Twenty two years had passed  by

She blinked, and a lifetime had passed

She started this job as a lark

She never thought it would last

Two husbands and rehab were part of this bar

The husbands...her clients all knew

But the rehab, was hers...and hers all alone

Only one in her family knew

She'd been tending bar here for 3 presidents plus

Two popes, two husbands....one queen

There were things in this bar that were secreted away

There were things just not meant to be seen

Say, 4 fights a week for 22 years

That's four thousand six hundred fights

That's more violent acts than one person should see

That's  a lot of just mind numbing sights

As a tender of bar, she was part doctor as well

Serving drinks, and giving advice

She was hit on as well, and most she turned down

But some, they succeeded....some twice

They would come with their problems

spill their guts to this girl

Who they'd probably just met that night

They would tell her their problems and drink a few ales

When they  left, they would be feeling all right

But, Mary...poor Mary would harbour their pain

She'd help them, but could not let things go

They'd cheer up with her talking and 1 or 2 beers

But she hurt, and would leave feeling low

There was always a someone on the tales other end

Who was home, maybe beaten or mad

But, Mary....she talked to the one who'd come out

And she always left feeling quite sad

The stories they told her, she never asked them to tell

But they came and they opened on up

And she as their hostess just listened and served

Whle they sat there, getting full in their cups

She married two men that she met in the bar

Both left wives, and poor Mary was blind

They both charmed this girl, till she was way too far gone

And she learned that love..yes, was blind

She had a young niece, that her sister had left

She was going to school here in town

If there was one person alive who could bring Mary up

Her niece Amber was the proverbial clown

After marrying twice and divorcing just once

Mary vowed not to do it again

But, she was hit on each night

in this bar Down the lane,

by a considerable number of men

Her first husband...a lout, for better want of a term

Was a drunkard, and jealous most days

But she fell for him hard, for his sad tale of woe

And her marriage lasted 91 days

He would come in each night after finishing work

And would berate her for flirting for tips

After leaving the bar, he would beat her at home

Hitting low, just above Mary's hips

Her boss saw her marks whens she was filling the fridge

He kept quiet, but he told her to call

A friend that he had, who would help Mary out

He knew her marks were not from a fall

Before Mary phoned she had incredible news

Her husband had been in a crash

Her problems were over and her bruises would heal

And it all happened ...****...in a flash

During this time her sister ran off

Leaving Amber for Mary to raise

Though she hated her sister for leaving

Dear Amber she loved, and she helped Mary get through the days

But eight years along, with no outlet in sight

Hearing tales and of other folks pain

Mary reached out and she found comfort in

A needle and a rock of *******

for three years she spiked, shooting up every day

spending money she stole from the till

And during this time, she got married again

He seduced her when she had no self will

He knew of her problem and joined in all the same

Just a leech come along for the ride

He would help keep her secret, never telling her boss

Never letting them know she was fried.

Poor Amber found out, she walked in one June day

there was Mary with her coke and her spoon

When she looked at young Amber, she knew she must quit

And she knew that she must do it soon

Pure heartbreak she saw in that little girls eyes

She could see how she thought she would lose

Her Aunt like her mother, gone from her life

Mary knew she would now have to choose

Rehab was chosen, and her husband he left

He found out that this train had now stopped

his free ride was over, his meal ticket gone

You could say that his bubble had popped

Two years clean celebrated, at the bar with the kid

Mary got some good news from her boss

He was retiring to Texas and was selling the bar

And he would sell it to her at a loss

She was now the proud owner of a bar all her own

Three doors down from Giannis on Hope

She would run it precisely, the way she'd been taught

She would run the bar clean, free from dope

She would meet some great people,

Some nights in for a drink

And others that she wished would just leave

She would listen to stories, some good some not quite so much

And others just to  hard to believe

She would make friends with some people  And others she'd ban,

making sure that they left with a start

She'd befriend Harry Cooper, the World War two vet

Who would imprint his soul on her heart

And Amber...yes Amber would come down to spend time

She was fine and was going to school

She was a classical ****** in the dark of her room

And I tell you this girl was just cool

Mary brought Amber up with morals and faith

She would come when her Aunt made the call

She would rather hang out at the bar every night

Than to go with her friends to the mall

Mary made peace with the demons she had

She could leave the folks tales and go home

But, now she had Amber and a reason to live

And she would not have to do it alone

the bar's past Giannias, three doors  down to the right

It's not large but she makes  it make do

There's some music out back from a bluesman as well

Come on down and be one of the few

Be a regular there, join up with the crowd

It's not big but the beer's always cold

You don't have to stay long, but you'll come back again

For it's special....or so I've been told

Tell Mary I sent you, you'll get a free drink

And a free ear to hear of your tale

But, leave your ciggies outside for you can't smoke in here

You can do it outside by the pail.

Did your da ask you
For the ciggies? Kennedy
Asks, his nose holding
Onto a piece of snot, his
Lemony eyes giving you
The big stare, the chin

Stubbly and grey, the
Mouth, a deserted
Cemetery of broken
Tomb-like teeth. He
Did so, you reply, looking
Away from the eyes,

Taking in the cigarettes
Behind the counter of the
Small tobacconist shop,
Feeling the sweat on your
Collar, smelling Kennedy’s
Breath, the stink of tobacco

And ale, and Mrs Fitzsimmons
Behind you, scratching her
****, tut-tutting impatiently,
Jabbing you in the back with
The bony finger of her other
Hand, saying in her baritone

Voice: Are you going to give
The boy the ciggies or not
As my shitearse of an
Husband’s waiting for his
Tea and I need his old ****
Before he leaves for work.

Kennedy hands you the
Ciggies with the big sigh
And stern stare and you
Hand him the coins sweaty
And damp and smell the
Scent of fear and anxiety
Lingering in the evening air.

A Tale of ****** Excitement by Herr Barty Maulwurf

Often **** tales of my past I am writing and sometimes they are a little rude and porny but now I will try to be only slightly profane at request of new friends I am making everywhere. This tale very sensual story is, told by master storyteller (which is me). Filthy bits included. *Danke sehr.

Although I so much hate repetitive to be, Barty Mole must as always apologise for his occasionally slight errors in English-writing as he writes the English language not so very top-class (but he ***** English girls' tongues lots and likes them his tonsils to wipe so good). I (me, Barty) am German person but special type of that because as I are half-and-half black/white (not striped or even top half white, bottom half black, but mixed-up goldene-brun colouring), by this I must explain mein Papa was black US soldier in Germany who did enormous number of bouncy-bouncies with various ladies including meine Mutti (note to monoglots: this means my Mummy) - who was part-time Lili Marlen type tarty number, great **** and much-used **** - for tinned milk, coffee, ciggies, silk stockings and comfy underwear with soft non-scratchy gussets for once instead of unlined which tickle *****-*****, also she was a major sort of a ****** in her day so combined business with pleasure, and why not, we got these bits under our ******* so use them or they dry up (so thinks der Barty.). Also please you will remember black market utterly rampant in post-war period because the kind ****** Allies smashed my beautiful homeland (Germany) to little bits and then guess what even worse Russkies came and stole anything leftovers and did mass rapings of anyone with two legs (or less, in fact easier as poor tarts can't run away), but my Mutti ran and avoided Ivans, she not any kind of idiot, not going to give it away for free, and not liking cheap rotgut ***** anyway. Also Russkies never wash bottoms-hole so not much fun in the sack with smelly-bummed Ivans.

Nowadays Barty (that's me) am not so young, indeed now out of work living in Hamburg (home of inventor of hamburgers, Herr Wendi McDonald-Burgerkoenig) but I remember some super **** going-ons from mine mis-spended youth and middle age, my God I was a right goer, make no mistake about that, I had more lady friends than most people have hot luncheons mainly because I inheritated huge lovepole (23 centimetres, well over 9 inches in UK/US measurement style) from my dear Poppa, God rest his swindling soul. And ladies like the big bronzed stick as ramrod lovepole, you bet your fat wobbly ***, dear reader, 100% sure.

As often I say to my multitudinous readers, I never accept that it is only top-class ***-event to make love-humpings between male person who is in all one piece (full complementing legs, arms, naughty pieces etc etc) and lady who in similar state of repair (2 legs, 2 arms, 2 boobos, back and front naughty areas also) so I shall now recall romantic interlude with one-legged groupie I am meeting at rocking Konzert in Berlin with famous German group DIE TOTEN HOSEN (this means "The Dead Trousers" look them up on Google you think I am joking? no, German musicians have great sense of humour and also almost for free get to **** a lot of birds).

This story are total true, swear it on Mummy's honour (big joke, what honour I hear you said out of side of mouth, but watch your manners please or I smash you one in your effing gob) this not so explicit as usual so much apologies to filthy pervies wanting cheap smuttings, you come in wrong place (*******).

So now here we go with telling of how I got on good and ***** with one-legged lady I meet in bar of Grosse Konzerthalle in Berlin after we go from Konzert by Toten Hosen - noise so fickende loud we not able to hear each other talk as we total deafened for at least 1 hour, so just wink over bar to each other and Robert is dein Onkel.

I digressed - when I saw really pretty girl at bar with **** three-inch bolt through her lips and I think, WOW, if she got so much metal in her face, what the Fick she got in her *******!!!!  I notice she leaning against wall, I think she a bit drunk but I find out she only got one leg and it's because she has only one leg she would go falling over if not lean on walls. Never mind, I think to myself, I'll try this out for size, in for a pfenning (penny), in for a pfund (pound), except now it's in for a cent, in for a euro which sounds naffs. So we have several dozen beers and a couple of schnapplis and she is good fun, laugh at all Barty's filthy jokes and innuendos and then, out of blue, she says with naughty giggling, "The night is young but we're not so effing young and when you have any more beers you don't stand up, fall flat on handsome face, and not able to get great big ****** up me to shove it", WOW I thought, this is some forward one-legged piece of work. So no more further ado and we jump in taxi (pay 50:50 as Barty is gent and refuse to allow her pay whole fare) and go to her place.

Hildegard is her name and she was pretty good looking bird, great booboes, narrow very **** waistlines, very cute botty sticking out like great big pair of rubber footballs, but let's be frank, liebe Freunde, her main claim to eternal fame in Barty's immense ***-memory bank was the leg-stump, only one of them she had. She tells me missing limb result of accident with vicious bacon-slicing machineries at LIDL and I not like to probe too deeply, because I leave the probing up to my 23cm (9 inch) lovepole instead.

Thus we had many love-makes that night and I got to find her stumpy-thing quite **** in weird kind of way, very smooth skin on it and odd colour (purplish) too. Only problem of was hard to do it Alsatian-style as she topple off bed and me with her, especially since we have many more beers down hatches by that time. Never mind, make up for this with very high class (FIVE STAR!) "neunundsechzig" (German for 69 just in case you not understand)! WOW she utter hot stuff in oral department store. Her tongue like starving St Bernard guzzling the bowl of nice fresh spring water on hottest summer day in century! Swallow everything, stray hairs and all.

Also Hildegard very noisy lady when she does the comings, which Barty likes very much indeed. Like demented demon being bashed around her head with three-metre long metal crowbar every single time she gets one off, she screamed. "Ooooooh, ich komme, ich komme, ach, ja, ja, ja, ja," she shrieks GOOD & LOUD like fat Wagnerian heroine with immensely red hot poker up backside-hole (which not far off the truth when Barty gets stuck into his fabbo ***-rhythm, like whirring up and down piston on Mitsubishi motor tricycle). Even allowing for drunken prematured senilities lapse, I happy to recall seven times for me that night and maybe twenty for her, WOW, what a filthy one-leg hornbag!

We meet a few more time for repeat bonky session but never so good as first time round, but that's because Barty sober next times, nothing new in the history of love there which is very philophical pensée. Also Barty's interest in the leggy-stump waned a bit after a couple of weeks.  But Barty has good live-action photos to keep his memories warm, WOW, they are some totally hot ones! I know Hildegard must have the equal happy memories of old Barty, bet she never saw such a big ***** as his ever again (NB: 23 cm lovepole)!

Mit freundlichen Gruessen
von Ihre
Bartholomew Mole (=Maulwurf)
(23 cm brown lovepole)

Stuffy nose
Stuffy head
Feel like my mind is breaking down
My lungs are pushing out this phlegm
Maybe I should quit  ciggies
But the ciggies won't quit me

Staying high makes me feel better

But the stuffy nose
And constent blowing of it
Makes me lose my breath
And it won't stop

I love to bike
I love to be outside

Congested feeling

Oppressed feeling

Snow drifted by. Snow drifted by the large window of the locked ward of the hospital. Yiska watched from the black sofa in the main lounge. White and pure. Cold and white. White as her wedding dress she wore to the church, but he never showed, and she stood at the altar alone. She watched the snowflakes drift. His best man brought a message: he couldn't go through with it. She refused to removed the wedding dress. She wore to bed that night and next day and only after someone injected her to sedate her was it removed and she woke up in the locked ward of the hospital. She wrapped the dressing gown about her. The snow seemed to be getting heavier. The hour was unknown to Yiska, but the night nurse was in her small office, writing notes. Other patients still slept in the dormitory; men in theirs and women in theirs. She could hear their snores or moans. Her wrist was bandaged where she'd slit it a few days before with a knife liberated from the meals wagon which came twice a day with meals. The nurse who stitched her up said it was just as well it was vein and not an artery as it would have been worse. The wound was sore. She sensed it still each time she moved her hand. Benny walked from the men's dormitory across by the night nurse's office and into main lounge. He walked to the window and peered out. How long has it been snowing? He asked. It was already coming down when I came in here a little while ago, she replied, looking at him standing in his nightgown and slippers. Peaceful looking, he said. He turned and gazed at her on the sofa. How's your wrist? She looked at her bandaged wrist. Sore. He looked past her. No one else up yet then. No, thank God. He sat down next to her and pulled the nightgown tight about him, tucking in the ends as he had no belt. Cigarette? He asked. She nodded. He took a packet from his nightgown pocket and offered her one and took one himself and lit both with a plastic lighter. She inhaled deeply; he inhaled half heartedly. Where'd you get the lighter? Same place I got the ciggies: one of the day nurses left them behind by error I assume. Why the slit wrist? Mistake. He raised his eye brows. Only a vein, not artery, apparently. Bit like your hanging attempt, she said, eyeing him through the released smoke from her cigarette. Second attempt, he said, exhaling slowly through his nose. How's your *** life? He smiled at her words. Same as yours, I expect. She inhaled and looked at the drifting snow. I ought to have been on my honeymoon a few months ago, she said, not looking at him, but at the snow flakes drifting by. Had the ******* showed that is. Benny looked at her beside him. She smelt of apples. He caught a glimpse of thigh as she moved her leg and moved the dressing gown. Why'd he not show? Because he's a cowardly *******. Did you notice he wasn't keen? He seemed up for it. But wasn't? No I guess not, she said turning her head and staring at Benny. She sighed and inhaled the cigarette smoke. He smoked deeply and sat and gazed at the snow. She put a hand on his leg. You're the only one here to ask apart from the quacks. He turned and gazed at her. He placed a hand over her hand. Two lonely people drifting in an open boat, he said. On a rough sea, she added. They sat and held hands and looked at the snowflakes passing the window as they smoked. Once the cigarettes had been smoked, they stubbed out the butts in an ashtray. She kissed him on his cheek. He kissed her lips. They parted and sat gazing around the lounge of the locked ward. No where to be alone, she said. Unless, she added, looking at him, we go in the shower room. He looked at her. It can't be locked. No room here locks apart from the doors leading into the ward itself. Who cares, she said, no one will be up yet. He looked towards the passage. What about Florence Nightingale? She won't know or care. She seldom leaves her office, Yiska said. Do we dare? He asked. To eat a peach? Or walk tiptoe on the beach? She said.  She took his hand and led him along through the long corridor to the shower room silently as they could walk. He sensed her hand in his. Warm and soft. They reached the door of the shower room and entered in and closed the door after them. It wasn't very big, but it seemed sufficient room if they set down just right. Turn off the light, she said. He pulled the cord. Dimness surrounded them, light from the corridor let in a vague light to part the darkness. She kissed him and held him close. He embraced her to him tightly. She lay down on the floor of the available space and lifted her legs and pulled him down between her. She kissed him before he could say anything. The space was cramped. He felt hemmed in; he couldn't stretch out his legs, but knelt there, hands on her hips. Pressing on her lips. She sensed the sore wrist, an ache in her back, a cramp in a thigh. Can't do it, he said, too ****** cramped. She nodded and said, we might if we're quick. She wanted to kiss again, but her thigh stiffened and she said, I got to get up, cramp. He tried to lift himself in the small space. Treading by her hip and one foot hovering over her visible ******. He placed the foot on the small space of floor and stood up against the shower door. She pulled herself up by dragging herself up by his arm, her wrist sore as hell, blood seeping through the bandage. She rubbed her thigh vigorously with her other hand. Shall I do that for you? He asked, peeping out at the corridor. No, you'll turn me on more and there's no room, she said, rubbing the thigh, biting her lip. Blood seeped more through the bandage and he lifted her arm up. They kissed. They heard a voice coming down the corridor, the pitter-patter of shoes on the floor. They parted and held their breath. The night nurse walked by to the toilets next door and closed the door behind her.  They stood in the dimness kissing, she rubbing her thigh, he holding her ****** wrist right up high.

Twinkle, star, you are
So high, up in the sky.
And Little Muffett Miss
Has gotten so ******;
Very upset that from
Someone else’s thumb
That was stuck in a pie.
She didn’t know why.

So she cut off tails
Enjoying the wails
Of sightless mice
Though not nice
Not fooling around
She’d blow the house down
Then give a harsh drub
To three men in a tub.

She swiped all the ciggies
Of three little piggies
But she could not see
Why everything was threes.
Narcissistically proud
She was laughing out loud
Then she started to croon
About a cow on the moon.

She looked for a fiddle
She could hey ****** ******
But when she got there
The cupboard was bare
So, she left the dog home
And began to roam.

On the way past Saint Ives
A man beating his wives
Muffet did begin
Beating with rolling pin
And the guy ran away
Not seen since that day.
Miss Muffett turned old
Folk tales into gold.

The nurse said
she's outside on the lawn
don't take her out
to the pub though

she's been banned
ok
you said
and trotted out

to the lawn
through the double doors
of the hospital
to where Julie

was sitting in a chair
by a white table
smoking
she was clothed

in a white dressing gown
and slippers
she sat with one leg
over the other

with one of her elbows
resting on the knee
did you bring me
any more ciggies?

she asked
when she saw you
yes
you said

and passed her the packet
you'd bought
at the railway station
thanks I am getting desperate

she said
I was on the point
of offering myself up
for a smoke earlier

but one of the porters
gave me one for nothing
cigarette that is
she said smiling

she put the packet
in the pocket
of her dressing gown
the nurse said

you'd been banned
from the pub
along the road
you said

Julie looked towards
the ward doors
which were open
to let in

the afternoon sunlight
and warmth
someone gave me a joint
and the landlord saw

and chucked us both out
and said I was banned
she inhaled deeply
on the cigarette

you saw how thin
she had become
her wrists seemed too thin
to hold her hands

she exhaled
now I can't have a drink
or **** or blow
my ****** nose

she ranted
looking at the horizon
of hospital buildings
and trees and sky

sorry about that
you said
not your fault
she said

I should have been more careful
should have said no
to a smoke of that ****
but I couldn't

she inhaled again
and you saw her thigh
where her dressing gown rose
as she moved her leg

it too had become thinner
are you eating properly?
you asked
you're becoming

like my father now
she said puffing out smoke
when he turns up
that is

you're thinner
you said
the hospital food is crap
she said

I'd rather starve
than eat some of it
she stubbed out
the cigarette ****

in an ashtray
on the table
looks like you have
you said

have you come to talk
about how thin I've become?
or to cheer me up?
to cheer you up

you said
she looked towards
the open ward doors
they've locked that cupboard

we went in last time
she said
do they suspect anything?
you asked

I guess so
she said
some of the nurses
make hints about it

call it the love room
just because they have a life
they deny me of one
you took out a cigarette

from a packet you had
in your pocket
and offered her one
and take one yourself

she lights hers
with a red lighter
then lights yours
you both sit smoking

sitting in silence
watching the smoke rise
she thinking
of another place to ****

you wondering how far
she'd fallen
from her middle class home
through drugs at some party

and the long ride down
the slippery *****
she thinking of no ***
no ***** no dope.

this is what it looks like to me.
a queer white picket fence
this is what I believe it to be.
the sun shown through the trees
and rays landed, thusly
on the particles that dusted
the front porch.
begging us to take a picture,
that would eventually
be given the title of "dad vibes."
and the cats are staring at us
through the domestic screens
on the windows, and I swear
that I heard one them gossiping...about
us.
you make vibrate.
it's like aorta telepathy.
something must be wrong
with me.
I swear,
I've never seen a more unlikely pair.
we have the same nickname,
I think that is SO ******* cute.
and yes, let us pillow talk about
road tripping, to see
van gough's bedroom.
and HERE,
I lie with you...
looking up at the ceiling.
surround by four walls of warmth.
canary yellow is something I've been obsessed with lately.
it's something I see in my dreams.
a colour that blesses my soul with the ability to imagine
something
as serious as serious as
a ***** balloon popping contest.
and
as hilarious as
the way, I look
when I'm pacing my way through
my to-do lists.
i know, that it is
spring break,
but a diet of coffee and
"ciggies"
may have contributed
to our lack of sleep
or
maybe
it's the four days we spend in bed.
then
when you asked me
to sit on your face,
i knew this to be true.
I'd never want to bid you adieu
if, at some point in my lifetime,
my soul could copulate with yours.
if I could beg you
to make more noise.
I'm sorry I'm so quite between
these sheets.
I notice these things
and FIND them to be true.
I left my boxer briefs in your dresser.
my ripe gift
is to be left
for a worthy soul like you.

Two and a half weeks into this quarantine
Rainy days and
no poems
No words forthcoming
All quiet
I decide that perhaps
if I just put one
Word
In front of another
And keep on for a time
Words upon words
something will come?

At 8:30 every morning
A man passes
walking a Pomeranian mix
A joyful little dog
(I’d steal him in a heartbeat)
They walk
He twirling the leash round and round
The dog leaping higher and higher still.
They dance together eyes meeting
and smile as I know a dog can
and I remember
how I would dance with my last greyhound.
We would tango and box-step.
I always led.

These days the little
Pomeranian can’t get his attention
anymore
The leash doesn’t twirl above its head
He’s pulled along impatiently
There are no more smiles
Their eyes won’t meet
He’s slow to realize that he’s become a drudgery
I want to yell out the window
I see you
EVERY MORNING AROUND 8:30!
Where’s your joy gone buddy?
Don’t you know that’s all you’ve got?
You’re bumming me out for real
and your dog loves you!
Wake up! You fool wake up!

I think that now I’ll walk to Ralph’s
I have various thoughts while doing so
Children race their bikes passed me
as if they’re in an entirely other reality
altogether
and
maybe they are.
The wind blows through their hair
effortlessly
As if it couldn’t mine.

Front lawns offer up fields of dandelions
as if their orbs the most prized bounty
Freshly mown grass smells new and clean instead of putrid, rotting in the sunshine
The fulsome wafts of springtime’s
jasmine and osmanthus heaving with citrus and pepper evade me as I pass their blossoms
Yet on the rare occasion a fragrant rose pierces through the weft and hits a nostril
but I can’t tell which bloom.

The smooth talking
homeless girl
has finally covered up that
diabetic open sore on her left ankle
the size of a flattened crimson football
which is something,
although I can see that
she’s being told to move along as
she just can’t sit anywhere she pleases.

I’m counting every time I see the word “dead” along my way.

In the store the ladies that buy
their bottles of white wine in the afternoon
are starting earlier now
with supplies and deliveries
unsure
It’s one thirty and I see
Two bottles of Clos du Bois
And four Domaine St. Michelles
in the cart to my right
and nothing else
as they do.
I’m not going to ask her
about her dinner party.

While I stare at packages of coffee
A man pulls off his mask to sneeze into the air before him
And I say to the older man approaching
I don’t think that you’ll be going any farther
in that direction.
It was under my breath.
He didn’t hear me.
I have a mask on.
He turned his cart around and walked back
the way he came.

I have this urge to talk to everyone.
I have this relentless desire for ice cream.
I miss everything.
Nothing here
will satisfy anything
to do with me.
Can one survive a global catastrophe
with candy and magical thinking?

Older people
And by that
I mean really old people
Eye me suspiciously
Almost fearful
As if I myself alone
embody
the menacing contagion
and I guess I could.
Perhaps I do.
It’s hard to read emotions with these masks
But their eyes seem terribly unkind and
brows, furrowed
One stares at me hard
with beady anger and a ready insult
another will jump me in the checkout line
and with great solicitude
unwrap her money from
the white notebook paper
pulled from the manila envelope
Now re-folded with
rubber bands and string
And placed back
into her chest
She is so sweet to the cashier
with her black acrylic wig askew
that he seems quite shocked to hear
she cut in front of
fifteen people
without so much as a word.
Who cares really?

My first mask made me sneeze for four hours straight and made my nose burn like a hit of **** *******.
I’ve been handed a free mask by
a representative
from my local assemblyman
made of a softer material
I find that
it won’t stay up and fogs the base of my glasses.
I don’t think it’s working.
It reads
We’re All In This Together.

I still can’t breathe.

The doomed asthmatic
selling his single ciggies on the sidewalk
dies on Staten Island
from a policeman’s chokehold.
Eric Garner
In those desperate last moments
of
his
2014
despite his pleas and confusion
surely there before him appeared
although not quite the end that he’d envisioned or feared
what with steroid inhalers from the pharmacy
a crystalline moment
when he knew without a doubt that
he’d never take another gasp of air
like a bloated goldfish on its side
expressionless and saucer eyed
outside its bowl
What happened to his mind then?
What will happen to mine?

It has been said that
certain tribal kings
have brought before them
after battle
their most worthy enemy
in the process of imminent death
while they sit in numinous splendor
and wait for that perfect moment
to lean in close to the mouth
and inspire greedily
the purest
most sublime
expiration of their life force,
now a pristine delicacy of the infinite,
for themselves alone.

The photo freezes
us into

this exact
instant.

Yet leaves out
the intense heat.

We locked into this
kiss forever

happening in colour
frozen in B&W.;

Curiously there are no
insects in this

photographic world.

Yet so many
on that "then."

We are at once badly
smitten & bitten.

Our friend's song
also is not

captured
as the world stops

for just that
instant.

Her naked voice
stripped of words

her vocalise
tangled amongst

sunlight and leaves.

A fingerprint in purple
paint( added years later )

is not visible
on this

day of days
a thing tangible

as a soul
made visible

in deep purple.

The photo also fails
to convey

your lip's softness

the kiss's smell
of Chardonnay & menthol ciggies.

Sweet sweat
trickling into eyes wide open

our breaths
mingling.

I take in all
the photo elects

to leave
out.

The kiss
hidden now

by death...
...the death of days

and that infamous
famous purple fingerprint.

smoking ciggies now
Stress takes over , I don't quit
...the blue sky's look nice....

Reflection On A Self-Destruction

Gifts past belief,
Perfect pitch, honed technique,
Undoing self from morn till eve -
It grieves those who no longer seek him.
Sitting all the day,
A once sought artist,
Solo instrumentalist,
Never lifting up his *****,
With his all upon the telly,
Living on old memory,
One waits for a communiqué,
“Dead!” - from fears collected
Long self-neglected years,
Long self-rejected years
Laced with the chaos of self-based abuse.
[He was] once handsome-faced,
But hooked on spirits, wine and ciggies,
Thinking on the Long Ago,
Not letting go,
Years spent, tears spent,
Its ****** happening
As of this typing,
Lessons still unlearned.

Yiddish for buttocks
British informal term for television
cigarettes

A Reflection On Self-Destruction 10.6.2016
Small Stories Book;
Arlene Corwin

ANY ONE VOWEL OF THE SINGER'S CHOOSING

The photo freezes
us into

this exact
instant.

Yet leaves out
the intense heat.

We locked into this
kiss forever

happening in colour
frozen in B&W.

Curiously there are no
insects in this

photographic world.

Yet so many
on that "then."

We are at once badly
smitten & bitten.

Our friend's song
also is not

captured
as the world stops

for just that
instant.

Her naked voice
stripped of words

her vocalise
tangled amongst

sunlight and leaves.

A fingerprint in purple
paint( added years later )

is not visible
on this

day of days
a thing tangible

as a soul
made visible

in deep purple.

The photo also fails
to convey

your lip's softness

the kiss's smell
of Chardonnay & menthol ciggies.

Sweet sweat
trickling into eyes wide open

our breaths
mingling.

I take in all
the photo elects

to leave
out.

The kiss
hidden now

by death...
...the death of days

and that infamous
famous purple fingerprint.

i'd hate to write an eleanor rigby type of poem, about being "lonely", or what love i didn't receive, or could otherwise give...

*******!
              i only found out today...
once you could buy a 12.5g packet of amber
leaf,
               with rolling papers!
you could once buy a packet of 10s...
    i.e. ten cigarettes...
                         today? oh no, against the law...
you can only buy 20s,
                  or in the case of raw tobacco
30g or 50g (grams)...
                                       *******!
plus all the fancy writing is missing...
                     god, i missed rolling cigarettes...
i remember the first time i srtarted rolling,
i was rolling *joints: marijuana mixed
with tobacco...
                       i was **** at it,
               and my girlfriend at the time laughed:
how can you be a stoner, and be unable
to roll a joint? tina ******* turner!
           but these new laws...
     i'm becoming irritated by them...
            i really just want 12.5g of tobacco to roll...
i guess the answer is:
   well... we have to put off teenagers buying
the smaller portions that they can afford...
oh **** me, i remember buying a packet
of 10s for two 13 year old girls,
         since they kept nagging and nagging...
oops... broke the law...
                 3 years short...
                     oh just *******, smoke 'em
and get off my shoulders...
             that sort of thing used to happen...
in central london a group of kids
  asked me to buy them a cheap brand of 10s...
i chipped in, bought them camel lights
(the blues ones) -
       they were like, huh?
                       i just replied:
             chipped in, these ciggies are better,
so no, you don't get 20 pence worth's of change
from the money you gave me;
but lately, with these new laws?
           john! john! i'm looking for adolf!
  can you point in the direction where he might
be standing?!
                    tina mother... ******* turner.
and the americans think that the "war" with
native americans has ended...
              ever rolled american spirit tobacco?
foooooook me...
                        it's not as soggy as
golden virginia...
                         the war's over?
                                 so why am i still puffing?
    oh i can't complain, i cough a little
the next morning...
                       then i have some ***,
and the cough... magically disappears...
        but something weirder has happened to me,
third day counting...
            i was sitting on the throne of thrones
(a toilet)... feeling that i was ******* out a black *****...
lo! and behold...
                  i ******* out a pea-sized ****...
and i'm like.... huh?!
         where did the actual **** run off too?
another time, it was about 7 teenage boys asking
me to buy them *****...
            what's the fraction?
    probably less than a shot between them (>50ml)...
listen, i started my career in drinking
   with an irish kid and an english kid
at a youth club with white lightning... it's a cider?
i don't remember...
    at least we didn't begin with carlsberg's
                          special brew (9 volt);
was i the last boy to buy ***** magazines in shops?
oh, *****, internet **** is one thing...
   buy a ***** mag...     get to grips with being
"judged" as a "pervert"...
                      after w. burroughs people thought
that only ****** junkies had slang...
                d'uh... so do major league drinkers.
*******... all i wanted was a 12.5g packet
                of amber leaf...
    golden virginia can *******! that ****'s too soggy!
do they **** into each packet,
    to provide the glue-like feel of the tobacco?
all i know... it's not supposed to have a fudge-texture!

ANY ONE VOWEL OF THE SINGER'S CHOOSING

The photo freezes
us into

this exact
instant.

Yet leaves out
the intense heat.

We locked into this
kiss forever

happening in colour
frozen in B&W.

Curiously there are no
insects in this

photographic world.

Yet so many
on that "then."

We are at once badly
smitten & bitten.

Our friend's song
also is not

captured
as the world stops

for just that
instant.

Her naked voice
stripped of words

her vocalise
tangled amongst

sunlight and leaves.

A fingerprint in purple
paint( added years later )

is not visible
on this

day of days
a thing tangible

as a soul
made visible

in deep purple.

The photo also fails
to convey

your lip's softness

the kiss's smell
of Chardonnay & menthol ciggies.

Sweet sweat
trickling into eyes wide open

our breaths
mingling.

I take in all
the photo elects

to leave
out.

The kiss
hidden now

by death...
...the death of days

and that infamous
famous purple fingerprint.

She sought her ciggies
In her dressing gown of glory
She lit up
And said
'you alright?'

Lawrence Hall, HSG
mhall46184@aol.com

                     Will the Plowed Boys Find Love in the End?

Romantic robots could bring peace to our streets -
The Plowed Boys would have something to ******
Other than their idle trifles and bang-bang rifles
For in the end they would have dates after all

And will they wear

Their he-man soldier suits and bug-eyed shades
Their he-man soldier toys dangling from carabiners
Their radios and whistles and lip-dangling ciggies

while in bed?

ANY ONE VOWEL OF THE SINGER'S CHOOSING

The photo freezes
us into

this exact
instant.

Yet leaves out
the intense heat.

We locked into this
kiss forever

happening in colour
frozen in B&W.

Curiously there are no
insects in this

photographic world.

Yet so many
on that "then."

We are at once badly
smitten & bitten.

Our friend's song
also is not

captured
as the world stops

for just that
instant.

Her naked voice
stripped of words

her vocalise
tangled amongst

sunlight and leaves.

A fingerprint in purple
paint( added years later )

is not visible
on this

day of days
a thing tangible

as a soul
made visible

in deep purple.

The photo also fails
to convey

your lip's softness

the kiss's smell
of Chardonnay & menthol ciggies.

Sweet sweat
trickling into eyes wide open

our breaths
mingling.

I take in all
the photo elects

to leave
out.

The kiss
hidden now

by death...
...the death of days

and that infamous
famous purple fingerprint.

*

Vocalise, Op. 34, No. 14, is a song by Sergei Rachmaninoff, composed and published in 1915 as the last of his "Fourteen Songs", Op. 34. Written for high voice (soprano or tenor) with piano accompaniment, it contains no words, but is sung using any one vowel (of the singer's choosing). It was dedicated to soprano Antonina Nezhdanova.

Ha ha...I just like the phrase...it is the instruction to the singer and I had only heard it sung on an O so my friend was doing A...I...E...U...and Y versions for me! All this singing floating about as the camera goes click in the middle of a kiss and we are trapped in a b&w forever. It was going to be called WHAT THE PHOTO LEAVES OUT but I'm much more pleased with its present title! Singers tend to do "O" versions mostly! Although there is a theremin version!

I took you in
We laughed, got drunk, smoked some stuff that was wrong
Went gigging
Stole ***** that we shouldn't have been swigging
You dragged on some **** of a ten pack of stolen ciggies

You used me but I overlooked this at the time
Maybe I used you as well but this worked out just fine
A free ticket to the singer of your choice
Friend or carer, you wanted my company but not for their voice
You had no money but I didn't mind helping you out
As I never asked for a dime in return, I could have gone to a tout

So now...
It's thrown back in my face from a man with no cares
He swindles a friend he's known for over 20 years
Lives life like a failed rockstar as some new hearts he'll now tear

Good luck to those who he'll now push from his window sill
As two-facedness is a very bitter pill
He'll never learn as failure is an option we look back in hindsight
Looking over the edge from these choices
But from from how many lies and to fall from what height

Thinking back it was everyone else who has always paid
So that's it now my once dear friend
Time to call it a day

JJB

My fingers drift uncertainly
mind humming
pencil tapping
thoughts tip-toing across a wooden floor at midnight
down the creaking stairs
through the wheezing door
under the swaying leaves of a dancing willow
the windows gasp for air

the wind is thick with mucus
coughing up a storm
the day is bright
not a cloud in sight
but its not safe to leave
you see:
the sky forgot his mask

wisps of grey float over the dying willow
arrogant and stark
(not so cheap) cheap ciggies
the new *****
for a people sleepwalking through life

over across the highway
in a corrugated iron temple
baby suckles mother
as she hums his fears away
Thula Sana
Thula Sana
It is going to be ok

I see her through my window
Across the empty highway
Gentle eyes gazing at me
As she hums the fears away
Hush my little baby
It is going to be ok