In a great mansion, by a tranquil sea,
Were born two brothers, just minutes apart.
Fruits of all that was, and seeds of all to be,
The entire country gave the princes a place in its heart.

Abbot spoke first while Costello was the first to stand.
But Costello’s hand was always around his brother,
While Abbot’s silver tongue justified Costello’s mischief in the sand.
And all those who saw them exclaimed that their love was like no other.

So, the two grew with their only similarity being the bond with their land.
To the growth of the boys, the slowly rising waves stood testament.
For it observed how envy made Costello’s hand,
Push the favourite Abbot, and sow the beginnings of resentment.

Slowly, the sight of the inseparable brothers faded to a memory,
For long nurtured poisons now surged in their veins.
And one stormy night, both began to worry,
Of their own fate if the other reigns.

And when the old king did suddenly perish,
Chaos assumed kingship, for the two brothers declared war.
Not just over the land, but also the woman they both did cherish.
The earth rumbled in protest and the sky wept from afar.

And that night, the sea rose to meet her lover- the moon.
Failing to do so, she heaved and brought destruction,
Crushing the palace and the people, all too soon.
And the night saw the crumbling of walls and determination.

The brothers rushed outside, only to be devastated
For what worse fate can befall one,
Than to watch the only love of their life mutilated?

Both collapsed to their knees for they believed themselves undone.

And then, heart wrenching cries escaped through them together. Abbot spoke first while Costello was the first to stand.
And this time, each held the other’s hand.

Water had proved its power over blood,
For that day, emotions did flood.

That saline water had purged them of that poison,
And from the ashes of their past, the rise of phoenixes had begun.

Up and down, left and right, salt and pepper
black and white, twist and shout, pen and paper
North and south, pork and beans, chips and dip
*** and coke, q and u, paper and clip

Bacon and eggs, back and forth, biscuits and teas
Remote and TV, a pod with two peas
Yin and Yang, hand and glove, bread and butter,
hand and foot, mac and cheese, land and water

Abott and Costello, Tom and Jerry
Ron and Hermione, Harry and Ginny
Mutt and Jeff, Jack and Jill, Holmes and Watson
Jobs and Wozniak, Delilah and Samson

Tom and Huck, J and K, Tarzan and Jane
Frodo and Sam, Clark Kent and Lois Lane
Batman and Robin, Romeo and Juliet
Hansel and Gretel, Browning and Barret

There are many things that go together
But nothing will ever be as clever
Nothing will ever be as perfect, too
than my favorite pair called me and you.

could you ever, with your ears, express a piece of music, as: fluffy? dark soho's piece is fluffy; and by god i was the pretentious one at the beginning of the 20th century critical of the emerging music... but i'm the one merging at the beginning of the 21st century: and it's a T.S. Elliot scenario: the overload of rhythm: industrial core due to the industry being foetal sieg heil! and so many have fallen for the nostalgia trap... it's not coming back: against the thump thump gyroid reproductive muscular we emerge from... for whatever lack of drums in the orchestra: we're paying for it with an excess of techno techno Bob the goldfish cardboard box dance sequence... or as some would suggest: filling in the gap about the joke concerning a triangle being a part of the orchestra and the person educated in it, rather than the harp.

ah, the blank, and i have to work on it: let's imagine i was just
cooking a pork stew for my father and you don't
bother to ask why someone's surname is written
Raßer - and you don't know how
to pronounce it: and you end
up with razors - which you end up saying
racer - or how about sharpening
the s into a zed - how's that?
this is surgical activity while you you're
at at the butchers: necromancy aplemty:
when god speaks, the devil whispers -
American divergence of the pronoun
y'all / you all -
                           we the safeguard
and they the paranoia -
                                    take it slow,
imagine yourself living in Alaska:
you're exposed to the elements
and Prometheus isn't handy:
  all you have is west London drool
that later translates into easter in London,
Ld: isn't even an postal code:
given Greenwich, bellybutton on the world
they're bound to abuse / feel special
                 about, it's just a John Bishop
          Scouser type of beating.
                  ya - i say i aye, you frostbite of
culture, ya yarn ball of ****!
    oh 'ere we go: the red-coats are hunting
foxes: sort of scenario -
   the sooner they ******* a killing
the better for me: 'ave that one with a grizzly:
             some say the longer the yawn
the greater the applause -
      yo! Yogi! turntable of Las Vegas
says you better gamble on hibernating in the
effing Hermitage!
  - we say a lot of y'all when we imply the
plural, don't we? terrible, ****** thuggish
'n' all, to say it.
   i have five pages worth of notes,
and even though i'm drunk,
i came across a foundation, i'll never be ask happy
at i am right now,
   i signed a copy of my book (look! i don't
have a publicist, i don't have the ******* swagger,
i have the inferno that says:
  when the writing dries up, get a proper job;
if the writing doesn't dry up?
             you're less than necessary than a
supermarket shelf-stacker...
                 there are succumbing reasons that
explain the affair later) -
      no i'm about to sell my first copy -
  i say to her: when you working this circuit next?
Friday night? i'll tell you how much i'm selling
for, well: i'll never be this happy: ever -
it really doesn't matter how much for how little:
   i'm not exactly a family animal: farmed -
i'm political: through and through -
   by the time i finish this whiskey i'll be
demanding something new...
    i don't think your able limbs do idle chores:
i just think admire that they do them
and hardly complain: i blame it on the workers'
encouraged banter - and that's called solidarity.
still, right now, it's all about
dark soho's: dark moon in stonehenge -
       or why you never take l.s.d.
   question arises with Bach...
and polyphony - again, non-linear polymers:
   back when the Germans were at it
music sliced through the air
                   - or the modernity of lost
string (quartets) and woodwinds -
          only the thing plucked rather than in slicing
stroked kept from the strings:
    it was truly a devolution via brass -
   you can have the iron age,
but this is the brass age -
                   and subsequently the evolution
or filling the void of orchestral percussion,
which began with jazz: how orchestra was stripped
of woodwinds and strings and elevated
the humble triangle and enforced drums
and the rhythmic transcendence of limb and heart
and less ear and mind -
           oh the spontaneity thus involved:
forever the enigma of the composer's ability
to say much more than *A, when saying in A# -
oh hell: music used to be the Mongolian horde
of all things imaginable,
                  the screams, all the entrenching
embodiment of battle: soothed -
  but in our apathetic guises: music is a variant
of the once exfoliated, thus hushed:
music is expressing a war in waiting - or a war
that's not to be - once music music ascribed
wind and tornado toward its elemental composition -
these days there is less wind, and more earthquake:
we are exposed to a trembling -
           an overt percussion methodology:
that's not fire and the storyteller / poet by
the lonesome huddling of nomads by the fire
with oud and recitation of the to come Quran:
we are experiencing a complete reversal of wind:
here we have dark soho's tectonic cardiovascular:
over stating the percussion until the eventual
obliteration of breath, and subsequently
the flatline of the heart's rhythm: to reach the zenith
of a flatline: beehive musicology.
         it's all earth: and the quaking
rather than a waking into.
                  sure: to the alien ear outside the populace
of those that listen to that kind of "****":
but let me assure you:" you can intellectualise
anything beyond the guilty pleasure:
or else - care to disclose your opinions about doggy?
once we were slicing and ******* -
these days? we're hammering, Soviet committee
said: hammer hammer hammer...
            gravitational drilling against the Catholic
lessons of worldly-detachment akin to a Gagarin:
and all the world's problems morphed into
an image of moving away from earth...
    far far away...       well: we're grounded, like it
or not.
              i love that: y'all -
                          it's as if we all need to agree, ~.
and what better way to actually open a poem up
if not to say how prose is a miser and poetry
the mad spender, or compose: he had / another thought
he wished to take / but...
           originally
                    he had
                  another thought he wished to take
                 but...
saving an Amazonian tree, suggesting that: one by one.
i'll sell my first copy on Friday,
i just need to know how much money was put
into printing it -
   and it will be the happiest i'll ever be -
who cares that it's only 1... if i were selling
100,000 copies i'd be thinking of buying a Mercedes
to do away with the capital...
      oh right, the poem (six pages of notes):
the question, what does it all mean?
       i'm thankful that the all means very little,
or at least enough for physicists to take a bother
in answering:
               i'm just thankful to say that at least
bites / bytes / isolated units have more meaning
than the whole... i.e.?
do i care what the universe means, more so
than i known what the word darkened means?
                 pause for thought -
the well established organic search engine that memory
is: and never will be: an algorithm (engine) -
           still the organic variation of accessing it
reveals Rodin's statues -
                        post-Rodin (Rho-dan: ****** iota!
why so naked in the first place?!) -
            the point where it's not so much enigmatic that
you wish to replicate: but entomb, and mould
a statue worthy of the perpetuated cut-short
and mediating the idea that thought has also
the faculty of imagining and memorisation
that hardly translate into being via ergo...
       if that's the case: you're demented via the
ergo of memory... and deluded via the ergo of
imagining -
                      or Frankenstein / Disney respectively:
but never the extinguished cogito, somehow,
oddly enough:
                          and by the way - no one is going
to question my opinions because dialectics was
giving the hemlocks... my opinions
will only become passed around like Bulgarian
Versace copyright thefts, or because they
were never ideas: attachment .pdf
                   will never entertain someone else's thought,
or because they were originally always opinions
will be consecrated on the attachments of .jpeg:
ever wonder why the crucifix always
mobilises so much emotional foundation to
react and protect a torture-filled instrument
worthy of worship? me neither.
                but that's the whole beginning:
we ensured our memory is eroded by an easily
accessed algorithm - we prefer the goggles to
mensa -
                   and if i were a technophobe: e ah e ah oh...
McDonald would turn out to be McTrump:
'cos' i wouldn't be using it.
              then how to synchronise the senses:
you surely can't leave one the prime consumer of
all the things around you:
     i guess that as stated: you can't live out a life
whereby one is polarised, and the others recessively
make your thinking into potato -
   then again: not polarising one of your senses
will leave you thinking that old fantasy that
you live in a hologram "reality": which i mean by saying:
if one of your pentagram limbs isn't polarised
like a blind person, your thought will claim a sixth
sense status - and subsequently you'll experience
either a second chance of allowing one of your senses
to be stressed / polarised, or all your senses will become
overpowering your non-sense: that's thought into submitting
to a polarity / vector: kindred of
the manual worker feeling his trade take
perfect replication -
a composer polarised by "hearing" -
a painter polarised by "seeing" -
a poet polarised by "speaking" -
a chef polarised by "tasting" -
   a perfumer polarised by "scenting" -
and within the sixth sense extension:
a politician polarised by "thinking" -
  the first antonym suggestion comes within the latter's
parameter: mobilising or puppeteering:
would i care to find variations for the latter? no.

     interlude... opening of page 3 of notes on a windowsill...

and how often is soul ascribed a sensual dimension?
i guess as many a time thought isn't ascribed one:
necessarily made into nonsense.
soul? what do i mean by that? the part of you
that isn't indestructible, but, rather,
the part of you that feels that ease: the uninhibited
correlation (verbiage necessary, darling,
if you want the gist of it) -
when at ease you're not really ascribing to yourself
thinking, but a narrative -
  hence your notion of being indestructible,
or young.
      when thinking is easy we're not actually thinking,
we're narrating, hence the majority of us
are clogs in the machine, and once the machine works
we're upbeat about it, because we prefer to narrate
ourselves into life than think ourselves into it:
primarily because (even i included):
we lack a public addressal attache to make
vague concerns over our: inhibitions -
we are entrusted with inhibitory encrusting
for the sole purpose (we should be afraid of
suggesting): let's see who falls off the ferris wheel
first and we can entrust our congeniality toward
the joke: thank **** it wasn't me, later...
          but still:
if were were really intended to think
rather than narrate we'd be given global warming
solutions everyday...
   there's nothing in us that suggests an 'ought',
a moral choice to later say: thought
                      that could fish-hook us out of
kissing the narrative goodbye -
  narration is an undisturbed faking of thought -
as such the 'ought' is never thought of:
because there's a narrative going on
that's more important than anything requiring
even the most basest obligation.
       we are never obliged to be, because we are
never obliged to think: it's strange how the
two are anti-synonymous due to the ergo disparity:
as if one produces the other, or the former
the latter.
              thinking you're good never precipitates
into being good - and vice versa:
   for all i know i know fake rather than falsifiable
saintliness: the power of the scientific
  suggests that i should be Baron von Scorn
when it comes to the ignorance of testifying
         against people who abhor science
and reproduce, nonetheless, with failure to
transcend deformities: because deformities are
glorified and all forms of ability demonised:
so it looks quasi-Vatican-e.
                   preface to a Michelin star:
start with a ******: work your way down:
enjoy your meal, bygones-be-bygones:
you very happy people.
                  but i never understood why
the idea of thought has never the opinionated phrase:
me, exponentially, to no book's avail!
        p.s. as to be ever written!
    thought conscripts man to rubrics -
for example? examinational candélabre -
  some call it i.q., other's call it: for god's sake man,
****** shoot! shoot!
                        and the flying toes and digits:
thumbs away: booh booh Blitz.
                        first thought: that Jersey song:
fifth of November - that Fawkes ****
who almost.... n'ah.
                            in case you're narrative:
thought has its narrative: it's transcendental -
phenomenology comes into play with
narratives and Lady Gaga and how you're an
"individual": thought is acquired trying to transcend
atomic electron orbits that says: electron clouds -
or it's there, but it isn't there, but it's not there,
but it's there: huh?
                         narration conscripted to the rubric
of school exams at school: palpitations, sweat,
nerves... in this scenario thinking is actually
regurgitation -
                          actually we're still doing the Elvis
Costello hope: while narrating we pass from
these shackles of having to think lessons through
when in fact: we're gearing to having no need
in having to learn them primordially, period!

the paranoiac "they" are eroding our protective
membrane -
    they begin with memory -
         it's not that we care to remember certain things,
but by educating us in the Pythagorean theorem
they're not necessarily dressing us in bow ties either -
they need to implant an abstract educational
thought to replace our natural assimilation into
a narrative that we ourselves have created -
       they need to create erosion within our
memory to stop us coagulating our sense of memory
within a framework of us imagining backwards
rather than forwards:
      the cinema of the mind means memory utilises
imagination to do cartwheels backwards
rather than forwards: because forwards is always
a Disney pharmacology of the neon hyper colouring.

or how they made us escape the "Alcatraz"
of the couch of cognitive narration into an
iron maiden of thinking -
                    in this realm narrating is disparaging
from thinking: narrative is a comfort zone:
thinking is a discomfort zone -
                       but neither me nor you will
become a Newton in terms of narrating the ideas:
so why the hell would they want us to think?!
       concerning Heidegger:
the problem is not that we're not thinking -
the solution is that we're narrating and have
no urge to write books, and thank god for that!
               or man, as the pentagram of the senses,
reversed into thought as the sixth sense calamity
and reversed back as that sense missing
and the tetra exemplified...
         when learning what is the weakest point,
the audio or the optic-receptive stimulation?
                         i mean, the senses over accuse
thought's complexity as if it were a sense akin
to them, hence the suggestion nonsense;
well of course, thought is actually non-sensory -
     i just suggested that when thinking
i'm not polarising any of the penta -
         i'm suggesting that when thinking i'm
invoking the tetra - as if blind or deaf -
but that means i'm deviating from the superstition
that a sixth correlative mediatory balance exists
between the two dichotomies -
                            the senses will always treat
obscure thinking as if obscure narratives:
even though i know how much a price of bread
costs in the 21st century -
                              what i'm saying is that
the nonsense assertion is also true for the other:
not having had the chance to polarise one
of its senses to point toward the artefact use of
wh

he spends his time
rowing through the
rugged, blockaded channels
of my catharsis,
the bitter staccato
of ****** habit.

his love
can be as jagged
as gashes in an
Elvis Costello record
thrown against the wall--
the frayed words of the last love song
Billie Holiday ever uttered.

he is two
exclamation points lit on
fire, kerosene pumping through
tautly wound muscles and
caressing our funny bones with
sandpaper.

he is
dulcit woodwind melodies
and jilted viola strings,
epic poetry and grindhouse theaters,
McQueen gowns and thrift store bargains,
the kiss on the forehead
and the nudge for a *******.

he is a double helix.

he is the beginning
and end of every sentence.

Beat-Up Old Car
Vastly under-appreciated possession
In dull blue, a MK1, no less, with original rust
Inside lingering scents of Exchange and Mart
top-notes of WD-40 and miscellaneous mix tapes

A car like this gets into your life
in lumpy knuckle-barking unsubtle ways,
stays there in subtle ones

That long drive back to Yorkshire
in the quintessential exemplar
Clutch cable snaps.
****** and Crap.

Hardly helpful but can be accommodated
with enough thought
rough though it is
on starter motor
and nerves whenever
anticipatory powers inadequate
and we are forced
to a complete red-light stop

Brakes dodgier, exhaust noisier
than ideal or legal
Gender-ambiguous
elderly tyres flirt outrageously with slick tarmac
Showing their canvas underwear
and male-pattern baldness

Keeping this unstable, unsafe, unreliable
ultimately essential lump of metal
moving and on the road
is a fine art

Engaging, fluid and intense art;
The Clash and The Specials
Costello and The Cure in support

A distraction then
getting hauled over by plod
somewhere near Bury St. Edmunds
Thatcher's boys.

Tax? MoT? Insurance? ID?
No real interest shown

Any passengers in the back?
Clearly no.  Pickets?  
Pickets? What?
Please open the boot sir... Oh.
On your way lad. Drive carefully

I was, officer, I was
More than you will ever know

i’ve become a flippin’
elvis costello
song;
every ****** day the book
gets written;
i might as well be *******
on my thumb
and holding a blanket
with my work:
excessive pampering;
question is, am i like
a baby monkey all clingy
or is the work so gooey
that it can’t stand blanks?
i’m betting 3 to 1 on the latter.

One day it will rain.
The soothing water will wash
away the sins of the world.
The sun will shine.
Its light like liquid gold.
Behold! The Miracle!
Pain erased, sorrow forgotten.
Tomorrow will cease to be as well as
yesterday.
Only today will remain. Nothing will matter;
everything remembered.
The SON OF MAN will greet the children of his Father.
Tears no more. The Human Condition restored
to what Father planned.
Thwarted by the KING OF LIES.
Won back by the KING OF LIVES.
Everyone bows. Mountains crumble. Lakes deepen.
The SON laughs at humility.
After all he is but a Man.
Humanity at its finest.
Though his Condition no better.
Like a shepherd he leads on.
The strays and the lost
He has not forgotten nor forsaken.
Though they have.
They are sorry. They see their mistakes wishing for a second chance.
Their tears
wet the path to
Damnation.
The river of tears flows.
Engulfed by the flame.
The Fallen grins.
He is happy.
Misery loves company and He is misery.
The Anointed cries with them.
The SON empathizes.
-They are human.
He leads them with his crook.
Their tears dry. The river a cracked bed.
The flames subside. Morning Star laments
-It's not fair!
SON counters
-And what do you know about equality?
The gate is open. The future awaits.
Brighter than the Luminous City up the path.
The Struggle is over.
Peace begins.

Fourteen years old on sensory overload.
The evening news.
Burn baby burn.

Da bomb. Sauteed mushrooms.
Drop drill in all the classrooms.
Lesee. If I crawl under this wooden desk with hands over head then
I wont end up toast ? Outa sight.

Puff That Muthfkn dragon. He still got a condo by the sea ?
I remember thinking how  privileged and exciting to live in the USA.
But. Burn baby burn.

Watching late night reruns till the station signed off. No CNN then my fren.
The Duke.
Abbot and Costello meets The Mummy.
Free T.V.That was a first for I.
No T.V. In Belize. None. No gun violence either. Hmmm.

My Lai.            The Panther Answer.

i never understood why some people are so adamant at telling others how to govern, most notably the anglophone world, as if rotherham didn't happen... tyranny this, tyranny that, it's always the opinion of safeguarding foreign investment; people never complain the illegal toys from china, because all inanimate things are always and always will be legal, but people are most of the time: deemed illegal... yes, i'm part of the integration process that failed at its most spectacular: i speak better native spreschen than the native populace, poking fun at dyslexics all the time, watch me having 'un in 'yde park: and let me tell you, if you want to read a proper book, stand over a homeless man with a sign, read it, then look at the homeless man, there's your proust in comic form.

what did costello call the italian grease-*****?
dikes, or was it guineas?
   i can't remember, i do remember that
trigger called rodney *dave all the time
in only fools & horses -
funny that, you ever watched the box-set?
no, canned, laughter.
    a bit like the office -
     i find canned laughter intimidating,
it's like getting punched in the face,
completely disorientating -
i never seem to know when to laugh,
since i'm fed fake rolexes down hackney market...
if it's funny, i'll tell you,
  but most comedy these days is
for an audience of turkeys, force-feeding them
gags that aren't really there...
    with the amount of canned laughter
going around i'm starting to feel paranoid,
i swear i'm the only person sitting
in a room watching a "comedy" -
but in the background there's that annoying
cloud of laughter,
    i'm starting to wonder: what's more fake,
the gags, or the canned audience?
   too bad for coulrophobia -
   my first impression of the clown,
or should i say, clowns, was in a circus when
the circus still had animal performers,
   and lemonade in plastic bags...
   and me and my grandfather, leaving me
in the audience **** scared of the grandiose
persona of the crowd amused,
while he went off for a glug of ***** on the shy,
there was me, his umbrella,
   and about 10+ clowns crammed into
a fíat 126p kneading in & out of the car...
yes, that dot can change:
     raining from above:
             i did mention that hindi dress
with indicators as not sari but as sārí?
never mind.
           oh right, what was i going to say?
i'm just bored of the "n- word" controversy...
    i'm going to have to start amusing myself...
i'm going to start calling "them"... ha ha...
      nigels;
                      guess the trilling and the double
GG breastplate was too much for some
people learning to, spell...
             i like that... spot me a nigel next time
and let's keep it piquant in terms
   of pickles of the tongue;
ah, almost forgot...
   met an atheist once, who just loved christmas
carols...
    well, no, i never met him, just heard of him,
a real poppy (pop star - of the movement)...
   tell you what... if you said:
oh, i really like that da pacem domine,
  or that salve regina chant of the templars,
i'd be like: cool cool...
     me too...
                 kinda competes with the islamic
    adhan; christmas carols? not so much.
        and do we need to state afrikaan
  with those two there? yes, we know:
it's prolonged, so wouldn't it look more eloquent
in the form of: afrikān? these signs are there,
so why not use them?
          these signs are like the overt-layer
of what's already the hidden layer of vowels
in hebrew...
           the story already begins, with the conundrum
of having names for letters (rather than
syllable constructs) -
               and in hebrew that means,
oh ****... right... a gay beginning...
the two adams...
          א‎ (alef) & ע‎ (ayin) - who predate
cain & abel...
                         and this always bothered me,
two letters which are seemingly vowels, but aren't,
who's mother was kametz -
                   perhaps they are the branching
off into the construct of LΓH,
           that breaking apart of the tetragrammaton?
well, given the prefix rule in the construct
of names for letters (which the latins
barely scratch, because it's a singing language
primarily, hence the ability to convene
            upon encapsulating music in scores) -
what do you get, with the prefix rule
when you construct a word,
   being given: alpha lambda phi alpha beta eta tau?
i.e. what word do you get, when you rid
the following combination of name-to-a-letter
affix?

Yeah, I’ll say it,
No, I am not scared,
It’s been here all day
Does anyone care?
Yes! I am sober,
I am not seeing pink,
We try to ignore it,
But frankly....it stinks,
Some ignore it,
Yes, I tried,
But something this big cannot be denied
Its bound to get messy,
Where is the broom,
Who let the elephant into the room?
©B L Costello 2018

consuming cigarettes like candy at a theme park
shoveling, inhaling
before mom takes it away
incubating cool concrete
to hatch eggs of non-conformist
thoughts, theories, therapy
Costello glasses fog
with skinny-jeaned laughter and flannel
bellows only audible within the confines
of claustrophobic, humid basements
spilled with beer out of sun-lit
fear.
stay ******, ****** up and disconnected
feigning parental disregard and lacked motivation, except
to pet cats to the tune of vinyl
manicured with dust
seeping with lust
for the past
when rainbow-striped sweaters were cool.
pound the drums too loud for ears
sweating out anger and distrust
stuck to reconstruct or fit in
become the grey, the void, the in-between
the one thing you don't want.

Before you became a diabetic,
Before the pain and the anesthetic,
We ate,
We smoked,
We slept past noon,
We played until we were out of tune,
We laughed at the cost,
“Go ahead…bill me,
I guess something has to **** me”,
And now…it is,
Imagine that,
But ****,
I miss being stupid and fat
© B L Costello 2016

Please don’t wake the giant,
She really needs to sleep,
She could disturb the elephant of whom no one will speak,
I know we can get thru this,
We must not give up hope,
We cannot get our feet wet,
Please don’t rock the boat,
Because,
Giants are not real
Facts cannot be denied,
If I keep them covered,
My feet will be dry!
If I keep my mouth shut,
They can never tell,
Let’s not talk about it,
Shhhh…
What is that smell?
©B L Costello 2019

Remember how you begged to play?
                      You practiced and worked so hard,
                      Remember how disappointed you were
                      When they laughed you out of the yard?
                      You thought there was something wrong with you,
                      You bravely asked what it was?,
                      As if you were a child,
                      Those cowards said....
It’s “because,”
      Because?
 Just…“because”,
      “That’s all!”
                      Did they think that would make you fall?
                      So cruel,
                      So quick,
                      It took no time,
                      Because,
                      No one ever asked them, “why”?
                      “Because”
                       They don’t even know the function!
                       “Because”,
A subordinating grammatical conjunction!
                        Without a sentence,
                        Without a reason,
                        You were supposed to stop and believe them,
                        Believe what fools can hardly say,
                        But you knew all along,
                        There was nothing the matter with you      
                       "Because",
                        They were completely wrong
                         © B L Costello 2018

He plays with himself,
He thinks he competes,
But he never wins,
And he always cheats
So long in the game,
He doesn’t know why,
He likes to keep score,
But it’s always a tie,
Clean for minute,
They call it detox,
*** in a jar,
And shadowbox,
He thinks he ahead,
You can tell by his grin,
But he’s running a race that nobody wins
©B L Costello 2018

indeed, i finished the night off with a wolf's operatic ah woo! at the yellow lunar scythe.

i never understand why people, with such fascinating lives,  |
pre posthumous auto-biographic
with so much Don Juan  excitement would surrender to
being cocooned by bookworms,
the silence of libraries...
just last night i had the most lucid
and the most entangled experience
within the world of the living,
i so desperately want to write about...
but i can't...  i can't!
i want to, but i'll flush all the emotions
that went into experiencing the night
away and feel vane, which is hardly
apathetic, syndrome of atheism
a fake, a- (without) pathos (some sort
of pathology) -
**** it, the highlights, two mates out for a
drink, end up in the company of
a half-mandarin half swede (suede eh eh,
nudge nudge, buckle two stops of a torero
winky wink - nudge nudge of the elbow
only fools & horses banter);
graffiti on a book i carried:
dr. john marchent, LSBU,
london south bank university,
the science of chocolate*...
the scribbler? her name be... what
a ******* zigzag, got her surname
but her name i had to rewrite:
rhiannala                            fowler...
yes, the H is silent, it always is in english
unless it be a haystack of hyphens...
there were many more details regarding
last night, i could write them,
but when i once saw a girl getting spat on
by her "boyfriend"
and the way i spat kisses all over a girl's face
i think it's too painful to make details of...
a sly impromptu in polish with
a guy who was smoking hashish...
12 years over here... i don't know why i
kept associating his name with ******;
a fine Friday event in bohemian east-end
London... that's all, and yes, i seriously wish
i could do a detailed Proustian outline...
eating a ******* macaroon to delve into
the gaping hole of memory making 20 years
seem like 20 minutes...
of course i'll curse, pornographic over saturation...
obscenity trials my ***...
             i'm so ****** tempted to recount you
the night... the drinking Bacchus **** and laughter...
die sonne satan and what not mentioned...
           runes ironic third ***** ******* for good luck
    tilting to antagonise a clear upstart failure...
feminism and advertising,
                   comic book strips and something about
keeping a brand with an ethic worthy of anorexia
and gluttonous upheavals as the end...
               'and yes, i decided to become an Elvis Costello
    song because i thought my life was boring enough
worthy of a manuscript...
            if i had the life of a Don Juan, i wouldn't have
   bothered... me in a cocoon? n'ah,
me in a coconut sounds better...
          or as i wrote in my high-school memorandum:
  to live a bohemian life in one of the EU's capitals...'
and that's prior to the 2004 expansion,
even though i was sceptic - and to finish:
west end you get cosmopolitan culture -
east end you get bohemian culture -
               or as a quasi Mr. Portillo noted -
toff toff truffles too! yep, some ******* labour
coal miner descendent fanatic bemused out-loud
on our way for the night bus 86 -
where i was hit by an existential conundrum
about having this ethnicity bred
and this psychology acquired:
'i spoke to them native and they're thinking
i spoke Hungarian or Czech or Yugoslav! ha ha'
the two children were a wormhole into the past for me...
but for the love of god
you can't find steve wynn & the miracle 3's song cindy
on the internet... i have the album, but the compact
is scratched... and encode a scratched compact
into an mp4 format and your iPod is kung fu ******.            |

|represent a neurosis of a perfect width...
|should the middle ground be peppered
|with shorter stances,
|the first few lines have to match-up
|to the elongating caterpillars of the end -
|a kinda hug / embrace.

Lukewarm coffee and the cat,
[not my cat, the cat, a cat]
is making the bathroom floor
look cozy.
I haven't had a terrible nightmare or a beautiful dream
in what feels like months, not years, but close.
I have an odd fascination with light bulbs,
sources of light, man-made fountains of brightness.
Not the sun. Rarely the moon.
I don't sleep well.
My father learned about my suicide attempt and thoughts,
because my sister told my mother, and she waved that banner
like a parade float far above my head for everyone to see.
Above his head as a symbol of his failure.
I couldn't pull it down.
Like Snoopy between two large buildings,
it was just inevitable. A matter of time, really.
My past curls up into a ball and waits,
like a cat on vacation from eyes being open.
The eyes open.
We're standing at the kitchen table.
You tell me that it wasn't your fault.
Not directly, of course.
You tell me about my bass teacher,
my ex-girlfriend.
Insinuate I was depressed about these things.
These are the materials to make the cocktail I drank,
full of not bittersweet poisons, but neurotoxins.
You tell me it's not your fault.
Now you don't have to apologize.
You were wrong.
I didn't "discover" these venoms in some fresh cabinet
waiting to be torn down, you, you [expletive],
I grew up next to them,
an IV drip in my jugular,
direct feed to my brain.
[expletive].
[expletive].
I learned how to sincerely love cursing because you wanted
to censor my emotions. I learned to hate myself from you.
I learned how to look at myself as
not enough
because of you. Surely, daddy the great doesn't owe me
an apology, the selfless man who tore us across the country
broke all the way. Surely, if his intentions were noble,
his actions were pure.
Just like Elvis Costello,
your aim was true.
Depression is like trying to find a light in a room
that is full of dark corners.
For a long time, I had no light.
Eyes closed.
I bomb the parades and smile in a hotel window at the chaos
in my mind-world. My other home away from home.
I ask my girlfriend how often someone should think about suicide.
The floats lift higher than the eye should see.
They become a string of dots in an otherwise empty sky.
Amorphous shapes in clear blue water.
Splotches of paint on a manilla canvas.
Something geometric with the fingers,
turned into a sound, then a sample,
then a symphony.
There is no remedy, no cure,
just placebos and snake oils.
Birds chirping.
Silence.

Without you, I don't make any sense;

Like macaroni noodles without cheese,
or Tweedledum without Tweedledee,
Like Abbott without Costello,
or a lemon that isn't yellow,
Like Chip without Dale,
or a ship with no sails,
Like Rocky without Bullwinkle,
or Simon without Garfunkel,
Like Yin without Yang,
or Zig without Zag,
Likeasentencewithoutspaces,
I'd be lost without your embraces.

I did not bring you into the world,
But I was happy that you came,
I took you home one afternoon,
Took pictures…..and gave you a name,
And you where my baby,
Dayenu……that was enough,
And like all things God gives you,
Someday…You must give up,
How blessed I was to have you,
To love and watch to you grow,
I did not bring you into the world,
But, I was there to watch you go.
© B L Costello 2016

You know it's funny the things that leave an indelible mark on our lives! 2 times when I was 8 years old, a catastrophe landed square on me that still haunts me... almost 55 years later. Funnier still is how alone I feel in this, as I've never seen, or even heard of it happening to anyone else! Surely it must have, (punched someone in the metaphorical gut - besides me)  as this cannot be the one thing that makes me unique among human beings.  We played real baseball back then, not t-ball and because we ( my family) moved around a bit during those years; that town and field time dates itself as the  2nd or  3rd grade, so I was 8 or just turned 9 when life turned on me...twice!! With the benches filled with the enthusiastic, happy faces of cheering parents and friends, the hot lights in a perpetual battle with the cool night air of early spring, creating a foggy haze that hovered just over our heads like a gray wool blanket and added something to the crackling excitement of this rite of passage. I loved it all!  I loved it for the excitement and I loved it because it was mine ( all mine) not a hand me down shirt or pair of pants! It was the first thing in my life, that was mine!  Because I paid for It by sheer sweat and determination! Paid for with all the effort made that took me from the Siberia of the right field - that 1st year - to pitcher/ first base the next! Yes, I loved it all; and aided by an even swing and a penchant for meeting the pitch with the sweet spot of the bat, giving me status and accolades that I admit was to be loved as well! All that mutual love made the pain of... well you will see!
    I found myself on first base, by walk or a fair hit, where I'm sure I was leading off and taunting the pitcher; as were my teammates on 2nd and 3rd ( a fact guaranteed to promote to a higher level our taunts and threats of stealing a base!) Yes! but what base? What with them all occupied. Bases loaded was almost a no steal zone! So then, with the resounding crack of a good hit filling the crisp cool spring night, we all 3 began to move around the bases, pushed by the 1st base coach and aided by the one at 3rd ,who was like the traffic light in human form as he urged us to make a left turn and head for home, unless the light went to caution or red. That then was the time to obey ( without question ) the traffic laws of the ball field!  Sometimes the signal went to caution, slowing all progress as everyone waited for the ball to return from beyond the wool blanket!  At that age we had no more free will than the merry - go - round did ,or the kids aboard it did ,when suddenly hijacked and assaulted by bigger and stronger kids bent on turning  it into that momentary " hell ride " while they pushed and pulled together, creating enough momentum that you were too  scared to remain and.too scared to jump! As bad as that was back then, I would have taken it 100 times to 1 in avoiding the catastrophe and walk of shame dealt me then. , The runners, all but the one going from 1st to 2nd (me) were running toward a coach. The one at 3rd base, now with the caution light shining ,then flicking to red as he saw the ball appear from the glaring haze of lights to be an easy catch for the outfielder in question! Then, just as sudden , the red went to green and the race was back on, aided by a collision ( usually ) of those not calling out " mine"  or someone else not hearing it. From 1st to 2nd I had not been guided by a  coach, but as I was returning towards 1st. I could see him waving me in, only to start waving me off, yelling at me to go go go!!
Clear in my mind  - even now - is the scene I turned back to as I went towards second! To my left, I could see the kid round 3rd and head for home, with the traffic light behind him bouncing and swinging himself around like a happy 10 lb. dog with a 20 lb. tail! To my right I saw 2 players doing an Abbott and Costello routine as they scrambled around, bouncing off each other while trying to retrieve the ball, and there, straight in front of me I see the returning runner land back on second and stick there like a lawn dart! From the corner of my eye, I see the winner of the scramble fling the ball towards home plate, arriving just in time to not get the runner. And then...  there's me, standing 5 feet from second base; lost, confused, embarrassed, and boy am I *******!   Now ******, it's not fair! I followed the rules and obeyed the signals.
   No walk of shame is nice, no matter how much dignity one might portray, but at that age, under those hateful lights and the faces of those mean people on the bleachers, who keep staring at me... I'm sure I was crying as I walked that long walk back to the dugout!   2 times that happened to me that year. It wasn't fair, was not right, and in point of fact,  it was cruel and heartbreaking! Why else would it still permeate my life 55 years later.? Am I alone in this club and should I let it affect my memory so? IDK, because as far as I know, it's just a one-man club and no others for assimilation.
  No one else has paid the dues to join  - that I know of - but  I truly hope I am not alone here, Okay so It happened and it broke me at the time, yes it did that, but it; also prepared me for life, and armed me with the knowledge that sometimes we must endure the pain from doing " no wrong"!   That's where that dignity comes from, as we take the walk of ( undeserved ) shame, with head held high and caring not if anyone sees the gleam of tears... that may fill our eye!

the world is so stiff bored; i'm losing hope in writing an Elvis Costello song... jut can't be bothered to feed jealousy, it's s exhausting, i can make racist jokes with my father and my mother like they did to us... who gives a ****, Western society already told me ii had an incubator of hate in me that needed repression, even though i wasn't part of a colonial escapade... nonetheless, white skin = psychiatric evaluation.... what a load of *******...*

happy?
            i said: are you happy?!
no, i bet you aren't, in a supermarket
isle, daydreaming while playing
dungeons and dragons trying to escape,
gamers ahoy, a ******* ***-rubric
of the barrel tilting for a refill -
my misogyny? from experience...
they day western society overly
made sacrifices on the altar of psychology
like it were an Aztec pyramid...
god does not exist, but an un-destructible
unit of man does, hence we have to destroy that
for a completion of secularisation and ****
with psychology, or vice versus zoology,
the caged soul in body, the caged body in a barring,
left-wingers awoke the far-right...
i wrote a poem everyday... journalists wrote an article
in the print... every day...
the former was a waste of time, the latter a
bulletproof testament of a career...
poetry done at a leisurely pace isn't quiet
significant, Ezra's testament,
any art sidelined, after all all art is sidelined
to partake in big bangs while keeping up
the cashier's suggestion of busy...
i mean, i can see the point of perpetually creating,
but even if god, i see a plateau, a stasis,
an ontological bias... through to origin
a quick sentencing of the nature of activity...
every criticism of western society i endorse with
full approval, given the fact that when
receiving a brain haemorrhage i was treated
as a schizophrenic... treated with anti-psychotics
******* my bed... i wasn't even in prison...
i was in society! well, "society"...
civilisation... i just can't be bothered no longer...
it's pointless, idiocy pays supreme allowances,
it's just ******* painful to have to act out a lie
when it's not necessary...
at least the Holocaust culprits had insignia,
and trials at Nuremberg - i just heard laughs and
'oh yeah, Mad Matt, ******* cuckoo he he!',
i don't have sympathy - i don't have empathy,
you contract cancer? die from cancer;
why would you expect me to feed a human dynamic
if i wasn't fed a human dynamic?
you laugh at me, i'll pick up a ******* shovel
and dig you a grave!

hi dudes



today i am suffering from a pain in my ankle, i have no idea

how it cam about but it’s there, i go to bed and ask athena

to spray methane over it, and she does, and i feel great

i don’t know how it started but when i was doing the barbecue

last saturday, it suddenly started to ache, mind you i was feeling

a minor ache a few days before, i couldn’t stand up, mind you

i was trying to stand, but i just had to sit down, it made me feel like

such a bludger, but every night i am going to ask athena to spray methane on it

and i will drink orange soda, you see there is a poem my mother read to me

called acka backer soda ******* acka backer boo acka backer soda *******

i love you, and i imagined the babies eyes lighting up, i foot is getting better

but it still feels a bit sore, but i still sleep well as athena is working on the

pouring of the methane on it, i got my new glasses yesterday and i look a bit like elvis costello

but hopefully my foot will get better with all the methane i am getting poured on it

you see athena isn’t perfect, you must be able to remain low stressed, and nobody

is perfect or nobody is a robot and can’t fix up as quick as a fiddle stick, but mind you

people try and not be sick, just because i have a sore fought it doesn’t mean i am negative

i watch shows where people on life insurance with their poxley smiles to say when

they die everything is going to come up roses but my leg is still hurting a bit, and athena

is the best worker for me because she is cheap, but that doesn’t mean she ain’t true

the great gas methane can work wonders for your feet,i am trying to do my tapestry

and my foot is finding it hard to be a table on top of my leg.

you see i remember my mum and late father said my poems weren’t family friendly enough for

the internet, but when i went to outer space i saw athena and then sang a few songs at neptune

the first song was do the shitzophrenic
You see I am sitting at the mall
I am having dillusions of people teasing me, and I wish this will all stop, oh please, just leave me the f..k alone
And then I hear voices that aren't really being said o hear Jon killed my best friend named Fred, the thing is I have no best friend, oh year
1 2 3 4 do the schitzophrenic
From the first diagnosis till the day you reach 45, you see if i take medication it can be controlled yeah oh yeah
I am schitzophrenic
Then I went to see my psychiatrist and he told me, to try and get a life, I told him I was blackbeard and John F Kennedy, he just threw a smart *** comment my way, I thought that comment was rude and ******, yes it is hard to be liked when you do
1 2 3 4 do the schitzophrenic
Yes it's easy to do, just let me hang out
You see with my medication it can be controlled, ooooh
I am schitzophrenic
You see I get paranoid when I see people around and right wing governments want us locked up
It mighty hard to have this illness and I cab say this
1 2 3 4 do the schitzophrenic
Do it once and you get all hooked and after that you feel like a geek, cause your a schitzophrenic, and also with medication it can be controlled
Oooooh I'm a schitzophrenic
Yes, that's true

and when i finished that song was finished i went to the bar to drink 45 gallons of methane to hopefully make me walk a

a bit better as opposed to looking like an old man on his last legs, i know when my legs give way

and that is when my brain stops, surely i might have my legs amputated, but if i ask athena

to give the right dose of methane and if i rest my leg when i awake, but i must walk occasionally to

make sure it gets better and i say if you have sore feet, roll your feet over a tennis ball to make

athena’s magic will work, you see the god of thunder will get the methane and roll on you

just like thunder does

Yesterday,
I Googled your name,
I searched under “image”,
Nothing came….
I dialed your phone,
It made me nervous,
A strange voice said it was “out of service”,
Your room is empty,
So is your chair,
I just can’t find you anywhere,
I looked in the mirror,
What else could I do?
Something familiar,
I look like you,
Sometimes your children are all that is left,
If I stare to long,
I get upset,
It’s only me,
10 years you’re gone,
Oh how I miss you, mom
©B L Costello 2017

I dusted off your picture,
A task I had denied,
But it became embarrassing,
I could no longer hide,
I held it much too long,
My hand caressed the frame,
So long since I had held you,
Nothing is the same,
I stared for much too long,
Such common sense I lack,
Into your eyes I lingered,
Though you cannot look back,
Fighting back the tears,
I returned it to the stand,
Seeking more diversion,
I went to wash my hands,
And now,
I do not touch it,
Its cleanliness,
I’ll trust,
I really need to vacuum,
How I hate to dust
©B L Costello 2016

“Very fine people, on both sides”,
I wonder just who decides?
The ******* the elevator clutching her purse,
Or the man in hoodie who got on first?
“Very fine people”,
How could he know,
She’s been a victim,
It just does not show,
It difficult to see the truth,
Underneath his jogging suit,
Just like him,
She cannot see,
the bible in pocket,
Or his PHD,
How fragile we are,
So easy we shatter,
God teaches us ALL LIVES MATTER!
©B L Costello 2019

****** the neo-feminist
anti-...
   the comerady
for the hetrosexual male...
the thai-surprise
having encountered
a bisexual in the park...
sure... my
white maggoty ****
was nothing
to be envious of...
bue: miles davis'
                trumpet was...
i no longer belong to
the world that attempts
to make sense,
in the "world"
that would ever consecrate
itself upon
a necessity of: furthering
the scope of dialogue...
i, punk oblivion,
Korean neon
insomnia...
                   Asia fetish?
whenever i have a desire
to ****...
i start imagining teeth
on oysters...
like:
i've ****** one with
tattoos on her body,
one will do...
thank you...
any more?
thank you, no.
              
see...
being read "pedantic"
backward in finding a seat
in an opera house?
like it was...
something difficult to do?
you know what...
       how about trying
that pedantic lineage
of
argument in a football stadium?
how's that?

yeah: it's ******* dark...
do i look like
a ******* batman
or something?
no...
so...
           i came here to watch
the ******* bolshoi theatre...
not for some *******
english smurks...

wankers...
******* scittle-half-crafts
of what deserves a
social-media frenzy...
and all of them women...

opera: yes...
and i was told by some
god-forbid russian
prized frenzy to stop leaning...
babe:
you're in the wrong seat...
and she was!
i was leaning into her
"attire"...
sure...
but she was sitting
in the wrong seat...
i thought everyone was
sorted in being primmed
when exposed
to such: "high" culture?

no...?
oh.. well...
no... see...
i like the opera,
i love the ballet...
but being told
that i haven't faced
my *** to coincide with
my face,
to sit in the allocate
allowance
of an put-into-place?

i become...
itchy...
  by some...
middle-man
that cannot stomach
killing someone,
simultanoeus
with
   butchering
a squat of pork
for a hungry cat...
at that point?
i become bothered...
i don't like being
the ******-splain
of sitting
allocation in an opera...

it's, *******, dark...
   next time:
stop bellowing at
the opera singer
like a *******
clapping-seal
needing the ordeal
for the encore of senseless
clapping:
or i'll ******* sling around
skinning you...
savvy?!

homosexuals,
trannies...
whatever...
they can have their go...
but being...
           made scrutiny of...
being...
ridiculed...
in an opera house...
by social-climbers?

it's like.... an itch...
  i'm itching...
to bite, slap, stab the living's
worth of said, "unsaid"
person...

               white-trash drama...

oh i don't fear...
the incarcerated and the obese
are never behind bars...

but that smirk remark
at the opera?
like i'm, somehow... "minor"?
i could **** for that...
mind you:
all the worth for the world's worth
of killing,
is a summary of
the most banal loss
of compnesation,
      being made a comparison of.

i could **** for that opera statement...
i was watching
the ******* bolshoi theatre...
what i was given...
was an antagonist...
something worth
a camel i'd pat on the head
for...  imitating:
poiting forward,
with its "oasis" of phlegm
to scoop, for a worth
of coordinate to scrap
the heaving breath
of, all life, from:
and subsequently regurgitate...

such a belittling scrutiny...
kick a ******* ball
toward an aria while you're at
a scissor-kick mid-air
via a baritone tone
beside the...

   ad capricio (capricious paedo:
****** the testicles,
grab and twist them...
but never cut them off,
or attempt ****)...

   or the piedmont: sanctity...
beatified: ad ****, und -ini...
always, counter culture cited,
the Iberian Muslim counter...
as...
a harem of missing testicles
was...
for no blacksmith...
a escape route worth
of...
                            72 virgins...
but there are,
men...
******...
  who... do what
war implores of them...
to no end...
  for a predicament's
worth of peace...
yes... the Muslims were here,
the Muslims were there...
modern Muslims
in modern Kenya...
             a ******* giraffe
on the stripes
up a zebra's ***...
and i'm all, like:
a ******* clapping
coconut army...
because... Elvis Costello...
was... just as much
fun as Simon & Garfield...

      pop up:
all is for basic scrutiny...
   a few people
might remember
the championing
of coal miners...
in the form variety
of edvard gierek:
but me...
citing him?
am stupid steward...

but someone telling me
i'm not sitting in
the right place...
while trying to rummage
in the dark
for a "place of origin"...
being told
"it's not that hard" /
"anyone could
make such a mistake"...

and to think...
that so little became the basis
for the most horrendous
acts of man...
no...
a man can be burdened
by a broken arm...
cancer...
a hybrid of
an over-inflated
negation of ease...
but men...
pet-peeves...
   itches...
tooth-aches...
when people become them...
like...
when people become
pedantic,
or purposively
mis-understanding...
and not semi-acknowledging
themselves
in an exaggeration?

me?
personally?
i too want to implenet
killing...

   since what remains,
leaves to remnant
of a redeemable
quality's worth
of either crux: or beyond
it...
to say say:
i am no sadist,
to ingest a hard-on
from the moaning-&-groaning
of a person
on a plate of:
that most, tiresome ingestion
of... what...
should have never been
the circumstance
for the comparison
                  of caro: qua verbum.

Is tomorrow enough?
It has to be,
Today is almost gone you see,
Yet here I linger,
Alone at last,
My memories repeat the past,
The moon does rise,
Still I am inspire,
Embracing my muse,
Thou I am tired,
In the dark
I smoke,
I wait for the day
I will meet tomorrow….
Unafraid
©B L Costello 2016

Some say I’m over weight- while some say I’m fat.
I say I’m big ***** - my doctor told me that.
What does weight matter? -  does it mean I can’t love?
I was made this way - by GOD up above.

My brother is tall and thin- they say he’s bones and skin.
                Why does weight matter?
Can any of us ever win !

They say when we walk down the street
We look like ABBOTT and COSTELLO
He looks like a bamboo stick
While I look like a cello.

We’ve learned how to accept the jeers
And to control our rages and emotions
For “IN GOD” we put our devotion.

Love lives in any size bodies!
Big or small, short or tall
GOD has given love to all.

Why do people love to criticize and find
Fault with every one, when they themselves
Have faults , which can not be undone.

When I was growing up , there  was a saying
For both fat and thin, and no matter
which way you put it
Both sides would always win.

They would say : the closer the meat to the bone the sweeter it is
And: the more the meat, the better the treat.

So to all you criticizers ! We will not be put down.
For you are the one
who walks with the heavy crown.

© L. RAMS

.confined to: on the nigh... look... no surd in sight... no white night... do i need to say a certain word? no... but do i need to write it? well... if you want to take an escapade outside of the realm of dyslexia... sure.

i'm a wordsmith,
i tend to listen...
   better written down
than left
to a simple
conversation...

      ******'s aryan...
how else
to fudge so many
extra letters into
the word

          nigerian?

or maybe it has
something to do
with reading a book
review
by trevor phillips...

a book entitled
white fragility...
by robin diangelo...

               akin to that...
ha ha moment...
   when you spot
the vowel-catcher
aspect
of the tetragrammaton
and the, base,
for laughter...

can't seem to hinge
laughter on any other
consonant, other than
the H...

           sure: in hebrew that
amounts to saying
in English: the the the...
point?
    closure...

was i ever wrong in saying,
and abiding by
a non-dialectical
observation:
   a jazz record sounds
best...
   on vinyl...

jazz on a bus...
  a ring to it, doesn't it just
have it, the missing G
in a word like:
the Niger river...

oh right, that song...
not Oliver Costello's
oliver army...
rhymes with trigger...
on 1585AM radio...

they didn't hush
the word...
as would be the case on
FM radio...
i think that's
the right frequency...

i spent an hour sitting
in a car in a car park
outside the vets...
a cat in a car is like
a man about to fly
in a space-shuttle...
   the windows steamed-up
like that *** scene
from the movie Titanic...

billy joels':
we didn't start the fire...
belgians in the congo...
apocalypse now,
             heart of darkness,
joseph conrad...
         more like:
belgians in england...
          these days...
belgians in portugal...
        
the added G...
****... at least i'd be identified
with a Latin word
for black...
flag pole... the north pole...
******: grr...
         just one more word
you can add to speaking
a foreign tongue...

1 hour... sitting in a *******
car...
   can i drive one?
no! but i can ride you a horse...
how's that?

i had to lazily fathom
my... inability to dream,
or feel anything profound...
like making baby-steps
in a ******
that's supposed to be a heart...

well... if everyone is going
to be so ******* honest...
suicidal thoughts?
  oh, plenty of them...
   it's the only way to
contemplate mortality,
overshadowing an aspect
of god to send out Samael...

        well...
seeing how i ate the pain
of the four knuckle burns
from a cigarette
and enjoyed it?
           yeah...
that's weird:
     having the capacity
to enjoy pain...
                 it's like:
i want to feel what these
****-sodden *******
of a 14 year old girl
feel like...
     when cutting....
        the sad truth being:
               burning leaves
       you with tattoos...      

still, lazily budding with
a variant of sado-masochism...
           if there's pleasure
to be gained from...
   over-exposure to
the nerves...
           being recipient
of a...
                        impetus?

the fear of clenching
your teeth before
falling alseep...
in fear of a quasi-epileptic
spasm...
     fun days, and night...

hello the Chernobyl
winds...
             that year...
when the local park
experienced a curiosity...
when an atomic wind
passes?
  strips of trees...
roughly 10 metres
unaffected...
   rought 10 metres
decaying or...
speeding up from spring
into an autumnal
allure...
                  
  and this... this wasn't even
in Ukraine...
     head further,
north, across the border...

why i've come to enjoy
pain?
       a male ****** was
only ever so-so...
          what...
having to pull back
the *******...
   revealing the perfect
*****-****...
         because of two
protruding veins
being the reason for
not being given the:
             snippet treatment?

a hour, sitting in a ******* car...
apparently i gave off
a stench of a brewery...
filled the car with
toxic fumes of
the previous night's
whiskey consumption...

and i look at gambling
and think...
   yeah... i gamble...
i take a liter of whiskey
with me to bed...
chances are: i'll wake up
the next day... 3:1 ratio of me being
right about that...

     so...
   racism... race realism...
   very racist of me,
i somehow managed
to "bribe" a black girl
   with my up-stairs
doing it in the dark
on a leather sofa in a bedroom
while entertaining
a few guests who
managed to bother
a birthday part of me...
"bribed" her by providing
a decent stealth of cocktails
and cedric IM brooks',
notably the song
satta masa ganna...

   i do appreciate that classical
music lasted for
let's figure this out...
Vivaldi (1678)
Bach (1685)...
   vaughn Williams (1872)...
roughly 300 years...
        jazz?
             how long was that?
i'm not going to check,
i want to be guided by
some variant of ignorance
in... making general statements...
50 years?
           nig(g)er dropped
the ******* trumpet!

before it was rap,
it was a rhapsody...
            and i have...
0 colonial ancestry in me...
so... of course i'm not
excused...
         but you're just black,
while i'm a ******* flag pole...
and the people
most acutely aware to
any verbal transgressions?
they're the ones who
have no ******* puddle
for a soul behind the facade
of a smiling face.

racism contra race realism...
hmm...
       sounds like something
from an existentialist menu
that's... *******...
          hot... like a bagel
from a brick lane bakery!

never to be a convert
to rap, 'ere...
                reggae...
anything by culture
or isreal vibration...
who's who and who isn't
culturally appropriating
what?
         bunch of ******* schizos,
trapped on Jamaica,
thinking the Ethopians
are the 13th or is it the 14th
tribe is Juda?

i'm just a ******...
   shying away from
a Germanic heritage...
  ****... i'll just have
to butcher mein deutsche
for the, tickling thrill of it all!
and speak anglo-sax!

She was so attractive,
Back when she was ”right”
She went to work everyday,
She said her prayers at night,
To this common life,
She had come,
so far,
“it takes courage to grow up and become who you are”,
Resided,
Then content,
something had to break,
They said she was an ‘accident”,
But people make mistakes,
And, still she is forgiving,
She is actualized,
It doesn’t even matter,
You don’t look her in the eye,
She who you looked down upon,
Now makes you feel strange,
and all she ever did was ask,
“Have you got some change”?
©B L Costello 2018

Niagara Falls . . .
"Slowly I turned,
Step by step,
Inch by inch . . ."
I am Lou Costello
Stuck in a jail cell
With some ****** lunatic.
Getting the **** beat out of me.
Every time.

Long before she was ever rejected,
She was planned….
At least expected,
Before children laughed,
Before the police….
She was loved,
She kept the peace,
I wonder if they see her now,
They who loved her…..and who taught her how,
To tie her shoe,
To washed her face,
Who left her in that awful place?
Somebody loved her…..
Before she went crazy,
Once…..
We were all….
Somebody’s baby
©B L Costello 2016

I should write about something worldly.
Something important to satisfy the media addicted,
I have seen brilliant poets write about the events and world politics,
I know it is important,
I would love to stand in the shadows of Cohen or Dylan,
Talk about the “Future”, or the times that are “A ‘Changing”,
But my muse is not entertained or interested in Donald Trump,
That shooting last night,
It is tired of walls and boundaries,
It is too busy to be angry,
That careless nymph wants me to tell you how beautiful you are,
How you make me feel,
And what it is like when you touch me.
Rhapsody is real,
I abandon my fears,
How happy you’re love has made me dear,
This may not enrich the critical mind,
I hope you will forgive me in time.
©B L Costello 2017

I chew my butter,
It doesn’t melt,
Trust worthy as Lucy Van Pelt,
He tells me his troubles,
I don’t complain,
I tell him where to leave the change,
It makes me happy to watch him fall,
He runs like a girl,
I move the ball,
I asked him play…I was feeling kind,
That block head does every time,
Sometimes he such a basket case,
I could punch that red head in the face,
But he looks sooo cute on that pitcher’s mound,
Sometimes, he's just so Charlie Brown
©B L Costello 2017