I am not the sophisticated underdog,
I trip and fall through door frames
Always unannounced.

I am the wavering circle,
I give myself away too early in the game
Always a red herring.

His dead!

I suspect Nietzsche did it in morality with a book;

I suspect Platon did it in birth with stillbirth;

I suspect Machiavelli did it on Ruling with the ends to justify the means;

I suspect Darwin did it in Galápagos with birds;

I suspect Scientists did it in laboratories with stem cells;

I suspect Romans did it in Golgotha with a cross;

I suspect Jews did it in Gethsemane with Judas;

I suspect Christians did it in Spain with inquisition;

I suspect Muslims did in New York with a plane;

I suspect Adolf did it in Poland with gas;

I suspect Stalin did it in Siberia with gulags;

I suspect United states did it in Hiroshima with a bomb;

I suspect United nations did it in wars by looking away;

I suspect God did it in Heaven by suicide;

I suspect I did it here with a poem
I suspect You did it.

What do you do at 3am when you're tired and bored and its raining?

Maybe this is punishment.
For eating those grapes before you paid for them in Sainsburys.
Or that time you forgot who Buzz Aldron was, or when you took pleasure at beating a five year old at Cluedo.
She started crying, and even then, you still
would not relinquish your title.
Maybe its for that time
You were accidentally racist  to the chinese guy taking your order.
Or when you forgot to buy your mum a birthday card, or when you made fun of your best friend for not being taller.
Or when you said, 'Maybe
selective breeding in humans,
Is not such a bad thing after all.'

Yes, Its definitely punishment for that.

But maybe its for all the litter you've dropped, inadvertently or on purpose.
Or for last week when you accidentally kicked the cat, or for stealing those library books,
For swearing at kids
and blaspheming at the dinner table,
Christ!
Maybe its for nicking your brothers chips, even when you're not really that hungry.
For halfhearted apologies handed out like office stationary, for scoffing at most modern art.
For not revising when you
Really, really should
...But telling your parents you are.

But even with all of this, isn't the punishment, just a little bit too harsh?

Well now you are sarcastic, and bitter and pessimistic at least 90% of the time.
And you do hide the fact that you quite like country music, and that you have a blanket with sleeves (and you genuinely use it) and that you're really rather patriotic at heart.
And you didn't say all that stuff when you should have.
And you said all that other stuff you didn't mean
And you spend far too much of your time
Invested in impressing the people you're never going to see again.

And you realize all of this... at three o'clock in the morning, alone but for the fading of the rain.

And you swear to yourself, with all the fervour of a tired insomniac. That tomorrow.
There. Will. Be. Change.
But in the cold, harsh light of nine o'clock the same day. Six hours after you fell asleep. You resign yourself to the fact that last nights punishments can all be absolved, by a nice warm cup of tea.
And despite what you say
at 3am when you're tired and bored,
listening to the sound of the rain.
You will always be a pessimistic idiot, with delusions of grandeur.
That watches too much American TV.

it's a common theme, a pastoral even... a sing-along with the words: when i was in Rotherham... i was never in England... when i was a Rotherham i was never going to imagine myself eating falafel. yes, it's that ****** ugly, which is why i'm hardly a premature ejaculator into assembling myself as bulldog Brit - use the language: well, obviously... but assemble the other bits and bobs? can't happen... it's like asking: tell a Jew to not be a Jew by sitting in one place for a long period of time... the nomad in him will evidently counter that proposal and say: **** it! see you on Mars! and to think that i could have actually invested my life into a diameter that's Poland... people still find it a bit odd: oh, wait, are they back on the map? that's us, Jews of the north... can't believe we're being blamed for the failure of the treaty of Rome: all because the English stopped flirting with the idea of Turkey being in the union: even though they dabble in a lamb kebab after binging on *****... but hey, no one want to be a hypocrite these days... that's of course provisional given your Jose Mourinho relationship: is as special as you suppose with the lady and the trump; someone tell Disney to stop writing those ****** scripts! how thoughtful of a prophet-merchant (merchant of Mecca, Shakespeare should have written that one) to have encouraged the sigma-bleaching-project: one world, one book, one something or other: either the telescope or the microscope answers: otherwise evolving into ****-naked baboons and elsewhere furry Gucci to strut the feline ****; it's not like i want to go back to the past, but i certainly don't want to experience a Monday in the year 2086 either.

i wouldn't have been one of them, their services required
a nobility, which i can partially claim,
but partially discredit as:
a family squabble, where the Eden
project would have flourished -
because of the lies -
         but you know, no biggie,
or the notorious -
one part of my family actually did
settle in america with my seven
tongued great-grandfather *sprechen güt
it's necessarily applied here:
hence it's not gút: miracles!
                     who would have thought
that trigonometry bit into the *****
of those pixy, foxy whatever clot in the
English department....
that's the thing with immigration and
integration and ethnic cleansing:
when i write,
    the desk is as rickety as a bed when
i **** a *******
and she tells me i'm a decent chap -
and says a variant of awe because i paid
£10 extra to pucker her floral arrangement
and she feels ashamed at having had
an ******: and all the feminists are
out there, in the cold, with their banter
     slogans that reach Zeno via
turtle, as snail, to compete with Achilles:
yeah, that hurt, because you enjoyed it
on the hobnob you call a job.
******* pretty enough for you now?
   well: two ***** and a smoking ****** later:
it better be!
               people think that you can just
"integrate" into a foreign land...
they coerce a foretfulfulnes that you
sometimes practice etymology -
        and find yourself a bit like a Jew
but more of a Slav, feeling at most romantic about
the land that is cleft to your ***** in terms
of language patriotism still leech-like,
because you can't forget the asking
that's already there: from the Baltic Sea
toward the Black Sea: our commonwealth was,
and could have been!
          globalisation is so Emi ******* M -
you bleach throughout, and so suddenly,
people get bothered -
         like a Cluedo but unlike who did it?
who's who?
             i write this on a rickety table,
like i might **** an Amsterdam dame of the credo
in all that's left: red -
       baby, that brickwork with your chub
layers does it for me: always a Puerto Rican to
have a laugh with...
20+ years in England and the roses are still
roses, but nettles in some obscure Greece island
designated for offshore debauchery -
hey, no one is a saint: but give a little -
   have at least the remote humanity in you
to breed the ******* Beatles rather than an antiquated
variation of Breivik.
                obviously not to be.
i payed because i wasn't getting any:
hands up, sycamore! so scythe so more -
i just feel uprooted and Jew -
  dispositioned like i have to have an inferiority
complex tattooed on my **** designated for
halal butchers -
           there's a problem though...
i have patriotism with regards to the tongue:
but to the people? a true Conrad (minus the Joseph)
would sell you out, like you already
have: to the highest Saudi bidder -
           ethnicity reemerges - strangely enough:
even after all that ethnic cleansing that's politely
called globalisation: because English cultural
emphasis is plain said: ****!
                      a bunch of fairies say i can't feel
a certain way because it will hardly become economised
and benefit an inbreeding:
so i outsourced you there,
   Dover Monsieur without his Turk and Mongol
invaders -
                   you could call it romantic:
but i'm not writing from an ivory tower within
framework of the land that needs tilling by
a familiar hand,
                 the last time i spoke to a Pollack -
it was in a shady alley at night, debating the clues
to making a living on Ebay -
                  so much for the romantics -
fair game in learning the tongue, but to attack
ethnicity? you have to be ******* me...
they call it the exotica in England:
all that coconut milk went to their heads -
   Baltic coconuts? sure... once you start eating
the pickled herrings like us: quasi-Scandi devils.
     so ******* twinned with Israel:
they said Amsterdam was the Venice of the north
they said Edinburgh was the Athens of the north
they might as well call it Tel Aviv Warsaw
and Jerusalem Krakow - too little to be said
otherwise.
             you could say Moscow and St. Petersburg:
oh sure, seen a bit of the world: ought to be
a *******...           really?
       does the world need another Golgotha
congregation? i just don't see why i require
to give more than linguistic acumen -
i'd never sing god save the queen
because i'd probably sing queen save the taxman...
and it really is a shame i can't engage in
any sort of nationalism - whether over there
or over here, it's a true shame...
           well i do have a grand history to aspire to,
variously interpreted with what gets my heart
thumping:
          ogniem i mieczem - hussaria ginie
(with fire and with sword - winged hussars die) /
          krzesimir dębski:
which i also translate in feeling within
the framework of Górecki's (3rd symphony?
fun-*******-tastic reassembling jazz's double
base, or bees, or other variations of humming
drones: anti-thesis of the crescendo)
three olden pieces, no. ii -
and yes: without cinema classical music would
be dead... the only classical music these days
is cinematic transcript -
                 the complexity of a Liszt or a Chopin
is frowned at, what has remained and endured
is a Satie yawn - a brushing of a piano like
a dustmaid: a sort of accenting the silence -
nothing with a technical claustrophobia of
smug finger litanies of the abacus:
that swamp women's feelings with eerie ahs
and yesses in would be marriage proposals.
   i wish i could be a lazy Welshman
or a Scot that forgot Celtic in order to glorify
a Glaswegian idiosyncratic-syllabalisation
    of wee, as in small: high off my rockers
on the Afghani thought train that's *****.
  i wish i were that ****** lazy...
  as to simply let go of where i was and where
i wasn't...
       as someone in Cardiff once said:
never been to London -
or as someone in Glasgow once said:
           a banch of ****** all with the Edinburgh
Judases.
              i don't think i could ever
have enough lost self-respect to not play the ethnic
joker card without a romantic agitation -
but it's still the piano that truly survives in
the modern world of pop **** trance i-wish-i-were-shot,
any other name from american beauty -
once again: the minimalism is self-explanatory.
no, i don't think i could ever fully integrate:
and happy are those who have their
lives filled with the existentially trivial:
never moved home, never descended a class below
or rise a class above their parent's status -
what a grand scheme of lotto!
                    i love these squamish pixies -
i love them so much that i experience nausea when
hearing about their lot in life...
  after which i turn to a lullaby, handpicked,
christopher young's - something to think about
from the hellraiser franchise, or as i like to call it:
i like these sort of tracks, these life infuriating
   chattering:
              like throwing yourself into either
nouns or onomatopoeias:
                           and yes, art is difficult:
because it's supposedly lazy -
                   oh the plumber in me that never was,
oh the roofer of industrial sized roofs in me that
somehow was, but then wasn't...
            the part of me that writes like Joseph Conrad
but actually wants to scream:
                       zzé skury odrzeć! (variant: ob-      +
-drzec)    to strip the skin.
                 a z tym: nadać ducha gniew alter solo
wbrew temu co mówi, czyli: razem;
                    nawet katedra św. piotra nie jest
                   minimalizm zwany: Golgota.
              (and with this: give the ghost's anger
alter solo, against that, which says,
namely: together; even st. peter's cathedral
                 isn't the minimalism of Golgotha).

I PLAY SUDOKU, CARDS AND CHESS,
BUT SUDDENLY WHAT'S MORE BECOMES LESS,
THEN, THERE'S BRIDGE, MONOPOLY AND LUDO,
WHAT'S MAYBE NEXT, I HAVEN'T GOT A CLUEDO;
MIND GAMES ARE THE WORST - JUST NUEROTIC
BUT THEY'RE NASTY, UNCALLED FOR AND DESPOTIC,
I FIELD THEM ALL LIKE ***** IN THE AIR,
I MUST CATCH, TO DROP THEM I WOULDN'T DARE,
THEN THERE WAS RUNNING, STAY IN THE RACE,
I'LL JUST HAVE TO SEE IF I CAN STAND THE PACE,
THERE'S NEVER A CROSSWORD THAT PASSES ME BY,
WHEN YOUR HAVING FUN, HOW THE TIME DOES FLY,
LIFE IS A CHARADE, GUESS WHAT COMES NEXT,
I'M NOT SURE, MAYBE HEAVEN - I'LL SEND YOU A TEXT!

If slow could show itself as being fast
the driver of this bus would still
come last.

And then we wonder why
productivity
once so high has gone into
decline,

it's down to bus drivers tootling along
and taking their time.

Almost to a man they don't give a ****
never a please or a thank you,
they
shunt you in to a forty foot coffin
and we're off in
what appears to be
a snails pace
it's no wonder they're laughing

There's a lot to be said
for closing your eyes and
staying in bed
but
not a lot of people say it
instead they'll pray
for Saturday
which'll be a long time coming
if it takes the bus.

Mr Homeless
on the street
by
a
lack of interest.

In the
library
with a sharpened
quill
by
Will
Shakespeare

or that worth of gimp, the hotted sauced out
cradle of predatory amusement              banked on,
                        i have the notes,
mind you, you're clearly laden
with khaki material,
to mind the blackshirts of the SS,
a Vandal epiphany -
                 less khaki juice
and more blackcurrants -
                  or so the motto stands,
asserting brief and all that thought
of tomorrow.
                   all i'll add with this
vague blunt alcohol ridden self?
the vampirism of the abandoned trill
of the R...
                   that's the Vlad-blatant
abandonment of the trilling of the R -
and the competent disregard for
linguistic laws...
                 until tomorrow,
until i find my sobering-up manicure
and in rewrite the notes i've made
when inspired...
                      and i have made them...
it's all about me being nicknamed
a Viking for my tolerance to drink
you under the table, and dabble with nods,
or the blatant hiding of the tetragrammaton
with ghee (said gee) and otherwise,
                  (Indian butter) -
or dhal - or quiet simply daal / dāl:
against the aesthetics, ouch.
     again in French: je t'aime: ř - adding zero
hour to the said: sharpening the shrapnel -
                       jaded temp. / jay temp. /
                  j-j ****** or the rue flu.
oh it's there, in the notes,
as i benign the thought: unfit today,
payday tomorrow.
wait... i might have a sober moment tonight...
         encapsulate that with a question
about Iran, and a quasi-stop in conversation...
        or counting the strokes in a handwritten
variation:
              Yen ( ¥‎) = 4
                      pound (£) = 2
    matchsticks...
                             elsewhere also matchsticks:
º (red)
                = R E D (3, 4, 2) matchsticks,
                 º (
writing is termed another variant of arithmetic,
the total is 7, for one ideogram) -
             the sigma for red
   is 9, but divided by three means
        the European model falls 4 short
of optical indigestion.
     ř (caron) - caron of the missing z -
         not the variant of caron s and c with z:
czekam (i'm waiting), or szukam (i'm looking),
English has this pronoun priority
                   to be included in every phrase,
or what provides the British Empire fabric:
            how a-  (indefinite)
     and the-    (definite) articulation secures
pronouns with excess modifications
  as already apparent conjunction modifications
worthy of exegesis into the exotic / excess.
there are 7 pages worth of notes,
   but i have three quarters worth of whiskey to
drink... give me an Andy Warhol moment
suggesting: in the future, people
will have only 15 minutes worth of rechargeable
         infrastructure; hence the pending /
ongoing / will return to in a minute.
reintroducing the trilled R vogue:
    is a bit like incubating a vampiric
in English,
                    rzekomo (apparently so)
       řekomo -
                         variant of: as already stratified.
               still, the trilling of the R
is so out of fashion in English it's necessarily
a vampirism qualm -
                   never nearer the French hark
when the R summarises a rolling effect -
      by imperial standards charred.
howe then to resemble a trill?
           r̭ ?
                   or wave akin to wavering
                       (ñ) that's necessary above an r?
i need the trill represented!
    for thrill a better word -
                  or 0 and the minded gambit.
as said caron the missing H...
       twins in
                 Y or three-dimensional space,
and W
              of trigonometric absorption...
waves hunny, waves...
                          and three dimensional space
and rabbis... honey cluedo pooh bear...
i still need to find the trilled r!
**** me, the trilled r! virgulilla:
or thus said, a patent otherwise.
        yet again a ******* Yeti,
    counting matchsticks in Japan
   rather than in Iowa...
             cos it really ******* mattered
given the knots -
       and other reminders...
         yen, or Jenny,
      v. p o u n d
            (2 1 2 2 2);
          ś (acute) half-missing caron
      inc. grave v. š (caron)
             or the Sean Connery effect -
e.g. środa (wednesday) or škodaª
             (insert a H or a Z)
           for pronunciation
                        of the Czech car manufacturer,
already the Tetragrammaton descends:
   ªwhat a shame, it's such a shame.
       Mishter Bondè:
                                tequila sunrise?
ney - ney shaken nor shackled to a shtir (
šush it, and wise up, mš. moneypenny).
    just say Sharon and write Šaron:
dimples!
                         or how to paint a Kabbalistic
anatomy of the mouth to slow variation
between ś (acute) / no consonants will ever
acquire a gràve - necessary: the e isn't said
accenting / syllable scalpelling cutting up...
but still the coran s (š - to mention
ch in cheap, and šiš kebabs too).
variation of cutting up the caron into
acute and grave?
      ś: the tongue is primarily squeezed by the psyche /
breath and the mouth rekindles eating a lemon
tightening it's juiced up and juices the tongue
to sting with missing saliva -
š? primarily a serpent's hush -
  the mouth hollows out -
         the breath enters a so does a pufferfish:
antics of hollowed out mouth follow suite,
the diamond or double L

       bone                                    soul
               L muscle                            L teeth
  tendon                               tongue

synonyms and Γ apart -
                                 of the LL, or ΓL
                    or LΓ or ΓΓ.
                      the diamond diadem -
assertion of bone: whether caprais or
   cousin in the mandible family...
    is a tongue a muscle?
            still the Kabbalistic anatomy dynamic...
  the kinned appearance of H or the
variant of bone...
     or?
              a-
                     (+)
                              -theism,
it doesn't mean that God doesn't exist,
it just means that God has no logical attachment
to man's sprechen,
            the omni- can be rightfully disregarded
in that rubric consolidated within
categorisation of: lazy...
      a- (i.e. without)  
                            theology,
              ­       or our abhorrent freedoms of will,
nurtured by a universal lack:
       atheism contemplates talk of god
without a contradictory circumstance of the
human endeavour to find itself a *******
     lacklustre of comparative Raphaelite
                 illustration...
                           always the favourite,
aren't they, the crucified ones, rather than
those enthroned? aren't they? so why are the
Japanese asking about their ****** culture?
over-sexualised west?
let's ask Yokote,
   let's ask Takeshi,
let's ask Masahiro,
             sure... you can ask me:
  i prefered prostitutes because i actually
knew i was using my phallus rather than representing
a ******* identity of some egocentrism
regarding the skyscraper -
                     and the last girlfriend i had?
i wouldn't wish her to be a companion of
any kind of a Mongolian invader as part
of a horde... i had an argument with her
and was so unhappy i actually wished i was dead...
          jerking off never seemed so holy
as when encountering this woman who
stood by the motto: life is ****...
           but i guess money does that to you.
**** me! i never expected to be so Japanese in
my outlook;
tragic, i know, but what can you do,
    you unlock the floodgates of feminism
and you think that lions will start to provide for
the household? then you aren't lionesses; obviously;
or reluctantly so:
           i find the 21st century is withstanding
  any kind of revision, given the 20th century's
revisions aren't working
        for any worthy necessitation of reciprocated
stipend.

i wasn't quantifying, i can succumb to the parasite, which means that i either die, or the parasite dies with me; might as well call that a five o'clock shadow.- i have my insanity plea, what do the contending parties' have? an assumption? a Cluedo guess-grime rather than guess-work? no wait, make that a ****... South Korean was the size of South America? i wish it was, taxes inconclusive? might posture for a yacht... and t-total a banana republic for all legitimate purposes for a shopping spree on coca - or is that's how taxing is done in this fair and decent country of Scandinavian restrictions concerning the feeble minded daddy-****-cares? Thailand was always the option with the quasis, ball sacked and ***-wanked-able: like  am Englishman in Thailand, *****-faced, with the Jersey Boys were moving beyond the Orwell parameter, i say Panzer, you tell me the **** brigade; you tell me pretty boys, you regurgitate me the ******* Bubonic Plague! am i understood?

Niblicks

What do I know about golf?
Well,
let me see.
I know there's a club and
I think there you get tee
There's a hole with a pole
Though not from Poland,  it could be.
That's commerce

There's something worse
and that's a bunker
where apparently golfers hunker
down with a frown on their face, 'til
they get out of that place.

There's a five on the fifth and a three on the first
I've read the rules and I'm fit to burst with a thirst for the game
But then I read of their *****
and call me a ****
don't think that I need
my ***** to be whacked.
So it's back to the cluedo and ludo and do you know
I'm not sorry at all.

“you will never believe until you show mercy to one another.”

alt. i'll never believe until one shows
one's conscience like he might his naked body.

pray all you want... i don't mind,
it just ends up a drunk's
priority pass while all the colts are
tapping on acid -

or he masturbates in public...then, **** me,
i'll believe, i'll subscribe to Netflix -
i'll be ready saying slogans to Brits
"come home" i.e. go to America or Hong Kong
with Blair in tow - go home! ** home -
invasion began with Northern Irish depot
of cheap cigarettes - the sour-***** additions
to the Ottoman Empire happy-meal of kebab -
laze and glaze later glee... pirri-pirri styled chicken or pea -
the sins of your fathers laid before you
and you said: BULGARIA!
in trance waiting for the new Zion that's Ibiza -
god the *****... yuck... hold your drink man! aim at
starboard steer or deer chandeliers for a cobweb!
if i go back to Poland i'll leave a happy mess,
i mean, i used to chew on things and break them...
t.v. remote controls - the time is: when
Brits envisioned themselves as part of Europe
and kept Napoleon slow-cooked on the sly with
excesses we all wished we had -
apparently my father came here to make me live
a better life - well if 70cl a day is better, i guess it is,
so minding the Suez canal - was all about
paratroopers in the Afghan mountain range -
with Pashtun *landays and that little horror -
heroes are always alive -
only traitors will perish forever -
domesticity is always alive,
only caves will perish forever -
or so said Darwin and someone else -
caves do perish as far north as Scandinavia -
wooden housing free from tornado twirls decapitated
in the mid-West (written on a *****) -
return from the exacting of historic pin-point,
i see no need for the monkey to evolve,
the maddening meaning? there's too much diversity
in the species of monkey to ensure the adequate diversity
of species of man - give macaque-bonsai-chimpanzee -
biodiversity either side, impossibility of stemming
or the origin of one from the other: anti-Darwinism,
meaning: each unit adapts to its specific requirements,
i.e. no secondary improvement, or secondary
adaptability - one of one for each -
you can't say that secondary uniformity exists,
but that's what you're saying - a second uniformity -
meaning there was never a prime conformity -
poetic is what philosophy sees in science - rhymes
of illogical conclusions - meaning an excess of madmen
unnecessary - but if there was no prime conformity
why didn't lizards evolve to dinosaurs? Hindu me, right now...
Hindu in face of all that western superiority of
2 + 2 = 5 - man + monkey = something we like to call
a Sherlock Holmes clue when playing Cluedo.

i don't have a low self-esteem,
or precursors to justify
usage of internet paraphernalia;
i don't have a phone,
i don't use dating applications;
if anything i'm looking
at the hurts of globalisation
from a village perspective;
and to me, it all just looks like:
cow took a ****, cow didn't take a ****,
cow bowed on all fours to sleeps
to keep a patchwork of grass
dry from the rain... cow slept standing...
back then you just had to walk to
the next village to ***** in the gene pool...
now you're expected to travel to paris
for genetic diversity and a love story
worthy of the boredom of writing
hunting the digression of dating:
is monday the 12th of July good for you
and the imaginary caveman? no?
i thought so... watching rain in England
in sunglasses kinda precursors
naturalised use of sarcasm, given
the Great Wall of China and Hadrian's:
an army of Scots just jumped the wall
like 110m hurdle sprinters! what we to do?!
what we to do?! wait for the Mongols...
ah ha..                   all in all.. good luck
and *cheerio(h)! ol' chap! bowler hats ahoy!
bop bop... like bloated frogs bopping along
              to Sherlock looking at an aquatic snail trail
    deciphering Cluedo.

Pam wear me welterweight
beached in butterfly arms
Bright huts twinkle blighty eyes
a disguise.

Faces flair
wished elsewhere
sick cluedo:
Plath
In bath
with turned on toaster
Roller coaster

on slick rails of sleepy lids
down a doused mouth
crooked in upward bend
the baby rattles rattle
rattled in the end
powder descending hills
Till I gobble the goblet further

stump to a tower of transient treats
toss bosses in storms
called Paulie
and shake shake my box in Jest

Pam makkah in hajj
Hell o' a love
I got the bug.

Converts from convicts and convictions reversed,
rehearsing conversations and
checking out of the jail.

The convoy unaware of the danger back there carried on,
strike one.

Rest breaks and more takes, is the cameraman ******?
reverse hold and conquer,
we will win to win will.

Strike two,
the best murderers do,
they usually get caught and
I thought it was Cluedo, but what
would I know?


'A handbag', she said,
I said,
'Oscar's long dead
and we broke down and cried.

Strike three and I'm out,
never thought that this failure
would send me back to
the jailer.

Prison ballet,
pirouette and
point the finger of blame,
rehearsing the conversation
not knowing my name.

christianity ends when it's lessons begin, and its dostoyevsky (i.e. the critique of christ as depicted in the idiot, basically a dim-wit who cannot recognise an insult, because he just loves everyone) begins with insults.

it's horrid that women were prescribed
the emotional outlet of crying without taboo...
and men were prescribed the outlet of laughter
to a limit of laughing within politics...
women are easily discarded during war times...
but men are as easily discarded during times
of peace - i cry at beauty, do i hate to cry,
or be apathetic about it being expressed...
no woman's onomatopoeia of ****** will ever
resound as a bounty, even the body speaks for
itself in the form of some piece of music:
and if you can't extract a tear when listening
to *ola gjeilo's northern lights or o magnum mysterium,
or vaughan williams' fantasia on a theme by
thomas tallis... or any other name by thomas newman,
then you had your ***** cut off, your heart
ripped out... and the only thing that makes
you human is only a brain in a pickle jar;
no, i'm sure you're also spineless;
brain in a pickle jar - which doesn't make me
wonder as to why more men are affected
by mental health issues in england: that
rotten taboo sing-along to the cure's boys don't cry,
or if they cry, they shed a boxer's tear
when getting punched in the face - and even then
they just shrug it of as: oh that? only sweat.

my a.i. experiment begins with bonsai tigers,
cats, petted animals,
it begins here, when the animal is removed
from its natural surroundings like its lucky;
it's not lucky, it's ****** into
our diretribe of superiority hiding from winter.

well **** me so much ***, and so little marriage,
it's almost like looking at henry viii.

i'll write a japanese infusion, mind you i went further
tha ezra with japan, northern new zealand,
eastern england; remember geo-posits;
i took it to heart: your father was on a peddle-stool
along with you... oh blush...
roses are queens
spring blossoms are dog sushi...
i'll make my bet on: globalisation doesn't work
with capitalism... culture from america,
products from china... hippy trips grow-a-beard
from india... you're all liars you're not included
in the cluedo board of humanism, one
motto humanism ought to have to shake off satainsm:
shave off the lies... look pretty.
but you won't.
i'm about to move to japan via a t.v.,
excuse me please,
i'm about to expand my vocabulary and wants;
it almost feels like i dated you via
an ideal father not so ideal to imitate,
and some circus act where i attired myself
as a clown and was told by the management
that i had to take it off to ride an elephant
for the crescendo balancing act on a tight-rope.

p.s. please misdirect the pronoun vectors,
the personal pronouns are speaking from one
void to another void of collective impersonal
pronouns - in order that you might not feel
any personal attachment to the content in
between the unavoidable use of them.

When something's itching at you
from somewhere deep inside you
and the need to know just what it is
is the need that just defied you.

It's there and I will find it
( I played Cluedo as a kid )

but
the pen that opens up the word for you to read
the mildly absurd,
is short of what is necessary

the well is almost dry
the nib is cracked and
I could cry

if tears would only form written words
I'd have formed a library of books..
but they don't
and I didn't

the itch is still there.

Sharp edges as glass cracks
and eyes looking back through the prisms of jigsaw shards
where clowns laugh through the madness of tormented lips

Lulu sips her champagne
she's seen it all and it's all the same

broken and reset only to get broken
but now she's smoking'


crystal cuts through paper trails
and sails into the night
watched until she's out of sight
and then forgotten

Rock me with that uppercut
to get ****** upon a kiss
and your magic is the poison
I will miss.

It's all a game of Cluedo,
we have to find who's done
the deed
and we die before we lead the
next parade.

I have time on my hands
I also have 'Vicks'
ha, but
( this is not a line to rhyme)

I get up to old tricks until
the ibuprofen kicks in and
there's
not a lot of street cred' in that

Perusing 'Mims' is a whimsy
when it's not a necessity  
and it could be the death of me
( by a book in the library )
Cluedo!
get it?
no ?
you will,
there's a lot of it going around

You'd know if it was Cluedo
by the body in the library,

it's good he knew the difference
between real life and a game
all the same
the body was dead
and rigor had set in,
which gave the time of death
at a breath after five.

Miss Marple
had she not been fictional
would have known what to do
but she was fictional so they
called in the local constable
to investigate the late,
deceased
body in the library,

time for me to look for a clue,
said constable Drew who was
married and owned a cottage
in Kent,
which he thought of as he went
about
the business of finding out
whodunit.

it's the wind-up to the weekend
when
though weakened we feel stronger
and the longer this day carries on
the stronger we become,

but
I won't be going anywhere
Covid's given me a scare,
it will be snakes and ladders,
Cluedo, ludo and we all know
these are games we play,

and wine at the end of a fine day
is fine
in
moderation.

You can cry and you can pray
but you're not going out to play today.
I wanted to go to the park and feed the ducks
but who gives two crumbs about that?
( no swearing on Sunday even if it would rhyme)

So
it's Ludo or Cluedo.
she says
strip poker is out of the question
and I have no answer to that.