortunate leg scrapping, we hope it was not deep
But we nearly ****** ourselves, when you fell in a heap
We laughed at your misfortune, it almost made us weep
Cleaning cars come at a price, when it's done on the cheep  

Some Ideas are valid, and most of them go far
Set backs are not wanted, make sure that your on par
Be aware of your surroundings, if your washing the car
Trips around the garden could result, in a blooded scar

O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South,
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves,
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee.

O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each,
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South,
And dark and true and tender is the North.

O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill,
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves.

O were I thou that she might take me in,
And lay me on her *****, and her heart
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died.

Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love,
Delaying as the tender ash delays
To clothe herself, when all the woods are green?

O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown:
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South,
But in the North long since my nest is made.

O tell her, brief is life but love is long,
And brief the sun of summer in the North,
And brief the moon of beauty in the South.

O Swallow, flying from the golden woods,
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine,
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.

When I went to work I was but a child,
And so I did not get to wake to go wild,
In mirthful song, "cheep! cheep! he-he!"
So I sweat for you and sweep your factories.

My best friend Anushka, who lost his left arm,
Because the factories don't care if we come to harm,
"Hush little Anushka for pain does not last,"
"It does; they want me to work twice as fast!"

And yet he was blessed, that night in his sleep,
In to the realm of the Angels he peeped,
All children he saw them, at work, at their looms,
Captive and caged in the satanic rooms.

Stooped down from Heaven, a god with a foot,
That stamped on the walls till they were dust and were soot,
Down valleys, in rivers, the children rejoice,
Filling the sound of the Earth with their voice.

God, speechless with Love for their souls, so bold,
Enveloped them in his aura of gold,
The zephyr divine for which Saints forfeit vice,
Given freely to children for their being so nice.

Anushka awoke, and walked to work for miles,
Over the valleys and over the hills,
Though the factories loomed, Anushka did not fear,
For he possessed what tyrant does not; knowledge that God is near.

The room was clouded with wisps of smoke, the smell of cheep tobacco mixing with the foul fetter of Budweiser's.

Heavy boots crowded the compact living room, some pacing on the floor, others resting on stools, and one certain pair standing on the couch. As the evening waned, their owners smoked and drank and composed.

The fan droned on above the huddle of men, attempting to counter-act the thick, humid air and suffocating clouds of smoke.

Likewise, the window hung open, a slight breeze entering in, attempting to remind the men that outside there was spring. However, not even the sweet smell of growing grass and greening pine trees could awaken the thinking mass of musicians.

Under the soft whirring of the fan hummed a gentle strum of acoustic guitars, two were in sync, one was free to do what he pleased.

At first the song was melancholy, an almost sickening minor protruding through the chords.

However, the two guitars which played this mournful tune were soon over-ruled by the lone guitar, this guitar introducing an almost ****** tune, sweet with lively colors, walks in the park; moody with aromatic evenings spent in wild-flower fields and peaceful nights sitting by the river, fishing and playing Texas Hold'em for pennies.

This strum of chords soon awakened the other musicians and as their ears perked up to the sound their eyes fell upon the man, the man with the boots that stood on the couch.

As the groups' gaze circled onto the man, he finished with a lulling C sharp minor and pulled the smoldering cigarette from his mouth, cocking his head towards the men and smirking ever so slightly as he proclaimed in his proud, deep, southern accent, an eyebrow raising to mark their heedfulness, "And there, gentlemen, is true music."

Soft-littered is the new-year’s lambing fold,
And in the hollowed haystack at its side
The shepherd lies o’ night now, wakeful-eyed
At the ewes’ travailing call through the dark cold.
The young rooks cheep ’mid the thick caw o’ the old:
And near unpeopled stream-sides, on the ground,
By her Spring cry the moorhen’s nest is found,
Where the drained flood-lands flaunt their marigold.

Chill are the gusts to which the pastures cower,
And chill the current where the young reeds stand
As green and close as the young wheat on land
Yet here the cuckoo and cuckoo-flower
Plight to the heart Spring’s perfect imminent hour
Whose breath shall soothe you like your dear one’s hand.

When one is in desperate need of sleep
With their minds churning out thoughts of upmost irrelevance
She is told, to simply count the sheep

If only the Sandman would possess such benevolence
I want only to collapse into a dreary heap
When one is desperate need of sleep

She is told, to simply count the sheep
In the waking hour of dawn, weary from Sandman's malevolence
Inexplicable panic begins to seep

With their minds churning out thoughts of upmost irrelevance
Sunshine caresses the houses steep
If only the Sandman would possess such benevolence

The neighborhood yawns, the birds begin to cheep
Night refuses an acquiescence
When one is in desperate need of sleep

I wish for once, Night and I will come to a complacence
Languid to the point where I will weep
She is told, to simply count the sheep

One wants a gloaming of reposing divulgence
With their minds churning out thoughts of upmost irrelevance
When one is in desperate need of sleep
She is told, to simply count the sheep.

CLEAN... OUT OF HIS MIND!

ChIRp! ChEEp! TwEEt!
Lone bird playing Jazz
with a real kick...in the *****!



GLAN AS A MHEABHAIR!

BiOG! GiOG! MiOG!
Leathean ag seinm snagcheol
le fíor lasc...magairli!



HORS DE SON ESPRIT!

Le ChIRp! La ChEEp! Le TwEEt!
Oiseau solitaire jeu Jazz
avec un véritable coup de pied dans les couilles

*

LIMPIO ... FUERA DE SU MENTE!

El cantO! El gOrjeO! El  PíO!
Pájaro solitario juego Jazz
con una verdadera patada en los cojones ...!

I'm not a poet
I don't even look like one
I forgot the poem I wrote to get here

So: here's a 'nother one

I am a poet

Some times words are cheep
Most times
So why write?
Not to be cheep I guess.
To reveal
In a way that doesn't hurt
Or at least hurt too bad.
I don't mind hurt
It's fine
But I'm not exactly perfect
(at least not yet)
Or in some
Most
Peoples eyes
So I'll hurt you too
Or back
By mistake

So hurt me please if you may
So I don't feel so bad
Since I hurt you that day
to come

Sorry if I break you

Sorry if I'm broken

Break me fine
I'm just a clay ***
Stick me in a *** of brown sugar
shard by shard
Then I'm not a ***

I'm a poet

Sorry when I break you
But frankly
You're made of glass

you must be an artist

i find nothing intelligent about philosophy,
if in were to prescribe a self-help book
i'd prescribe any philosophy book,
it would become mantra to: dumb-down.
fascinated as i am, dancing
pretending to drum, when there's
a sudden jolt and i sing hail! in the
vandal epice, i am fully intact as a
skeleton of an albatross - and stand in a shape
of ᛉ... zigfreid... jawolh...
    having spent 3 weeks in Poland,
in some obscure city gave me utter peace...
but hey, why not come back to England
and get a moral sun-tan of absolute
*******... why not dress up
  in post-colonial nuances, why not experience
post-colonialism?
         3 weeks without the internet
and i really, really did feel relief...
           i thought television is bad...
well, it is bad, if you have internet access...
but with the internet, comes the Belzeebub,
a swarm of words, of opinions that only lead
to a cul de sac of your own basis:
for not talking on a street corner, with a sign
dangling on your neck like a cowbell
reading: the end is near!
          i get it, it's a fetish, it's man claiming
the end will come when he'll obliterate gravity,
i''m cool with that, shindig and all the ponce
of an urban vocab...
   talk to me like a farmer though... please,
please, please do... i want to talk to a farmer...
i can't deal with this cool urban kids
and their microaggression and, whatever it is
they have stashed in their socks...
     because you really can't read a philosophy
book and care to be intelligent...
         i've read a few, and each time i return to
the most despotic creature i could ever wish
to be... the one that's perplexed that he
say something tangible, something worth
riddling... but nothing outside of
the arithmetic... of gluing i am dodo
therefore i'm extinct...
     try to imagine living in a country without
a colonial past... i can, i just did, spent
3 weeks in Poland, and after having acquired
English, like the good, assimmilated foreigner
i am: i want to unlearn it...
   i'm dying to unlearn it... i ****** wish i didn't
speak it...
              it's too global for me...
    i speak it, but i don't want to speak it,
but then i invested over 20 years of my life in speaking
it, and thinking in it...
       i'd also like to see little england,
the england with its camper vans and it's yorkshire
terrier... but i am currently holding
an anchor on the periphery of London,
and boy, the drag is something, i am actually
enjoying this paralysis...
but you can't expect to read a philosophy and
get the idea that suddenly there's a theory
of relativity sleeping within you...
    read a philosophy book, learn to become an idiot...
    intelligence can't even stomach awe...
it always has to say something witty,
be something opportune, have a dinner party...
fake it...
           the idiot just looks at the world
and says: huh? it really is a chance to play the Frankenstein
monster... so many people, and they have so
much care to trade, sell apples, argue...
so much care to attain the ****** appeal,
to trim their hair...
   so much energy to trade, sell life insurance,
to argue...
               where do they get it from, that mana?
it can really be so welcoming,
to experience life in a non-colonial society,
    to be bored, to do nothing and simply be human...
now that's a first...
              to do nothing and simply be, human...
   me thinks that animals have it easy,
i wish i could have the digestive system of a koala
bear...
                to be a creature with a mono-facet
adaptability dynamic... well, a bi-facet adaptation
scenario... me, coordinates (0, 0), the thing
i want, coordinates (1, 1)... move!
     not me, i'm human, i have to go to the *******
cinema, i have to attend a funeral,
i have to do a, b, c, and all the way down through to z...
    evolution is cruel...
               this constant physical bombardment
with sensual teasing, and then being ****** anally by
some cognitive fudge phalllus...
    it's really become obsolete to even think,
there's no: think for the pleasure of mere thought...
now i'm waiting for a shepherd to
huddle me into a crowd in need of writing a book...
i really don't know how the natives
  deal with this, but if i were to suddenly speak my
native tongue i'd be better off, english is really
being stretched, so many bad, i mean really bad
accents... they only speak the english they speak
because english is a barren wasteland without any
diacritical marks... it's covert language,
puny secretive bollocking at the start,
and nothing else at the end...
    but it really is a headache knowing english
these days... it's doing my head in...
          i speak english and i'm already imaging
myself head-banging, or knocking down
the al-buraq - if you know Polish then you'll
just say: the beetroot.
                       and whatever the media tells you,
everyone in the trenches of society
actually adores Putin...
             it could be sad, but at least it's not so
flimsy and artsy after all...
   a society with clear indication that internet
megalomania is not permitted...
                  yes, i really am writing you a postcard
with a: wish you would go there...
     even with its Christian conservatism...
      it's actually bearable...
becuase, having 3 weeks there, and as i get older
(even though i'm only 30)...
  i find England: exhausting... literally
like dragging elephant testicles wherever i walk...
it's exhausting... England is exhausting...
   talking English is exhausting...
     this beacon of hope and freedom has become
a **** nugget, set alight on a toothpick...
     i've lived in England for so many years,
and have yet to taste the local delicacy... of an English
******... while a story emerges in Rotherham
about a ******* cartel... it begins to really break
your heart... there's you, ***-starved and
having the tendency to over-exaggerate a handshake
and there's the world...
     you can't really drink enough alcohol these days
to knock yourself out...
and i've been drinking, on and on, on and on... and on...
and it never stops being so depressing!
     there, my tongue is lose... it's a streaker on a
football pitch... running wild... giving it all
for the worth of simply: frenzy...
             but there's something very ancient about this
dynamic... the fact that these are the lands
once occupied by the romans...
sure, in Poland you use the Latin alphabet, but
the spaghetti maneli crew never threw their
pizza that far up north...
                          go to any country that doesn't
boast of a Roman heritage...
that's for starters...
                         if the place boasts about being
conquered by the romans...
                  you end up watching a funeral that
just won't go away... not how the latin alphabet
was best symbiotic with numbers due to the holes
and you can't code on a computer screen
with anything, but latin... try writing an app.
using arabic or hebrew...
it truly is a language based on: matchsticks made
in heaven...
                 just the areas where the romans didn't
settle... the "uncivilised" regions...
    it's enough that the Slavs probably had the equivalent
of runes... and a polytheism of some sort...
but all i see is: perfected exploitation of the latin
alphabet, and well, might as well forget the rest.
    now that's major digression...
      it's as if i'm trying to have a conversation,
  but then the claustrophobic tendency of narration
take off and i''m thrown into a Tartar army...
       entranced into singing allah'u akbar... instead
of reciting Rumi...
                    it is what it is,
and since England is a major player in world
affairs, there's nothing little about it, even
if you live in Dover...
                 yet there is a nation-state serenity somewhere,
where everything is truly small,
  truly content with very little, where it's not
gagging to advertise itself, to sell itself...
    perhaps Auschwitz is a blessing as a "tourist"
destination after all...
           come to think of it... people will be children
around the pyramids...
they'll climb a pyramid... make funny photographs
of the pyramids what afar, as if they were holding
it... can't see any funny photographs coming
from Auschwitz... people gearing up to
smoke a shisha in a gas chamber...
                       or climbing into one of the crematorium
ovens to replicate a Tokyo hotel "room",
maybe Auschwitz is the blessed deterent of globalisation?
it's a great question...
           while the Czechs import hen and stag parties
to their capital with cheep beer...
  no one from the west seems to feel the same
drunken bliss in Krakow... what with Auschwitz
so close...
               they'd rather drink with the Russian
separatists in Kiev!
                  and indeed, what the German rage left,
i wear it like a black diamond...
              a crow's croak...
so, does that mean i have to appeal to some
imaginative conquered-party appeal?
   that i let it all happen, while i pressed the snooze
button on my clock?
     i don't know... Poland is a bit odd, and coming
from there, it almost seems that i should be writing
about Moldavia.
              and blessed are those: firmly rooted in one
place, with neither care nor obligation
   to travel far...
                          lest they bring nothing but
scurvy, in hope of bringing the beacon of civilisation
  and only that, no olympic flame: but a plague.
England is a land of displaced people,
  and can't be anything other than:
i got ants in my pants and i'm going to sing the blues!

THE WIND stops, the wind begins.
The wind says stop, begin.
  
A sea shovel scrapes the sand floor.
The shovel changes, the floor changes.
  
The sandpipers, maybe they know.
Maybe a three-pointed foot can tell.
Maybe the fog moon they fly to, guesses.
  
The sandpipers cheep "Here" and get away.
Five of them fly and keep together flying.
  
Night hair of some sea woman
Curls on the sand when the sea leaves
The salt tide without a good-by.
  
Boxes on the beach are empty.
Shake 'em and the nails loosen.
They have been somewhere.

On the wheels, I whirl, I spin, I move
Clouds too whirl, then darkness spins
A lightning bolt, then the deafening sound,
Then it pours,
N the fire flies go dim
I dont amble, I dont whisk
Opening my hand, gawking above, I dont decline
Three winks! Drenched n detached from the me wrenching myself,
I wheel as  "The Lance Armstrong"

Heavy pours invite a stroll
Cats and Dogs pouring down dismay Rats, ROFL!
Oust as Prince Zuko, I stroll
Surrendering myself to  the Zephyr
Same trail but with ****** looks
Hypnotic green, drenched, raise me to the Oblivion
Shimmering in the distant are two dim lights
N I ***** like " The Supertramp"

Beginning of the ultimate inception, I touch
Extending my arms to the cries of sky
Dont know the destination of this alley
Trying to think what 'm anticipating
Though without any charge on my shoulders
Flickering in the near distant are two lights
I hike as " The Aron"

'm I tears, I dont know
Even the silence has sulked
Nothing's in my head
Green n Brown, Pink n Purple hues
Repose the folioles, within
Distant lights are passing by now
I stride as " The me"

To the Aisle,
where birds peep, cheep, chirp, quaver, tweet n warble
From the stroll to the stride
's a short walk of hues n blues
The fringes have passed by
Arena's clear n so 'm I.

the trajectory of dreams
the fair world seen
through rose colored glasses
or is my glass half full
or empty that
kind of reasoning
or introverted death throes
weighed on a tragic scale
is balanced I know
by hearts with something to say
amateurishly, like me or by
Whitman's next coming Genius of
rhymes, so I say , the scales
if even fully to one side
and poetry way up
in the air by bad metaphor
or crass simile
weighs nothing when
compared to daily miseries of
the blank public stares the
cheep cheep cries of a sparrow fallen
down floundering
or three kittens
that died in my arms
when their mother
refused to feed them
so even bad poetry I believe
and how I have managed to provide
weighs more than the
scales of life
will ever show.

I bought some leather pants today
pleather, to be exact
they were cheep, but what I wanted
They fit tight on my legs and loose on my hips
they cling to my nonexistent ****
and make me feel **** for the first time in my life
and  somehow they make me feel rebellious
and less invisible
If I wear them to school tomorrow will they all stare?
I hope so
I need someone to notice me

Chirp cheep cheep.
Mother blue jay sets down and sings to me.
Singing a tune she's sung since birth.
I realize it's beautiful,
it's a song of the earth.
For the blue jay does not worry,
she comes and she goes.
The next phase of life,
she'll figure it out as she goes.
Maybe the blue jay has something to teach.
Something only mother nature can preach.
Time and tribulations can take care of themselves.
So take your worries,
and set them on the back shelf.
Sing a song,
as the blue jay does.
And sing a tune to yourself,
not for anyone else,
but just because.

In a few years 1970 will be 50
I wonder how many possessions
we will still hold dating back then.
Chirpy chirpy cheep cheep will be plus one
and hot pants will be memories' manna.
We remember walking in lounges
where upholstery shimmered,
orange curtains and green leather sofas.
After 50 years we earn out right
to morally uphold then truisms
Bastions bemoaning the nonsense of today
Perhaps  being inclined to finally say
your face doesn't fit here

i want to scream you through my mouth.
i don't have to exist any longer, as sun
shine or stretched clothing that doesn't
fit any longer, the shirts in your drawer,
the scarves fumbled with and discarded
underneath the stairs of a community c
ollege. if you want this, would you tell m
e. i don't have to step outside this door,
not once or twice without you. because,
of course, there are better things. i don
't think i make any more sense than pre
tty birds that cheep unicorn songs, and
grow shelters for their green-houses. i
could write you a song, if you'd like.

when the sun shines for the second tim
e, i'll let you know. right now the clouds
are labelled grey, and drawing islands i
n the discovering sand does not remedy
seasonal blues unaffected by the medic
ation of your smile and racing for play-g
round swings that cut up my thighs any
way. if i could put you on repeat, i woul
d, but life ain't youtube, and people ain
't paintings you can put in a frame and
hang on the wall, they ain't songs you
can listen to until you go cross-eyed wi
th giddiness. i'm not new anymore, i'm
words i've already written, places i've
already been, i am people unfamiliar b
ecause i've talked to them for so long.

Sweet life! how lovely to be here
And feel the soft sea-laden breeze
Strike my flushed face, the spruce's fair
Free limbs to see, the lesser trees'

Bare hands to touch, the sparrow's cheep
To heed, and watch his nimble flight
Above the short brown grass asleep.
Love glorious in his friendly might,

Music that every heart could bless,
And thoughts of life serene, divine,
Beyond my power to express,
Crowd round this lifted heart of mine!

But oh! to leave this paradise
For the city's ***** basement room,
Where, beauty hidden from the eyes,
A table, bed, bureau, and broom

In corner set, two crippled chairs
All covered up with dust and grim
With hideousness and scars of years,
And gaslight burning weird and dim,

Will welcome me . . . And yet, and yet
This very wind, the winter birds
The glory of the soft sunset,
Come there to me in words.

i'm drinking
out of
the bottle
on a tuesday
and i have
to ****
but i'm
glued to
this chair
and the keys
are glued
to my fingertips.
the room smells
like cheep wine
and fresh
duvets
i can't seem
to leave
but i always
find a way to

I would rather be single
on Valentines day than be
the object of your obsession

I would rather be heckled
by the critics in the comedy club
that is my love life, than
hear the venom in your voice
through the phone at 3 am

I would rather never get laid
than feel your hands creep
inside my ******* again

I would rather drink cheep *****
than taste the lies in your kisses

I would rather buy my own
flowers than smell your
scent on my favorite bra

I would rather be blind
than see what you call love

I would rather be alone
on Valentines day than
be your ****** valentine

I almost saw the stars,
Jupiter, Venus and Mars.
But you stole my wings from me,
And replaced them with a cheep plastic mockery.
I ran away tonight,
Ran from the dull city lights.
I ran away in the rain,
hoping it would wash away my pain.
But the dark was lonely,
It didn't consume me.
Maybe I'll have better luck next time,
Maybe I'll come up with a better rhyme.