I hadn't been there in ages, hadn't visited, I had no reason to
But then the Covid virus struck and Dublin where I was working was put into quarantine
I wasn't allowed to go up there anymore to work,
And I had no computer at home and no broadband/ WiFi at the time
So they sent me down to the Old Town
It was nice driving down the motorway, it was Autumn and the leaves they were all changing colour
The different shades of red, brown green and yellow
With the sun shining on the mountains and on the bay
It felt almost like I was going on my holidays,
The Old Town it had changed so much, there were all these new buildings,
Retail parks on the outskirts, hotels, new schools, civic buildings... coffee shops
It was lovely and clean and tidy
Like those living there were really proud of it,
The old town I'd known it was there also, in the background, a bit dusty now
There was the big old gothic church my Dad used take us to, to Mass some Sundays
There was the Port and the big ships along the Quay
There was the secondary school I was meant to go to... had we stayed...it looked old, a bit dilapidated now
I wondered was it still being used as a school,
In the Main Street there were still old names of shops that I recognized
The shoe shop where my Mom used buy us shoes
The chemist where my brother got his glasses... the Bakery
The cinema where we seen our first movie "The Magnificent Seven", it was all done up now... all different...
In the office things were... well...weird! ghostly!
A big modern office and some days I was the only one there, just me all on my own
Was like something out of a Sci-fi movie
Other days maybe two or three might come in to join me
All the others of course, they were all working from home,
Often I'd find my mind just filling with old memories and nostalgia...
I could hear the old ghosts calling, calling me to go back
I knew... I knew I had to go back there
Back to where it had all begun for me
The little seaside village where I was born.

So going home I took the coastal road not the motorway
Just the sight of the headland and the blue mountains sloping down to the sea
With the lighthouse there at the end
Just seeing them again gave me an old feeling of my father, my Dad
And then the village itself, the seafront... all the colourfully painted shops,
Sweet shops & novelty shops, the amusement arcade, pubs and hotels and B&B's  (Bed and Breakfasts)
After being away for nearly fifty years, it still looked...it still looked pretty much the same, was hard to believe
I stopped my car and went into a little supermarket shop to get a sandwich for the next day
As I looked around, I seen these two mature ladies there, they were around my own age
I thought to myself 'I might have gone to school with you once many years ago, one of you might even have been my wife had we stayed here and not moved away
I might have lived a more normal, a different life'
But then I thought 'Life is never that simple, is it'.
Outside I decided to go for a walk, to look around and reminisce.

There was the path, the pavement I used go to school on with my brothers
It was like returning to the scene of a crime
How I used to dread going to school sometimes
There was a teacher, a lady teacher that used scare me a lot, she terrified me so
I remember I got sick in class on several occasions
She put me outside once sitting on an upturned bin
I can still remember sitting there on that bin in the sun, feeling so lost and that I was a really bad boy, wishing I was home
I remember I used to get hives, itches on my skin
My Mom used keep me at home
She was afraid, she thought I'd give them to the other kids
I missed the addition and subtraction tables at school because of this
To this day I still don't know what 7 + 5 is, instead I bring it to 10, I know 5 is 3 + 2, so I say 7 + 3 is 10 and 2 is 12
And I know all the doubles, 7 + 6 is 6 + 6 is 12 and 1 is 13, funny that
How I used to dread going to school
Until that was... until one day I did well at something and I received some praise
Then things seemed to change after that, I wasn't as bothered anymore, I think then I realized I was doing better than some of the others in my class and that seemed to make a difference
I remembered sitting beside pretty little girls who used have lovely pink pencil cases with lots of fancy colourful things
Whereas me I barely had a pencil, a rubber (eraser) and a ruler
They were strange lovely creatures, the Girls with their lovely long hair and their cute little faces...
I remembered walking home on my own, with my little schoolbag on my back with all my books in it
It was such a beautiful place, the view with the beach and the sea and the faraway blue mountains
And yet, I used to worry about so many things
It's like even then it was all about...all about survival...
There was the big Chapel on the hill
Once before the Summer holidays they were looking for altar boys and someone put my name forward
Then on the first morning back to school after the Summer holidays
The teacher said you better get down to the church right away, like fast!! you're on the altar this morning !!!
I was terrified, I didn't know what I had to do, no one told me anything
So there I was on my own kneeling on this cold hard marble altar and it was hurting my knees something terrible
And the priest he's talking about God and the Devil and Evil or Hell or whatever
And all these people, the whole congregation their all staring up at us
And I'm petrified, and I started to get faint and nauseas
The priest had to stop the Mass
I can't remember if I got sick or passed out
I was so embarrassed and thought afterwards I was such a terrible bad person, I knew it'd be all around the school the story.

I walked on...our house was gone, knocked down, where there used to be three houses together attached, now there was only the end house
Our house used to be the middle house
It didn't look right now, the symmetry looked all wrong
It was like there was two missing teeth
Why did they have to knock it down ? I wondered. It saddened me a bit...

At another house I stopped, this used to have a shop, a small shop,  the shop was no longer there
This was my Best Friend's house, all the days we used to play football together in the back garden
Kicking the ball to each other
With our jumpers/ sweaters as goalposts
The first to score ten would win the game
I...I usually won
I always found you easy to read, it's like you only ran in straight lines,
I think you were a bit in awe of me for some reason
Maybe you wouldn't have been my friend if you'd beaten me
How did we become friends anyway, I wondered
I suppose coming home from school
We lived on the same road and were in the same class, we'd have met each other
I had two older brothers whereas you were the oldest
So our families would have had a different dynamic
I remember you had a delightfully silly younger brother
I remember your Mom, she was very pretty, she was a lot younger than my Mom
You used bring me in and give me a meal sometimes, we'd all sit and watch TV
There was a different feeling when I was in your house...a different atmosphere
But when your Dad would come home, he was a bit scary
And I knew it was then time for me to go home
You'd wonder afterwards what the lovely Mom saw in the scary Dad, adults they were a bit peculiar.

We were inseparable in those days, many mornings you'd hear the knock on the door
And the familiar greeting
"Hello Mrs B---, Is G---- in, is he coming out to play?"
We were always playing soccer up the garden
Or down on the beach, going out for miles to meet the tide, catching *****, looking under  stones to see what we might find
I remember we were very entrepreneurial
In the Summer we used collect returnable glass mineral bottles, Orange and Lemonade and Coca Cola
And we'd bring them back to the shop and get money back for them
And then we'd have a royal feast, we'd buy bottles of Orange and bags of crisps and ice cream pops and chocolate bars,
Remember all the different Ice pops there used to be, Choc Ices and Brunches and Orange splits, 99's... Ice cream cones
Chocolate bars, Smarties and Malteasers, Milky Bars and Milky Ways, Dairy Milk chocolate bars, fruit gums and Love hearts with little love messages written on them
We used hang around the amusement arcade, play the slot machines, maybe help some old lady collect her winnings, she might give us a tip
There was the bumper cars and the swingboats and music playing all the time on the jukeboxes
It was the seventies (the 70's) and glam rock was all the rage
Marc Bolan and T-Rex, and Slade and The Sweet and a million others
So many great songs, we couldn't wait to grow up and become one of those amazing creatures we saw on the telly
I'd never lived since as intensely as I did back then,
We'd stay out till late
We were like young hustlers going around,
It seemed the days they were never long enough, all the things we got up to,
We'd Caddy in the local golf course
And retrieve lost ***** from the ditches...
Heh! Remember... remember that time... the Brennan sisters, we were up one day near the school
There was building work going on
And there was this big high mound of clay
So we climbed to the top to take in the view
And then the two Brennan sisters came over
They lived nearby
They were in our class at school, we knew them only to see
They were smiling and laughing and giggling
They beckoned for us to come and follow them
We went wondering what was going on here
They led us back to their house, I think their parents must have been out
One of them came up to us and smiled
And then she pulled down her pants and showed it to us in all its wonderful glorious splendour
It was amazing... incredible... such a sight
Her beautiful...her splendid... her lovely... bare Bottom!
I remember thinking it was like a lovely ripe pear
One of Life's great mysteries had just been unveiled
And her there with this huge impish grin,
When we were going home we promised each other we'd not tell anyone, our parents, not even the priest in confession
About that great vision we'd just witnessed
It was the height of naughtiness
Yea! Those were the days...

I wondered, 'Whatever became of you Old Friend ?
I looked you up online but couldn't find your name anywhere, couldn't find anything about you
Were you even still alive ?
50 years was a long time, I'd barely made it this far myself, and I had a lot of scars to show for it
I thought rather amusingly that I should knock on your door
Maybe you were still living there,
But what was I hoping to find ? I wondered...
"Whose at the door ?", a woman's Voice inside might say,
"Just... just some crazy guy talking about 50 years ago" her dutiful husband would reply
That's probably how it would go
I felt like I was Rip Van Winkle awakening after being asleep for 100 years or in my case 50 years
What did I hope to find
What did I hope to see, an old man now just like myself
And I bet you'd tell me your opinions on the government and the economy
And how the village had changed over the years and how other old schoolmates of ours had got on in life
But No! that's not what I wanted to hear or see
I wanted to see you there again just like you were as a little kid
Your lovely youthful face smiling back at me
And you'd say, "I'll get the ball and we'll have a game, the first to ten wins"
This was what I was looking for, this was what I wanted to hear.

We were very close, were going to grow up together, go to the same schools...college
We'd always be friends
We'd meet all the trials of life together....
I hope Life worked out well for you, my friend
In a way...in a way I almost didn't want to know
If I learned you did well in Life I'd probably only get jealous
I'd start to think I was better than you and that I should have had those things you had
Life, this world it makes enemies of us all... eventually
It divides, is all about competing and comparing... and beating (I suppose).

I still remember that last night before I left forever
We were down on the beach, it was twilight, the tide was coming in... the waves slowly advancing
Just like in life I had no power to stop it, to change things,
I had no say, I didn't want to go and leave you Old Friend
No! I didn't want to go....

Thank you...thank you for being my friend, for being there
For all the time you gave me, I hope I didn't hurt you in any way.

I have a photograph, one solitary old black and white photo of the two of us
We're sitting on a barrel in our back garden on either side of my Dad whose in the middle
You look a bit uncertain, unsure of yourself, probably lost in the dynamic of my family,
I look at you and I think
"Whatever happened to you.... Beautiful Friend, whatever became of you"
And then I look at myself as well, and I think, I whisper
"Whatever became of me as well".

We think we're so different.

because we have piercings
                                                  or an iphone/blackberry
wear jeans not skirts, skirts not jeans
only shop at local markets, only buy the brands
eat organic
                       or vegan
                                           or total junk
wash our hair with what's cheap
                                                           or environmentally friendly
                                                        ­                                                      or not at all
because we listen to folk, not rap
ska, not rock
                                                            ­          talk a certain way
                                                             ­         or partake in certain hobbies
have skin, instead of fur or bark
see more colourfully, but have **** nightvision

because we have warm blood
because we are human.




We think that this is individuality, but it's really all a lie.
A lie to keep us docile and passive..
                                                       ­                                                   To keep us buying **** we don't need,
                                                           ­                                                but making us believe
                                                         ­                                                  that we do
Guarding us from that destructive                unpredictable                       mother
of ours
until we don't even think of ourselves as animals anymore.
Until we think we're Kings.




To be you, you just have to be you.
Scratch that.
You just have to be
Because what is "you" anyway?
                                                         ­            A pronoun
                                                         ­            to keep you
                                                             ­        away from me
                                                              ­       and we
                                                              ­       and us
                                                              ­                                          together.

To force you into the lie of language,
because we all know that what truly speaks is our hearts
but we would never admit it
because then we would be too emotional
too sensitive
not cold or impersonal enough
to fit in.
                                                             ­                  And that's all we really want, right?
                                                          ­                     To belong?
Well, I'll tell you something:
there is a way to fit
to belong
to live.
And that is to not fit.

                                                           ­          Don't define yourself by these labels
                                                          ­           or this music
                                                           ­          or that boyfriend.

                                                     ­                Define yourself through your ideas
                                                           ­          your ambitions
                                                       ­              your immaterial desires.

Take out the you and become a we,
                                                             ­    and we will be,
                                                             ­                                      just be,
together.

The cat lies on the table. She is keeping her own council, a philosophical feline. It is mid afternoon, an hour before the possibility of tea and cake. Already the room is retreating from the lamp's light into a dusky gloom. Outside the winter garden lies still, damp and cold and still.

Rain comes. A winter rain, almost snow, spreads itself across the window.  Ice-full it is a drum with tiny particles rolling across a taut skin of glass. The cat stirs, turns on his side exposing a tummy of white fur. An old cat this, a silent presence now, hardly a purr on a waiting lap.

Books. Piles of books. A book open to reveal pencilled annotations. Several arrangements of papers paper-clipped together, colourfully highlighted. There's a scholarly journal 'borrowed' with a concert programme marking a ‘required’ read. Telemann and Bach infiltrate an investigation of Jewishness in George Eliot's Daniel Deronda.

A framed photograph stands companionably amongst today's letters and the coloured cards of Christmas to come. There's a red-haired girl, a portrait against old roses., a child in a school-blue dress, freckled with green eyes she is smiling carefully, as though not convinced taking this photo is a good thing.

As darkness encroaches, the stories in this space circle the lamp like moths. They rise from the table, detach themselves from the walls (like bats) and float in their own form. Catching leaves, wish-making in a September wood; the fierce tide pouring across the Lindisfarne causeway; small children picnicking by a cricket field. The recent thrill of Jerusalem. Taverner's Mass –

Oh Western Wind,
when will thou blow,
the small rain down can rain?
Christ! If my love were in my arms,
and I in my bed again!

Here in this small suburban room there comes together a past; a life reverberates in a temporary peace, a truce in the long campaign of family, ageing, ****** discomfort, obligation, regret (always regret), passion unspent, books unread, poems still to write. And this waiting for a clear answer yet to come, a promise yet to be fulfilled? All is contained here as the alarm clock's digits move towards 16.30 and it is time for tea and cake. Time to rise from the table and feed the cat.

Happy thing -
Come fiercely.
Bend me like a tulip at midnight,
Make something out of me,
Smoke out my *****
And saddle it in gemstones,
Gallop me like a tongue-twisted
Traveller into the
Whole globe’s bedrooms.

Happy happy thing -
Push me!
Make something out of me!
Kid me,
Front me,
Strike me dancing like a hot
Stone,
Hand me cigarettes that I’ll light
From the last one,
And the second to last one,
And the next one.

Happy thing!
Ohhh come colourfully!
Make the world all-a-bright,
Make red as red as a big red love
Or a spitsuckled cherry gumdrop
Of red-red-red-red-red,
Make yellow smear itself
like crushed cats eyes,
Make pastels all pennysweets
And green so luminous that
Clock hands can’t even dream of it.

You beautiful
*******
Happy
Thing!
You happy happy happy thing…!
Songs are burning!
And planets are droaning!
And London is sleeeeeeping,
And the morning is leaping at me!
Is it leaping at you?

My happy thing,
Come noisily.
Sit with me jabbering,
******* with me,
Snog me,
Pull apart my face and
Absolutely ******* drench me
In come.

Happy thing,
Pierce me,
Make me a Sebastian,
Riddle me with spears and watch me
Laugh out the blood,

Happy thing,
Come quickly.
Take my hand and run with me.
They’re shooting at us,
Making saints of us,
And they’ll get us y’know, they’ll get us, they’ll get us –

Happy thing
Come on now dear,
I know the watercolours are running but
Don’t they look pretty
dropping as keenly as our tears –
being caught is just another reason to escape!

Happy thing,
Don’t swallow that.
Are we lowering ourselves?
Are they poking holes in us?
Oh no,
Are they sinking us?

Happy thing,
I hope you always
Come fiercely,
Colours aren’t the same now
And ******* is just a drone of biology.
I promise that
next time we'll be immortal.
Next time we’ll have learned
How to really, really run.

Everyone gets sad every now and then; gloomy, down in the dumps. But like rainbow after storm we find the light again and move on from our sadness, allowing ourselves to live beautifully and colourfully.

For some, this does not apply. There is no rainbow after the storm for their storm never ends. It's a thickness that dwells deeper than bone marrow, a sadness attached to the core of their chests. A longing for a relief that will never be granted. This sadness is deadly.

So how does one love those who refuse to be loved? How do you look them in their clouded eyes and tell them they mean the world to you? How do you watch them hate everything about themselves and have no way of showing them how perfect they are in your eyes? How do you make it stop?

You can't, it's not that simple. This sadness is not a light switch that can be flicked on and off. You'll never fully save them from it (this will hurt you almost as much as them), but you can try to make it easier.

Listen to what they have to say, don't force them to be like you,
Love them for whate'er they are, their coping mechanisms too.
Hold them closely to your chest and always let go last,
Teach them to live in the moment instead of dwelling on the past.

There is no perfect way to love someone who doesn't love themselves.  There will always be down days, relapses, set backs, but none are intentional. Do not be angry with the one you love for not being able to leave the house for a day. Do not scold them for crying over spilled milk - literally. Do not make them feel like this uncontrollable sadness is entirely their fault - if you do this, you are not worthy of their love to begin with.

Loving someone sad is never easy, it can take some work, but you must remember how much work it takes for them to accept the love that they believe
They are not worthy of.

- p. winter

When I risk a thought of you, all I can see is:

A heart of warmth

The lips containing the key to seduction

A smile holding the recipe to happiness

Fingers extracting the magic of kindness

A brain imagining the unimaginable

The effect of one person can seem so little on the outside to you

But could be all they've got on the inside

I couldn't remember the last minute gone by where I haven't thought of you

Not a night where I haven't cried from my eyes all the way through

A dream, colourfully torn. full of deceiving images of our love, of what it could have been

This is not a memory of us, this is just what I've seen

A few months ago,
I met a man, but not just any ordinary man.
A colourfully, depressed man;
Who has beautiful designs on his body.
A main key to unlocking the door that hold his demons.
Now I only have a visual and auditory idea of what's going inside his mind.
From what he told me, but I know he leaves out so much more.

The tattooed man is exhausted,
Depression holds him hostage;
A mistress of misery
He found a comfort in her grasps,
He sleeps in her palms, tossing and turning for hours on end,
Restless coma.
He was always so sleepy.
Her lips whispering venomous yet addictive words into his ear.
Planting seeds of doubt and harmful flowers,
He adores his damaging garden, with objects scattered there and here.

The tattooed man is so very tired of breathing,
I can hear it within his stern voice
I can reminisce his fatigue glance, inside his dark brown orbs;
Suicide tempts him.
Every minute of the day,
every breath he takes
Suicide tempts him like a hunter baiting it's prey

Clawing and searching desperately for an exit.

The tattooed man told me, he why he covers himself in tattoos.
The irritating sting of the needle is way better than satisfying the desire to guide a knife across his skin.
Colors and designs imprinted everywhere on his body,
His face, arms, legs, hands and neck.
And let me tell you, he is beautiful to me.

He told me he’s always scared,
During the twilight of the night, on the drive home from our 2 day road trip.
And I’ve never heard so much serenity inside his voice before.
His eyes lower, but they almost seem to shine
in the moons illuminating glimpse
“I hate making new friends,” he said,
“Because that means I’ll have more ties and bonds to this life.
If the relationship is there, I can’t die.”
And dying is something he really wants to achieve.
Just as much as Olympians want their gold medals.

The tattoo man grew a liking to I, and he is very precious to me.
(Vice versa)
I grew very fond of him, like two gnarled trees entwining together.
And now i’ve become very selfish
And I don’t want let him give in to suicide.

Unsuitable,
they declared,
and then
banished her.

Exiled to silence,
inhabitating
the moisture
of bluish mists,
she unknitted
her thoughts
and let them go.

We all saw it,
that holograph,
ribbons
colourfully bending
in thin air.

Part I: My Temple

The house has been burgled,
The furniture rearranged,
The bookcase is burning,
The contents in flames.

The ground is not stable,
The stairs are not steady,
It’s time to go they said,
But I am not ready.

It is safe inside,
Warm and detached,
The fire is raging,
But I can’t move I’m attached.

They took what was mine,
They stole who I was,
We tried to find reasons,
But just because…

The weight of my world
Rises up with the smoke,
The rooms hold the lies,
That secrets provoke.

It’s fading away,
Consumed by the flame,
It’s lost itself
But who can I blame?

The house is eaten,
The fire licks it clean,
I tell myself I will wake up,
That this is just a bad dream.

I didn’t think they’d notice,
My house burning down,
But little did I know,
It was the talk of the town.

I stand at the door,
All that’s left is the frame,
The inside is wreckage,
The exterior is the same.

Its heart is slowing down,
Brittle bones are breaking
Skeletal and fractured
It falls apart, shaking.

Part II: The Wilderness

Out here
On the road,
I’m completely
Lost
Signs telling me where to go,
But I trust myself most
The alarm rings of disillusionment and denial
That wakes up my neighbours,
Yet I don’t notice.

I turn down pleasure pathways,
Each one connected to another,
They stimulate desire.
The road backwards is blocked,
I concentrate on what's ahead
My only way is forwards,
So I can begin to run.

Part III: Rebirth

My house is being rebuilt and ever so slowly the bricks are stacked,
The windows are replaced and the cement is set.

But some damage is permanent.
There’s cracks,
And there’s scars.
Electricity rewired
Forcing life where there is none,
Repairing the circuit,
Pumping blood through the veins,
So I can live in the house again
Temporarily affecting the artificial happiness.

The flower grow and makeup the trees
I paint on the outside a sunshine yellow,
I open the curtains to enjoy the view
I restack the shelves with new books
With fresh bindings and different stories.

Yet it can’t help but remind me of the past,
All that has been and has gone,
At last it is almost done.

Part IV: Divine Intervention

A year has circled,
Memories in every alley and lane,
I’m back to the days when it all began,
My past normal is my present insane.

I ran further than I realised,
I wanted to leave my town,
I buried myself in sadness
Further and further down.

Many don’t want to visit,
They’re afraid of all that has been,
Afraid that my house is unstable,
They can’t see what I’ve seen.

But I came back to look clearly,
To live out my days in my home,
My family visit me,
I am back from being alone.

It all feels more homely,
The garden colourfully thrives,
I have redecorated it completely,
Only goodness survives.

My temple could be inherited,
Maybe by a child or two,
But I won’t let them fall,
I know exactly what to do.

So the decay of the house will always be with me,
Despite ashes swept away,
But now that I am back again,
I am here always to stay.

Acapulco, the 1950's jet set age
of glamour and allure
a bay of high rise flats
edged along the shore

A golden bay of sandy grains
the longest beach it's famed
with glistening lights upon the shore
reflecting window panes

I find a puffer on the beach
and dive for large pink shells
my soul is filled with adoration
for this city gels

At night the city is on fire
with mariachi sounds
silver blue sombrero hats
colourfully spinning round

The soul is beating loud and wild
inside there is pulse
I feel it pressing me inside
true and never false

The colour hits you like a bolt
vibrant in it's treasure
a spicy flavour on my tongue
Acapulco's been a pleasure

I can't help myself -
I'm attracted to Intelligence:
Women, Men; Boys, Girls -
I can see the predatory
Hunger behind the eyes -
I gravitate darkly hovering,
Protective-like, awaiting
A stimulating engagement.
It's f**ked, but not ******;
Well, not always - aesthetic!
This Living Death -
Another PrimeOrdeal Blackness -
Vividly, colourfully plumed,
Dancing uniquely for Her
Attention, although it scares
The potential Danger
Obviously overwhelming
All but the Solid-Staters.

I am sill here...
And I still sound through the muddy plies of your illusion.

Still, even now, do I resound
through the crooked void of your presence...
I am the change!

And you, dearest mine, still so unbound,
so colourfully, you resound,
through the mundane madness of the hour.
You are the war I wage.

We are the frailty of desolation...
We are the winds that blow...
You, and I,
are the god we bestow.

We are the abstracts of absolution... We are the dancing hymn of death.
We are the raging scorn of delusion, we are society's failing breath.
I am change, I am the bringer of doom.
You're the war I wage, and the coming bloom.

And here we are again...
The wilder me,
storms the colder folder planes...
Across the distance that separates all that is between us.

Where do we go from here...

A.r. Bazian
*Written in 2012

Trees shed seasons look
Leaves do colourfully dance
Still upon cold ground

Amidst poisonous purlieu
I'm up in the clouds
Dare I care not and
sail on my flight of fancy.
White patches of dull clouds
on the pale face of sky
envy my glow,
can figure not
the root of the flow.
Slaughterous suspicions
conspire to drown the ship
in recurring torrential rain.
Colourfully calm, I'm
under the blazing Sun. Others
would never know, love lies in
my core for guiding me
to the shore.

title: scandal tilt
body: porous: per & marie 2019:
simultaneously: preserved...

wow!

on my way back from a shift at Craven Cottage... walked through the park with great haste, sweat like a pig prior to slaughter when sitting down on the District Line from Putney Bridge to Victoria... still wearing my jacket... upon disembarking the train, took the jacket off... breathed... allowed my sweaty back to breathe, took off my clip-on tie, undid about three button from the collar down... well... i've been told before that i'm as hairy as a monkey... hairy face, hairy chest, hairy stomach... a Turkish ******* would never mind... we only travelled two stops from Victoria through to Oxford Circus... i have to write the following word in katakana... what... a *******... スカ - SUKA... *****... a female-dog... what's the ideogram of that katakana? no... it's not that simple... SUKA... thank god i was wearing my sunglasses... the Thames bore these two holes for my eyes with the glimmer of the sun being reflected come sunset... i asked my co-worker: Putney Bridge is not the last bridge of... the first bridge of London? he mentioned: isn't there one at Hammersmith? isn't there one at Richmond: i replied? favourite bridge? oh... you that film: from the 1990s... Sliding Doors... the Battersea Bridge? no no... not the Battersea Bridge... that white one, with all those Christmas Lights... it's the Albert Bridge... sure... we know the last Bridge of London is the Tower Bridge... but what bridges are there after Putney?! oh... we're not going into Oxfordshire or... Kingston-upon-Thames... **** that... London, proper... **** me... the map on google reads like some Arabic text: right to left... weird... what comes after Putney... see... when i was living in Edinburgh... at least i knew my bearings... there it was... the shining emblem of the compass... the Firth of Forth... down in London? it's a ******* Bermuda triangle! the ****** just spins and spins... people come from all other i'm like: yeah... "that"... that's not supposed to be there but... "there"...  clueless... sure as ****... after Putney Bridge you get the Hammersmith Bridge... then the Chiswick Bridge... then the Kew Bridge... then the Twickenham Bridge... that's the last proper bridge on the map... London will forever be too disorientating... at least Edinburgh is facing north... London isn't facing any direction on the compass... it just... spins out of control... so i got on the Victoria line at Victoria... two *******... one looking somewhat tame... the other... ooh... what a treat... we were only going as far as Oxford Circus... red hair... some of her's some fake... tattoos on her hands and fingers... she looked like she had piercing in her cheeks in the past... just my type: crazy... unhinged... daddy issues: whatever... and i''m standing there, tired... dead-beat... i just want to get home and drink some whiskey and scribble... about my triumph while helping a few boys sell cookies and brownies for charity by changing around their stall arrangement... because i wasn't put into the stadium to shove a lot of lard around... i'm peering through my sunglasses... oh... wait... she's digging me... oh right... she's one of those girls into the Scandinavian look? oh god, one of these ones... only hours prior i was talking to this Finnish grandfather about sports in general... i'm giving off these whiffs of Viking "beauty"... **** me: and i know what i'm goign to say next: that sort of physiognomy always attracts the happy-tattooed-hands and fingers red hair types of *******... right? where they **** is my ******* Mohawk then?! where the **** are my tattoos... i mean... i've seen dogs with eyes like these... eagerly brown and blooming with joy... any other scenario... we got off at Oxford Circus... i waited a little... she just about ****** off down the North Bakerloo route... i spotted her... obviously... she tried to give a shy glance back: would i follow her... ask her for her number... she had the most amazing: inquisitive eyes... i know... she wanted me to approach her... one of those... magical movie scenes... two strangers on the tube... blah blah... if work didn't **** me off... if i didn't have to make up for it on my own crowds from something within like: self-initiative... just my-******-up-type... no... i went down the Central Line route... travelled to Stratford... got the train to Goodmayes... bought a bottle of 200cl of brandy... some pepsi... some cigarettes... and walked past Chadwell Heath... thinking... about absolutely nothing... well... the "one that god away"... sure... it's not even whether i have the patience... i obviously have the charm... but i know how the conversation would have started and ended... so... you still don't live alone? you don't have a place for me to crash... bring all my belongings to? guess... what... what she said with her eyes... perfect! what she would later say with her tongue? no, i don't want to hear it... beccause i'd be her stereotypical loser... so... why... ******* bother? with those eyes of hers i also received: twice-more with the eyes of the boys i helped to collect more money from selling charity cookies in the park... oh **** me: more! because it was selfless! there was no ******-friction involved!  sure, i could try to rekindle my self (in the reflective, not the reflexive: myself... sense... no... that's long gone... i've aged, i've learned some pretty good lessons of reserve) with a teenage boy i used to be, who would fall asleep listening to Roxette... fading like a flower, watercolours in the rain, blah blah... but this... what's that film? Happiness of a Spotless Mind? Jim Carrey... crazy free spirited girl with red or purple or blue hair... sure... and if, myself, didn't go mad aged 21... entering a church... hearing a choir and then hear a great wind disperse the singing... sure... right now... aged 35... i'd be a proper career-boy... not caring about the lesser people in me... status-orientated... i would easily pick-up these wacko girls left right and centre... and give them a month's worth of... living out the Pretty Woman fantasy... no.. instead i have a personal library in my ivory tower of a bedroom in my parent's house filled with Heidegger's black notebooks... oh man... but this one... she had prettier eyes than an Alsatian's... she gave off whiffs of surprise... could she love me, like i am? torn? perhaps... i forgot to make a reality-check-cheque in my head... better this fleeting interaction... she... infatuated: me indifferent... at least in the moment... obviously now i think about it... sure... some, "alternative" universe... where... we might live an affordable living in... the ******* Shetland Islands caretaking a lighthouse! but my life hasn't been all that predictable to find more unpredictability all of a sudden... some exercise in a vitality for / of life... i just need little pockets of being acknowledged by the other as being recipient of existence... that usually comes along with children and handicapped people... or animals... these three categories always spot me... if i were ******* rising in the hierarchy of the truly insane-sane folk... i'd have to be as mad as a poodle-or-a-toddler's-worth-of-Mozart! ****'s sake... no no no... i'm not buying that trip! **** that... i'm going my own way... to a place where the moon is a skull in the coldness of the night, and come April... there is a whiff of a Magnolia scent in the air! i call it trans-temporal pairing to some cue to a clue to this puzzle... but this one... my god... eyes like a properly bred Alsatian... so endearingly brown... she looked like a teenage girl for a second's worth of flash of time... she just looked so ****** up... like a puzzle box... and with all that make-up she slapped up... Madam Tussauds' replicas saw less... what's the retrospect? i? i'm scared of reality? last time i heard: i've been the one most detached from it... why would i be afraid of reattaching myself to it? the only reality i find comforting is... when i'm surrounded by children, retards or animals... i consider plants as inanimate objects, so no... other thoughts... mother's arthritis... a father coming to the conclusion of this career... nearing retirement... their mortality... my mortality... cinema movie love stories are sort of gone... reality doubles-down... no one was truly with me when i needed help... ergo? i helped myself the best i could... and... i don't need loved-up pretend hitch-hickers... how authentic it might seem... at least when i visit a brothel... no ******* is going to say: oh... another loser... how are losers treated in those Japanese love-hotels because of over-crowding, no-house-building "claustrophobia"?

on my way back from a shift at Craven Cottage...
tired... left the house at quarter to 9am...
came back.. at 8:30pm...
and did what? only a 6 hour shift... got paid...
hmm... good idea... i don't even know...
capitalism... whoever defends it ought to know
that there are rogue companies out there...
the current company i'm working for...
i'm supposedly an employee...
   but... they have... since November of last year...
yet to issue me with a statement to clarify
how many hours i've worked and what i'm to be paid...
they just... transfer money into my bank account:
without any: black on white clarification...
i've already heard stories about the owner and co-owner...
how they profited from the pandemic...
little pawn me... a year... i just need a year...
to get those references... even today i started talking
to this guy about joining another company...
at least that company has an online rubric in place:
where you can book in electronically
rather than rely on some bogus whatsapp messaging...
******* cowboys... meat-heads... the whole lot
of them... no logistical sensibility...
but i've done it since November... i'll wait...
i'm patience... i'll play nice... but today...
oh today was coming... they're behaving like it's
a ******* schoolyard... i'm being punished for having
mentioned already having a university education:
oh god! and a degree in chemistry!
some are studying pretend-law... or whatever *******...
or they have known each other for a bit longer...
or that i'm not talkative: professional... while they
stab each other in the back... or...
i fancy this one girl who started work...
rumours spread that a supervisor is ******* her...
but i approach her with flowers on Valentine's day...
she gets fired... i get sidelined...
          oh i know my place... it's a place that's
called the waiting game...
         but today i was *******... less capable people
were put into positions within the stadium...
me? again: to the ******* park with you...
some might say: oh... he's ben given the easy shift...
yeah... the ****** shift...
   i made due counters... i had to...
by the end of the game a ginger colt that was
ejected during the game... drunk... had nothing better
to do than to sleep in the park... i tended to him...
woke him up... waited with him for his friends to rejoin
him... so half-asleep... i comforted him with:
you team (Coventry) beat Fulham 3 - 1... happy?
he replied... why do all the best games happen when
i'm asleep? well... this must have been the first
in a park in London... you're lucky it was a gorgeous day...
but my pinnacle came when i helped these boys
who were selling homemade bakes for charity...
NSPCC... £1 a pop... but they weren't selling them...
because they position their stall right behind a tree...
so i walked up to them... listen...
you're not going to sell them... you're hiding behind
a tree... here... let's move this stall of yours...
away from the tree... and closer to the route of leaving
fans... and let's also twist the table a little so...
your BAKED-GOODS for CHARITY is facing
the people walking out of the stadium...
    i finished my shift... would you know it...
             from about 30 unsold pieces of dough...
the boys had only 2 left...
           and how they thanked me...
   fine... FINE... if this steward contra SIA hierarchy
is in place... ******* wanks...
i'll do a better job elsewhere... pacifying people...
after all... all those with those SIA badges... licenses...
oh... they know **** all of judo...
they just rush overpower: art of ****...
   first comes the art of reason...
much much later comes any physical interference...
but i'm working with half-wits...
  just because some are bulging... have a voiced-prowess...
gorilla-mating-call-warfare i call it...
they think they have a license to: attend to doors
they build up this superiority-complex...
which is great... i might therefore ask:
not that i have a PhD... but... if you're going to belittle me...
do you have a degree in chemistry?
just today... i picked up a high-viz. orange...
later it was changed to black... i picked up one with
the word: supervisor on it... because it fitted me:
2XL... oh no no... one of the other pawns inquired...
you can't wear that... but it's black...
i was told to change from orange to black...
but this one has the word: SUPERVISOR written on
it... my god... how people have learned to overvalue
themselves... or rather: how have become become
undervalued that they have to have these little battles...
the war is already lost...
whatever ******* Einstein figured this one out...
so at the end of the shift we're about to stand down...
me and my "mate" are park 3... we're looking for park 2...
right... and we're all wearing black vests... black trousers...
black coats... the crowd that's leaving?
well... you know how the English dress...
hardly in the United Colours of Benetton...
or the old way that GAP used to attire people: colourfully...
so... i'm looking for a black moth
among a cloud of dark grey moths... great!
******* genius! like i said:
i'm working with ******* meat-heads...
i'd like to say retards but they are too bulky and too angry
and too ready to stance themselves as BIG
rather than arm themselves with cunning...
o.k. o.k. work... but i got the upper hand...
i helped those boys sell those cookies... cakes... whatever...
out of their stash... we just moved the table away
from the tree... shifted it so the sign was more apparent
and... hey presto! NSPCC got its fair share...
and... my reward? the sweetest thank you any man
can receive... the outstanding look on a young boys face
that a stranger is capable of helping (him)...
that's ******* priceless... i'm writing about all those
petty squabble prior... but... that thank you:
that look of longing for hope in the future...
that's mine... i own that... or that tenderness of
the drunk boy who was sleeping in the park
waiting for the game to finish... while i gentle touched
his leg to wake him up... that too...
i don't need physical confrontation when i can:
appease... comfort... all those adrenaline junkies...
those... amphetamine-anabolic-steroid: former prison
guard types... whatever...
i know one decent move that could floor anyone...
you make a cross with your thumbs... while pretending
to pray... with these hands... you grip someone
by the knuckles... pressing the thumbs into the hand...
and twist... i forgot martial art i learned that from...
i left the classes after i was kicked in the *****...
and curled into a foetal position: after i refused to:
shout HA-YA! when pretending to punch and throwing
kicks while marching forward...
****** lessons in martial arts... getting kicked in the *****...
but... i write this... like...
like i will never go to the gym and pump weights...
just give me 2 hours on a bicycle...
doing some press-ups...
and once the shift it gone... having being paired
with this "mate" of mine:
he'll reply: it was nice working with you...
and you sort of know it's almost...
when he tries to sell you an alternative
job to the current you're working at...
because... it's "CAPITALISM":
   i too heard... didn't you hear?
if you have the right sort of a microphone...
and you put it up to a dog's *******
when the dog's running...
you can... hear... ******* the tune of:
jingle-bells!
didn't you know?!
   esp. that version from Lethal Weapon...
      one ****, count one two...
two's a ****'s worth... three and four and by five:
grr... what's not to love about
life and all the arguments for the status quo
of all those people that always go ahead
and gear up the tide of: away away we go:
leaving the rest of the idiots behind...
           tear-jerking psychologists with an audience
of soft-cookie:
those types that ought to be hard-on
digestives... instead... they get dunked into tea...
i burp... what... a cushion my crap and crab
on the inside out...
rather than harden it with the exoskeleton
of the outside in...
            little ******* London adventure of... perhaps
Romance... but... most probably:
probably not.

i mean: you know how the joke goes?
when you diagnose someone as having lost touch
with reality?
and then... too many people have lost touch with reality?
the supposed loss of reality of the individual...
transpires like a phantom: clout...
why were people supposing that, "i" became detached
from reality?! huh?! why are these people
wearing pseudo-niqab nappies on their faces
when almost pretending to be: trainspotting?!
huh?!
           i'm schizophrenic... what about all these...
covert... hidden... undiagnosed hyperchondriacs?
i thought i was just a bilingual...
oh... right... the mono-lingual normies of England...
sure... "we" can follow-up with that...
"you" try to destroy "me"...
"we'll" come after "you":
gender neutral? one's a ROYAL:
one and we...
                anything to: bypass the ******* rap!
investment from years... years ago...
always invest in children...
you never know when they'll come around to
protect you against the elders
or... more importantly...
your contemporaries...
                always invest in children...
         their presence is a future forward:
kinder:
      immer invertieren im kinder...
   ihr(e) gegenwart ist ein zukunft: ein fließen!
i'm guessing...
unlike in Deutsche...
a(n) apple... savvy?

           i truly wish... i truly... want to believe
beyond the told ties of the heart to:
all the discomforts of reality checks...
that i could possibly come to the splendours of
illusion on a whim:
and keep such whims within the confines
of illusion... without having to have to reality
check them back with...
items of "reciprocated" gratitude...
for the "good life"... oh what a sweet little whisper...
and... if i were a painter...
what a Francis Bacon horror i would possibly
conjure with the aid of cubism...
such trivial times are beyond us...
dog have eyes and the levelled certainty as such...
women just have the spontaneity...
there's no Bonaparte behind them...
no suicide quest for Moscow... no... chains and harship...
believe whatever psychologists you want...
pop, piquant... whatever... piquant: i.e. niche...
whatever... no one helped me through my 20s...
now in my mid 30s...
i've finally reached a pinnacle of being attractive...
during transit... but i know it's all a veneer...
behind my visage there ought to be some
******* miraculous story where...
i'd probably invite her back to my flat...
where i live alone... blah blah...
                i own too many books...
   i prefer the safety net of prostitutes...
at least they love me for the way i **** them...
with the intensity of the moment...
i posit: carpe diem... and make an hour last
a certainty... i don't need this *******'s worth
of timid courtship... no thank you...
i waited long enough... i waited too long...
no more...
              i'm done... i'm going to brush my "Greek" nose
up a little more... with arrogance and say...
when i needed you? you weren't there...
now... that you might, perhaps want me?
no... i don't need you...
           you know what i really need?
strangers! i need to interact with as many people
as possible! i can't be bothered with living a life
for some... exclusive relationship!
i need... the most inclusive: selfless relationship!
a... motto akin to:
liebe für das volk!
               if not in Deutsche... then in Latin?

AMOR ENIM POPULUS!

who else? who else can one love?
if one has been denied the excusive rights to love a woman
in one's youth?
as one ages... being denied such a right?
one can only grow to abound in loving:
the people! how else is one to survive?
   what? the same old: "missing"... "mythological":
"exclusive": female?
learn from Adolf ******! LIEBE DAS VOLK!
                  you haven't been given exclusive rights
to counterpart individual...
and... to be honest... inclusivity is stressed by both
status of wife / bus-driver in terms of how
universality is to be expressed on the ground:
all are to be treated equally...
alles ar zu sein behandelt gleichermaßen,
id est: gott! mit! uns!

             i have no one to love... i truly do, not,
so why... keep myself deluded in some...
waiting game of exclusivity?!
   why not freely pass into a medium of selfless
inclusivity?! why... not love: as freely...
and as painfully... as a sparrow might...
the dawn of spring... and the midnight or some:
forgotten hour(s): to come...
    i'm too old to find exclusive love...
to pair-bond... i'm too old... i know the frosty bite
of reality... but at least i can love inclusively...
like a Jesus Christ... like an Adolf ******...
what?! they're... that ******* far apart?! i don't...
*******... ****-ing... think so...
       i'm more comfortable with inclusive love-affairs
where i can be forever pillar... cold...
less-spoken that could be expected...
    my 20s... i never had them...
                    my 30s just about returned...
and now i'm interacting with people in their 40s
and 50s... and all i have in my mind is...
a cat... in musketeer type of boots...
kicking a rat into a sewer... why?
because... that's seems... just about... GERECHT!

Nothing is supposed to last.
The most colourfully electric feelings are supposed to flow through us and only be remembered in afterglow.
Then we can prepare for the new,
the alternative is trying to clasp the lightning bolts inside us that inevitably slip through our fingers.
Leaving us blindly clasping onto nothing yet terrified to let it go,
and in the distraction hauntingly missing,
the most glorious moments of our lives.

She is aware that she has only been a dash of colour, a tad dull lately. Soon she will be bright and bold.

Soon she will be filled with all of the colours that she use to be..

Its just taking her a while to retrieve all of the gold that got scattered everywhere back into the *** this time round.

And once every piece of gold that was scattered is found and all together.
Only then she will shine as colourfully like the rainbow that she was before.

- JGMC•¥• ©

After the rain's cold has faded,
Clouds still floating away,
I begin to witness
What blindening tumult
The rain had
Cast and strewn upon me...

Congealing on the surface of my
Glass petals; fresh and thick
Colourful drab paint
Coating the layers of my
Fragile inner self, and I
Could only leave it there
To protect me against weathering
Until I
Forgot it was there and I was drowning...
You can only hold your breath for so long

In the warmth of my bed,
In the cold of the rain filled clouds,
I sit in expectation,
Waiting for petals to replace my
Colourfully dripping glass
Again

i will attest to this much...
sometimes i sit this canvas and pretend to wonder:
they are not phonetic wars...
we are all somehow literate...
the priesthood relaxed rules for
"dyslexia": we can be noted as having
education in sound encoding...
pretty ******* late if
you ask me...
bad internet connection: primo...
and there i was thinking that
being honest could be equated to water...
how it might flow...
instead... i'm served up with a
crab-bucket of connectivity "issues"...
no... just plain bunny dandy:
you're not up for hopping this day....

i'll have to melt some copper ore
ask two Glaswegians to fight over
a penny to finally invent something
akin to copper wire...
too many interruptions...
it's almost as if all the things
that fly... are supposed to follow Icarus suite...
but no...

a little autobiographical nibble 'ere...
a little over "der"...
i see an apostrophe like i might
pretend to not see a letter
that has to become a surd...
again... i sit before this canvas...
which isn't much of a canvas...

i will take forever to make time
a concise redemption dimension
while attesting to the mere presence
of clouds...
hardly "rolling"...
but clouds are best for:
lest swans and castles...
come the night...
and more... time-keepers of what's
best to engage with THought
without a moral... ought...

all these technicalities...
i need a canvas...
shapes & colours that they ought to be...
instead...
i have these skeletons...
before the altar of God i'm climbing
this impossibility of how words
are wasted...
wasted on: bucra

a litany of best kept: to themselves...
even though i'm willing to contest
that orange, as a colour...
well... it's half as bad given a priori...
organic status...
orange is bad...
           but not when it's an orange... fruit...
or tinsel town or a trek 5 marlin bicycle...
orange is bad when
it's highten-tenet-tightened...
      as a detail... colour is detail:
otherwise to compose shapes...
here i am... bug-frightened hollow in sound...
looking at skeletons...
skeleton lettering... sounds that might
make it into the encycloepedia...
make it into an...

           because that's the correct "spelling"
of the word...
rigid: BULFAR...
    i just invented a word and it's a noun...
noun: posit place, state, origin, temperament,
and time... not a verb...

i write but i want colour...
paradox... i should have been a painter
detailing: not oxymoron,
not philosophy not true or, truant...
excesses in punctuation...
capture sounds... raise them toward
a status of letters...
have to have that
bored-up... pluck-my-eyes out
attitude toward deity...

   but when the sentencing resounds
via: god = word...
i conjure up the exhausting
use of words in all that...
forest that could have remained but
otherwise became...
pile on pile on...
a congested pike of amnesia-work
of... that still elusive spelling of...
fwench... table...
alias... bew-row...

phonetically that's how it looks...
ugly... beau-rho...
bew-row...
      biu-ro-kra-si...

that i write i have to cringe before
god while all other phonetic encodings
are wasted because
there's some dynamic of "authority"
involved because...
a handshake and a word-from-mouth
apiece is not enough to settle score
that i don't need to belittle man
that man belittles himself... galore...
is...

   a revision of punctuation at best...
punctuation being considered an
inter-verbum dynamic and since
in english there's no apparent
inter-verbum dynamic or the use
of diacritical markers...
the whole canvas the point of...
   let's pretend it's almost chess-esque...
this... chicken-scratching
scribblin' ol' me...

encyclopedia... that's apparently correct...
but it's underlined...
so there's a missing Siamese grapheme
waiting to be discovered...
rules... again: rules...
maybe... some greek?

i write China less as caron chasing doubles...
but more like the greek Xa Xa Xa laughter...
which became odd when reading sort of
Spanish of ja-ja-ja-ja...
     bothersome this... H this "e"...
this h... this "M"... **** it the letters
are toying with Copernicus...
no... they're not... but i'm also not equipped
with a compass... either...
who said compas and not compass
who said... the former looks ugly
the latter looks pretty?
and who objected to this language
being so "raw" phonetically?

en-sigh-clo-***-d-ya...
    d-ia...
       jumbling vowels together like it's
a spectacle of a tornado but
there's not ******* wind or
flush in the toilet...
great urn of mammon! speak!
hollow out... let's pretend otherwordly
dictates of supposing agony...

it's not like the english languge could ever
be undermined...
low risk status...
how they speak Fwench
BUT how they rrrrite it... emphasis on a
trill: rather than a Hark... X...
is another boulder of sort, "problem"...

but most certainly this is not painting...
if i were painting i wouldn't be
x-raying... these words these bones...
i'd have fully gravitating forms
and i'd have colours...
i'd be detailing clouds as not
swans or Rembrandt castles
and all "things" psychiatry prone...
i wouldn't be drinking red wine
wanting more: sugar...
more... water!

i relaxed today being inspected
by a female barber...
god... impromptu: i wanted to **** her...
she cut my hair like i might have
had a *******...
bartablondine: blonde moustache...
sodden tricklet...
these details of hair left most exposed...
from ***** to the chin:
yes... the mythological status
of chin and jaw-lineage...
hardly Finnish...

        but the hands on the head
felt most relaxing...
i pretended to doze off...
i only might wished for a whipping
of a non-existent *******
in a furry of pouching... cushion esque
lips...
then again: it might have taken me
a year or so, +, in having finished
reading a Pickwick Papers'... monthly..
entry... which it was...
serial praise...

ava lauren ava lauren....
****-tiptoe a sacred nugget of ****...
less concern in Cyrilic than in
any other... phonetically encoded a...
as in ah-sigh...
variant... denoting more vis-a-vis
aLPHA...
        prime suspect... supposedly...
no...

again.... what alleviates me from
not, to, stressing the sound
encoded in a letter
red is red...
blue isn't exactly black..
BL
BL
                 -ue
                 -ack...

hardly denoting it playing a...
******* fiddle... a violin...
when i am making excuses for a take
on volume while stroking my beard
and not a ferret...
chance me! you catch me a squirrel...
i'll denote you
both Robin and the ******* of Nottingham!

a paradise for opened oysters....
at least... gulped... down...
sobering...
slobbering tow: two...
              i slither i slobber...
this agitating moon...
this agitating closure... sun... exposed...
this, "somehow"...
all EU funding went into
a motto: all autobahns feed the traffic
toward... WARSAW...

but i'm hardly living... that sort of...
a... "sein und zeit"...
i'm not living this variation
of a congested marathon:
i have hours, there's a day...
walking a sum-up 'un of it
is not to my ******' liking...
i'll be adamant when licking
a Romanian **** or a ******* strawberry...
because ****** are ****** last
and **** first...

i miss ******* like i miss:
not being made tough:
experienced in a demand for flimsy filming it...
a mirror is / was an undermining
project... granules...
soothsayers... whip-em-silent...nibbling...

my beard 'airs are not like my
*****...
trim my 'ucking gravity of the brows:
assumed...
before...
left alone... this tired...
this creasing: too much...

  this knee at the altar of a beggar
come: nuance England via
an adhan...
not, e-nuff... / enough...
  call it hue of 'ringe
how can GHETTO:
                 how can... scrap of meats...
     linger like so...

in these letters... borrow some...
like... **** no...
no russian no prussian no austro-hungarian
leaves me gravitating to timid...
bottle of wine, solid...
i'll be leaving having
attained status of a St. Petersburg
grade 0 tourist...

i abhor writing...
each time i excavate this canvas
i'm tying myself to a deity outside of
a polytheism...
how does... multi-purposive...
functioning... plethora...
extension... jargon... loot...

    my cracking of egg shells...
my little Xiny...
chase...
             the plurality word
form for a people...
Xiny - ce-ha-iny...
    like Niem-cy...
             not exactly germs...
more like brick... mortar...
a bottle of wine...

a bottle of bricks...
i expect no wine...
i somehow envision a chance
for a trickle...
i want a teddy... a Theodore...
i want a: HWAM...
what's that?
phonetically it's... Barking &
Dagenham...
colourfully...
fit for a flurry...
it's a... pigeon *******
on a top-hat... *******...
spectacular...me... you are
assigned to heave...
a Forrest Gump from
a Forrest Gate in between
the A406 and... what's that
"blunder" in the middle...
between Ilford and St. Paul's and...
the praising of hybrid... walling...

i heard a piano... crash & fall...
i heard the skimming off details...
i heard the tired affair of circumcision
like i might hear
the grass being mowed
of the hair hair being trimmed...
i heard the donning of the kippah...
i heard so much i hardly forgot
tuning to deaf... dear me...
i heard a piano fall...
i heard a chandelier succumb to...
i was willing to borrow a barrel...
i forgot to can the laughs...
honest to god...
everyone is supposed to forget
to can the laughs...

otherwise we're dealing with androids...
aren't... we?

Why does the conscious mind delve amidst a dream ? where anything is possible from not what it does seem.. fantasizing fabrication, conjuring concoctions..
mixed up meditations with Oh so many options

Our over-sleeping, rapid eye-movement of forty winks whilst we are lost within our imagination of flickering blinks..A rainbow of reveries so colourfully bright.. as we lie snuggled up in our beds comfortable at night..that fine line between a nightmare and pleasure.. all aghast betwixt our reveries or chimeras to treasure

Those eyes,
as unforgettable as sun getting down the hills,
a step closer to the next day while,
best memories yet to be made..
hand in hand below spring trees and
colourfully colourless sunset.

A drop of rain from dawn to dusk while
mysteries remain unsolved of..
flood of happiness, droughts of tears and
we’ll smile, happy together forever.

-in exchange for her beautiful heart