Everyday I'm falling deeper
I stalk you like a creeper, creeper
Nothing can keep me away
EnderMen better stay away
I'll travel to the Nether for you
I'd **** the EnderDragon for you
I started with 10 hearts to spare
But now I couldn't really care
The only heart that's really crucial
Is the one I give to you
I've traveled deserts, plains, and seas
Fought cougars, Ghasts, and rotting zombies
I've looted desert temples and villiages
I am nothing but a pillagar
I'll love you until I'm very old
But its as hard to find you as a stronghold
I started with 10 hunger to spare
But now I couldn't really care
If you're hungry, I know what I'd do
I'd give all my food to you
Because I love you (Minecraft)
I really do

I love my ladies in all kinds
But **** why must cougars blow my mind
I done seen alot of hot young girls and boy there fine
But as im looking at this cougar i rather have mine
Shoot i ll baptist myself in your water if that have me saved
A been a bad boy you can whip me till i behave
**** these cougar ladies is definrtly some to crave
And as a bonus you can use me as your personal *** slave
When im bad you can put it in my mouth
I mean force me till i swollow every bit
For my reward i get to **** but thats not it
As a women i know guys put you in alot of mess
So let my hands do all the talking they ll surely relive your stress

Against the perimeter of my childhood backyard
cluttered rows of privet hedges produced
tiny ruby berries, easily crushed if stepped on.
They always fell from the branches
in the slightest trail of wind.

Cougars prowled my playground.
My parents, hesitant to let me out alone,
planted the bushes
in the hopes the cougars would
eat the Ligustrum ovalifolium and never return.

I knew the berries were toxic
and could make me ***** more than what I consumed,
a time bomb in my stomach.
Mother said the poison could make
me shiver harder than a winter day.

When, once, I raised a berry to my lips
Mother plunged forward
and slapped it out of my fingers,
a strange mixture of anger and concern in her eyes.
I was never to pick one again.

I didn’t understand the problem
until I saw two cougars laying behind a privet—
a mama and her cub
no longer breathing in sync.

"Do you know who the prime minister of Canada is?"

"Hmmm isn't it Tim Horton?"

Sweating, shivering, and shoveling snow,
Looking up with relief as the flakes begin to slow.

Starting our mornings with pancakes drizzled in gooey sweet syrup
And greasy, cheesy, poutine being our last meal we eat up.

We hike up a green lush mountain just to see the view
And shoot down the slopes of silvery snow and feel as if we flew.

The rascally beavers are our vandals, the loons are our song,
The cougars reminding us that we are strong.

We are Canadian, eh?
But would we really want it any other way?

The cocktail dress split hope down the screen
Letting that reoccurring dream compel me
Into memories of you
The clink of my cup
Shattered sobriety with the pain of daybreak
The ice looks like crystal but only something that will disappear and overflow your glass is standing at attention
The bar stool cracked, empty and the faux leather ripped, and torn
Cougars and MILFs strut down the bar top
Scanning tonight’s bachelors
I sit behind, for my dress is long and flannel
Heavy, hot making me sweat and stink
I run faster than a cheetah in my mind
Tearing doors and bridges apart
Speeding towards the sunrise
Attempting for the *** of gold
The cocktail drips from the table on to the floor
A puddle I will eventually slip from
Hair in my face
My ankle sundress reaped with alcohol
I stand up, look around
Towel?
But all I see is you
Walking back slowly retreating to the door
Leaving me to deal and regret the decisions
I so poorly execute

The night was over
The band was done
Time to hit the lights
Another Friday
In the books
And we only had two fights

One busted speaker
A broken chair
A proposal killed at ten
Time to close
And shut it down
Until we start again

Ashtrays full of hopes and dreams
Burned away with no success
Half filled bottles and empty glasses
Just signs of more excess
Time to clean away the night
And sweep away unanswered prayers
Wash the lipstick from where it stayed
And clean up the nights layers

Another morning
after another night
of at least ten broken hearts
where remnants of
scattered hopes
were dead before their start

An empty shell
hopelessness...tempting
once more..'have a try
where once the band
is finished up
you can all go home and cry


Ashtrays full of hopes and dreams
Burned away with no success
Half filled bottles and empty glasses
Just signs of more excess
Time to clean away the night
And sweep away unanswered prayers
Wash the lipstick from where it stayed
And clean up the nights layers


Each day starts fresh
Last night is gone
Nothing ever lasts
The beer is cold
The bar is warm
Last night is in the past

Regulars arriving
Band is tuning
The staff is in position
Fake Id's
abound tonight
with cougars on a mission


Ashtrays full of hopes and dreams
Burned away with no success
Half filled bottles and empty glasses
Just signs of more excess
Time to clean away the night
And sweep away unanswered prayers
Wash the lipstick from where it stayed
And clean up the nights layers


Ashtrays full of hopes and dreams
Burned away with no success
Half filled bottles and empty glasses
Just signs of more excess
Time to clean away the night
And sweep away unanswered prayers
Wash the lipstick from where it stayed
And clean up the nights layers

naked skin,
sun-baked brown and sunkissed freckles, and ***** white, an olive from overseas.
we traipsed down the road, the never-ending black of concrete.
we yelled. we screamed like there were marching bands in the cages
of our ribs.
we drew in smoke and our instruments played the music
of lit tobacco
“you're a hurricane”
one of the best things ive ever been called

cut skin,
as blackberries slapped our legs,
leaving marks of red and purple,
as we ran through secret forests,
our laughs rising into the sunshine,
filtering through the leaves,
like chiming bells in an empty sky
we started a fire, dancing as earthy smoke
slithered on our skin.
we lit cigarettes in the flames.

icy skin,
as we stumbled,
springs bubbling inside us,
down the brown, mud painted hills,
and cried in wonder as we saw a treasure in the thicket of trees;
a frozen lake staring us straight in the eyes like an
antarctic cyclopes,
daring us to take a step closer.
first, tentative,
then we went rawly, crashing through the undergrowth
like small houses,
headfirst onto the ice,
with all our skin for its one eye to see,
our clothes in a mountain,
and our vulnerable bodies free
on the cold surface of a
secret winter in the middle of a
sun coated town.

warm skin,
as we raced down asphalt mountains,
like goosebumps on the skin of the earth.
we ran like tigers and cougars and cats and
lions,
roaring in the afternoon sun
as we embraced the completion,
of a four piece puzzle of our
youth.
warm,
as throat burning brandy from the womb of my couch,
and burning pain
as we poked holes into our skins,
red tattoos of a flamelike
trilogy.

red skin,
as blood dripped down through the
cracks of the Balcony,
as we painted the walls with it,
laughing squeezed between every
long drag of our cigarettes,
burning like two new stars in the
oncoming night,
tattoos and shapes appearing on our skin
faster than bruises
showing a young girl the ways of our corruption was almost as
fun as learning them
ourselves.

goosebump skin,
as we sank into reality again,
halfway in,
other half still shaking
hearts beating fast
i trembled
as i screamed across at a cat eyed girl
i was too shaking to fight like this,
and you are too lovely to cry like that,
and my dear sunshine,
your blue hair is almost as soft
as your voice floating in the
after dusk darkness
assuring that things would be
alright.

tired skin, as we lay on my sheets,
and kissed one anothers soft cheeks,
tired skin as we dragged our drugged up
skin
all the way home,
in a careless sack.

yes,
maybe “three ****** up girls”
one tall, soft words,
one kneeling on the pavement,
one shaking like an
earthquake,
but thats what makes it like
dawn,
beautiful.

wouldnt you rather be a tornado of impulsive decisions
raw twilight words
whiskey ridden breath like summer
air
sunset tears
and icy skin painted with shivers?

alive skin.

I sailed the fjords between Powell River and
Drury Inlet to beyond the Salish Sea.
The land itself spoke from mountains, water falls, islets
From bird song and bear splashing fishers
From rutting moose and cougars sharp incisors.
The place has a scale that needs no advisers
But in our bodies felt, sensed in our story talking.
The Chinese spoke of sensing place by the four dignities
Of Standing of Reposing of Sitting or of Walking.
Indigenous peoples of the passage added of Paddling by degrees
For the Haida and Salish sang their paddles to taboos
To the rhythm of the drum in their clan crested canoes.
Trunks transformed indwelling people who swam like trees.
First Nations marked this land, made drawings above sacred screes
As they walked together, to gather, share and thank the spirit saplings.
So Dao-pilgrims in the blue sacred mountains of Japan rang their ramblings.
Now the loggers’ chainsaws were silent like men who had sinned.
I motored now for of wind not a trace -
I could see stories from the slopes, hear tales in the wind.
Modern hieroglyphs spoke from clear-cuts both convex and concave.
Slopes of burgundy and orange bark shaves
Atop the beige hills, and in the gullies the silver drying snags
and the brilliant pink of fire **** tags
A tapestry of  times in work.
A museum of lives that lurk.
Once the logging camps floated close to the head of inlets.
Now rusting red donkeys and cables no longer creak,
Nor do standing spar trees sway near feller notched trunks,
Nor do grappler yarders shriek as men bag booms and
Dump bundles in bull pens.
The names bespeak the work.
Bull buckers, rigging slingers, cat skinners, boom men and whistle punks.
…………………………………………………………………….
Ashore to *** with my dog I saw a ball of crushed bones in ****
Later we heard the evocative howl of a wolf
And my pooch and I go along with the song
Conjoining  with the animal call
In a natural world fearsome, sacred and shared.
---------------------------------------------------------­---
Old bunk houses have tumbled, crumbling fish canneries no longer reek.
Vietnam Draft dodgers and Canucks that followed the loggers forever borrowed -
Their hoisting winches, engines, cutlery, fuel, grease and generators.
While white shells rattled down the ebbing sea.
Listing float homes still grumble when hauled on hard.
Somber silhouettes of teetering totems no longer whisper in westerlies
Near undulating kelp beds of Mamalilakula.
Petroglyphs talk in pictures veiled by vines.
History is a tapestry
And land is the loom.
Every rock, headland, and blissful fearsome bay
Has a silence that speaks when I hear it.
Has a roar of death from peaking storms when I see it.
Beings and things can be heard and seen that
Enter and pass through me to evaporate like mist
From a rain dropped forest fist
And are composted into soil.
Where mountains heavily wade into the sea
To resemble yes the tremble and dissemble
Of the continental shelf.
Where still waters of deception
Hide the tsunamis surging stealth.
Inside the veins of Mother Earth the magmas flow
Beneath fjords where crystalised glaziers glow.
Here sailed I, my dog and catboat
Of ‘Bill Garden’ build
The H. Daniel Hayes
In mountain water stilled
In a golden glory of my remaining days.
In Cascadia the images sang and thrilled
Mamalilikula, Kwak’wala, Namu, Klemtu
The Inlets Jervis, Toba, Bute, and Loughborough.

*** grabs here
Gay men there
Cougars over there
Its not just one way
Its a two way street
We could both avoid
Its never fun when the same *** grabs your ***
Try's to comb your hair
Gets in your face
Begs for a kiss
Take a man sized slap
Four times while I was talking to you
Hung up when **** was getting out of control
Yeah you dont remember that do you
Of course not
Why would you
Cougars with deeper voices than me
Saggy **** and asphyxiating perfume
You got creepy dudes
But I dont see you dealing with lesbians
Its a two way street
So before you tell me I dont or wouldn't understand
Know I'm not the average guy
I make it a mission to understand
But I'm the *******
Because you can't explain how you feel
When the opportunity arises
But dont expect an apology now
Me and you are done
So dont forget your excuse
That you don't know how to talk about your feelings
Or how to express them because you showed anger
Pretty ******* well
Its never just one way
But with you
Its always construction in the other lane

I enjoy the word "sweet," it accurately describes the succulence of your lower lip
I wish to ****
and bite, and bruise.
"Hard" is your body, lean and tough
and assumedly rough
intense
passionate, all those lovely sensual adjectives that cheesy soft-erotica novellas
(that I "don't read")
use to describe a Man on a horse,
or in a fireman's coat, covered in soot,
saving kitties and pleasing cougars.
You are quite the male that I crave,
absolute perfection in human form that tempts and tortures my guilty thoughts and heaving breaths
so that I feel like one of those helpless heroines who swoon over a sensitive, wounded man.
But God do I want to inflict wounds on you, and lick them clean.

You have been a bad boy;
go to my room.

I f l e w too close to the sun
And fell too close to the stars
I cried the tears of the moon
As I felt the loneliness of asteroids.


I hugged the never touching trees
And kissed the lonely roses
And b r e a t h e d the air for the dying grass
And sat in the laps of the evergreen vines of ivy.

I ran with the wolves
To forget the malice feeling of the cougars
And s a n g the song of freedom with the hawks
As I let the rabbits comfort me.

I walked with the preoccupied humans
As I stared at the nervous buildings
And hugged the crying street light
Then let the cold air b i t e me

I sat a l o n e in my empty room
With the joyfully stained razor blade
And with the vain and well woven noose
Jumping off the chair as I choose.

Don't come round here flirtin'
If you haven't got the game
If you can't deliver
I don't want to know your name

Sending drinks and cutesy smiles
Don't go too far round here
You'd better send at least two shots
And at least a jug of beer

You'd better bring your "A" game buddy
Cause sometimes it gets  ******
Don't leave your "A" game on the shelf
Cause you'll go home all by yourself

You'd better give as well as get
Now you're in the south
Our cougars here aren't like those up north
Our girls ...they give good mouth

They've heard it all a million times
Don't come with a cheap line
They don't drink things with flowers in
And they don't drink cheap boxed wine

You'd better bring your "A" game buddy
Cause sometimes it gets ******
Don't leave your "A" game on the shelf
Cause you'll go home all by yourself

They're barracudas in this bar
They've got teeth, and they will use 'em
So, buddy you'd best be on your game
Or you won't go home a twosome

Our women here get treated special
And son, they're mighty proud
Look at someone elses woman
And they get mighty loud


You'd better bring your "A" game buddy
Cause sometimes it gets  ******
Don't leave your "A" game on the shelf
Cause you'll go home all by yourself

The band plays loudly
Well dressed rhinos and cougars
Pose and line up for action
I catch your eye and exit
You follow me and escape

Up north
The ravens are well-fed
Proud and bossy
Tail feathers two feet long.
Up north
The cougars are muscled
Prowling through yards
House cats go missing
Up north
The game grow bigger
Towering, stoic
Against beasts larger still.
Up north
The people are farther
I finally feel
That I'm plausible prey.

The weekend revellers
hand over a half-hour of toil,
of eros, of prayers in cash,
of dizzy heights, life lived
and to be lived again
as I hand over their bottled beer,
their ice and *****,
their poster boy of good times
and the erasure of all day
spent watching the wheels.
Spent watching the clock
wind its endless route
to freedom.

Legs cramp,
eyes blur to focus,
and cash moves dirtied hands,
one to the other, to the other
and back again.
Back again to the dancefloor,
to the gape of sweaty arms
flailing in catharsis,
in sweet memories
of playground kisses and
lunchtime riots.
We play sweet imitation
of black-man-blues
and toast the new day
as it comes 'round the corner,
steamrollers through
into Sundays spent
with cigarette ends and
heads in buckets.

This, my origin of misery,
their open-doored appearance
to substantial existence,
to footprints of two-time
than carbon.
To commutes of whiskey sour
and wine dry,
car left in park at home,
whilst the taxis
pick up the slack.

Poisoned in the promise
of forever-youth,
the cougars cover
the same old ground,
the same old ground
every week.
I spot them in the corners,
by the doors,
in the cloakroom
and in the fire of backway passages;
the closest hope to
human touch
they'd ever dare to dream.

And the shot girls.
The shot girls kick water
in a sea of salted men,
football hooligan,
semi-political lyncher
and the neck-tattooed reality hero
who crawled in from
some bar or other,
to condemn losses with shouts
of *****, of *****, of please.
“Please, just once,
afford me a want in life”,
comes the mating call
of lads and businessmen alike,
as young female flesh passes by
their lives,
like some unfulfilled match,
kicking up sparks
but refusing to flame.

Each day I wonder
why dread exists. Why I
cling to the bedsheets,
why stories are poured
and glasses written,
why I settle for anti-living
and artificial light,
why woman is singular
and drinks are solo;
whilst all life passes by
in the excruciating hours
spent stood behind
the beer taps,
behind the barrier
that separates me
from them.

why does the ontological study of beings,
boil down to the pathological study
of being, most notably,
in the anglophone world?
  in heidegger's terminology that's also
said with the zesty succinct
         reiteration via:
     why does the ontological study of beings
not belong to (a) being, but, rather,
(that) it belongs to the pathos of: beings in being -
i.e. man is born not born at all,
unless he becomes many men,
  and dies as: a single man...
   it just feels like the apparently
"useful idiots" are scarcely recognised -
          a study of ontology in an anglophone
world is an appropriation of
pathology - a pseudo-hypochondria -
a hypochondria associated with:
  ensuring that there's a biology a chemical
or a physical answer for any said
predicament, other than the simplest one
of all:
      having explored the world in
anthropological terms, returning to
the world that originated anthropological
study of "alien" cultures,
  the culture that the anglophone people
have returned to, has in turn become more
alien than the supposedly "alien" -
   has become the more riddled with tribalism
than the supposedly "tribal" -
    it was probably fun to watch the explosion,
but watching the implosion is like
satan's voyeurism of ****-naked adam
in the garden... mate... better get a move on...
it might be poison in the short run,
but once you survive ingesting a fruit
that bears no cohesive systematisation of
what's good versus what's evil,
well, let me tell you,
  the only siamese of an and you will hear
of being spoken as being unable to
un-differentiate or integrate good from evil,
and treat it as: and that's good, and that's evil,
and that's good & evil...
      is a woman, your entry point boy'o...
beyond good and evil = either / or...
        but then i split second magic
john - sometimes i sit down expecting a ****
and then i just hear a waterfall of ammoniac
lemonade...
  the anglophone world doesn't study
ontology,
        and even if it did,
it would study it via a pathology -
              the logic of being is its pathos -
the logic of being is its pathos -
  repeating this is to not imply
a profoundness, merely to illustrate
an unravelling:
     to subtract actual conversations by
shielding yourselves with biological terms
and chemical insignia and then
blowing everything up out of
                         toasting bread and spreading
jam and butter over the **** thing?
         if only the supposed public
intellectual could provide a dualism,
rather than a dichotomy - that all that's being
said is not mere for: show.
              casually, like the french casually
swap wives...
rather than like the english have to
make a spectacle out of: an idea...
you need a pulpit rather than a napkin,
a script rather than a fork,
an audience rather than a glass of wine...
etc. etc.,
                   i'm nearing gauging my eyes
out when the overwhelming ideas
never materialise into everyday talking...
but remain on stage,
and then the anglophone world will really
look crude...
   there's a maxim:
the russians rely on their existence via
reading...
   a russian that doesn't read: is a dead russian...
seems the anglophone world
is dead already...
                           sure:
you'll survive the great tolstoy epic of
reading the advert: nike - do it.
                   the anglophone world is
riddled with talking, overcome by defending
speaking the hell the **** said with
the cinematic triumph of: gone with the ****...
enter: the germanic burp...
   and some say: it's actually polite to slurp
chicken soup in japan...
                        with those **** fine
egg-noodles... yummy! almost a cougar
feeling, but never quiet the warmth in
that shly prosthetic juggling act of
pharma and... wouldn't you call that
predatory behaviour,
   i.e. alexandra shulman and 'arry styles?
mmm... guess it's a men's club chew-chew-chub;
blubber whale, ******* in and through,
and to think...
the woman that broke the hearts
of millions of teenage girls...
     different date-babies from the time
of the drooling stones.
there's absolutely nothing ontological
about the anglophone world...
              in that it's either comedy,
or it's pathology...
                   i'm wrestling this german out of
my head, but unlike a woman,
i have about 50+ "fetuses" in my head,
and they're all talking in the agora -
          a woman might have ten helpless
tadpoles in her womb,
   i have 50+ in my "womb" and none of them
are giving a rest... payback time for
being stuck in faking human for 9 months
stage, which lasts for about 9 years
post mortem...
                 ontology translates in english
as pathology...
   and the reason that ontology translates
in english as pathology,
is that the anglophone world deems itself
to be reverent in being unapologetic -
           pristine, clean,
   like the nazis, but unlike the nazis in
their "prized possession of darwinism" against
ethical huguenots...
        more against historical recanting
the father's sins: in the name of the father
and of the son, and of the holy spirit...
sound familiar?
                            there are no greater
"nazis" in the anglophone world than those
you stress "******" via ethnicity,
   but so blatantly discredit a historical
connectivity of: **** versus consent...
          1966 is in no way related, apparently
to other aspirations...
               apparently: there's a magical
cut-off point...
                           we live in times when
the topic of ethnicity is made titanic,
while the topic of history is dwarfed...
             how the two are unrelated is beyond
me...
                i know this is shrapnel,
   for the same reason that like you,
i too am disorientated to cling to a silver surfer's
worth of a trustworthy vector that i can
coordinate with...
       the dominant narrative of pure
biology has been replaced by the dominance
of a pristine history...
                             once more
that eternal line in the anglophone world:
it is a common mantra -
more against historical recanting for
the father's sins: in the name of the father
and of the son, and of the holy spirit...
i will not lay claim to my father's sins...
  in the name of the father, and of the son,
and other the holy spirit;
hey... we're in this together,
   you've always said so: let's grind this
mule out into a fine paste of bone and marrow
and slouch toward golgotha.

I thought I’d visit the place we met
Drenched in neon, old regrets
As cougars stalk the noisesome streets
Roll out, angry sheep, sorrowful bleats
The bogan cries out to the moon
The hunchback hipsters sing of doom
The fancy dressed and terminally blessed
The puddles reflect an endless stream
Of broken hearts and wilted dreams
And the neon lights buzz proudly
Our gods, our morning stars, so loudly
Call to us like lanterns on the bows
of a thousand lost ships and broken vows
I saw you once within the sea of skin
Handsome, strong, but deep within
I knew I’d known you all my lives
As brother, lover, husband, wife
And now the caribou part their ways
To **** and fight and live their days
or perhaps to slumber, to retire
Yet I stand alone and admire
The post that held you, my darling one
Lover, absentee saint, my sun
I stare at the corner and I weep
For love itself must also sleep

My friend Greg is musically talented, a singer-like R-Kelly, and because of that he acts like a dog, around women. Who stand by fire hydrants. He plays with his instrument in front of people on the street. And sometimes, the piano too. When Greg plays, he always wears huge sunglasses. That’s because he wants to impersonate Ray Charles. Plus, it’s cheaper than doing ******. Although, he does make a lot of money and he wants to start a band. Band-Aid company. But on a serious note, Greg teaches lessons to his students. They have tiny fingers, so it’s hard for them to reach the keys. But that’s okay because they’re in his pockets. As a musician, he dresses in black clothing. Excuse me, he dresses in African-American clothing. Before shows at open mics, in front of the audience, Greg sometimes throws up. Gang signs. In all honesty, Greg gives a great performance on stage. He just pretends the audience is naked. And then he gives them five and half minutes. As his friend, before he stepped onto the stage, I told him, “break a leg.” He tells me, thank you for pushing me so hard. As he hops around on crutches. Greg’s really good playing the piano, but the audience always gives him a slow clap. But that’s what happens when you play for retards. He considers himself a feminist womanizer. He sleeps with a lot of women. But don’t worry, he always asks for consent, before he roofies your drink. I know this from experience. He’s a good friend though. Once, I was dancing with a girl and I slipped and fell to the floor. Greg rushed over to me and stuck out his hand And I was so grateful for his friendship, until he grabbed the girl’s ***. But you can’t blame him, it was really dark in there, how was he supposed to know that was his sister. Greg loves Shanghai Noon. He’s a huge fan of Owen Wilson. And me. Greg thinks all Asian people look the same. When he saw the Walking Dead Season premiere, he sent a flower-basket to my parents. Greg is so charming. Like the toilet paper. His favorite sport’s team is the Chicago Cubs, his favorite women are the Chicago Cougars.

I’m searching for an answer.
Surrounded by monogamists I crawl and weep,
Surrounded by dogmatists I hunger.
I’m searching for a key to unlock the doors of profanity.
I don’t want to hear something about the seasons,
Or anything about ethics.
No more flowers,
Away with the aesthetic of yore.
Give me the affairs, the filth, secret lives.
Give me the runaways, the elderly, the jokesters.
Give me the casanovas and cougars.
I search this rotten boulevard and t
All night, all night, even during the day..
I’m on the search..
I’m looking for a key to unlock the doors of profanity.

A local lady would be nice, to reach my ****** peak
***'s, Gilf's and ****'s, and girls with extra cheek
You don't have to be a model, with an hourglass physique
I'm not concerned about your looks, or if your fat or sleek

If you are a willing female, then I would not hesitate
Entice me with your nakedness, and through your garden gate
Whether you are young and slim, or old and overweight
That doesn't really bother me, when we kiss and copulate

Big birds that need stuffing, old ladies with grey hair
I am not superficial, and I really do not care
Borrow me for favours, take me deep inside your lair
Invite me round I'll be discrete, and you can strip me bare

It wouldn't matter if your a *****, or an ugly looking skunk
Or if your a smoking crack *****, or an alcoholic drunk
As long as we can go *******, and squirt our lovely *****
And you don't mind an average Joe, that's not much of a hunk ?

******, swingers and brash chavs, bent over kitchen sinks
Inhibitions will be lost, after one or two more drinks
Fluids flow but I'd still go, into a hole that stinks
If I went there I would not care, what anybody thinks

If your hygiene is lacking, I'd just think what the hell
A sweating body against mine, with a ***** that works well
Extra **** is always good, when both of us can jell
Our pheromones would be increased, and I really love the smell

I may not be that handsome, or the cream of the crop
But getting older does not mean, these activities should stop
Take me any way you want, doggy or ******* top
Forget about party balloons, because the rubber will go pop

****, oral water sports, they would be such a treat
Especially in the same town, next door or the same street
Young maidens might be succulent, but they'd still have to compete
With the obese and elderly, because their so tasty and sweet

Don't waste time just searching, if you really want a man
Lifes too short to hesitate, lets get it while we can
**** mothers are just fine, as well as your Nan or Gran
And obese cougars are ideal, I'm a fat old woman fan

Large ladies are most welcome, so are haggard drunken tarts
And grannies that are ******, who perform in carnal arts
I wonder should I advertise, in Exchange and Marts ?
With all of the old bangers, and neglected lonely hearts

Coyotes up here sound like
ravers high on ecstasy.

Maybe they ground scored some out there.

Prowling woods
massaging themselves against Pine.

They are asking the marvelous moon to turn the music up.

Dub step metal

Mosh pit circles form.

They invite the Bears to join.

All of a sudden it's on like Donkey Kong.

Curious Cougars peek in, decide to let loose and go for it.

Conifer wizards patient as dirt smile and sway.

Neighborhood dogs go *******. Jealous canines start bolting.

Forest party extravaganza.

Yellow eyed owls swoop in and spy like voyeurs.

Wild coyotes share their find with anyone who wants some.

Come and get it.

Slam pit dancing turns to howling.

Bears start rubbing on Cougars
Coyotes start rubbing on Bears

Glazed eyes rolling hard.
Stars leak brighter
Milky way runs together
perfectly placed and forever brilliant.

Hilltop winds originating in Pacific continue their one message, cooling off doubts like a whispering champion.

Before you know it
the whole forest kingdom is ******* and you have to lay there and listen to it all ******* night while you try to hopelessly fall asleep.

Thanks for inviting me
******!!!

"I, frequently, find myself ponder-
ing: what it is other people are wonder-
ing, or if they have began wander-
ing from their, once, true path in life,"

he laughed, while taking a bath,
down by the Boulder.

"&: when, precisely, did it happen?!
Yes! It is true that I have spent 
many, magnificent, moons squander-
ing the wealth of my place in this space..
I consume certain substances that others
find distasteful. Yet: within the maunder-
ing, I find a very subtle peace; know-
ing that we will all, inevitably, be go-
ing to find solace in the final slumber.

Nothing we do is flawless.

   -

Maybe once we're all gone:
may the 'livestock, produce, and lumber'
florish, fully, once again."

he was bowed next to the Boulder,
coughing on a cigarette of cannabis,
when he caught the crouched cougars eye.

As the joint, jittery, smolder -ed,
his mind was left in blurred bliss.

Just then: began to fly, forward - 
the chiseled cougar.

The smells of lilacs, hyacinths A+ grade
Singing Sade smooth operator
A Bed money growing on the tree
in her shade
Fifty shades darker pick your lover
And know who is the shady mentor

We got enhanced our bodies
like the prancer the globetrotter
Flaming heats he's the romancer

In trance-like money commodities
So hooked on a feeling, her bedroom eyes
The hot velocity eyes set to the sunset
tranquility
uncontrollably, Colliegable. sometimes
unbearable, you could read her
French Provential
bed of the Constable

His food like rich money for the soul for
his taking she is the loving so able
A-Bed saleable but
very innocently gullible under rulable

Seeing the Oak trees cherry blossoms so feasible
The sponsors  and teachers of the  Princeton University
their beds were racing minds Einstein like Cougars'

The shades of her lips raced his money abed
Like Truman said Romeo and Julliete lovers
You all attend this Gala or the jokes on you Ha Ha
She felt like the Medusa head on the side of her bed
The stars moon Luna Bleu she was the coolest
of them all

Going to the ball what a head start to lie abed
like a loaf of soda bread the fairest of them all
The revolution led to a disaster up ahead
She loves to drink in her ladybug mug abed
He was the slug a dug like two men in a
Volkswagen yellow Bug

New Abode 777 lucky hicks of the road
Sticks and stones won't break her
bed bones
Her money abed Apple I phones
Her spyware secret agent ****** tunes
Became a showroom
New York City hot fun in a bed event
What did Confucius say
The British Colony

Money ABed it wasn't payday
Without the money no company

The Budha insight
After hours all A-Bed hell of a night
Lullaby Lula Belle the dictator came
Seeing Antionette with her tea ***** set
The State trooper the day tripper
Overnight A-Bed traveler looper
What a commutator acts like the
green alligator Grecian times
Chariots and Titans
Purple passion the
liaison his name is Devlon
This wasn't a cosmetic mistake
like Revlon strangers in the bed
Like a head of the lettuce seedy felon
Skin peachy clean like a melon
The Estee Lauder dictator
Attention Riveria head beaded bed
For the Queen of Sicily
Borghese bewildered like a pony
The platter of cheese Gromit

Or going to the Estate sale for all
the Kingsmen **** it
The money jars of Mason
by his water (ABed Bitcoins)
The holy water he got thirsty
Mighty high bed of the mutiny
Humphrey Bogart here's looking
at you kid and well fed
What looms ahead
Those wedding bells
She said I rather stay in my
Feminine Flower
Tulip A-MEN Bed

Her key to the trunk treasure bed
She bunked into God her virginity lifted
the gravity of her sexuality
Her cheeks came alive
like a  plum pie
Money A-Bed to be wed

I wish the constant validation
You crave, would be taken
From the one, u think as none
Like me instead of someone makin

You falsely validate the insecurities
That plague u inside
Wanting Ethics to abide, but like
name brand clothing provides

A shelter, you cannot hide
From yourself, when you see who
You've become, who's compromised,
But tries being anyone but you

When the you. is what is true
When I say I love u, I do
Beyond infatuation from landscapin, your **** body, but the you

Who even though knows truth
Of who you are doesn't come from
Validation, she's still cravin, the attention, and needing someone

To make her feel special, even
If it's temporary and then
That's when I'm important again
Who u friend zone cuz in the end

U already had em but when
The challenge craved shows you
The real value lies in the guys who loves u even after they know you

Are a narcissistic mind ****
A playin hard to get expert
But how long before your thongs a throw back like the thong song when heard
By the youth, but outdated,
Is never insecurity or hatred
That's why 45 year old Cougars
Still need to be validated

And then I wouldn't look faded
Or as "settling" does cuz jaded
By a strangers lust, makes me value
What's worthless, but I can't hate it

When thinking about u over taken
By raging hormonal lust
I'd never get jealous like most but
Enjoy the organic rush

But still u hold back on us
I know I'm not what's expected
Doctor, lawyer, executive
But who you are I've accepted

And loved even the things most
Who find hard to love if they knew
The real u, that I know about,
The superficial girl that'll refuse

Being called that or seem shallow
So in poetics she hides
The real person that divides
The class she wants and the lies

That determine who's compromised
And who will stop and see
That constant validation from strangers means more from me

I'm not saying not to be
The ***** girl u are, cuz to me
What u do, makes me more into
You when most wouldn't like if he

Was to get involved with u,
And so I ask. A real hard question
Who really knows u,ur imperfections
And sees attributes that lets them

Know who u really are&accepts; them
Instead of those u let in
That never even knows ur shoe size
Is 9 or that u get in

****** moods, so cold that sweatin
From the fire you give off
Is what comes with a territory Lost
In sanity when it's crossed

By the emotion u toss
And hope it lands somewhere nice
So your loves an std that u can
Only hope for twice

Like siphilous tasted like liquorice
That's what u are and taste like
I know that and still love u, so love
Me like that, and I'm loyal for life

From the incrimination of the whole
they gave us a paved road to nowhere
the Victorian homeless cougars
have only recently found their hearts
(undoubtedly to the honkys)
and who escaped
for the sky
was not alive
or sopping
or green

this miserable workplace
over the edge
for butcher's lines
~was not raven black
the spoons
or forerunners
(from dazzling peninsulas)
left alone
off the center
of the parking lot

the real city
of buggy stalled wanderings
~was not flesh stained
off the front of
private beaches
stood resplendent bottoms
sprung off low ebbs
for the dark world
and our fathomless silences

trumpets and banjoes
and electric mandolins
are thrown from the solitude
ear studs
and obscurity
out of the footsteps of
spontaneous supporters
the vital blood arrayed
without moonless stasis
and desert buckets

woodlands unkempt
against the mountain run
halted plains straightened
after the catch
***** martinis
and stiff bowlers
valley the single marcher
shetlands
and peasants
see clear to the horizon

the symphonic forest grows without restraint
if you listen you can feel the pulse
from the center of symphony
though never could you reach it
the force sending you back from the edge of imagination
time and time again
if the heart stops, the symphony stops
then there are no edges
which means there is only Cause To Be and no will
no guiding lines
if you were somebody else you could not reach the heart
because the heart does **** or be killed
never would it trust a conscious Self
the mere possibility of manipulation and everything speeds up
the song is playing faster, harder now
beats are coming closer together
wolves are on the prowl and the cougars have awoken.
the pulse is moving through you, with you, taking you back each time
all the while it feels like you're moving forward
it's the perpetual challenge
get from the guided to the non-guided
yeah you can't do that when you're being guided
the consciousness is separate from the heart
has choice
power
facilitation
heart, deliberate reaction, no possibilities
only what will happen
you can always keep trying

We stopped to eat at a McDonald’s after — 
I’m sure the counter-girl could smell

the plastic-clean of stitches and nurses’ gloves
and medication hanging over him

while we ordered fries and burgers to fill
our guts before we made the long drive home.

And when we found a seat I thought that things
were fine. We sat there talking about the family,

until he spilled his drink and lost his ****,
real bad this time, and he stood and said:

“I was alive when Carpenter’s was still
the biggest bus maker around — your grandpa

lived in Tunnelton and drove to work
across the cliff to crank them out. He smelled

like oil and the dusty river all the time,
and he used to never let your mother out

at night, because he thought that cougars
were thick around his farm. You bring her back

before the frogs are calling, he’d say, you bring her
back before the cats get at her face —

my daughter there’s worth more than your life — 
she’s a queen and that’s a real queen’s face.”

He paused to **** a piece of ice and smiled,
and then he looked at all the busy people

bent up over their plastic dinner trays
looking at him, and he bit the ice and laughed.

“I never saw a cat like that. It was
the cliff that got her, and he should have watched

the river, driving by it all the time
the way he did to go and build those buses —

lots of things were rusting in the river,
and I guess the busses rusted, too. I didn’t see

a killer cat around the farm, but I saw
a thing or two that’s worse. I saw the light

they lit over her grave — you were too young
but you saw it, too: a propane thing we filled

together. You can’t buy one like that today — 
today it’s all electric and plastic stakes,

and you never have to see the grave again
after you’ve planted one of those solar lights.

It stays for good. Those lamps outlast their names — 
as long as the sun remembers to pay respects.

But I remember liting the little flame.
I remember how your grandpa’s face

lit up like a ghost’s, and I could see the scar
something large carved in his cheek one night

when he was hunting raccoons by the riverbank
out near the mouth of the Tunnel. It’s all

gone now — even the river’s lost the way
it used to smell like pines from on up north,

and only ghosts walk through the Tunnel — gone.
All of it. All gone. I guess he should have watched

the cliff, because it’s all gone now. All of it.
Even the buses rusted away, and there’s

no flame to mark the ghosts that’s left to stay — 
all we’ve got are lights that last forever.”

Is it possible to appreciate beauty without wanting to conquer it.
I feel intimidated by the worthy
I'd rather kiss and forgive myself
he's not what I wanted.

Our history is a machete chopping down the thickness
agile cougars watch indignant.
as we chop down a home
we are too stupid to find comfort in.

catching a note of it always
takes me back, magically,
to young summers, younger loves,
when Tom Petty ruled
you were my American Girl
dribbling off John Cougars
Bobby Brooks in my small town
worlds away from here and now
might've been on Pink Floyd's
The Dark Side Of The Moon,
with Ziggy Stardust and
The Spider From Mars
so far a single note takes me
when turning round the dial

The drive began in Donna,
at the tail end of Texas.
We mounted up and began
step one of 952 miles.

Coastal plains, the endless grass,
into scrubby mesquite trees and rolling hills.
Canyons, climbing and descending
rocks rolling under horse and cattle.

Saddle sore and travel weary
riding the endless days.
The nights, stars, moon, planets,
taking turns, watching over the herd in the darkness.

Cougars, and coyotes,
rustlers and the weather all up to no good.
Then we come up to the
streams, creeks and the mighty rivers.

Nasal breathing from the herd,
the splashes of tails and hooves.
Yaw, and get along,
the slap of a rope on a leg.
Cattle and river's smell, fills the nose.

Chili beans, and cornbread
Hard tack to snack
My hat shields my head
from the rain, and the blazing sun.

50 men and 3000 head,
march triumphantly into Abilene Kansas.
Where the cattle are immediately loaded
into railroad cars after walking 952 miles.

Autumn
has blanketed these piney slopes.

Splashed among the evergreen
the orange leaves of maples
nestle in like sleeping cougars.

The yellow
of turning aspens
is the fluttering wings of a goldfinch
guiding the eye seaward.

the red of oak,
salmon
jumping up along the shore.