emerald, olive, viridian
oh how you perplex me
forest, jade, chartreuse
why do you tease me so
cyan, verdigris, moss
such excitement arises
to be a word
to be a meaning
is there such a thing,
to have a feeling
to see a vision,
phthalo, pine, teal
are you the same
mint, myrtle, laurel
you make me envious
to be blooming, to be healthy
to be young, to be clumsy
are you callow, how about credulous?
but such a conservationist
unquestioning, so trustful,
tenderfoot and common
the tree, the lawn, the willow
though ecological and crude
a sage in all but name
apple, spinach, pea
aren't you scrumptious,
lime, kelly, bice
are you nature, how about luck
you're pungently rotten
though with such dark beauty and hope,
love and lust ensues
you're the jolliness of balance
and the creative intelligence;
of evil, and decay of money and safety,
will you resurrect me, are you immortality?
such jealousy arises
high goals and honor
so so allusive
healing and vitality
you're calming though fast
lush spring stability,
abundant generosity,
vert vegetation; witchcraft
an aphrodisiac I hear,
are you youth or fading youth?
sunrise and life, growth and fertility
sacred ideology,
eroticized though shameful
so romantic and humble
I see the third ray
or is the the fifth ray, the third eye
are you truth, are you vision
it's becoming a science,
so much compassion
the fourth chakra, the heart,
the centre of us all
a higher consciousness
such a harmonious aura
a hunter, a nurse, a solider, an outdoorsman
villains and superstition
misfortune and prosperity
with toxicity, sickness and death,
recycle and reuse
oh so powerful
you exude auspiciousness
just a holiday
mystical fairies and spirits
though also devilish,
cancer in the stars
a renewal of paradise,
biliously tranquil
are you refreshingly soothing,
peacefully restful,
a naive novice,
very understanding,
is there truly a term for you?
what do you really convey,
countless representations
a definition of name,
or do you signify the feeling, the specimen
the aspect?
though some have no locution for you

here I am,
stepping around the issue
you are you, in any word
yet with a different meaning

The Unknown Desert
This area has some secrets some are unaware of here is a list first material items black sand apples that contained milk and the same grasses that grows along the coastal highway in California and sea gulls and chipmunks just like those found across the Golden Gate in San Francisco in The great conservationist John Muir’s stand of Redwoods. Then a black desert a jungle a secret pass a tunnel under the railroad right next to the place where it snowed all year round and Miss America undiscovered though.

We will start in order with the black sand this was the purist black crystal regular sand not so much
Ocean beach sand has a lot of powder content this you could scoop up hands full let it do that small
Wonder usually reserved for hour glasses gently cascade out soothing as it escapes whatever had it
Bound not being involved with the Spring Side mine in a professional sense I can only guess but like the
Mighty mountain of slack that stood as a giant discard pile to the mine operation this sand now it comes
To mind it had to be a pulverized cast off type of coal dust. They had a show one time that delved into
The byproducts of coal defiantly not as tasty or wonderus as the finds produced by George Washington Carver
From what he referred to as the lowly Peanut this will lead us into the Black Desert mentioned this was
The far end of the Spring Side mine to the east along the rail road right of way Why an artist never
Painted this I guess as spoken it was unknown Donna even missed it with her camera but it truly was a
Miniature desert with the same vistas but all contained within a quarter mile the long open stretch
Comparable to a large pond bordered at the edges by dunes with these grasses found along the coast I
wonder did someone while traveling harvest some then bring them and transplant them whatever they
Thrived and had the same pleasant effect not only on the eye but the soul it was always filled with the
Quietest hush our smallest land of enchantment Georgia O Keefe would have found it matched the
Dream shapes of New Mexico only thing missing were the flowers and sculls everything else was right
Here in your very own back yard it also was a bird sanctuary and the chipmunks still scurry about on this
Now lost dream land gone just like the native tribes the I lone the Sack, Pawnee, Potawatomie’s and the
Greatest tribe the Kickapoo bet you didn’t know this used to be Black Hawk hunting ground.
The milk apples not too big of a thrill unless your six and you look across the small pasture just out in
Front of homer’s Barn was their house Miss America undiscovered lived there I know beauty she didn’t
Walk around and she wasn’t at black desert but she shimmered just like a desert princess she could have
Been covered in coal dust it wouldn’t have mattered it would have looked liked gold dust if she had an
Native American name it would have been trance maker when she came outside the rest of the world
Stopped all activity except the part of paying her homage she was so humble she killed me if they had
Those portable oxen units back then I most likely would have been dragging one around in one of those
famous little red wagons she left me breathless then like a great devastating storm the news crossed the
Yard and ally she was getting married well what should you do probably not this but this is for everyone
Who has loved a living dream then fate oh blackest fate thy name was Richard comes and steals the
Most precious living one away I just went to say goodbye outside her bedroom window that wasn’t
What the girls that were to make up her wedding party heard a mix between a Irish Banshee and a small
Calf tangled in barb wire in a terrible storm would come close as you can expect someone finally said
What is that the answer the little neighbor boy did she close the window no she sealed my feelings for ever by her action of mercy, I don’t care I passed into the far
Reaches of agonies domain but I looked up from the ground where I was laying soaked in tears there she
Was kneeling beside me these fifty six years I have never laid down this torch that almost consumed
Me that night new tears now join those of long ago she touched my convulsing body and spoke I think
From that carving so deep in my heart when death to innocence was complete the poet in me was born
She even has spoken where does the depth come from don’t you know you looked into the cavernous
Abyss that lost love created I spoke of her in three lost loves and endless rails I told her someday I will
Make her famous I’m still working on that promise the apple with milk was an old green knobby hedge
Apple good descriptor for my heart after leaving her presence that night her earthly name is Eileen I call
Her summer’s night angel.

The pass was the space between the sugar creek creamery and Longwells Pana hotel sorry it was cool to
Cut through there and we lost another young prince when Pat Longwell died he was one of the first to
Color his hair he had the air of a beet nick he just didn’t do the lingo you instantly loved him he was a
True friend he owned the name cool the snow that snowed all year wasn’t cool but it snowed those
White feathers all the way to Wadley’s chicken processing at the end of commercial alley past the
Monument company how apropos for all the chicks that said there final Farwell the tunnel was there too
Under the railroad you walked down through it on stones that kept you out of the small amount of water
That trickled through go in and then pop out on the other side or get the thrill of the train rumbling over
Head. Thats your trip through this unknown hope you enjoyed the trip my only wish is that I could type faster.

This area has some secrets some are unaware of here is a list first material items black sand apples that contained milk and the same grasses that grows along the coastal highway in California and sea gulls and chipmunks just like those found across the Golden Gate in San Francisco in The great conservationist John Muir’s stand of Redwoods. Then a black desert a jungle a secret pass a tunnel under the railroad right next to the place where it snowed all year round and Miss America undiscovered though.

We will start in order with the black sand this was the purist black crystal regular sand not so much
Ocean beach sand has a lot of powder content this you could scoop up hands full let it do that small
Wonder usually reserved for hour glasses gently cascade out soothing as it escapes whatever had it
Bound not being involved with the Spring Side mine in a professional sense I can only guess but like the
Mighty mountain of slack that stood as a giant discard pile to the mine operation this sand now it comes
To mind it had to be a pulverized cast off type of coal dust. They had a show one time that delved into
The byproducts of coal defiantly not as tasty or wonderus as the finds produced by George Washington Carver
From what he referred to as the lowly Peanut this will lead us into the Black Desert mentioned this was
The far end of the Spring Side mine to the east along the rail road right of way Why an artist never
Painted this I guess as spoken it was unknown Donna even missed it with her camera but it truly was a
Miniature desert with the same vistas but all contained within a quarter mile the long open stretch
Comparable to a large pond bordered at the edges by dunes with these grasses found along the coast I
wonder did someone while traveling harvest some then bring them and transplant them whatever they
Thrived and had the same pleasant effect not only on the eye but the soul it was always filled with the
Quietest hush our smallest land of enchantment Georgia O Keefe would have found it matched the
Dream shapes of New Mexico only thing missing were the flowers and sculls everything else was right
Here in your very own back yard it also was a bird sanctuary and the chipmunks still scurry about on this
Now lost dream land gone just like the native tribes the I lone the Sack, Pawnee, Potawatomie’s and the
Greatest tribe the Kickapoo bet you didn’t know this used to be Black Hawk hunting ground.
The milk apples not too big of a thrill unless your six and you look across the small pasture just out in
Front of homer’s Barn was their house Miss America undiscovered lived there I know beauty she didn’t
Walk around and she wasn’t at black desert but she shimmered just like a desert princess she could have
Been covered in coal dust it wouldn’t have mattered it would have looked liked gold dust if she had an
Native American name it would have been trance maker when she came outside the rest of the world
Stopped all activity except the part of paying her homage she was so humble she killed me if they had
Those portable oxen units back then I most likely would have been dragging one around in one of those
famous little red wagons she left me breathless then like a great devastating storm the news crossed the
Yard and ally she was getting married well what should you do probably not this but this is for everyone
Who has loved a living dream then fate oh blackest fate thy name was Richard comes and steals the
Most precious living one away I just went to say goodbye outside her bedroom window that wasn’t
What the girls that were to make up her wedding party heard a mix between a Irish Banshee and a small
Calf tangled in barb wire in a terrible storm would come close as you can expect someone finally said
What is that the answer the little neighbor boy did she close the window no she sealed my feelings for ever by her action of mercy, I don’t care I passed into the far
Reaches of agonies domain but I looked up from the ground where I was laying soaked in tears there she
Was kneeling beside me these fifty six years I have never laid down this torch that almost consumed
Me that night new tears now join those of long ago she touched my convulsing body and spoke I think
From that carving so deep in my heart when death to innocence was complete the poet in me was born
She even has spoken where does the depth come from don’t you know you looked into the cavernous
Abyss that lost love created I spoke of her in three lost loves and endless rails I told her someday I will
Make her famous I’m still working on that promise the apple with milk was an old green knobby hedge
Apple good descriptor for my heart after leaving her presence that night her earthly name is Eileen I call
Her summer’s night angel.

The pass was the space between the sugar creek creamery and Longwells Pana hotel sorry it was cool to
Cut through there and we lost another young prince when Pat Longwell died he was one of the first to
Color his hair he had the air of a beet nick he just didn’t do the lingo you instantly loved him he was a
True friend he owned the name cool the snow that snowed all year wasn’t cool but it snowed those
White feathers all the way to Wadley’s chicken processing at the end of commercial alley past the
Monument company how apropos for all the chicks that said there final Farwell the tunnel was there too
Under the railroad you walked down through it on stones that kept you out of the small amount of water
That trickled through go in and then pop out on the other side or get the thrill of the train rumbling over
Head. Thats your trip through this unknown hope you enjoyed the trip my only wish is that I could type faster.

How many poetry books = 1 Nissan Pathfinder exhaust
      system.
How many bluebirds? Money is how we thank people for
      what makes them special
How we express our love and gratitude.

Weight and moods, up and down, with weather and outcome
      of meetings.
I am so sick of humanity, people. Wouldn't I prefer
      chickadees?
Then I get home, that is the comfortable tree hole I've been
      longing for.

Aaron pitches and plays piano. Zach likes lacrosse and math.
The mound was soft, sand, with a hole big enough for an urn
      or to hide a plover
But Aaron pitched carefully anyway, slow strikes and the
      opposing team scored.

What would God's work be? Meaningless question. Today's
      schedule:
Write fund raising letters, conserve small farms. Local food,
      local jobs. Don't transport food coast to coast. Save fuel,
      less CO2.
In my opinion the dislocations resulting from climate change
      and global warming will be within man's adaptive capacity.
      On the other hand.
Also, green industry will open a vast employment market, a
      job for every grackle, crow.

The good life, unsustainable, we're poisoning our children
      although my children are not so poisoned. They're bald.
      Unusually bald. Good looking bald. Future of man bald.
      Happy bald.
Bald eagle. Nesting, mating near Karen Sheldon's, a
      conservationist, philanthropist, on the river, whose
      husband recently died. During romantic dinner on a
      second honeymoon in Paris, so I've heard.
That's Jake's spirit come home as an eagle, Karen said. Isn't
      that great, I said, and the she-eagle he's nesting with!
--I'm gonna **** that *****.

Compare Captain Carpenter and In a Prominent Bar in
      Secaucus One Day. In each case the hero's (heroine's)
      body declining
Under life's duress. Anything located in Secaucus, NJ could
      not be considered prominent, could it?
In the end, clack clack takes all. Hard to end a poem better
      than that. Clack clack the crow's beak, upper and lower
      mandibles meeting. From hunger, or it just does. Crows
      clack clack to communicate.
Whitman's greatest poem is Out of the Cradle . . . also
      involving communicating birds, in what is initially an
      embarrassingly emotional display. All that italicized
      moaning and yearning. Get away.
Then, clack clack, he turns on you. Death lisping, straight into
      your eyes. Suddenly you realize you should have taken
      him seriously, been paying attention.

In the meantime, traffic, corn, new exhaust system, ask for
      money, save farms, poor people, sun on garden, whole
      wide world, wars, stars.
I gave up long ago on a quiet world. Now going deaf. Then it
      will be quiet, too quiet.
No more birding by ear. "No more *******." I mean really . . .
      I was moved as anyone by Hall's honest poem about Jane
      dying and I guess ******* can be music to someone's
      melody, stand for living, but not me.
No more birding would have had more meaning. I'd rather
      bird than ****. No more *******, no more worry, no more
      war.

Which is why I'm gonna **** that ***** is so funny, such a
      life-affirming comeback.
At first I worried Karen really believed the eagle is her
      husband. Maybe she does,
But that punch line makes her the kind of woman I want to
      know.

For Basil@Egmont

Old school hotelier, conservationist, mountain man.


Festooning drapes of weeping moss
Hang damply from the trees
Cascading lengths of dripping fern
Bring wetness to your knees
The clutching boughs of gnarled branch
The olive greens and damp
The winding path meanders up
This mountain's rocky ramp

Grey boulders in the river bed
The rush of torrents fast,
The song of falling waters
Plummeting into the past.
The flash of brilliant plumage
A  blue kingfisher in a dive
And the tragic death of this field mouse
Means other creatures stay alive.

The mammoth mountain hangs above
The snow is clean and white
The cornice shadow aqua blue
Ridge ice is sunlight bright
The summit wind is blowing hard
The snow is curling round
To recreate a billowed crown
Atop that seaward mound.

A dancing *** is eyeing me,
Impossibly it clings
Inverted from a totara trunk
With rapid flitting wings.
Exploding from it's hiding place
A ponderous pigeon *****
And weaves it's way between the boughs
With noisy wing tip slaps

The magic of this secret place
Is the drama in the air,
The solitude of teeming life
In green-ness everywhere.
The hardness of the freezing night
The harshness of the wind,
The grandeur of it's wilderness
Paints splendor as it's sin.

Taranaki's goblin forest
Is resplendent in it's garb
Of emerald green and turquois-ness
And rugged rocks and shard,
Cascading rivers, waterfalls
In sweeping walls of trees
Where pools of still transparency
Bring you breathless to your knees.

Where Egmont's goblin forest
Will make your spirits sing
And the urge to climb another mile
Will reward you with something
You had not bargained for in visiting
This remote and splendid place,
......It will reward you with a warm,
And knowing smile upon your face.

Marshalg
Dawson Falls Romantic Hotel
Mt. Taranaki
15th September 2008

The late afternoon sun shines amber rays upon a silent grasshopper.
A profound event is under way.

In the woodland's soft loam, mama grasshopper has planted her eggs, the ****** of a brief, worthwhile life.  Having evaded field mice, mantids, lizards, snakes, and birds, MISSION ACCOMPLISHED - almost.

In this little patch of sunlight, it is her time to "donate" to Mother Ecosystem.  It's an honor she shares with the butterflies, bees, squirrels, gnats, toads, termites, foxes, deer, hawks, robins, ants - and let us not leave out microbes and fungi.

Now sugar ants have discovered her and are dismantling, tugging, dragging her away in parts, reminiscent of an automobile salvage.  

Wayward workers stumble into ant lions' pits and become meals themselves.

The old, hollow white oak log, once mighty King of the Forest, is prostrate and bare.  Yet, with its last molecule, it continues giving.  Within its hollow, a disparate multitude is moving about, hiding, hunting, chewing, defecating, sleeping, reproducing and dying. 

In decomposition, the oak's material essence  melds back into the earth as nature's great Round River,*  an incomprehensibly slow, invisible tide.

It is late spring and waves of woodland sounds are pulsing through the community.  Cicadas shrill chorus fills the air. Distant flocks of song sparrows and warblers combine in a cloud of chirps. Above it all is the sharp tapping of a  woodpecker.

A charred fence post has become prime real estate:  a coveted,grand perch for phoebes and jays, and for a fence lizard, an elite high rise station for sunbathing and attracting a mate.  Mating azure damselflies dance in the air above the lizard.  They alight for a moment - snatched!  Above, a circling red-tail hawk eyes the lizard.

Across a draw stands an abandoned farm, tragic end result of disrespect for the land.  Goodbye sweet, precious loam, created over millennia.  You are being carried away with each rain.  Where, on where are you going?  
To brooks, rivers and the sea.

On a bleak ridge, a few oak tree survivors huddle together as they endure relentless grazing.  This parcel of land has nothing to offer anymore.  If you were to listen to the wind, you might hear its whispers of dispair.

But here, in this vibrant, buzzing woodland community where the land breathes life, there is home, food and an ideal place for all.

*  Words coined by Aldo Leopold, pioneer American ecologist, conservationist, and educator

Now, this is a story all about how
My life got flipped, turned upside down
And I'd like to take a minute
Just sit right there
I'll tell you how I became the most non-human trafficked animal for my keratin hair.

In the west Philippines, born and raised
In the burrows of hollow trees is where I spent most of my days,
Chillin' out maxin' relaxin' all young
Eatin' some bugs with my elongated tongue.

When a couple of guys who were up to no good
Started poachin' everythin' in my neighborhood.
My homie got hunted, but my mom made it through
She said 'You're movin' with your auntie and uncle in the zoo.'

I whistled for a conservationist and when they came near
Their license plate said “IUCN” and they had brothers in the rear.
If anything I could say they should drive me too,
So I hopped in the back - 'Yo, homes to the zoo.'

I
       pulled      
                       up to a building about seven or eight
And I yelled to my savior 'Yo homes, smell ya late'
I looked at my kingdom,
Where the poachers couldn’t get to,
As I sat in my enclosure as the Pangolin of the zoo.

i've never been a wasteful person
and this realization makes me fear
that it would be a waste of the first beer
to not have a second
how would i sleep at night

something akin to ageing grunge -
it's somehow up there
where: ageing rocking (proper) will
never be -
it's an ongoing nostalgia:
but it's not even that...
pearl jam's vitalogy -
   well... it was never going to be
a nightclub dancefloor filler -
clearly it's not nirvana -
                     such mundane observations
that they have to be met
with a blank canvas:
that there's nothing archaic or...
forbidden - or even a Tironian
shorthand -
              well...
            but i assured myself:
no two thoughts are the same -
                but coming across
a feelz synchronicity -
   don't ask... watching caroline garcia
come back set down against
elise mertens -
          well first of all:
play on clay is so... so... slo-mo...
  compared to the other surfaces...
you can almost sense
that the tennis ball is picking up
clay dust and with each
hit in a rally: more force is needed:
the players also tend to hit the ball
higher so there's a higher bounce...
how often they can be duped
"thinking" they can get to
the second bounce and prevent it...
a game of 7 rectangles and...
a football team's worth of
line judges: plus the ball boys / girls...
tennis... the bigger picture...
god... that french aesthetic of a woman...
i briefly dated a french girl...
isa-bella - and she was that sort
of generic french: that someone
like caroline garcia does represent...
the big picture...
   equal rights blah blah...
women need to box... count how
many bones in a ribcage -
a sport for vengeful prostitutes -
or so i've heard from:
a million dollar baby...
                    well... at least now in sport
the audience size is pretty
much the same:
women's singles still attracted
a bigger crowd than any doubles...
beside equal rights:
true... women should play to
3 set best...
                  joke: whatever...
     women's tennis was almost more
entertaining to watch to begin
with: after all...
  there was never a raonic
or a... any of those: serve rapists
with no dialogue - precision ******
serve - cul de sac games:
which would never have allowed
for the creation of PONG...
just that routine of pacman -
                      anyways...
women's equality in sport...
the olympics are a fine example:
i don't need to see any discrimination
bias - it's just poetically different...
a bit like how women and men
approach love...
   but... football or rugby...
or boxing... it's not like they can't...
do what men do:
but... hell: maybe i should stash
my poems into a drawer and only
read them aloud to my family...
    or... hell! an anonymous audience!
- and don't we enjoy that
readership privacy where one can
remain anonymous -
after all... i don't know what i'd do
with all these... unnecessary comments...
beef: ego-tripping...
some new self-esteem purse?
well now with the "pandemic" -
little god of the underworld and sneeze!
finally! a proper experience of
omnipresence!
we have ourselves a tease of...
should the demiurge - should...
who the hell wants to watch women
play cricket, football... or box?
rock-climbing -
tennis -
                all the sports in the olympic
plethora... oh god: most certainly yes!
- i had to check who roland garros
was today...
apparently they named
the stadium after him...
and from naming the stadium...
they named the tournament...
odd... given that... well... it must be a french
thing... naming a tennis tournament
after an aviator -
who won 4 dog fights during
world war one...
           em... tennis and...
mind you... wimbledon and the only whites
policy when it comes to
clothing...
or how lewis hamilton was turned
away from the royal box because
he was not wearing the full anti-monty
of shirt, jacket and tie...
but white on green... fair enough...
clay is just itching for contrast
of colours... subtle hues of blue....
to contrast with: it's not orange...
    if it's going to be orange it's going
to be Ayer's rock... orange... at sunset...
but not even that...
then you can have all the bold colours...
i imagine that a deep mint
of t-shirt and shorts would be
so well balanced in contrasting...
eh... a canvas of blue...
from the US open or the Aussie open...
it's not the same:
old game new continents:
a historical claustrophobia -
me in my dead-end europe am dying
from a frenzy of moths and
books collecting dust:
i am a continent exemplified by...
hoarding...
         it's very painful to have
to edit history...
   after a while the whole idea spirals
out of control and:
either things are over-exemplified or...
relegated to: it's like they
didn't exist at all...
full-circle... europe is not a continent
of museums: it is... a museum per se...
even if i were to relegate
Estonia to: that place where
the northern elephant: the mammoth
was feasted upon extinct...
not so long ago... circa 10K years ago...
i'd still have to mind...
the Livonian order...
or when Estonia was somehow
part of the Polish-Lithuanian
commonwealth...
boor: the eastern bloc - it's harsh to be
"rudely" woken by
foreign capitalistic wild west of the east
circa the 1990s endeavours:
plastics galore...
the death of metallurgy in europe...
oh yes... this is history...
another example:
newcastle united vs. newport county...
the premier league vs. league 2...
i am dying to hear
of... a league 2 side with only
female representation...
not these arsenal leeches -
fan-girl sport...
   which it is... but it doesn't matter:
the crowds won't come
because: better than a liverpool
or a london derby in the premier league?
a premier league side...
playing a league 2 side!
you can't beat the thrill of...
the trials and trepidations of
underdogs! it's a ******* rocky balboa
type of classic!
and i still prefer all the arnold
schwarzenegger films to:
           there's are no adequate
words to write to... sound like...
an imitation of... a balboa pumpkin /
prune mash-up face at the end
of a movie... there isn't...
how tennis allowed itself to create...
a working environment where:
both the men's tennis and the women's
tennis is equally appealing...
i... simply... don't know...
for that matter: the olympics...
stress free... freed from that base
******* of the Sussexes:
constructive racism?
   what... like me going to Kenya and
not finding ol' albino christmas
anemic on billboard advertisement -
i've reached a narrow base...
to counter arguments...
some **** just don't stick...
   it's enough to live among europeans:
no! it has to be tinged with:
we woz the majority 'ere...
i guess: this is me ******* off
to africa then... how about we whizz
and woz and shvapz continentz?
- i am tired of toying around with
a greasy oyster:
i have fat for brains: literally -
alzheimer's is constructed by killer
proteins -
there are these minor wants in my language
that have to go beyond:
mere vocabulary -
  even if i'll assign a new word
to my palette it will not be enough
when someone starts choking
the words i already have...
i will pick up a physical book:
fully scented, paper...
and there will be no comment
section - hard to write a comment
on a piece of Dickens -
why we wasted our time of
Shakespeare - why is he the canon...
and not Dickens: i will never know...
mind you... i've reached a point
in the Pickwick Papers were...
there was a clarity of exhaustion:
to beef up the volume size...
to meet the demands of serialization...
all the authenticity is fizzling out...
Dickens calls a get together
with either Shelley or Stevenson...
or Wilde...
      roland garros is a tournament
named after naming of a stadium:
which was named after an aviator...
azure sport clothes are a deepening
focus staged against:
Ayers' rock sunset orange of clay...
from the feral lands of
the middle-east: which is...
north of anywhere that's Rhodes...
i don't like being told:
what words best punctuate my
thinking -
i'll pause on: black-beggar...
or... schwarzenegger -
     a mighty surname: then i'll stutter
more with sniggering like
a Motley... mutt 'n' all...
        it's not like the russian would
eventually give a ****...
sorry... the soviets...
   it's hard to fiddle around with
a people when... you have the prospects
of living in Siberia...
no one too keen on that
hot bagel of a "transition period"...
are theyz?
           stand me upright against
a wall and shoot!
           if i didn't have my youth
as bargain: i might be towing
some xenophobic lineage of a conservationist's              
revision...
    that they would never
treat a jihadi as a psychiatric mumble-jumble
ol' Joe made a haystack worth
of a crib...
      hell... i bet that if i decided
to live in Kenya... chances are...
on the beaches near Mombasa...
i'd be treated like a ******* Ferrero Rocher!
would i complain?
living in Kenya? what?! no winter!
no autumn! no spring!
this perpetual semi-what-already-is...
giggle of eternal summer?!
how i did find the native
kenyan girls... come night and moonlight...
greased in acrylic tinges
of quicksilver -
how their ivory teased me...
rapacious little i: impossible having
found a beauty to admire beyond
some geisha crumbling... *******
a lemon and still prancing...
correct me if i'm wrong...
let's racially... exfoliate...
i might have a tan come...
i might have green eyes: eyes of evil...
of envious third-parties...
i might be: fraction of legion...
- revisions for ms. amber...
     and she is... that liquid ***** that
once slightly smokey:
when refined...
came across a slurp of maple syrupe
and became mrs. borrowed-burgundy...
syrope syrup:
                    something... rrrrrrrr'ipe...
gluey - clearly i am using a language
that is phonetically biased:
one that write one way but speaks
another: letter-eaters
of the french and the english...
less the english although:
you'd have to see it first...
to make a distinction if prompted
by a sign in a newly ploughed field:
please keep off of field...
you seeing what i'm seeing?
it's not lazy... it's doubly accurate...
and this is among the essex
landowner class...
why bother? employing
a direct article... there's already
a spatial coordinate of a where:
when: i'm reading it...
i.e. passing the field...
                        of(f) -
               **** of wits:
otherwise: to ******* from
a designated standing ordeal
as mere ******...
**** a black girl so that you feel
her coccyx and you're left with
a pretty plum patch of hue in your
little scratch of eden -
that ***** pouch above your:
GRAND INQUISITOR PHA-LULLABY-LOOSE!
yeah... that little itch...
it's a real dodo-project this...
and... with no real desire
to pardon the soviets...
     coming from a former satellite state...
no russians were ever truly
involved:
to my my knot of standing
on a ledge of yawns...
   which is almost sad...
which is almost this horrid friction of
necessity that...
by all means:
to level the smart from the semi-auctioned
to those perfectly serene and
thereby sleeping...
if i will: i'll boast of complaints
that surround hightned efforts
of: friction contra fiction...

one of those scenarios...
in the cul de sac of pedantry -
or there's another word for that...
            but given this is no...
heated affair of: later: a conversation...
i much appreciate
a readership that focuses on
anonymity...
           it's not like i can buy
a book that might suddenly translate
itself with an attache of a comment
section...
i'm not a real die hard fan of
democracy -
i don't see a need to usher in praises
for something that claims i'm
still illiterate: i have count
stub: X - my voice is either a glitch...
or a blister.