Beaumaris,
carnival of soft pastel tones
of damp evenings
of tramway cars
with small orange lights
distracted bystanders
the empty bridges
the silent horizons
pale lace on a parasol,
light sepia dreams
of a particular Monet,
forgotten, unseen
before the rains came.

Many years later,
I found her
so tenuous, so subtle
in what little was left
yet there it was, her soul
all new shades
of melancholy.

Now I just swim,
every now and then
in that blue ocean
of her blueness,
the Sea of Oblivion.
In the glimpse  
of bright reflections
of sunshine
on the water,
of salted afternoons
in a country
where it no longer
rains

i only started collecting a library, because, would you believe it, my local library was a pauper in rags and tatters; apologies for omitting necessary diacritic marks, the whiskey was ******* on icecubes to a shrivel.*

ernest hemingway, e.m. forster, mary shelley,
aesop, r. l. stevenson, jean-paul sartre,
jack kerouac, sylvia plath, evelyn waugh,
chekhov, cortazar, freud, virginia woolf,
philip k. ****, dostoyevsky, aleksandr solzhenitsyn,
oscar wilde, malcolm x, kafka, nabokov,
bukowski, sacher-masoch, thomas a kempis,
yevgeny zamyatin, alexandre dumas,
will self, j. r. r. tolkien, richard b. bentall,
james joyce, william burroughs, truman capote,
herman hesse, thomas mann, j. d. salinger,
nikos kazantzakis, george orwell,
philip roth, joseph roth, bulgakov, huxley,
marquis de sade, john milton, samuel beckett,
huysmans, michel de montaigne, walter benjamin,
sienkiewicz, rilke, lipton, harold norse,
alfred jarry, miguel de cervantes, von krafft-ebing,
kierkegaard, julian jaynes, bynum porter & shephred,
r. d. laing, c. g. jung, spinoza, hegel, kant, artistotle,
plato, josephus, korner, la rochefoucauld, stendhal,
nietzsche, bertrand russell, irwin edman,
faucault, anwicenna, descartes, voltaire, rousseau,
popper,  heidegger, tatarkiewicz, kolakowski,
seneca, cycero, milan kundera, g. j. warnock,
stefan zweig, the pre-socratics, julian tuwim,
ezra pound, gregory corso, ted hughes,
guiseppe gioacchino belli, dante, peshwari women,
e. e. cummings, ginsberg, will alexander, max jacob,
schwob, william blake, comte de lautreamont,
jack spicer, zbigniew herbert, frank o'hara,
richard brautigan, miroslav holub, al purdy,
tzara, ted berrigan, fady joudah, nikolai leskov,
anna kavan, jean genet, albert camus, gunter grass,
susan hill, katherine dunn, gil scott-heron,
kleist, irvine welsh, clarice lispector, hunter thompson,
machado de assisi, reymont, tolstoy, jim bradbury,
norman davies, shakespeare, balzac, dickens,
jasienica, mary fulbrook, stuart t. miller,
walter la feber, jan wimmer, terry jones & alan ereira,
kenneth clark, edward robinson, heinrich harrer,
gombrowicz, a. krawczuk, andrzej stasiuk, ivan bunin,
joseph heller, goethe, mcmurry, atkins & de paula,
bernard shaw, horace, ovid, virgil, aeschyles,
rumi, omar khayyam, humbert wolfe, e. h. bickersteth,
asnyk, witkacy, mickiewicz, slowacki, lesmian,
lechon, lep szarzynski, victor alexandrov, gogol,
william styron, krasznahorkai, robert graves,
defoe, tim burton, antoine de saint-exupery,
christiane f., salman rushdie, hazlitt, marcus aurelius,
nick hornby, emily bronte, walt whitman,
aryeh kaplan, rolf g. renner, j. p. hodin, tim hilton... etc.

I lay awake with hopeless thoughts of you.
It seems that somewhere down this path,
I lost the smile and the laughter too.
Where did our passion flea?
How could something done with ease,
Just disappear like a winter breeze?

Staring at this canvas of my soul,
my thoughts start to fade away.
Deep into my lost subconscious,
I hope to find the words to say.
Farther down the hole i tumble,
until I land on that rainy day.

The storm was screaming with it’s tears.
The wind was blowing in every direction.
Soaked to the bone your makeup smears,
Unmasked by the storm inside,
I noticed the angel doomed to hide.

I was lost and forgotten in a crowd of faces.
Nothing worth your praised attention.
Yet you picked on me day to day.
You colored my arms in every shade.
The words you wrote I wished to say.

I love Clarice
I love Clarice
Everywhere you wrote.
I love Clarice
Is what I should have spoke.

'What they don’t know, of course,
is that you don’t **** with the Hammer.
The Hammer smiles, you smile, you wave the truck
ahead. It’s pretty simple,
for poetry does not make assertions;
philosophy does. When the Hammer speaks,
he speaks of something wild.  You stop your world,
the phony one, the constructed one. It stops
and stops and stops—'

I force open the lock, let in the sun.
The Hammer and I confront synaptic death
each day we live. What’s left is fire now.
‘Welcome to the Republic of the Sane.’
I smile and let the fresh air fill
the cabin, fill their lungs. The Seine is just
a river in France, right? I smile and say,
‘The hard part is over.’—though we all know
it isn’t. I tell them, ‘Wallace Stevens
once lived in this house’—though he didn’t.
Let be be finale of seem, I quote. I speak
with care. This is the current reply: The only
Emperor is the Emperor of ice cream.
We hold our arms heaven-ward, like
we are angels in heaven. Since it’s winter
I have a fire burning in the fireplace.
The kids can have a bedroom to themselves,
upstairs. There is hot water, take a bath…

‘In transit to the blank planet,’ I say.
‘That’s your answer: where we are, a point,
circumference points, vectors maybe,
an asymptotic self-description,
that’s the best answer to your question.’
We sit next to the fire
and listen to music. Tonight it’s Schubert,
Winterreise. I read a little from
The Hour of the Star. We talk about Adorno,
Emil Cioran, Gaston Bachelard, Chaucer.
We talk about poetic thinking. Is
the goal to have
an ultimate clarity or is
the poet’s mind composed of play
and speculation? I prevaricate,
I lie, deceive, evade. We open up
a decent bottle of port. The Hammer
has prepared calamari in a butter sauce.
There’s fresh pasta, fresh bread.
‘My friends, a toast,’ I say. They have to know.
‘Today’s word is vector, a vector like
ticks are for Lyme disease, mosquitoes for
malaria.’ The transmission of disease,
is that what humanity is? ‘Human
intelligence,’ I say, ‘may be the result
of a virus. It would explain a lot.’

Among the things we console ourselves with
I will put other people at the top.
I know, my dear, you tremble at the word
thing. ‘Think to say I and Thou’, you would say
were you here, were you still with me.
That people partake of Being as objects
is only part of the story. Well, perhaps, I err…
perhaps I do. One of the things I read
to the people who come across the line
is this from Clarice Lispector:
'It must be said the girl is not conscious
of my presence. Were it otherwise she would
have someone to pray for and that would mean
salvation. But I am fully conscious
of her presence: through her I utter my cry
of horror to existence. To this
existence I love so dearly.'
It is very beautiful, is it not?

and while adam inherited the sunrise of eden, the devil inherited eden's sunset;
so that writing about something is less satisfactory
than what was never really envisioned, but otherwise handed
with the befriended samael away from library or cocktail party,
**** writing i suspect, but the feeling is too immense for words
to capture the images that were sequenced in that frailty, because they were fleeting moments; thus the night's former admiration for the eyes to behold, the lowered horizon of the moon in such bulging yellow as might encompass the frozen one of winter's heights.

how can language be made believable in the sense of
creating images out of words?
here is an example,
and man did his "buddhist" bit under a tree in the
night, on the field he fancied himself a stranger
but a place he forgot to frequent.
upon return to civilisation from equating
******* of sexuality as that of the ******* cut
before being able to be experienced
laughing about it,
he walked down the hill,
a herd of deer made it onto the darkened streets and pavement,
the stag died, the harem was in disarray,
but the youngest one did not follow the herd
and turned into the street the man was walking on,
in lightning momentary genetics of similitude via atoms
the man looked at the young deer mare
and told her: run! with eyesight.
then came the sight of the harem herd at the crossroads,
and thus this same man started galloping, wild at heart,
herding the deer mares back into the forest.
be warned, i had witnesses who would vouchsafe that
they saw and that i too had eyes.
this is the equivalent of heideggerian expression of this one
remaining truth: man, he who herds animals,
he who domesticates animals also.
i never write from fantasy, i experience my sickness
as a woman weeping in my mentioned care for mentality;
it's simply... the misery of not being with me, being near;
thus i reside writing from experience,
nothing more, nothing that could make me give into
the modern twist of fashion and fame:
only fictional characters elevate any mention of realistic fame,
all the real people are journalistic target practice;
fifteen minutes are up! time to create fictionalised celebrities,
and that time is upon us.
thus the problem with fiction, given this poem.
i imagine the women after muhammad's death, just
to make it easier for you to imagine a man with this harem (otherwise herd)
of deer mares; i frequented populated places too often
in winter, now spring's passing deflowering comes sepia-like,
thus i can unbutton my need to cherish human interaction,
and return home, forest bound.
thus we say, unto clarice lispector, wild at heart,
thus we say, written out of parring against images that haunt
the schizoids' arable need to see in colour and phantom; i cannot;
take it or leave it.
if this is my best itemisation of events
then i didn't run the deer off the street to allow the traffic to
pass, but because i wrote it like picasso drawing 90º metered
into hammer blows in architecture class
doesn't mean it didn't happen, it only means i wrote
it like the remnants of a child in an ageing man - which suits
the quote by him, be an artist by remaining true to childhood,
ensure there's no precision no schooling
in the work you try to vogue, because it won't vogue
after all, given you're still encrusted in imaginary befriending
and dreaming, just remain true to childhood
and your art will not become overladen with itemisation
of *** being the last remaining frontier away from
the antarctic, the alps and buddhism;
indeed all children are born artists, but only a few
make it art in adulthood, most make it to jealousy
and marketing or sleepwalking into selling furniture
with hope to buy it back into self-employment,
that's why art is borne from those who cherish childhood
and think less and remember more.

so ardent me within her deer-like to her prance jesting happy
jump-over invisible fence-like structures content
with the *** so full of life, and her, the *** of so much potential for death
ably being guarded to return, out of man's sight;
i didn't even bother to count them to a number;
i hate it, beauty cannot given the righteous expression,
letters are nothing but skeletal compared to the muscle of images.

i mount my heart on a wall,
still and discolored
where my taxidermist hands had pressed.

it breathes life into dead walls:
a hanging irony made of
soft cyclamens
and the closed, white fist of a tormented girl.

i mount my teeth on a wooden wall,
write my letters,
pour salt on spaces where i used to stand;
may i not stand here
once again.

i mount my hands on a wooden wall;
they do not knock. i do not answer.

silent as a lamb — down to a pit,
i watch the sheer cliff of my back
from where i have jumped
and the sundry sorrows shrink
into black, blinking dots
like a hidden villain
exposed.
i fall over myself
like in a slow-moving dream —
lead-like it flows like the acheron river.
and here comes the ferryman.

the man drops the package off at 6 a.m.,
he is a man, in that Harold Norse sense
of the word - he's a grafter -
he's been riding from Poland for god knows
how many hours, he was supposed to
be here for 3 a.m., but i'm not complaining,
i pay him £20 for delivering the package,
ask him whether he had a good journey,
then i wish him a good day, no reply -
i put the package in a room, unzip it and
take one of the copies out... strange...
just like Augustus commenting on the death
of Marcus Aurelius: the soup is hot, the soup
is cold... a piece of writing is printed, published,
a piece of writing isn't printed, nor published...
it's in my hand now, slim, literature's anorexia:
poetry... i can stash it in the library and
think about it for a while: no goosebumps,
no thrill... just this strange: apathy -
the sinking feeling of being at the bottom of a dung-heap
of civilisation - i'm sure it was different before
the internet: writers huddling in tiny rooms,
writing with a big dream to escape -
rejection after rejection, until the magpie was spotted
to actually be a peacock - the 21st century is
a lot different, it would appear,
after 9 years at it, there's no sense of relief -
it's all about the pixel glitz, the pixel paparazzi,
the pixel red carpet - the Beelzebub looking back
at you - an abhorring feeling in all honesty,
the quick-fix medical procedure - all done in an
instant: and the snobs out there who still
preserve the insistence: paper is authority -
paper is respect... on paper means authenticity -
paper solves everything... sure, most assuredly
a trip to the toilet.
i just don't recognise the person on these pages,
so many things have changed since then,
so much was given to the dwarfs to mine that
any man or elf in me, is... well... not even there
on the pages, or here, ploughing along.
back in the 20th century, someone must have thought:
books, a great commodity, keep them secret,
keep them safe... let's wait for the next buds of
capitalism's May - how the dynamic has changed,
and this is even with a critical introduction
by someone who obtained a PhD in literature -
a picture of me on the back cover:
yeah, because that will really sifter through the
demographic with more observable definitions
of who's to read what -
but it's just odd... i think of all that effort
put into printing a piece of work...
and i think of Salman Rushdie and the satanic
verses being burned...
                   i think of the wartburg säuberung:
and i find myself sitting alone like king
solomon - none the wiser,
                             all is vanity - and i know nothing -
because i was never taught to experience
something like this the second time:
                    the only thing to understand
   is the self that cannot comprehend experiences
given unto it... all that jack-in-the-noumenon stuff;
but i look at this little thing, these 115 pages
and wonder: so much? for so little?
   how fortunate, or unfortunate to be given this
spider-web... it always feels so glitzy,
   so: at the right place at the right time...
then the physical artefact appears...
                    and you go back to the syringe of
open access, and say: pressurised by the ever
changing circumstances...
                back in the 20th century a writer
was told to shut herself away in a tiny rented room
and become a clarice lispector: become
a hurricane simply by writing about good
first lines: the writer's aesthetic, typewriter or
ink blotches - or the blank page... and later
become sensational, hurricane-like -
i feel no nostalgia toward the 20th century in this
regard... i'm immersed in what has only
begun in 2006 - circa or no circa, whatever -
we can't rent rooms like that - or do things like
that, given the 24/7 society structure -
and i mean that in the least ****** sense
when i say, as Harold Norse did, without
a backdrop of homosexuality (even though
he was working out with arnold "the governor"
schwarzenegger at some point in his
autobiography: memoirs of a ******* angel) -
a cartoon fix: the book of life -
                        the man, and the man -
ah what fanciful trivialities that bind one man
to goofy ideals, and another to duties -
and only when an artist becomes successful does
he really become a *****... cocktail and *******
parties and Sid Vicious cameos -
all the Renaissance artists had it easy,
with the Pope their patron, they could be as
****** with their contempt for earthly privileges
and could get away with it -
              the days of a homosexual saying:
i am not a man...
                               the 20th century liberation
paved a way for the obsolete purpose of
the heterosexual man... apparently we have
grown a potential to grow ***** in
the laboratory - we are, quiet literally disposable
in that epitome of the Wrath of Eden:
just repeat after me: deluded by the mere
notion of reincarnation, deluded by the mere
notion of reincarnation - as constantly striving
to be the unique peacock among a *****-count
of peacocks without distinction on the
plateau of the living self-bound: you uniqueness
expired with the process of insemination:
you were once the one and only wriggly
                world record holder at the 100 metre sprint...
a natural dictator it would seem,
but apparently, the ones that didn't make it
now respond: me too! me too! me too!
or something like that.
                                           either through the eye
of the microscope or the telescope - cul de sacs either
end... because of the glue...
                       call it god, call it love, call it nothing...
it's still some sort of glue... sniff it, play with it,
             avoid it... it's still glue...
gravity is a glue, but it's not the glue that keeps
muscles bound to bone - yes, tendons are
the happy ******* children of that ******* union
of all things apparent...
   but in the sense that i keep repeating:
it's easily done - falling for the fake pixel glitz -
however official or unofficial it all is -
with or without advertisement on the pages -
it's the only junk that's out there these days...
if i were more of a man, i'd be chasing
the dream of a steady income, family and obligations...
can we call being a man a fool's errand?
i like to think of it as that... being man is synonymous
with a fool's errand -
                             no love transcend the grave,
no love can be engraved into epitaphs -
                  epitaphs and their respective soloists -
     it's not even out of bitterness -
not in this pixel desert where 10 years later
those of us who used this medium will become
exponentially out-dated: archaeological -
                              and it will be thus -
              Ouroboros Capitalism -
or back when communism and capitalism were
in competition, and somehow healed the 1st
half of the 20th century, and were indeed
the Caduceus - like the story of the cannibalistic
rats... what did the last rat eat in the pit-hole?
       back when capitalism had to compete,
and competed it did, and healed by competing,
after it supposedly overpowered its opponent...
it started to eat itself... as i see it:
   the transformation of the caduceus into
    ouroboros has taken shape... and we're still
only 16 years into the 21st: oh my god! it's the 21st
century! this is preposterous! not really... no...
                   the same was said in the 20th century...
and the 19th century...
                         the steady improvement in living standards
always fed these gimps to say the exact same words
while being gagged by being paid to say those words
    and doing the slosh-wash part of a *** ****:
Apache Vinnetou hail satan blah blah, V shaped ave,
   skull-and-bones secret handshake etc.

Grandma Clarice,
or Chub as I prefer to call her,
is tough as nails.

All 90 pounds of her on her
not-even-five-feet-tall-frame,
she always told the funniest jokes,
and her laugh was one of
those laughs
that just
              reverberated so warm against your
                       eardrums,
contagious like the
common cold,
you couldn't help but catch it.

Chub always made the best pies,
any kind your gluttonous mind could
imagine:
cherry, blueberry, apple, peach, lemon chiffon, anything creamed;
don't get me wrong,
my mama inherited the gene,
her peach pie my absolute favorite
in the summertime,
but still,
mama learned from the master, and Chub was
the master indeed.

Chub was witty,
she was poised,
she was so many things that I
don't even feel like I ever really have figured out
what all she was, she is.
But I can't deny the
memories I have of Chub
smiling
as I played Christmas tunes on the piano,
looking collected and cool as she
whipped up another perfect meal,
her voice inquisitive as she
asked me about school,
the teacher in her proud yet astute.

Chub can't remember anymore,
but I remember for her,
the laughter, the
impeccable odors wafting from her all-white kitchen,
the late night games of Rummikub,
that tough-as-nails Chub who will always
exist in my
memories.

Her tattoos echo Art Deco
tattood
on an easel to swoon for
for her
I could be more,
could see more than the ink
would be more than one
fragile link
in the chain.

I imagine again and again
I imagine if
life becomes nouveau
what would I do and where
could I go?

Her tattoos echo
Art Deco
I
bounce of the walls.

Pretty obsessive compulsive today
Pretty obsessive compulsive
Thrill me with your acumen, Clarice
Why does he remove their skins?

Gonzaga University
Way out in the grassland
Cardinal Newman is surely correct
We have to lose to win

Multiverse. Alternate realities.
But I cannot give a lecture
Buddhamind in Dublin
Witherell conjecture

Tired, my feet hurt
Blisters on my heel
Not in what you see, my sons
Trust in what you feel

                     Lemon Tree

Hannibal Lector is kinda good
Didn't you watch the movie?
Hello Clarice. Starling should.
Florence on my honeymoon

The ambivalence of the Sacred
Don't go directly at it
Coincidence
Lovely Flaming June

Italy
Eternal Rome
Miguel O'Hara
Coming soon

Driving at night
Istanbul
Seoul, Korea
Dr. Chong Kun Yoon

        Stones Tune

Dear insert your name here.
I can hear you in his whispers; I feel your memory in his pulse when it beats against mine. Dear insert your name here; I have seen the private parts of your smile in his old photos and your heart break in the edges of his glare. I have felt your longing in his silent touch.
Dear, insert your name here, you may be nameless to me but I can see your tortured past whenever he refuses to tell another person his name. You have wrapped yourself so tightly next to his heart, in the cavities of his mouth I can still hear you screaming.
Dear. Clarice, please… I’d like to know.
Please tell me how you let up and let him go?

the only time id ever seen her talk romantically was when she described a car engine to me,
she named her car Clarice
something about break pads and lambs
the brake pads didn't work very well
and the passenger door didn't open

she was passionate about music
the way i was passionate about sleeping
she was in a band
i said that was awesome but i never saw her play
my mom did which was awkward for the band
they always had a tough time talking to mothers while really high

she moved south while i moved north

she walked with grace and looked like someone took a sailor and made them take way too much acid
but she pulled it off with style
hitting concerts and working on the water like she always wanted to
and even when i dropped her on the dance floor she fell gracefully

which takes skill when youve drank more than the entire british navy

a horror to behold... i rather not have a woman cook me food, i rather not have a woman clean my house... come to "think" of it... walking abortion as i am... one chain-clink short of *****-bank list of incestuous ancestry... but i am drinking bourbon... and... the cultural export of h'america from the 20th century aside... god i loved the Beatniks... two things stand out as... concerning to give focus to... bourbon... &... peanut butter... it truly is a horror to behold... i've opened a bottle of jack & jackie and i'm worried that i, just might... finish off the entire litre of this... gorgeous... gorgeous... ****-**** of a glug-glug-glug... metaphors obvious... why didn't i cite cinema? why didn't i cite music? sometimes a hour comes... an hour that completes a day... and if i'm not slobbering on some peanut butter... i'll be drinking a bourbon... i might be watching some b.b.c. police drama: line of duty instead of making a fetish sandwich of a moo-vee... while listening to... some Finnish folk-rock... i just find it sad that... men and women can't return to something akin to... james horner's for the love of a princess...  you know... when women were mystifying... celestial creatures that would be imagined by a frail mind of a colt as... seemingly unable to burp, ****... or take a ****... perhaps it's that same old testament of: in love with the idea of love... a woman as both an idea... and an ideal... interchangeable: idea through to ideal... it' not even i, willing to compete for what's readily available... since time immemorial, the ultimate freedom was to be found on a bicycle.. not even a horse... i will never mind not having a driving license... but a bicycle can overpower a horse... why? i like the refreshing injection of being able to: create my own momentum... that's what a bicycle is... esp. coming to a roundabout with... shy drivers... oh **** me... don't get me started on the problem i sometimes have when... a ford KA is about to overtake me... takes it about a mile... and a dual-carriageway to do so... but some ****** in a SUV or a van skims past me like... nothing... i actually want to be naive once more... naive enough to want to fall in love with a woman... i want to be naive about naiveness... n'ah-eve... i'm just seeing red markers underlining my words and... if it's a spelling mistake, proper? well then... if not... then back into phoneticism... English is readily available to cushion this sort of detouring... . so much for a romanticism surrounding a galloping horse... or a car.... to heave all this riddle of insurance... not worth it... skittle-brains: jelly on the side... i like the idea of generating my own momentum... this might translate as a grasp of... what ana ******* feels like... add a bit of spice... what a limp little richard ******* feels like before a nylon clad ******* feels like when you're about to be shamed for objective purposes... at the same time... a stiff-neck... it feels mightily gargantuan and with prospect of... non-revisionism to be ****** off: *****-nilly by some imitation of a housewife.... just saying... like i would gulp up a furry oyster once in a while... here's to licking metal in sub-zero temperatures... or reading into bark... seeing faces in trees... i own two maine **** cats and i like my house to be as freed from excess fur as possible... is that, somehow... emasculating: i want to bweak fwee kareoke take on what's demanded of... cleanliness?  last time i trusted a woman to cook for me she gave me some cognac with a slice of lemon... then... butchered a chicken twice-over with a dry-set of *******... i was looking at 165 degrees sort of juicy... i got... ******* chicken breast: chalk "tenderness"... i don't eat meat... of the poultry variety with a "feel" of chalk... like you could brush your teeth against it... i can grasp the consistency of eating liver... along with the tenderness of bean-bounce akin of the hearts... chicken stomachs in a gravy... but don't give me... chicken ******* that are like biting into chalk... whereby... the teeth imitate sticking together like i'm eating some injection of protein into... ******* fudge! i've seen how certain marriages expired... one undercooked potatoes... another overcooked pasta... yet another had a case for a "lost cat"... how the ****... how can you... "lose" a cat? i say a leash i say a bursting concept of cranberry... a lost dog is... i've seen it... the one you chain to a fence... and run off from? how the hell do you even begin... to... lose... a cat? point being: the cat ****** off... the cat decided: **** this... i'm out! i have to think it's impossible to lose a cat... but the cat might "think" otherwise... how do you lose a cat? you forgot to leash-it? what sort of a... what a terrible person you must be... to "lose" a cat... cats are never "lost"... some better elsewhere... i'll take my chances as a stray... only today i performed the impossible... i showed her furry-snout into my ear... for what? for giggles... obviously she didn't like it... but i got the giggles... most assuredly... well i lost a turtle... i accidently flushed it down a toilet... what lack of character... spine... to supposedly "lose" a cat... a bit like: **** me! i guess i might have... misplaced... a ******* pyramid! who says that?

while juggling some politically terms...

can it be deemed so unfathomably "emasculating"
to want to live in a clean house,
rather: for the man to clean his abode?
cleanliness is somehow an inherent quality
of femininity?
                        some *** with an un-kept beard...
man dragged through the dirt...
what is it with gender roles or: what's in man
specified to be: man...
           not in the 20th century not since any time prior
has there been this "Copernican", ahem... "revolution"
in ontology...
one might almost gag for the resurrection
of the Soviet empire...
at least you could have something to push-back
on with airs of moral superiority: even if "doing the right
thing" might implore you to be deluded:
or that's how i see a period of history of western europe...
placebo solipsism - a genius of "autism"...
it's not like the mongol horde came knocking
or the ottoman turk...
            as a side note: it's that old urban myth trope...
can two straight men share an umbrella?
it would be terrible of me but truth be told...
a sentence from the handmaid's tale...
a woman contemplating the ****-availability of
a "low status" male...
first example on offer: Leibniz... the ******* librarian...
or rather: two isolated incidences of discovering
calculus - infinitesimals...
well... it would be hard to believe that...
the same thought could exist in two people...
two contemporaries...
              the argument in England stands with the right
of Newton...
a man left alone to his own devices...
deus ex machina: **** in machina...
a river of time on the otherwise head-spinning
carousel of: 35 springs, 35 summers i count to
invite: this autobiographical sketch...
it can hardly be unheard of...
a river's delta -
             but it's not like Copernicus was not
overshadowed by Galileo in western Europe...
the little pride in original thinking these
poor schmucks lodged between the Germans
and the Russians would ever have...
but is it... emasculating for a man to...
clean the toilet in the house... vacuum...
is it all: airy-fairy all of a sudden to keep up standards...
to wash your hands etc.
it's not like i wasn't supposed to write this:
give me any ******* novel...
and i'll take more pleasure from it than from
something written by a woman....
sylvia plath is an exception...
         clarice lispector... i tried...
                        virginia woolf...
             while a man will divulge his innermost workings...
i find it hard to imagine that a woman
would suddenly... give up her mystique
and over-complicated simplicity for...
   a what? a novel...
      while everyone can grasp a tease of misogyny in
this... god... for the love of ******...
how a brothel always reminds me of opening
a bottle of bourbon...
out of h'america... besides discovering the continent
in / with canned sardines:
what's does a gingerbread to do with a windmill?
since reading ******* literature one can at least
imagine oneself turning a tongue into a phallus...
i have never read a book by a woman
where i'd think about gorging on a mouthful
of... a floral-skin-mush... ripple...
        eating an oyster gives me a vague recollection
of eating ****...
although: of the latter... you're not exactly
eating anything... all in the foreplay before all that
brute piston work-out...
the tenderness of skin in the vicinity of the collar-bone...
since Sappho... because...
man had the monopoly on literacy?
  let's not cite who was probably responsible for
writing the first surahs of the quran then...
the illiterate-would-be-warlord / merchant...
or his... older... acumen-proved... wife (Khadija)?
is it... emasculating to clean one's home?
well... it sure as **** wasn't emasculating using a grinder
to cut a bmx out from a winding hug of a Wisteria...
even through the dust mask...
the smell of quartz cutting through steel...
it has to be a tier above that familiarity of cut grass...
a spinning disk of quartz making steel
feel like a tub of butter.

i’m measuring my life out in the amount of

breathes it takes me to say i love you

and i’m becoming fond of the taste of

your tastebuds and i seem to dream too much

and never wake up.

and in my dreams i write novels and i’m 

looking for answers on what to name my chapters.

a few months ago i named chapter seventeen
*
Clarice* because i swore someone was leaving me

clues on where to search next but everything was jumbled

together and mismatched like a pair of parents

who hate each other and argue in the night so that their innocent child does not have to hear a word of what god told them.

lay next to me, sweet angel; stay for the night, i will show

you what a home is like next to the snowfall of december.

I. Look how far I've gotten living like this, kiss my angelic attitude goodbye when mania arrives because I won't be able to control where I stick the knife. You can't find me in a cell no, this isn't no Hannibal Lector story.

II. There are a lot a lot a lot of things people don't understand about depression, like I wanna **** myself a lot but I can't tie knots. But tying the knot isn't as important to me as tying the one 10 years from now with a man with brunette hair and eyes just like yours. He will have skin as soft as your mothers old rug.

III. I can feel the world turning around me and how my poems can't define me. I write a lot of poems about sad ****, bad ****, and more sad ****, but all that sad **** amounts to one happy girl. You forget I spit sunshine right into the face of tragedy. And sometimes I find good luck charms in the form of bottle caps. And those brought me a boy with an Irish name.

IV. This is the silence of the lambs, I have learned to live with it. And you're gonna be taking butterflies out of my throat because you bet it, I'm screaming color into this gray world.

V. It puts the ******* lotion in the basket or else it gets the pills again, and temptation is far worse than death, isn't it?

VI. We covet, Clarice. My brave starling, what you haven't seen is what I have, flight. Bodies flattening on the concrete of Boston is a familiar memory, I haven't lived it but I have seen it.

VII. We all have our lambs don't we?

abandon those ambitions of the modern poetic,
poetry has not theological ambition,
even if it must, it can only skim these waters,
write me a history, a mythology,
write me of today: as it might appear and
be recounted of, a thousand years later,
and be said, to be untrue in a thousand years.

and while i was reading a book review
of the letters of sylvia plath, i stumbled upon
something unexpected,
like a fox in the suburban outskirts of london,
where you can end up running with a herd
of deer without the male to ease the traffic,
or almost get kicked in the head by a horse
who starts nibbling on your hand inserted
into its gob, thinking it's an apple...
i have what can only be summarised as
that which *clarice lispector cited in dedication
to james joyce, forget what book,
all i remember the opening was her as a child
fused to hearing her father's typewriter,
like a woodpecker tucking into a tree
(and no onomatopoeia is necessary);
it would seem, thus, studying a woman's mind,
that i once had a lover, and now have a daughter,
and that's the hadean part of platonism,
that's ultra-platonism,
that's the most ****** you'll ever manage
as a man...
and you can't even imagine it,
unless you listen to music,
and stumble into shivers, or your heart
is a cage containing a kangaroo kicking
its way out from the confines,
with that awfully sounding thumping of
kickboxing...
poor choice of words, that, i will admit,
but platonism can reveal itself in another way,
not that a man may befriend a woman,
but that a man may be turned into a father-figure
and contemplate the fancies of a figurative
case of incenst, and yes: the marquis de sade's
book (as titled the act be) is his best work...
but while i was sitting in quicksilver
(moonlight) it all seemed to come together,
then apart, then back together...
you know how the astronomers debunked
pluto as a planet?
well... i had to debunk mercury as a planet
too...
to me mercury is a "moon" of the sun...
it has all the details of qualifying as a moon,
its rocky, it's not a gaseous giant,
why even bother calling it a planet?
and all it took was sitting at night looking
at the quicksilver layering on almost all things...
i could still see the moon from my window,
so i conjured upon a scenario,
and what if there was not a case to
argue that the moon could be akin to
mercury, if the earth represented louis xiv
in that geocentrism of a heliocentric man?
surely we have forgotten that even by replacing
the dogma of heliocentrism,
the geocentric model has not eradicated
the heliocentric man, that all revolves around
him, and him alone, whether the earth
be flat, round, triangular,
the heliocentric man always overcomes
the **** sapiens...
the rest of us are geocentric men,
farmers, brewers of beer,
but no matter what the scientists feed us,
there will always be the heliocentric man,
king louis xiv is the best example...
it might be a heliocentric model,
but you still need a geocentric model to read
a map, rather than listen to your g.p.s.
sat-nav... and never mind 3D,
the 3D comes when you're stupid enough
to drive into an ocean, and who said that
2D was outdated? i once read a map,
at wales, glasbury, we were divided into teams,
we were the second team, driven further
afield,
point being: the first team didn't ask
the question that i asked for my team:
where are we?
the quo vadis was in plain sight
when the finger dropped a point on the map,
i already spotted a shortcut, through some woods,
and a field of cows...
we beat team (a) by about half an hour...
again, besides the point,
i had to treat mercury like the astronomers
treated pluto...
i degraded it from a planet status...
and while sitting basked in
quicksilver of our dreamy satellite thought
about twinning the two...
the twins merx (mercury) & luna (moon)...
obviously a boy & a girl...
pluto? that was their pet dog,
neither transgender, nor bi-centric-cis-whatever,
it's trans, sure: but it's, a ******* dog!
in still can't get over the fact that i started
calling moonlight: quicksilver...
i hardly think i'll manage to keep it
repeated over & over until it sediments itself
into a pop lexicon...
but how dull can it become
if you call moonlight quicksilver,
and have not alternative for sunshine?
what would you call sunshine in the alternative
care for things?
there's no romance in changing sunshine
to any other descriptive parallel,
only nights care for eerie romance &
mystique... days are filled with work,
daydreaming, and suntans, and being late for
work, for commuting, for sweat,
crowded trains...
i account for claustrophobia as
a symptom of the day, rather than the night...
and no, i'm not a method poet,
**** me, did you watch that scotland
vs. slovakia match today?
one of the best matches i've ever seen,
two near misses on the cross-bar...
and then the irony of the own goal...
you think that they might just beat slovenia
away?
while in armenia it was 6 - 1 to poland,
and the support was so great that i almost
felt i was watching a home match...
come on: romance it great, mysteria all
the better,
but when push comes to shove,
you're still gonna take a ****, and think about dinner.

It only looks like we mean but looks are?
and then I get stuck because what is a look
and what does it mean?

Art Deco does things to me,

twentieth century?
mention me to
Clarice  

I can't come to terms with germs
remember ' Monk?'
sunk without a trace
his final case
was himself.

"It's a jungle out there"

Wednesday brings a ray of sun
in the weak light
we pray
for Friday to come

I hate 5am
nothing stirs
not me
not the spoon in the tea
nothing
but
it's not 5am for long

that's what looks are
I mean
maybe.

you might ask: why does he seem semi-sober, almost every night, after gulping down 70cl of whiskey? well, it comes down to a certain type of rage - i was never the one to play the victimhood tarot card - it's a celebratory rage, best summarised by the sort of rage mingling with pride with bruce spingsteen's born in the u.s.a.

mind you - i do have distance relatives over there,
my maternal great grandfather emigrated there
during world war II, leaving his son (my grandfather)
and my great grandmother behind -
lost contact with my grandfather because
his brother smeared **** against him:
how he was misfit, stole & drank & what not...
****** spoke 7 language, was in the MP
(military police): just like my grandfather was...
my mother managed to make contact with him...
original surname? i think it was *żak -
and like my grandfather, so too my father were
in the army - i sometimes wish i was also forced
into the army - rather than joining the ***** brigade
of university: might as well castrated myself
with some humanities degree - thankfully
i wasn't *****-slapped so much... then again?
i was -
            hence the title, mea culpa, my *** -
the most sadistic mantra in any religion -
        and that was the last time i trusted women -
who the **** does that sort of thing?
         i mean, it's the upper tier of the **** concept:
who rapes a man by stealthy managing both
    contraceptive pills and invoking an impregnation?
i thought we had a deal, a loose contract between us?
my fault? mea culpa?
    no wonder i'm annoyed -
         wrath-riddled -
     after all, she did give me back her engagement
ring -
           unless i don't have the full picture,
and have some sort tenacious pair of ***** where
my ***** has built up an immunity to contraceptive
pills, like a virus out-competing antibiotics...
   otherwise... my my, it's ******* shining pearls
and diamonds up my ***: so i stuck my tongue up
a *****'s **** and *** to compete with my own
*******...
      indeed, the mysteries of performing oral ***
on a *******: the puerto rican in amsterdam
was confused ever so slightly -
      but the bulgarian cohort in goodmayes?
            well... 2nd in command of providing the O
with one of them;
and i'm serious about the army regret,
   i regret the notion of there being no conscription
in place...
            british army adverts barely tickle my toes
in terms of wants: mandatory would have been
simpler...
                  at least you'd have rigour & discipline
drilled into you, and made you a less whiney *******
that i've seem to become...
victimhood? hardly: just ******, numb-nuts...
but it is a form of ****: can i have my ***** back
before it starts forming into a foetus?
   hey! that's private property too!
                 i have a slug of rubber ready to flush
it! ah, whatever, talk to me another day:
today is not a good day,
     it's sultry and i'm sweating like a pig
                                            in a slaughterhouse;
one of my earliest childhood memories?
         watching a cow being towed into a slaughter:
the shrill cry of that dumb animal:
  would certainly contend with Clarice Starling's
memory of the sheep: in the silence of the lambs;
yes, i asked her impromptu to have an abortion,
then i obviously came to my senses,
but by then: the fickle mood swings of women
already erased the past: and thereby the future
with it... now? it simply belongs on a page.

i just can't get rid of the moths...
5 for one bedroom
and... it's hardly an enterprise
in cubisms' revisionism...
daddy larva -
should i leave some
cotton for these poor
delights...
                  am i riddled with
a western "world" exhausted...
like... the pops of no new
genius?
  like polyphony was never
at play:
   when the rigour of man
made it: less of an affair that might
suggest green tea
and the superfluous
fling of a pancake at
a constellation of: nowhere...
  a crucial time for messiahs
and for caricatures...
magicians and iranian baklava bite-sized
retreats...
  not necessarily iranian:
could be lebanese!
       it's not like this grand past,
this grand history...
this inheritance tax on the mind
was to be ever borrowed from
a concentration on the trade
routes surrounding the baltic sea...
i... inherited... nada! nothing!
i acquired english when i should
have given inclination
to tsarina cyrillic and minor hector
mandarin...
       it's so unsurprising, though...
to catch up on the bbc radio 3 adventure...
to reach a platitude of i.q.:
i finally! finally!
fathomed the point of an english
soap opera... eastenders...
i didn't find an i.q. focus to mind...
a continuum perhaps...
but it has and always has been
just... ever so tiresome...
to compensate i.q. -
or to overstate it...
             it's not that i found soap opera
dumb... but after waking up
to bbc radio 3... i knew i was missing
a narrative: an assurance...
a soap opera is an assurance...
however banal the pursuit of harlequin
is...
it's there: a persistent brick upon brick:
wall!
      well... it's one compliment to hear:
that children "like" you...
that dogs or cats like you...
but... for god's sake... moths?!
i am not quiet assured a status in alignment
with a buffalo bill...

so much for nabokov
and the whole ****** and the entomologist /
etymologist...
catch them with what?
my bright oozing bulb of a phosphorescent
appreciation for the punchy cliche
goldberg variations?

to be honestly endeared by a dog...
to be made forthcoming
by a quizzical attention span of cats toying
with poker...
      but to make endearing
inquiries in the realm of insects...
who... fathomed... the flies...
a mythological man with an authentic
given name that came to be
the realisation of the myth of Beelzebub...

well... so much for sharing...
on the crux of a noun... like any other...
be it a moth... motte... ćma...
or a butterfly... schmetterling... MOTYL...
globalisation and...
well... no real etymological sensibility....

not even in sharpnel wording:
    in: w,
               im...
                        z: with, mit
o: about, um...
                      od: from, von...
so much for a shared purpose a sharing
of tattoos and ******* blisters...
like old age is a crease...
and youth an argument...
best invested in pickles...

                the ordeal of the night sky...
while having to grind a gripping
reality of something profoundly
stupid that it cannot be anything beside
stupid...
         a concept of a solitary pine...
when a pine as solitary is
impossible to fathom:
or a birch thus solo...

        an oak: while the adventures
of birches have come to their
natural advent of regrets...
           and this solo coffin shadow come
noon stans procrastinating a
show of shadows borrowed from
an overflow of the Styx...

Thames: a river... with... no authentic
tide: from mountains toward
the sea...
no... the Thames is an inauthentic river...
if it's a river to begin with...
a sea knows a concern for tide...
but a river?
a river should know no mirror
bogus "now" of a tide...
the Thames is like the Bermuda Delta...
an irrational high-rise ****...
enough to pluck one's eyes
out for...
   or don a sheikh hanky panky teasing
that 19th century morbid whitey
of celestial: wool! my eyes! needs! woolz!

some banal Clarice chasing a hunchback
Circe with a Charon towing...
impossible gravity of walking a stupendous
walk of arrogance:
this two-feet-tow...
my bucktooth and arithmetic:
theatre von der nacht:
lepper zeppelin -
   authentically lisping minor details:
an accent "here" or... "dasein"...

teatr nocy...
               ćma i jej obcy:
a moth and her other...
              like some proto-digestion
of custard and borrowed glue...
me left to my own: deus "ex" machina /
**** in machina device-works...
a concept of switzerland came
with both the tickling time-keeper
of a form of clock and some lesser
known 20th century protagonist
by the name of Young...

                  persuasions please!
i can leave my i.q. on the diatribe for
the persistent allowance
of the desired... "englishness" of:
queue...
            bread the brittle futurism of
a sanctity of bread:
beside this "thing" dubbed irish...
and gnats and breadcrumbs...
itches furthest from the last
encompassing loiter...
of a truth salvaged via
a tartare steak...
a kogiel-mogiel...

                  a bread-owned soaking
up of a spilling yoke:
like it's a french... "thing"...
teasing an affair of a wig...
best: warsaw will forever be...
an interlude of:
the concept question from
london toward tokyo...
i.e.: why can't we have nice things...
answer?
we... ahem... never had them...
we tried... vaginal ****-wit
from Brandenburg or that ****-****-wit
from lady muscovite...

here's to samson-frankenstein's monster...
the furore surrounding
the faroe islands...
the 20 thousand(s) composition
of the shetland:
united schkootland repose:
'aggis neeps 'n' tatties!

enough salz undz pfeffer
und we have haz ours...
hinderburg-esque hogmanay!
of the british:
not lived among the vilsh...
or the scuttling furore of the:
'igh 'anders...
          
cutie pie pork chop
worth a *******'s towing:
that last vanguard of / if:
              "too few"...

no... no good lending an ear
to listen to "shared": charred...
etymology of greek or russian...
London's desperate plight:
*** ordeal that never has to happen...

there have to be concerns
for calling it a new 9am...
just because it just so happens
in Edinburgh...
  there's the chopping of wood...
there's the ordeal of castratos
attired in niqabs...
the harems of the ottomans are
still a fetish for imagery best
sourced in Vienna...

            to worship the night:
is to find enough of day...
as sacrificial:
as banal... as enough...
to think with an exhaustion
of compensation:
     it's not that i dare not: dream...
but it's not enough to dream
to begin with...
i will harvest this eternal night...
to eat away at the day's
mediocre...
              mirror mirror...
             your wish for status lake...
i see no question-worthiness
in either sea or river...
how is it that i write
to fathomable formal linguo?
                  mirror in the shadow...
mirror in the lake...
murky time of river
and the hiding grey of the sea(s)...
come tide come swelling of
hinterland ambitions...
this little norse retreat of my
last perspective...
            perhaps i just want
to die a death pronounced by
having to don an agitating
pair of shoes: that demand...
towing a scenic incredulity of
a miser's mile?!

         how's that? roundabout
faroe isles! an itch of spreading butter
on... toasted bread:
notably a sourdough crusted:
new holborn sort of "adventure"...
no.. nothing new...
here's to drinking some more
while making it simultaneously
well-reserved ast having
the same inviting prospect of...
looking for:
a loot of a shakespeare and a full-stop.

The echoes in faded photographs of the laughs and cries, the good times, the goodbyes,
showering in memories he sees them as if yesterday
scattered here and there they lay along with the old phonograph and a Clarice Cliff teapot.

poza godziny: tzn.
   wypełnić dzień - dniem...

   too eager to retract "complexion"...
if that is even, remotely, available:
as a Caucasian standard...
return to my mutter-zung(e)...
some great migration
i'm guessing something borrowed
from history i'm guessing
the Copernican "revolution" had its zenith
now is the time of: everything vogue Darwin...

to find an hour in a day and do X -
the algebra notation
rather than the phonetic
i.e. xylophone for starters...
through the chalk-&-cheese grinder
sizzzzzzzle...
drone strike at the snore and snorkel...
unless... fax
me the details... it comes "last" or not
least "late"...
how sigma "behaves" or was
otherwise discovered
to be:
cedilla at some point...
     cursor...
            sNAKEs...
                      σN∀ʞƎς
                                        s'nay'x...

rather "unnecessary" but a must...
bothersome these strict barriers
and when / but when one returns
to the cascade of sounds
and what's to be said: sung...
thought & therefore seen...
i can forgo all the tux-juxtaposing
and a: dozen or so penguins...

bravado... one can try to read
a newspaper...
one does... one even uses this royal
****-off route to mind
what matters...
as an extension of
james marriott's book review...
i was a fan of jordan B peek-a-boo...
when all things in the wunder-land
of tubes: how was copperwire
invented? asked my glaswegian
english teacher? two scots arguing over
a penny... or a: PENCE - je pense!

newspapers have really taken a
hit for audience size, competition...
on the sideline you notice this...
"grief"...
what worked for the 20th century
propagandists... doesn't work now...
at all... no factions just... fractions...
and people in the congested
equation, somehow too...

it can be, or rather is, absolutely: unamusing that
one must have a mother...
for that matter - that there are two -
what with death being the second -
altogether: through and through -
unamusing and, or rather stringent:
      unmoveable shards of darkened ice...
at first that's about it...
        as one does when *** is a "waste"
or that ******* is something
    a typo for a metaphor for a misnomer
of what can't possibly be genocide -
or if it is: a solo project of an equivalence
that's met when...
scrubbing the dead skin parmesan
       off the soles of your feet...
    or having your hair cut...
          or engaging in grotesque pâtisserie...
i.e. pinching a loaf...
sitting on the... throne of thrones
for the holy trinity to congest the time...
frankly... there are not enough
hours in a day to
congest them with listening to
bbc radio 3...
i tried to cram as much radio 4
when in bed with a strict take on
a loss-of-shadow-hangover:
body as if a mollusc esque-form...
not borrowing from Kafka and yet...
glistening with a glitter and primordial
saliva gob-slob jacuzzi...
gurgle at every turn... gurgle-gurgle
and froth to ******: withs... bau-bau-bubbles...

but i'm thankful for the comparison:
and my own little life too...
little so little it doesn't dare to raise
notions of hierarchy...
that there is a hierarchy that's all
the better:
no one's moving up... no one's
moving down... plateau of plateaus...
but when i suckle at the bottle...
and it's a bottle of ink i can't spill
while i'm also drinking for a tease
of... teasing humour...
and i haven't written awhile...
while i pick up something grandiose
to experiment with... like...
bbc 3 will champion clarice lispector
but not machado de assis...

but agreed... what happened to
the "unread": i'll come dangling on
a hot-air balloon... screaming maxims...
first of most: or 'of all'...
i'll probably buy a bicycle and cover
those distances walked...
from havering-atte-bower
to... st. paul's cathedral...
coldharbour...
epping... in half the time it would
otherwise require me to tame
a marathon...

exemplar status... when i arrived in Paris
on my own i was not filled
with anything Stendhal likened imitation /
overbearing / copycat implicitness
(no implicity) -
         i exhaust the right to write more
than any of my drinking unfathomable
cruising through bottle and bottle:
message after message...
crab feet...
            giraffe necks...
scissor when expecting...
                           bamboo pincers... etc.

otherwise finally arrived at:
this "finally arrived" at
                dź (дь)
no vs. dż (дъ) otherwise...
what do i do with a "3":
                   эз: mind m'ah f'ez...
butter-fingers: deutsche! primo!
if my schnörkellos & butterfinger...
does you any harm...
crescendo + from the Urals
of the plural S... tomb of the vicinity-"victor"...

Paris... on the night of the Bataclan
stampede for bones, bruises,
tendons and sinew...
and offal... like... chicken heart...
chicken stomachs...
like that night when i was painting
my bedroom drenched in rose...
in chemical red
looking out for those mantis eyes
of lore like a bored
housewife of Pompeii...
before the irrittion
of the gods and the Huns...
drenched me with stuff all morbid
and splodgy...

suppose a ghost invites me to:
close a door...
suppose a door
suppose closure...
suppose the presupposition of...
****** theatrical null
and then a peacock of genesis...
a phoenix of exodus....

       a big chin 'arry delves into
structuring thinning...
who's a who who (a) what's already been given...
triptych on the buckle:
less hooves of horses charging
anti: against chaffs of wheat and more...
this sinking sensation requesting me
to make drown of all things
spec-tac-ular...

yonker: *****...
             mr. se(o)ul... his says...
says he:
           is any 'n' every...
Trafalgar Sq. presupposing
a Na-po-le-on...
to a somewhat... be...
well done.. boiling down:
the...         knuckles...
heave this limbo of cartilage :

oh i'm very much adapted
to...
insomnia
and "insomnia" libido too...

quake... nothing passes...
a biscuit might...
"crumble"...
a clown might poke fun
at making a...
"jellyface".

title: **** job
body:
/odds up/
\down
to margin\ 502 bypasss

my, oh my, my my... aren't you turning into an interesting creature... you could have written this long exchange in a single paragraph... why were you trying to probe my absence, by this... strange... un-rhyming reiteration, i logged off for a kipper... some sleep... i had the most amazing dream snoozing between 8am and 9am... i dream in words... i hear more than i see in dreams... i was complaining: but i have to get transportation from Baker Street to Putney Bridge... the joke of the dream was that i only had to walk about a mile... dreams... not reality... i'm pretty sure Baker St. isn't that close to Putney Bridge...oh hey... don't worry... i'm going to go for a hands off approach... i'm not going to try to manipulate you... you do you... i was merely implying: i tried idealism before... it seriously got me to... nowhere... you what? what "true" and "ideal"? never mind: "true ideal" when the words are coupled...  believe me when i tell you: believe all you want, when it comes to women... i'm not manipulating you... i'm not a woman... women manipulate... i'm not going to persuade you... there's no need, or point... i don't think it was me... i still like the idea: woman! ******! brilliance! amazing! she's not an astronaut, though... amazing! motherhood is a "job"... like plumbing is... fatherhood! ha ha... ah ha ha... i would have greatly appreciated your response if you left one long-*** paragraph... but... such is the imperfections of this world: i forgive you... even though there's nothing to forgive... just a pet-peeve... pedantry's antics... they always come to the fore... no... categorically: NO... Sylvia Plath... Clarice Lispector... that's the only two women in my personal library... no, i'm not going to read women write, since? i don't want to become contaminated by what people think... since... i've seen how women behave... yeah... i read books... my favourite is... Bertrand's Russell's History of Western Philosophy... and... Wittgenstein's Tractatus... you know: the part where he mentions misnomers... opening the tractatus with an insult against the thesaurus?! yeah, that's fun... there's a woman in me? what a weird question... is there a man in you? i came out of a woman's body... so... a woman's body produces... *****?! is that what you're saying? i have an ego's worth of a ***** wriggle... obviously i'm not a headless cockroach rummaging out Apocalyptic woodwork... but... taking the stance... all women... no men involved... that's... putting the wrong sort of pressure on... what could have been the right sort of argument... sure... you and this "ideal woman"  of yours... just wait... as a warning... wait for the Mantis to come out... just wait... i won't be there... i won't need to be... but you will be... oh... i'm sort of building up a mind-set of a Jihadi... i'm sort of making death a parody invoked: quasi-death... i don't mind... you feel scared? you, want me to hold your hand? i'm sort of looking for war... thank god it's knocking from Ukraine... i'm actually travelling to Poland on the 5th to see what the news outlets are up to... i'm thinking about joining the army... eh... this current job doesn't have enough thrills.. plenty of promises... not enough
Kalashnikovs... i'm looking for something to speed up my mortality... women sort of stopped cutting the chops when it came to.... thrills... i don't think that you slide back into "that *****" when you die... the abyss of time is... of space... is not so biologically temporal as a woman's testicles... come to thik of it... now i see where you're coming from... we're not on the same planet... even though we might try to pretend to be; oh... i'm ready to die... i've just drank 3 rows of toasting her... she has always been the other sort of mother... i don't think her skull ditto-gob ever mentioned her having a safety pouch of a ****** to **** my way back into... a "return"... via teeth, via bone... no no... much harsher...  but it's nice... that you... sort of... inquired.

2nd invested in return on a boy'oh...
    invested in return? oh... you mean...
no return policy? a waste of time?
i had one of these, those...
             waste of time...
                         sort of wish:
if they were only born Russian...
what men they could have been made into...
what a waste of time, prior...
to make-up for deciding factions...
the pieces are moving...
it's nice to see pieces moving...
i might have cared, once...
recently? no... sorry...
                you had your fun:
while i haven't... do i give one toss's away
from Armageddon? no!
let it burn! let... chaos... reign!

Know Thyself
Those wise old Greeks
Te Amo
Ms. Susan Meek

Help me help her
Hide and seek
Korean food
Asian teak

Know Thyself
Wendy Darling
Hannibal Lector
Clarice Starling

Plotting, Planning
Near DC
Kairotic moment
Let it Be.

           We

I attack then I step back
Wait and watch and wonder
Guerillas in the mist
Valley rolling thunder

In Thailand I touched a tiger
You should see the plate
Exoplanets spin
Something radiates

Also rode an elephant
Horton Hears a Who
Professor Santayana
Reno Rendezvous

Rabbits in my yard
Gladys the Fighting Squirrel
God remains Unknowable
Never right without the girl

                Hello Clarice. :)

College Partnership Program
         Taking attendance
               Hello Clarice

it's not that i really have a cough...
   my attempt at staging clever...
     hannibal lecter and clarice...
backwards and forward...
anagrams...
        but no... no alliterations:
           fire feeds frivolity and freedom...
there's certainly an F in 'ere...

a spot of 'other: there's a greek in it:
which morphed into: verily vandal prone...
like no: over till it's over:
in the case of: other...

               a decent splash of bombai gin...
and a dash of phillips' o' bristol
grenadine cordial...

             well... if you're going to be shooting
the lame duck...
hardly a low drawn g & t either...
or: teasing a jägermeister:
one of those: five a day... keeps the doctor
away?

                      i'd recommend chicken
scratching some words onto paper -
exfoliating in a labyrinth of paragraphs
and paraphrasing...
bad memory segment...
paraphrasing... since it's not: ver-ba-timothy...

but as long as the end result is:
the sun rose one day...
and was astounded by a sundail -
what's this, kind sunseeker, earth...
this maggot of iron
where once a lonely tree stood?

gin & grenadine cordial... as...
that terrible thing they do of drinking
jägermeister and red bull...
or... ***** and orange juice...
warm *****: period...

                when it's not subject to freezing:
given it's ethanol: and has a lower
freezing point than water:
made into a syrope...

     and that alternative to tequilla: raw...
with the salt and lemon ****... bites...

a black cracovian...
i've had one: i must have had one...
since i invented it...

     *****... stashed in some ambient
maestero's heart...
  usually the fridge-freezer / refrigerator...
till it comes out akin
to the consistency of gomme syrop...

and you'll probably be smoking...
lick of the ol' palette that's the in-between
of a caesar's digit and the index of
the alumni...

a sprinkle of cigarette ash...
licked... the ***** drunk...
        and for the lemon? some black peppercorns...
one or two...

there... that's a black cracovian.