I

On a little piece of wood,
Mr. Spikky Sparrow stood;
Mrs. Sparrow sate close by,
A-making of an insect pie,
For her little children five,
In the nest and all alive,
Singing with a cheerful smile
To amuse them all the while,
  Twikky wikky wikky wee,
  Wikky bikky twikky tee,
    Spikky bikky bee!

II

Mrs. Spikky Sparrow said,
'Spikky, Darling! in my head
'Many thoughts of trouble come,
'Like to flies upon a plum!
'All last night, among the trees,
'I heard you cough, I heard you sneeze;
'And, thought I, it's come to that
'Because he does not wear a hat!
  'Chippy wippy sikky tee!
  'Bikky wikky tikky mee!
    'Spikky chippy wee!

III

'Not that you are growing old,
'But the nights are growing cold.
'No one stays out all night long
'Without a hat: I'm sure it's wrong!'
Mr. Spikky said 'How kind,
'Dear! you are, to speak your mind!
'All your life I wish you luck!
'You are! you are! a lovely duck!
  'Witchy witchy witchy wee!
  'Twitchy witchy witchy bee!
    Tikky tikky tee!

IV

'I was also sad, and thinking,
'When one day I saw you winking,
'And I heard you sniffle-snuffle,
'And I saw your feathers ruffle;
'To myself I sadly said,
'She's neuralgia in her head!
'That dear head has nothing on it!
'Ought she not to wear a bonnet?
  'Witchy kitchy kitchy wee?
  'Spikky wikky mikky bee?
    'Chippy wippy chee?

V

'Let us both fly up to town!
'There I'll buy you such a gown!
'Which, completely in the fashion,
'You shall tie a sky-blue sash on.
'And a pair of slippers neat,
'To fit your darling little feet,
'So that you will look and feel,
'Quite galloobious and genteel!
  'Jikky wikky bikky see,
  'Chicky bikky wikky bee,
    'Twikky witchy wee!'

VI

So they both to London went,
Alighting on the Monument,
Whence they flew down swiftly--pop,
Into Moses' wholesale shop;
There they bought a hat and bonnet,
And a gown with spots upon it,
A satin sash of Cloxam blue,
And a pair of slippers too.
  Zikky wikky mikky bee,
  Witchy witchy mitchy kee,
    Sikky tikky wee.

VII

Then when so completely drest,
Back they flew and reached their nest.
Their children cried, 'O Ma and Pa!
'How truly beautiful you are!'
Said they, 'We trust that cold or pain
'We shall never feel again!
'While, perched on tree, or house, or steeple,
'We now shall look like other people.
  'Witchy witchy witchy wee,
  'Twikky mikky bikky bee,
    Zikky sikky tee.'

Inday unom na katuig ang nilabay
sa dihang nahikagplagan tika milabay sa balay
sa handumanan ko nahipatik ang katahom sa imong hulagway
may mga panahon sa kasing2x og damgo ko imong kaanyag mobisita gamay

Karon dili masukod ang kalipay sa dihang nagkaila ta
Adunay panahon magkachat ta lingaw sige kog katawa
sa dihang nakahibalo naka sa tinuod og naglagot ka sa akoa
maayo man ng makahibalo ka sa tinuod samtang sayo pa

Kung moabot ang panahon mosugot na ka magdate ta
Por syur ako man jud ng gasto more pa
be conscious lang sa imong dayet aron conscious pud ko sa akong bulsa
kung cge na ta det2x chippy og tubig na lang gani ang order para natong duha
pasabot KKB nalang ta sunod, salamat sa pagsabot hap...

og kung ugaling dili na jud nimo maagwanta imo nakong sugton
ayaw kabalaka ipanaad ko imong gugma akong amumahon
sa kanunay ikaw akong panggaon sa mga gakus ko ikaw akong prisohon
tanan nimong gusto akong buhaton imong mga sugo akong tumanon

Og kung imo naman gali kong sugoon sa merkado
pwede ayaw pud ko paalsaha og bugas isa ka sako
basin og tungod sa kabug-at di nako makaya makaigit ko
kung pwede lang unta kilo kiloha pud na og mahimo.

A dead end situation.
Stuck. Like brick to cement.
You'll do anything
for a hint of something.
It's been coming for ages;
building,
tumbling towards you
like a train on a track,
the damsel in distress,
tied down, downwards bound,
stalking around.
But you can't see,
it changes invisibly,
always going too fast,
momentum gathering;
letters,
beach shells,
names that would only ever have meaning
to you or her.
It was never going to last
always going too fast.
　
Past having a spark,
endlessly trying to relight.
Exhaust
all energy left,
find something to keep it fuelled,
to get you through the night:
caffeine,
narcotics,
late night television,
social networking sites,
talking to the ones you don't have the guts to in real life.
Real people. Reality TV.
What does it mean?
A blurred vision in which to entertain your life.
Surround yourself with
false dreams,
false hope,
fake plastic love
moulded into the form
that you want to see,
you want it to be
want it all to stop.
Go.
Any direction.
Forwards,
backwards,
mind spinning in circles,
turn it off.
Stop.

It's all a dream.
Awake,
to a new day, new life,
new home,
new car,
new wife.
Choose a diamond or pearl to cement these new found pleasures,
choose it all, self-absorbed in your own little world:
petty things,
the colour of paint on your bathroom wall.
Cream.
Chestnut.
Teal.
Another abstract way to cover up what is the simple truth.
Conspiracy everywhere;
newspaper, post office,
your local chippy, chips wrapped in ‘The Independent’
not ‘The Sun’.
Gossip,
front page
back page,
a wave of infatuation with the lives of people no better than yourself,
your image,
in the looking glass
see straight through.
This house,
this car,
this life,
it isn't you.
The radio plays through that knock off surround sound system you bought in a drunken haze,
and the cranking of your Ford Fiesta's deteriorating exhaust reminds you of her
as it pulls up on your drive.
It’s never going to happen now,
Still going to love her anyhow.

They're flying round your stomach again -
another one of those black, rainy days.
This isn't what you want,
not just another phase.
You read through 'Wilde',
'Wordsworth',
'William. Shakespeare';
Stolen tales
of life, love, loss,
lust,
loathing another man,
because he holds the pearl of your heart so dear.
They keep flying,
drumming, beating louder,
louder,
three words could change it all,
yet somehow it's your greatest fear.
Get-away.
A nice holiday to ease your mind;
Florida, Turkey,
Isle of Wight.
Another mask
to an already
covered over life.
Escape to your dreams,
anything that will get you there:
class a,
class b,
class c,
the class of '99,
the cream of the crop, you were just kids
and everyone’s heart
was just diddly dandy fine.
Move on, move out.
Wave
goodbye.
Find someone else,
grow old
in a nice little bungalow,
just the two of you,
lie in each others arms,
softly, quietly
fall to sleep.

Alright fella, how’s you mate?
Just heard back from the hospital innit.
They got you that liver now?
Yeah man, sorted. Ahh yeah-
did I tell you ‘bout the other day?
There was this ******* mug
by the chippy and he mugged
me off. And I was like mate,
don’t mess - you’ve picked the wrong day
to be a *******, innit.
And he was all like, “Yeah?
*******, mate.” And right, now,
well, I’d had enough by now;
I wanted to teach this mug
a Life-Long Lesson, yeah?
So I said, “I’m not your mate,
and I will end you if you don’t *******, innit.”
Ah man – this was not his day.
You remember back on Tuesday,
when I got that knife that I still use now?
I had it on me, and I shanked him, innit!
Serves him right for being a mug;
sounds like one less ***** on the estate, mate.
Too right blud. Was well funny too, yeah –
cause he was just round the corner, yeah,
I just walked into the chippy like any normal day!
Just like, “Nah, no vinegar please mate.”
There’s never any filth around here now
so we can just shank mug after mug;
and we’ll make it a better place to live, innit.
Oh yeah, and I can get smashed now, innit!
We’ll get some pills and that, yeah?
Have us a party, but don’t invite Gaz, you mug –
he shagged Tracey the other day,
so it is gonna be well awkward now.
Ahh ****! I am well excited, mate.
And mate, make sure you bring some fit girls, innit.
You wanna come round now?* Nah, got a check-up. Yeah,
but it’s not gonna take all day! Shut up, you mug.

chippy churpy happy birds
so full of joys of spring
hear their voices singing out
a wonderous glorious din

wake up to a song of summer
just around the bend
sing the spring into the day
a fabulous day again

chippy churpy sing along
tweeting as we go
bring a smile into today
and share it with your freinds

There’s an Indian restaurant down the road,
And the owners have a beautiful daughter,
But she’s the apple of her daddy’s eye,
So I really don’t think I oughta.

There was a Chinese takeaway next door,
That did the best fried-rice,
But the authorities came and shut ‘em down,
For infestation of rats and lice.

There’s a newsagents further along,
But it doesn’t do much to dazzle,
Unless you want overpriced cigarettes,
And back issues of Razzle.

The Arab café across the road,
Does the best cappuccinos around,
The sound of Algerian pensioners laughing
Is such a beautiful sound.

There’s a Working Men’s around the corner,
Where the Guinness is dirt cheap,
And in it I’ve had drunken nights,
And memories I’d fight to keep.

There’s a chicken shop on the way back home,
Which I must say is pretty useful,
When I’m staggering home, ****** as a ****,
The chicken burgers taste ******* beautiful.

There’s also a chippy down the way,
That does an excellent saveloy,
It got burnt down, and I can’t help but suspect,
It was a sneaky insurance ploy.

There’s an Irish pub next door to that,
Full of drunken, singing Micks,
The Dubliners on the jukebox,
It’s where I get my fix.

But I’m always drawn to the Indian restaurant,
Where the owners have a beautiful daughter,
She’s witty, glamourous, the same age as me,
And I really think that I oughta.

So many places closed,
And what’s open you can’t get to
For ****** tourists.

******* clouds are over:
A chill wind blows.
The workaday sun has gone.
Oh yes, it’s Bank Holiday.

The weather is foul
Yet everyone is out.
I can’t get parked.
The crowds slow down
My enforced march.

Our local chippy is closed.
A Doctor?
No chance!
January in May
And maybe in June.

Christmas is worse.
All those needless presents.
Gifts for the sake of it.
Keeping the retailers happy
At our expense.

I’m in a grumpy mood
But who can blame me?
I always try to be upbeat,
But not today.

Paul Butters

Ingrid winced
as she sat
on the stone steps

of Banks House
with Benedict
after his tea

of beans on toast
and a glass of milk
the early evening

was still warm
he never asked why
she winced when she sat

he guessed her old man
had hit her again
her eyes were red

when he knocked her door
a few minutes before
to ask her out

her father had gone by
Benedict on the stairs
5 minutes before

smoking his usual
thin cigarette
his cap pulled

over one eye
don't go far
her mother said

and shut the door
have you had your tea?
Benedict asked

she nodded
and put her hands
on her knees

he wondered if she had
she looked so thin
how about coming with me

to the chippy?
he said
Mum said not

to go far
Ingrid said
it isn't far

he said
it's only up Meadow Row
and across the road

she bit her lip
saw your old man go out
a little while ago

he looked his usual
happy self
Benedict said

she looked
at her tatty plimsolls
she winced

as she moved
well are you coming?
he asked

what if she calls me?
I'll tell her I'm taking you
to the chippy

and be back soon
he said
she might say no

Ingrid said
she won't
he said

she never says no
to me
she looked at him

nervously
suppose
she said

you stay here
and I 'll go say
and he went up the stairs

and she sat watching
until he went from view
she rubbed her thigh

and tried to sit comfortably
she said yes
Benedict said

coming down the stairs
two at a time
did she?

Ingrid said
as long as I was paying
which I am of course

I've got 6d
that'll buy us
a big bag to share

she moved carefully
on the stair
and stood up

and they went down
the steps in silence
passing Ingrid's big sister

who was with
the Spiv looking guy
with the black and white shoes

and greasy hair style
and onto the Square
Benedict told her

his old man
had made him a metal money box
painted blue

to keep my money in he said
that's when he don't nick it
to buy his cigarettes

if he gets short
still at least he made it I suppose
she said

my dad makes nothing
and gives me nothing
they went down the *****

and by the grocer shop
except a good hiding
Benedict said

she said nothing
he gives you that
he calls it discipline

for being bad
she said
cruel ***

Benedict said  
she smiled
they went by

the noisy public house
half way up Meadow Row
she cringed in case

her father was in there
and went up and by
the green grocer shop

where Benedict got
his mother's potatoes and cabbages
they crossed the New Kent Road

and into the chip shop
where he asked
for 6d per of chips

and salt and vinegar
and she waited by the wall  
hands by her side

her hair held at the side
by hair grips
her eyes less red

he brought the chips
to the table along the wall
and sat on the high stalls

she wincing as she sat
he looking at her
sitting there

her flowered
stained cardigan
her off white blouse

and grey skirt
coming to her knees
and felt funny inside

being there with her
he and she
both 9 years old

he the fastest six shooter
of the West
and she his saloon girl

his sidekick
sweet heart
better than the rest.

6:30 am
The chippy irritation from my bedside table
forces an unconscious groan.
Starting from my curled toes
swelling
in tidal wave tremors
to my twitching torso.
Manifesting in indiscriminate slapping of
lamps
reading material
and finally
the clock…
 
If I were honest in my disdain
I wouldn't turn on the lights
nor spend a minute
looking for acceptable clothes
to appease civilization

…But I do.
 
People expect to see Me today, wrapped
in preconceived ideologies.
Some societal, some induced.
Portions I have enabled - even propagated
with detailed grooming rituals,
ongoing hair color treatments,
and anti-aging skin
regiments.

Which is a lie

Because I still see it… everyone does.
Minimizing at best.
But "anti"?
Not.
 
I aquiese to the
expectations.
Because this
carefully crafted,
death defying carcus
is the only thing
Most of them will ever know...

The painted
coiffed
decorated
Me
and my persona,
coated in Teflon,
sculpted to situations,
an everyday
chameleon
who will never let one title
stick to the
hot rock climate
I call life.
 
It has been said
you are who you are
when no one is
watching.
But my village watches.
 
Through most of this life,
in and out of my glass house,
I am
in my universe
a spectator sport
with expectant fans.
Where the others hope
the receiver makes the catch,
the singer hits the high note,
the magician disappears…

And I enter.
Stage right.
With my highlighted spiky hair
in perfect
chaotic
order.
 
(I let go for a very short season.
The silence about it
spoke of the
disapproval.
Yawn.

So what?
I was grieving.
I got better and gave in
to recycling...

Hi honey, I'm home...with old Me.)
 
The "real" crowd touts
transparency
as a measuring stick of
unfettered character.
While border-free openness
and lack of secrets
may only make one a bad confidante…
not a great person.
 
The diversity of Me is
untainted by opinion.
Purity needs no approval, nor apology.
I am intentionally
loud and quiet,
public and private
seen and unseen
understood… and not.
No lesser
or greater.
Equally
Me.
I am all that you see.
Which, by the way,
is the better part of
Me.
 
They drive by daily.
Casting stares
on the angular structures
in the city.
Never doubting
viability.
Even though there were plans,
predestination,
packaging,
posturing.
Yet a man... a man
with these four p's
is branded of
superficiality,
rigidity,
dishonesty.
 
People...
Ignorance is bliss
but you are WAY too happy
criticizing contingency
while mocking
less than
perfect
charisma.

Disgusting.

So lost
in your lack of personal
direction
that you prefer
everyone else
burn their maps…
I have seen my map.
I have planned the route.
I have chosen the vehicle.
The person I want you
to see is who
I am.
Because that is all you will
ever know.
And I like him
or I wouldn't be him.
 
Don't ask for my transparency.
You couldn't deal with
the guts of
it all.
That's okay too - you shouldn't have to.
We all are who we are
in the moment our lives
intersect.
Some murderers are loving fathers.
Both are true.
 
So be sure of this
one thing.
I do my hair for
me.

I'm glad that you like it.

After my round, Karen
leaves early. The revision
won’t do itself, she says,
and we know she’s an
all-night crammer, we’ve seen
the textbooks thick as a brick
so we groan but know
needs must. Our tongues, fuzzy
from lurid orange *****,
heads starting to pound
but we all, those left, agree it’s time
for vinegar-blotted batter,
salted sliver, steaming grease
in a puddle of papers. They’re open
till late, I say, the only one
yet to stagger as our one minute
walk begins, laughter lost
to the night. Tom asks why
haven’t we done this before. Beats
me, we just forget about time
don’t we, it’s like there’s not
enough of it. He half-drunkenly nods,
the blinding glow of the chippy
reeling us in, thirsty for money.

Don't get chippy lippy,
where's the ****** spinach Jeff!,

I didn't think you was a two-bit cook,
I thought you were a chef!,
so wheres the ****** spinach Jeff!,

Where's the bleeding turbot, Herbert?,
and where's the feeking risotto,
if I don't get some ****** food soon,
I'll drink a bottle of wine and get blot-toad

Where's the ****** crab, Brad?,
blimey! does it smell high to you!?,
You'll ****** **** someone,
and bleeding get me sued!

By Christos Andreas Kourtis and Larna Kira Kourtis

“Stand up and show every one how tall you are”, that is what Grandma would

always say. She showed us off and I took a secret pride in parading around on

display for whichever stranger had wandered into her room on that particular

visiting day. Grandma noticed the finer details, the things that we sometimes

took for granted as a healthy and growing family. Visiting her would bring us

back to these basic observations; she always made Grandmotherly comments

on how much we had grown, how we had improved in our various instruments,

increased by five shoe sizes, grown our hair and moved onto the next stages in

school and life.

Grandma lived a long and interesting life. As a young woman she was moulded

by the war before living through a lifetime of change and revolution, a lifetime

in which Granddad and her raised four children. It would be impossible to sum

her up in this short speech. Nevertheless, one thing springs to mind when I think

of her – that she was a strong woman. Over the past two years I have come to

fully appreciate the relationship that we had with her, and the security that her

constant presence in our lives gave us. How could my mind ever erase those

wonderful afternoons when Grandma would present us with an assortment of

stale, out of code sweets in recycled shortbread tins and empty Clover tubs? I

don’t think that my digestive system has recovered yet. Nor could I ever forget

the numerous afternoons spent running wildly through the orchard in Grandma

and Granddad’s back garden, chasing the flurries of butterflies that inhabited

the rose bush every year while Granddad lovingly looked on, only intervening

to rescue the poor insects when we accidentally grasped their patterned wings

too tightly. I can see Grandma perched on the bench by the conservatory, and

suddenly my mind overflows with memories from the bungalow that we all

know so well. The smell of Grandma’s freshly baked Eve’s pudding is not one I

often stumble upon in Bangkok but I can smell it now, and of course I remember

sitting around the dining room table eating greasy fish and chips from the local

chippy. I remember the room off the kitchen where we would lose ourselves in

all of the toys and games, cast a sceptical eye over the ancient television before

moving on to study the shelf of family photographs where I first learnt about all

of the other generations that make up our family.

This is what today is about; it is about surrounding Grandma with the generation

that will live on. One generation ends but another generation continues on in

its place. This morning is about seizing on the fragments of Grandma’s life that

we all share, the memories that we remember together as a family. Death can

be an uncomfortable subject, especially when we feel we have to dwell on the

person’s absence, on the fact that this person has gone and that we can no longer

feel, touch or smell them. But I believe that we should celebrate the life that our

Grandma had.

We miss her, and we love her.

Wee Angus on his wae frae work
would hit tha pub fa a perk
O' Tennents lager frae tha keg
whiles chatting up tha barmaid Meg
A pint or twa there wae friens
a' bleathering awa like scholars an Deans
Debators O Parlimentary views
Ministers preaching o'er tha pews
Wae drink in hand they'd laugh their fill
tha glory Mead upon their bill
Yelping like some bairney pups
catching breeths atween their sups.

(nae wiser a man than yin filled wae ale
Nae greater a time than while drinking frae tha Grail.)

In football games they A' would linger
or singing songs for all's a singer
Nae matter how bad tha voice
a' would request their favorite choice
Happy all wae drink in hand
while holding up the bar they stand
In rattled curses tae tha bumping airms
while viewing o'er some lassies chairms
Whispering oot all dreams an desires
that drink within them all inspires
An' Angus kens that soon or late
he tae hame must tak tha gate.

Kenning tae deep doun inside
his drunken breath he'd better hide
Saying fareweel tae friens and foes
leaing ahind tha pub's warm burning coals
Doun he stummels tae tha chippy
tha air ootside tis crisp an nippy
Making him drunker than afore
he side steps frae door tae door
Eating his fish supper, enjoying each bite
thinking aboot all that's happened tha night.
Till there he rouns tha corner street
His hame sae warmly it does greet,
Falling o'er tha step ootside his hame
Tha door it opens, Behold his sullen Dame
Trying tae act sober wae all his might
afore his wifie here tha night
But she's nae fool nor blind tae see
his daft antics, his blabbering plea.

In comes Angus wae words O' love
tae face tha thumping slap an shove
Her roaring voice would put fear intae tha Deil
Hear wee Angus weep an squeal.

(What type O' life drink it brings
that great at first yet later stings
What worth has man tae waste his life
wae drinks illusions an its strife.
Sooner or later as true as Hell
Yin cannie live save by its spell
getting worse an worse day by day
while friens an family turn away
An Angus wheither he kens or no
has drifted where tha drunkards go
An time shall tell what fate bestows
for tha Curse O Ale, nae man knows.)

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

Four hundred of us pour out
from the lights turned on,
girls in bare feet in the rain and the wind
to see Christmas lights on Grafton street.

Trinity’s beautiful, but not where the heart is,
the grass is muddy on college green
a cold breeze is whipping off the Liffey,
and everyone’s singing, low lie the fields.

The guards are milling, we’re trudging,
some holding hands or kissing –
bring me back to Stillorgan for ten euro?
*******! No come on sir, I’m freezing.

It’s grey, it’s wet and it’s cloudy.
I want Burdock’s or some dodgy chippy,
I want to hear the song of a boy from Ballymun
and live forever young in Dublin’s fair city.

i think the problem was a shocking surprise
your grass was always greener on the other side
the grass here, it was not perfect,no
but its still more than you were deserving of though
the things i dreamt of before  the chippy
rush away in the wind,its just whipping
whipping down and off my balcony
whipping it around in a bittersweet symphony
whipping it around right back at my face
just like you did its a ******* disgrace
the good new for me though is things have changed
i am not the same girl that youd thought id remain
im stronger,and better,for all that you did.
you are not you now,not to me
now you're just one of "them"
them.
the word i despise
the herd they all follow
with secrets and lies
the sheepherd that stumbles their pathetic lives
and i have to say i am not surprised
dissapointed,well,yes
but i knew all along i called you on it
your denial ran so deep you believed your own lies
my so called soul-mate is just another guy
and that thing,that unrealistic fairytale you claim is void
i can almost feel it so loud is the noise
so loud is my heart telling me hes out there
and he wont lie,or hit,and his words wont despair
so deep, so lovely,so pure and true
and im sorry but now that could never be you
i went from sad to bitter to nothing
and thats why now when i write it will be about something
my words just as beautiful as my kind heart
you are undeserving of them buddy and thats only a start
oh hes out there just trust me he is
and youll still be hopping from flea to skizz
from sleezy to trampy to **** videos
and i will be doing art and poetry shows
i will be where i belong, and you will too
where the grass grew
the grass we talked on the grass we played with
it is brown and withered and **** near dead
but i suppose that is what i get
should have fished with a worm and not a net
a net catches garbage,things left behind
but a worm,thats the true blue fish that i will find
there are fish and water where that grass grew
and this is the end,im starting anew
enjoy your petty sick little games
in a year i wont even remember your name
and you wont remember mine, because your a memeber of the herd for show
but trust me you will sir,remember my soul
my eyes my smile my laugh my fun
my honesty,integrity,and my son
my mother my father my brother my dog
yes,even aries will go along
for the trip that you take to visit me from long ago
and youll be sitting where the grass grows
the grass only grows in your memories now
and you only think of me alone in your house
that girl you once knew when you were young
and will you consider that you were dumb
to give up green grass, for grass on the other side
and while you chased the brown grass, my love for you died
the brown grass is everywhere its a million the same
but the green grass,me and chippy will remain
in your memory, in your mind,when things get quiet
i know you'll think of it like a riot
youll wish you could go back and start anew
where YOUR former green grass once grew
where the grass grew back on the other side
where the flowers grew wild and were so alive
now you smell sulfur and cheap perfume
around tons of people but alone in a room
youll someday feel really blue
about where your green grass once grew.
where the grass grew. where the grass grew. its a memory now
and you cant forget you dont know how
all you know is its heartbreaking how much you miss it too
where the grass grew,where to grass grew.

I will very very probably do it again
Anyone who knows me and has a brain
Can see that Biden's old and lame
Now's the time to reignite my reign.

MAGA folks love me and want me back
They need our country set on track
For what I have all others lack
Of running stuff they know sweet jack.

As to DeSantimonius, Short Pants Pence and Chippy Cheney
That they'll burn out I'll wage you money
I'm the one that's smart and funny
My golden touch makes all things sunny.

So once these midterms are sown up
I'll squeeze lame Joe just like a bug
Show the world that he's a dud
For I’m the man, I know it in my gut.

One sole warrior
keeps watch over all the other birdies.
He ruffles his feathers, sticks his leg out,
and pulls it back in.
He turns his head to and fro
and surveys the land.

A little chippy bird tries his luck and lands
near.

The warrior spreads his wings
as he glides
from branch to branch.

Three hops before he makes his break for
the sun.

On the streets of Antwerp
There are visible areas
There are borders dividing
Different ethnicities,
Cultures and languages
There are areas
By income and colleges

There are also invisible areas
Corners taken in by the homeless
There's Antwerp's most famous
Louis, alcoholic and ex-military
Best known for saving two children
And writing a book
He said he never liked to live within 4 walls
Making about €150 a day
Sitting on Astrid Square
Going on 30 years now

There's the Scottish poet
Who spits rhymes
Like they came off a conveyor
He cited one for me once
I regretted it instantly
But at least I know now
What rhymes with *****
He hangs around the Central Station
And enjoys summer nights

There's Chippy the one with the dreads
Hangs around the Cathedral
And keeps an eye on the youth
In good terms with the police he is
No fights or broken bottles
Where he roams
Surrounded by the usual Gang
Of surprisingly well kept
Ladies and Gents
With their trolleys and carts

There's the very skinny one
Who once kept company
To a friend of mine
And exchaned his bike
For a loaf of bread
She smiled and told him
To keep the bike and the bread
He felt it was his job
To protect her
And guide her back home

Then there's "Santa"
Not much known about him
His spot is by Frituur N* 1
Best fries in the city
He wears a kilt and a red jacket
White beard and hair
A shiny bald spot in the center of his head
He speaks German loudly
To everyone and anyone
Bright red nose and square glasses

Now as I stroll about the streets
I know where to expect to see them
But to my surprise one day
Santa was gone
Had they taken him away?
Did the City of Antwerp
Reclaim their streets?
Did he die in the winter cold?
I put my pink glasses on and figured
Maybe he went to get beer.

And then one day years later
I spotted him... Yes it was him!
He wore neat blue jeans
And a purple well kept sweater
Glasses with a modern green frame
Hair and beard cut and brushed
He walked with a quick pase
Seemingly on his way back
To Frituur N* 1
Roaring in German louder than ever!
With a sting in my heart I watched him go back to his corner.

My Town
My town is a cool town, where you can go and drink beer in many pubs and clubs, from rock and metal ones to trendy dance bars. Fancy dancing the night away? Night clubs are open till gone 4am, with girls to dance close to and cocktail drinks to exotically drink. See a live band in The Abbey or Whittles, see a drag act in The Dog and Duck or try some Real Ales in The Upsteps.

If you want a job you can work in a variety of industries, from being a baker at Park Cake’s bakery, making cakes like chocolate éclairs and custard creams, to warehouse work in Littlewoods or Jacobson’s. Want to better your education? There’s a university and a new science training centre where you can learn something different.

If you want to write, there are several writing workshops. From Fitton Hill library to Oldham Central, where you can write poetry and stories about anything your heart desires. Myself, I write about my life and times gone by. Want to check your emails or go online? Every library is plugged in so you can chat to your pals in Australia.

Much of the old town is gone now. No more Mump’s Bridge, the two rail bridges are gone. The huge mill on Park Road is rubble, making away for something new. Same with the train station, haven’t you heard? We’re getting the Metrolink and trams to Manchester and elsewhere. You can come up and visit me and my town.

We’ve plenty of sights like Dovestones with wild moorland, deep blue reservoirs and hidden deep valleys. Enjoyable in every season, taking your breath away. Spend a day in Uppermill, a small tourist village, with a historic museum and lots of gift shops like Pieces of Paradise. In the other directions, you have Rochdale, Ashton and Manchester, where there are shops aplenty to keep you occupied.

People from all four corners of the world come and visit Oldham, some settle here. From the Caribbean, both America’s, Asia, Europe and more. Languages from many different places are spoken here and people have unique names like Anneke or Dalmia . All unique, adding to the culture. We’ve no aliens or Martian’s yet but never say never!

If you want history, you’ve got it. Churchill was once an MP in Oldham and a deadly **** V-1 bomb hit Abbyhills. Many died. To balance it out, you’ve local bands like Blouse, with not a breast in sight, doing top rockin’ tunes. A host of others do fun gigs and excellent nights out. This is my hometown, Oldham. Come and visit us, have a beer and try a local chippy or kebab.

i find it staggering that the runes survived
the onslought of the monotheism
that's christianity...
             it's summed up by:
                               huh?!
and a face that just ****** a lemon:
  what?! it's sunny!                            i'm squinting!
     the title?
      oh i've been trying to figure out
nos. 8941 & 8942 in the su doku quest...
no luck...
         so i'm bopping about
listening to and one's panzermensch -
      ᛈᚨᚾ (pan) - ᛉᛖᚱ (zer) - ᛗᛖᚾ (men) -
         and thus the variant of the hush, baby, hush
syllable... i.e. the ᛋ- -ᚺ/ᛉ variant...
                              sh           vs.             sz -
yeah... monkeys... 100,000 years of history...
        how long, or: what is the point
of this movie?
           i'm into 4 in the afternoon,
  on a saturday and i'm starting to wonder:
               the next 5 hours are going to be long...
the supermarket closes its doors at 10pm...
                  i have about a thumb's worth
of whiskey left in the bottle...
                             really dramatic times,
scary times...
                      (insert a burp) -
                        plus the unfinished su doku
no. 8941...
                              i don't know how i'm supposed
to just keep it on the cool, being all nonchalant
about the problem...
         well... there's an alternative!
                          looking for saladin in modern
day syria...
                      talk about looking for
a needle in a haystack... it's pretty much the same
deal...
           a bit like: looking for a million dollars
with a single dollar in a lottery draw...
                        same ****... different cover.              
    so to the point of the "tale" -
           it's friday and we're off to the chippy
for a slice of deep-fried cod...
                                    there's only so much
you can do with salmon, before it just becomes
unbearable to do anything other than
grill it, or poach it...
                    personally? just give me a tub
of raw herring fillets in cream and i'll talk
to you about eternity...
                  but **** me! it survived!
          no one is going to use these symbols
in the everyday though... well... obviously!
    that's the equivalent of writing:  
1i, 2ii, 3iii, 4iv, 5v, 6vi, 7vii, 8viii, 9ix, 10x....
    you played this matchstick game where
    you say: spot me a curve on runes!
          arabic though, eh? ****** serpents...
look how wriggly their phonetic encoding is!
       no wonder it could be said to have been
invented by women...
                          get yer pears!
         get yer apples!
                                   get yer bananas!
            get yer watermelons!
              islam is like a ******* trying too hard
to rekindle her chance of a privacy with
                   a partner that might father her child...
you know that islam was founded by
                     abraham's concubine... yes?
it's the religion of militant prostitutes,
   that's why they do the whole: ha ya! ninja chop;
also called the death stare.
    man... who put acid into this whiskey?
                      i'm starting to see the world
                            ten thousand years prior to this day.

Two good friends : JJ & B
both battling one-on-one.
A $100 bet on the line.
Who’s the better big man
on the court at the park?
Score is tied, 7-up, game point for either one.
Things get chippy down to the wire.
Trash talking, cussing,
elbows thrown, emotions high,
people commentating the sidelines.
“Game! Money time!”- is called after scoring the last bucket on JJ part.  

Until B refuses to pay.
From one man to another,
pride and ego is in the way, *** rushing the arena, causing havoc.
Brawl almost break out, one-time is called,
crowd scatters like roaches away from the sky lights as sirens flash below.
From one man to another,
lack of accountability was held from this bet.

I describe my baboon as baboon-shaped. Her name's Babs, which is
short for baboon. Sunday I pushed her to the library where we were
given a library balloon. It had snot on it, the balloon, because the li-
brarian had the Shanghai flu. I'll take my free-book-borrowing busi-
ness to Havana, Cuba, where snotty librarians are chippy chipper &
well & they never trim their dry quims & they're not bound for hell.

Some half baked dubious ******* that I wrote on a train headed in the direction of Kortrijk:


''An endless stream of not arseds to hang your ***** washing on/Ya forebearers are all mutts, your pallbearers will be too/You are a kazzoo blowing *******, an idiot's tac nightmare/seen two or three of your alleged family members puffing their chests out down the backtrack, propa knackas/Ya ma is very particular, your sister is as cold as a fortnight in the briar dene (although a fine dancer when she sets her mind to it/
Getting older or more toxic? Shushhhh, be kind/started hearing normans and lennys settling betting slips while I'm on the netty/dettol and despair- the golden duo made good/I'll be bed ridden in time for christmas- flannel pyjamas and sentimentality/heard your kid slagging uz & saw demons in the mist on the windee (window, *******)/cutting my losses/tobogganing hopes/
the left side of my chest is 85 the last weeks/the streets in Brussels speak to me and are canny this time of year/I am not a francophone by predilection/making a secret pact with the universe not to mourn its passing/Every social situation is becoming like a casino for *******/Starting to feel a little bit more Panzram than Ghandi/Flanders is flat cos someone trod on it while under the drink/I might have fitted better into a bygone era- a bewildering lack of manual skills- what came first the dial up internet in your ma's back room or my cack handedness/Don't have owt to tell anyone anymore, don't give two shites nevermind one/Your step brother watches hollyoaks and eats ****** snacks while your step sister hums songs of unknown origin''.
A bumbling idiot's invented history of tyneside:
''I saw 3 cats attack a pigeon in heaton park as bobby thompson, aka the little waster, danced suggestively with the setting sun, a serviette tucked down his front to catch his dinner....................mike neville cried in the dark, while suckling away at a glass tizer bottle from the arcade chippy in whitley bay, that day there was no news on tyneside......T Dan Smith liked a snack as much as the next man...but what he really liked was to drink a pint of water everytime the clock struck 36- that way he could **** the toon into oblivion at his own behest or the behest of occult forces.....I found Gazza, shellsuited, eating a child's portion of cod and chips in St Paul's church yard, in his ruddyu red hand was a 6 pack of socks from winners (the flagship store). Abandoned between his feet were 50 notebooks from the fisherman's mission.....don't get me started on sting''.

The sparrows will chirp at dawn,
the clouds will shrivel and fall,
Chippy the Plant will grow tall,
and you will be there to see it all.

Catherina Deveraux


It was a Sunday in August, late at night, there were many rats
                          eating left over from a chippy
when I met my informant, she said the revolution was imminent
they were going to take over the town of Faro.
I warned about it in an email, and it was ignored,
Catherine a famous French star warned about it a few days later,
while my email was ignored, hers became a runaway success
And that is the difference if you have named the public
listen, if you speak the truth as an average Joe you will
be utterly ignored, but then I'm quite used to have an opinion
more illustrious figure adopts that is pleasing.

how many vaccinations do i remember?
some called chicken-pox a virus infection
of children....
so if one child contracted the virus
the neighbours' child was exposed
to it: so it went under the iron curtain...

but i did receive vaccination for
those other in the triad: Odra...
measles?
         it's named a furry thing in one language
a river in another...
not the Vistula plague...
or the Varta plague riddling posing-nan?
Possen?

i'm pretending to be all: fuzzy-brainz...
but... i do remember...
the mad-cow disease epidemic...
in england...
and what arrived after:
meningitis... in the realm of youth...
i remember going to school like
nothing was going to happen...
it didn't... meningitis took grip of my neighbour's
brain... expected bullock-freeze...
yes... it was real...
phantom stranger! how are you?
after all: pandemic sounds less sinister
than epidemic ever will...
i'm actually tired of the narratives
from both aisles of furroging for antics...
more like broken limbs...
but when meningitis was rife...
and there was a vaccine on the ready...
nothing stopped...
life preserved itself: continued...

lucky for me to be writing from england...
after all the bombing from
the media Hindenburg sinking
for seemingly years upon years concerning
the topic of Brexit...
i much prefer recycling in...
well by now ol' nature is just
a boring **** of scents...
summer come the zenith
winter the nadir...

if it only woul could feel authentic...
again: subjectivity is not...
"necessary"? it's sub-human sub-optimal?
no? if it could feel authentic...
then what the ****'s worth of use
do i have with thoughts that
objectively "sound" yet always tend to
masequerade around brining me
a ******* margueritta!

what good is a line of argument:
surrounding doubtful thinking...
yes... "once upon a time":
it "feelz": yes... a certainty of heart is above
all else a certainty of self...
the mind is a ******* lost labyrinth
of do i, don't i, be i, bitten *******
ripple effects rife!

meningitis was real...
the young were affected...
there was a vaccination we all took
in school:
they pretended to call it:
brain-freeze of: fatty-brainz-does-do-d'ah...
but... **** on me:
the panic button is frozen...
re-setting:
back toward alley candle working
our way from the Edison project...
nice... ******* Kazakhstani and all!

point being: who are the orcs...
the ugly trolls... the nazis?!
i suppose almost everyone!
           i've been assured to comply:
2 weeks homebound...
i've had a garden to tend to...
some decorating d.i.y. work... no problem...
big on the HBO show SUCESSION...

grandfather just died i'll heave
my mother being angry at the world:
i'll just take down my uncle and my grandmother...
no biggy...
happy are those who's relatives haven't /
or have yet to: die in this... "crisis"...

meningitis was a real fear:
but we, *******, ploughed along!
now a ******* cockroach is the scary "bit":
the bit of temporal sacrifice where:
you don't ******* eat it?
i wouldn't dare to **** a fly...
i would... however... dare to catch one
with my forehead...
and then flick it into a spiderweb...
how's that?

i'm tired listening to either side of
the argument...
when a ponent disease of rot brain appeared
and coincided itself with bad beef
because the cows were infected with
a bug that made them appear to be drunk /
english girls... cows...
in those would come harrowing new:
redundencies of urban gob: a Leicester high-street
excursion...
how they would drink, dress up skimpy:
and eat nothing but bones and dust:
you'd ask... some marrow?
no would come the reply...

mind you: it's not like i would ever
find myself eating out...
the odd friday with the need for
the chippy... and some cod...
but... i would never eat out...
did that once... off camden town high street
from one of these chinese vendors...
had the ***** for 3 hours...
i never eat out because i...
well: i'll sooner trust ******* into my hands,
then ******* into them...
then fiddling through some ****...
then washing them...
before i attend to preparing some
food...
it doesn't affect me because:
i don't / nor ever have... eaten to be seen...
i'm not a lion and what i'd be eating
wouldn't be a hunted down gazelle...
would it?
so what's the ******* point
of window-shopping food in reverse?
what's this fetish for eating in public?
in public... yeah...
as in... in victorian times...
the ****** junkies would congregate
into a hush-lazy "paragraph"?

maybe we should show all th slaughterhouses!
eating in public... all that 20th century
existential narcissism leveraging the french:
to be is to be seen...
minus the restaurant antics...
call me old fashioned but:
the only food i like to it...
is the food i cook myself...

would i like to extend that into
hunting for my food...
it's the 21st century...
unless for a delicacy...
but... i rather like to cook the food
i'm about to eat...

eating in public... pigeons eat in public...
or a variation of that...
can i extract a proverb from all
of this akin to:
better a sparrow in your hand,
than a dove on your roof?

last time i heard the arguments
for abortions could extend into genocide:
like... i ******* and the ***** is...
flushed down into the toilet with
the crocodiles... an act of genocide...
but... in the "meantime"...
the abortion clinic rife from
the already waiting... pre-automation
fake herr hirsch and frau hirsch robo...
you know...
where do you clog the details of life
with these people?
tending to the late abortion:
it's a dandy day to be down syndrome?!
imagine a placing of human muscular
nd jaw abiding...
because i'm not a plumber...
i'm also... not tending to the farm
of goo and skittles...
rephrase that, as i must...

who's the genius behind...
oh... right... Barr... it's no IRN BRU...
but it's most ******* certainly cream soda...
i just imagine if Barr and Krupp had
a collaboration projects...
bombs made from carbonated sugar bomb
**** boom boom explosions of fizz!

we have to be talking about reinventing
abortion?
or... genocide... no?
if automation is to be forwarded... no?
fair enough if you tell the women:
no abominations!
some people: the polacks, backward people...
well... would you require christening
a cyclops? a brain-deadening
form that's not even a **** similis:
an ape replica: otherwise:
consent to abort! if th ancient ritual
of ****** are practised!
****? m'eh...
forget the cross: burden yourself
with moloch... which is...
a double-edged sword...
given all the kosher medicine...
all the sacrificed foreskins!
**** me... ed gein looks sorta pale and impaled
on his own cringe...
skin is skin...

so much for concerns when
there's "golf" that's to be incubated and...
involved... sorry... invoked...

how is there status quo... peeping-tommy...
there's an argument for the piggies
at the trough...
leveraging for needs of
the imploded concept of a passport...
such is this federal cwispy clean...
because it's no Relsh or Velsh:
or anything like Cornwall...

you don't need to go anywhere:
and anywhere is "anywhere":
chuck in the bums but not the incarcerated
by mr. bar and the lucid brigade...

milan kundera has more geographic "details":
the ural mountains and the Caucasian...
  what's what? cocky-asians?! whites?
whites are somehow ****-asians?
must be a new turkic plantative of
congregational dynamics of: usher in the whites!
the germanic peoples, the pedantic anglicans...
and the steppe mongrels and mongols...
the turks too!
let's all play that *******
monopoly game of: exodus africanus!

i lost the tan...
how did i get the squinting
the ******* on the lemon bit?!

otherwise...
which is probably east...
belarus and ukraine...
but germany is never noted as...
the vest...
austria: eastern-***** is still: vest...
central europe doesn't translate for
the anglophones... or, rather...
it never existed to begin with...
esp. under the guise of the toilet paper
mache of herr neville chamberlain...
no... not ever: nor would be...

in Ypres... oh how hollow tusk of ivory
those graves: indented with
hallow / hollow epitaph esque signatures...
and they stand: shoulder to shoulder...
withering amass in slabs of earth
extending for the onlooker's mile...
so pale... antidote misanthropic...
world war one...
and do they tell you how they
buried the central, ahem! ahem!
how they buried the germans?!
in mass graves... where the robin and the sparrow
still sings... mass graves that weren't
this ******* spectacle of past colonial endeavours...
where oak and pine,
birch... and brass took stand to root!

east is east my ******* closure!
east is by no means
the intricacy of the veins
of the danube...
hungary belongs to the huns...
watch me... concerning myself
with the ottoman reconquista...
this is, "now":
the ottoman reconquista, no?
**** my pork under-salted...
the grand orator is missing the mark
when history is being governed by
a hard--on escaping the promises
of secular bull.......... ****?!

two tongue a piece:
i never spiked one tongue above
a contesting Machiavellian brooding
over a furrowing of brows...
above another...

this eastern bloc?
and the federalised states of h'america?
because this is; surprising history!
lithuania and latvia...
30+ million people just...
oops... "forgotten"?
****-proud of cuckoldry of
the desired... voices
of the proud: teasing vaginas!
the ******* get your mongol-pseudo
gizmos from?
a soho proud ***** deposit?!

how does a ***** bank work...
concerning the dichotomy
of credit                    /                 debit?!
is that dichotomy even fease(a)ble?
worst for sawn-off worse for dicta:

yes... my teeth are by no means...
extending toward the exploration
tendencies of bone: via an x-ray...
by demand of a non-persuasive argument...
by teeth are furry... they are furry with an itch...
they are... i have itchy teeth because:
i'm a limp-**** impersonato...
a castrated wow from a harem
of a harem... of the castrated lobotomies
of phallus endowed...
entertaining the sugar-coated
princesses... tease angelic etc...
blah blah, blah... lost toy *****...
aber?! gott ist einz! mit unz!

with an east bought: this austrian
closure... forever flimsy baron...
flaking amnesia...
no you scratch my back i
scratch: how about my fingernails
task themselves over the details
over your gravestones
having no epitaphs like
blitzkriegs concerning them...

verbiage of the dritte-*****:
modus operandi gucci or some other
borrowed tailor from
the league of lombardy?
    
/ / /  nothing concerning "stupid"....
but when one is being interrupted
with a..  b'ah b'ah internet
connectivity...
when one's lightbulbs are in play...
leauge of own's own: slo-mo...
******* where money
become daffodil sprouts...

don't i: oh yes... that's where i
know "where":
and towing "know"
i have to attempt to white lie:
a... borrow. / / / /

that i rarely dream...
picking up a body from the grave:
clinging to me like a hurt puppy...
apparently a resurrection:
i deigned to believe i was peeling
my own skin off...
walking him in my arms
back to his home:
peering through a window
that acted like a mirror
into someone else's home...
then seeing this resurrected
body get back to a healthy
b.m.i.
while eating raisins using
toothpicks...
switch to a day later...
perhaps the face is the same...
but the eyes are sinister...
glowing amber...
the first time eyes have
taken prominence in my dreams...
prior to: teeth...
then a haunting sequence...
i'm being asked
to ***** a ladybird with a needle:
purple smoke comes
out with the deed:
the house is apparently cleansed
from "voodoo"...
i guess this all comes back
to the night before:
sitting in the garden
wanting to remember a face
that formerly contorted with
expressions bound
to a still apparent: eucalyptus tree...
but i still had
to take this body from
the crave clinging to me
like either a hurt puppy
or some aberration of skin...
i wondered whether i'd remember
this dream even if i kept it
in the back of my mind
and attempted the daily:
curating the garden one last
time before winter finally
succeeds...
well... that's that.

i'm an egoist like i might be a spider -
a quizzical pointer and a loiter of hubris:
that word again...
   i must have mistook hubris for hiatus -
i see no future for the arguments
concerning genes -
         beside: solo project i -
                and what will continue is
the concept of a species -
i am quiet thankful that i don't demand
the face of the slobbering gods to be
of a particular inclination -
     in that: i was never fond of english:
philosophy - once the parameters
of darwinism became established:
there was no longer any blinking involved...
or at least missing the abyss -
the abyss forgot to manufacture dreams
and the darwinistic enterprise wanted
me to peer into it with unflinching metaphors:
and scarred details...
that a man might refrain from
potentially petting an arachnid...
   then again: i'm only a cat person because
******* are one thing...
but parading with genitals of dogs
is just another daydream -
      once upon a time:
                   it wasn't like the darwinistic adventure
came with a cute poetry akin
to the copernican revolution:
cited: he stopped the sun and moved the earth...
perhaps to borrow from history:
when people were wrapped up in
a "solipsism" of their own species -
           that not much from "elsewhere"
could be borrowed, tailored to
a mimic... incorporated... slyly suggested...
the full bodied and ****** consequence
of the old lies and emotions of squabbling
men and ferocious women -
beside this current neuter:
flimsy generic loaning of insect:
             ontology?
                for what was deserving for men
to imitate: a rhetorical crux / pinnacle...
that would never become a cocktail of
more robots more a priori nibbling at
the old unfathomable god:
a god outside of a polytheism that can
only become a brain-freeze and a tongue tie...
it's not that darwinism isn't... a truth beggar...
but you can't exactly make incisions
of an existentialism with darwinism -
how the 20th century becketts got "away with it"
is beside me...
but i can't be a man no more
a brick when i'm facing a comparison
from an alien revelation of insects:
to **** is to be eaten - just as much...
hell... i wouldn't mind being eaten
as long as i couldn't be milked...
         i am truly alienated by the task of
preserving genes:
there are a billion chinese and a billion
blue indian raj examples to pick... from...
it's not like the species will die...
i am no atlas and this solo project
is bothersome to have to question: to begin
with...
  i never liked darwinism because
i knew it would go far beyond a mere
observation: it had to be incorporated -
the behaviour of lions or of insects -
          after all: i am not subject to my own
undeciding human...
                  any more than i am:
objecting to: the crowd pleasing objectification
snooker or borrowing from:
these ambivalent critters of pouch shadow
and a thought...
             i'd want to summon
the old gods but there they are...
no subject matter ignites their need for
a presence...
            they might as well have secluded
themselves on the gentle silence
of a scratching orb trace to tease saturn -
i want to find the crows mystifying -
i do - but that doesn't help much...
i don't want to delve into life that's not
immediately concrete -
i followed a whiff of making concrete
but then i knew: ****'s the real stinker
and the juice...
                    i played a ****** when looking
at a spider feast on a moth...
days prior i was inviting
moths to the nursery of my bedroom...
- you simply can't create a cosmopolitan
allure for cafe existentialism with
priding yourself on darwinism -
it's not wrong it's just: i don't want to
borrow from the very base, crude:
psychopathically teasing tendencies
that... well... deviations from mammalian...
if "we" borrowed from elephants alone...
from whales...
were we oh so solipsistic prior...
yes... we must have have been...
we domesticated horses...
we domesticated dogs...
   we created bonsai tigers...
             we probably petted poster / glue
nibbling goats...
we forgave the cannibalism of chickens
when one could meet the stump
and axe: a golgotha like congregation
of drinking blood...
         a violent old god...
death and jester but a pretty innocent
apple...
now a benevolent god and a fruit:
a bundle of metaphors and metaphysics -
it's still the old trick of poetic cannibalism -
i'm sure that if i worked on the apple...
i'd get a cider from it...
am i cured from the curse of the wine -
what if my body is a rumble of whiskey
and a potato chip?
  is my corpus "antichristi" this...
wheat "buckle"... what if i can turn
the bread into a consecration of meaning
with... a ******* gnocchi or a noodle: bundle?

- catholicism - well: perhaps born into it...
but i'm missing the confirmation language
that even the great atheistic tinker and tailor
and: how biology and the rule of
the thespians killed off the alchemists and
poets...
            let's just pretend! let's... let's...
just... pretend...
             years later i can finally appreciate
Al Purdy...
   i know what put me off...
the notes in a copy of his: rooms for rent
in the outer planets...
i need to buy some rubber
to erase these pencil details...

             female handwriting -
i know it... the letters are al bubbly...
they're not akin to chicken scratchings...
bubbly ******* of toads...
"unsentimental view of nature"
a real "treasure trove of antics"...
what put me off: what always puts me off:
a need to annotate poetry:
to teach it like one might teach
a bunch of young Frankensteins
a lesson or two in anatomy...

that language so already sacred in it
being scarce has to endure...
a postmortem of additional details
of: that it can't be left alone like
a floral insignia on a base dulling of
Hittite brown:
     a bark of wood the colour of cardamom...
the argument of: well...
those egyptians were so advanced
back then... even the Iraqis...
hell... the Greeks were advanced peoples
too... looks like they took a *******
bicycle to hiatus land!

burdening me with a past and:
that darwinism doesn't really life...
a concept of / a "concept" of the Avignon
Papacy...
  i'm strapped mr. gill and mrs. gimp all
latex to a spider and some
******* chimp'zee bonanza...
           no one teaches dogs to swim...
in a priori dimming they: know
a duck from a water...
   they know a pancake from a victoria sponge:
hypothetical:
borrowing from the 1960s:
a hitchhiker in the form of a mushroom
apparently opened my eyes
and i am now: the ego-son
of the fungus with potential to:
amass the same sort of gorilla build
architecture from... scraps of...
a plethora of vitamin sources...
i'll eat the deer...
the tame the boars and shave them
to attain crick bacon...
the ******* gorilla will laugh a blank
autistic look at me:
weighing in at a K.O. from...
papyrus and twigs and perhaps
a concept of: straightening bananas...

this slow sludge of walking "backwards"
from **** sapiens to **** similis -
this opposing venture into
anti-literature -
it's not that the mirror of hopes
is now a glass grieving from a lack
of shadows...
  no one wants to find themselves
beside: an exfoliation of tongue...

once more: the church bell of the uvula...
the brain the sponge...
my liver the punching bag
of an alcoholic opponent -

    that bukowski is some this that and
the other: and he knew:
the pressures of 100 years...
that there was also this Al Purdy...
and i too made my own wine -
pretending to blindly support
a Vest Ham -
             way way out west in the east:
that i did see a tease of Venice but
that i probably will never venture
south of the thames to
this cut from the home counties
of: how Burial (dubstep)
originated...
strapped to a mythology of the north...
Thames: a river without a clarity
of mountains:
how the Thames cannot
be celebrated akin to the Vistula
or the Danube...

              murky grey fonz -
this lingering tide amass of custard...
england's last lacklustre exertion
from the 1960s...
some kingly riddle ransom of
crimea associated for the purpose
of crimson -
a taming of purple in the hue
of hooded Burgundian -
  my solving tiresome base for
eyes -
    it's not that Greenwich mean-time
could ever be "important" -
insomniac polyphony of the hours
in passing...
   is more beside the equator...
some topsy-turvy pancake a butter
lofty toast:
that toasted rye that toasted
sourdough... or a ciabatta slice...
             is more and more than this
arrogant prize of english worship
"Blumenthal"...
        
a bonsai tiger's eager inquisitive prompt
from behind a door:
retreating like a lasso or
a folding of bedsheets -
or an ironing of unironic jeans...
some things to be worn should
be best unironed -
   notably jeans -
          azure: clarity chippy of:
variation:
   death's desire to come along
the purpose of lost purples:
in denim like a...

              arbeit macht frei will
forever stand the test of time among
the workaholics...
it's as little infamous as it is:
the currency of keeping with
details of a towing of two un-opposing
factions...

these service jobs and their lowering
of physical exertion:
substituted by gym maintenance -
service jobs and the "work" of...
loitering the hours in...
                 these service jobs and the clocking
in of hours: eternity begot the yawn...
adam begot the scratching of the head:
god conceived of the hierarchy of
taking the knee:
satan borrowed a circus and
a seizure for the future of
ronin imagination...

   can a fire itch?
        i'm pretty sure the licking of ice
can be allowed a fathom of both
an itch and a burn and:
       towing glue...
pockets of dry water staging coups of
crystalised details
of attention *******...
  
and a: between...
   the suffocating mantle piece of...
morbid avenues:
the t.v. robbed the zombies
of their pitiful dues...
machinery hatchling detail...
                  a burden of phallus and
a hammer...
crude "avenue": a **** the size
of a nail...
all life a coffin an scalp that snow
is also dandruff -
and there is nothing of a limit to tow
a continuity -
the species will survive...
the species will survive:
there are enough "stupid" and *****
people to preserve it...
more ***** than "stupid"..

             they are not to be...
coerced with submissions on the grandours
of religion...
having to preserve their appetite
of disinhibition...
they are to be kept on their own
worth of: kept perpetual:
there's no siding of the **** similis project
akin to the lizard kings with the meteor...
so it happens: the moon was sleeping...
when that little nugget of: oops...
****** up the tides and sleeping
patterns of proto-happenings...

    - as i am having "my" kitchen refurbished...
the surrealism of a fride-freezer
occupying a space in "my"
living / civil room -
where the t.v. is this altar of mundane
sacrifices...
at least there's still a concept
of a bedroom and the need for
a bed and the thorough avenues
of abating sleeplessness...

       i dare to sleep because i have
no wish for a *** life that's
a demanding expansion of...
custard-**** of an alter-ego of paragraph...

biting the ******* of
a schadenfreude category:
by the time she becomes an exhausted
**** in the pornographic clogging
of exhausting the machinery:
there were some organic components?
there was a "riddle" of
a lumberjack and a carpenter..
associated to.. ahem... wood?
i want to wish for a plain & simple
trucker analogy...
but then the agony of
conjuring up a chair & table...
and a rocker... and one of those
serpents of moses...

    god blessed grievances
to make elaborations with mahogany
that it would never become:
tantalizing marble:
                            
in a periodical inconvenience of tome:
this time: my lacking...
i will never find it an easy ride
to appeal / appease the
morbidity of the throng...
  having to tow a romance
of england...
a little detail a little of everything
and everywhere...
a pact with celtic / ginger
*******...

    ooh! hot coal... i am an european
5ft8 dwarf... a 6ft6 african goliath
is picking my cotton...
and i own a whip: and i am:

       nie z tego rodzony...
                            it's my little alien
planet of: but it's not important
right now: 100 years from now
when... my contemporaries are
a wish for sanskrit in both
itch and dust...
      
                biGGer... beTTER...
tease the doubling of consonants...
i'm tired i'm just simply tired
of excusing my contemporaries...
whatever they wanted to be
achieved: they have achieve it...
i'm proto-****** little cog little
blister: tamed mustard...
my little nowhere this "here"...

                good enough...
   a variation of aleister crowley bids
you...
      a night knitted with dreams...
and no... pangs of the horror of doubt...
closure for the things eaten
raw... a beef superstition
surrounding... what came to be known
as a tartare steak.

        god - to appease a minor public...
this little ******* gauge of a little public:
this carthage beside a blooming rome...
no... i'm not: excuse me...
i'm not native: this tongue is acquired...
i will not be mentioned in
the colonial anals as
this ******* imbecile of coercion...
this past without ridicule this past
with: goliaths toying the junctions
of exhausted base q. to an "i." unfathomable
first...
               runner junction...
i'm becoming tired of either
side of this bothersome argument...

hail babylon! hail an impeding tomorrow!
**** the 100 year from now.
best of me: no fear mongering
game to tow genes as me too:
a gamer invoked...
humanity survives...
the individual dies...
perhaps a beethoven is riddling
the hive with nuance...
humanity survives:
the individual dies...
i probably wasted my life on
ambition...

   then again: i didn't waste it on
a delusion of a societal project of
poly-                 multi-culturism -
                     i wasn't born on the Faroe Islands...
i had to come about an itching for
life: ventured for a cleaning and a kippah
for a tonsure -
i came across a grief of scalping -
i came across a curry...
i imploded an empire and sent out
invitations and became...
day by day less and less of London...

i ventured out of London and i found myself
in: inbreeding territory -
i became... sick from the homogenous  
zebras of parlance...
   black on black: white is white...
       it's a sickness from detailing
the aftereffects of gravity when having
to sort-out: a belief in the promenade...
            
   whatever... 100 years from now...
i will need to be dead:
for my writing to be elevated from
mere hobby to... this suffocating pride
and orthodoxy canon i want
it to exfoliate in...
then again: no...
                  then again: i am not in a position
to leave behind a pyramid...
i might leave some rattle and bones...
but most certainly not the toils
an wavering of others...
for... a flimsy prospect of: transcending
ambitions...
best played out as truant...
gobshite a god-envy
of a rhetorician's envy...
         stutter to excavate punctuation...

   yes... tomorrow and that: again...
and come sleep come death
come... the tiresome first breathed...
red and ginger...
ginger a tinge or orange ******* with
brown... this precursor of
loiter: a dirtying of earth with ash.

i mean: i can sit for about two hours drinking cider:
strong cider... Weston's cider comes in at 8.2%:
but unlike the equivalent of a strong beer...
well... the stronger the cider is: the drier it is...
it's not as sweet as that Irish one or that Swedish
one... at around 5%... it's too sickly sweet...
the genius of a good bottle of cider is when it tries
to imitate the strength of wine...
but two hours... sifting through a wide range of music...
dark-wave, post-punk...
    new-wave... a return to daft punk:
    the best time i ever had was listening to some daft
punk while having rolled my first marijuana cigarette...
lying on the floor next to my bed in Edinburgh
and convulsing with laughter...
   i guess the better drug was the fact that i was alone...
but three bottles in and still nothing...
you can write anything if you can't tap into the music
you're listening to...
ergo?
    (a) i need to switch gears... drank the cider...
moved onto the whiskey... o.k., now i'm feeling something...
and (b) i need music i associate with a thrill...
the thrill of a crowd...
    what are two main songs stadiums play
just when they realise the people are flooding the stadium?
usually it's either right here right now
by fat boy slim or... it's faithless' insomnia:
or that other song... we come one...
    and that's the prompt... now i'm feeling something...
it's like... you've been arranging something
in your head for the past two yours...
then the music prompt: the dam breaks and out comes
a cascade of words...
you pull the rubber-string up to the moment where
it might snap... and then: release!

i was so lucky having sat through last night's
thunder and lightning storm...
it was glorious to watch...
   i always wanted to capture a photograph
of: the roots of the sky... those white streaks of...
i'm sure that fire speaks...
   you can hear fire speaking in the fireplace...
by the crackling of the wood...
you can hear water speak: by the sound of a rushing
river or the bashing over the waves
as it fights the element of ear...
you can hear the earth speak through earthquakes,
landslides...
hell: you can also hear water speak
   in an avalanche...
     but lightning... lightning is the fifth element...
isn't it?
               electricity is not exactly heat:
heat is the byproduct of electricity...
           electricity being the technical term for what
inspired man: or rather the second "Prometheus"
of Norse mythology... when Thor broke Odin's heart
and brought down lighting to the people...

you can read intellectuals, philosophers, poets...
journalists... it's about standing outside of all space and time...
electricity wasn't invented...
you can hear lightning... but at the same time:
i once saw a stroke of lightning... but didn't hear
the thunder... because i also didn't see or feel any rain fall...
i call that: taubtrockenblitz...
      deaf-dry-lightning...
            
                   i forget what i would want to go to the cinema...
if there was one... that showed old black & white
films from the 50s and the 60s...
better still: those early acrylic looking colour
films from the era of Technicolour...
          i was in a cinema last night...
           i felt like a demigod...
                  everyone in my vicinity was asleep while
i was sitting through a lightning and thunder storm
and rain drinking with a smile on my face
like i might have just discovered the continent of
America in a can of sardines!

oh the thunderous disgruntlement... the sky is hungry:
some words sound better in other languages...

burczy mi w brzuchu (my stomach is growling...
    stomach rumbling)... buRRRRczy...

what's a HABAN? or an OSIŁEK?
   a male... who's strong... well built...
i'd prefer the former term than the later...
since the latter is etymologically tied to donkey:
i.e. OSIOŁ...

there are plenty of other peoples...

  - but that's how it goes... i need a prompt: song...
and until i'm finished what i've started:
right here right now... is currently on repeat...
i can't concentrate my writing if i have
to listen to the entirety of an album...
just one song: on a loop...

         most of the time: it's just a piece of a song...
because i need to concentrate...
i need to relive an atmosphere...
associated with a song...
              the size of the crowd at Wembley
is the perfect example when this song comes on...
i'm usually bound to tapping to the rhythm with
my feet... or if i'm bound to a vicinity
of a railing: i'll be using my hands...

currently there's work to be done in the garden...
i have my "great wall of China" of kango
(i never thought that the origins
of the noun for this tool was in Japanese:
Chinese language - カンゴ...

    why the special status of the letter N
in Japanese?!
switching songs... from fat boy slim to daft punk's
robot rock...
the N stand-alone among the vowels...
the only time you can actual write the indefinite
article that is complicated with a word
that begins with a consonant... not this time round:
you wouldn't write: with an consonant...
with A... consonant...

                    that's a massive mistake...
the N is employed when the indefinite article
encounters a word that begins with a vowel:
you can say: a fox...
    but you can't say a aeroplane...
        you have to stress: aN aeroplane...
                it's like a divorce from the ancient world
of the diphthong of the vowels...
i know some modern diphthongs...
but they're consonant related...
  
in english... SH... that's a diphthong...
you could SH as you might couple CH:
you get sheep and chatter...
   subtle... the apparent surd "nature" of the H...
i ascribe it to the Hebrew deity...
or... is it the Zipporah way...
                   the Midian woman...
    from the known smiths... origins bound to Cain...

why then... the Japanese place such high esteem
for the consonant N?
that it's: this: ン - the only stand-alone consonant...
with the vowels

ア(a) イ(i) ウ(u) エ(e) オ(o)
ナ(na) ニ(ni) ヌ(nu) ネ(ne) ノ(no)
アン(an) イ­ン(in) ウン(un) エン(en) オン(on)


and it's almost like for the "first" time you
can write the Latin prefix un-
   and write the English word: on...
and in... and... an...
                    and... AIN...

アהイン

                  whatever the soph implies...
i'm not bothered...
i need one H as the vowel catcher and the other
H as the instigator of laughter...

the work in the garden isn't even finished...
from here to there: i feel like being undercut
in my labour working in Auschwitz...
but i enjoy it... it means i don't have to cycle...
plus...
i get to prep the most cut of steak meat...
if i **** up: cooking a piece of steak?
i'm toast...
medium rare...
two of them are thicker cut than the third...
three minutes one side...
nothing but sea salt and pepper...
three minutes one side... two minutes the other
side... max...
i don't cut up the garlic...
i crush it... i like bold pieces of garlic in my mouth:
pockets of garlic...
plenty of butter... fries from the ol' chippy from
Friday: kept well in the fridge... can reheat them...

but i can't doubly butcher this beef...
i can't eat it well done...
it's one thing being a Hindu and not eating
beef... but it's another...
eating beef steaks well done...
why not?! try the alternative option:
of roast pork?!
if you're eating a steak: you want all the juice!
i'm a great fan of steak tartar...
i need to order a bleu steak sometime...
see if the people serving me get it right...

so why is N so special in Japanese?
   her name is Anna...
       アンナ
                         it's almost like watching Muslims
pray... the segregation of women from men...
the vowels are the women and the consonants
are the men...
but it's not that easy as simply that...
since vowels are free-standing...
and most men are free-standing bachelors...  

there's work to be done in the garden...
today i shifted half a tone of soil from pint x
to point y...
  the skip is still waiting for next week's Tuesday...
sooner me performing manual labour
than going to the gym...
   another half a tonne moved by tomorrow...

but for the past months: three? four?
the bane of my existence...
   a smartphone...
with what i can only describe as a "disappearing" screen...

the bane of my "existence":
the disappearing act of half of my screen turning
black... i was supposed to check it out...
get it "fixed"...
oh wow... what's "this" flickering at the bottom
of it?
a deficient app? Samsung Pay...
it kept flickering and...
readily... eating away at my screen...
whenever it was something work
related i had to switch: flip.... left to right...
right to right... to find the entirety of the *******
keyboard...

what was "bothering" my smartphone...
it's like with the invention of the internet...
you sometimes get this one troll
that thinks it's... permitted: to talk to a stranger
informally...
without consequences...
that's what the internet was invented for?
this... anonymity cult?!
that's why the telephone was invented:
to make prank calls!

            three or so months with my smart-phone
screen being completely black-out...
i managed... only recently i noticed that flicker
of hope...
i have to solve this problem myself...
so this app: Samsung Pay was doing
all matters of haywire...
i wasn't using it...
but it was flickering...
like... bad recipes for advertisement at
Piccadilly Circus...
              strobe lightning:
zombie epileptics dropping dead...

    if i still hold sway on my bladder
or my pen... i'm good to go!

                            life is as much little as is required
for "things" not becoming enlarged...
life small is kept manageable...
i know my father is envious when it comes
to my "work": he hates the idea that i get
paid for seeing... Tyson Fury glance...
he didn't properly upper-cut Whyte...
he glanced him...
   and i get paid... for seeing the "history"...
he might be less jealous if i were a plumber...

today has become a terrible day to write:
anything...
   i want my liver splintering into
pain and... mollusks oozing pornographic juices...
i'm waiting for Saturday...
it's not that i even hate the people i work
with... they just like me...
which i find suspect...
             i rather be liked and find it suspicious
than... not being liked and not finding it
suspicious...
i don't even think it's related to being liked:
i think it's more related to:
                         whatever...
lose me in London... or Athens...
    i'd be perfectly alright...
i'd wreck Warsaw... i hate Warsaw...
i turn into a feral creature in that town...
          why? i'm always travelling through it...
i'm never going to... stop and admire something...

there's nothing in that city i want to admire...
i just want to get out!

there's another circle, dante—

it's the tenth and it's the worst

in which the ****** fall into its cavern
of gelid black of no ends

where likelihood of stopping is none
and darkness just stretches
wider
deeper
farther
darker

there is a tenth circle, dante
and it's the darkest
and the coldest

and it's called

h u m a n m i n d.

—chippy