Salty rancher spackle is to Earthy diva smackers as Swinging hotel number is to?
Rippling cling bread is to Three lizard chariots as Indigo lime tangent is to?
Nighttime reunion planet is to Nettle lane scuffle as Soaking spider *** is to?
Fancy trance logs are to Sticky fudge lather as Vivacious gator college is to?
Cheerful blossom face is to Secret tractor rocket as Canned gremlin emblems are to?
Jealous pitchfork generals are to Heartbreaking patchwork veranda as Folding robot noise is to?
Pretty rhino rash is to Lost locket vengeance as Back pocket weather is to?
Frosted candy sidewalk is to Sneaky kook code as Shiny waffle smoke is to?
Sapphire cloud romance is to Magnetic comet lava as Blue triangle envy is to?
Vanishing honey melody is to Thermal elf pajamas as Whistling iceboat shampoo is to?
Peach mint politics is to Frozen doll pennies as Rusty anchor catapult is to?
Swollen pony fever Throbbing sword kazoo as Silent turbine science is to?
Obese germ thunder is to Stacked lemon towers as Corrupt moon jockey is to?
Demented insect whistle is to Glass trophy cleanup as Purple geode bubble is to?
Nighttime razor slime is to Lacquered dragon maps as Tint paper mittens are to?
**** camel drops are to Velvet ****** shoes as Slippery red muffins are to?
Flying hot drool is to Pale chocolate telescope as Tin trumpet ballet is to?
Expensive puppy speed is to Flowered duck mirror as Cosmic needle factory is to?
Fractured laser doodles are to Cracked butter gravel as Rubber holster straps are to?
Majestic panther fortress is to Jeweled cork target as Iron swan taxi is to?
Poisonous pepper bouillon is to ****** goat soap as Chrome feather pirates are to?
Digital gorilla scriptures are to Timid hunter stench as Frozen domino video is to?
Eccentric troll opera is to Transparent wax village as Spoiled coral agony is to?
Bizarre green metal is to Pillow eating hamster as Leather cavern ***** are to?
Eternal hurricane evidence is to Powdered rainbow perfume as Smoking yellow prune is to?
Liquid wish cleanser is to Exploding meadow ladders as Brittle rose hammer is to?
Caged foam filter is to Cherry balloon string as Ivory cactus spider is to?
Carbon puppet watch is to Sad kings compass as Elastic lace whiskers are to?
Nitrogen trolley dust is to Lazy elephant toffee as Orange toad choir is to?
Dark pole zodiac is to Blue finger blanket as Illegal bug nozzle is to?
Stinky towel cookies are to White jade caskets as Sticky snail tea is to?
Converting stellated caramels is to Mythic aerosol socks as Rubber raspberry jokes are to?
Flying clock carousel is to Whisky nut worms as Plastic fish platforms are to?
Queasy Vaseline queens are to Moody pigeon pills as Aqua mice fur is to?
Spotted bowl shadow is to Idiotic radiance lotion as Bungalow toad hearse is to?
Gushing chimney fungus is to Funky lamb acrobat as Utopian **** sprinkler is to?
Twinkling bungalow tablet is to Botanical duck rope as Bug hat ram is to?
Broken clock fossil is to Black ginger confetti as Parisian cobra meatloaf is to?
Silly Xerox ribbon is to Obedient raccoon carny as Traditional cat linguini is to?
Last astral advisor is to Elastic badger riddles as Broken circle rifles are to?
Bagged squire channel is to Temporary mosaic cake as Ancient bacon thread is to?
Wireless math army is to Moronic neon money as Pearl razor radar is to?
Rubber buzzard blizzard is to Troubled bubble wizard as Crushed hash ******* is to?
Purple birdy cure is to Tangled frost blossoms as Silken bridal saddle is to?
Unisex owl accordion is to Sugar bottomed boat as Optical nougat treasure is to?
Flavored saline rain is to Black arrow clan as Transistorized clam guitar is to?
Sharpened twig scar is to Mutant beet sonar as Baked troll mask is to?
Boxed noodle secrets are to Traditional guru buttons as Glossy marshmallow strategy is to?
Vibrating melted jelly is to Silver furniture dream as Spewing collated seats is to?
Burnt mountain pickles are to Baby preacher shoes as Sympathetic pilot pain is to?
Narrow portal treaty is to Monkey warehouse vacancy as Painted tornado trap is to?
Porch penny sulfur is to Glowing pony fat as Patched mattress bait is to?
Frigid waitress fallacy is to Graphic shrimp salute as Misted sneezing window is to?
Moist apple moss is to Daddy’s zoom seed as Downtown Pope cart is to?
Tired felon trickle is to Holographic squirrel candle as Wild ray hay is to?
Deadly zero chalk is to Folding wilderness chart as Curved ******* vacuum is to?
Hollow porcelain pellets are to Strawberry rain stencils as Microwave taxi nomads are to?
Wasted machete balcony is to Crumpled creature confessions as Fridge fuzzed fruit is to?
Sloppy demon damage is to Squeaky puppet chuckle as Mental arcade combat is to?
Monster trout stories are to Lewd pirate cocktail as Locked mammal grommet is to?
Rotting rope network is to Tragic toy goat as Cotton submarine shoes are to?
Complex pepper dance is to ****** cloud cushion as Marching taxi holiday is to?
Mental petal collectors are to Spooned barn putty as Dork factory fiction is to?
Hot spotted tops are to Timed stepping pests as Yogurt notching tartar is to?
Crazy dog comics are to Ambitious cartoon sphinx as Pavlov’s zinc ballet is to?
Soiled spinster wedding is to Padded razor wound as Floating fish map is to?
Slippery leopard pants are to Perfumed nut button as Dart wizard party is to?
Needy alien elephants are to Barking garden gnats as Quasar focused paper is to?
Slanted heart **** is to Bronzed cliff sandals are to Cunning jockey jokes are to?
***** thumbprint massage is to Holistic princess memory as Sliding dental sword is to?
Drifting wood whistle is to Fluorescent carpet powder as Foam dragon whistle is to?
Chopped web shadow is to Immortal vermin soup as Collapsing porch conspiracy is to?
Stolen thunder chant is to Haunted comet heart as Swollen throat portrait is to?
Fragrant frost parfait is to Grumpy caveman *** as Random stingray solo is to?
Squeaky polar turbine is to Silent lava fever as Oversized lunar fulcrum is to?
Synthetic dew droppers are to Pocket poster paste as Hypnotic screen dog is to?
Symbolic whirlpool nausea is to Dreaming tree phantom as Log badge bracket is to?
Camp hippo map is to Horseradish seizure insurance as Distant insect mirror is to?
German lady sherbet is to Stuntman laundry wax as Hungry butterfly ghost is to?
Fly smudged foil is to Amped maze coil as Shifting optic terror is to?
Automatic sheep floss is to Panoramic tanker anchor as Throbbing bone pillow is to?
Mutant clown village is to Nightmare translation treasure as Spotted spectral chakra is to?
Blind roach tweat is to Hermit worm tiara as Divine logo ritual is to?
Glueless gun stamp is to Malicious spam pump as Floral toffee pods are to?
Dudgeon mist removal is to Menacing bolt smacker as Boating duke shadow is to?
Costly metal plungers are to Creaky buzzing gushers as Glowing star cushions are to?
Raked barge sludge is to Crusted cream glitter as Zircon gutter babble is to?
Fake gold scholar is to Amish ******* mogul as Faithful ***** choir is to?
Sacred limo prayers are to Fried mice café as Splintered ****** thimble is to?
Dealing rabbit decals is to Pelican bongo festival as Patched equator rot is to?
Freedom gourd gasoline is to Cobblers studying acorns as Desecrated dice crater is to?
Tattered tapestry rod is to Busted particle scanner as Bogus piffle catalogue is to?
Trifle truffle raffle is to Last lamb laminate as Segmented cake goggles are to?
Domestic tackle tactic is to Ticking tic talk as Cordial corps coordinates is to?
Tucked duck caftan is to Sunken ramp ruckus as Wretched ranch rhetoric is to?
Clearly incomprehensible directions are to Useful archaic nonsense as Antiquated skeletal outline is to?
Bewildered beasts feasting are to Lazy busybodies resting as Vaccinating brave volunteers are to?
Lucky wagon dragons are to Famous gargoyle gargle as Formal postman funding is to?
Furrowed shroud chowder is to Borrowed tartan pajamas as Martini mixed algebra is to?
Cowgirl balloon helium is to Chewy glucose habitat as Stationary monument movement is to?
Diamond powered powder is to Diagonal diameter diagram as Purposely condensed expansion is to?
Organic iodine capsule is to Gleaming beach probe as Dominant dome static is to?
Shaving wrinkled targets is to Petting sensible monsters as Selling invisible whiskey is to?
Frozen piano architecture is to Note dotted clouds as Screaming Korean worms are to?
Sonic plant website is to Telepathic climbing clam as Bored protein exercise is to?
Gourmet mollusk cone is to Numb poodle caravan as Asian raven radar is to?

They're digging up the cobbles in our street,
moving them to a classier area.
We'll be given tarmac, black and soft in the sun.

Yes, even here it shines - on men's vests.
They're red faced, drinking from lager cans,
while their women finger scarved curlers.
At least, that's what others think they see.

But neighbours do talk with us.
There's a code of decency,
though Mum says, 'some have hearts
as black as the tarmac'.

There's a hierarchy,
in minds and heads,
if not in pockets.

Some day the toffs will turf us out,
gentrify our street. We'll be moved,
filed vertically, pigeon lofts in the sky.
Then they'll bring our cobbles back.

Take a butchers at this me old Chinas.
Slip ya Plates o' Meat into ya Jacks,
brew up a nice cup o' Rosy,
and if you haven't got a ****** what I'm on about,
feel free to fire me off a Jimmy Nail
and tell me it's a load of old cobblers.

Can you Adam an' Eve it,
I left me Dog 'n' Bone on the Apples
and when I went to call the Trouble 'n' Strife
some joker had Half-Inched it.

But that's not the worst of it.
When I got back to the Cat and Mouse
she'd done a bunk in me shiny new Jam Jar.
I couldn't believe me Pork Pies!

So here I am all on me Todd,
me only transport a ****** old **** van ****.
Gordon Bennett!
I'm goin' down the ****** for a few Britneys,
gonna get totally Brahms and List
and blow a big fat raspberry at the whole thing.

Tomorrow's another bale 'o' hay.

there was once a cobbler he lived all alone in little house with no tv or a phone
he loved making shoes it was his pride and joy making lots of shoes for every girl and boy
one night while he was working he  saw a little mouse running up and down and all around the house
he was very friendly as happy as can be he went up to the cobbler and sat upon his knee
both of them were happy that was plain to see happy and content and both had company

The southern belle , her spicy drawl , gift of gab and traditions .....
Gentle ways with a soft look , master of culinary skills , jams , mint teas and cobblers , prowess in garden , she is truly a magnolia with the scent of gardenia blossom .....

Antsy aardvarks all
accept ants accordingly
as an addiction

Bamboo bayonets
bought by barbaric, beastly
barons bite beatniks

Cloistered cobblers can
color candy-cane conches
concealing crooners

Daffodils doodle
daydreams down, debauchery
demons deafening

Every eon each
electric elephant eats
eleven elk eggs

For fun fantasies
file films filosophic'ly
filling filaments

Go get greens
Get grass grayer gal
goonie ghoul

Hello high hammock
how hooligans heave haddocks
heathenly hecklers

Igloos ixist in
icy islands interning
internationally

Jello jam jizzy
Jacks jostling jewels juney
jump jump joop jail

i have six beers and only two cigarettes
and no philadelphia digression.

as a pronoun you can dissociate yourself
from nouns and common noun usage
and censorable noun usage,
and find that the deconstructive aspect of *derrida
is not found in nouns but primarily in prepositions
& conjunctions
and the timing of adjectives to respect the manual labour
of cobblers & tailors is almost arbitrary
for the six digit people employed to use two five digit extensions
and swing less under par when unemployed on retirement
looking for busyness and 6am and the alarm clock’s chandelier at noon.

or the alternative precursor to the spice girls
(yes, i did buy their debut -
      baby spice, well, my infantile
fetish with cute, clean cut blondes, meh,
old story)
                 but **** on me, President Reagan
was a former actor -
     i have no personal interests in the debate,
well: i like to see real life Hollywood,
i like films, from time to time...
    20th century moustaches are these days
relegated to hairstyles....
  you know why we don ****** hair?
the ***** are pruned and trimmed
for a ***** movie: we like to fiddle with it,
esp. the hair crop on the chin,
     i could become a violinist with it.
what spurred me on? Marvin Gayes heard it through
the grapevine, or as i say:
  down the **** gold, auburn, amber, beer,
whiskey, **** me! a correlation!
or a categorical imperative some would say:
             heard it down the wheat shaft
in between men having their prided little Richards
cut off - fun ******* fun -
         that's me and washing my hands
writing poetry in advance to my body language
transformed starting to style myself
on the baguettes hit from the 80s:
dance like a pigeon, nod pigeon in a walk,
the guy that was so jealous of me
is now a manic depressive -
       and i'm like: so what? jog on!
                      i was stupid for 10 seconds of my life,
better write out bail...
                        they should call it
the s.d.i.             (sniffer dog investigation) -
it doesn't look even remotely disastrous,
     only with that Antoinette quiff and a moustache,
      oh we loved the pern wigs
before the bowlers and top hats...
          it's as if the Victorian era was an era
for mourning the death of God, truly.
all the little revolution stemming from the death
of someone ending a bio at 1900 didn't matter...
    he was philosophising at a funeral...
i'm just watching the vehement application
of Vatican non-curriculum activity stemming from
archeology started off in Egypt under the
title: St. Thomas' account the doubter / the philosopher
gaining ground in all things trans-,
                a return by "popular" demand,
first the authentic Christianity of the gospels
and now infuriated Islam and the unauthentic application
of the recovered gospels -
   can you imagine there being a brokering
       gamble on literacy back then, would the priests
have made fishermen literate back when it
was stated: keep them wholly physically intact,
let's not interfere with their physical prowess,
we need their physical strength, undermine their
physical strength with being able to read: and we're ******!
   a fisherman wrote that gospel?
                     (insert snigger) -
        only in the 20th century could the benefits
of education a son of a roofer / metallurgy agent go
down sour... first they said they wanted me to
come upon the plateau of what education is about:
the just dispensation of wealth,
   but then they heard about my background and
simply said: nah, that ****** can clean the dishes...
the worst part?
      i would have agreeably been a street-cleaner:
but not after having invested in education!
      that's a ****** insult!
                so here's me,
high as a kite on *****, listening to poets talk
about depression for a while thinking:
    where's the wheelchair?
                             and when i'm through
i tune in, listen to Marvin Gaye and start dancing
like a pigeon strutting:
           guillotine horizontal chopping the air up,
        twerk a bit in the bathroom
and feel Chappy Jolly -
                   i'd stick a thumb up my *** if i wanted
to as reversal of the *******
                                being accusatory -
don't educated me and steal from those who don't
want to be with their common sense education
                and give me absolutely nothing
chemistry related to do it...
        i'll just start writing and turn the heat up on
being a hermit...
                              becoming educated is a monstrous
delusion that the priestly caste of society dish out
             once they dished out literacy,
              but once literacy has become exhausted
they dish out education in the broader sense.
i was walking back from the supermarket today,
and picked up a pound coin from the pavement
(thanks Sinatra, that'll pay the rent)
    and started fiddling with it in my hand:
some people have lucky charms, emeralds and
what not in necklaces and other memento forms,
i started fiddling with this found pound coin,
  Whether's Original colouring - not quiet copper,
indeed more like solidified bleached out caramel,
when i walked with my hands partially clenched
like a gorilla's and balanced the coin
on the *******'s phalange -
        and suddenly i was holding a philosopher's stone...
        it all became visceral - clear, poignant,
this little thing can transform anything from
        copper into gold -
   from iron into gold...
               where the alchemist sleeping when
they were passing this stuff about, including
the blimmin' cobblers?
                       it can also include asking
the magpies to fly in and say: not all that glitters
is gold... where are the silver spoons?
              oh for sure, the eagle as emblem / mascot of the state
  is doomed, take the Third ***** and the Roman Empire...
             no one ever bothered the sparrow to be engulfed
in replica on standards of a marching enemy...
    the crow seems pretty safe too, funny
            the eagle is a crushing curse of failed predatory
alliances when embedded in metal for man
   to strut toward a harrowing end.

I type in that old address
expecting google not to show a house
to show the empty lot
that from what i heard
was the result of putting a dishwasher
into the kitchen
and causing complete septic failure
that flooded that entire uptown PA acre.
But, it flies me there
and I cry a little
because it's an old picture-
the house is still there,
just as i remember it;
an empty lot to the side,
the dilapidated apartment in the back yard,
the shed at the end of the driveway
(which was just a couple of cement tracks
slightly thinner than the pathfinder tires)
the apple and pie cherry trees we used to climb.
the alley in the back
where we used to skip rocks
and run from the neighborhood dogs (and cats)
looks the same as well,
every car the same,
every empty house still empty,
every tipped trashcan still being tipped each week.
I go down every street I used to walk,
they're all the same,
the bus stop is still where it was
the trails are just as long and dark as they ever were
and each yellow yard looks just as it always did in midsummer.
the ponds in the park are still the same color
with the same algae growing in them
and the same overgrowth hideaways around them.
A mile down the road;
the mini-mart where I bought gum when i had money
hasn't changed a bit,
even the pink umbrellas are still in front of the smoothie bar
but, across the street
the used book store that i would get lost in is gone
and from there i notice subtle changes:
the blackberry bushes by the middle school,
that mom made multiple cobblers from, are gone,
the maternity store moved,
the shed that my stepdad first told us would be our new house,
(before showing us this place)
has been torn down, or fell over
(as i assume it did),
and it doesn't end there,
I practiced my eye in the small details of this small ****** of the world
even though i never talked to anyone
in all the hours i spent walking.
But i guess I remember so well,
because, four-and-a-half years later
I still consider that house home.
that house where my brother was born,
where i first went without my glasses, and liked it
where I was first given the freedom of a bus pass
and permission to leave the house,
where i had my first (and only) overnighter
where i first became addicted to cleaning
where i've packed so many memories
that i can understand why the sewage line broke
sometime after that picture was taken



©Brandon Webb
2012

Airwaves awash in the new gospel barrage:
calling forth the neighbourhood hack,
Abe Lincoln toon in towering hat,  
the corporation is coming -
will you not
collaborate my friend?

Everything good that you ever dreamed of is here:
Marbonite floored flats with self-terraced roofs;
The swankiest of cars, in imported hues;
Your arm candy drools,
now, brands, bigger brands!

All in your grasp, now, in community gates
shut safe as society decays.

Skies spitting frogs? Pestilences amass?
Listen to the Gospel according to Bane:
in the desert, smell octane. Hallelujah,
everything we make, from watches
to headscarves - your underwear is cheaper
sourced from the next so-lala-land.

Forget your sources tiny of incomes varying:
Bakers, cobblers, tinkerers, we also have
a uniform for you. Oh you rustic
tradition-bound bandy bumpkins!
Abandon your alleyways, and
welcome to the ghettos...where

What you eat, to where to retreat:
we cure everything from heartache to panache.

Wash away your sins in wonder medicines;
Waters can part, yes, see how the Pharoah
is disarmed; Big city dreams, dream
global manna beams. All that is needed for
salvation, is a little bit of classification. Are you
left-wing or right? Center-left or center-right?

The powerdrill tearing down edifices
resonating through noon. A crane arm's shadow
hovering high by the moon. Tablets from skies
now proclaim the new gospel for the land,
the airwaves are awash
of the miracle of Witwatersrand.

The corporation is coming, to a store near you:
Amen! Will you not, then, collaborate, my friend?

I'm in love with a boy

Who makes me feel like fried chicken on a sunday

Like the Meat

That I don't eat

I'm an animal

I'm colossal

I'm the ballrooms in his eyes

I'm in love with a boy who makes me feel

Like pancakes on a weekday

We don't do that

In my family

We do grapefruit

cereal

oatmeal

We do not do orange juice

ever

I'm in love with a boy

Like honey in my tea

To take away the bitter

Take away the hunger

Amplify the wonder

And the way we grew together

All the tangles

All the thunder

All the things I never let you--

All the things I should have said to you

I'm in love with a boy

Who feels like sin in the morning

And sweet all the time

Like violence at night

And the freckles on his shoulders call me with words he'd never be able to find

Words that make me blind

The way he makes me feel is like the sun in my eyes

I'm in love with a boy like peaches in the summertime

And apples in the fall

He makes me feel like all the songs

I've never played

All the cobblers I should have baked

I'm my apron

I am taken

I'm the muffins that I baked him

I'm in love with a boy who makes me feel like candles on a birthday cake

Right after they hit the lights

And the sparkle

When the flames jump to the birthday girl's hair

And the scare

And the faces of the parents

All the horrified stares

I'm the 30 unburnt pieces, 45 guests

It's never enough

It's always too much

But I'm in love with this boy

He makes me feel

Like robbing a bank and making a clean get away

And worn out boots with no soles

From running hard and running fast

He makes me feel like guns

And a red hot sun

And the worst blisters of my life

Like fleeing in the night

and I'm your girl, right?

I'm in love with that boy like the first day he saw me

I'm in love with our mythology

and I want him to know

I'm still that girl

It's still that first day

It was the day before Christmas, all the little cobblers went to work
The day before Christmas and my feet are sore, walking these cold streets alone
I had run over shoes, sores on my feet
This **** street, wind and sin, stinging the tears from eyes like pitchers pouring
The cobblestones hurt my feet, walking barefooted, well hooded now, girls swaying with crockpot hips and blue twine
Little girls with hoods on their jackets.
Smack it, back at it, do it drastic
Fog and dark gray sky, cobblestones made me cry again today
I was in pain, walking in the dark gray shadows

Redundancy is ...
A ... Horrible  Thing ... !!!

But ...
Who are the ones ... ?
That Most ... FEEL THE STING ... ?!?

THOSE Who .... CONTROL ....
The Employment ... " Bullring " ... ?!?

Or THOSE Who Sit ... " Waiting " ....
With ....

NO BELL to RING .... !!!

For Whom Does The Bell ...
REALLY ... Toll ... ?

Give Me a ... " Drum Roll " ...
Before i'm ... REDUNDANT ...
and left in ... THE COLD ... !!!!!!

The Unions are ... DEAD ...
So Employers Now Get ...
to do ... WHAT THEY LIKE ... !!!
cos' ... Most youth are BRAINDEAD ... !!!

They Always ... ACT BOLD ...
But Do ... What They're ... TOLD ... !!!

Ask them about ... " Business " ...
Not ONE ... seems to know ... !?!
what happens to ... THEM ...
When Companies ... "FOLD" ... !!!

They QUICKLY Get ... KNOCKED ...
When The Ship Starts to ... " ROCK " ... !!!

But STILL .... Cannot see ....
How Corporates ... "PLOT" ...
To REMOVE .... Who they want ... !!!

Because THINKERS ... Will Question ...
The LOT that they've ... GOT ... ?!

While ... " Corporate Heads " ...
are Constantly ... DRIVEN ...

Agendas they have ...
Are Suitably ... "hidden" ...

You're told ...

"NOT TO QUESTION !" ...

That Act is ... FORBIDDEN ... !!!!

But Lives That ... They Lead  ...
Most People ... "AIN'T LIVIN " ... !!!!

I'm NOT .... " David Niven " ... !!!
but i'd like to play ... " BOND " ... !!!

So that I could ... " QUICKLY " ...
Put RIGHT ... All These WRONGS ... !!!

The WRONGNESS ... They do ...
" is hidden" ...................................................... from view ... !!!!

Meantime they sit ... "Planning" ...
and Constantly .... SCAMMING .... !!!
Which ... " CASH-DRIVEN YOUTH " ...
Should now join ... " Their Crew " ...

They look for a ... " FOOL" ...
Who REALLY ... AIN'T Cool ... !!!

To Push You ... Then STICK YOU ...
As if you're just ... " Glue " ...
That they can just ... STAMP ON ...
Until You Feel ... " BLUE " ... !!!

They walk in ... " NEW SHOES " ...
While yours are now due ...
For ... " Mending and Bending " ...
from ... " Cobblers Tools " ... !!!

Like FISH ...
We are ...  " Schooled " ...
Then thrown into ... " POOLS " ...
For ... Redundancy Marks ...
While surrounded by ... " SHARKS " ...
Who Have ... " Their Own Space " ...
In the ... " Office Car Park " ... !!!

My words may seem ... DARK ...
But This Is ...  NO LARK ... !!!

Redundancy's ... groWING ...
The REALITY'S .... " STARK " .... !!!

I'm ... " NOBODY'S DOG " ... !!!
But ... WATCH OUT For My BARK ... !!!!!

The Angels Now ... " HERALD " ...
and Sing to my ... HARK ... !!!

HARK ...
As in ... " CALL " ...

My stories ... AREN'T TALL ..... !!!
But I AM .... Of Course ... !!!

If You're NEEDING ... " MORE CLUES " ...
Try ... " Inspector Morse " ... !!!

Now ...
Those who won't hear me ...
Are on the ... " DOWNFALL " ... !!!

Like NIAGRA ....
They ... " FALL " ... !!!
with their backs to .... THE WALL ...

and Now ... CAN'T Afford ...
The Price of ... " The Stalls " ... !!!

Redundancy Payments ...
REALLY ... DON'T Last ...
UNLESS ... You were one ...
Of The ... "Corporate Class " ... !!!

But ... EVEN They Suffer ...
These words are now ... TRUE ... !!!

When They're ... Out of Work ...
TRUST ME ... They DON'T SHIRK ... !!!

They KNOW ... ALL ABOUT ...
The ... " BENEFIT ROUTE " ...
and then get ... The Council ...
to PAY FOR ... " Their House " ...  !!! ? !!!

But ...
NOT JUST ... " Your Average " ... !!!

They Think That's for ... SAVAGE ... !!!
The rental they're paying ...
Brings Taxpayers ... DAMAGE ... !!!!
because ... " BENEFIT FUNDS " ....

When for ... THEM ....
Just get ... " RAVAGED " ... !!!!!

This is ... " The Coup " ...
When Redundancy ... comes ...

But THIS is ... A Story ...
to give you ... Some Fun ...

I've just been ... " In The MIX " ...
of Redundancy ... TRICKS ... !!!

But ...
HERE'S How it went ...

SO .....
Follow This Script ... !!!

"We need volunteers !
New systems demand,
that certain positions
will now disappear !"

But when ... Volunteers Came ...
They Came ... " LIKE THE RAIN" ... !!!!!
and that put ... AN END ...
to ... " REDUNDANCY GAMES " ... !!!!!!

"We've had a rethink,
and don't need to shrink,
cos people have moved,
so everything's cool" ....

But ...
Here is ... " THE TWIST " ... !?!

My job is ... SECURE ... !!!
At LEAST ... for a year ...

But ...
Check THIS BIT HERE ... !!!

"Your role's been appraised"

and ....

to ... MY SURPRISE ...
From ... NOT Being needed ...

I got a .... PAY RISE ... ???? !!! ????

So Now You See ... WHY ...
A Brother like ... " I " ...
Will NEVER .... Put Trust ...
In THESE ... Corporate Guys ... !!!

Never Mind Their .... FORK TONGUES ....
What about their ... " SNAKE EYES " .... !???!

This thing is becoming ...
A ... Constant WORRY ....
for those of us ... Working ...

" REDUNDANCY ! " ...

Thunder and lightening but no rain today. Stormy on one half of the sky, grey with hints of purple and brown. Lightning streaking through it, more yellow than I've ever seen before. Thunder seeming to shake the sky and rumble the low hanging clouds that form a cove. The other side of the sky, the other day so to speak, is most beautiful. An orange setting sun lights up the horizon to a beautiful glow. Floating wisps of clouds dance in the sky, white, turning pink as the sun goes to sleep. A rainbow centers the worlds, pulls them together. A rainbow traveling to depths seen never before. Depths seen only by the wandering unicorns on mushroom trails in the sky. I knew this crazy 110 heat meant something was coming. Something to twist the world open, to begin exploration.

Between storm and setting sun, along the Rainbow Lane, you might happen across a fairy maiden or water nymph. Veer right you'll find the forest, a hauntingly beautiful deep, bright green, accented in every corner by berry hues. Float down Waterfall Pass into the lake of the mermen, the most lustrous mermaiden, and the forever awed Water Monster. You've one last place to visit, before you join this adventure tale. The town on the left, where civilian like me reside. We have shoe makers, cobblers, stables and schools; manors, mansions, cabins and sheds. We eat, we drink, we're merry and magical. We live in Norvella, and our fantastical adventure begins here.

talking exhaust writing, talking leaves no impetus to write,
talking is like staring into a closet or a boiler room,
there are fumes of missed chances, or of shadowy skeletons
asking for a revision of the social etiquette no made:
what is the quasi-dialectics modern society prescribes
nudging in a lie with a lie followed by another lie?
whatever the defining term, it only prescribes a loss of furthering
discussion, empowering this etiquette with solipsism;
or there this overly psychologised parent thesis,
this morbidity of the lost beauty of language, fixated
on guarantees of never being undermined - it stinks of
excluding all other uses of language, or it simply tries to
incorporate them under the banner that history, poetry, philosophy,
physics can be psychologised into one affordable use of language,
which is why when i write psychological words i am greatly pained,
e.g.:

a bit like probing someone’s subconscious for a quick
memory stimulant: in a shop two friends
passed the isles,
the music shop was blasting creedence clearwater revival...
with the song cotton fields being used
as the adequate prop for the experiment...
when i was a little bitty baby
my mama would rock me in the cradle,
in them old cotton fields back home;
it was down in louisiana
just about a mile from texarkana,
in them old cotton fields back home -*
buzzing, looking for dvds of gone girl and some science fiction
movie...
the music in the background wasn’t discussed...
but the revival of the vinyls in a corner was admired...
34 quid for the beatles’ white album... *******...
and cornershops’ brimful of asha lazy instrument at 70£...
then some tea and café awkward flirtation...
then to the pub!
two pints down the gob and the quizzical stutter gone...
the sort that means you thought for very long
and didn’t speak to someone for a long time...
nerves of caffeine and nicotine with the boogie wagon...
so yeah... prodding memory in the subconscious
as short-term, meaning long-term in the waking hour defines
the personality among other faculties of the membered brain,
whether that’s liver, kidney or lung... the brain troops
them into the body on the northern korean march sport of the army...
some say the chinese will come with a pigeon or a crane strut...
no geese in pseudo-hindu affiliations of order...
memory and the third party from sleep to wake?
how many dreams could you actually remember with the alarm clock ringing?
about none...
i wake without the alarm clock... and when waking i have a strange
dream in the 5 minutes of the snooze button imaginarily pressed...
the general anaesthetic isn’t death... because under general anaesthetic
you don’t actually dream... it’s chemical not even remotely natural.
so that part where i exclaimed: to the pub!
some landscapist on the wall with full biography lamenting
the curses of the french revolution and how the aristocracy suffered
with the new aristocracy of the newly rich... the merchants
the shoelace tiers... the cobblers and the chieftains of the cooking ***,
‘yeah, chicken hearts in onion sauce have the consistency of squid rings,’
and so... in the olden thou art a battered beetroot cheek...
this landscapist wrote four clauses about ol’ *** village known today
as gidea park... he swore that he noticed chalky graffiti
of vituperativeness... he said: no chore of violence was revealed,
since the graffiti was sworn as an oath to dig into the coal mines of melancholic bile
and simply vandalise the new aristocrats’ possessions
with words of cursing chiseled in by chalk, of the newly rich
who never passed their gains through blood but rather through molten iron or sporty leather - but you know what they say:
the merchant of mecca dies... the blood heirs become assassinated
and the four caliphs (the rashidun) emerge.
only poets have the courage to return to the beginnings
of language acquisition - they dare to mishandle language
and by mishandling it dare to usurp prosaic grammar structures,
only poets have the courage to return to the beginnings
of language acquisition, singing the alphabet:
a b c d e f g... h i j... k... el em en l o p... q r s... t u v... w x blah blah z (
with a quasi incy wincy spider timing).
that's what i mean! i hate psychologism and psychological
words in general, they literally domineer people,
it's like the jungian theory of the collective unconscious...
it's like we're supposed to remember the archetypes...
but the unconscious has no memory-content...
given the fact that the unconscious is pure imagination...
since we dream... i don't know how we remember dreams...
but it's hardly in our sleep but upon waking...
a thin red line though... 'tshh... mayday mayday...
boeing 747 flight no. 209zt is going to crash...
black box on the ready, over and out... tshh,'
unless the memory function in the unconscious is to
remember the image sequence that are dreams
upon waking... thin red line though...
oh no... how did i get tangled in this psychology *******
once again?!
unwind! i walked home in the cool autumn
wearing just a shirt...
down a very english road of haunted houses of satiated
materialism... the colour patterns of flowers
still not stampeded by winter in blush violet and indigo...
amorous chequers of flamingos and oranges...
and the sunset with a 10 - 1 bet against it...
with the moon just behind the corner of the sky
looming hazes of cloudy cider sky of the northern dark.

Shepherds, cobblers, carpenters and joiners of all creeds and worldly dreamers
You troubled souls, the brittle spirits drinking spirits cleaner
Taunted workers of yore, farmers gone and industries endowed
Disseminating futures, who's gonna build your ***** barrels now?
**** it, I'm going to work in a call center

co hytre pod skurą jest iglą
         (what's avaricious under the skin is a needle)
na wieków, amen - co gdyby lwem
(forever more, amen - what's apparently a lion)
czy niedźwiedźem, czy też wilkiem
(or bear, or even a wolf)
da tchu! Vlach! ti i ten pierdolony lis!
(will give breath! Vlad! you and that ******* fox!)
eine fuchs! ich! ja stokroć i nocy nadam
(a fox! i! i the fern who will give unto the night)
imion bez konstelacji Achilles'a,
(names without constellations' of Achilles)
pozorom wbrew: na haczyku brwi
(under no pretensions: on the fishing hook of the eyebrows)
na tle pod imion: dobre sumienie
(on the canvas of under-names: a sound conscience)
wramah chszestu.
(in the boundaries of a christening.)
  a co ładne niech paraduje ze
(and what is beautiful, let it parade)
rzołneczykami!           bo to tfu!
(with it's little soldiers! because it's disgusting!)
bo to harfa i hu i true i Polska podbudjed
(because it's a harp and a ha... lost in translation)
is Rosyja i Я: anglo tomme, niet Яck m'eh?
  no kurva: Mongoła trombone!
mi non sprechen Deutsche,
nor operatic, nien moon-sweep tsar -
lovely, lovely juggles the Peckham
in all of us jubbly: day for the awaiting Trotter -
         or the spin frame Jenny my dearest:
spin! spin my spinning dūbblé / double-blah-blah-eh!
plocker / plonker two sons within graft of a blue
Peter sketch for the youngsters whining: or how's that
****** housed and i'm the one that should be
saying: the 'un that neva'h woz?
bites the Barnickle, that 'un does.
               says as much about cubicle cockers
in née said: Varlance: such that it almost sounded like
Versailles, and it too almost sounded likened to
umbrella when saying Paris or parasol.
       or on par: cubicle cockney poetry:
appellation and ***** hairs: stairs -
       needy and scythed: the frightened bunch...
          why then Versailles and squire?
and not: that ol' chip frier -
     fry err, Brighton on marble: succinct slating -
that walk of shame toward the ****.
     they always made the best foster parents,
that **** bumping, **** dumping crowd pleasing
hush for a Lincoln into linguo as Oslo in
libido -
          trucker tongue tie - gears in reverse -
randomised language replenishing that chaos of
became focus of larynx not cubed
but eyes three-dimensional: or cubism.
             and you sort of wish you knew how to
knot rather than not not not -
                your way into a Wahabi Lebanese
sentiment for truancy -
   which you never, really had a chance to get a
hard-on over.
                       this is how art sorta doesn't feel
that much difficult, more of a diarrhoea rather than
a constipation: less a skiing holiday in the Swiss
alps and more weekends spent on the Southend pier.
    well, we all wish to fish in the spaghetti lake
of verbiage: some of us get to,
and what we end up doing is hoping for
a second as cobblers in China, or beef farmers in
Argentina,    or cigar-rollers from Havana -
b'aah.... blah.... b'aah: i say jolted,
i say unsure, i say nervous b'aah - sheep's surrender!
why? it would sort out and destroy our
claustrophilia: as ever a cranium and an elevator...
         and the congregation,
                    and the dry throat.

“Hey there, Mr. Slug! Why do you like my cymbidiums?
Why don’t you dine on the dandelions that so abundantly grow?”
“Well, Mr. Bob, your cymbidiums are so delicious,
And your weeds are not so agreeable. I feel you ought to know.”
 
“Hey there, Mr. Termite! Why do you like my house?
Why can’t you chomp on the neighbors’—the one with such beautiful wood.”
“Well, Mr. Bob, your house is so nutritious;
Your neighbors’ house has been treated, and it doesn’t taste so good.”
 
“Hey there, Mrs. Whitefly! Do you have to **** my hibiscus?
What’s wrong with the morning glories that cover the neighbors’ fence.”
“Well, Mister Bob, hibiscus plants are enticing;
If I feasted on the others, I’d lack some common sense.”
 
“Hey there, Mr. Aphid! Do you have to devour my roses?
Why can’t you gorge on the grasses that grow in yonder field?”
“Well, Mr. Bob, not a thing in that field has
The lure of the genus Rosa, but I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”
 
“Hey there, Mrs. Fly! Do you have to buzz into MY house?
What is wrong with the neighbors’—the one with the door open wide?”
“Well, Mr. Bob, we love the smell of your cookies
And cakes and blueberry cobblers. We’re dying to get inside!”
 
“Well, so much for asking! At least I made an attempt
To deal with you pesky visitors; to bid you all adieu.”
“Sorry, Mr. Bob. We don’t feel very welcome;
But perhaps you’ve forgotten something: WE were here long before YOU.”

- by Bob B

He's the type of knot
that makes grown women throw out their shoes.

Terribly impatient but troubled with the tempt- the sort that makes a hand tremor, not with a snare's contempt, the kind of attempt that allows a person ever slightly inside-

a ride, he's suddenly unkempt as the tangle unwinds.

Like sun through mortar, the ephemeral through opaque,
A man made of mountains, a boy made of cake
who received much less love than his daily make,
exceeding the quota, then begging: Here. Take.

He's the type of knot
that fears being cut
that dreams to be free
but sleeps to keep shut.

I'm the type of knot
that causes grown men to reach for their scissors.

I'll wrap you up for always
with a little tendril that sings lullabies, brewing tea
and tucking you in.

A fine pair of shoes we make, my dear.
A glory that causes cobblers to weep
and lovers to win.

I wrote poems once
About blackberry picking with my children.
They were lovely.
The children, too,
When they were sleeping.
I thought about those poems
When I was stomping teasel and milkweed
In the field behind the barn
With my big green muck boots
So that I could get to ripe berries.
Alone.
Hawk dueting
With the two little goats.
You have to wonder why
In such a moment
That you would work and sweat
For two measly quarts of free berries.
When I was younger
It was not unusual
To get proposals of marriage
For cobblers and cakes and dumplings
From old men who were already married.
Two quarts down.
Several to go.

even i will miss this place
i think to myself
as we separate our belongings

into two piles
there in the dining area
where i used to play with Ryland.
Everyone, (other than him, being only three)
has tears in their eyes
except me
but i’m still sad
not because we’ll never come back here
but because that very fact
doesn’t sadden me like the rest
even though i will miss it
but i like moving on-
i can’t stay anywhere too long.
But, i do cry-
when he runs down that hill
like he has a million times before-
a huge smile on his face
as he avoids every memorized bump and hole
and i know this is the last time-
last time to experience all the memories
we packed into that trailer-
into that farm,
where fear left us restricted and regulated.
But i pack the truck
and disregard memories,
never stopping to remember anything-
not the bonfires by the big log,
rolling boulders into dead plum trees with the tractor,
picking huge buckets of blackberries for homemade cobblers
from bushes that have been gone for months,
pulling the hose up the hill from the pump house
to water everything,
flicking mosquitoes off the screen door
at midnight, with a crowd gathered to watch,
or the smell of a sulfur shower before church.
i stop to remember nothing
by unintentionally avoiding him most of all-
more than memories, or tears
i’m avoiding the man who was my father
for four and a half years-
who we lived in four houses, a motel, and a tent with-
because if i think too long about him
all the memories i’ve left behind will come back
and as we finish,
say goodbye,
and give him parting hugs
even i really start crying-
and then we drive off,
for the last time
and he’s standing there-
crying, but not waving
and we all wave though the tears,
through the car window
the fence and the garden.
I lost a home
and a father today
and i can still barely cry





©Brandon Webb
2012

This worn out soul
far gone beyond
the cobblers touch.

I sometimes feel like I

Have taken too big a slice of pie

Like I

Am too small to fulfill my obligations

I

Have bitten off much more than I can chew

I’ll say to you

It frightens me sometimes

In those times beyond the hour of sleep

I sleepless weep

And creep without the lights on

So as not to wake the neighbors

Or the cats in the backyard

Startled by the stirring

So early in the morning

So as not to really be morning

Yet mourning still

Too small to fulfill my obligations

My cobblers making boots to big for me to fill

I fear it still

And try not to think about things too much

At such a time as this

As peace shall surely escape me

How many lives will fit in one

How big a cast can a one man show perform as

Perhaps it was better to pick one thing and stick with it

One small thing

That just one man can do

Just the right size to fulfill his obligations

But the die is cast

The pie from crust is taken

And I’m left shaking at the magnitude

And scared they’ve got the wrong man for the job

It scares me

The fear stares at me and I stare back

Who has my back in this battle of wills

When he has all the ills of Hell

And self-deception

Delusions of Grandeur in the DSM

No no, it can’t be that

I can’t do that

Those boots are huge

And who am I

But a man, I cry

Too small to fulfill my obligations

too soon the khaki before the noir
and too soon  dei buch dieb - alter buch, dei leben!
marschieren marschieren vergleichen ****** zu
Napoleon - un das ende! geschichte wiederholen;
some might say a nation is a history
but some might say that both are equal.
so few are made to testify a market allowance
with due compliance of a tact -
and such the lack a covert necessity of applause,
hats off to the warring tribes under guise
of Hiroshima and the lost wars of perfumed
Magdalenes of pearl harbour -
but in terms of war tactic at least the Japanese
attacked the warring populace,
the Japanese soldiers attacked American soldiers,
yet the noble hirohito said:
ignoble soldiers of the west attacked cobblers
and blacksmiths! american soldiers attacked
the populace of non-soldiery!
whom to fake their prowess and safeguard of heroism?
if warring was to be faked it was faked at pearl
harbour - when warring encompassed civil victims
and out double measure on lives lost at pearl
harbour to react with hydrogen bombs!

Down by some babbling bank,
my past lives superimpose,
Upon my own.
And it was near,
toxic waters,
where I was born.
And primordial bubbles
unearthed a bone.
From which,
I was fashioned and formed.

Though ghosting tongues,
do bobble and flap,
In  gaping cambrian mouths.
they are mute, finite and fixed.
Which does none to please me,
in my present state.
Stoic and unashamed
like a marble crying fountain,
whose tears reach to the saints,
The cobblers.
the warlords,
and snakes,
that I might have been.

So if I regress,
so far,
To the point of hatred
I will reserve it
for those,
Who deserve it:
Those preceding me.
because they never did give any good advice.

Where's the exit?
Mass hysteria
Can't catch my breath
They steal my everything
The white collared robbers
Pick pockets and crackpot cobblers

Settle down
It's just a ruse
Nothing is ever meant to be
No such thing as destiny
Except that when the sun sets, the moon will rise
But that's just a maybe

Up to an altitudinous gate I travel
With nothing on my back
They look down from above and allow me to pass
Behind the gate I see free spirits with no possessions
No beliefs but many flexible ideas
We have all gathered here on our own account

       -Tommy Johnson

and to think: there's a human face behind
the horror;
it's ultimately unimaginable,
or a variation of relentless
theology never consolidated
as in: always providing a priest:
sermon of Baal
                                 - why do
we need them? please remind me...
   why do we need priests and imams?
that's hardly a worse affair
with the already staged Holocaust
and ethnic cleansing of
the disintegrating Yugoslavia -
am i to care about the Vatican lard
because it just staged something
memorable like not wearing
reds suede shoes? oh... hip hip hooray!
i'm all ears and applause.
they wear the dog collars
but never the choir boys' leash -
i'd cleanse the marble floors with their
desecration - because they are nothing
more than what some are called
state benefit scroungers -
               abracadabra crappers -
                     i'm actually unemployed
because you deem priests as worthy of
being a demanded profession...
this is my Martin Luther kindred oath -
only with the Poles and the Irish
can this circus go on as it is;
what can these priests actually summon?
a warm ****, and carbonated waters
of lake Galilee; and that's all folks;
but nonetheless you keep them
employed, as you said to Socrates:
cobblers and bartenders and carpenters
to the gas chambers! because we need
impotent priests of Baal / Jesus Christ!

There will be no hesitation for me to seek the justice for my heart.  
It lay trodden against the rain soaked sand and bits of antique thoughts not spoken and no longer to be wasted away on empty Christmas cheer. Apple cobblers go left untouched and cinnamon twists become stale in the cave.   I am a stove without heat and a chimney filled with soot
  …       Elsewhere and almost in the distance I do here the angels.

Mother was controlling.
hard,self centered, spoiled and rich.
I forgot beautiful but I suppose
to the outsiders looking in
she was perfect.
I think she hated me
I was the quiet one
my brother handsome and wild
was the apple of her eye.
you will amount to nothing
she told me from being a child.
why can't you be more
like your brother
she cried at me.
she prepped my brother
for fame and fortune.
he will be the next mayor
of this city she said.
I could not take any more
I left the house
living rough in the inner city.
I got a tiny apartment
above a cobblers store.
one night a woman banged
on the door at a late hour.
she was a *******
her **** had beaten her.
I let her in.
she stayed with me.
we did not have ***.
I figured she needed
a break.
My mother found us.
and insulted the lady
calling her a *****.
she did not know her story
about a husband who
was shot by a passing car.
Losing her home her dignity
More to spite mother  than because
I loved her I married my *******.
There was a strange change about her.
she cleaned for me.
fixed nice meals.
washed my clothes.
I still never touched her.
But she was somehow in love with me.
one night she bought a bottle of wine
we could ill afford
I got a bit tipsy.
She took me to her bed.
and I felt a warmth
I had never felt in my life before.
it was ****** stupid love.
I did not want it or seek it
but it found me.
mother offered her money to go away.
But I told her I needed her.
my job as an accountant
at the city took off.
I became the city treasurer.
then when the elections came up
I was put forward for Mayor
against my brother.
they leaked my wife's background
as a call girl out in the press.
But she stood in front of the media
and told her story truly
and mine.
We gained a large lead in the polls
the women related to her plight.
on election night
it was a landslide
I became Mayor
She became the first lady if the city.
we have four children now.
I am being put forward
to run for Governor.
and my sweet lady will become
the first lady if this great state.

a year later

the four kids
myself
and my beautiful wife
kissed as we entered the governor's mansion.
she whispered I love you so much my husband.
I whispered back not as much as I love you
my lady.*

.

foremostly: drink a little, and then write something,
there's absolutely no point in drinking
and rummaging an abdandoned house,
better still, what use would a spider have for
an abandoned spiderweb,
   that hasn't been kept in order, for two months?
what of the old hunched
crow-shadow posture in a chair?
            in poland i remember having trouble
associating myself with writing
in turkish akimbo on a hard communist concrete,
and the bare minimum of what
could be called a carpet...
              let alone the insomnia grandfather
snooping around at 12, 1, 2am...
     begging me to pretend to be falling asleep
while smoking cigarettes indoors,
   writing by candlelight in the kitchen...
it felt as it feels now:
               having lost a limb... but subsequently
having regrown one...
      there is no technique to what's
               closely associated with: rigour...
drinking is one thing:
                     writing habits? quiet another!
for starters there are offshoot verses
of nonsense, or: exploring the consequence
of simulating alzheimer's of some
sort...
              less metaphorical than the romance
with schizophrenia, the romance
that is a razor blade thrown to a person
drowning from anxiety...
                list: US consumes 50% of Xanax
production,
          the UK consumes 22%...
                            2017 sore 240 call-outs
for Xanax abuse by children aged between
11 and 14...
              half of mental problems
begin aged 14, three-quarters come
sober 18...
                         70% increase in rates
of depression in >25s...
   2 to 1 (:) ratio of women hiding
the same problems men have...
                50% increase in suicides in
England in the past decade -
                                hello Bristol university!
now that we juggled with the facts,
    like we might pass taking shots from
a bottle of ***** like some rude
teenagers in a playground in a park
   come the last solar hours of
                                         a sunsent...
facts: you can plagiarise -
          that's what they're there for -
no need for citing where i got them from,
one source is as good as the next.
         now... routine and writing...
   england is so different from poland -
namely, big town small town ergonomics -
small town? good chance you'll
get a romanticism bug... read a book
and start seeing swans in clouds...
               big town?
                    no real chance...
            talk-the-there's-no-talk scenario...
i had to remember how i used to function
in england, when the tactic i had for
treating anti-depressants as sleeping pills
actually worked...
                and no... it didn't involve
                 the affair of a bottle of ***** per
     night to imitate an executioner's axe...
or a mike tyson upper-cut for:
        seeing black-holes, of former stars...
god!
             death?!
                        black holes are the death of
stars, and yet they fascinate physicists more
than actual stars, which they reduced
                  to a hydrogen-helium interaction...
what i clearly forgot is my routine,
and the rigour involved in ushering in some
worthy blah-blah...
               my day constitutes of 48 hours...
which technically is two days,
                           but that's debatable...
stay up for a minimum of 24 hours...
                  actually, 24h is a breeze,
   not even worth contemplating since i only
stopped myself shy of doing a 48h+ stretch...
but, see... i became bogged down in
   video-books...
                    billions: ******* genius soundtrack,
very much akin to baby driver...
   but **** the precision of acting...
    favourite character?
                       WAAAAAAAAAAAGS....
a bit like snooping in on the wives of
european footballers once every four years...
binged the ******* that ****,
    finished season two and just waiting for
the next two installments...
            and?
                           versailles: on a techical
note... addressing Kant while watching
this ******* of a show?
                      power is better understood
than knowledge, visually, when contemplating
power: a priori,
                            so much easier...
   knowledge doesn't have the same rich
                                 association attached to it...
because? knowledge a posteriori
diffuses into perfecting replicas -
                    say the original cobbler...
        and subsequent cobblers and, "cobblers",
or trivial Cains...
                 visually speaking,
    since the dynamic of power, a posteriori
     is just blinding in terms of hierarchy...
         well, "blinding", i mean: illuminating...
another welcome routine prior to writing
something down and drinking at the same time?
solving a sudoku.
           this is the sudoku interlude -
   scatter-brain sequence (if you like):
           visually speaking power a priori creates
a more sensible visual explanation of
                            of power a posteriori...
          given that a priori power is a vacuum -
a priori knowledge doesn't exactly have
an agreeable imagination basis -
         to the pop. scrutiny...
                    ****... even retards know how
to laugh, even though they might not even concern
themselves with stand-up schematics
of a joke...
                  knowing how to laugh, is just like that...
the a priori knowledge of laughter
         is not designated to an exclusive
            a posteriori knowledge of laughter...
intellectual brown-nosing is the same
    as a ****** laughing: although i bet my wet-winkle
that i'll laugh with the ******,
                       than the intellectual pop-****.
power though...
              god, where do you even begin?
       the power that comes prior to
      the subsequent compenetration of
the anti-cartesian: res vanus replaces res cogitans,
yet res extensa remains intact...
           louis the 14th and the "thought" project
that became versailles...
                 and it would have been a "thought"
fabien marchal...
            it used to be monsieur philippe I,
but then i became bored of
my irritability of being unable to assimilate
the deviances to such carnal finalities...
best of all, just recently,
  the appearance of marquise de montespan
with her keen observation -
        purely a priori, well, 3's the lucky number...
the inverted crown woman...
  the crown of thorns woman...
       how she took hold of bouffon gossip cueues...
and became...
          sorry... she can't be defined as
          the king's favourite "mistress"...
          ha ha! she was the ******* madame!
feed the hydra another hungry bite at its
neck...
            and you can make a brothel legitimate
without the concept of money...
                   worded-"bribes"...
if she was a mistress of louis xiv
then i was the nun
           in the rocky horror show, if there was
any nun, in that movie...
            madame through and through,
because she became more obliged to the queen
than the king:
             misconcept of pushing women
rather than allowing them to fester
like sores?
                       heart becomes detached...
less... clingy...
                                       boyish...
packed with dormant dynamite lodged
in stone...
             but without the fuse of
an authentic woman's tongue that asks
for bribes in acts outside of the most piquant
affair of carnal festivity...
               endless ******* "metaphors"...
       which is no wonder why adultery is
what it is: an emotional and an even cognitive
investment in a: story, rather than
a mere body...
                          which is not to say that
the body isn't cherished:
                   last time i checked...
     i forgot to take my genitals with me to
the brothel... left it in the dollhouse
                                 of Barbie & Strappy...
yet what's persistent is the rigour in
writing the casually sporadic...
                    sleep deprivation and a diet of
decent video-books...
               a drink... a sudoku...
                    and the chance to catch up
with about 10 hours...
                             and having the ******
decency to do minor things that involve
other people's boring trivialities...
            like cooking dinner...
          feeding the cats...
                            watering the garden...
and trying to figure out:
                      that teenager who gave me
the ten quid he probably found
  (since it was so scruntched up) expecting
me to be his "good uncle" while buying
*****-juice?
                         ****, i thought i was gullible...
he didn't think i was going to
buy something beginning with vod-
                  as anything less than 37.5%?
he screamed and shouted at me...
                apparently the "good uncle" was
on his way, and instead a drunk father stood
before him, telling him:
         now you can take it from me and run
along to what's going to a heart-break
since the other guy and the girl you're trying
to impress have already run off
and you're standing with someone twice your age...
or?
        so putting the goods on the pavement
taking a step back and putting my hands
on my head said: your choice...
           it was your choice to give me the tenner...
but hey, i even put in a little extra
            because i probably misheard you...
just a madman's luck that he was screaming
at me as if i was scalping him
   which allowed for the attention
     of the supermarket
security guard to be prompted
         and some people in the carpark...
rare event...
      very plain... nothing too spectacular
                         like climbing mt. everest...
if he started screaming:
           you're buying alcohol for minors!
what, with my own money?!
            i gambled putting in 6 quid of
my own so that he wouldn't take a litre of
*****...
    hence he shouted: theft!
                           which made no sense since
he voluntarily gave me the ten quid...
          fascinating conundrum...
                   like **** i'd buy minors
                 alcohol using my own money...
some, the bigger the group:
          are smart enough to know the difference
between a common interest,
say, 5 guys and then the scenario becomes
         two pipsqueaks and a smurfette...
i already said it once:
                   me, beer, straight road...
some honest cases you can work with...
teenage tantrums of that sort?
lucky madman loser...
                 saved ten quid on a bottle of *****.

A man is as only as good as his own two hands
A maple only as tall as the oak will allow
The crop the same as the planted land
A thirst still quenched by a creek bed shallow
A sole as sturdy as the cobblers touch
These facts are universal truths
The rope will give if the loads to much
A throne without man is just a booth

ginger ale and whiskey,
isn't that much of an innovation,
but i'll have to admit,
it's not exactly ms. amber
and pepsi...

            two weeks ago i found
out that genetic heritage
finally caught up with...
    high blood pressure...
runs in the family,
  and, apparently,
once you're on high-blood
pressure tablets?
that ****'s for life...

  plus i already knew that
some form of alcohol abuse was in
the background,
if it passed my father,
   because: sure as ****, he doesn't
know how to drink,
   he can't channel it
   to any productive end,
then i inherited it from
          both my maternal
grandfather, and, my paternal
grandfather...
     drunk like cobblers...
                  and worked their *****
off to but...
    the only shame?
            i do knitting...
                          of words...
                  no hammer & sickle...
but at least not blabbering out
    confused words...

      'so living with my parents
suddenly makes me
some sort of ed gein?!'

'funny you should say that,
given that ed gein was
the prime instigator of
h'american culture...
   ******, alfred hitchhock,
  the texas chainsaw massacre,
  mudvayne,
   slayer...
rob zombie... am i missing
anyone?'

  'silence of the lambs!'

'****, i knew i forgot something...'

'well d'uh, buffalo bill's
tailoring of skins?
   all ed gein.'

mother with arthritis,
drops basic items of a kitchen,
some sort of spinal
problem, had an operation
on it,
   nerve entanglement,
walks with a walk stick,
can't exactly bend over,
   reliant on potent pain-killers...

and sometimes when
i don't take drinking "too far"
into the night,
i wake up, bright as a *******
sparrow,
  chirppy, chirp-chirp...
help her bake cookies...
and then make tomorrow's
dinner...

   cottage pie,
     she just has to put the ****
together if i don't wake up
on time...

           and i am the sick
sadistic ****?
           "once upon a time"
we entrusted our faith
in our neighbour to look
after a cat,
    they ****** off to the maldives,
i went to my grandparents,
2 weeks later,
   the cat was dead...

    in between...
   i talked to them and told them
i needed to go back home,
a senseless paranoia gripped me,
something bad was about
to happen...

             you know, the general
complaint of the asiatic people,
they don't really enjoy petting
animals...
they're more into breeding,
and in-breeding...

   got a phone-call with
dear dear mother crying into
the phone: oscar darshan
was dead...

                            great cat,
i too cried when my childhood
"sister", an alsatian shepherd
died...
                  with a cat's death?
i thought i'd do something special...

the cremation was done,
idly sitting in a box in the study...
i took out a croquet
which i found, left,
     outside someone's home
ripe for the taking...
   took the sticks and ***** off of it...
attached a belt to it,
a backpack,
   a hammer and a chisel...

and i went into a world war I
cemetery...
     started hacking at one of
the graves...
left it intact,
having managed to find
an already hacked off piece
of a tomb...

              wrapped it up in
a black bin bag...
             put it on the croquet
trolly...
wheeled it home,
   took the cremated remains
of the cat...
    took to a shovel...
   dug a hole, placed the remains
in the ground...
and then put that slab of tomb
above it...

            all... in the blissful
serenity of the night...

when you grow up,
without any attachment to siblings,
but are exposed
  to dogs, or cats...
        you... tend to do things like
this...
     sure... it doesn't speak
your language,
    but you just judge them
by the language of their eyes...

pepsi: it has caffeine in it,
doesn't it?
           i was offered coffee in
the evening,
with the cookies i helped
to bake...
   n'ah... glass of milk,
the cookie (apple and walnut...
oat based... yummy as ****)...

when a genetic heritage catches
up with you...
    ah.... nearing 33 years...
it was a fun run...
           all those nights spent
drinking whiskey & pepsi -
no, i don't think whiskey
is exactly akin from the holy grail
cup, straight, no ice...
ooosh...
                        feels great saying
that...
         n'ah... mash it up with
some ginger ale and ice,
you're good to go...

                      and the next morning,
unsure whether constipated...
i'd sit, and this is what sly
high-blood pressure does...
your teeth numb,
as does your jaw...
           you get a sense of fear
from biting down on your teeth...
and you sit, stunned from time
to time by a sensation of
swallowing your tongue!

        after all: it is ms. amber...
she ***** readied at the gulp
    like a 40 year old *******
turned ******...
            cream on the hapless died out,
puts on a ******
using her mouth...
               and i'm done "worrying"
about *** and the incel culture
for... give or take:
                a year, 2 years...
                 3?
    thing is... why would i be bothered...
if i passed the test of:
reading a book "with one hand"?
marquis de sade...
   uninhibited language...
rambling, but fathomable...

          a somewhat "over-flowing"
*******, a slightly "over-flowing"
me... but at least not done
under the covers, with the lights
turned off...
     it was always funny to me...
how she would take my money,
go off to the madam,
   i'd get undressed,
take a shower,
she'd come back,
   and then i'd watch her undress...

shame?
   n'ah...
             cheating?
what, the current political narrative?
hell yeah, who wouldn't?
     but i hardly think
that a strip-club would do that much,
at least the one i went to
in athens,
   the strippers wanted to be
touched...
                   or maybe...
i'm just that sort of a satyr...
                   ugly like a socrates...
   but eager as a n00b or a hilly-billy.

Parallel Lives  

Is there such thing as living two separate lives?
I lived in a vale called the “Valley of the cobblers” were everyone
wore wooden clogs, a dead giveaway if you have been out late,
I have many friends there know me by my first name.
Have a homestead rising  donkeys of the sturdy, strong type,
also sold miniature donkeys,  children especially liked them
I had a man who looked after the animals when I had to return to
city life, but as time passed I came to believe my real life was
in the valley, because I feel like an intruder when I walk amongst
modern man – it could be the clogs- people stare at me
think of me as an abstraction a painting once seen on the wall of a café.
Went on a bus to get back where my friends were, the bus drove and drove
and when it stopped I hadn't reached my destination.
Have to try again I miss my real life and want to come home.

the little people: and their grand words...
some within reaching the stasus
of colossus,
       while others groveling like
maggots, come back to the collective
unconscious (memory):
        with a stalled craft to make
the morbid fusion of an impetus...
        the grand people:
          and their concern for the lexicon;
secularism had but one advantage,
the holiness of the subconsciousness
of lingua...
              but, apparently, the communist
didn't teach anyone anything,
other than what needed to be minded:
a reiteration of the winding back
of ******* symbolism,
          back: into the clock-face of
resembling an impeding loss of
a status quo...
                         before the altar of
unmoved pieces of chess,
the current, unfathomability of
a "sudden" move...
                  pawn-broker: pawn-maker,
crude: the collection of
   a tsunami mingling with
the antithesis of the holy ghost within
the shackles of:
                            a zeitgeist...
bounty and beauty bound to
the same curator,
            of the fallen curtain
revealing the androids of future
depictions of kings, raised,
subsequently toppled,
   yet nonetheless kept:
   at a leisure...
                         toad-markings
of the first supposed bite...
like a kiss of the enchanted prince...
who kissess, before
             the other churns a bite?!

i might laugh at attire, but,
all of the fashion industry is
structured around ******-*******...

there is still not greater insult
than what other people eat...
and i can't stomach culinary insults...
the omnivore that i am...

how i ate those dried-out fish-snacks
with a St. Petersburg drinker,
and that every-man's orange caviar
i won't even bother to question...
culinary insults... doesn't matter:
can dress the ***,
                   in a king's tug & ware...

culinary insults are the depth upon
which you base making
           fashion "statements"...
    
see... the western concept of the "left"
is Mongolian to me...
                   i, simply, cannot
comprehend it...
                    one would expect:
a rule of thumb;
  instead one receives a conclave
of giving "it": the index finger...

           which isn't even a forfeit of
tipping into narratives of
the current circumstance...    
         in the omnipresent:
membrane - of -
      fragility within the confines
of: being reactant to
whatever enzyme is made
adjusted to thrill,
  or make *******,
             of a future without
                                            a yesterday.

who let the "idiots" in?
mind you: there are no idiots among
pawns, merely sacrificial lambs...
       and who said that grammar
          could be given a religiosity,
and a deconstructionist-dogma-medium
readily stalked, and subsequently
made: unfathomable?
                it could have worked...
    the anti-nationalistic agenda...
         but given the attempts to
puruse a feat of ridiculing the basic
foundation of a, coherent expression
of a coherent acquisition of language,
with not real basis of nation,
  but erroding the prime of
the individual to start a zoology-creep
invigoration?
                
             there are sensibilities than
transcend nationalism...
    as there are sensibilities than make
"transgressions"
      of globalisation...
         grammar is the only orthodoxy
that remains intact from
the segregation of the church and state...

        i already stated that i am,
blissfully unware of a need to take to
engaging in the catholic bureaucracy of
confirmation...
             but a direct attack on grammar
is a self-defeatist mishandling of
secularism...
                             grammar = dogma...

         since can         dada,           truly rule?!

sure, attack grammar,
  with an unconventionality of the use
of language,
   that doesn't assertain a use of language
with the social focus of
    the pleasantries of formalism...
transgress language formalism...
                and, suddenly,
all cobblers become death-aspiring
"artists"...

                  why isn't artist deemed to
by synonymous with gambler?!

      what a bleak picture,
    a fiction that's the fiction of Dicken's
bleak:
                     something or other...

     yet i love being attached to
a current narrative...
          this: culprit conversation
interlude of a people...
                        
               beside the canadian pronoun
incident...
        and using grammar orientated
words...
       can anyone tell me why english
uses so much conjunction-preposition
shrapnel of a bullet to the letter
to the gun with an aimed word?

        papa germanicus uses a lot of
Faustian... conventionality,
of making words into:
  hydrocrabon-length words...
    compounds...
                          without these little
in-between bothersome flies...
        and he is: papa germanicus...
given his:
   well... he's not regarded as
anglo-pomeranian...
            or anglo-bavarian...
aber: ein: schwab!
                     aber: ein anglo-sächsisch...

petulance of a foreign son:
    before an aged, almost non-existent,
father -

gereiztheit von ein fremdsohn,
    vor eine alt, nahezu nicht-gabe,
                     die vater.

zorn: manchmal
            ertriken mein verstand...
  für ein blick von ein herz!

i can't imagine the remants of
Saxon, to be of must gesticulation
in cultural norms,
          when the remains
of the *****,
           are made to stand... schtill.

ęgleesh will not even begin
to bleach me...
           have the globalists and
their tattooed bodies...
           cheap franchise of
a coulrophobia circus...
               now i have a tattoo:
1410!
                                      1918!
apparently eating fungus
         is but one route...
                  of the spider Atlantis-mythos
monkey...
        as became the common practice
of eating
               remnants of
    aquatic genitalia embodied
by oysters:
  ******* poetics,
as in...
                 once you devour the desire
to ****...
               who the **** needs
to paint like a van gogh within
the origins of the trans-African
                      highway toward a today?