To **** or not to ****, that’s the ******* question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the bowels to suffer
The twists and turns of outrageous rumblings
Or to take action against a bellyful of gas,
And by farting pump one out? To strain, to bloat
No more; and by a mighty outburst we’ll end
The gut’s ache, and the thousand natural stenches
That the **** is heir to, 'tis a resolution
Right devoutly to be wish'd. To ****, to ****!
But perchance to ****, there's the ******* problem;
For in that mighty **** of doom what turds may come,
When we have let the little beauty out from mortal tail,
Must give us pause; there's the danger
That makes calamity of the farter’s life;
For who would bear the sneers and mocks of men,
The neighbour’s shock, the lover’s curling lip,
The pangs of horrid stench, the *******’ o’erflowing,
The leaking **** orifice, and the drips,
Impatient strainings that the tragic farter makes,
When he himself might sweet easance make
With a careful prodding finger? Who would a ****-plug wear,
Grunting and sweating with noisome convulsions,
But that the dread of solids after air-release,
The undiscover'd oozings, from whose delivery
No toilet visitor recovers, puzzles the will,
And makes us bear the bellyache we have
Than fly to others we know not of?
Thus indigestion does make cowards of us all;
And then the native heave of constipation
Is sicklied o'er with the pale fear of defecation;
And enterprises of both ******* and crapping
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of exciting toilet action.

Stained asphalt
flickering sodium lights
pavement art
ambulance chasing
motorway drone
crushed cans and ripped pizza boxes
kebab debris
scared cats
gum scarred concrete
burnt out ******* bins congealed plastic
dripping
overflowing bottle banks
used condoms hung on a line
fox ****
streetscene collapse
bottles arranged along a wall one two three
one lone shoe
in the road
sealed up letter boxes one with a message
written in black felt pen on brown parcel tape
‘If you are bothering to read this
you a *******’
kicked in door
steel shuttered shops
burnt out wheelie bin one lump of plastic
very impressive
smoking employees behind the Co-op
one knows Barb thumbs up
I return the thumb
walking
a woman shouting at a priest: ‘But all he wants to be is
a woman’
torn pages from a ***** mag ****** up arses
***** in mouths
piles of brochures newspapers flyers dumped in a doorway
a few quid scammed can’t get the delivery help
these days
someone parking a Audi nice and shiny
looks up and down the street
wary
kids slumped smoking skunk outside the library
a derelict sat on a wall grinning *** in mouth
tells me I have a happy face and offers his bottle to me
I take it and have a slug
trudging
dog crapping in middle of wide clean pavement
someone walking past muttering
‘never in Peru’
I stand opposite my flat and think of bombs
and a cacophony of alternative universes
and small candles shaped like eggs
a bald headed postman drives up to the letter box
techno blasting from his little red van
Molly Upstairs shouts something unintelligible
before throwing a small package down
the postie watches it descend from the sky
and catches it
without a smile
these are the days of unwholesome atmospheres
but it’s all I have so I don’t mind
it’s better than being kept in a box
with the lid
sealed tight.

A lady whose heart as big as her boils
as ugly as rust, yet kindly through toils

for troubled she was and poor as a pitcher
her purse full of holes, but loving stuck with her.

And having this love with nowhere to store it –
her house filled with cats, the neighbors abhorred it.

For all through the day was scratching and crying
If they hadn't known better, they'd think she was dying.

Her house overflowing and no food to eat;
she cared for her cats like they care for heat.

And one day the folk came at her door wrapping
but she couldn't answer, for she was still crapping.

The folk weren't new; they'd been here before;
she'd leave them long often to wait at the door.

But now with no answer, the cats left to mewing;
the lady left helpless while she was still pooing.

The folk grew impatient and broke down the door;
the smell was of rodent mixed with cheap *****.

And all through their nostrils, the folk kept on smelling:
mold, cabbage and *****, then faintly a yelling.

The noise sounded desperate – a cat may be sick!
so holding their noses they trudged through the thick.

The yelling grew louder till the back of the house,
Lady needed some t.p. – instead used her blouse.

[These are quotes taken from a New York Magazine article around 10 years ago. They are all from firefighters]

"doing funerals....getting the bunting, hanging the bunting...step by step...

When it became a myth, the whole event...

people were terrified, crapping their pants...a woman in the lobby...no legs...her face...like someone took it off with a saw.

Why did I survive?

...None of 'em were ever found. Not even a tool.

I didn't see victims. They were dust... When the wind blew, you couldn't grab them.

long spears of glass...Huge panels turned into shards...a piece of window, a small piece....It's right here in my hands now.

...can't look at a plane landing"

i,m electric. its, the pisshard light
crapping ugly vowels off the bulbs
on the stree tonthestreet spitting webs
of iridescent ridiculous tubercular scarlet
folds of loose legs
akimbo receptive culling frilly cotton
nets
about their thighs. their thighs crying
white dark femurs
blasting hot
on my i's. on my eyes. on my
   punch heavy brooding crumble
slashing the serious night air nightmare
night blaring
                        neon daughters
dna
         in little flecks
some cordial bums; laugh ******* nonsense
birds. they're a bottle away. a bottle away
a oblivion. sip sip. drink your soul away
     and rude the clean folks
passing on the asphalt rivers
   veining in the cold hot bright darkness

If you roll snake eyes
for the come-out
you might be out of luck

But then again the odds
were greater in your favor
so you might just be
turned around

And though it may seem
foolish to bet long after
crapping out
snake eyes can be sneaky
and just might strike again

Because snakes can move
their eyes in whatever
way they choose
they can shift them
forward backward
up and down or just
leave them sideways

And they never blink

They are always lurking
when no one is watching
and even more when
they are cursed

So you might just turn the
odds around again and
count on snake eyes
especially after

You've been bit

I really don't like the idea of growing old.
Don't patronize me with the alternative.
You know squat about that.
There's the smell of bleach and ****,
And the lingering odor of soiling
Up and down the corridor.
There's the swish of mops,
And night comes early.
You say you'll visit, but when? You're busy with life.
I won't be seen at gatherings,
Perhaps a visitation for old friends.
The world should spin counter-clockwise
Before expelling me in its daily gyration.
I want a giant to hold me again,
And tell me I'm a good boy for eating,
For crapping in the toilet.
Soon enough, but you don't dare say so aloud.

****** of Beccas *****.
My ***** mix the moistures together to make. The mixture of cocktion
Of a mist
Of dank un integrity
Crapping on the fall of shat marriage

As we bask in the dance of *****
Falling down the legs of the most beautiful of beatnik
Without knowing
It

How I've forgotten my divisions

Of the words.
I used to care of those things

Now though I am listening to howl and not in the writing criteria for my writing

I
Usually have the things I need
Now I will have a small baby head
Who knows not **** from suckle
From honey from agave
From desert

How I miss ***** in how drunk I froth in the night dry and the calm she can never know in my head how I wish to be her and for her to be me
How I wish to be one as the howl of two larynx in a bird body
Come thy voice.

Calm child soothe

With two meanings and a poem about each

I

"Here Lies, the
Last Dog
To Crap in This Yard"

Random corner lot with patchy grass
Dual tired pickup owner, cantankerous,
got tired
got wired
got to thinking,
about why his
yard was stinking,
looked out the back
nothing there to attack
looked out the front window,
rising
sun pooched a crescendo,
as it rose,
he stood, cigarette and coffee,
the order of the day,
other hand on the hood,
of his red neck tribute, a Ford truck
but that odor,
that smell,
he felt unwell
spinning, more like reeling,
he had a nauseous feeling,
that some dog was crapping in his yard,
excrement was on the breeze,
silhouetted by the bright yellow ball,
was the last dog to crap in his yard,
he grabbed his shotgun with ease,
pulled the trigger, buried the dog,

No one saw, everyone heard, when the
police showed up not a word was said,
not a witness could be found, as each knew,
in that 'hood, that dog got around,
to every yard in turn, the sign is all
that remains, a warning and a refrain,
this neighbourhood,
may have ****** lawns
do not get caught doing your business at dawn.  


II

"Here Lies, the
Last Dog
To Crap in This Yard"

They both sit a the table to eat a meal,
from where they will look at the dog bed,
by the dog bowls, and then look away,
just as fast,
it is the past
and recent loss,
of their beloved dog Boss,
beautiful boy, who died to soon,
left them alone, together,
such a calm and gentle giant,
one that they had become reliant,
to share
their journeys,
their truck trips,
their walks in the waning sun,
life,
until that terrible day,
when she called to say,
Boss had been hit, saving a toddler
crossing the road, the boy was okay,
but not the dog, "Come Home Quick,
please,"
he did and they rushed the dog to the vet,
it was awful, everyone was a wreck,
and then the vet called them in to the back,
to give the news that Boss was going fast,
he could do nothing to make his life, ...
soon he would take a breath and breathe his last,

they nodded and said "Put him down",
they went and looked him in the eye,
through sobs they said "goodbye"

Days later, they went back, to get the
urn of his ashes, he liked their lawn,
he loved the grasses,
so they decided, then that they would
never leave or sell, but buried him there,
in that spot where the sun first landed,
every summer morn,
summer was the season of Boss,
now they were at a total loss,
as each morning began with mourning.

But Boss will always be nearby.
And the sign above that spot read,
"Here Lies, the  Last Dog  To Crap in This Yard"
For they would never own another.

because when I was fourteen,
I'd put on my angsty coat
With its burlap pockets
And its itchy collar
And its ill-fit
And I'd go out with my middle fingers
Toasting the world
Blaming every stranger on the street
For every night I couldn't sleep.

And sick was a cold
Sick was a fever.
Sick was the shakes from not eating.
Because I'm a girl.
And my value does not stem
Past my appearance.

When I was sixteen
I rimmed my eyes in charcoal black
And donned a matching outfit
That would bring out
The feigned vacancy in my prying eyes
As the ambivalence of wanting to eat the world
And wanting to hide from it
Weighed on my narrow shoulders.
And a boy thought I was a Satanist.
And he avoided me.
And I loved it.

Now I'm older --
But still just a kid.
And I wear real clothes
That make me look like I'm twelve.
But at least I'm happy.
And sick has a different meaning.

It's reaches past the physiological nausea that accompanies
And into the aches and pains of waking up every day
And through the cold, cold labyrinth in which I've been lost
For seven years
And the sickness is laughing my *** off
In a room full of beautiful people
That I love
That I would do (almost) anything for
And trying to decide whether or not tonight is the night
With absolute glee I ponder
Is tonight the night
When I can cut the crap
And finally get a good ******* night's sleep
And not feel the obligation
And not deal with the fact my ******* body
Is crapping the **** out on me
At nineteen.
And that whatever the **** this is
Is only enough to make me miserable
And not enough to **** me
Because most days, the curiosity keeps me going
And going
And ******* going
And then I'm in pain.
And I laugh,
Because I take myself way too seriously.
And life is a **** beautiful gift after all
right?
And I've got the whole world at my feet.
Who cares about a little pain?

I need to be awake in seven hours
And tonight I don't feel destructive.
I want to apologize to my mother for being so cold
Even when I try not to be.
And I want to buy her a nice house and all the clothes she wants
So she can feel comfortable going to work.
So she sees that she's beautiful.
Even if it's superficial.
And I can't fix anything
And I can't turn my brain off
And this isn't even art anymore.
This is..
It's...

Because who the **** doesn't love being sick.

The Madness of history gone,is sanity to our modern.Revolution does not come without -BloodBoundariesBreaking....A cage upon cage bearingthe changing calls barredin steel iron russian dolls.The madmen crying,chained,clinging, crapping,cutting..Aiai -We want.Aiai Aiai - We needAiai Aiai- We will......Yet the golden soiled sane, look on withnothing.Until the cage br-br-cracks.Convention stops,Changes.White to black,Rich to poor,Man to Citizen,Triangle pyramids of fruit and blossomescaping.Yet can I hear another mad man calling?Aiai-Aiai-Aiai!For madness will be tomorrow's sanity.........

The dork just stood there, Man!
Peeling back his mask
Then folding it back down again.

What a chancer!
Breaking in klangers;
Tip toeing through hoops;
Belching on tap;
Crapping on sand paper;
Bleaching hot tap,
With water-eye presentation
Flown from afar
In the cargo hold for Mr. Black,
Mount Nero;
Cnoc Dubh.

What's the fuzz?
what's the craic?

Let him have it
In 2's and 3's
End of:
'Life's a breeze'

Corporate jingomuggery
Daylight shrubbery
Catchall quantum thuggery
"Put him back in the hold"
Goodbye Mr.Black,
Mount Nero;
Cnoc Dubh.

What's the craic?
What the fuzz?

You watch me from the bed
Where we have shared love's passion,
Your hair glistens in the morning light
O how I love you, my dearest.

My gorgeous form weaves its way
Gracefully across the room;
Then I throw the curtains back
On this bright April morning.

Let the Spring sunlight enter
And more fully illuminate
The next daring stage in our
Enticing ******* adventures.

Dazzled for a brief moment
By the brilliant solar rays,
You hear a rustling noise:
Precursor of new ****** delight.

I am wiping my well-toned bottom
After crapping on your carpet;
An enormous steaming mound awaits
To stimulate your ****** taste buds.

A life of doublespeak,
I think you're weak,
Never mind, (you're a dipstick),
Means 'I don't give a blip',
Blip happens,
Means, 'You're crapping',
Do stop moaning,
And all your groaning,
Dull contemplation,
Of ex manipulation.
Yes, doublespeak,
Means I think you're weak,
'Have a good day,' so long,
Who cares why the ex carries on?

TALLAHASSEE CONTAINS ALLAH to whom I'm truly true blue
as He is the Just, the King, the Watchful, the Father of me & of you
Like 9 dogs eatin' tuna fish I cried for your thigh to comfort me like
the jack breadfruit that comforted Bounty Lieutenant William Bligh
whilst he abstained from Tahitian maidens who were cunningly shy
My big, beautiful mouth that frets & sasses makes me intellectually
superior to everyone except the most idiotic of ******* dumb *****
whose apple cider vinegar becomes unsulfured blackstrap molasses
Remember again old cross firemen, Jesus burned for your arson sin
2,000 years before I wrapped your fat *** around your chinless chin
through hellish dew of frosty equanimity with Gail Fisher as Peggy,
Mannix shaved his dangling loose hairy stems above gay legs leggy
so that he might wiggle folklorical jigs like Haitians do with reggae
Gay-***-whackin' Hillary Clinton humps *** to a disco-***-humpin'
beat from her *** crooked-pants-suited *** to her lezzy-***-toed feet
stuck in turds as Bill sodomizes a mule, **** Hillary can be bought
stuck in pig **** as Billy rapes another, shaky Hillary can be bought
with Kleenex 'cause her honker has 5 pounds of unsought nose snot
that added nothin' to the virulent ****** that I ain't not never caught
On clean teen carpet she munched, slurped & lapped sink drain-like
forcing me to slap her shitless so that she could be a real, sane ****
whose despicable antics I am not morally outraged by, nor annoyed
as this repugnant behavior is directed medically by faux cushingoid
which accounts for her likeness to the puffy-faced star Alison Lloyd
who had something criminally criminal to do when she wasn't doin'
something grimy to fill her cravenously-craven-criminalistical void
that toys with emotions that are not immune to being toyed with on
the weekends that were made for Michelob on my blue hemorrhoid
that toys with emotions that aren't afraid of being toyed with on gay
weekends that were made for Michelob dumped on my hemorrhoid
only 'cause it is something to do when you are not doing something
that could have ended early the cowboyin'-guy-life of William Boyd
whose hoppin,' in the hoppin'-along biz, derived from a secosteroid
Vegetable-hating vegans love pagans & meat-eaters secrete beavers
& Yukio & Yoko Mishima beat to death with a bat old Tom Seavers
after he frittered away his ball-batting career as a raunchy, gay dude
to the tune of 4 original Beatles crooning the god-awful "Hey Jude"
while fat priests ****** nuns & nudists in nudist colonies pray ****
for chapel cameras of the ******* Channel's dude ranch, Play Dude
where the rudest nudists & naturalists, nudely & naturally stay rude
without caring to distinguish betwixt fake night & serious day food
that could throw a self-effacing exhibitionist into a filthy, gay mood
with prelude payload which equates to slaves getting their pay sued
by orthognathical charlatans who worship devil-lovin' Ben Franklin
in his guise as Frenchy Chucky de Gaulle who could send tank men
for forensical strikes targetin' ****** on rivers whereat men bank sin
with a plugged-up ******* called Peter Hamilton, feet or Nam again
in quokka flesh minus 22% over a pig sty or a bacon-oiled ham pen
Even though He maintained amazing Bible-understanding abilities,
Pittsburgh's wall-to-wall ******* gave Jesus the Hill District jiggers
Despite His God given Holy Christian Bible-understandin' abilities,
Pittsburgh's loo-to-loo ******* gave Jesus shaky, Hill District jitters
that ache way too late & shake for a sexily-religious girl who titters
over dead Zhanna Friske's Russian lickspittles & ******* pig-sitters
gettin' one passed normal lesbians with tattoos of sickly zoo critters
that clearly show pederasts of The New York Times ******* shitless
after chalking Marxistical New York Times sources ******* shitless
in Bethlehem stables stabling new stud muffin horses shoed witless
where hippy people with greasy long hair were quite apt to be livin'
clawing about what's issue based vs. character drivel, I mean driven
Ol' Walker McDonald was my very special friend until he ***** me
under a nice fig tree beyond the bitchiest beach of the Sargasso Sea
where he wouldn't quit ****** me despite my sexiest desperate plea
I hollered a lot in a ******-nutty masculine voice but he did not care
about rotten figs that matted my Ellen-degenerated, lezzy-short hair
I told everyone in North Vietnam & Laos that he couldn't he trusted
'cause the 21,798 times he ***** me made me thoroughly disgusted
like there were gigantical nests of bugs up my *** heavily encrusted
in cracks where ****-crop-dusting planes can't dive swoop in dusted
before flying into my inner-sanctum room like old Corrie ten Boom
whose bee-busy life, after her crapping-out death, has yet to resume
in order to beat senseless neo-brutalistical V.A. nursing home abuse
that kills the blood-coagulatin' screams of a cursing gnome papoose
draped across the *** of a ***-rail engineer takin' it up the caboose
to make his gay meaning known to stragglers too lucid to be obtuse
Don't ****** me I'm your amigo, oh yeah I forgot in your final spin
that a plucky slice'd paralyze you forever good on any hot spinal fin
****** ****** at ****** mall: Who's the baddest ****** of them all?
Is it Ringo, or dead George/John, or false/fake ******, Beatle Faul?
I cannot wear no slutty dress because I got a sass-*** dose of P.M.S.
I can't ***** in my slutty dress while I got a bad-*** dose of P.M.S.
My boyfriend's a ***** queer who has been ripped up his ***'s rear
In city pig files they record my criminal-*****-bone record in miles
Here amongst the thoroughly hypnotized, I spank your lard **** red
while you flee with free fleas that fly with flies that are too-well fed
while you flee with 3 free fleas that fly with flies that are overly fed
The traveling mermaid porked & beaned me in the moldy sea green
as P.B.S.'s Fred Rogers fits into a death list of ***, dead codgers we
ruefully mourn the murders of Jack the Ripper's ******-red lodgers
who overtly related homosexually to lesbian heterosex bed-dodgers
on mountain picnics in Pennsylvania where they are fed odd chores
There ain't nothing grim in threading tawny-titted Hawaiian women
before drug-induced comas or with food cramps got from swimmin' Demon Hillary, I Would ****** Everybody Just to Make You Smile
Is this wrong? No, murdering everybody is Scratch's most beautiful
way to say: "I loathe you Bill" in his hottest court of Luciferian trial
A raunchy **** bussed my *** with cerebral palsy quicker than Ajax
scrubbed the crapped-out Admiral William Halsey. I'd mount 1 trull
plain or crunchy too but not when she humps like a Harlem *******
We told everybody deaf 'bout "us" but everybody but "us" was deaf
to our mutant deafness save Harland Sanders & Burger Chef & Jeff
Swallow this sea-warped poker chip to see what can happen while I
moodily tap out Florida flame red maple trees to drain all the sap in
Anita O'Day never curled the nether tufts of Melvin Howard Tormé
because she was a limpless gimp who saw sike-a-***** as girly gay
in the throes of scissor lovin' between Blobert Rake & Huddy Bolly
whose fine, rug-burned legs queered their sapphical, sexoholic folly
that in 1966 farted greasy Earth's real cheeses to slickly **** breezes
as 99 rescue inhalers asphyxiated fatalistically-asthmatical wheezes
I love the ocean. Do you feel the aloof sea spray on your face? That
ain't sea spray. That's a gay *** peeing down on you from the roof.
I like my ******* on caffeine-free diets as they're better controlled I
think, than apes on caffeine-big diets who **** ******* cherry pink
for sea-lovers in iron linkage to twist apart a chewed-on master link
soaked in a tub 93% bigger than a beef washer's blood-washed sink
Let us forgive my unkind words but the dog turds I tracked in aren't
my dog's turds 'cause your ***'s really pretty like that of an angel's
dead cousin, so you must not cream on creamy donuts by the dozen
I will not talk of you in the old past as long as you are able to ****
really fast. The way to hell is lousy with sinners as each part of you
could provide several dinners. Our cherries are nicer than the sweet
cherries in pies. I wish that our 4 eye sockets had 4 cherry-red eyes.
You're so tiny that you stand 'neath my knee at a distance so nice to
bruise my better kidney. Shut up a lot, I told you before. I ain't got a
mistress who did not chronically snore. I could slather your body in
peanut butter from scalp to *** belly like would that jack-*** Kojak
Savalas brother called Telly. How many times have I warned you to
shut up? 3,345 trillion 9 hundred thousand 128? Enough is enough!
I scratched your back while you were reverently praying, just like a
Catholical priest, which is the chief role I'm now piously portraying
Part of me wants to **** you the other doesn't when I was me & you
were so wasn't, when your ****** were floral with dandelions, ever
more gay than those that were Paul Ryan's. After January we'll ****
bleached whales on the beach while I castigate old adulteresses in a
sermon I preach beneath the flickering grand dragon wizard's torch.
God has blessed us with elbows & knees & sharp teeth, only to bite
whoever's sporting deliciously-moist quims that we strive to please
Kicking the **** out of constipation is my preferred realization with prunes, olive oil & herbs from rich soil, for once I'm well you'll see
healthful regularity overtaking me. I'll make your cheery cherry pop
by threading your pretty Barbie bobbin so fast that I can hardly stop
from attaching psychedelical fixations to conundrums psycholytical
No one asleep had ever downed a pickle 'cause the racer who hit 45
wet spots was the women-pleasing racer large Richard **** Trickle
No one awake had ever drowned a pickle because the racer who hit
damp spots was the ****-racing racer, big-stick Richard **** Trickle
No one awake had ever got ******-cell sickle with the racer who hit
87 damp spots, the ***-****-racing racer, ***** Richard **** Trickle
who found that **** babes with keen intellects were tricky to tickle
as ****'ll be doin' Marianne Faithfull with big-ribbed-****** ******
in his British Marxian way with obligatory sledge hammer & sickle
to spread her ******* for shire horse hung Beatle Jimmy Nicol
as Albert Hofmann's 102-year-old L.S.D. schlort is a thrill pickle in
a Swiss lab bobbing dead in *****, unable to pork, **** & ***** all
while Bert Hofmann's 102-year-ol' L.S.D. ******* is a dill pickle in
a Swiss lab bobbin' in *****, unable to poke, sock, cram & stick all
because of contact with a toxical/allergical rose bushy thorn prickle
Some of me's puerile, the other section's a rash, over my nasty belly
is mama, below is a wacky, pinkish ******, while I pile onward real
love from 11 p.m. till the pole star's there, 8 degrees from starboard
several acres from where the **** wipes for my liquor bar are stored
You're brave & you're wise, with my camera I'll capture your thighs
I long for blonde hair of which you've plenty. I want to kiss all of it
before you turn 20. Our Russian passion will pass a fever pitch like
convicts on a chain gang diggin' a ditch. You whistle alluringly like
Lauren Bacall. I wonder, can you do it pulling from Bogart's straw?
Let's eat cookies while we sleep in my million-dollar Blue Bird bus
because I have expensive chocolate chip cookies just for the 2 of us
Tell me the truth, I am dyin' to know. Will you be able to stop when
we go go go? It's very important that you're careful so you don't get
knocked up by a drunken sailor or a window washer or a blind man
with a tin cup. Your pocked *** is really low slung like a green pine
ladder's 1st broken rung. I bang you in the murky morning too early
for lunch 'cause you ain't ½ as **** as Alice from The Brady Bunch
whose meat-hacking with butcher Sam included a knock-out punch
Turn up the gas, I want no damp cell, no moist damsel in **** hell
whose ill virginity is wiped clean by my hellishly-wild *** machine
I love you tall, I love you short in a barrel, beneath a port. You are a
broad. I know it's true. Live up to the crooked contract or I will sue.
Richard F. Burton, extinguish *** Taylor's fiery *** that lit abruptly
in the Golfo de México from B.P.'s unmothered-crack-head-****-gas
I took harmful advice to seize a 1-upped leg man ****-deep in knees

My dreams are drugs;
my hopes are dope
–the joie de vivre
of old so-so–
from waning eyes
to waxing grace
my spirit seeks
another place
And rhythmically
on pain of death
from newborn cry
to my last breath
with rancid teeth
and rheumy eye
around the globe
cutting soft sky
filling the stars
with water high
to flood and pour
to light and soar
to anger each
contented *****
But not so boiled
nor never baked
swathed transcendence
of all mistakes
melancholy left un-churned
around young danseur
crapping wealth unearned
fueling no immortal work,
marching still
against the dark;
Freshest grass-scent
Lingers long
past broken tractor
at break of dawn
as crumpled shrapnel
and sticks of oak
remain wedged throughout
the auger's blades,
refusing to reap
or shadow wheat;
Therefore, this vision
pulls and holds
on wisest minds,
with fools endures;
musty marble crumbles too
all garish gold
rusts through and through...
spinning slower
then Bosons are gone...
sunny sleep stops
mowing lawn
(All things must break
when left untouched
but touching wears toucher
oh so so much!)
Arrows fly,
inertly tickle
all that's evil
whatever's wicked;
But nothing so so much
as hope
fades quietly
oh so so much.
Slumping shoulders
warring forward
searching ever
for temperate porridge,
concluding all
to dust from dust
Inciting all
from lust to lust
But rarely ever
dreaming truths
science mangling
interstellar flight
because nothing good
rhymes with truths
devoid of pretense
and heckling youths
After crops have rotted
that fed our needs
One contemplates
tending the weeds.
I've lost you now
(I surely hope)
Because at last,
here is the dope:
Riddling madness
is a cancer.
Reading answers
is disaster.
We're much too late
to break the tractor.
Grapes left on vine
do not make wine,
so smiling scythe
will give me mine.
And in the end
it's not defeat:
For Beauty Grew,
And Many Ate.

The tables have been turned and all my kitchen wear on the floor.. I was holding my shoe in my hand I could not believe that someone had **** near broke everything in my house.  The tv was gone and they ripped my seats to shreads. I don't know what they were looking for but i'll tell you something for sure it wasn't the cushions. Even in that moment the loss i was experiencing without couldn't match the one within.

I miss her, i do.... My dearest Yuri. The one who woke me up at night in dramatic cries and seemed sort of angry that she wasn't swimmjng in my womb anymore. The one who seemes to enjoy crapping herself and make me clean the mess up.  The one who looked at me and in those seconds of locking eyes we knew we were meant for each other. Ooooh Baby...

What worse could those thieves do to me.  Haven't i seen it all.. Death was the biggest and most hurtful of all the *******!!!  Taking the life out of me.... Without a care of how he would leave me. Death is like a man who takes and takes and never gives. Always wanting you to be the victim... Hell even hell wants you to survive the fire today so you could burn some more tomorrow.

Now the women look at me like a failure.. A woman who couldn't keep a crying baby alive.... And what could I have done?  If i could breathe her my own life I could. Without a second to spare. I would trade it.  She was dying and I could not do a thing to help. How useless can mortality be? What is the purpose of life if you cannot live with those you truly care for. She chocked. She was suckking to much.. I was sleeping. I was tired and I lost myself for a second... But a second is what it took for the passerby to grab her.

Uugh blood.... Cut from the glasses on the floor. Honestly did they have to make such a mess... How hard is it to not break stuff. Do clean job.. My God... Proffesional thieves need to come back in town. I mean there was no one in the house... They even broke my special flask... Hell, my only heart was broken and am still walking like a 'normal' person.

Yuri... My sweet Yuri.. Sometimes I see you everyhwere.  My mother comes every other day to check up on me... She says she has to.  I don't have to go through this on my own.. But why does it feel like i am.  I feel like the air has changed it chokes now . I feel like the spaces are cornering me. Like am walking round in circles. The Exodus!  

Cleaning up my house helps. I don't need the police at this point... What more can they do anyway?  All my glasses are broken not to mention my seats and my tables. They even threw my cooking *** on the floor! Honestly were they trying to hurt me. Tough luck someone beat them to it. I don't need the police bringing in pieces of me that I want to leave behind.

Yes cleaning helps.... Maybe one day I will clean up my closet or what is left of it anyway. But right now am ready to leave the memories and the nightmares.  Maybe i can make peace.

Should I throw a rock at your head,
Or should some ornate stone in passion
Be flung that it may open your mind?
There is a poem,
Natural in its state of emotional honesty,
And a bird can be on a branch crapping
On your windshield,
Or upon morning's first light
A golden bird gleams among
The verdant branches like
Emeralds in a feast of crystalline
Fields set aglow by calling stars.
      Still the truth of the poem
And its severed beauty is that it
Does not lie among the constant
Heart, that frail and vicious
Emotionally challenged furnace,
And the words are compared
Like a rare comet vs. a constant star.
       Holes in the words
Sap a poets blood, so he films them
With passions of flame and struggle,
And from fire to fire he spills
Himself within the pen.
     From here to eternity's moment,
They will never slay his thirsting,
From verses that hold him,
To words that overtake even the spirit
Where his poems are forged like some
Ancient blacksmith
Beating together steel wings
To fly the world over for one mans
Fiery thought come to life ,
And he is a star and a begging dog,
A broken hearted moon,
A fragment of dead things
And alive in his words,
Before he dies he wants his
Soul to shed its poetry.

Hi you say
I wish I were
The stuff of dreams or so it seems is a world of wonder if it's time to seek
What a glorious day for happy toes at play on Pismo Beach
It's a bright morning
Of another shining day
A blessing it is that Life holds sway
With a brilliant glow and van-tastic sight
All made possible by those billowing winds, huffing and puffing last night
A nice position that ensures no concern with people who flop
Is experiencing the casual ebb and flow of ultra green tree tops
Hank and Frankie had their usual convention and loud beak fights
And then dived off the balcony railing versus soaring in flight
In addition to tossing my mollusk shells for no valid reason
So I threatened them both with a flame thrower later this season
The ***** are polished with a Biore Charcoal Scrub sheen
Which helps me enjoy the neater environment that someone else just cleaned
Yet,
One never knows how that day or this will be framed
Yesterday, making miso soup, my right front stove burner burst into flames
In the ensuing panic with many motions that were manic
It was way too scary with fire alarm screaming something about a wire
Luckily, I remembered my fire safety training re how to put out a grease fire
I was cooking miso soup
How did that cause a combustible grease loop ?
All made stranger by the proverbial question of why
It's been weeks since I used the stove to fry
It just goes to show
Between the bed and the door
Near the thin edge of a sheet of paper things can turn to crapping
On any given day - at any given time - anything can happen

This will end with its beginning. When nothing never was, nor ever will be again. When metamorphosis' of worms to float like blooms of fairy flutter, or pillars of sequoias scraping sky can burn away to char, then from cold thin air or winter lungs of clouds can cry fractal flowers. Nothing comes from nothing, therefore there is always something more, even when our human sight is veiled, preconditioned by what we fear before we learned.

When will we look with not just seeing, peering with more of what is feeling, evolving to feel the pain of leaf and leaving? Cry with our world as it is grieving, heaving with the smog while all else is eaten; when will we realize that this is alive, the blue of all eyes are the same as the ceiling, browns of the soil enriched for seedling, and the blood of the world is not liquid nor spilling. It is the circumference of a heart, a floating castle, and the joy and the lively creates the splendor. The karmic rivers in our considerateness, lifting up to heaven as our worthy witness. See this here, of what we've made?  Rather than say, oh well that's life, **** happens and so it is, say, say, say...

A gift for a gift is given because we cherish whom we are with, when did we forget to celebrate the life that has been given : the basic breath we gulp, and quenching of every thirst, whether deep as poetry, or dry as elephants in desert lakes--we have water falls with queens in their names (yet people are starving and dying, mind you not that far away).
We are able and have enough, stockpiled for winters whether nuclear or Eskimo, yet nothing seems to still be nothing, but then there's peppermint ice cream pies. Starvation in Africa, but dead children do not cry, nor do they--too weak without the food or energy... but then again there's Little Debbie's fudge cookies and marshmallow pies...

And we all praise Ala and Thank the Lord our souls, our being spared of our sufferings, (pipe bombs to and fro) all the while admonishing and bigotry, hatreds and slavery / are given a different face, a dress of expensive tastes. Our only skills are selling wares that is our one time youthful flesh. Because just because we are desperate to have - something more, not having any less than a meal, a roof on four walls, the door.

In god's name we pray... we always see and say and sing and wait... yet nothing is still nothing, impossible I might add, since we are not without we should just all shut our mouths and do something more...

Because if this ends, we are the only ones - all of us - to blame. Not gods, alcohol, or the rain.

What there is to be seen now are dead oceans and forests in flames. Fire and more fire, some in forms of steel, and blades of atrocious acts, and influence of them our holies - accosting us with lies - crapping on our whiles, feeling unworthy because of this chapter / verse, because they're better than that and we are worse. All beneath our noses, defiling our future hopes, in the eyes of our own beloved - turned into wingless birds.

How my love to look upon the whole of the face of the world--becomes desperate pleading for mine vision to be done. When the sights are blindingly painful, numbingly remiss of the hopeful wonder when I was young and a telescope looking up saying this :

"One day I will visit that planet, go flying through the stars... When I'm old enough to be there, where the future are..."

Nothing seems to still be nothing, and never was or could. What is a nothing, when he thought that it was something, to live and just be good?

I'm still here waiting for the beginning, if this is how it ends... a ghost of a poet, with this heart ache and pen...

(Oh Goddess my Goddess...!  When...?)

Look...
Its been some long days followed by some short nights,
These days are just some short rounds in a long fight,
There's been mad short comings - come complete with long suffering,
Some **** rips and a spliff got my brain buffering,
I refuse to stand in place - Imma forever have past due posture fees,
I guess all my earnings come at the end - like an apostrophe.
See I'm trying to turn all my "soon"s  into "finally's,
Despite Mfs speaking spitefully privately,
I'm trying to be an icon -
Loved and hated like Guy Fieri,
I'm a Ferrari, but I been gassing me with the wrong oil,
I wanted to blow, but the fire was too loo for my water to boil,
I wanted to grow, but I was kicking it in the wrong soil,
I was too busy confusing movement with motion,
I was stepping out of line, parading feelings as emotions,
I was cashing in, mistaking value with pricing,
I was crapping out, was venting with my vices,
I been salivating for my salvation,
I been gravitating towards gratitude, and delayed gratification,
I been avoiding altercations, and elevating towards elation,

Cause listen..

I been off my mission,
I been consistently inconsistent,
I been reminiscing,
Been making **** the opposite of simplistic,
I been in-opportunistic,
I been devastated and dilapidated,
I been a lil faded and I been feeling ill-fated,
I been a victim of ill-will and I'm feelin irritated,
I been reaching to be featured,
I been over dozing.
I been living for the moment.
Been under pressure and my fears be over-reaching,
**** be unprecedented, I be leaning towards impeachment.
It might not change **** but it sure does help to talk about it,
All them nights I sat up in my bed and thought bout it,
Ring around the Rhonda Rousey to all them bouts i fought bout it,
I'm Jerry Rice but lousy, to all the flack i caught bout it,
Frequent failure miles for all the flack I caught bout it,
They telling me I'm Black then why i feel Golden?
They telling me its cap - is that why i feel goated?
Hardly ever pressed - is that why i never folded?
Wake me from this nap- its time i smelled the Folgers.
I wanna be filled the same way that i be pourin'..
Rich spirit with the survival skills of a poor man,
I been getting grilled and knocked the **** out like George Foreman,
And It gotta be skills the way that i be poor man,
I'm in the business of building,
****** keep ******* up my floor plans,
Can't let **** pass me by or am i destined to be a doorman?
I'm at the right address but its safe to say I'm on the far  side,
I need to see the real , not just mirages and facades..

The train has passed
We're glad she's gone
She never did much good

Monarchs, satyrs-butterflies
could ****
But, she could not

Crapping through
a tubed-up bag
Ain't no way to live

Too much weight to bury
Now they burn them
all the dead

Our bees aren't social distancing,
As they buzz about the hive;
The ants aren't wearing masks
In their pismires, yet they thrive.

Racoons wash without soap,
Llamas spit  without remorse,
Monkeys' feces fill the air,
Dogs are crapping everywhere,
The watering holes of the Kalahari
Have larger crowds
Than political rallies.

Every insect, bird and beast,
With scale or feather, beak or teeth,
With legs or wings, bellies or fins,
Still swim or fly, walk or crawl;
We succumbed before them all.
It's back to Eden,
Back to the fall.

Elsan! I know… it sounds like a sun-kissed Spanish Beach doesn’t it?. El San!
What it is, is a make of chemical toilet. In the old days, we called it The Can!
In the yard behind a Yorkshire farmhouse… your fate & your poo - was sealed!
Grandma Ellen’s WC was the best advert for crapping alfresco out in the nearest field.

But, in a corrugated shed… a plank seat on a galvanised bin with a cranking handle.
Always best visited in daytime ‘cos after dark you’d need to take a candle.
And, when you’d achieved your goal in there… and it was past your time,
you cranked it and your extrusion disappeared in the primordial slime.

It was not a reader’s loo… No time for catching up wit’ Daily Mail.
although the paper was held neatly to the shed’s timber frame with a trusty, rusty 6inch nail.
It was cut into handy squares.  And almost without fail, you’d start to read still sitting there
and, when you got into the words, readable in the gloom, they were cut off just above the tear!

No, you’d just want to get out quick… The Jeyes Fluid scent would tend to make you gag,
It didn’t even allow my cousin Alan time for a crafty ***.  And monthly, according to occupancy,
Uncle Charlie did the job he’d said he’d never fancy, that of struggling toward the field
to empty the contents. Ironic really that after Uncle Charlie and Auntie Nellie died
the next owners plumbed their new one - up to the new fangled mains inside!

Seagulls outdone
by 'little ones'
clapping and slapping
screeching and crapping

Acting much bigger
than they are
crying and vying
to rule the roost

Cacophony clowns
competing with sound
running around
all over town

Attention grabbers
perched on pinnacles
looking down
on the others around