.you can never really write any poetry by not covering the "heartbreak" the loss of your own "printed" words: how much different is the internet, from "real" life? just asking... since: internet banking & internet shopping... to lose a poem / pre-scriptum is not exactly the same as losing a person to mind: father's day... i cooked the dinner, i took out the trash, i wrote an invoice... i guess that's much better than leaving a card of greetings... and, come to think of it? why are we the sort of people subjugated to nostalgia, with but also "without" a history? aren't we subjugated to nostalgia and a history as a "fiction"? the beginning of the 21st century, the end of the 20th century... the 19th century germans associated themselves with a nostalgia for ancient greece, we're the only people who have an inbuilt nostalgia "safety-mechanism"... the only people in time who are nostalgic about the life surrounding their own existence slot, which doesn't have a trans-temporal dynamic... i remember times when we would be teenagers... spitting on people from car-parks on imaginary tonsures, buying *****-magazines from indian cornershops, or belgian freebies of non-insinuations, white lightning cider while sleeping over at youth centers playing snooker throughout the night... even at school: attending a catholic school with the irish east enders... uniforms, sure... a chequered shirt: blue, red, white... tag? made in canada... and if only capitalism worked as it once did, made in canada? lifetime of a shirt? 20 years... now? made in china... not exactly real cotton, is it? 2 years... before ironing the shirt *****... once upon in gants hill, st. valentine's park, and the pub, recently closed, decent karaoke... in the park? golf, basketball, rowing boats in the large ponds... when the jews were there... gants hill roundabout... the hanukkah torches... jews scuttling wearing trainers come rosh hashanah: jews can't wear leather on rosh hashanah (judgement day)... shy like rats... when the jews were there (gants hill, ilford)... the park looked great... tennis courts... now, when neo-Bangladesh moved in? ****** place. what else do i remember from my original pre-scriptum that i lost? oh, that once time in gants hill... walking into a kosher bakery with ****** knuckles, having tested them on a canvas of a brick wall, buying some dough-fused-sweets? with the girl selling the sweets bewildered by fear? i like the look of fear in people when tested by uncertainty, and bleeding knuckles? later? climbing over the park fence, taking a **** while squatting in the darkened palace of the park, walking into a brothel, having my wallet stolen, not reacting in what would have been justified... high school... we wore uniforms... so no high school h'american culture trap / culture... school uniforms are the best idea, there's no chance to "shine" in telling apart the rich kids from the poor kids... there's only the standard... walking to a supermarket, past a thai surprise... sports bra, short hair... walking back... she's still there pretending to talk on her mobile to someone... you take her home with a few beers... play her some jazz... take her into the garden, the moon is a beauty... you **** her... hand in her underwear and you're still gambling... before the emergence of the nag hammadi library and the whole androgynous vogue, the thai were already readied with the lady-boys... when i reached in and found nothing but oyster... would i have stopped finding a wink-wink slouching worm? slap a trans in the face? no, not really... a thai surprise is, a thai surprise... i would have considered doing my first ****... "lucky" for me she was a she... a girl... ****** her in the garden under the moonlight... gave her my hoodie, which she drowned in... finally... the level of interaction where the female is not a mantis, i.e. a female larger than the male... she drowned into my hoodie as i walked her home... i like the familiarity with the mammalian, not resorting to insect superiority of females... these days... i find that males are strictly mammalian... while females? they are borrowing insect-esque ontologies... well, darwinism allowed the time-frame... males are mammals... females are insects, behaviour-wise... two time frame i do not appreciate the english for... darwinism is prime.... cultural-marxism my ***... what about cultural-darwinism?! no?! that doesn't exist?! cultural-darwinism is as real as cultural-marxism, and, in the former sense? it really does belong to the conservative right-wing politico spectrum! might i add? isn't psychology merely pop philosophy? i find psychology riddled with rubric cohesion, it's all oh so "self"-evident! i abhor psychologists... these gypsy philosophers... medicine-men with no pharmacological shadow of power... to prescribe drugs... arguments, persuasions, but no dialectics... psychology will forever be, for me, a philosophy primer, short-cut... pop philosophy... psychologists can treat people who have never read a philosophy book... r. d. laing... i remember this one instace... me and a fwend of mine travelled into central london, went into a bookshop shy of trafalgar sq., i spotted an edition of: the scarlet and the black by stendhal... i told him: i will trade you linkin park's debut album, if you buy me this... the transaction was made... the one book i read after seeing a film adaptation starring rachel (rakhel) weisz and ewan mcgregor... ra-kh-el: not ray-chel... we used to be humans once... at high school getting bullied back... putting pins on chairs once we got up, sitting on them... playing bulldog in primary school, slap-ball, tag, playing cards at lunchtime... 16 fatty boy... one summer in poland, comes back aged 17... the irish girls take an interest while eating a pomegranate... what was the success of your diet? don't go to the gym... excess skin, an aesthetic surgeon is not what you need... there are only two ways to lose weight... either via swimming or by cycling... cycling is the best... lose weight by also toning your body... gym is a bad idea... by going to the gym you are straining exclusive parts of your body, either the torso, your hands, etc., jogging? unless on soft ground, bad idea on concrete, arthritis... cycling or swimming... lose weight... tone at the same time, the skin is allowed the required time to adapt to shrink, and forget what propped it up in plump form with all that excess flab... ugh... i hated being attractive to the opposite ***, i never used it to my advantage! imagine... an irish lad comes up to me, on behalf of some girl while i'm donning a french braid: you look just like johnny depp in blow, impersonating george jung... 14 year old girls walk up to you asking what shampoo you're using... herbal essences... i never used my looks... *******... now i'm a heavy drinker... so much for looks... first girlfriend? a fwend had to call me telling me she called him that she felt butterflies when i dropped her at the train platform after a day's worth of dating: tate modern, edward hopper exhibitions, cinema: troy, starring rose byrne (briseis) - honestly, a man can go crazy over curly hair... and then a restaurant date... that **** just flew over my head... i wouldn't have noticed... honestly though... i missed the whole h'american cultural excavation genesis in high school... catholic... uniforms... jesuit army-esque formation... now, i'm ageing... i'm starting to find the company of cats to be: clingy... my shadow included... i once thought that dogs were needy... i'm starting to think that cats are worse, esp. the maine **** breed... "lonely" or "loneliness" doesn't really resonate with me, esp. when thinking something "feels" like a variation of claustrophobia: hence i write... without a dialectic in place, ever since plato wrote his dialogues... what is philosophy, primarily? isn't it an off-shoot of "claustrophobia"? we write because we are seeking escape from congested thinking, a variation of "claustrophobia"... now imagine a schizoid character... having to focus on an imaginary dialectic, actually... having dialectics enforced on him, with no clarifying exodus to posit a gensis with! now, a clingy dog i could understand, given the overpowering status of the leash... but a clingy cat, when there's no leash involved?! shoom! right over my head... gone, somewhere into the distance!

what, this is the part...
were i cite...
   the weimar ******
critical condition...
       a daft punk troop
of a song,
  end of line....
blow-up a hot air balloon...
worth of blaire whire...
play the tambourine
like a ******* video...
there are,
quiet, simply,
no nazis coming...
fashionista faux pas
examples...
i'm alive,
but i'm dead,
i just forget to don
a strap-on...
  "oops"?
   that **** go down well
with
the "in"-crowd...
usual... metropolitan...
verbiage surge of answers....
   many a fetish after...
we arrive at the sensible
aspect,
"toxic masculinity"...
when guns n roses wasn't,
and nirvana was just plain
gay...
              and then...
whatever that happened,
happened..
                 and people were like:
come to the "new" tomorrow,
there's always a yesterday,
in a dream,
in some phil collins
wannabe
studio...
or... some other random ****
that
excluded peter gabriel.

                 i died:
and just about right:
my harvest had come.

great book reviews...
"toxic masculinity"...
so all masculinity is
about a clockwork orange?
   if it is?
can i be pro abortion
anti mongolian horde?
yes? no?
  which is it?!
neither...
   **** me... that's just bad
luck...

                               sundbeds,
sunflowers,
tulips,
sunglasses,
    plenty of staged
eager nights...
boring political affairs...
and...
         when gaming was
more about the narrative...
and never,
ever, about the microtransactions...

point being...
it's a game within a game...
time, is the prime concern...
you play a game,
by waiting...
you wait: by playing a game...

  microtransactions
are...
you ever move a sim3 avatar
to a computer,
and make it play a computer game?
what's on the macrocosmos spectrum?
you....

               "back in the day"...
you'd spend a saturday morning
engrossed in a gaming narrative...
metal gear solid,
tenchu, final fantasy solid...
20 quid...
and you played the narrative...
and a game became equivalent
to the worth of a book,
resident evil,

            you paid for a month's worth
of gaming,
you exchanged tips,
you sometimes bought a cheat book
because of the homework,
and that was your saturday morning
before hitting the shopping mall
or, whatever...

the current dynamic of
microtransactions in gaming?
i never, ever, do...
i'm an old gamer type...
i see the potential of extending
the life-expectancy
of a game...

   as long as you don't buy into
the microtransactions gambling habit?
as long as you play the "game"
within the game?
the game is an assured classic,
akin to chess...

              you have to play
the waiting "game"...
             time...
                           that's all it is...
whether war robots,
    or dawn of titans...
        comparison...
  you know that the best fruit,
is fruit, allocated
to the geography of it being sourced
seasonally...
you can't actually get better
strawberries,
than english strawberries...
from england, come june / july...
no ******* point sourcing them
from spain in late march / april....

    same thing with gaming...
the modern games haven't made any
elaboration...
apart from dislodging the player
from the concept of narrative...
**** me... that's almost an improvement...
given that now: time is the counter
measure, and the gamer...
   is having to invest,
in a narrative, outside of the confines
of the game,
once upon a time,
games had time-narrative
constraints...
     now: there's time,
and there are gamer narratives,
excluding them from time-narratives,
of a game...
         it's almost a faux pas...
more like a wet-*****...
****** pinky lodged into an ear,
an april fools' day scant...

        if you hacked passed
the microtransactions hype...
and didn't?
and instead took to patience?
it's free...
   where once,
a game would cost you 20 quid,
and a month's worth
of narrative,
back then, when games
resembled books,
when the gaming industry
was heavily influenced
by literature...
and now?
   the game's free...
sure...
it's "unfair", it's biased...
when you don't engage
in imported gambling
of succumbing to what, this is the part...
were i cite...
   the weimar ******
critical condition...
       a daft punk troop
of a song,
  end of line....
blow-up a hot air balloon...
worth of blaire whire...
play the tambourine
like a ******* video...
there are,
quiet, simply,
no nazis coming...
fashionista faux pas
examples...
i'm alive,
but i'm dead,
i just forget to don
a strap-on...
  "oops"?
   that **** go down well
with
the "in"-crowd...
usual... metropolitan...
verbiage surge of answers....
   many a fetish after...
we arrive at the sensible
aspect,
"toxic masculinity"...
when guns n roses wasn't,
and nirvana was just plain
gay...
              and then...
whatever that happened,
happened..
                 and people were like:
come to the "new" tomorrow,
there's always a yesterday,
in a dream,
in some phil collins
wannabe
studio...
or... some other random ****
that
excluded peter gabriel.

                 i died:
and just about right:
my harvest had come.

great book reviews...
"toxic masculinity"...
so all masculinity is
about a clockwork orange?
   if it is?
can i be pro abortion
anti mongolian horde?
yes? no?
  which is it?!
neither...
   **** me... that's just bad
luck...

                               sundbeds,
sunflowers,
tulips,
sunglasses,
    plenty of staged
eager nights...
boring political affairs...
and...
         when gaming was
more about the narrative...
and never,
ever, about the microtransactions...

point being...
it's a game within a game...
time, is the prime concern...
you play a game,
by waiting...
you wait: by playing a game...

  microtransactions
are...
you ever move a sim3 avatar
to a computer,
and make it play a computer game?
what's on the macrocosmos spectrum?
you....

               "back in the day"...
you'd spend a saturday morning
engrossed in a gaming narrative...
metal gear solid,
tenchu, final fantasy solid...
20 quid...
and you played the narrative...
and a game became equivalent
to the worth of a book,
resident evil,

            you paid for a month's worth
of gaming,
you exchanged tips,
you sometimes bought a cheat book
because of the homework,
and that was your saturday morning
before hitting the shopping mall
or, whatever...

the current dynamic of
microtransactions in gaming?
i never, ever, do...
i'm an old gamer type...
i see the potential of extending
the life-expectancy
of a game...

   as long as you don't buy into
the microtransactions gambling habit?
as long as you play the "game"
within the game?
the game is an assured classic,
akin to chess...

              you have to play
the waiting "game"...
             time...
                           that's all it is...
whether war robots,
    or dawn of titans...
        comparison...
  you know that the best fruit,
is fruit, allocated
to the geography of it being sourced
seasonally...
you can't actually get better
strawberries,
than english strawberries...
from england, come june / july...
no ******* point sourcing them
from spain in late march / april....

    same thing with gaming...
the modern games haven't made any
elaboration...
apart from dislodging the player
from the concept of narrative...
**** me... that's almost an improvement...
given that now: time is the counter
measure, and the gamer...
   is having to invest,
in a narrative, outside of the confines
of the game,
once upon a time,
games had time-narrative
constraints...
     now: there's time,
and there are gamer narratives,
excluding them from time-narratives,
of a game...
         it's almost a faux pas...
more like a wet-*****...
****** pinky lodged into an ear,
an april fools' day scant...

        if you hacked passed
the microtransactions...
       and didn't have the chance...
microtransactions are like
the old school cheat hacks...
but not quiet, but somehow quasi-,
       a modern microtransactions,
would be a cheat magazine
thorough-through
a game like final fantasy VII...
you have homework,
but you still want to complete the game...
modern games...
modern games...
there's an "end gole"?
  what modern game is worth
"completing"?
    
   again: tron, ready player one,
back to the future...
star wars just became dead
to me...
   sick people will plague hard-working
people, with a quasi-gambling
addiction,
needing to make microtransactions...
and they will,
my father was plagued by
an impostor, claiming to be a
tax office official:
and what if, that person had
an authentic position at the tax office?!

when gaming was for gamers,
the games were bought...
there was a narrative...
but now... now games don't have a narrative...
why would they?!
   who the hell plays games for
the narrative these days?
i know that on the crapper,
i need a game that allows me
to experience live-stream
interaction with non-bots...

       and these old gamers,
who still invest their money
in literature-esque-games?
so i was the sad one,
investing in vinyl?
   aren't the classic ******* gamers
just as bad,
investing in prepackaged
narrative gaming
experiences?
             a game with a narrative...
yeah... me buying vinyl
is: b'ah b'ah bad...
       what sort of game is alive and well...
when there isn't a crowd pushback
for the currency of microtransaction?

the narrative is time,
   the longer you endure the inadequacy...
the more you realise:
you're basically playing
the same game,
but in your scenario:
it's free...
   in some other ******'s scenario:
it cost him 70 hundred quid...

personally?
   i love this microtransaction dynamic...
concerning the people who
do not engage with it...
it's the perfect antithesis
   of what ruined the music industry
with genesis: napster...

you really are, playing the ultimate
game,
time...
         the one sort of commodity
that games,
without a clear narrative construct,
"forgot" to mention in terms
of them being exploited...
to their full capacity
of the one "commodity"
they "forgot", or rather,
couldn't "sell"...

              a tenchu PS1 game could
have lasted me a month...
now? a free game,
like war robots...
with absolutely no NPC?
hell... i'll be 90 and still be playing it;

what else? applause!

When the world is in trouble and theres nowhere left to turn.
Well your **** outta luck till then theres the Gonzo report.

Live from hidden location in a Florida basment broadcasting
now it's time for the Gonzo report.
With your team of in depth and seldom sane news team.

Your anchor man Gonzo   co Anchor that Batsheba
weather chick Neva finally gotta mention Flores.
Sports with your favorite ****** Richard Shepard.

And then theres Paula Swanson  who's sitting on my other side
I dont really know why  but eveyone likes Paula so who gives a *****.
Who wants a sandwhich im just saying.
And are field reporters Jeremy Wyatt,Chris Smith,And Mr E,

This just in.
A old man lost control of his car running over 17 people
and seriously ******* off one dwarf.
And if your keeping track at home kids it's old farts 20 crazy texting while driving teen *****   15.

Theres big trouble in Cairo kiddies  with more  no the situation
are own version  of snooky Bathsheba   take it away.
the camera zooms into  the   queen of Hello.
I swear to God Gonzo if  dont back the **** up i will knife you
you crazy *******  and put some ****** pants on you ******.

Yes Bathsheba ******* the outside  and  kinda ****** all around as well
but enough with the foreplay children.
Oh look Paula made cookies!
Baths began here report on troubles that had befallen this country
And as i mixed a drink it made me wonder.
Were the **** is Eygpt.

Opps looks like i dropped my cookie.
Like a mighty ninja with a hot flash I was met with a searing
pain to my nose.
In the name of Cindy Crawford what was that for?

Thats for even thinking bout going under that table.
But .
No Baths replyed  then hit me again.
The pain the agony my modeling carear.

Now with coverage from the World Series  heres Richard Shepard
Richard Can you here us.
The cam camera  cut  to a shot of a monkey masterbaiting in the Bronx zoo.

Yes the production team of Goldie and Joel M Frye
when not watching hot oil dwarf  varsity wrestling death match
there top notch.

Richard  dear lord man were on air it's no time for that now.
This isnt Chris's  bachelor party.
That isnt Richard you ****** Baths  spoke in that charming yet
Voice that told me if i didnt stop I might get a free *** change
voice of her's.

And it's not the world Series you half wit it's the Superbowl.
No  wonder  there was no mention of the stanley cup.
Baths what do you not know.
So after i mixed another wild turkey and put a mirror under
Paula's nose to make sure she was still breathing.
I told her  the roofies really help with the nerves.

Finally The artist formely known as Jack Horner   was live on the screen  from some cult meeeting it appeared.
*** they've captured Fergie.
Richard take it away.

Well these ***** keeping fighting over this ball.    
Runnin back  and ****** forth its driving me ****** bonkers.
Oh yeah amigo I these knickers ya asked for.
Richard held a pair of black *******  to the camera yeah
smell of  no talent  and overproduced songs.
dam you slash.

Back in the studio.
Ummm haha well i didnt ask him to steal anyones *******.
Paula broke the awkward silence i dont wanna go to school.
Paula you alright?
***** you John Travolta.

Ok well also at the world series of poker Jeremy Wyatt and he's got a special guest Taylor Swift.
Great god of the traveling  flying squirrell monkeys pants.
anything but her.

Screaming like a naughty little school girl with a  bad texting  habit
on a unlimted plan i dove underneath the news desk for it's better
die at the heels of Baths and a tap dancing kinda drugged Paula than   face a evil more sinister than Drew Dillegence or Ghandi  combined.

Jeremy was in the danger zone note even knowing it for beneath that
yummy little body layed the soul of satan  himself.

It was Nashvile  a few whiskey laced years ago  I was a drummer
for local sessions  she was 16 I.
well I wasnt.
you mix in some drugs s0me cars crashes knocking over a liquor store or two.  
That little hell cat had a thirst for danger  and some  lets just say
weird habbits   okay it was more like a curse.

Strange things happend to here past lovers.
John Mayer,  The gay cowboy from Broke Back Mountain  you know
that movie about the sinking ship, and that lesbian  from the Jonas Brothers.

Yes just as soon as she wrote a song you were good as dead.
You'd vanish to here secret torture chamber were her music played
non stop   and your blood was drained slowley so she could feed
her own talent or lack there of.

Jermy puzzled  hey Gonz you there Baths umm Paula ?
Underneath the saftey of are second hand news desk hey look gum.
huddled togather like three okay one drunk monkey and a passed out frat sister and a very ******* Baths please dont stab me im
fragile   like a aged bottle of good whiskey im just saying.

We gotta make a brake for it look Baths  you distract her im blowing this joint  like a long winded madman  on a five day binge
let loose on old country buffet.

Baths   spoke   in a  language  that was always a challenge  for me
called sanity.
Gonz if you dont let me out from under this desk.
Im going to rip your heart out and feed it to the  homless dwarfs.
And heres a napkin Paula's drooling on you.

I have a heart?

After a brief break.
And another check to make sure Paula was still breathing we
returned.
Dear lord where's Jeremy!

Screams could be herd Jesus Richard   it's no time for killing hookers
But 10 dollar beers  are a real kick in the ***.
Oh well Wyatts  gone he'll be missed.
this just in Taylor Swift to release her new single Why  Not  Jeremy!

Dear lord sweet sallys *** it was code she had taken him hostage
in the love of all things lady gaga  someone had to save my amigo.
except me  cause that ***** was crazy  and she's got a hell of a bite
im just saying  stay  strong   Jeremy  and think happy thought's

I could feel the ****** clamps and smell the burning flesh
from the car battery as we speak but enough  bout me and skeeters
personal life.

now its time for the weather with finally she's gotta mention Neva voice like a angel  Flores.
thanks Gonz that southern bombshell replyed okay in the south.

Alright Neva that was great  like i need to hear the weather.
I havent been outside in  seven years.

This just in Mr E  has been taken hostage in Cairo.
Well kids all i can say is as much as this hurts
we dont deal with terrorist  like we could raise a hundred bucks.

The bulletin came across the wire Raitch with a look of dont **** with me   Gonzo  although Pepples  thinks your okay in a ***** kinda pervert way.

All hells breaking loose  a all girls school for hot super models    
in trainng.
Baths  in shock and mock concern replyed oh dear lord.
I dont who has chops to cover such a story in short notice.
Raitch  Oh Baths I dont know either   ive herd  there ripping  each others clothes off   hair pulling its worse than a prison riot with
hot half naked strippers.

Baths kept speaking but in the name of chain gang women
i was lost deep in thought over ******* and world events
while downloading  pictures of Fergie eating a banana
what im a health nut okay.

Yeah I dont know who should go cover such a story right now hint.
Gonzo Baths and Ratich spoke like a tag team of terror hint!
Hey I should go shouldnt  I  ?

Yeah Gonz  ya think ?

With some ***** looks from the people who much like my family
wish id forget there names.
So they wouldnt have to join the witnness relocation program
i love it when they play hard to get.

Finally i was off the trusty Gonzo Report news van  waitting for me a bottle of wild turkey and some fine reading materials by that thinkers mag hustler waitting in the back.

There my amigos stood standing togather waving goodbye.
crying tears of joy hey is that a keg?
Chris on the turntables im beginnning to think it was a party.

But if Chris  was there just who was driving the Gonzo van!

The little dwarf laughed in glee as we flew threw town
like Charlie Sheen on a coke binge.
I was tossed around  like a beach ball at greatful dead concert
as finally   over the cliff the van flew.

There was a explosion that could be herd for at least a half a mile
course that was drowned out by the party.

The party was in full swing  finally Paula awoke.
Hey what the  hell happend and why is Trimman
******* my leg?

                                  
                                  Is Gonzo really Dead?  
    
    Will Jeremy Wyatt ever escape the *** dungeon of Taylor Swift.
                    
                        Will Richard Shepard ever put out a book
                        how kick lots of **** yet win the hearts of millions
                        and do a co write with lady GaGa and Mel Gibson?


                    Will Neva Flores  get ****** over her five second
                     mention hunt me down  and torture me for hours
                     im just saying  a girls got needs.


                    Will Paula Swanson  kick Trimman like a field goal
                                                    or just pass back out?

               Find out in the next action packed trillogy  called
                                          The Death Of Gonzo  

                       Untill  Next Time Stay Crazy Kids

kate beckinsale & anne hathaway
can speak
the name... matthew all
day long...
                 and right into the night...
i'll try to fall asleep...
must be an Oedipus complex
sort of thing,
   in primary school my school
friends thought that my
mother had the visage for
   sandra bullock...
   ha ha! good luck to the men fathering
daughters!
          you ever find it easier
to pet casts, and cage tigers?!
              **** me...
my shatten is soliloquy central...
           i drink to excess and
listen to excess erotica latex ****
music...
      and then? do nothing about it...
i like cinema...
                         **** me...
a fetish for leather that extends
past a ******...
    i would have asked her sincere self:
can we drop the ******
so that i might attire myself
in gimp?
      she evidently replied
a no with her 19 years of existence...
oh... under-baked apple pie
my dear...
            ha ha!
           no, i have more cherries
to pick, i''m beyond stalking some famous grimace...
you are here           .



and i?



                                           .              am here...

who needs the excess of
quasi-journalistic coverage anyway?
    
           that transitioning harem
of rock stars...
     like Kafka said:
i'll be waiting for something
i never had,
and missing it,
            by never having touched
a peek behind the curtain...

   i'll wait... for what i could never have...
and within the confines
of what i could never have,
          i'll settle for what i can already, have.

kate beckinsale & anne hathaway
can speak the name matthew
all day long, and i won't mind...
        
      would i be the one following them?
train-spotting....
         taxi counts...
                 ******* crows that
croak mid-flight count...
           the number of canadian geese
in b-54 formation
migrating come mid-autumn...

          geek without the cartoons...
push me...
   keep pushing...
     i want the shove
and the ****** wording of auto-suggestive
courting of -
                           courtesy...

              thank you...
i'd rather stalk my own shadow...
looking out for the plot-line of
an eased out **** doing the olympic
gold medal dive into
the crapper pool,
via analyzing the shadow of plop
pop gold...

        zero splash...

                a ******* harmonium
on the neck of a Polish teenager,
traveling on a Warsaw tram
      to reach a girl who...
              was counting petals,
and the worth(s) of considering
the concise surmount of love...

             yeah... next time?
i'll be the one used to invigorating
the stance on stalking
one's own shadow...
             why?
because i fidget...
i get all jerky...
                  the hype instigator
movement...
   ******* a woman
like a piston of a car's momentum...

               does it really matter?
i thought the Madonna-***** complex
wasn't a man-"thing"?
   if man owns the Freudian Oedipus
complex...
  does man also have to lend in his
strap-on dictum for the
Madonna-***** complex?
   so...
              that's not a wholly woman "thing"?
she's doesn't own that
complex?
   it's man's fault?!

             i know the Rastafarian Putin
isn't rasp -
but you know that Israeli ******
are better than the Russian ones...
so the story goes...

               which kinda explains...
impotent with women trapped
within the Madonna-***** complex...
with Bulgarian prostitutes?
a limp **** only, and only when
i forgot to trim my ***** hair,
my Eden...

  i have the Oedipus complex...
am i also responsible for
the Madonna-***** complex?!
really?
                        you sure that women
are not supposed to attend to question
this trans-schizophrenic,
   squint / split /
           dichotomy?

                   prior mothers,
that prerequisite motherhood
with the basis of ******* themselves...

   the Madonna-***** complex
is outside the realm of the male constraint /
castration of rules...

   i already mentioned it...
i couldn't be circumcised...
   protruding veins, that met at the zenith
of the *******...
if they circumcised me...
        i would have bled to death...
the, "crime" of ******* is
a lot easier to handle...
   if you haven't been circumcised...

because?
   circumcision is a motivational tactic...
you are... technically... not allowed
to ******* once you've been
circumcised...
  
               you're free, to *******...
if you haven't been circumcised...
as a male...
            no problem...
problem of ******* comes...
when you persist in the act...
but you don't actually possess the excess
skin, that might allow you
the prime, solipsistic act...

    ergo?
******* is worth a justified critique...
ONLY, and only IF...
you've been circumcised...
sorry if you have...
           notably because?
your priest isn't a rabbi...
and there's no fiddler on the roof
matchmaker song
to boot.

oh no, there's no problem with the act
of *******...
  but there is... if you have been
circumcised...
  why?
    during ******* i used to pull my *******
back...
  and **** with an unsheathed
****...

      but in private?
the ******* was rolled back on,
to counter the imitation of experiencing ****
***... with a clenched fist.

George was lying in his trailer, flat on his back, watching a small portable T.V. His
dinner dishes were undone, his breakfast dishes were undone, he needed a shave, and ash
from his rolled cigarettes dropped onto his undershirt. Some of the ash was still burning.
Sometimes the burning ash missed the undershirt and hit his skin, then he cursed, brushing
it away. There was a knock on the trailer door. He got slowly to his feet and answered the
door. It was Constance. She had a fifth of unopened whiskey in a bag.
"George, I left that *******, I couldn't stand that *******
anymore."
"Sit down."
George opened the fifth, got two glasses, filled each a third with whiskey, two thirds
with water. He sat down on the bed with Constance. She took a cigarette out of her purse
and lit it. She was drunk and her hands trembled.
"I took his **** money too. I took his **** money and split while he was at work.
You don't know how I've suffered with that *******." "
Lemme have a smoke," said George. She handed it to him and as she leaned near,
George put his arm around her, pulled her over and kissed her.
"You *******," she said, "I missed you."
"I miss those good legs of yours , Connie. I've really missed those good
legs."
"You still like 'em?"
"I get hot just looking."
"I could never make it with a college guy," said Connie. "They're too
soft, they're milktoast. And he kept his house clean. George , it was like having a maid.
He did it all. The place was spotless. You could eat beef stew right off the crapper. He
was antisceptic, that's what he was."
"Drink up, you'll feel better."
"And he couldn't make love."
"You mean he couldn't get it up?"
"Oh he got it up, he got it up all the time. But he didn't know how to make a
woman happy, you know. He didn't know what to do. All that money, all that education, he
was useless."
"I wish I had a college education."
"You don't need one. You have everything you need, George."
"I'm just a flunkey. All the **** jobs."
"I said you have everything you need, George. You know how to make a woman
happy."
"Yeh?"
"Yes. And you know what else? His mother came around! His mother! Two or three
times a week. And she'd sit there looking at me, pretending to like me but all the time
she was treating me like I was a *****. Like I was a big bad ***** stealing her son away
from her! Her precious Wallace! Christ! What a mess!" "He claimed he loved me.
And I'd say, 'Look at my *****, Walter!' And he wouldn't look at my *****. He said, 'I
don't want to look at that thing.' That thing! That's what he called it! You're not afraid
of my *****, are you, George?"
"It's never bit me yet." "But you've bit it, you've nibbled it, haven't
you George?"
"I suppose I have."
"And you've licked it , ****** it?"
"I suppose so."
"You know **** well, George, what you've done."
"How much money did you get?"
"Six hundred dollars."
"I don't like people who rob other people, Connie."
"That's why you're a ******* dishwasher. You're honest. But he's such an ***,
George. And he can afford the money, and I've earned it... him and his mother and his
love, his mother-love, his clean l;ittle wash bowls and toilets and disposal bags and
breath chasers and after shave lotions and his little hard-ons and his precious
love-making. All for himself, you understand, all for himself! You know what a woman
wants, George."
"Thanks for the whiskey, Connie. Lemme have another cigarette."
George filled them up again. "I missed your legs, Connie. I've really missed those
legs. I like the way you wear those high heels. They drive me crazy. These modern women
don't know what they're missing. The high heel shapes the calf, the thigh, the ***; it
puts rythm into the walk. It really turns me on!"
"You talk like a poet, George. Sometimes you talk like that. You are one hell of a
dishwasher."
"You know what I'd really like to do?"
"What?"
"I'd like to whip you with my belt on the legs, the ***, the thighs. I'd like to
make you quiver and cry and then when you're quivering and crying I'd slam it into you
pure love."
"I don't want that, George. You've never talked like that to me before. You've
always done right with me."
"Pull your dress up higher."
"What?"
"Pull your dress up higher, I want to see more of your legs."
"You like my legs, don't you, George?"
"Let the light shine on them!"
Constance hiked her dress.
"God christ ****," said George.
"You like my legs?"
"I love your legs!" Then george reached across the bed and slapped Constance
hard across the face. Her cigarette flipped out of her mouth.
"what'd you do that for?"
"You ****** Walter! You ****** Walter!"
"So what the hell?"
"So pull your dress up higher!"
"No!"
"Do what I say!" George slapped again, harder. Constance hiked her skirt.
"Just up to the *******!" shouted George. "I don't quite want to see the
*******!"
"Christ, george, what's gone wrong with you?"
"You ****** Walter!"
"George, I swear, you've gone crazy. I want to leave. Let me out of here,
George!"
"Don't move or I'll **** you!"
"You'd **** me?"
"I swear it!" George got up and poured himself a shot of straight whiskey,
drank it, and sat down next to Constance. He took the cigarette and held it against her
wrist. She screamed. HE held it there, firmly, then pulled it away.
"I'm a man , baby, understand that?"
"I know you're a man , George."
"Here, look at my muscles!" george sat up and flexed both of his arms.
"Beautiful, eh ,baby? Look at that muscle! Feel it! Feel it!"
Constance felt one of the arms, then the other.
"Yes, you have a beautiful body, George."
"I'm a man. I'm a dishwasher but I'm a man, a real man."
"I know it, George." "I'm not the milkshit you left."
"I know it."
"And I can sing, too. You ought to hear my voice."
Constance sat there. George began to sing. He sang "Old man River." Then he
sang "Nobody knows the trouble I've seen." He sang "The St. Louis
Blues." He sasng "God Bless America," stopping several times and laughing.
Then he sat down next to Constance. He said, "Connie, you have beautiful legs."
He asked for another cigarette. He smoked it, drank two more drinks, then put his head
down on Connie's legs, against the stockings, in her lap, and he said, "Connie, I
guess I'm no good, I guess I'm crazy, I'm sorry I hit you, I'm sorry I burned you with
that cigarette."
Constance sat there. She ran her fingers through George's hair, stroking him, soothing
him. Soon he was asleep. She waited a while longer. Then she lifted his head and placed it
on the pillow, lifted his legs and straightened them out on the bed. She stood up, walked
to the fifth, poured a jolt of good whiskey in to her glass, added a touch of water and
drank it sown. She walked to the trailer door, pulled it open, stepped out, closed it. She
walked through the backyard, opened the fence gate, walked up the alley under the one
o'clock moon. The sky was clear of clouds. The same skyful of clouds was up there. She got
out on the boulevard and walked east and reached the entrance of The Blue Mirror. She
walked in, and there was Walter sitting alone and drunk at the end of the bar. She walked
up and sat down next to him. "Missed me, baby?" she asked. Walter looked up. He
recognized her. He didn't answer. He looked at the bartender and the bartender walked
toward them They all knew eachother.

What is death, I ask.
What is life, you ask.
I give them both my buttocks,
my two wheels rolling off toward Nirvana.
They are neat as a wallet,
opening and closing on their coins,
the quarters, the nickels,
straight into the crapper.
Why shouldn't I pull down my pants
and moon the executioner
as well as paste raisins on my *******?
Why shouldn't I pull down my pants
and show my little ***** to Tom
and Albert? They wee-wee funny.
I wee-wee like a squaw.
I have ink but no pen, still
I dream that I can **** in God's eye.
I dream I'm a boy with a zipper.
It's so practical, la de dah.
The trouble with being a woman, Skeezix,
is being a little girl in the first place.
Not all the books of the world will change that.
I have swallowed an orange, being woman.
You have swallowed a ruler, being man.
Yet waiting to die we are the same thing.
Jehovah pleasures himself with his axe
before we are both overthrown.
Skeezix, you are me. La de dah.
You grow a beard but our drool is identical.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

Today is November 14th, 1972.
I live in Weston, Mass., Middlesex County,
U.S.A., and it rains steadily
in the pond like white puppy eyes.
The pond is waiting for its skin.
the pond is waiting for its leather.
The pond is waiting for December and its Novocain.

It begins:

Interrogator:
What can you say of your last seven days?

Anne:
They were tired.

Interrogator:
One day is enough to perfect a man.

Anne:
I watered and fed the plant.

*

My undertaker waits for me.
he is probably twenty-three now,
learning his trade.
He'll stitch up the gren,
he'll fasten the bones down
lest they fly away.
I am flying today.
I am not tired today.
I am a motor.
I am cramming in the sugar.
I am running up the hallways.
I am squeezing out the milk.
I am dissecting the dictionary.
I am God, la de dah.
Peanut butter is the American food.
We all eat it, being patriotic.

Ms. Dog is out fighting the dollars,
rolling in a field of bucks.
You've got it made if you take the wafer,
take some wine,
take some bucks,
the green papery song of the office.
What a jello she could make with it,
the fives, the tens, the twenties,
all in a goo to feed the baby.
Andrew Jackson as an hors d'oeuvre,
la de dah.
I wish I were the U.S. Mint,
turning it all out,
turtle green
and monk black.
Who's that at the podium
in black and white,
blurting into the mike?
Ms. Dog.
Is she spilling her guts?
You bet.
Otherwise they cough...
The day is slipping away, why am I
out here, what do they want?
I am sorrowful in November...
(no they don't want that,
they want bee stings).
Toot, toot, tootsy don't cry.
Toot, toot, tootsy good-bye.
If you don't get a letter then
you'll know I'm in jail...
Remember that, Skeezix,
our first song?

Who's thinking those things?
Ms. Dog! She's out fighting the dollars.
Milk is the American drink.
Oh queens of sorrows,
oh water lady,
place me in your cup
and pull over the clouds
so no one can see.
She don't want no dollars.
She done want a mama.
The white of the white.

Anne says:
This is the rainy season.
I am sorrowful in November.
The kettle is whistling.
I must butter the toast.
And give it jam too.
My kitchen is a heart.
I must feed it oxygen once in a while
and mother the mother.

*

Say the woman is forty-four.
Say she is five seven-and-a-half.
Say her hair is stick color.
Say her eyes are chameleon.
Would you put her in a sack and bury her,
**** her down into the dumb dirt?
Some would.
If not, time will.
Ms. Dog, how much time you got left?
Ms. Dog, when you gonna feel that cold nose?
You better get straight with the Maker
cuz it's coming, it's a coming!
The cup of coffee is growing and growing
and they're gonna stick your little doll's head
into it and your lungs a gonna get paid
and your clothes a gonna melt.
Hear that, Ms. Dog!
You of the songs,
you of the classroom,
you of the pocketa-pocketa,
you hungry mother,
you spleen baby!
Them angels gonna be cut down like wheat.
Them songs gonna be sliced with a razor.
Them kitchens gonna get a boulder in the belly.
Them phones gonna be torn out at the root.
There's power in the Lord, baby,
and he's gonna turn off the moon.
He's gonna nail you up in a closet
and there'll be no more Atlantic,
no more dreams, no more seeds.
One noon as you walk out to the mailbox
He'll ****** you up --
a wopman beside the road like a red mitten.

There's a sack over my head.
I can't see. I'm blind.
The sea collapses.
The sun is a bone.
Hi-** the derry-o,
we all fall down.
If I were a fisherman I could comprehend.
They fish right through the door
and pull eyes from the fire.
They rock upon the daybreak
and amputate the waters.
They are beating the sea,
they are hurting it,
delving down into the inscrutable salt.

*

When mother left the room
and left me in the *******
and sent away my kitty
to be fried in the camps
and took away my blanket
to wash the me out of it
I lay in the soiled cold and prayed.
It was a little jail in which
I was never slapped with kisses.
I was the engine that couldn't.
Cold wigs blew on the trees outside
and car lights flew like roosters
on the ceiling.
Cradle, you are a grave place.

Interrogator:
What color is the devil?

Anne:
Black and blue.

Interrogator:
What goes up the chimney?

Anne:
Fat Lazarus in his red suit.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

Ms. Dog prefers to sunbathe ****.
Let the indifferent sky look on.
So what!
Let Mrs. Sewal pull the curtain back,
from her second story.
So what!
Let United Parcel Service see my parcel.
La de dah.
Sun, you hammer of yellow,
you hat on fire,
you honeysuckle mama,
pour your blonde on me!
Let me laugh for an entire hour
at your supreme being, your Cadillac stuff,
because I've come a long way
from Brussels sprouts.
I've come a long way to peel off my clothes
and lay me down in the grass.
Once only my palms showed.
Once I hung around in my woolly tank suit,
drying my hair in those little meatball curls.
Now I am clothed in gold air with
one dozen halos glistening on my skin.
I am a fortunate lady.
I've gotten out of my pouch
and my teeth are glad
and my heart, that witness,
beats well at the thought.

Oh body, be glad.
You are good goods.

*

Middle-class lady,
you make me smile.
You dig a hole
and come out with a sunburn.
If someone hands you a glass of water
you start constructing a sailboat.
If someone hands you a candy wrapper,
you take it to the book binder.
Pocketa-pocketa.

Once upon a time Ms. Dog was sixty-six.
She had white hair and wrinkles deep as splinters.
her portrait was nailed up like Christ
and she said of it:
That's when I was forty-two,
down in Rockport with a hat on for the sun,
and Barbara drew a line drawing.
We were, at that moment, drinking *****
and ginger beer and there was a chill in the air,
although it was July, and she gave me her sweater
to bundle up in. The next summer Skeezix tied
strings in that hat when we were fishing in Maine.
(It had gone into the lake twice.)
Of such moments is happiness made.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

Once upon a time we were all born,
popped out like jelly rolls
forgetting our fishdom,
the pleasuring seas,
the country of comfort,
spanked into the oxygens of death,
Good morning life, we say when we wake,
hail mary coffee toast
and we Americans take juice,
a liquid sun going down.
Good morning life.
To wake up is to be born.
To brush your teeth is to be alive.
To make a bowel movement is also desireable.
La de dah,
it's all routine.
Often there are wars
yet the shops keep open
and sausages are still fried.
People rub someone.
People copulate
entering each other's blood,
tying each other's tendons in knots,
transplanting their lives into the bed.
It doesn't matter if there are wars,
the business of life continues
unless you're the one that gets it.
Mama, they say, as their intestines
leak out. Even without wars
life is dangerous.
Boats spring leaks.
Cigarettes explode.
The snow could be radioactive.
Cancer could ooze out of the radio.
Who knows?
Ms. Dog stands on the shore
and the sea keeps rocking in
and she wants to talk to God.

Interrogator:
Why talk to God?

Anne:
It's better than playing bridge.

*

Learning to talk is a complex business.
My daughter's first word was utta,
meaning button.
Before there are words
do you dream?
In utero
do you dream?
Who taught you to ****?
And how come?
You don't need to be taught to cry.
The soul presses a button.
Is the cry saying something?
Does it mean help?
Or hello?
The cry of a gull is beautiful
and the cry of a crow is ugly
but what I want to know
is whether they mean the same thing.
Somewhere a man sits with indigestion
and he doesn't care.
A woman is buying bracelets
and earrings and she doesn't care.
La de dah.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

There are stars and faces.
There is ketchup and guitars.
There is the hand of a small child
when you're crossing the street.
There is the old man's last words:
More light! More light!
Ms. Dog wouldn't give them her buttocks.
She wouldn't moon at them.
Just at the killers of the dream.
The bus boys of the soul.
Or at death
who wants to make her a mummy.
And you too!
Wants to stuf her in a cold shoe
and then amputate the foot.
And you too!
La de dah.
What's the point of fighting the dollars
when all you need is a warm bed?
When the dog barks you let him in.
All we need is someone to let us in.
And one other thing:
to consider the lilies in the field.
Of course earth is a stranger, we pull at its
arms and still it won't speak.
The sea is worse.
It comes in, falling to its knees
but we can't translate the language.
It is only known that they are here to worship,
to worship the terror of the rain,
the mud and all its people,
the body itself,
working like a city,
the night and its slow blood
the autumn sky, mary blue.
but more than that,
to worship the question itself,
though the buildings burn
and the big people topple over in a faint.
Bring a flashlight, Ms. Dog,
and look in every corner of the brain
and ask and ask and ask
until the kingdom,
however queer,
will come.

Ole used to like
the He-Man
TV cartoon series
and would enact

the main character
about the house
and stairs
and sofa

with a toy sword
tucked in the back
of his shirt
then one day

I took him
to the cinema
to see
the big screen

film version
of He-Man
with loud
booming voices

and music
and the bad guys
looking gruesome
and so on

and he began to say
he needed the crapper
and so off we went
outside and along

to the men's crapper
then back again
and sat down
to watch the film

then after a while
he would say
he wanted
the crapper again

and so off we went
and back again
and so after
the fourth visit

I said
do you want
to go home?
he nodded

in his own unique way
and off we went home
him silent
and me wondering

and knowing
that he'd been scared
but not wanting
to admit to it

he feigned the need
for the crapper
not knowing I knew
but I kept

his street cred
and smiled
down at him
and never said.

Yeah this rap goes out to them groveling phony fraudulent rappers, who think they some hot ****, but really their rhymes should be flushed down the crapper. I won't pitter-patter over the rap games floorboards; I bust through it and slice them up with my sword. Rap today has decayed, laid to waste by auto tuned ****** fruity puffs that only care about getting paid. So despicable, yet so typical for this day and age, creativity is deadlocked away underground in a cage. Only the critically insane ******* ever try to resurrect the rap game, because most get into bed with the devil so they can achieve easy fame. Illuminati in the media, in the music, and in the congress, corrupting the youth as if they were pawns as if life was like a game of chess. Oh father if there is a father up in heaven, we need help, I tried dialing your number but there mustn't be any service up there in heaven. Are you hearing me, I tried to show the corruption, but it keeps getting covered up by this convoluted industry. Yeah I went there, what you going to do, you just some phonies with some really low IQ's. Yeah I said this was going to be a Diss track, that points out how all this worldly **** is super whack. Fake rappers, fake society, trying to look real and happy in their greedy nobility. While other starve to survive, literally, but I forgot that the majority don't give a **** about minorities. Forgive me for all the honesty; I know I should probably see a specialist in psychiatry. **** it if go off the handle every now and again, I'm not here to make friends with filthy pagans. I'm just here to establish my lyrical ministry; I'm here to challenge everything and everyone's dignity and humility. I'm not in for cheese; I'm only in it because I want to shake raps monochrome foundation to its knees. Tear it down then build it up, there needs to balance just like pendulum, no time for sell out broken down ***'s. Diss the flow, get to know who the hell you calling out, otherwise it might come back to knock you out. Diss just business, its time to throw in the towel if can't finish, diminish all of those who can't handle this new improved business. Be a role model that anyone could look up to, and if you're not down to that then *******. Diss is the time to reinvent yourself, its ok if you need a little help cleaning out your shelf. Everyone deserves a second chance to change, to rearrange themselves so they can begin a new stage. Diss is not what you expected, but I hope you hear these words so that you can heal instead of staying infected.

Strange question indeed,
So I asked one and all;
Explain to me:
“What's a plumber's ball?”

Family and friends
Heeded my call,
But none could confine,
Refine or define it,
Yet Paul was sure
He could design it.

Still, none could satisfy
My caterwaul:
“What the hell is a plumber's ball?”

Does it sweat the pipe
Or wiggle the snake:
Can it clamp the ******
For Heaven's sake?
Could it snap on the ****-hole cover?
All these queries
Made me wonder.

Has it something to do
With hardness leakage,
Or ******* the ball-****
To stop a seepage?
Has it anything to do
With a saddle valve dripping,
Electric eels,
Or two pipes mating?
And, I heard of male and female fittings,
And should I worry
If I'm standing or sitting?

If you're discharging the head
Or elongating the pipe,
Does the plumber's ball
Help it snug tight?
Is it in my tank,
Or in my bowl,
Beneath the floor
Near the drainage hole?
Is the plumber's ball
In the back of the truck
(Jeff laughed and said
One could rub it for luck).

I asked Michel
If he could tell,
He sensed it was something
He could smell.
I sought out Ray,
Perhaps he'd know,
But he was on call
To restrain a back-flow.
I couldn't ask Gary
For his wisdom and sense,
He was wigglin' the snake
To unclog a wet vent.
Henry, Rick, Scotty and Brian,
Gave shameless answers
I couldn't rely on.

It's not a crapper, tail piece
Or Johnnie-bolt,
Or catch basin, reamer,
O-ring or pipe dope.
So I searched the Net
With a fool's wonder,
And read of ball-checks,
Gas ***** and plungers.
I know it's too late
To ask Rolly or Ross,
For both of them knew,
And that's our loss.
And Ernie's gone golfing
So I can't ask the Boss.

With final resolve
I fell to my knees,
To pray St. Ferrer
With grace intercede.
His silence left me
In a state of depression;
Had Ferrer washed his hands
Of the plumbing profession?

So nothing could settle
My wherewithal,
I still didn't know,
What's a plumber's ball?

Suddenly, it hit me,
He's never wrong,
The Dalai Lama of dip-tubes,
I'll ask John.
Where others did falter,
John's a rock:
He knows the difference
Between a gas and ball ****.

With a knowing smile
He embraced our Hall:
Here, good friend, is your Plumbers' Ball.

Five minute street artists
and insomnia mongers.
****** drunk blondes
and finger snapping phat booties.

Street geniuses
bred by Machiavellian philosophies
cypher dreams over tokes
of marijuana smoke.

Color worshipping narcotic traffickers,  
and bread winners
parole corners
sporting fitted caps and twisting fingers.

Senile war veterans
beg for change in cardboard boxes
from the American dreams
they afforded.

Hard workers with every ethnicity
molded into each pore of their face,
rub shoulders with tourists at traffic stops
barely escaping tires crushing their feet.

Sartorial geniuses with no pants
switch hips in knock-off stellos heels,
selling the origin of the world on avenues
next to Arab Halal food.

Cooperate ties and blue collars chafe ***** on subways.
nodding in and out of Daily News articles  
while oxygen blessed by asparagus ****
pump through their noses.

Summa *** laude number runners dictate economies
From sky-crapper offices,
And powered rain swallows their concrete each winter,
With no apologies.

.                                                 what?
between MC hammer...
and men at work...
there's a choice?
come on...
you could have given
me an easier question,
like... Debussy
contra Satie...
or, like...
  egg yolk or egg white?!
point being...
i'd love to see
christopher lambert
play the role of
raiden in that... mortal kombat
game made into a motion
picture...
you know...
if i owned a PS2...
i'd still be a gamer...
but i never owned a PS2....
or the metal gear solid 2
gaming experience...
not the PS1 experience
fighting ****** mantis...
you know that hack / cheat...
when you switch controller
slots...
when ****** mantis is
giving his grandiose speech..
and you switch the controller
ports, so that in in the game
you're not predictable...
   final fantasy 7?!
completed it with a walk-through...
sorry... homework...
that being said:
all of Friday night and all of
Saturday morning...
and some Tenchu....
wacky-Jacky...
      cow later chow,
enter mein...
           choppers chop chop...
these days?
i game...
           when i take a ****...
i figured... if there are people who
take a book to the crapper...
i'll take a game...
    war robots....
      you know what's fascinating?
the interactive applicability of
a game...
                     team-work...
mesmerizing...
                the whole gaming
structure drifted from a narrative,
to a congregational dynamism...
solipsism unraveled...
i dig the whole team work,
while taking a ****...
love it... 5 stars review...
     but am i a gamer...
do i not think that
a.i. is a revamp of Pinocchio?
no...
     but metal gear solid?
a ******* solid game
on PS1...
       you would be talking to a gamer
if i was allowed to buy
a PS2 console...
         oh right...
  i read books and listened to music,
and ended up writing anti-routine /
anti-technicality poetry /
anti-rhyme poetics....
                                      my bad;
"we're" calling a revision
of chess in play;
yeah... sorry...
   i was never into paragraphs,
with dialogue interludes...
for me...
  poems were always above
a structural stature of paragraphs;
something to do with
haiku or... whatever came out of
Godzilla's mouth.

This red dot i see is what chaos starts as..
Once chaos has flowed out it becomes infared..
The begininng of a galaxy that i can hold in my hands!

The copper coin was the center of a dance..
Watch abe get up and do the charleston dance..
Put the coin to my ear and hear the music and dance..

Up and away.
Toward and a step back..
Leave my body and come back..

Freaking out i go to the bathroom.
Sit on the crapper and do a loop..
Leave my body and enter back on through the back of my skull im awake!

Rainbow highway to oblivion..
colorless flowers laugh at me..
I pluck them from the ground and say " whos laughing now..

OH MY GOD IT WAS THE SWEET TARTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Dalai Lama may not approve
with my pinching the Pure Diamond
phrase which is of course usually
in reference to some Buddhist moment
of utter clarity & profound insight,

but that's as close as I can get in reference
to Our Illustrious Leader and his need to sit
on a golden crapper in his opulent & dazzling
suite overlooking Manhattan & oh so high in
the blue, blue sky,

because when I hear of Meals on Wheels cuts
& After School Program loss in West Virginia
& the myriad other ways counters have
found to save a few bucks at the same time
as they reduce taxes on the very rich,

the fact that he does sit on a golden crapper
becomes perhaps a lightning rod for all that
is wrong with Republican ideology & its talk
of cost effect & proven results in regard to
a simple feeding of a hungry person,

its not rocket science or flying to the moon
its a simple social program that helps older
folks & small children get through the day

& a government that talks of building a billion
dollar wall, building more planes & warships
led by a man who desires a golden crapper,

just plain fills me with a Pure Diamond Loathing.

I’ve seen a fiend inside me,
who seemed destined to be,
so attentive and aggressive at manipulating,
these doctors and these nurses
whom when they see me,
they lock up all the pills,
and then they swallow the key.
But I moan and I groan to own the script that I seek.
Let insurance pay my habit,
now my checks spent on ****.
it might be a life without light,
but to me,
its alright i’m just fine
so stop worrying please.
If I need some help then you know,
you'll hear it from me.
But until then just chill,
while i **** these zanies.
Once I’m gone then I’m gone
and i know that I’m wrong,
coping with prescriptions just to string me along.
Cause addictions a sickness,
and a big ***** to live with.
Your mind plays these games,
and fools you with tricks which,
say it’s okay,
and it starts to convince you,
you cant walk without your crutches,
when life starts to trip you.
And thats when it hits you.
The fact of the matter.
Which gets even sadder.
The higher I was,
the lower the ladder.
The lighter the buzz,
the chase even faster.
Used to smoke bud,
like some just for laughter.
But moved onto drugs,
that sent my life down to crapper.
So i just flushed,
and rushed in a new chapter.
Not saying I’m perfect,
but it works if you work it.
I wouldn't say I’m an addict, just a curious person.

Ya Know I've Heard It Said By Older Heads...
COMPETITION Is Part of Human STRENGTH... !!!

That's TRUE I Guess But Now Detect...
Competitions NOW Have Got DEFECTS... !!!
And DON'T Give Wealth To Humanity's Health... !!!

I'm Older Now So See Just How...
Competitions... DROWN...
Because of CLOWNS...
Now CLAIMING Crowns... !?!

As If They're... KINGS... ?!?
When They're Just.............
COMPETING... WEAKLINGS... !!!!!

Like Heads NOW Kicking Lyrics...
That LACK The Depth And Slickness...
In Verse BIG VIRGE Be Bringing... !!!

My Poems Leave Heads RINGING... !!!
Because My Words Keep STINGING... !!!
Like Cobras That Be... SPITTING... !!!

In The Faces of FAKES Who Just Can't Take...
STRONG BRANDS of SHARP Wordplay... !!!!!!

They QUICKLY Run For Cover...
When They DISCOVER The Rocks I'm Under... !!!

Cos' My Venom EXTENDS...
... PROBLEMS For Them... !!!!!

Because My Chem'... HITS Ventricles...
And Blends To FEND Like Tentacles... !!!!!

That STING These Kids Like JELLYFISH... !!!!!
A... " Man o War "... For SURE... !!!!
When I HIT Shores Competitors ROAR...

"Okay Big Virge, No More, NO MORE !"......

Or Like DURAN... "No Mas No Mas !"

When I Start To PEPPER...
Their Head Like... LEONARD...
Cos' I'm The... Sugar Ray...
Wordplay... HEAVYWEIGHT... !!!!!!!!

TOO HEAVY To Be Found...
On... ANY Dub Plate... !!!!!!!

My Competition Dissipates......................... ..............
And Disintegrates Because They're AFRAID...
of The Kind of Wordplay I Choose To DISPLAY...
... That DESTROYS These FAKES... !!!!!

Competition They CLAIM...
To Want... ALL DAY... !!!

Til' I STAKE My Claim...
To Enter... CENTRE STAGE... !!!
And HIT LAME BRAINS...
With My... MIND SPRAY... !!!!!

I DAMAGE These FOOLS...
Just Like... " JERU "...

Compete With... WHO... ?!?
I'm The Doctor... WHOSE...
Competitive Words Have BIGGER BOOTS...
Than... COMPETITIVE JERKS...
Whose Verse... Lacks Worth... !!!

COMPETITIVE Dudes...
Who Were Born To LOSE... !!!!!!

I Compete With... ME...
NOT GLORY Hunting Freaks... !!!

Because...

EVERY TIME I Rhyme Alphabet Letters...
I'm Trying To BETTER My Form of VENDETTA...
To STAND For... MORE...
Than THESE WHORISH Trend Setters... !!!

I'm A VERBAL GO GETTER...
NEVER Late But... FOREVER... !!!

A Man Whose VIEWS...
COMPETE To... CONSUME...
VOLUMES In Rooms...
Who CHOOSE To REFUSE...

WORDPLAY I USE...
I'm A Bit... " CONFUSED "... ???

When It Seems They CHOOSE...
To BELIEVE It's... COOL...
When These FOOLS Exude...
SO MUCH... ATTITUDE...
About... " How They DEFEAT ! "...

EVERYBODY They Meet...
When It Comes To... FREESTIES'...
That They KICK Over Beats... !!!!!?!!!!!

They're QUICK To APPLAUD...
These... Lyrical FRAUDS... ?!?
Who COMPETE To Hear ROARS...
When They're... Treading The Boards... !!!

COMPETITIVE... Actors... !!!
Kind of Like An X Factor...
For... Wannabee Rappers...
Who … LACK The Bite...
of..... VELOCIRAPTORS...... !!!!!!!!

As For The... Gun Clappers...
They Take JOOK' Like SLAPPERS... !!!!!!

When... Like A SLACK Gangster...
They Get SHOT In The CRAPPER...
Cos' Their **** LOST It's HAMMER... !!!!!!

I Make These FOOLS... " S T T T TAMMER "... !!!!!
When I Utilise... GRAMMAR...
That HAMMERS Like BANNER... !!!

OKAY I Mean... THOR... !!!
COMPETING... Fa' SURE... !!!
When It Comes To A Cause...
WORTH... FIGHTING For... !!!!!

I COMPETE On... Spirit Levels...
That DISHEVEL These DEVILS... !!!
Who... CLEARLY Seem To REVEL...
In Being Given... MEDALS...
For NONSENSE That They PEDAL... !!!

Like PRIEST My HEAVY MENTAL...
Is How I... BURN And SETTLE...

Scores With... BROADS...
I Mean... GIRLS Of Course... !!!

Who... CLEARLY LIKE To See...
THESE Gangster Wannabes'...
COMPETING For Their *****... !!!!

NO MORE Do I CONCEDE... !!!
To PANDER To Their Schemes... !!!

My Competition FEEDS...
OFF MORE Than They Could Be... !!!!!!!!

My Competition NEEDS...
To Make A... BETTER ME... !!!!!

NOT To PROVE To... " Peeps' "...
That I'm BETTER Than Jay-Z... !?!?!

I'd RATHER Be... " The V "...
Whose VENDETTAS COMPETE...
AGAINST The... Powers That Be... !!!!

And FIND A... HIGHER Mission...
Than Being... SOLELY DRIVEN...
To Fighting For... A PITTANCE... ?!?

In PETTY.............

……. " COMPETITION " …….

A locking click
the clear is hall
a clocking tick
is hear I all
a rocking drop
the near is fall
a blocking chop
I fear the saw

a pampy crapper
I nose my hold
a campy happer
I clothes my fold
a fighty scrapper
that big is bloke
a lighty snapper
I cig my smoke!


©2011 Lyn

Sure as heck wouldn't fall
for that "Oh its my favourite
book & I keep it by my bedside
trick" & gather chubby Christian
flunkeys to pray over & anoint
a fascist idiot child,

Would see right through using
a grieving widow as a prop for
a photo-shoot extravaganza,
& then talk of record applause
lines like this was America's
Most Talented & he was a cheap
*** promoter milking the crowd,

Wouldn't for a second fall for
the Syrian children carry an
infection to the nation & must
be denied entry because you
never know but of course we can
because deranged white folks are
more of a threat,

Sure as **** could tell the difference
between a good apostle & that
scheming White Supremacist
Bannon & the bald dude who
endlessly talks of his overlord
being obeyed or **** sure you'll
all be for it,

Would most definitely not need
a golden crapper to rest his fat
white *** on & a golden stroller
for his special one & lacquered
mirrored sitting room that looks
like a hillbilly wet-dream version of
of 'how rich folks dun live rightly,'

Would most definitely not be seen
wearing that stupid red hat which
more than hints at a long gone
world with shades of whiteness
& exclusion & don't come knocking
on my door you pitiful wretch you,

Would never in a million friggin'
years have voted Republican &
sided with a lying, duplicitous
con-man with all the shades of
darkness that usually are reserved
for the actual Fallen Angels.

Are you bored?
Do you feel there's no point to the things you do?
Is your life missing an element of excitement?

Fear not, I have just the thing

Put the Awe back in Awesome
Put the back Zing back in Amazing
Put the Fanta back into Fantastic

What?  Fanta is great.

Anyway

It's rather simple.  

The next time you have to do something you find boring, depressing, or unfulfilling, do it FOR SCIENCE!

Some examples:

I'll be out later, I have to do my English homework...FOR SCIENCE
I'm giving the big presentation tomorrow...FOR SCIENCE
I got into a car accident this morning...FOR SCIENCE
I don't feel so well, I need to use the crapper...FOR SCIENCE.  I'll be in there awhile.  For Science.
Someone tried to steal my purse, so I stabbed them...FOR SCIENCE

I guarantee that if you use this handy tip, your self esteem will rise, and people will find you exponentially more interesting!

Or they might think you're crazy

They definitely won't think you're boring, though.

So go out there and show the world what you're made of

For Science!

I know Henry the VIII had six wives
   and that bees live in hives.
I know blue and yellow put together make green.
   and that the populations the biggest it's ever been.
I know the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog
      is the greatest sentence on Earth
    And that male seahorses give birth.
I know Neil Armstrong was the
     first man on the moon
and that the dish ran away with the spoon.

I know that peanuts are present in dynamite
  and that Einstein wasn't always right.
I know you shouldn't bite off more than you can chew
  and  that Tom Crapper invented the loo.
I know that Ben Franklin flew his kite into a storm
to prove that lightening's an electrical form.
I know that goldfish have a three second memory span
   that my dad will never be a Man United fan.
I know that Eric Clapton went Knocking on Heavens door.
  and that the Swiss aren't helpful in a war.


I know the Russian Prime Minister's Vladamir Putin.
I know who discovered Penicillin
I know that seven times seven is forty nine
    and that the French enjoy their wine.
I know ostriches lay eggs bigger than their head
   and that pencils used to be made from lead.
I know flowers survive because of  photosynthesis
  and that Chuck Norris is good in a crisis.
I know that Darwin didn't say we came from apes
   and the story of 'The Great Escape. '
I know you should always let your conscience by your guide
   and the tenth main cause of death is suicide.

I know that lemon is an anagram of melon
   and that Guy Fawkes was a convicted felon.
I know that life the Universe
    and everything is forty two.
   That I'm too old to play Guess Who.
I know the reason for having a leap year .
   and that Beethoven couldn't hear.
I know Walt Disney was afraid of mice
and that Jesus made the ultimate sacrifice.

I know Pluto was stripped of it's status in 2006
and that some problems just can't be fixed.
I know Amelia Earhart was the first woman to fly a plane
that diamonds are harder than John Mc Clane.
I know that Americans dial 911 in an emergency
that more monopoly money is printed than real currency.
I know the electric chair was invented by a dentist.
And that Josef Stalin ruled with an iron fist!

I know that cats have nine lives
and that Elvis Presley could really jive
I know that no one does drugs like Charlie Sheen
that I couldn't survive a day without caffeine
I know that an insufficiency is called a dearth
and that some things cost more than their worth.
I know Neil Armstrong was the
     first man on the moon
and that the dish ran away with the spoon.

the coffee flowed through tales of three lovers,
all dead now, somehow  
he managed to squeeze in a live one, number four,
over apple pie with melted cheese  
she was still coming around, usually after her AA meetings
helping him fill his apartment with Lucky Strike haze  
(only woman he knew who smoked unfiltered ****)  
he did not know why she watched him drink  
maybe he was her 40 days in the desert,
tempting her with the libations
she loved more than her own flesh,  
(her son in Waukegan with his sober dad)    
maybe he was her test, he didn’t give a **** he said  
she was quiet in his bed
often, like a thief in the night,
she would be gone when he woke in the morning  
a book or two missing, ones he had read
and filled with notes, some with pages torn out
that lined his walls, even his crapper he said  
where he could stand and drain his lizard
read Ezra Pound and Elliot and ask himself  
why the **** did those guys use so many words?  
when he ate the last crumbs of his pie, he told me
he meant to ask me the same question,
but the answer would be too long,
that I asked questions that did not need answers
I tried to tell him
I felt the same way, but
he fired up another Lucky Strike,
and asked for the check
which I would pay
and I knew, he would hear nothing
I had to say

I like the word Cnut. It'a obviously related to ****, which is nice. Freud would maintain an existential connection, no? Kristeva a maternal one. Derrida a...blah de blah

Matthew Conrad* Cnut is an actual name of a Danish king that ruled England... it's not related to **** in the least. it's authenticity speaks for itself, 990 a.d., variations include Canute.

Matthew Conrad crapper - its - ugh and the whole shitload of
missing diacritical marks in English, excessive when said:
hyphenation when quasi-German-compounding,
and the one-armed bandit of ditto when a possessive article is expressed, notably missing, a notable circus frenzy or:
that thing to mind on the tourist trail: short-hand it's:
it is, and its, such a short word will always do
stealth undermining when quickened to be expressed:
unlike a stripper's corset might, or a cat's invisible leash
given it's behavioural quasi, or in falsetto dittoing i.e.
passing down the torch, id est: more ambiguity than anything
so the dichotomy of hmm... quasi- or pseudo-?
almost or sort of?
even more atomic, linguists are mathematicians
of letters? sure, hence the complexity variance
of 10 ( 0 - 9 ) v. 26 ( a - z ),
mathematics is difficult, due to e.g. ∋,
which translates as t.q. (talis quod) -
is encoded....
where was i?
x and .
both denote a convergence - only that
the western multiple variation has
divergent off-shoots, while the eastern method
hones on a x, y, z, or (0, 0, 0) -
and hence the multiple, hence the full-stop
that's never a full-stop, given so many books are
written including bypassing the semi-colon
and hyphen and colon and all the other remainders... dare i say, reminders?
but still, mathematics overpowers
linguistics (the equivalent science) with the many
more punctuation marks...
≈ v. ~
mathematical punctuation in
language is sometimes akin to stiffened Latin
prefixes, like quasi and pseudo,
in mathematics quasi (≈) and pseudo (~);
the hyphen (-) is translated as +...
quasi = approx.
and pseudo = similarity.
there is so much refinement
going on when mathematical punctuation
mingles with literary Oliver Twist -
i mean, literature is a pauper when it
comes to punctuation -
ctrl c & v this ****...
only upon replying you can
i honestly spin the cobweb, thanks...
the Minotaur wakes up sorta thing...
i've decided you did this on purpose,
i guess i'm glad...
after all... it only takes
a very minor incision to dissect a whole body:
pulling the brain from the nostrils
within the framework of mummification
sort of thing...
but my luck is as good as yours:
if you don't prosper from this little hushed up explosion,
then at least i'll peacock strut into another blank being filled,
or the sort of thing you say on a Monday:
how was your Sunday roast, with the family... or...
whoever you ate with the previous day, in the afternoon?
Freud, yes, Derrida, yes... Kristeva?
feed me something essential,
never heard of what's already a pronoun enigmatic word
given the current transgender upheaval of he she you me
it we blah blah.
oh right! a woman! d'uh... i'm still stuck on Plath
and, ah ****, what's her name... Imogen Siberians-Need-
                  Sun-Cream-Akhmatova -
dunno... i was just reading this article about
    this *****-donor app that spirals female fantasies
out of control akin to the Tinder-swipe and i got
thinking about the futility of men in professions outside
of construction and whatever the **** there is to do
that's macho -
                          and rather than gender affirming,
more or less life-affirming -
                                        to the specified method-statement
of *** -
                             not that i'm undermined,
          or threatened -
just ****** bewildered by the whole um-hum hmm?
                     ****... (after a long pause);
i should really check this groovy someone-something out,
should i?
                   what medium was she using?
        i was digesting bob dylan winning the Swedish prize
for the best lingonberry jam (vocabulary) or
the marley: we're jamming in the wind -
                         don't know where such crass gin jokes
came from, but i'm sure they came from somewhere,
where?                           oh sure,
              a million poets said with jealousy:
   but i don't recite my poems while playing the ******* flute!
****** puritans: learn the ******* harmonica before
charging into the scene wanting to recite Jethro Tull's my god!

He'd already
slit his wrists
and tried
to hang himself

in the crapper
from the water
pipe system
and now they kept him

in the locked ward
sans belt or laces
and kept him
in sight

of at least
one nurse's sharp eyes
but still he managed
to liberate laces

from some old guy's shoes
while he slept
and had just about
tied one end

of the tied laces
to the pipes
when a nurse
seeing him

through the curtains
raised the alarm
and banged
on the door

and raised
merry hell
but he just set about
his slow task

attempting to put
the narrow noose
about his head
when some big

male nurse
(ape build)
banged open
the door

and pulled him down
sans the laces
and pinned him
to the floor

Benedict smelt
body odour
and cheap aftershave
and still

the ape nurse
held him down
there was that
Beatles' song

on the radio
on the locked ward
HELP
I need somebody

the nurse joined in
the chorus line
Benedict caught sight
unwittingly

of the female nurse's
pale pink *******
as she moved
on over to help

and her perfume
was better
and has she
pressed down

nearer
to give aid
he closed his eyes
gentlemanly

so as not to view
the cleavage
coming his way
can’t have

too much excitement
(he mused darkly)
in one suicide
attempting day.

Skimming is like cheating
why bother to pretend?
so you can say you've read the book,
a mad rush to the end?

Best do like me, and start a few
and it's exactly what I do
before I will attack it, read
the back and jacket too.

I start in on the chapter list
and read it 'til I've got the gist,
a nice prologue and introduction
if omitted, sorely missed.

I take the words and read 'em over
what was meant, I try to gleen
and if no message was encoded
just what did the author mean?

I'll do the same on every page
until I understand, or age
and when I'm satisfied
unless I've died, I'll turn the page.

I will continue on that course
unless the author beats his horse
and gives me every reason, just to
end it there without remorse.

but if I'm thoroughly engaged
and my boredom not enraged
I must admit I've skimmed a chapter
in the crapper for the aged.

and if I make it to the chase
which has rarely been the case
I will mark it, and then park it
to allow it proper place.

The End

I wonder what this world is coming to
When we have to overcomplicate everything
All I hear on the TV of late
Is ‘bare craic’ as my northern Irish friend would say –
“I can’t understand this  credit crunch,” she said
Poignantly, (neither could I) “I think I’ll take
A dander down to the shops.” And so she did
We were out of milk
And living off salami
I picked up the paper
And I realise nothing is without a price
Or a fate
They are the two certainties
So is death
And the price is not so hard to see either.
The American bigwigs sit round a table
Complaining what is to be done about the financial crisis?
Each eating a $16 dollar muffin with their $8.48 coffee
Wondering where oh where can money be saved?
And they’ll get back in their private limos
Drive past their second addresses
Back down to Bel-air
Lock themselves in their villas
Count their bonuses
And sleep happy
After doing jack ****.
While Greece is going down the crapper.
I can see the solution
Can you?
Or is it just me?
Or can you see it to?

winter loneliness
wise men know
is only right
that gray will stack upon gray,
that brown will fringe brown,
that lust's fire be dormant
is only right
that all things should cycle
that tender green will shoot
from hollow promise,
wise men know
is only right
that hibernia is but a season,
that low light's grip need not hold,
that there is an end
wise men know.
that dogs bark in advance of posted mems
that seed, seeded to glossy paper,
that will be read on china thrones
it is only right
that rows and rows first be planted
in dream gardens upon the vernal gardener's crapper.

When Christine heard
that he'd tried
to hang himself
in the men's crapper

desperation bells
began to ring
inside her head
then she saw him

on the locked ward
sans laces
or belts
or anything

he may use
to repeat
the performance
and he sat

in the big chair
his eyes dull
and his hair untidy
and with that loose hanging

dressing gown
minus belt
and in pyjamas
like some

Auschwitz guy
and she said
what the ****
you in here for?

sitting in the armchair
next to him
broken heart
broken love

lost love
soul crashing
through all gears
to get back

to base
who knows?
he said
like that huh?

join the club
for what it's worth
we're all ****** up here
like driftwood

on a lonely beach
on some deserted island
she said
he gazed at her

disinterestedly
as if a gnat
had landed
on his hand

they lock
the doors here?
sure do
all the time

what about visitors?
once a week
Sundays
he looked at her

at her dark
long straggly hair
her dull eyes
why you here?

he said
some ****
left me
at the altar

all dressed up
like some nun
in white
she said

he must have been
mad to have left you
anywhere
he said

well he must be
because he did
opposite
an Indian woman

sat crossed legged
picking
at her toes
a red spot

on her forehead
dressed
in long gowns
of bright colours

a plump woman
walked by smoking
eyeing them
suspiciously

foul mouthing
the nurse going by
so how long
you been here?

he asked
week or so
how long you staying?
until they say

I can leave
when will that be?
when they think
I’m better

or cured
or able to be
balanced again
when will that be?

how the ****
do I know
she said
sorry

about the language
anger gets
to my tongue
before I do

you're not going
to hang yourself
again are you?
she asked

don't know
who I am any more
don't know jackshit
about myself

whoever myself is
she nodded
looked at his
handed in slippers

the scar
on his left wrist
not your first time then?
she said

touching the scar
guess not  
he said
welcome to Purgatory

she said
he sensed her finger
on his scar
the female touch

he wanted something
whatever it was
something
to hold on to

O
so very much.

Jeanette sits
in the class
music's played

Beethoven
sonata
Miss Graham

the teacher
at a grand
piano

thin wire framed
spectacles
her grey hair

in a bun
aged fingers
touching keys

many kids
in the class
sit bemused

others bored
out of brains
smile or smirk

but to her
sitting there
beside blonde

Angela
is transfixed
a new world

opens up
pretty much
like that kiss

stolen quick
by that boy
Benedict

on the field
after lunch
as she sat

all alone
Angela
had gone to

the crapper
(the wrong week
to sort out)

no reasons
were given
just that kiss

on her cheek
soft and damp
then he'd gone

leaving her
as one stung
by a bee

and she watched
as he went
towards school

and she sat
between worlds
old and new

balancing
her hormones
steering clear

of all those
dangerous
hidden rocks

Jeanette moves
to music
around her

her fingers
on the desk
like keyboard

pushing thoughts
of the kiss
from her mind

closing eyes
matching up
Benedict

inwardly
with passion
like one blind.

Yeah, curious furious instincts, going till my tank is empty, life is a balancing act man, hope I don't fall and break apart like Humpty Dumpty. Going in, connecting every shot, yeah you bet this is a battle that I will win, have you already forgot? Tucking you in, bearing my cross, been going up and down those hills man, living life like a boss. Young native and graduated, making my expectations stay elevated like a real g, leaving your corpses eradicated, didn't I tell you not to mess with me? For I am the chronic, get yawl hooked on me, and if you don't listen, I'll go subatomic. Going super saiyan sonic, I hustle every day, yeah I may not be a saint but I'm sure as hell not demonic. Got to dumb it down, as the clock is ticking down, got the *** slipping down, no time to stop, no time to be mocked, the charges have been set, so get down. Twisted explicit domestic impressive with a message, got all you haters bested, yet interested, messed with your heads with my words, guess that makes you infected. Going undetected by most outlets, it's sad the only people who make it it in the music industry are sell outs, and the ones who are real never really make it. I think this world has become defective, false perceptions got you bumping to frauds, so I guess subliminal  brainwashing is indeed effective. Leaning towards Gods, punishment that resembles the crime, get out the rods, it time for judgement time. It sickens me to see them dragging you into their witch craft trickery, get out the med kit and heal you before you become easy pickings. Giving me a head congestion, we have gotten so low, it's like were currently in a recession. I don't aim for perfection, I am a realist, ready for suggestions, got out my idea list, ready to take some risks. Got your ******* twisted in a knot, can you feel the rush? If you got nothing good to say, you should hush, don't have to give it a second thought, lay it all out even it is not a royal flush. I have not lost my edge, keep you on the ledge, spear through you as if I was the Rated R superstar edge. You must have lost your minds if you think my rhymes have become sublime, so there is no need to bind, I promise that I am fine. I memorize what matters, and say my two cents, sure some times I improvise, but life is like the board game snakes and ladders, except you don't get no guide or hints. I'm like lemon in the eyes, I don't comprise, unlike other rappers, yeah I am a light, flushing down others down the crapper. I put everything on the table, don't have anything under my sleeve, I'm just real, whereas the rest of yawl as fake as a weave. I am a unique, so of course the world treats me as a freak, but glory to those who are meek. I can hold my own, so pick up the phone and let a friend know, that I will always bring on a show. No need for help to get back on my feet,  I grind oppressors into meat. Started from nothing, my mom raised me, made sure that I could become a something, yeah I make sure nothing would no longer faze me. Can only look forward, can no longer be the coward, found good friends to keep me empowered. It could always be worse, sure I don't drive in a hearse, but I amerce and reverse my predicaments so that I can change others and make a better universe. Never shot a gun, never got into the gangs, and no I aint no priest or nun, I'm just a poet that shall silence all you little naughty lambs. Get out the Chianti and fava beans, rise against the machine, stone those hypocritical philistines.

Joseph Bazalgette knew
about things people did,
like pooh
and to that very end
he built the great sewer
which apart from moving the pooh also
alleviated London from the stink
of the rich as well as the poor.

On the engineers seat
in the House on Greek street
he drew up his plans to
do away with bed pans as he
laboured alone in the night.

Thomas Crapper came to fame and
hardly because of his laughable name,
but his name became his fortune
and in the music halls of London town
people were soon to put a penny down
to spend a penny in the lavvy,
a savvy lad was Tom.

And they made old Joe a knight
for
funneling waste out of Londoner's sight,
they even had street lights that ran on
the gas
that floated down tunnels through
which the
waste had to pass
on its way to the sea.

It was a jolly good show
and a spiffing great plan
carried out quite imaginatively,
I can imagine the man
and his men way back then were
flushed to be
a part of
London's
lavatory
story.