This is a conversation I had with God.
In which I told the silence of my room
that surrealism is the only ism in which God makes total sense.

I could see the chalk whites of his teeth trying to bite down on his words
but before they could be derailed his tongue caught wind and his words assailed
as he said, "I hate surrealism."

As if his words would never be caught dead in an urn
sometimes his mouth looked more like a jail in an Old Western
and his thoughts fought like criminals desperate to break out
until they finally found a way to use his tongue as an escape route.

"No, I don't hate surrealism," he says
"I just hate surrealism as a movement."

Upon hearing this my spine coils like a wine-corker-spiral-staircase
upward; where my brain plugs my cranium like a cork
and my eyes drip like blank canvas,
I am one hollow statue decaying in a melting structure
with wax in my ears I feed landscapes to winged insects
as I drown in pools of water/color.

Behind me is a sky so burlesque it actually looks like the clouds are crying.
Under me is a ground so vast it has nine horizons wrapped in a double helix.
Reconstructed beside me is a tree so old it could be the same wood as The Crucifix.
Nested inside me where my spine should be is a coat rack made crooked by the weight of all-nighters.
The texture of my skin makes it look like god paints with typewriters.

"No, no," he says, his voice turning melancholy, atomic, uranic, idyll,
"I don't hate surrealism as a movement,
because hate's such a strong word. Oh god, I guess I just don't get it."

Now I'm overcome with a sincere desire to light an entire herd of giraffes on fire
and sip wine beneath the light as if it were dinner by candlelight,

"Seriously?" I say. "Under giraffes, in this light
I can't tell if you're Lincoln or Jesus.
In fact, we all look like swans with elephant reflections.
Your trunk is a trumpet.
Don't even get me started on where we derive our visions of god
from where I stand everything casts a shadow in the shape of where it's heading
and the sky, vast and pale and open, the sky is the only all-seer
and the truth is far less surreal:
if your demons are ants then your god is an anteater."

I can see the chalk whites of his teeth stall door,
squeaky hinge, his mouth-
occupied with a realization he can't pronounce.
A pause as pregnant as a desert landscape,
ornamented with butterflies.

His head is an empty room with an evaporating skylight,
his ears, hang like clocks on a half-wall, melting.
The escalator to his brain is a spiral staircase moving in reverse.
His eyelids peel back like the last page of a two-dimensional book.
I can see with my Spellbound eyes, we are finally on the same page.

When his tongue curls back into his saloon jaw
like a bee sting rifle shot back into the mouth of a lunging tiger,
swallowed deep into the wells of a fish belly.

"I'm sorry" he says, "that's not what I meant."

Mouse’s are a famous breed,
From lines of kings they come.
They have a mousey song, and a mousey creed;
They love mousey cheese, and mousey ***.

Mouse’s love spirits, wine, beer, and ale;
They love to chew on cheesy things.
And when they’re drunk, they will regale,
Spouting stories of mousy kings.

In mousey castle, in mousey town,
Lived a mighty mousey king.
And his mousy eyes, looked up and down,
On every big, and little thing.

But his mighty mousy features,
Were struck by mousy mope.
For all his fellow creatures,
Were bereft of ***, and  hope.

“No ***! No ***!”  They cried,
To the king as he passed by.
They wept, and sobbed, and sighed;
“Oh my, oh my, oh my”.

In the kingdom of the mouse,
There can be no greater woe,
Than to find no ***, in house;
It lays the mouse’s low.

“No *** can be got”!
Stated the advisor to the king.
“We’ve all got up, and drunk the lot;
'Tis a sad and sorry thing”.

All the mousy heads,
Hung low in grim defeat.
They played with mousy threads,
With mousy hands, and mousy feet.

But the king of mouse’s rose
Standing tall upon his mitts.
Wriggled in his mousy hose,
And strained his mousy wits.

“Who can build new ***”?
Asked the mighty mousey king.
But all the mouse’s were dumb,
On this mighty mousey thing.

Then from out the bleachers;
Stumbled little Georgey mouse.
A smirk bestruck his features,
He was happy; he was ******!

With mousy hands he gript
A bottle tall and fine
And from its neck he sipped;
A liquor; so divine.

“I shound it through zzat wall”,
Announced little Georgey mouse
“Theresh enough for one and all;
Enough to build a housh”.

He sipped the liquor fair,
And shouted, “What a corker”!
He flashed the bottle in the air;
Black label Johnny Walker.

And all the mousey squeaks,
Wrung cheer from misery.
And the cheers went on for weeks;
“Whiskey! Whiskey! Whiskey!

i was about to start writing this up when i thought:
another whiskey Quincy? **** storm,
spilled the remains of the one i barely touched
before having to pour myself a:
puritan Scot in Cheltenham.

now, i heard people say any town in Essex
is a ****-hole...
                            fair enough...
but there are darker recesses of England you
must get to know before making that
assumption...
                  sure, London, proper London,
zones 1 - 4, E17 (post code, outer reaches,
Walthamstow, used to have a dog racing
track - played there once,
like a typical Paris catwalk, those hounds)
can skive off Greater London
                    like New York can laugh off
New Jersey, it's pretty much like that...
the only thing is: Londoners don't know what
exists outside this area: the buffer zone.
this is the buffer zone...
                 you experience England outside of
this very sensitive area of integration,
take for example a 3 hour coach trip to
a little town of Cheltenham in Gloustershire
not far from Oxford (a hub of learning)
and Bristol (Massive Attack, and that
bridge by Brunel - funny, engineers are above
architects, in that engineers build things
that *work, architects are like science-fiction
novelists rather than scientists -
do you know how many problems workers
experience, because an engineer
"forgot to mention" something essential in the plans?
at least an engineer gives you a read table,
all architects work for Ikea -
          ah, here's pieces a - z,
put it together yourself) - anyway...
              spilled my Quincy whiskey, now i'm a puritan
of scotch - unlike that damning quote from
1950s Hollywood: whiskey with a drop of water...
   ok ok... a little **** of ice floating about...
when will the nagging stop? no one says jack
about putting water into authentic absinthe...
      why? cos it goes cloudy green when you do!
(too much digression, news paragraph).

   i was leaving London on Friday,
murky the way i like it... Albert Bridge never seemed
so out of cinematographic urgency -
               but the west end with its grand buildings
appealed to me to start imagining
                    Oscar Wylde ghosts leaving these places
for promenades in top cats and tiaras for the ladies...
                     west London... the best way to see it
is in transit... preferably rather urgently...
                    and in a coach with other people not paying
attention...
                       the Thames receded into the estuary (
as it does), those housed in boats experienced a wake-up
call with a 10° ***** into the mud -
                                past the Chelsea pensioners' abode,
past many monuments to be exact...
   and then onto the open M4... past Windsor Castle
and the streak of aeroplanes about an aerial mile
apart landing at Heathrow -
                                  3 hours later, there i was,
in Cheltenham - chitty chitty bang bang,
apparently dubbed the hub of all English literary
endeavours - well, if you're going to host
a literature festival, wouldn't you claim to host
it with at least one patriotic son of the word?
did i see any statue of a famous poet or writer in
that little rugby stockpile of excess triceps?
nope.
           well, at first i thought it was cute...
                                a little Portobello, albeit
without the St. Petersburg paintwork on the houses,
houses as grey as the skies...
                                           got lost looking for
the b & b hotel i was supposed to be staying at for
the night, went into a gas station, asked,
i was apparently only adjacent lost -
                           old school, map printer and no
g.p.s. on foot -
                                  i once read a map and navigated
a car from an obscure Essex city,
to an even more obscure city in eastern Poland,
past the dreaded Penta Germania consisting of:
Düsseldorf, Duisburg, Essen, Wuppertal and
obviously Dortmund -
                                           i call it the whirlpool
of navigation...
                            anyway, so i found the abode,
what a nice little place it was, shied away from
all the traffic - a lovely garden,
a room fit for a journeying writer,
          actually, everything a writer could hope for
to lock himself away and write,
            tunic scenic - everything to ease the literary
constipation - the surroundings, the whole decor,
i even took a picture thinking: shame if no
Balzac were to not emerge from these rooms...
                           i sure didn't,
i dropped all the things, took a shower,
went into town to do the g.p.s. topographic of
the city so i wouldn't need a map in the future -
bought a bottle of whyte & mackay with a huh?!
apparently this brand isn't popular...
               went back to the room and found myself
drinking in front of the dreaded sight...
well... it was a room fit for a writer...
               but it had a double bed in it...
and a mirror at the desk...
                                    i downed one puritan glass
and looked in the mirror: i don't need your company.
looked away and found to my amazement the
truth of modern writing: the industrialisation
of writing... it emerged in the 20th century when everyone
did it by himself, with a typewriter -
        the industrialisation of writing on an individual
scale can be quiet debilitating when trying to
rekindle the quill... i didn't write anything, i doodled,
and those were bad doodles, it wasn't writing,
it was doodling... i drank a quarter of the bottle
and went out...
        went into the first bar, ordered a Guinness and
and sat down by a table with a
(later disclosed) Gloustershire University student,
a Canadian, jacking-off a script for some
B-short-movie in a public place: to catch the oozing
exfoliation of inspiration from crowded places -
if ever that worked, it might have ever worked
in a graveyard...
                             we were joined by his friend,
some peasant, we got chatting, boy, it was such a thrill
to exchange names... the Canadian's name
i did remember: Darcy...
                          he had that look about him that made
it worthwhile to remember his name,
ah, when names fit the image...
                         chubby, pig-blondish, hairy...
i'm guessing a native of Quebec...
                               but i could be wrong.
so a few hey hey, yeah yeahs later i asked if they
knew something about this gig on the festival slot
that was starting tomorrow, 5 p.m. and for free...
sure sure... got to eye the guide... so i asked:
so, maybe we could meet up at this place at this time
and go from there....
                                  Titanic looked more graceful
sinking than the reply...
                                                 i had to really check myself,
this isn't London psyche chess, this is:
we are small people from a small town,
we think a charming stranger is a serial-killer...
                    the Yorkshire ripper case scenario,
not last... first.
                              i might have been ******* a lemon
by then and pretending to be drunk squirming
a Buddha look - i pretended the polite noting down
the details: suddenly i didn't think like attending
this ****** venture that would start at 5 p.m., end
at 12 a.m. and according to my travel diary:
having to wait 2 hours to catch the 2 a.m. home.
so i went to the first instalment of the "literature"
festival... lemn sissay and salena godden -
and i have to admit, it was a corker - a true
a champagne cork popped and hit the crystal
chandelier and i laughed... and that's how i lost my
virginity to "spoken word",
                                         i wasn't listening to poets,
but i was thoroughly entertained, i swear that
at the end of her performance Salena pointed into
the dark (great tactic, how can they be nervous
if they can't see anyone? they stand on a pulpit of pure
light and see black ahead, where the nerves?)
and said: esp. to my friend over there...
                i might have involuntarily back-laughed /
snorted like a pig trying to catch enough lung volume
for a ha ha...
                          got chatting to this lovely middle-aged
couple: told them: i'm being ***** with gags.
                prior, i was watching the queue build up
into the room, with a god-awful grin on my face...
i couldn't take it off...
                         perhaps because i was looking at
the demographic and thinking: where are my peers?!
i spotted about three people in a close age proximity -
the rest were farts and soon-to-be-farts...
                             now Sissay freaked me out...
in a good way... i met the two after the show,
i brought two copies of my own printed work to give to
them... i had to ask their publicist if i was allowed
to touch the Aegean marbles... luckily i did,
but then i asked the stupid question to Sissay:
so who were you trying to imitate when your eyes
were bulging out nearly gauged out like a Pink Floyd
song video of: teacher! let these children go!
               i should have associated something African
freakish in mask, a strengthening - the sort
of look that New Zealander rugby players put on
to frighten people off when dancing the haka -
he really did talk like that...
                                       the little devil voice didn't help
either... but i only asked that "stupid" question
while mumbling something about how hard it was
getting published and how anyone aged nearing 40
forgot the free press of the internet emerging and
how he asked for a q & a after the performance...
and... hand on my heart:
                                   got asked one question...
          and answered... only one question...
                                        a complete and utter ******* meltdown...
   not: oh yeah, so who's your major influence...
                      a Samuel Beckett moment from not i.
later i standing outside and smoking, a grand English
dame of the west approached me,
chitty chatty kiss the hand later i got to say the most
famous line known to the current Englishman:
unfortunately... from Essex.
             honest. anyone asks you in Essex the question
they always ask: so where you're originally from?
                         anywhere else in England
they just ask you: whe

Senator Bob Corker° refers
To what has become the scary result
Of blind devotion to Donald Trump.
He calls the movement a GOP cult.

It's easy to join the cult if you
Don't mind sacrificing free will.
Getting out of the cult is another
Story; that will take some skill.

Members lose their sense of self
When they join the Cult of Trump.
When Trump says "Bow!" they all bow;
When he says "Jump!" boy they jump!

Cult members in Congress have
Handed legislative power
Over to Trump, their supreme
Leader before whom they cower.

Regarding constitutional
Authority: will it last?
Or will it suffer a slow death
And thus become a thing of the past?

All the Leader has to say
Is "They are wrong and I am right,"
And followers agree en masse.
Not to agree would be impolite.

Effusive praise and allegiance must go
To the Leader who is all-about-me.
He says he knows what's good for you.
Woe to you if you disagree.

It used to be that presidents
Worked for the people, but we have found
That currently with the Cult of Trump,
It's the other way around.

How many more will drink the Kool-Aid?
Who else will fall under Trump's spell?
Remember Jonestown? In the end,
Things did not go very well.

-by Bob B (6-14-18)

°Republican Senator from Tennessee

Remember back, yes it was a long time ago
When England and its minions lost their one and only,
Lizzy the Busy, she did get about for an older kind of crow

Flying to her outposts and then in her nineties
Still dragging that old codger about, Philip the Greek
Insulting the natives, well he is a kind of royalty

His odd quip on the colour of somebodies skin,
Never mind how are, what a lovely child and how have you been
She married a corker there, no messing

The lands that carried her name all bowing to her superiority
Many of them just peasants not knowing of her really
From Gibraltar through to Hong Kong where they made her royal tea

Man landed on the moon, remembered for a thousand years
If real or made in a Universal studio
The passing of our Queen so real, some still holding back their tears

Reality strikes when you see what she has left of this once great land
Down to her kids to run this Island of such history
And not left it drift to the sea as if built on sinking sand

Monarchy and Royalty march hand in hand from the times of history
Lets not forget the power that we once held
To be banished away by the politically correct to leave us as a sad story

As she would turn in her grave if this once great power dissolved and died
She may not have said it but her wit and allegiance were British through and through
Grow a backbone and be proud again, and show them at least we tried to be true

JJB

We need to stop making

assumptions or
Can we be saved from
redemptions

To me, this is not a

Shakespearean

Love play reaction

Impeccability

Or love liability

◊ ♥ ♥


Self-love to love yourself

Interaction caught you in

the deepest thoughts

All by myself

Come forth the temptation

What becomes more
tempted

Fifth heart operated
Five doctors
Opened up someones
Good heart Bill Gated


Computer the chosen one
Pressed her five keys like the
Kingdom
come

How  God really

knows what every heart shows
he loves you


One agreement never

thoroughly thought
5 times the Sentinel
stars
She held her words bright


"I Am"

Two of the most powerful

words with love

Confinement

Promises five wishes lift

Please respect it as a gift

But what is really behind the

words bowling(Pin)interest
5 strikes you out


Let's say goodbye to sadness

Show gratitude

Your spirit opens to gladness

Respect is the one greatest

Accomplishment such kindness

Show who you are

the glow of appearance

And pardon me if you refuse

to eat "Emotionally"
Personally so caught up

With someone else's five
sweet and low packs
of poison

Looking for love but we really

don't know love give me five

reasons why?

Be immune to the other

people opinion


(Gamesmanship)

(Ladyfanlytrip)

Life was simpler
with giggles

Now all you see is
War of roses

How it blooms into
the hell of

Five lives of
Rifles

Are you being clearly unheard
Jaybirds Robin redbreast
Flamingo pink seagulls hawks
could really talk
take me away
To think

I forgot some
nostalgia__
My mind erased like
Insomnia

To buy love the Gal of the

Galleria

Were you the pep me up

Pepsi Topsy tipsy
Kentucky derby

The next level spiritual


Rules of the Rumi ®
Take me like a poem

She moved right through me
So peaceful and calm

Her Mona Lisa fifth
the painting she needs
to smile

Her five fingers took
a palm reading

The ½ of her heart needed

mending love
5 top ingredients
So well commended

The five agreements
Recommended

Something like you

never seen

On the news
Fox five
Box ageless five
Sox Dr. Suess
I will take the fifth
No loss



That ***** of light
Jekyll dark lamp post

His incoming headlights
Seeing a ghost

He saved your salvation

Oh! Lord what could I afford

The soul of silence

Going downward

But really "What's up?

Got changed to onward

Your divorced finger cup

Dark coffee with the
eerie glow
Showstopper
Wine corker
Fifth floor
Only one lover

No tootsie roll lost
the soul

Feeling like the
Rookie

All the chips were
out 5 morsels

Love of baked cookies
Love portal

Reaching Twenty five
No morals

So solid in your ways

Always on the fifth days

of the month

He was the bouncer

What an influencer

Healthy sipping your

Organic

With vitality but lonely

inside like a vegetation

So ironic

More energy veggie juicer

You felt "ET" or

Glazing in the grass

The E-book
embracer

the weight coming
off

Personel trainer he was

Slim Fast five times
reducer

24/7 Even Steven
reminder

Hearing the fifth symphony

You need the hubby

Hello Poetry
For God's sake,
we keep

Veterinarian take me
not him he went to sleep
The Veep

The Parrot palm tree
Designer 5 pairs of shoes
Shopping Bell Towers spree


Talking over like a
voice over the game
is over

The snowbirds

Floridian

Those spreadsheets

Spreading heat and waves

of love what's above

Love-Love-Love

Picking up on the fifth ring

Knowing its always him

on the I phone those
cultured

pearls shined for him


Filling in the gaps

That was a different swing

But we will make up the time

The Beatle beats I want to hold

your hand around the Garden of

Eve last love to bend

Your gifted heart to send

With no attachments
enclosed with

installments


Midsummer dream no manic

to this planet

Rumi spiritual existence

♥


My four agreements

To Love

To Honor

To give

To rightfully be happy
to live

listening to singles is inevitable,
you're bound to listen to singles,
but... for the most part...
they're overrated anyway...
    i found that i have a much larger
attention span to digest
three songs worth 3 minutes a pop,
i'd rather stick to the progressive
rock / jazz quartet / quintet
behemoth of... say... 9 to 12 minutes...
just like i found with
the valley of the sun EP...
      for me EP is the way forward...
because it fits in nicely between
a single and an LP...
it just tickles the atmospheric
feel of an LP, but offers you so
much more than what
the single is... a footnote,
a snippet...
           an erosion of the mind...
with the valley of the sun
EP?
       the last track...
       butch... and i don't mean
lesbian butch... i mean - butch...
grizzly butch...
but that's the beauty of the EP...
it's a generous sample...
3 minutes turn into ~30 minutes...
the last track summarizes
the whole pouch of sounds...
but you only think this,
because you think the last
track will be something mellow...
like the lullaby track
on dry **** logic's debut
the darker side of nonsense...
goodnight...
   most last LP tracks are fadeout...
or thereabouts...
but an EP last track?
a absolute corker...
   riding and dunes?! come on...
but you don't appreciate listening
to this one track...
the idea is to listen to
the EP back-to-back,
and let the last track surprise
you...
   that's what's great about
an EP... the element of surprise...
and the variations throughout...
with singles you have to pack
in several... have a playlist
and what not... a ******* carousel
a carnival of too much
variety...
   and it's like watching
American football... but instead...
you know... you're listening
to this constant... stuttering...
there's no smoothness of either an
EP or an LP...
stop, scrum, shuffle...
  throw ball back, throw ball
forward... one lucky ***** catches
the ball... runs on...
or doesn't catch the ball...
ball hits the ground... repeat...
eh... singles are overrated...
    obviously it's inevitable that
you'll come across them...
but i hope the EP makes a comeback...
if it hasn't done so already,
at least for me it has.

i don't even know what this is, this is...
some guys rate girls on a scale of 1 to through to 10...
they mention the "friend zone"...
erm... what about the.... ahem: "dad zone"?
i've just experienced the "dad zone"...
sorry, what?! exactly...
i sort of feel bad writing about this,
but i'm not going to pile **** on this girl...
3 days of a stomach cramps and what
the **** happened to me...
lies with coworkers... blah blah: sneaky
******* whatever(s)...
forget the heart: make it stone...
follow your gut... your guts...
no... tomorrow her son is going to eat
a mango curry... i have two ripe mangoes...
i'm not going to eat them...
he's not having chicken nuggets...
merely chicken nuggets on my watch...
yeah... this is the "dad zone"...
whatever dating lingo is left available...
i'm in love with her...
bonus? she's older than me...
so... chances are... she might die at the same time
as me...
and **** me... she's ginger...
that whiskey sort auburn burning light...
by alternative to the Bible text of a...
"woman dressed in the sun"...
which part of the sun? sunrise, sunset or full
noon glare blonde? i prefer
the sunset sort of highlights... of hair...
how simple was that?
an issue of trust... sure, i said... i'll be doing some
night cycling... like that r.e.m. song:
but that's about night swimming...
you, serciously, you're not familiar with
the movie: Sunset Boulevard?!
you're kidding me?, right?!
she opened a corker, i rolled a cigarette,
then a second... remarked... oh... looks like not out
of practice... a perfect rollie...
what were we drinking? ****** pseudo-champagne...
we have a date for tomorrow...
i'm bringing my homemade stuff...
20 minutes before texts...
i replied: i'll be 20 minutes from where you'll be...
you're going to be walking your dog?
as i came up she thought that i'd be
shy... cycle pass... that she could simply
get away with a wave...
woman... you're not getting off that easy...
so i cycled back and walked with her to her
home... we talked...
her dog Woody was... ahem...
a complete and utter pervert...
kept licking my ears...
but then again... he licked off the scabs on
my knuckles clear off...
i lied... a white lie...
is anyone ever expected to say:
yeah, i put out cigarettes on my knuckles,
it's a ******* thrill i''m urged to
sometimes partake in...
no... i was making pizza... d'uh...
i'm not even thinking about ******* her...
i'm thinking about her son...
Fredrick, Freddy, we talked about school...
about spelling... i read a poem he wrote out-loud...
i admired his and his mum's construction
of a world war II bomb bunker...
he told me about learning about war poetry...
so, world war I stuff, all the poppy fields etc.?
at the age of 9 he was instructed to learn about autism...
i told him...         read a little about
SOLIPSISM... i even wrote it on a piece of
paper for him...
from the age of 7... through to the age of 9...
wow! your handwriting ... it's exponential!
she said, what's that?
he corrected her... i reiterated... it's not linear...
it just exploded!
he complained about writing by joining
letters... but he said: joining words...
letters, Freddy... yeah... but look how we've
been doing writing over the past 30 years...
QWERTY... we're typing...
no one really deciphers handwriting...
the dog? licked my ears and the wounds on
my left hand's knuckles right off: clean...
i bled for a while...
if this is modern dating: i still smell of dog licks...
i better go up to my two maine *****
and inquire whether i might,
somehow, still pass off as human...
well obviously tomorrow i will be better attired...
hell: if it comes to ironing a shirt...
the rest of the "office" can *******...
i'll take my chances... if she's this supposed mad *****...
you don't even know where i'm coming
from... ha... ha ha...
i'm nice... i'll play nice...
but then... no... Matt... Matthew... don't do that
crap of taunting for seeking attention
and male-authoritaraship - authoritariship?
what the ****?! 5 google search results...
and i come up? o.k., o.k. i know it's a spelling
mistake... author-i...
           **** it...

what a magnificent date... in her own home...
with her dog, with her son...
we shook hands while parting...
hello "dad zone".. i'm not here for ***...
if i want ***... i can just go ******* to a brothel...

she even texted me...
you forgot your hat...
oh... right... the one i found at a bus stop...
with the pompom...
    Woody (her dog) in between licking my
ears and the scabs on my knuckles was
desperate to bite, bite... bite at it:
Gemma wants to keep it! keep it!
dog "sign language" or something...

i was watching her watching the tongue of the dog,
he licked and licked t my scabs,
then got to drinking my blood...

yeah, i forgot my pompom hat....
i told her: you keep it, i found it originally,
it must have a mind of it own:
like that cap in Harry Potter... the one that
allocates upcoming students to their
designated house...

******* "dad zone"...
point being... i don't mind...
what has his spelling examination:
he's up in the highest tier...
fuchsia related...
some hue more subtle...

it's very similar... what?
going to a brothel or going to a single mum
household...
she's complaining tht there are not enough
books in her house...
Freddy, see you tomorrow...
guess what's on the ready:
Stendhal's the Crimson & the Black,
some Dostoyevsky,
Salinger? Huxley... Sartre?
Kerouac? Aesop? Dickens? Hesse?!

she's mad, sure, who wouldn't be,
if she's raising a boy on her own...
we're done ******* around,
i'm thinking... this boy... right...
i read a poem he wrote aged 8 out-loud...
i wanted to implore him:
please, don't become doing what i do:
it doesn't pay... it never did
it never will...
people want artistry for free
to begin with, to ever begin with it...
unless it's manufactured
superficial crap....

         i don't actually know what a friend,
eh? "friend" zone implies...
sure, i have a choice...
single mothers or prostitutes...
there are no friends in between...
i'm also ******* serious...
every time your ******* dog starts licking
my ears and my scabs...
when your child shows me homework:
AUTISM... what?!
sorry, what?!             you heard
about solipsism?!

the school pressured you to learn
spanish?                why? bully them back!
learn German...
German has a similar grammatical structure
to English... ich sehen du: i see you!
im Deutsche ist akin im Englisch...

      i'm outright in the dad zone...
and guess what... i want to be here...
i can play the ancient Roman game... is it a "game"?
is it?! i want to love this woman...
i want to grow old with her...
hell... i willl do my utmost to do just that!

i'm looking forward for her trying my homemade
wine tomorrow... what an auburn ginger burn
on the heart... i'm sitting singing along
to pop music... for ****'s sake...
clean bandit & mabel - tick tock...

                  no!              no!                ****!
             it's already happening!
no, wait, it has already happened!

                                                       ****'s sake!