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Zyxia Oct 2020
What's in a name?
I know, that question's passé and lame
But, really, what is in a name?
Zucchini and courgette, are they not the same?
What's in this fruit's call to fame?
What's in a name?
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2017
you want the good first, and the bad second?
never mind, you're going to get
the bad first...

so there i was,
sitting in the street, outside a pub,
sipping a cool drench
of heineken pint, probably
the best beer in the world
(i'd agree with the carlsberg ad.,
but then it's featherweight
at 3.8%... so dear dane?
probably no... stick with
shakespeare... you *******
umlaut wannabe (ø) diphtong)...
so i was sitting there
with some dutch-bewilderment,
a local...
  out pops a skinny kenyan
and starts ******* in front of us...
sure, he's ******* against
the dumpster,
  but the dutch-bewilderment
glaces at me and his eyes
are already saying to me:
worth a knife or a stick,
to clobber the ******* down,
i've lost the desire to drink
my beer...
         centre of amsterdam,
i was wackoed out of the pub
by sheer: huh?!
     i admit, not all stories are bad,
the other time, i was sharing
a hostel room with two germans,
who decided to waste
a mushroom experience while
watching *american dad
...
while me and this egyptian
architecture student hit the town...
i was drinking, he was
smoking,
   then i took a **** at one of his
"special moment" rollies...
and then he said,
   put these on (headphones),
listen to this music...
the music? le trio joubran,
the song? masar...
     i was drinking throughout
the day... but one **** of
the rollie, and the music?
            **** me, the dam bursts...
i was sitting there,
in one of the cafes,
  mouth open, eyes closed,
one or two dutch girls looking,
my egyptian companion said...
     it must have been akin
to someone shooting up ******...
with my eyes closed i must have
been looking at god,
  or a diamond, or into a kaleidoscope;
gravity fused itself with my genitals...
i was dragged into my seat...
  and couldn't move,
eyes closed, mouth agape,
      monged out of my nuts,
which by this moment in chronological
order, was beyond the chance to orbit
saturn and take a selfie...
  the holy trinity of an excess
of *****, some marijuana,
   and music you've never heard
before, suggested by a stranger...
last thing i remember was walking
through the streets of amsterdam,
laughing my head off...

when i consider reviving memories
of cities i usually have several
version to mind...
the first amsterdam i went to was so:
.............................
........................
...............................
a boring trip, i bought two pipes,
a classical pipe, and this asian pipe...
the second amsterdam?
         was this the amsterdam where
i visited a *****?
can't remember...
  amsterdam no. 3?
             i think that's the amsterdam
account i just gave...
    never mind the minor thrill
of "smuggling" a few grams of hash
through the airport,
  in a biscuit can...
                a bit like plagiarising
that sociology essay, just inviting
the thesaurus to change the sentence
structure at university...
for the thrill, not for the grade...
  evidently a.i. isn't familiar with
the thesaurus cheat mode...
  **** me...got a first in that essay,
and managed to beat the computers;
oh yeah, smuggled the hash in...
it wasn't a lot, barely an 8th of an ounce,
fact of the matter is, i did it;
that being said,
  i have no romance with amsterdam,
i just miss paris...
      i'm never going back,
the memories are too precious...
              that hostel... duck something,
drowning duck? drunk duck?
    i can't remember...
   i'm never going back to paris,
the memories are too precious,
and the current affairs are too painful
to make that city a beacon of light
once more...
   we showered in the outside,
and we made courgette pasta with onions
garlic, bacon and cream...
    but that was 2005 or so.
       for some reason, i never had the sort
of affection for amsterdam,
            great for smoking,
great for drinking,
   great for not feeling guilty about
window-shopping prostitutes:
   with that victorian-feminism attitude
of the brits...
     hey! you're cutting the chivalry costs
of paying for the meal: back to basics...
  stochholm? over-priced...
      you'd probably become intoxicated
quicker, having downed a bottle of *****
you bought at the airport,
  and then drinking your own ****,
than you would, while drinking at the swedes'
americana experiment with pseudo-prohibition
tactics...
    how are you going to keep warm?
fat ain't furr... but sure as ****,
alcohol numbs the biting cold,
    no matter how you think about it
in describing it as a placebo effect...
                    it still warms the poles
in the outdoors, esp. when a person dies
in winter, and they have their stypa /
   wake drinking session in the graveyard.

i just can't forget that look of disgust
from the dutch guy sitting next to me,
drinking his beer,
   without our shared canvas, of an african
******* in the street, against
a dust-bin;

as borat would have said...
                     *mmm das nnnnnnniiiiiiice.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
the war has already begun
and it's not like
you're asking me: are you wearing shoes?
but, rather,
asking whether my shoelaces are
tightly spun, or whether i have
any... like the saimese soviets
at Stalingrad: one with
the ammunition, the other with
a rifle... or the joke above the bacon
concerning the police:
one is only able to write,
the other is only able to read.
i still don't know what you're asking me,
not since they had that proud attire
in napoleonic fashion, and my,
didn't ****** dress them well enough
to reach a heart-throb status?
clad black SS mon: it seems i'm always
a beggar at the feet of women,
but i don that: i'm Humphrey ******* Bogart!
yes, the uniform, the prestige,
and then they were thrown into the trenches
in the khaki resembling more
diarrhoea than muddy camouflage...
and so came dada saying a big massive
huh? after a while the major powers
didn't catch the drift from a keen libido
and trench-warfare and what came from
guerilla warfare... namely terrorism...
should i write this cheque out to the sound of
courgette... or couliflower,
mein herr?
and so it came: the time when the civilians
started their own war, and warred
among themselves, ensuring that
no army could penetrate, which paved
the way for terrorists only able
to usurp the contract of fine wine Friday
evenings by the Eiffel tower
with the burp ultimatum...
   so we're at war...
  and god only know how guerilla
evolved into terrorism, or should it be
called: the other Vietnam?
  and perhaps too: a baguette ripped
like it might have been a vulture's wake:
or a hyennas' party of giggles and hecklers...
but such days are other,
the Paris i remember isn't the Paris i'd
like to visit...
            no one really asked for this...
but it is, what it is...
    and it's hard to see the fact when there
are no glorious marches, no youthful men
strapped into galant uniforms...
    a bit like that advert for bus inspectors
in England: they wear no uniform,
they're dressed just like you and me...
     because that's how war translates to
civilians... that civilians learn the covert
art of war... meaning that all other wars
reminiscent of past wars are nothing
but proxy wars, they're not akin to a Trojan siege...
proxy... there's no identity in war anymore,
there's no Persian empire, nor a Roman empire...
proxy wars, given the internet
and how we throw so much intimate information
into a web before we meet a person,
and then perhaps lie about the fantasy of
that representable self...
     in saying that, Daesh is unique in that
it doesn't have an identity crisis...
     it doesn't have a facebook or a twitter
or a McDonald's hovering above it...
    of all the wars currently staged, it's staging
an antithesis to what was once merely
proxy... i find it hard to believe that
nations exist... given the power of corporations...
a belief in nations is a return to feudalism,
serfs at football matches, later enslaved
by the necessary dependencies and easy-to-reach
fruits of internet-service providers that
makes me laugh at the idea that Argos (a
highstreet retailer) still ***** into advert schemes
and thinks it will survive the pulverisation
and high street turning into cul de sac....
   but hey, i'm not clapping...
       you'll find more applaus in an opera house...
i'm just trying to find the coordinates that
i can navigate with...
     it would be hard to believe in an all-out-war...
given the warring civilians...
        in whom the notion of war has
imploded, and who might attest to revenge ****
as a medium of releasing an arrow from a bow...
it's hard to create wars these days,
it's hard to create a pair of trousers to march
in when all you have is a knitted pocket...
   how did they ever find war so glorifying,
so ****** romantic? i'll never know...
     but it really is hard to wage wars these day
given the civilians are paranoid and feel
no safety... at all...
            and yes, nuclear weapons make no sense
of the arms trade... drop a nuke and you
undermine about a 1000 arms dealers...
   so forget the u.z.i. and the kalashnikov deals...
it's really panic not from a perspective of
extinction, but a panic based upon dealing arms...
not selling enough weapons, bullets, grenades...
  nukes are a great deterrent, but also a great motivation
for dealing in arms...
but it's war,
    perhaps in closed-off communities of the urban
hipters it's still only about selling the most
obscure type of cereal... lumberjack and all, beardy...
but out here, on the peripheries of large
city-states, it's tribalism thrice over...
        e.g. i laugh on the windowsill at night
the next day my neighbour comes over
talks to my relative and wonders whether she's
o.k. because he think i might **** her...
        and so he complains: he had to move
rooms in our house because of the laughter,
it cost us a lot of money...
and i'm sitting there, shrouded by the fact
that he can't see me and i can hear him and wonder:
so you're not homeless, yes?
       i think my neighbour is mad because
he wants to know me now,
after living next to me for 5 years... and not having
bothered to have anything to do with me,
wants to know me now... mate! tangens!
       do i really give a **** your wife is
pregnant? no...
                             and this is how puny
life and narrative can become... so knitty-gritty...
so ant-like prone... i have no airs to not
meddle in the grit, but the fact that i have to meddle
in it: is a right ol' bollocking...
   it could have been a nice: cheese & ham sandwitch...
instead it has to be this...
   so if this isn't war... why would i be asking
you about you asking me whether i'm wearing
shoes? the topic of shoelaces and noodles...
or as i like to put it: big gob west
       squint eye funny east...
   there is absolutely no better nations to pacify
the warring hoodlums of the west
than 1 billion chinese or 1 billion indians...
that's what i call a proper rebellion...
i mean, picture 1 billion chinese and 60
million germans...
      it's almost like tickling Genghis Khan...
it will always look like a chiquaua (west)
barking at a Rottweiler (east) ... and i can't help but
laugh at the change.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
the following additions will seems like plastic
surgery,
               and in turn will put the encompassed
poem under much strain,
  but as i will say: a 48h marathon can do
that to your narrative "skills"... well... techniques...
   esp. given it's winter in the northern
hemisphere, and two nights and two days
actually feels like three nights and two days,
given we're into our second day, and i've already
experienced a night-time this morning looking
at the clock.

  italics will be pleasantly omitted...

        instead... a maxim style akin to la Rochefoucauld
will be adopted... to merely insert
             toothache when otherwise the ***
is sitting on a leather sofa and thinking what would
be a better chance to juice up the brain with a
psychoactive sedative-effect, i.e. with what liquid?
    coffee on the brain is a sahara, as is famously
known: arabs love their coffee... and their
  baklava dressed in balaclavas - or as we say in
Europe: there's enough water, so we drink alcohol.
    turns out diabetic rates only go down in arabia
if enough sports cars are imported... must be
the g-force diet.

         but hey! look at the title! the title was always
going to to resemble the final version of
the preliminary work, the sketch, of what went on
last night...
                   beginning with the scariest film i have ever
seen: a horror movie without anything to do with
night or its aura (i was about to say aurora, never mind),
a movie from 2002... which ended being more scary
even it almost bagged the lead role an oscar...
        and then what i can only claim to be better than
gaming these days... taking graphic novels onto screen...

which brings me to a question, and if i ask the question
with a mature enough wording,
i might actually get a serious debate going...
     namely? x-men, first class...
         and i share something with this theme,
did you know that people remember far away from
Chernobyl parks being pigmented, where
   there were segregational duo-incisions in the trees
from the radiation? it happened nearing when i
was born, spring, and the women were told to drink
iodine... that 2002 film shows iodine treatment
   on "mental" patients, you pour enough iodine down
the nostrils you get a better understanding of
epilepsy... ah... the magical things people could ever
think of doing on another human being, let alone
   a courgette, or a steak...
                well, yes, in parks, half the trees were
the colour of spring, all green and asparagus juicy...
the other half were brown, and decaying,
    almost potato skinned, if not simply: potato skinned.
      as i said, i was a foetus at the time,
and apparently some Scandinavian got a microcosmic
whiff of it and panicked... let alone those exposed
too close to Chernobyl, a radiation-pH spectrum
emerged, of who and how they were exposed it...
    cancer, for example, is prevalent in Poland of
those who don't get to experience a midlife mental
disorder of buying a yacht... lucky them...
   which fits nicely into the seriousness of graphic
novels, as that film unbreakable clearly demonstrates...
  all realism of graphic novels actually stems
from batman... my favourite... no super-powers,
plus i had a simulation of being orphaned and raised
by my grandparents for 2 - 4 years while my early
psyche developed, and then redeveloped utilising
a different language, then went back to settle old dues,
and then went back again: charged with having read
    antoine de saint-exupéry on a year long
hiatus that allowed me to watch the 1998 world cup
              in a dark-lit room with my great-grandmother
and see France win... with such jubilation as if
Napoleon just came back from Elbe for seconds.
this is not the point, i said i would word it maturely
and not look half as an ***:
    why does francis xavier sympathise with
max eisenhardt, but belittles james "logan" howlett?

   all things start so small, i just remembered listening
to this song that allows you to lay down words like
bricks in a wall (prometheus' 9th - the man who swam
through a speaker)...

  why does he, is francis xavier just ******* that
one of logan's mutation counter-pluses is his ability
   to regenerate health and vitality, while at the same time
creating a amnesic hinderance to apply his psychopathy?
i guess it is... max on the other hand as unchanging:
fixed memory coordinates, because physically:
he's unscratched... up to a point of how this debate
runs its course... i just don't see how francis has to
belittle logan... just like henry "hank" mccoy is first
belittled as simply bigfoot... the problem with
amnesia is that even you have the capacity to
engage in telepathy (rooting out distant pathologies
rooted deep inside your psyche that never allow
you to reach a full potential - or what's Freud's
case of postulating receding pathologies and subsequently
creating a forward looking theory to work with
in creating uninhibiting constructs -
       francis xavier? nothing more than a psychiatrist...
in the modern sense, without iodine treatment,
or electric-shock-therapy... rather the guy that
says everyone is special via talk-therapy...
  and all psychiatrists have this child in them:
they all want to be telepathic... just like all
manual labourers want to be telekinetic) -
           the oldest chestnut, if there ever was a hazelnut
to boot.

       original, as except of what is to come...
  i mean, what i started off is now bound to italics,
  just to make a point that after watching 48 hours
of things, and having finally looked at symbols,
    i could only write so much coherently,
before donning what looked like some poet's clothes,
and stepping into a foggy highnoon for
  a bottle of beer, a bottle of whiskey, and
     a prescription of insomnia pills...
   well (they're called anti-depressants for old people,
who prefer to treat their "depression" - if not
merely old age, while they're asleep)...

no one would ask for this type
of hiatus...
       some would call it:
being an american spy,
      getting caught in soviet
russia and enduring interrogation
techniques -
    yes, a "hiatus" of nearing
48 hours: of being constantly awake.
       or what certain former
east europeans going back
   to see family members might
ask about, when Lithuania, Estonia
and Latvia are under a national
sway of general jittering paranoia
as reported by English newspapers
   and later established by
            an American president's
tour of the region -
                         or how Crimea
is the 37th or 38th or whatever no. it's
now - or whether it's
           Tartar autonom oblast -
but indeed, nearing a 48 hour long
insomniac "hiatus".


            and i can sympathise with francis xavier
experiences when max eisenhardt is first encountered,
this sharpness of a psyche, rather than its automation
or literal non-existence... this is why i could
            stay up for longer than 48 hours if i wanted to,
but i can see so much in being awake for so long
that natural consequence is that:
a. i have lost the capacity to dream,
  b. i have translated the capability to dream into code
(namely the letters you see before you)
   and
c. i have found a "safe-space" to recuperate from
the pain i feel...
  meaning
      d. i know with what ease people acquire a substance
known as a soul... and with what ease they can
think in this substance, like a fish in water...
    what i'm talking is a lobster a boiling basin,
where your exoskeleton can mean a lot upon
jumping off a cliff, but when your inner flesh,
starts to be almost eaten by the mutation of protein
from tapeworm larvae into edible meat?
      i know this substance, i have experienced it...
and i know that i dare not put a soul into a foetus
that doesn't have a workable tongue, bladder and ****.
  i think it's time to end this preliminary "work".
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2017
writing? i never write out of
a conviction -
   let alone a desire -
what comes along,
  comes along -
ambitious? hardly,
crude? well,
   certainly:
   profanity?
   only invoked
as a way to avoid
(a) a writer's block &
(b) as a manner
   of elevated conjunction:
since it's easier
to sometimes "interrupt"
yourself with something
more than just
an and.
at this present moment?
conjuring up a recipe,
pasta, with courgette
and shrimps...
     akin to the memory
of my first night in paris,
the italian girl who spoke
french and managed
to keep my lack of french
hidden...
   running with
a few people eyes
glittering, aiming at the eiffel
tower, drunk...
     yep...
     the 3 ducks boutique hostel,
summer of 2005, or 2006...
a century ago it now seems...
   and then the italian girl
who said: courgette goes ****
fine with the pasta...
    well, all that, but now?
everything: minus the shrimps.
evidently not everything
written goes down smoothly
as ice-cream,
     sometimes there's the grit
of fibre, undigestable pieces,
like this (i find) -
  peppered with excesses of
annoying punctuation.
          never mind -
the recipe is in my head,
   and so it will be said:
  i've had courgette & shrimp pasta,
with juice from a lemon,
   and a chilli.
        prior, though:
well...
         (... = cliff-hanger pause)
article in the style magazine,
those warm wild night,
concerning? summer romance...
filled with invitations for
a shared remembering
   akin to then parthenon -
well...
      it can be spotted,
writers, novelists, pencil pushers,
chicken scratchers,
     labourers of words -
not enough, is it?
    always, it would seem,
   seeking the spark of poetry:
and how relieved they are
in those moments,
   i'm guessing:
  more relieved than actually
having completed the brick's
weight-worth of a book...
you can see a sudden twist
in the "plot" almost immediately:
first the routine script,
the conventional tongue
rattling for what sometimes
seems forever...
   and then somethin akin to
olivia laing's ...made as
                         loose-limbed
as a mermaid by the long
summer's release
.
  me? i laugh at myself -
know all too well,
   that i write like a lumberjack,
tree here? chop chop...
tree gone, just another
piece of empty space,
   that is neutral with regards
as to whether it ought to
be filled, or simply left blank,
or with a childish prank,
made into a paper aeroplane.
Scotty Reynolds Jun 2018
Impulse buys and crap meat pies,
crispy snacks and cans
Fast food bags, discarded **** all chucked from sweaty hands

Into bushes, roadside drops or tossed from speeding cars
Consume and lob, “it’s not my prob”
junk stuffed from fist to gob
 
Foods that ****, eat our streets, Mother nature’s ******!
Disrespectful, scant regard, her beauty hid amidst
 
A correlation, may I address... littering to health
Or on a controversial note, worst areas lack in wealth
 
Discarded dreams, stretched at the seams
Life’s stitching’s come undone
 Scratch paper hopers, ciggy smokers
Our streets are overrun
 
Deadly habits, toxic foods, mainly line our streets
Left for volunteers to pick, a never-ending feat
 
Healthy trash? Avocado smash?
Imagine streets adorn
 
Kale and spinach everywhere
We wade through piles of corn
 
“There’s ****** carrots are everywhere, why don’t they use the bin”
“That courgette’s dropped right next to it, why not just put it in?”
 
Coastal towns with plastic seas, wildlife getting sick
All tangled, trapped in Ghost nets like a phantom sailors’ trick
 
Above the ground to the depths below the litter never ends
Poor old Mother Earth, being driven round the bend
 
So how do we control this?  Education is the answer?
Let’s all work to turn it round for Generation Alpha
 
The new emerging vibrant minds, absorbing like a sponge
The lessons passed on down to them, by loving Dads & Mums
 
A shift in thinking is afoot, I feel it in my bones
Let’s join as one community, it starts within our homes.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
first you learn how to brawl with your head, only at the last resort do the hands enter the arithmetic picture: i'm shipping up to boston, by the dropkick murphys - or at least that's what i get from the song.

and then you write something decent,
and you know it's decent,
   you mastered an observational tool -
but then the people know oh so
little - and always settle for the easy
way to pass the time, with a cute "chihuahua"
of a poem, and some dumb stereotype
of a blond; and that's the major source
of a downer... known the **** "chihuahuas"
from the "rottweilers";
i sometimes imagine a poem that
deserves your teeth to be sharpened like
a pygmy, or those zappo zap zigzags;
can't help it.
  but when i know that i've exhausted
a day, i return to the passionate heart
of the kitchen -
on today's menu?
        mmm... moroccan tagine...
with a cumin paprika onion parsley chilli
garlic ginger & turmeric infused couscous...
and on the side a halloumi (grilled) salad:
a bunch of mixed leaves, cherry tomatoes
courgette, garlic infused olive oil...
hey presto!
      a feast to remember, and enough spare
for my dad to take to work for lunch...
with mum visiting her parents for a month
it's becoming very much
   *steptoe & son
- strange how the atmosphere
changes between men when there's
no women around...
         i do the cooking & the cleaning:
and pretty much all of the drinking -
which brings me to this idea of gender dysphoria...
there are too many men in non-masculine
jobs that debunk writing verse or
cooking at being very much masculine affairs...
i can't say i've eaten food cooked by a man
that wasn't satisfying...
   then again, i've eaten overcooked spaghetti
and undercooked potatoes cooked by a woman...
and i've read the more satisfying verse
by men, rather than women...
    to an extent, of course: there will always
be exceptions...
    but look at it from the ancient perspective,
poor sappho, among virgil, horace, homer
ovid...
          that's what i mean about
my "gender dysphoria"...
                     believe me when i say that the most
masculine men who work the trades
rarely complain about male poets -
or male chefs -
     after all, some poor sod will have to peel
the potatoes in the army...
there are no dinner ladies in the army -
    feed the cohort the right broth and they'll
follow you like they might follow a caesar;
just like my father, when i started growing
a beard once i passed 25 (when white guys
actually begin to get proper ****** hair),
i asked him if he would too...
     and he did...
       now i look like a young santa claus,
                       and he, as a shadow at 5p.m.
Daan Jun 2019
Groene paprika, pepers, courgette
en komkom kom kom kommer.

Zet u in de lommer, kijk naar wat dje het,
een tuin vol groene groenten
en een zacht warm geitenwollenbed.

Het valt wel mee toch, wat je ziet?
Kom, vanavond eten we friet.
Klein denken, niet te groot. Golfjes doen meer goed dan een heuse overvloed.
Universe Poems Jan 2022
Salmon
Sweet chilli sauce,
cracked black pepper
Red onion slicer letter,
honey drizzle,
wrap in foil,
let it sizzle
Oven alight
30 - 40 mins will do
For a cooked just right,
your preference cue
Quick and, easy,
there we go
Herb new potatoes,
circle rotate,
courgette plate,
seared in a small,
amount of butter,
light and, easy,
no need to utter,
just feed me,
without a full feeling clutter,
that stays for hours,
and, won't let you flutter,
light as feather,
healthy in leisure

© 2022 Carol Natasha Diviney
William May 2020
Oh, isn't this a sorry state ?
We must no longer salivate,
For food that's deemed unfit to eat,
Like burgers, pizzas, and red meat.
Throw all your frying pans away
But don't forget your five a day
Forget about pate de fois
Just eat mange tout and petit  pois
Without it Chinese food's not great
That mono-sodium glutinate
Remember if you feel forlorn
There are those strips of tasteless quorn.
Don’t be a meat barbarian
Become a vegetarian.
From early childhood, through my teens,
I gagged on all those ghastly greens.
And when I close my eyes I see
Those parboiled spears of broccoli.
How could I possibly forget
Stuffed aubergine and baked courgette?
I am and will be evermore
An unrepentant carnivore.
Con carne with rice? now, don’t be silly
You need a plate of three bean chilli.
I must confess, it’s not long since
I ate a bowl of proper mince.
O, what is life so full of care,
When we can only stand and stare
At treacle sponge and drizzle cake
And ice cream with a chocolate flake.
Next, will the nation’s favourite dish
Of greasy chips and battered fish
With mushy peas on top be banned
In England’s green and pleasant land?
And in the village bakery
Can we still buy cream cakes for tea?

No butter on my toast or muffin?
No crackling, no more sausage stuffing?
As each day passes how I dream
Of scones with jam and clotted cream.
Should I eat fries and a Big Mac?
Will that bring on a heart attack?
Shall I really come to grief
From Yorkshire pudding and roast beef?
Is it true that I might die
From eating steak and kidney pie?
Has it really come to this?
So many things to give a miss.
It’s time for take-away again
A spicy Singapore chow mien
I'm hungry, I could eat a horse
with chips and sweet and sour sauce
So many choices drive me crazy
Now I'm thinking beef jalfrezi
With pilau rice and nan bread,too
Or, maybe a chicken vindaloo.
Then to finish with, I think,
Some ice cream and a fizzy drink.
Then maybe later, if you please,
Some biscuits with some stinky cheese.
Then, though I really I didn’t ought
I’ll wash it down with vintage port.
People like me are branded fools,
Who never did obey the rules.
Am I so foolish? Pray, do tell
I’m nearly eighty, and quite well.
Maybe I eat foods I should not
But am I bothered?,not a lot.
“Eat and enjoy” is what I say
And live to eat another day.
Today I have no time for sorrow,
True, I might not wake tomorrow.
If I do then I will treasure
All the things that give me pleasure
I never could get sentimental
For breakfast a la continental
I'll get up slowly,take my ease.
And breakfast?  Cooked, full English, please.

Copyright @ W. F. Randle May 2020
and to earth: i sing in the night of a body-electric:

   poised to silence and laughter
and meditation

imagining being banished:
to the realm without music:
imagining a world without
music

or who taught man of music
was he who also taught
man about engineering and fire?

i ask banished in this silence
wishing i could return
to the bed and music and thrills
of conversation
with body and you:

                somehow the distance doesn't
scar me
and the day began with just a beer
and a microdosage of marijuana
while doing the garden trimming
only three three trees to trim
but a relaxing afternoon
with mother
                       and conversation and the attic
and thinking about giving
vintage summer dresses to Edie and Reyla

how i adore the peace and quiet
in the night
in the day
but the moon of the night
how sweet was my laughter:
thinking i could be reunited
and be a body with a body
not just a body with a mind

stillness ensured
and a mosquito flew onto my sweaty
forehead:
sat there: i didn't bother to slap
this little creature into non-existence...
so i just let him sit there on my forehead
and drink the good stuff
my blood...

                after all what is a mosquito pinch
needle:
when i am prone to curl my sleeves
and shorts
and rush into nettles
rubbing my skin
then lying in bed thinking this is some ancient
medicine or modern homeopathy
but it's the latter:

thinking about ibn Saud ibn Kibsi asked me
about mosquito bites and i said
spirit vinegar rub...
            can't get spirit vinegar except in
Polish delicatessens...
but nettles are worse
and the remedy is water and soap
nothing more
but lying burnt like that with nettle venom
in my skin:
then this little mosquito just had his fill
and flew off into the night...
hard for me to **** a fly too...

so if there is a Lord of the Flies: Beelzebub Bob
then there must be a Lord of Mosquito(s)

a "Soukon": sokuon:
an author on a hill
サッカ
                       丘

  not sure about Japanese
prepositions)                           - Soukonsokuon
a contending name

   so i thought about the forbidden fruit of
cannibalism
whether that was the original "apple"
that so desperate only two people remained
and were reduced to having to eat
man's flesh: an gained knowledge of good
and evil

after all was it not a strange fruit
of wine and bread
that was given to us upon the anti-tree-of-knowledge
torture: crux...
was not another "serpent" been sacrificed?
well at least now i hear whispers
and rumors of people becoming seriously
interested in the cryptic gospels that
go beyond the canonical straitjacket of
Sunday's Intellectualism...

           a strange fruit of pressed fermented grapes
    and pressed wheat shafts pressed
to the puff of flour: dusty and his nunnery of dusties...
or at least the other talk from
dating scene:

i'm getting strange looks at work from
coworkers
and i'm not even paranoid
the day i moved up from a static team
even if it was a static team of bag searchers
and wands
the SIA
                   then it was still only a static position
but the moment i advanced to
being a TEAM LEADER
  (no longer the tedious title of SUPERVISOR
no longer printed on my back) -
      RESPONSE TEAM LEADER
just me and four guys
and i could swear i'm being experimented with
because each time i'm given a completely
different team to take care of
while others get their same staff
am i being probed to see
what span and scope of people i can actually
figure out
            enough for the sake of optics:
compliance - the seriousness of earning money
i can't believe how serious the matter
is when it comes to earning money
rather than living in a world where money
earns money:

that seems like such an inauthentic positive plateau
and no longer a authentic positive *****
something missing in terms of
whether Sisyphus would have to roll the stone
up...
or whether he were to roll the stone round
and round in a velodrome....

                                hardly able to imagine
generating money from my scribbles though...
generating money from my scribbles
would probably pain me most...

               if i didn't have a serious job on the side
perhaps money could come
in later age when i might need it
but probably not so much now
i think too much money would be a headache
that i wouldn't have the genius
anti-headache of investing interests:
to be actually interested in money
is not my "thing": although money in terms of
earnings, use, freedoms, constrictions:
that is more a case for not philosophizing
with a hammer but with a coin...
then moving onto philosophizing with
a ring...
a bit like Sauron - yes the child in me is still
referencing literature as i go along
today i read Walt Whitman high a little high
and i thought: my the simpler the language
the more fluid it becomes
and i have to give due credit to old Walt...

                                 Miss Monique: the dogs
barked in the night owning its
guardianship to ward the death critters from
entering dreams as death angrily loitered
                            while a star was giving divination
of itself
while the tree was giving divination of itself
    while man too: but slightly over-divination
leading to confusion:
    a blunder of nutrition by a deity's constipation...

and now onto preparing dinner
al fresco
and the conundrum concerning the English
and how much they bemoan the garden
should they not have one
but still they need that garden
and they have the garden
and seldom use it
having a BBQ is like some holiday event
where meat is doubly butchered
and not many vegetables are eaten
or fruits in salads
but bemoaning this need for garden
but spend so little time in it!
regardless i have yet to see a proper al fresco
culture around me come summer
where people might want to cook and eat
outside
of the stuffiness of the houses...
now overheating in the summer chaos my god
the Arctic Winds of May were a downer
but a Month when I was born...

                 maybe missing some vitamin B12?
thinking about going on a vegetarian diet
in the summer months
yesterday made haloumi with capers and walnuts
and drizzle of honey
then a simple courgette drizzled with olive oil
coarse black pepper
and some Himalayan Black Salt...
            and salads with pineapple and chilies
fresh coriander...
and my favorite:

sumac
       strawberries
cucumbers
   olive oil
honey
     balsamic vinegar
red onions...
                  banger!

yes: i think i'm going to go vegeratian
in the summer months each year
because that pork sausage tasted awfully
after all that joy of cheese and vegetables
i seriously find meat abhorrent in summer
i think as a people we could wonder
at a diet based upon seasonality:
you wouldn't eat a horse
in summer for his toil and help
you wouldn't eat a cow
in summer for its milk - regardless whether
in winter:
but once upon a time our diets were seasonal
and somehow
i'm thinking maybe an imitation: a return
to something old from Europe:
like not eating meat in summer
because it would go off quickly when slaughtered...

— The End —