PROLOGUE
The Flame, aflicker, licks and flays,
illuming evening’s negligees
With braided curls she swirls and sways,
and flits and floats in light ballets

           APOLOGUE
A Flame, to conquer creeping fog,
flew dancing towards a random log
Her flight perplexed a leery frog
beside a silent somber bog

The Flame, a ripple, all alone
alit on leaves where birds had flown
The aching twigs began to moan
A rising breeze began to groan

The Flame arrayed an ancient oak
with torrid tongues and veils of smoke
A ****** bailed, the dam had broke
The leery frog soon ceased to croak

The Flame uncoiled and lashed midair,
consuming crowns with utmost care
A crazed coyote fled her lair,
left in the lurch bewildered bear

The Flame, unfurled, went wild and grew,
enkindled cats and caribou
Remaining... not a residue,
as reeking vapors bade adieu

The Flame revealed her strength unshackled
Flora, fauna crisped and crackled
Fire Witches clucked and cackled
One more forest stripped, then hackled

           EPILOGUE
The arsonists were well aware
the Flame would travel everywhere
The weirs are gone, the land is bare,
and soon you’ll find a city there

Long ago in a poultry yard
One dull November morn,
Beneath a motherly soft wing
A little goose was born.

Who straightway peeped out of the shell
To view the world beyond,
Longing at once to sally forth
And paddle in the pond.

"Oh! be not rash," her father said,
A mild Socratic bird;
Her mother begged her not to stray
With many a warning word.

But little goosey was perverse,
And eagerly did cry,
"I've got a lovely pair of wings,
Of course I ought to fly."

In vain parental cacklings,
In vain the cold sky's frown,
Ambitious goosey tried to soar,
But always tumbled down.

The farmyard jeered at her attempts,
The peacocks screamed, "Oh fie!
You're only a domestic goose,
So don't pretend to fly."

Great ****-a-doodle from his perch
Crowed daily loud and clear,
"Stay in the puddle, foolish bird,
That is your proper sphere,"

The ducks and hens said, one and all,
In gossip by the pool,
"Our children never play such pranks;
My dear, that fowl's a fool."

The owls came out and flew about,
Hooting above the rest,
"No useful egg was ever hatched
From transcendental nest."

Good little goslings at their play
And well-conducted chicks
Were taught to think poor goosey's flights
Were naughty, ill-bred tricks.

They were content to swim and scratch,
And not at all inclined
For any wild goose chase in search
Of something undefined.

Hard times she had as one may guess,
That young aspiring bird,
Who still from every fall arose
Saddened but undeterred.

She knew she was no nightingale
Yet spite of much abuse,
She longed to help and cheer the world,
Although a plain gray goose

She could not sing, she could not fly,
Nor even walk, with grace,
And all the farmyard had declared
A puddle was her place.

But something stronger than herself
Would cry, "Go on, go on!
Remember, though an humble fowl,
You're cousin to a swan."

So up and down poor goosey went,
A busy, hopeful bird.
Searched many wide unfruitful fields,
And many waters stirred.

At length she came unto a stream
Most fertile of all Niles,
Where tuneful birds might soar and sing
Among the leafy isles.

Here did she build a little nest
Beside the waters still,
Where the parental goose could rest
Unvexed by any bill.

And here she paused to smooth her plumes,
Ruffled by many plagues;
When suddenly arose the cry,
"This goose lays golden eggs."

At once the farmyard was agog;
The ducks began to quack;
Prim Guinea fowls relenting called,
"Come back, come back, come back."

Great chanticleer was pleased to give
A patronizing crow,
And the contemptuous biddies clucked,
"I wish my chicks did so."

The peacocks spread their shining tails,
And cried in accents soft,
"We want to know you, gifted one,
Come up and sit aloft."

Wise owls awoke and gravely said,
With proudly swelling *******,
"Rare birds have always been evoked
From transcendental nests!"

News-hunting turkeys from afar
Now ran with all thin legs
To gobble facts and fictions of
The goose with golden eggs.

But best of all the little fowls
Still playing on the shore,
Soft downy chicks and goslings gay,
Chirped out, "Dear Goose, lay more."

But goosey all these weary years
Had toiled like any ant,
And wearied out she now replied
"My little dears, I can't.

"When I was starving, half this corn
Had been of vital use,
Now I am surfeited with food
Like any Strasbourg goose."

So to escape too many friends,
Without uncivil strife,
She ran to the Atlantic pond
And paddled for her life.

Soon up among the grand old Alps
She found two blessed things,
The health she had so nearly lost,
And rest for weary limbs.

But still across the briny deep
Couched in most friendly words,
Came prayers for letters, tales, or verse
From literary birds.

Whereat the renovated fowl
With grateful thanks profuse,
Took from her wing a quill and wrote
This lay of a Golden Goose.

Uncle Joe,
Quietly a bachelor,
All his 77 years,
Never spoke an unkind word
I ever heard.

Most afternoons,
He sat in his brown chair
Behind my Grandfather.

Two old French men,
Smoking pipes
Talking slow and low
In English, French-laced,
Laden with Quebec enunciation
Though they'd not been back
For sixty years.

I didn't think he'd ever loved a girl,
My Uncle Joe,
And then his nephew spilled the beans
One day to me.

Alice was the damsel's name,
But innocence was not her style,
And so my great-grandma,
Memere, disapproved,
Clucked her tongue,
Hands on hips,
Glared and crossed herself,
Whenever Alice came around.

Still, Joe pursued
Until the day she walked out
To the field where he was plowing
Behind a team of horses.

She didn't think ahead.
So when her dress billowed out
As she walked up,
She set the team in fright.

Uncle Joe,
Too shocked to act,
Fell feet first into the foot board,
And down the field the horses dragged
The plow and Uncle Joe.

They stopped before disaster came,
And Uncle Joe crawled out.

When he stood up,
He ended any chance that Alice
Had with him.

"Dat **** girl near got me ****!"
His exclamation.

So it was
He lived sixty more years
Safely and alone.

In that age of aged seasons
predating our own's four-square rhyme,
a reasonable jape was hatched
beaked but hairy to a guilt-free Hen
whose humors ran with jaw-slackening
creatures, foul and not at all bird-like.

Soon after its mixed-up cracking,
two prattle-prone Wrens hopped to spread
rumors of an un-chickity chick
and the ungodly origins
of fatherless yowls. Their tittered jeers
found welcome ears, and Mother Hen preened
her babe chased by merciless guffaws.

This Hen was not one to lay
down meekly, and a never stony
tongue rolled out its antidote myth
to a pair of gabby Gulls: "My child
may look not-much, but he's divine
engendered and miraculous born.
Sure he's messy, ah, but you'll see
he'll grow to be, much-much-more than
any feathery tykes your like did bear."

She clucked it so seriously,
who were they to doubt her? The plumed
sniggering ceased. But before another
grateful day could dawn in a hallelujah
glare of right angles, out pecking
up a snack, Mother made eye
contact with an unfortunate Fate
brandishing his lucky-gripped ax.

What of her wonder-why, joke of a boy?
Left alone at straw-pocket home,
waiting for his Hen to return,
he starved then decayed to hollow bones,
and was never thought of again.

I’d imagined her in the fields of
Tea; one, “she,” with hair born ink,
Perfectly-lined pearls,
A soon to be smile,
Wells for eyes, lost,
So very starved to be saved
And a'tic-tac-toe
Scarred the earth upon back,
So mimicked the sun.
So clucked the tribulation.

We, and after, “we,”
******. We trust
And two necks rocked backward
Under an unrelenting moon,
Could become, “we,”
With an already, “she,” and now the

“He,” a'wander before stars -
A wish and the only she’d wanted,
By name of, “touch;”
So one, the sun scorched rice,
And second, red stained the field,
And so on, the son missed home,
And once more, one son stood ground
And another sun held his hand,
So built, this newer home
Come allowed and growing old;

Together.

THE BIG HAPPY EVER AFTER

She was one cool chick.
Dressed -  très chic.

She curved in all the right
places - if ya get my drift.

Her name was Miss Dumpty.

Claimed her father Humpty
had been pushed - taken the fall

for some Mr. Big and
got his.

I remembered the case.

His smile was cracked...yoke all over
his face..legs scrambled at an unnatural angle.

The autopsy pics
made me sick.

Said she had gone to Sam *****
to dig up dirt.

But no dice.
Sam's paid..he's off the case.

She spat the name out
with a thanks-for-nothing look.

"So. I came to you.
See what you can do!"

"What's in it for me!"
I smirked.

"Me!" she clucked
in a Linda Darnellish way.

Turned out it was
Little Boy...would ya believe it...Blue!

Jealous of Humpty's
easy said-ness and how he

got recited more often than
Mr. B. Blue.

Nursery Crime is increasing
so they tells me.

Too many modern authors
making ***** parodies..

Or in the *****
Limericks Business.

Scaring the kiddies away.
Putting the frighteners on parents.

Me and Miss Dumpty?

We're going for the big happy
ever after!

far away, outside my door
i could hear the shot gun blast
wondering if he was safe anymore
hopin' he got outta there fast.

my door flung open, i heard him gasp
said "think i finally killed her"
he took off his gloves and boots and mask
it gave me chills like the bone of winter

i patted his back and offered him tea
for now he was distant and forlorn
said "just sit close to me, sweet pea"
in his arms, i felt so alive, felt like being born.

we loaded up the old crimson truck
with bags and guts, hair and brains
we roared loudly away and the chickens clucked
a bumpy ride, we kissed as we switched lanes

i looked in the back seat, but just couldn't tell
the color of the seat from the color of her blood
"together and free at last!" out of the window, i yelled
and soon she'll be buried in the mud.

we turned off the lights and hopped on down
my tiny hand carrying the smaller bags,
he was towing the rest of her on the ground
he stopped, lit a cigarette and took a drag

we were finally bringing out the old
ecstatic and in love, but shaking
wondering if this glittery feeling of gold
is really real or is he just faking?

so we found a spot and dug and dug
then began to feel a sweat
"we really did it" he said, i shrugged
she wasn't gone yet

there were pieces of her long blond hair
getting stuck to my shirt..
i kept seeing pieces of her skin so fair
poking out of the wet dirt…

she was standing next to him in spirit
i could see it in his tired and fearful eyes
his regret of her ****** was so clear it
was like his pain was written in the skies

the final scoops of the dull ****** dust
were sprinkled over the layers of hate
"we shouldn't have done this, we are just in lust -
i shouldn't have took her life, but now it's too late"

he weeped, and moaned and started to walk away
i followed him down, through the eery trails
"don't you see, this is  supposed to be a glorious day!
for now our lives can be nothing short of fairy tale!"

he turned around and said "just go home
i want nothing to do with your conniving tricks…
you evil creature with a head full of poisoned foam
it's not her, but you who should be dead under the sticks!"

before he could say one more hurtful untrue word
i smacked his mouth with my muddy shovel
he fell down hard and groaned, his speech slurred
i grabbed the knife from his ****** belt buckle

i stood over him, "take back what you said!
i'm not the evil one, it's you
you'll always be the reason why she's dead!
i laugh and i know it's true"

i put him to his death that night
for he no longer deserved to exist
chopped and killed with all my mite
left his body there, alone, in the early morning mist.

i was driving away fast and started to grin
when i realized that i was the one defeated,
for now, their souls fly together in the endless wind,
and i'm still the mistress but the one who was cheated.

Marilyn Metzger, 2011
Long Island

The garden served little purpose
It sprawled across the bored ground, despondent beneath the yawning sun
My mother would wail her annual rage
At the snarling weeds that softly smothered the flowers
How I loved those flowers
Rejected footballs perplexed the lawn
Their obtuse hulks spoiling that ripple of green
I found a four leafed clover there once
He poked his obscure head above his brothers: a suicide mission to bring me luck
They are all dead now
I didn’t waste nearly enough time reclined on that jealous cushion
Watching the lethargic clouds wobble on

But most otiose of all in that seldom wandered paradise was the Wall
That Wall was never high enough
I see it from my back door
Squat, depressed, sighing, each dusty clot of red brick seems so lifeless
Doomed to live out the rest of its days as a failure
All flung ***** that compress their rubbery bodies against it will soon vault over
It crudely bookends the busily neat hedge
Simply because that is where the drunken soil runs out
It fails too at its chief instruction:
Be the purgatory bridge between Our heaven and Their hell
But the Wall was never high enough

I remember the other side of the Wall
How I crouched in filth
Needless to be afraid of a cut from a single blade of grass
Impoverished chickens clucked in the squalor
How they survived such malnourishment awed me
The friends I thought I had there cheated me
And I ran from that disastrous place
Where chaos twisted the agonised branches of the hedge we shared
But it followed me like an age old Gypsy curse
Even today, a writhing, mewing splodge of night will sit on the Wall
Looking too fat for its own fur coat
It will viciously attack the thin air for a while
Perhaps accept a stroke but, seeing no morsel, wander home
But I am not spared
For I can see its wasteland kingdom from my window

It is not an evil place
But the Wall was never high enough

Stained sand, we
saved for grey days
that never arrived.
Rivers greeted
prying thumbnails,
which remained
ready, but unclean.
Romance clucked
through the crook
of an armed shadow,
where she melted.
Sherbet floated
like ***** on
her shuddering
upper lip.

drank straight
god above
level heaven
contagion.

remember:
lazy approves
of room for error.
snoring counts
as blatantly losing.

blank stare
blank slate

upstairs neighbors
they were making
what could only be
violent love or
beautiful music.

either way
the whole blueprint was shaking,
the sound breaking
a vacant space.

& there was a cloud.
there was
always
a cloud.

sometimes he be spinnin
round & round & rounded
but he usually clucked out
fore ever touching ground.

uhh, shut his mouth.

not saying so long to luck
but the ***** wanted to run.

how he long to get loud
& lost in the crowd
of tired brown-
grays & blacks,
boring blues.

nature,
mother,
lackluster,
satan

kept a written record
of the whether's mood
& heavy surveillance of
his movements
as seen through
***** rear view mirrors.

she said
never better,
never clearer.

so, tomorrow
if we're still
our own & each other's
dearest,
we'll need to find the nearest payphone;
call all world leaders, demand appearance,
then apologize for all our static & interference.

“Make things beautiful,”

she said. “Yes,”

they all agreed.

“Yes, make beautiful

things, not ugly things.

Stop making ugly things,

stop making things ugly.”

they clucked their tongues

shaking their heads side-

to-side their eyes staring

not moving and disapproving

overcharged black cat clocks

over my tiny shoulders

another attempted monster

someone scary on my paper

meant to be scary

a werewolf or a vampire

a cut-up human monster

pencil lines infused with the

pressure of wanting

to make real

to be taken

seriously little hands

shaking

once again my head is buried in the sand,
and all the cigarettes i smoked and all the hearts i broke
had you feeding the whole pack to me out of the palm of your hand.
it was a stroke of luck that i lucked out, clucked out like a chicken without a head,
no direction where to go and using my  feet to guide me instead.
and it was a stroke of genius that struck me out,
we twisted words we crossed arms
we bit tongues until bloOD WAS RUNNING DOWN THE SIDES
of our chins like a mudslide
and the hairs on our skin
prickled up with anxiety when we realized that this mortality is more/less a gift than a blessing,
so i'm done second guessing everything that i see.
i'm relapsing back into hiccups and cigarettes and you're relapsing back into me.
how am i to trust my eyes when the foundation of everything i once believed is now a pile of dirt?
twenty seven seconds left on the microwave and you took them for granted
just like the garden you planted to try to feel alive and alert,
but what would you with twenty seven seconds on your death bed
screaming happy crying hurt
sending fists and laughter bouncing off walls

I sang of you to passersby
To tell them of your grace.
I wished them all the luck
To gaze upon your face.
I hoped they all would be
The luckiest of friends
To feel the peace descend;
Be the joy that never ends.

I sang of all my memories
Of now and days gone by
Where you were a gift to me
And I was just humble I.
I sang a melody of happiness
And life that came complete.
So I was dedicated to lay
The world there at your feet.

I sang though some did think
I was but a simpleton’s fool
Who suffered some diseases
That kept me long from school.
They clucked and bade me quiet
When I most wanted to sing.
They could not feel what I felt.
They felt not a loving thing.

I sang through scowls and scoffs
And heartless catcalls of the many.
I suffered names like half-witted,
Brainless ****, twit and *****.
But did I care what many had said
Who ridiculed my loving song?
Not I, instead I ignored them all
And sang louder as I went along.

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/5/2019

Sitting on the perch the rooster boasted:
soon the king of swimmers I'll be
and laurel wreath I will get:
Cos the champion of champions I am in this respect!
The hens, excited, clucked in admiration,
small yellow chicks silently listened in awe,
oinking happily were the piglets,
and the ducks? Like crazy they laughed!

Wieslaw Musialowski 10/15/2001

in all fairness, it was one of of those simple overcast,
English sort of days...
i love such days, the sun's lazily hiding
behind the clouds: no chance to implement green
energy via solar panels...
very English... very islander...
     hell, chances are these might just be the Faroe Isles...
it'll do...
weather like this makes me: miserably happy...
or, rather... happily miserable...
   you spot a crow paired up: why do crows in England
tend to fly in pairs?
over on the continent crows congregate...
they antagonise the sky with a presence equivalent
to a Messerschmitt raiding party... horde...
black crosses casting shadows from high up...
in England... the mythological kingdom of crows...
they pair up as if... Odin himself is peering on this land...
what's it like in Scandinavia?
i woke up with a thought, though,
i put it to the back of my head until the day's chores
were over...
what the hell happened to women?
where are the women a boy or man would put
up on the wall on a poster?
what the hell happened to...
women like Joan Jett...
Rachel Weisz (notably for playing a role in
a Stendhal adaptation with Ewan McGregor)
my hot... the archetypical blonde
for me was not Marilyn Monroe...
it was Cameron Diaz after seeing her in The Mask...
**** me, do i have to mention Morgan Weaver...
what's that other one
the really: fit as hell brunette...
oh... right... Alex Morgan...
                   Olga Smirnova... Diana Vishneva...
don't even get me started on
the tennis...
Eugenie Bouchard or... Garbiñe Muguruza
those Spanish "sad eyes" when
smiling... horiziontally:

   (
               )
   (

odd... isn't it... if you pair up two ( ( brackets like
that... and associate them with eyes...
while doing the opposite...

    )
                (
    )

) ) those down-cast eyes... but i guess it all comes
down to... a variation of rereading hieroglyphs...
hell... even further! it's archetypical...

who else is on my list... Paula Badosa...
Monica Puig...
i don't even know why i like the actress
that played the incel Christine Chubbuck...
point being: never shoot yourself in the head...
if you have to... stab yourself in the heart:
as Kafka prescribed... unless you have
a shot-gun available to get rid of the whole head...

i saw it in the movie... and... since i have eclectic tastes...
Christine Chubbuck shot herself in the head...
films make you want to think that she
died... instantly...
ever hear that urban myth about a decapitated
cockroach... it apparently died 2 weeks later...
no... not from missing head:
from a missing mouth... the cockroach's body
continued to live on, even though the head was...
ahem... "missing"...

i think i've touched upon this once already,
the infamous Ukrainian serial killer:
Andrei Chikatilo... it's very much that quote
from Batman... Resurrected... the one with Tom Hardy
playing Bane...
the quote, verbatim:
perhaps he's wondering why someone would
shoot a man! before throwing him out of a plane!
from the film about Christine Chubbuck's attempted
suicide on air: agony of an incel...
she didn't die, immediately... from the head injury...
she died later down the line:
on life support machines...

so i'll re-quote, concerning the execution of
Andrei Chikatilo...
why would he be marched into an empty prison
cell and be shot in the back of the head...
oh... now it makes senses...
he didn't die immediately...
he was brain-damaged...
he didn't bleed out from this head wound...
it must have taken him about... 2 weeks to die...
from either dehydration or from lack of food...
but the movies will never tell you that...
some do, thought...

why would you take a serial killer into an empty
prison cell and shoot him in the back
of the head: if you weren't expecting him
to pretend to be dead for... a little while, longer?
would the Ukrainian prison guards subsequently
**** him with arrogantly looking
objects?
******* ****** and what not?
i expect they might have...
i like entertaining myself with such scenarios...

but like Kafka said: aim at the heart...
you're not going to die from a head-injury...
your might not be aware of it...
it would be otherwise pointless to make a film
surrounding poor, un-****** Christine...
leeching off support-machinery...
kept alive...
ergo? ol' Andrei was shot in the back
of the head, in an empty cell...
left to partially rot away...
probably getting ****** on, ******* on...
well... did he deserve any better?!

yet i woke up thinking...
why do all the pretty girls... become prostitutes?
the most beautiful ones i ever caressed:
prior to scratching my fingertips on some pavement /
brick before touching their bodies were always
the prettiest of the whole lot of them...
but in general... with the advent of post-brothel
simping... paying for nudes directly
rather than ascribing oneself to:
i'm *****... i'll take the 3rd person ****-show...
fair enough...
but i'm not paying directly for: directly nothing...

they could have been football players,
nurses, ballerinas, actresses...
they turned to ***...
sure... of the 3 or 4 Ps...
poets, priests, psychiatrists or prostitutes...
they're in line...
perhaps it's for the best...
every, single, time...
of the times i visited a psychiatrist,
psychologist... after all: a psychologist has no
power to prescribe you the required pharmacology...
i have my own reading list...
so...
to hell with a priest...
i can't be a god-fearing man when i am supposed
to churn out a regurgitation of a:
benevolent all loving god... not in my part
of the woods...
so, prostitutes!
less talk, more touchy-feely...

yet so many women have decided to take up
this route... hardly professionally...
only via the easy way out...
it's not like most of these girls are capable to touch my
own body... i go to the source...
Turkish... plain in sight... Romanian...
i'm not paying for a ******* video of her
*******, body on body contact...
better assurance to what a date might provoke...

but it's not like they're aiming to be ballerinas,
the minority always will...
sure: and i'm also not a car mechanic...
****** poet, events steward...
a few clues to a upper IQ also missing...
not right up there with the opera singers... either...
i like the middle ground, though...

like today... i was walking to Collier Row to buy some
spiced ***, some orange peel,
some currants, for a Christmas cake...
beard's all bushy... the moustache has taken charge...
i have a date on Monday...
one sip of coffee and i pick up extra foam...
this ****** jungle needs to be trimmed...
so i went to the Turk...
now... if i really love a piece of clothing...
i'll repeatedly wear it...
a Fat Face brown shirt... thick enough for winter
to only wear a dark brown t-shirt underneath...
crock-coloured material trousers...
cotton? brown leather shoes... ankle high...
and... a new addition... a brown-green...
baker-boy cap...
maybe the bushy beard readied for a trim...
or the baker-boy cap...
a green & grey shawl...
one female, two female, three females down...
smiling, giggly... the: oh i love the pretend
curiosity / nervousness... excitement...
best i love myself: the last loved-up curiosity
left me... with too much nostalgia...
in as quickly & out as quickly as a ******* allows...
i'm out...

KORA: the lead-singer from this ******
band Manam... where are these women gone to,
all went to *******?
impossible... given can compete... compliment
men's addition to civilisation
they reduce themselves to the meat-market?
seems like a waste...
while they could aspire to sing,
to dance ballet... fair enough...
a ******* does the work of a psychiatrist...
yeah, sure, watch me complain...
but i'm not going to pay for frivolous expenses...
i need the touch: i'll get the touch...
no ******* free-rides...
people that talk during ***...
people that aren't mute or onomatopoeia prone...
can't understand them: i don't wnat to
understand them...

a more complex schematic i had in mind...
on the 14th of December my mother booked in
this pedicurist...
i hope she comes with her 1 year old daughter...
it was most fun the last time she came,
my little Frankenstein...

last time i clucked, she clucked back...
she implored me with the knowledge
that she was hungry, she also had cold feet...
i took her up in my arms and cuddle her...
i was being scrutinised...
this pedicurist had a friend in tow...
apparently i had all the advantages of a Scandinavian
physiognomy...
a darkened beard, a darkened brow...
yet illuminating moustache / soul patch:
blonde...
   the leftover of my childhood colour of hair...
i wish she brings this little... critter back into my arms...

it's not mine: less heartache from a perspective of
ownership... this little babe... i own bonsai tigers...
coming into staged ownership of a baby girl...
not my own... how fun it becomes...
i out on some vinyl record for her...
she tries to memorise me...
she puts a finger into my mouth...
she tugs at my beard...
i wink, she winks...
             i give her an onomatopoeia...
she gives me one back...

little Frankenstein...
that's why i should have children, they'd be too experimental...
following the schematic:
i'd ask the little critter:

  e  i
a  M o
    u        (y)

English alone... Y... why... alias of "iota"...
            
Y: to... także samogłoska, nie?
i guess there are more vowels in ******
than in Anglo-Saxon...

  ą   e  ę
a  M  o
   i y u/ó

in anglo-saxon Y is not considered a vowel,
it's considered  a consonant:
a... spółgłoski...

i lent this pedicurist some albums:
pablopavo - telefon
wooden shjips - west
vomito nergo - fall of an empire
hanzel und gretyl - uber alles
biran jonestown massacre - aufheben
dead skeletons - dead magic
electric wizard - dopethrone
spirit - 12 dreams
ryan adams - s.t.
u.n.c.le. - war stories
om - adviatic songs
trentemoller - lost
the soft moon - s.t.
allah-las - s.t.
uncle acid & the deadbeats ,
naam,
chromatic - will for love
in extremo - verehrt und...
tame impala - innerspeaker...

just bring me your little Frankenstein!

tending to a babe, via keeping a makeshift...
listening stream of...
Masquerade, oh beloved little kitty:
of a would be Frankentsein...
speak me some assurance!

THE BIG HAPPY EVER AFTER

( in ego Nursery Rhyme vixi )

She was one cool chick.
Dressed -  très chic.

She curved in all the right
places - if ya get my drift.

Her name was Miss Dumpty.

Claimed her father Humpty
had been pushed - taken the fall

for some Mr. Big and
got his.

I remembered the case.

His smile was cracked...yoke all over
his face..legs scrambled at an unnatural angle.

The autopsy pics
made me sick.

Said she had gone to Sam *****
to dig up dirt.

But no dice.
Sam's paid..he's off the case.

She spat the name out
with a thanks-for-nothing look.

"So. I came to you.
See what you can do!"

"What's in it for me!"
I smirked.

"Me!" she clucked
in a Linda Darnellish way.

Turned out it was
Little Boy...would ya believe it...Blue!

Jealous of Humpty's
easy said-ness and how he

got recited more often than
Mr. B. Blue.

Nursery Crime is increasing
so they tells me.

Too many modern authors
making ***** parodies..

Or in the *****
Limericks Business.

Scaring the kiddies away.
Putting the frighteners on parents.

Me and Miss Dumpty?

We're going for the big happy
ever after!

Living in a big city is not who I am
but life doesn't always give us what we want
I remember Grandma's Montana farm
and I go there in my mind when things are rough
Grandma was a little thing, not five feet tall,
but she had the courage of a lion all her years
We went there to live when I was five years old
I was dying from the coastal air and was very frail
My brother was a baby and the apple of my eye
We rode there in a chartreuse Ford, bundled
into blankets...there were no seatbelts back then
The wonder of all that 100 acres to roam and play
Chickens so sweet clucked round my little feet
The geese, Candy and Dandy, were terrorists,
hiding behind the root cellar and darting out
to chase me to the outhouse beyond the shed
Rosie the runaway horse chased cars
Grandpa made flapjacks and those not eaten
were put on the cupboard and I ate them cold...
Maybe heaven will be my Grandma's farm...

that's the second time i was offered to have a *******, i honestly wasn't ready for this one; Khedra was telling me that the girl with the glasses was in a good mood, she stressed it as: she's really, really in a good mood, how about you give us extra and i tell her to come up? i replied: i've just come back from a 12 hour shift, i'm only after a quickie... SLAP... well yeah! i slap her *** during *******, pinch her, bite her... i follow the Kama Sutra to an exactness, obviously i have read it... i know that some women don't get it, but the ones that do? well... it makes ******* all the more fun, after all, we're not slimy mollusks wriggling about, there's more to us than mere caressing and *******... you don't have to **** out all the alternative kinks, although... i'd love to enlarge the ****** to a full body latex suit... i'm not going to lie...

she clearly missed me, i missed her,
but when she came back she knew i was already with
two other girls, Michaela and... oh my god...
i forgot her name: but not her face...
the one that talked too much during ***...
i hate talking during ***:
i don't need "god" in the bedroom...
eyes speak for the eyes,
lips speak for the lips,
phallus speaks for the phallus...
etc.
            but in Khedra's presence i couldn't
just... pick someone else...
i picked her because i knew i'd be guaranteed
unprotected ***...
that's how the rock rolls as it were...
you establish a trust with a woman when
she sees your approach to hygiene...
and then she doesn't even bother asking for more
money... hell... oral and actual genital interaction
unprotected... i forgot how good it feels:
although, like i already mentioned:
i'm also a big fan of condoms...
why? you never know how a woman will
put it on... it varies so greatly...
one will **** it on... another will stretch it
and put it on... various techniques...
  some will look you in the eyes others prefer
not to look: probably reimagining you as
some monster...
i'm no Don Juan, not some Casanova:
my pockets are not that deep...
                        i'm a crustacean lover...
                               sure... if i had more money to shower,
buy gifts... alas: all i have is Ovid's lament
to girls... i can... give them a book of my poems...
a ****** gift, i know... but hey: beggars can't be choosers...
but i knew Khedra missed me...
why? she wanted to be on top this time round...
she usually wants me to arch over her
and do her... sorry: take her to the monastery
of missionaries from Portugal in Japan
(some ******* of my own, thinking)...
i was startled at the fact that i left a ******* imprint
in her...
she sat on my slid it in: right...
*****... it's like with bras... it takes rigid fingers
to undo a bra... the whole point of penetrating a woman's
******? you don't aim for the floral pattern for the *****:
that's for oral ***...
   for the gob to slobber all over it... tongue whirlwind...
when penetrating? you're basically "pretending"
to be aiming for the *******... the distance between
the ****** entry point and the ******* is pretty short...
it's strange how it works...
but i knew she missed me because she recognised
me... already two or three cowgirl giddy-up attempts
of her and she was having those hot-shivers...
she was quivering... hey!
she had to stop from time to time because:
the hot-shivers were attacking her...
    no... of course it wasn't a full ******... but a microcosm
of one...

point being: i didn't ask for permission to try all
the other girls... she told me, she told me:
YOU HAVE TO TRY ALL THE OTHER GIRLS...
she also asked me... tell me, truthfully:
which did you prefer? Michaela, the short fat
girl with ******* or the girl who was sitting opposite
me? the tall, legs to the heavens?
so i told her... the former...
i had a thing for this pornographic actress...
oddly enough also Romanian: Jasmine Black...
and i was like... i need to find me someone similar...
hey presto! Michaela!
the exact proportions: i wouldn't say fat,
i'd say: a pretty plump plum of a woman...

Khedra just kept slapping my chest...
i just kept slapping her ***... biting her chin:
the usual round of bollocking...
i'm done with the English approach to ***...
double standards: yeah: ooh ooh... keep it in the bedroom!
shh! shh! and then once in the bedroom!
all the ugly kinks come out...
all those ungodly conversations: "conversations"
about mummies, daddies and "god" knows what else...
there's no talking when i'm *******:
again... i will no desecrate the altar of this much
pleasure by bringing: and in the beginning there was
the word and the word was with god...
and it was... ever heard of an Eclectus or a Quaker
Parakeet talk, without man talking first?
no! in the beginning only the gods could talk...
mind you... hmm: ooh! ooh!
if Prometheus (the titan) brought down fire to men
and was punished for it by the gods...
who brought down the word (communication,
writing) down from the gods to be left among
men?! who?! who?!
was it not the jealous god, who's name i will not utter
but encrypt?! so the Hebrew deity
would be seen... in the Greek mind...
as a Titan! well... no wonder he's jealous:
the people who venerate him are constantly punished!
why? if Prometheus was punished for brining
to man the fire... the Hebrews are punished for the fact
that their deity brought down "telepathic" communication:
writing, scribbling... and the gods watched
on and saw: well... ****'s going to hit the fan proper
when they start scribbling graffiti on cement walls
thinking they're ****** clever...
dyslexia strong! they'll muddle up the sounds
and overcomplicate their spelling(s)!

i love it... writing *** and about the gods...
it's like the perfect combination for... ah ha ha: disaster...
the days of scientific rationalisation are over:
it's time to return to mythology -
look at it this way: mythology is the antithesis
of journalism: i'm sort of having a backlash
from all the journalism: degraded journalism,
tabloid rather than investigative journalism:
we're not talking high quality journalism
of All the President's Men... we're talking trash:
at best a journalist tells me that X happened at Y...
or there's the editorial section of a newspaper
where i get opinions: a cul de sac of opinions...
since, it's the "rhetoricians'" corner... what sort
of dialectic do you think newspapers allow?
    it's slim... with those "letters" to the editor...
journalism as shambles...

    as i'm writing this i'm gazing at the most beautiful
in heaven... a late summer lightning storm...
lightning without: either thunder or rain...
as if the sky was a giant jellyfish + brain and i'm seeing
it think... wrestle with itself...

- i honestly don't know why i allowed the *******
of my cats give them names...
but they stuck... shouldn't the owner of the pet give
his pet a name, rather than allow the ******* to name them?
QUORUS... honestly? it's not that bad...
quo rus: where are you going, Russian?
and he's ginger... fair enough... makes sense now...
but he's what? 7+ years old...
so... back in the day any conflict with Russia didn't
make sense... my cat's name just makes sense now...
i didn't name him... perhaps: qua rus,
id est: as being Russian... Quorus?! are you a Russian?!
last time i heard Maine ***** came from Maine:
north America...

mind you: Andrew Lloyd Webber got it spot on in
Cats... when he, or whoever did: wrote that cats don't
have one name, they have several names...
they have a name for whatever i feel like calling it...
my female Maine **** is usually
called ヤマモト (ya-ma-mo-to) whenever she's
imploring to be let in to the house:
but in her persistent silence, she just sits by the door
giving no indication to be let in...
i forget how many names i have given Quorus...
but i sometimes: secretly give him the name
******... but that's between me and him...
either ****** or AZRAEL... poor ******...
each time i go into the garden to refill my cup with ice-cubes...
i leave the bedroom: he's sleeping quietly
as if pretending to be a cushion...
the moment i leave he's up and standing on the spot
of the windowsill where i perch to drink and smoke...
looking out for me...
whether or not i will return or not...
then he'll jump onto the roof above the kitchen
and play the CERBERUS' role... watching the lightning
storm (without thunder or rain) with me...

hmm... what happened today?
today i was relaxing after a mammoth shift juggling
over the weekend... i didn't feel like doing much...
i cleaned the house... because i'm a ******* pedantic...
i need the house to be clean:
i can't allow my parents to clean the house for themselves:
my mother's arthritis doesn't allow me to just
leave a massive stink... mind you: it felt so pointless
vacuuming... i wasn't picking much dirt from
the floors... and then obviously mopping the floors...
i like the smell of citrus on wood...

then? a quick bicycle session on my Trek Merlin 5
"Rolls Royce"... recycling empty glass bottles...
buying a whiskey and some pepsi-cola...
oh... and some MAJOR good news...

what's for dinner? pizza... homemade, what else?!
there's probably one thing i love making more than
ice-cream... esp. mint choc-chip ice-cream...
one day i'll make me chocolate ice-cream...
i hate chocolate ice-cream...
i have this fine potent mint growing in my garden...
the ice-cream came out amazing:
i didn't even have to add any artificial colouring:
just the right sort of colour... pale green...
much much paler than the colour of my irises...

ENDLICH, REGEN!
         ich brauchen wasser für mein bäume im mein garten!

but there's only one thing that gives me more pleasure
than making ice-cream... ooh...
making pizza-dough! i love sculpting that
*** of a lazy lady of yeast... the smell of yeast
is about as intoxicating as the scent of wet
rosemary or thyme or mint in the night
when it rains and rains and rains...
nothing can compare to making pizza-dough:
well, apart from making mint choc-chip ice-cream...
or synthesising esters in a chemical laboratory...
or synthesising polyester...
the event horizon on that ***** of an experiment:
ha ha... two liquids... and you're just pinching
the "good stuff" from the two liquids not mixing...

like i told one coworker: i rather enjoy listening
to music when i fall asleep...
but... but.
if it starts raining? and i'm about to fall asleep?
the music is turned off and i fall into a lullaby
of a symphony of necessary tears...
some people would tell me that there's no Bach in rain:
i.e. that there's no polyphony that can be ascribed
to rain: i **** right disagree...
that's like saying the sound of the sea is the same
as the sound a river generates or for that matter
a lake... or... a foot stepping into a puddle...
or the sound of a waterfall...

it's only a Monday and i'm already exited for the week ahead...
i couldn't wait for today because i knew i would
be recharging... father's lunch for tomorrow?
sweet peppers and sliced iceberg salad as the base...
on top? pancetta, strawberries,
goat's cheese... figs... with a balsamic glaze dressing...
tomorrow? Khedra didn't appreciate my ****** outgrowths...
she told me, strictly: your kissing is prickling me...
i agreed... my moustache is too long...
i ought to know better... it becomes half a bother
and a bother fully to boot when my moustache
"wets itself" when i take a sip of ms. amber's metaphorical
**** juices...
of course i'm still growing the FU MANCHU...
upon strict orders of the Turk... my love-patch needs
to be as long as my actual beard... and my beard needs
to hide my entire neck...

so tomorrow... i'm excited about visiting my Turkish barber
and getting a trim...
that's tomorrow...
Thursday? i'm off to the brothel to ****... simple as
1 + 1 = 2... i'll do the West Ham shift, finish at 10:30 and
then get my silly ***** wet...
maybe have a *******, maybe not...
i'm paying back a debt... i already stashed half of it
(£200) in my writing desk... i'll take out £200 more tomorrow...
a ******* Lynyrd Skynyrd sing-along
when you're debt free and only working on a debt-system
without any credit... i never understood
the point of the credit system...
why, would, you, use, credit?
why, spend, money, you, don't, have?
after working level 5 at Wembley... for that... tribute
concert for Taylor Hawkings... the managers asked me...
do you suffer from vertigo?!
which vertigo?!
the height vertigo?! didn't i tell you that i used
to be a roofer?! i must have...

height vertigo? yeah... i sometimes have this wild "idea"
in my head when i'm standing at a decent amount of height...
my legs start trembling, i start to grip some barrier...
some stable object... why? i start thinking about jumping
down! that's my height "vertigo": i start thinking that:
just perhaps i have a parachute or an exoskeleton!
although i have another "vertigo": it's a monetary "vertigo"...
i hate to be in debt... i never spend on credit...
either i have the money and spend it...
or i don't have the money and, ergo: don't spend it...
i abhor monetary "vertigos"...
     of course i think about money...
some people are geologists... some people are economists...
it's not that hard to confuse the two,
equating: pebbles = coins...
after all... what are coins? if not peanuts... certainly not
peanuts... then most certainly pebbles:
nuggets of copper with insignia:
"things" of "value" that are only allocated value
because someone said so:
like the usual critique of religion... it's all man-made...
sure... and economy is also man-made...
i abhor gold: i could never don a gold ring on my fingers...

sure... press some gold into a circle...
slap a pretty face like that of ol' Lizzy on it! hey presto!
"value"... otherwise, what?
mind you: a tickling on my legs...
it finally started raining... a spider was made into
a... a... banana-boat man...
escaping conflict of rain... i picked him up from
my tickled leg... put him on my hand...
dropped him off on my private library's shelf...
on... level 3... the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam...
i should get some flies for him at some point...

eh... spiders... flies... foxes... it's not like they're
exotica that certain women like...
i just figured it out... the men women choose to mate
with... oh! it's so certainly most necessary
for the men to have "sleeves"... yeah... at least one
hand covered in tattoos! women love men with
sleeves... the only "tattoos" are on my brain...
but i've witnessed the aesthetic of reproduction...
on the sly... the men with sleeves get to...
oh this one dude... i could "hear" his testosterone being slurped
up when he was giving the duties of daddy
with the buggy watching over his 2 week old babe...
or that guy two doors down...
mate! you're ******! why? you mother-in-law
is coming to see you 5 times a day! you're living about
20 metres from her! you're ****** mate!
me? i have ms. amber and philosophy for company!
i don't think i could talk to a woman: "privately"
outside a specified environment...
sure... women try... we talk on shifts...
if i have to be cold and exacting: exclusive...
hell... this one manager tried it with me today...
blah blah this... blah blah that...
so i replied to his "ha ha": fair enough...
i'll be more EXCLUSIVE next time...
      
                     i know that they employ complete air-heads...
retards... and they are licesened as security "guards":
i was telling my coworker: i'm really reluctant to get
the "baddge"... for (1) the hours are longer...
for (2) the pay is not much greater...
for (3) i only want to do this part-time,
don't get me wrong... it's great... but it's only great
when i say it's great... not when "management"
tells me it's "great"....
there's probably a point (4) and a point (5)...
but... ah... whatever...

hmm... it's back to Andrew Lloyd Webber
and the Cats musical lyrics,
coupled with the 13th Warrior transcript...
between
            Ahmed íbn Fahdlan íbn...
  and Herger... íbn this íbn that... name? IBN...
ha ha... that's like with cats...
Quorus "íbn" AZAEL "íbn" AZRAEL "íbn"
RYCERZ ZAKUTY-ŁEB....
   i.e. knight-mutton-headed...
a mutton-headed-"knight"...
                 chained-head... i too thought that
cats ought to be by the fireplace when it rains...
this one? prefers the company of the activities' of dogs...
i wish i owned a dog... instead?
i own a cat with an invisible leash...
he doesn't go far... i wish i owned a dog for the simple
reason that he might eat what i ate: letft-overs...

but i can't wait for Wednesday... the woman doing
my mother's nails called up: she's having trouble with her
1 year old toddler...
it was supposed to be a Saturday for my mother
getting her nails done...
i just sat there...
she can do Wednesday... but she has to drop off her
autistic older girl and come with "that" BAHOR
(crying baby) to a manicure and pedicure session...
but the baby is a RUGRAT... a little DEMON...
ooh! ooh!
me me! me me!
i just heard that there might be an issue...
i jumped in my head: hit the imaginary ceiling
then came back down (no glass)... i can do it!

come to think of it... cats are predictable creatures...
why? they're changeless...
but babies?! oh wow! it's like i'm back
in a chemistry lab... but instead of dealing
with potent substances... i'm dealing
with the "non-existence" of a soul!
i love it! i love it more than slapping prostitutes
riding me while they slap me in the face
and i slap them in the ***...
that's not true... the only girl that ever slapped me
in the face was Ilona... a Russian rich girl poor boy's wet-dream...
Khedra slapped me in the more appropriate place
while admiring my chest and stomach hair...
pinching my *******...

i'm going to have the time of my life on Wednesday...
i'll be baby-sitting! what's wrong with baby-sitting!
at worsst and at best she'll be pulling at my beard
and i'll be reversing the "talking parrot" sounds
of mimic... i'll be clucking... she'll be clucking back...
i'm too STEM orientated to think about life
subjectively... i'll be a male with a baby in my arms
on Wednesday... and a ******* in my arms
on a Thursday...

of course i'm going to take a picture!
i love babies... it will be so unlike petting a cat...
but it will be like petting a cat...
but unlike a cat: babies are forever unpredictable...
i'll slow down on drinking the "amber juice":
why? i want to have some fun with a baby...
i hope we can do whatever it necessary to
not relate... like the memory of my great-grandfather
in the kindergarten... him as a shadow
playing the big piano and me playing the toy piano...

MALVINA... that's the BAMBINO'S name...
the first girl i ever fell in love with:
i must have have been 6.... she was this albino blonde...
and her name was MALVINA...
this is going to be such a trip (if it happens)...
she's going to be pulling at my beard...
i'll be looking into her eyes
of disorientation...
thank god... she's not mine...
i can gladly keep watch of children that don't belong
to me... more willingly than you think...
i couldn't... some ideas need brushing up on...
i need to keep an eye on those...
but... from time to time?
if i get to become a baby-sitter?
i'll be a baby-sitter...
it's a welcome alternative to having to please
prostitutes...

hmph!
perhaps i'm an arrogant "****"... today i walked to
the local saying good-afternoon to one old woman...
saying another hello
to: hello Matthew... hello Matthew...
we grabbed each other's hands like in the 1950s
movies... when two Roman noblemen greet each
other... i.e. shook arms instead of hands...
we pulled the left hand on top of the hands
shaking: so? the four-hand-greeting...

there's something special about acquiring the "familial":
locus orientation that 20th century cosmopolitan
existentialism simply missed...
i can't wait for Wednesday... twice: thrice better than
sleeping with prostitutes... a sample of fatherhood...
i just... eh... what can you do?
it's not up to me... is it?
i can't exactly make women choose what's
to be chosen... if they chase after idiots.. idiotic times...
i came to one single mother once...
the one that "thought" she smelled alcohol on me...
i came back to her:
with homemade wine: cloudy... so? i chose
Franziskaner Hefe Weissbier...
you, girl, are going to drink my homemade:
cloudy wine... i'll drink...
a coorporaate cloudy beer with you...
single mum... her son's name? Friedrich...
i read his poem out-loud to him...
i also brought around a homemade banana loaf...
***** wasn't buying the myth...
oh well...  a guy comes round on a bicycle:
he has a banana loaf... homemade wine (cloudy)...

there's this much of love i am willing to give!
beyond that... ON YOUR, *******, WAY!
there's no point!
you've been hurt, i've been hurt... no!
i'm happy to just deal with a woman who needs
baby-sitting... doing my mother's nails...
needing someone to take take of her baby...
i'll do! i'll do! i'll do it!

it's ******* sad... for however much you want
to love: you're told to love less...
and by the same amount of "less":
you're asked to love "more"!

to love as yourself: you're never going to love
yourself as there might be a male "self"
to speak of: you ******* idiot!
you're a ******* toothpick in the waterfall!
i'm not saying "man-up": i'm just saying...
there are reality checks in place...
why do you think all the grandmas are *******
grandmas beginning and ending with?
where are the men?
in, a place, allocating, the most, bothered, men...
their... safeguard... from... interacting... with...
women....
me? i like to be the mediator...
that's me... between ******* and toddler...
eh... "ring baron" of a woman of: "beached whale"
value... what?!

that's Wednesday though... toddler Malvine is
here on Wednesday...
tomorrow's a Tuesday... that's a trip to Istanbul
for a beard trim...

i lost my beard-envy when i heard this one
Arab colt say: i love your beard, sir!
sir?! beard? i have a beard?!
i need to trim my mustache to kiss her in a way
she wants to be kissed...
but a beard?
i can't wait for Malvina... the toddler...
i want those:
chubby-bubbly-bub-bub-cheeks pressed
against mine... pretending to be a father
knowing that i'm not: a father...

i want cheese on top of the toast!
i want to keep all the Talmud secrets,
i want to keep the secrecies of babies
akin to the alignment of women.

p.s. and i have to agree with Bukowski in his
wisened post-mortem publication about
"going all the way"... there's no battle worth fighting
except with oneself... going all the way...
writing into the night... watching a lightning
storm: hearing no thunder...
thunder eluded me yesterday: there was only
lightning and then the glorious fall of rain...
in his own words:
and you will: you will be alone with the gods
and the nights will flame fire...

i am alone: i am not alone... i'm writing this post-scriptum
during the day because i felt that the night
was too beautiful to waste it upon completing
this "little effort"...

i just can't wait for tomorrow...
i'll take a picture of the two of us on the grass...
hopefully i'll get her mother's approval to jump
into the hot-tub with her... my little BAMBINO...

hmm... why is it that babies are as generic as old people?
when we're born we have universal needs...
when we're at the closure of our mortality:
it's all the same for either man and woman...
babies look alike: whether male or female,
the same is true for old people...
it's only in our prime that we seek out diverged
***-based needs...
men want particular things
as women want particular things...
men crave solace in aloneness...
women despise any talk of solance
equating aloneness with loneliness...

   what happened to the inquisitive old men
of antiquity akin to Socrates?
why have men not bothered to inquire about the intellect
when all their youthful toils of the body
have been completed? it's so stereotypical
of middle-aged men to assume that philosophy
books ought to be read in old age...
nope... that's completely untrue...
philosophy books ought to be read in a man's
20s... and by the time a man is ripened for old age...
he ought to be able to mix his early reading of philosophy
books (a priori) with his experience of life
(a posteriori)...

but it's not enough to simply say: logic... philosophy...
reason...
the Chinese Taoist sages covered pretty much everything
that modern science: finally caught up with...
what's ontology in Chinese philosophy? XING...
what's inherently me...
no... whatever the current trend is in western thinking:
implosive "western" & "thinking" i will perform the rite
of Pontius Pilate over... i will wash my hands clean
of the whole affair... this pseudo-intellectualism
this... GAME... of "GRAMMAR"...
there are far more interesting categories of words
than simply pronouns... nouns: for a start are more
interesting... how there's very little chance to catch
a diminutive noun in English... hey! that's a start!

you can't say beak (of a bird) in a way that beak:
allocated a diminutive suffix to the noun...
you have to say: little beak...
ah... but in other languages you can do just that!

dziób - beak... the diminutive being?
   dziobek... little beak...
                                             like i explained to this
older Turkish woman i was working a shift with
(god i fancied her, only later did i find out that she was
Turkish... that doe with fear in her eyes...
i still fancy her...) when she asked me about my accent...
i told her: to have an Essex accent you have to be born
in Essex... she lives in Kent and the Essex lads are
horrid to her... but i told her: since i'm bilingual...
there's this natural buffer zone for me to not have
a localised accent... i can have an generic: cosmopolitan
London accent... but even then... i'm a chameleon...

ha! to think that i didn't ask for permission to **** other
girls: Khedra actually demanded it!
she told me: you have to try all of them...
her ******* habbit and harking at non-existent phlegm
from her throat and nose...
well: good that i don't like *******...
enough of caffeine and nicotine is just about the same
for me...
the moment she mentioned having a *******
i was like... this second time ought to be better...
the first time i wasn't prepared...
i'll juggle the finances and take out more next time...
first time? with all that ****** changes i was sort
of disorientated...

but i can't wait for tomorrow... why?
i'll be babysitting! i'll have a BAMBINO to look after...
this gorgeous woman is coming over to
do my mother's nails...
she wouldn't have come because her bambino
is so much hassle these days...
as my mother was talking i was erratically nodding:
please bring her! please bring her!
i won't be drinking too much tonight...
i need to wake up at 7am and make an important
phone-call come 8am... then i'll wait...

seriously... that's the best dichotomy of: the life
of the other in your hands...
from slapping and biting prostitutes to then ensuring
my large hands take to tender care of a baby...
ooh! i'm sizzling with giggles and burps and farts
and stomach gurgling sensations...
i'll put on some vinyl record for her...
i'll focus a bright light on my little Frankenstein...
i'll bring down the word from on high into
her ears and then through her mouth
i'll try to steal the first word from her mother's
attempt at communication...
she already performed a mimic of me when i started clucking
my tongue... she clucked back:
the cluck of a horse buckling on cobblestones...

i'll have my little Frankenstein experiment...
i'll work around words and settle for onomatopoeias
first... i'll imitate sounds that humans are allowed
to make... it will be like going to a brothel:
but better... better still: it won't be my child...
it will be someone else's child...

come to think of it... it almost feels like that scene
from Game of Thrones... when a baby is brought before
the Night King... it will be such a welcome break from
the already idiosyncratic, unique character of my cats...
i can't change them: not that i can change a cat's ontology...
or for that matter being able to change Quarus...
ibn ****** ibn Azreal...
                 but i can travel to the moon and Antartica with
this baby... i can revel in leaving my first footprint
in the psyche of this child: not mine...
grant me the bare minimum of at least 3 hours
with this loose canon of an **** that will probably ****
the entire length of the Thames' river...

nothing to do today, cleaned the house yesterday,
there's still plenty of left-over pizza...
i worked the entire weekend... even yesterday
i didn't drink that much... but my body went into shutdown
relax mode... i went to bed at 12am and got up at 12pm...
Show Me Love crushed me...
walking around so many women fried my brain...
the moment one approached me for a handshake
and a wave another approached me to dance with her
then another approached me to "face the mirror"
and make me smile while doing a mirror-wriggling dance...
not even in the brothel did i see so much:
ripe, flesh...
by the end i was exhausted like a Solomon might...
3 years later... one for each night... and he still didn't
manage to make the rounds of his harem...
so? well... back in the day they didn't have ******...
so? he asked for a few willing men to be castrated...
he cut their ***** off and said: here... be their playthings...
otherwise female homosexuality will not allow me
their arousal upon my return!

well... sometimes a little bit of bitterness does seep into me,
it comes in, but: it does take off its shoes,
it asks me whether it can smoke a cigarette,
it does all the very formal things i except certain states
of mind to allow me to "challenge"... it only comes
when a woman ponders my state: why aren't you still
married?
i swollow the "pill" and in turn ponder...
hmm... why? why?                       hmm... why?
isn't it obvious?
                             i could swear it was obvious!

the best conversations i ever had were with myself:
on paper... akin to this...
the cost of living is not worth putting too many hours
into working...
working is far better than stealing...
but i'm also not going to follow the route of rich people:
how do rich people get rich?
through loop holes that poor people can't navigate...
like my neighbour (who killed my cat)
she only own an off-license shop...
   but she... blah blah... she had three "bulgaries"
in the past 4 years... some that happened at noon...
some in the middle of the night: me? i'm usually perched on
my windowsill until 4am... i saw jack-****...
evidently: a scam...
                  
born into a Catholicism: yet i have retained all the Protestant
traits of honesty... even i once exclaimed
that England "used" to be a high-trust society...
it still might be: but in London you better have
double-standards... esp. with the Somalis taking breaks
on shifts... some you can oil-up toward your
persuasions about work by managing to
give them free food... otherwise... Sisyphus at his toil...

until tomorrow Malvina... until tomorrow my temp.
joy of a Bambino.

Here she comes
Down LED light Strip
She's goin' on
A Vegas trip
Got her rhinestones
On her hips
Carmine nails
High gloss lips
Livin' on the ***** & chips.

[Chorus]
She's the one
With the diamond rocks
The silks & lace
And platinum locks
Though all of it
Is from a box
Meet the Queen Bee
The faux fox.

She might say she's
Bold & daring
They would say
She's overbearing

Over the years she's
Nipped & tucked
A peahen, she has
Preened & clucked

You see her face
She has some gall!
Shops with Tammy Fae
At the mall
Her makeup put on
With a trowel!

[Chorus]

Has a credit card
To travel
Though She thinks
That She will dazzle
She has a mind that's
Drugged & frazzled

Bee-hive hair
Cat's-eye glasses
Slept through all her
High school classes

She's all silicone
In her bra
She's a shark
With dentured jaw

She'll get HER WAY
WIN, LOSE, or DRAW!

[chorus]

Catherine Jarvis
(C) November 19, 2019

Chapter 10

“I started to panic. “Do you think they’re setting a trap?”
“It would make sense,” said Max. “Drawing you to a place you’d feel comfortable…”
My cell began to ring and I sighed in relief when I saw that it was Alex. Obviously, we were jumping to conclusions. “Thank God. It’s him.” I answered the phone. “Hello?”
“Hi,” said Alex. “Sorry I missed the last call. I was in the other room, pouring myself a ****** Rickie.”
I smirked. Rickie was one of Alex’s blood donors. He paid him very well for it, too. “No problem. So, what’s going on? The other clients have really canceled?”
“No, I canceled. It’s too dangerous to be out, trolling for unfaithful husbands. Not with that monster looking for you. Why didn’t you tell me about Victor Montour, Racheal ?”
I rubbed my forehead. How much did Alex know? “I didn’t want to worry you.”
“You’re the one who needs to be worried. From what I hear, that man is hell-bent on locating you, and it’s not for any family reunion.”
“So, you know that he’s my father?”
“I do now. Jesus, I thought my family was dysfunctional.”
I noticed that Andrew and[…]”
“I know, right? She’s a nervous wreck right now. Anyway, it took me a while to calm her down and when I did, I realized that Max probably had you in his custody by then.”
“Yeah.”
“How did that go?”
“What do you think it went? I made a scene.”
He chuckled. “I wish I would have been there. Did you **** the life-force out of anyone?”
“No, but I should have. I was treated like a *******. It wasn’t pretty.”
He clucked his tongue. “I’m sorry. I should have warned you.”
“Yes. You should have.”
“So, you’re going to let them protect you, right?”
“I don’t need it.”
“Jez…”
“I’ll be fine.”
Alex groaned. “I told them you’d refuse.”
“You know me well,” I said, smiling. “Anyway, back to Mrs. Strom, her husband is having dinner with another woman as we speak. I can at least finish that job.”
“Don’t worry about that right now, JD. Just get your *** back to the office so we can talk more about this.”
“What about your ‘date’?”
“Peter already left.”
“You blew him off?” I asked, surprised.
“Something like that,” he replied, a smile in his voice. “But, don’t[…]”
“No problem. Would you like an escort?” asked Aiden. “We can find one for you.”
I fluttered my eyelashes. “What about you?”
His eyes widened and he smiled. “Well –”
“That wouldn’t be a good idea,” interrupted Maximus. “We need to keep a low profile. Especially you, Aiden.”
He was about to protest, when I held up my hand. “Honestly, I was just kidding anyway. Like I told you before, I’m fine on my own. I appreciate the offer, though.”
Aiden stood up and pulled out his wallet. “Please take my business card, too.” He took one out and handed it to me. “If you find yourself in a situation… and can’t reach Max, don’t hesitate to call me.”
“Okay,” I said, my opinion of lycan changing by the second. While I didn’t know much about them, I knew they weren’t always interested in helping others outside of their… breed. Of course, from the way that Aiden was looking at me, he was probably interested in escorting me to the safety of my bedroom. “I’ll remember that.”
Grinning, his eyes swept over my little outfit again. “And I will definitely remember you.”
I shoved his business card into my purse[…]

Ruled his hare'm
nsync with trumpeting Donald Duck,
(loud enough to arouse Daisy),
the former cartoon character,
a pensive searing black kind Roebuck
heir to a fortune hauling trash and *******,

whereby dust bunnies repurposed
into environmentally friendly
electric kool aid acid tested batteries
powering many an electric truck,
which wolfed, kick/jump started
and guzzled down
synthesized reconstituted quality product.

An atypical genre I did tender
wherein I nestled inside warren
peaceful nested litter,
impossible mission fat chance
otherwise odds being slender,
not me mien tubby an offender
courtesy yours truly a heterosexual,
he considers himself thoroughly
one hundred percent male gender.

Anyway Harold's velvet teen,
fluff filled, carrot topped, R2D2
and humanoid C-P3O constituted two
mottled robots quasi manned motley crew,
where sniffling nose appeared blue
then twitched as if affected with
Bugs Bunny syndrome
also known as Oryctolagus cuniculus flu
asking What's up doc
ready to sneeze atchew
parallels to doe eyed Jewish herd -

mentality and sympathy for the devil
whose hooded guise did accrue
(to figurative rolling stone)
quite a reputation toasting with l'chaim
Herr heralded as germane
Semitic, laconic and genetic brew
stirring demagogue foremost
thru arduous peer review
of course primarily
commingling with ******* bunnies, singing
acapella like foo fighting goo goo
dolls, who blithely balleted,

be bopped, formed a choo choo,
bunny hopped, and
followed bunny trail
toward their hidden
underground treasured slew
of carrot stocked burrow
affecting captivating family
portrait, sans Leporidae, queue
essentially creating live floppy hoo
chee MOMA actionable

art, viz chiaroscuro,
though if his highness Harold
displeased with performance with Urdu
subtitles hissed, growled, foot stomped...
exhibiting cry and hue
threatened troupe, albeit playfully
tubby rabbit stew
otherwise he purred,
hummed, and clucked
contradictorily all the

while scrunching furry furrow
cuz the codas of Peter
Rabbit the Great did eschew
excessive helpings of
soft purr rayed coo coo
wing snapchatting accompanied
soft as butterfly effect
across webbed wide world flew
with faux paw gestures
being lovey dovey gentle foo foo

affectionate grand poobah
versus parochial orthodox pew
yule hating as much
as being sent to Peru
particularly match chew pitch chew,
where convincing reincarnation
of Edward Roscoe Murrow
aired broadcast Run Rabbit Run
intended for **** sexually repressed updike
such as yours truly, hence obviously
above reasonable rhyme not true.

Confidence in check,
well I'm at least to expect,
To give those around a piece of my best.

But how so? I'm a piece of depressed.
Bleeding out my heart, and beating out my chest.

It's been too long, since I've had a word,
a little hint in the letters I pen.
But then again,
I'm completely clucked as like a hen. Hanging with the lions in the depths of a den.

Still confidence in check,
like the pride beating upon my chest.
What did you expect?
I take everything as if what the heck.

Living in the moment,
till I'm out lived by the fewer moments that follow.

So really what the heck?
Rather be the wild card amongst the deck,
black sheep amongst the wool of white,
least then fall into opportunity's sight.

With a little confidence in check,
doing all the little of best.
Then again what did they expect?

Ain't my confidence in check?

THE BIG HAPPY EVER AFTER

She was one cool chick.
Dressed -  très chic.

She curved in all the right
places - if ya get my drift.

Her name was Miss Dumpty.

Claimed her father Humpty
had been pushed - taken the fall

for some Mr. Big and
got his.

I remembered the case.

His smile was cracked...yoke all over
his face..legs scrambled at an unnatural angle.

The autopsy pics
made me sick.

Said she had gone to Sam *****
to dig up dirt.

But no dice.
Sam's paid..he's off the case.

She spat the name out
with a thanks-for-nothing look.

"So. I came to you.
See what you can do!"

"What's in it for me!"
I smirked.

"Me!" she clucked
in a Linda Darnellish way.

Turned out it was
Little Boy...would ya believe it...Blue!

Jealous of Humpty's
easy said-ness and how he

got recited more often than
Mr. B. Blue.

Nursery Crime is increasing
so they tells me.

Too many modern authors
making ***** parodies..

Or in the *****
Limericks Business.

Scaring the kiddies away.
Putting the frighteners on parents.

Me and Miss Dumpty?

We're going for the big happy
ever after!

THE BIG HAPPY EVER AFTER
( in ego Nursery Rhyme vixi )

she was one cool chick
dressed -  
très chic

she curved in all the right
places - if ya get my drift
her name was Miss Dumpty

claimed
her father Humpty
had been pushed - taken the fall

for some Mr. Big
and got his
I remembered the case

his smile was cracked...yoke all over
his face legs scrambled at an unnatural angle
the autopsy pics made me sick

said she had gone to
Sam ***** to dig up dirt
but no dice

Sam's paid..he's off the case
she spat the name out with
a thanks-for-nothing look

"So. I came to you.
See what you can do!"
"What's in it for me!"I smirked

"Me!" she clucked
in a Linda Darnellish way
turned out it was

Little Boy
would ya believe it
...Blue!

jealous of Humpty's
easy said-ness
and how he

got recited
more often than
Mr. B. Blue

Nursery Crime is
increasing
so they tells me

too many modern authors
making ***** parodies
or in the *****

Limericks Business
scaring the kiddies away
putting the frighteners on parents

me and Miss Dumpty?
we're going for the big happy
ever after!

spry buck analogous to energizing bunny
jump/kickstarted procreation ruckus.

Home on the range
cacophony quite absurd
******* Bunny herd
and felt ingratiatingly inured,
nevertheless colony or nest
of doe eyed demoiselles
stewed over their
kit and caboodle being cannibalized
gourmet chef “coney” or “lapin”  
delicacy the magic word.

Ruled his hare'm
nsync with trumpeting Donald Duck,
(loud enough to arouse Daisy),
the former cartoon character,
a pensive searing black kind Roebuck
hare to a fortune hauling trash and *******,

whereby dust bunnies repurposed
into environmentally friendly
electric kool aid acid tested batteries
powering many an electric truck,
which wolfed, kick/jump started
and guzzled down
synthesized reconstituted quality kosher product.

An atypical genre I did tender
wherein I nestled inside warren
peaceful nested litter,
impossible mission fat chance
otherwise odds being slender,
not me mien tubby an offender
courtesy yours truly a heterosexual,
he considers himself thoroughly
one hundred percent male gender.

Anyway Harold's velvet teen,
fluff filled, carrot topped, R2D2
and humanoid C-P3O constituted two
mottled robots quasi manned motley crew,
where sniffling nose appeared blue
then twitched as if affected with
Bugs Bunny syndrome
also known as Oryctolagus cuniculus flu
asking What's up doc
ready to sneeze atchew
parallels to doe eyed Jewish herd -

mentality and sympathy for the devil
whose hooded guise did accrue
(to figurative rolling stone)
quite a reputation toasting with l'chaim
Herr heralded as germane
Semitic, laconic and genetic brew
stirring demagogue foremost
thru arduous peer review
of course primarily
commingling with ******* bunnies, singing
acapella like foo fighting goo goo
dolls, who blithely balleted,

be bopped, formed a choo choo,
bunny hopped, and
followed bunny trail
toward their hidden
underground treasured slew
of carrot stocked burrow
affecting captivating family
portrait, sans Leporidae, queue
essentially creating live floppy hoo
chee MOMA actionable

art, viz chiaroscuro,
though if his highness Harold
displeased with performance with Urdu
subtitles hissed, growled, foot stomped...
exhibiting cry and hue
threatened troupe, albeit playfully
tubby rabbit stew
otherwise he purred,
hummed, and clucked
contradictorily all the

while scrunching furry furrow
cuz the codas of Peter
Rabbit the Great did eschew
excessive helpings of
soft purr rayed coo coo
wing snapchatting accompanied
soft as butterfly effect
across webbed wide world flew
with faux paw gestures
being lovey dovey gentle foo foo

affectionate grand poobah
versus parochial orthodox pew
yule hating as much
as being sent to Peru
particularly match chew pitch chew,
where convincing reincarnation
of Edward Roscoe Murrow
aired broadcast Run Rabbit Run
intended for **** sexually repressed updike
such as yours truly, hence obviously
above reasonable rhyme not true.

THE BIG HAPPY EVER AFTER

( et ego in Nursery Rhyme vīxī )

She was one cool chick.
Dressed -  très chic.

She curved in all the right
places - if ya get my drift.

Her name was Miss Dumpty.

Claimed her father Humpty
had been pushed - taken the fall

for some Mr. Big and
got his.

I remembered the case.

His smile was cracked...yoke all over
his face..legs scrambled at an unnatural angle.

The autopsy pics
made me sick.

Said she had gone to Sam *****
to dig up dirt.

But no dice.
Sam's paid..he's off the case.

She spat the name out
with a thanks-for-nothing look.

"So. I came to you.
See what you can do!"

"What's in it for me!"
I smirked.

"Me!" she clucked
in a Linda Darnellish way.

Turned out it was
Little Boy...would ya believe it...Blue!

Jealous of Humpty's
easy said-ness and how he

got recited more often than
Mr. B. Blue.

Nursery Crime is increasing
so they tells me.

Too many modern authors
making ***** parodies..

Or in the *****
Limericks Business.

Scaring the kiddies away.
Putting the frighteners on parents.

Me and Miss Dumpty?

We're going for the big happy
ever after!