I. Song of the Beggars
"O for doors to be open and an invite with gilded edges
To dine with Lord Lobcock and Count Asthma on the platinum benches
With somersaults and fireworks, the roast and the smacking kisses"

Cried the cripples to the silent statue,
The six beggared cripples.
"And Garbo's and Cleopatra's wits to go astraying,
In a feather ocean with me to go fishing and playing,
Still jolly when the **** has burst himself with crowing"

Cried the cripples to the silent statue,
The six beggared cripples.
"And to stand on green turf among the craning yellow faces
Dependent on the chestnut, the sable, the Arabian horses,
And me with a magic crystal to foresee their places"

Cried the cripples to the silent statue,
The six beggared cripples.
"And this square to be a deck and these pigeons canvas to rig,
And to follow the delicious breeze like a tantony pig
To the shaded feverless islands where the melons are big"

Cried the cripples to the silent statue,
The six beggared cripples.
"And these shops to be turned to tulips in a garden bed,
And me with my crutch to thrash each merchant dead
As he pokes from a flower his bald and wicked head"

Cried the cripples to the silent statue,
The six beggared cripples.
"And a hole in the bottom of heaven, and Peter and Paul
And each smug surprised saint like parachutes to fall,
And every one-legged beggar to have no legs at all"

Cried the cripples to the silent statue,
The six beggared cripples.

Spring 1935

II.
O lurcher-loving collier, black as night,
Follow your love across the smokeless hill;
Your lamp is out, the cages are all still;
Course for heart and do not miss,
For Sunday soon is past and, Kate, fly not so fast,
For Monday comes when none may kiss:
Be marble to his soot, and to his black be white.

June 1935

III.
Let a florid music praise,
The flute and the trumpet,
Beauty's conquest of your face:
In that land of flesh and bone,
Where from citadels on high
Her imperial standards fly,
Let the hot sun
Shine on, shine on.

O but the unloved have had power,
The weeping and striking,
Always: time will bring their hour;
Their secretive children walk
Through your vigilance of breath
To unpardonable Death,
And my vows break
Before his look.

February 1936

IV.
Dear, though the night is gone,
Its dream still haunts today,
That brought us to a room
Cavernous, lofty as
A railway terminus,
And crowded in that gloom
Were beds, and we in one
In a far corner lay.

Our whisper woke no clocks,
We kissed and I was glad
At everything you did,
Indifferent to those
Who sat with hostile eyes
In pairs on every bed,
Arms round each other's necks
Inert and vaguely sad.

What hidden worm of guilt
Or what malignant doubt
Am I the victim of,
That you then, unabashed,
Did what I never wished,
Confessed another love;
And I, submissive, felt
Unwanted and went out.

March 1936

V.
Fish in the unruffled lakes
Their swarming colors wear,
Swans in the winter air
A white perfection have,
And the great lion walks
Through his innocent grove;
Lion, fish and swan
Act, and are gone
Upon Time's toppling wave.

We, till shadowed days are done,
We must weep and sing
Duty's conscious wrong,
The Devil in the clock,
The goodness carefully worn
For atonement or for luck;
We must lose our loves,
On each beast and bird that moves
Turn an envious look.

Sighs for folly done and said
Twist our narrow days,
But I must bless, I must praise
That you, my swan, who have
All the gifts that to the swan
Impulsive Nature gave,
The majesty and pride,
Last night should add
Your voluntary love.

March 1936

VI. Autumn Song
Now the leaves are falling fast,
Nurse's flowers will not last,
Nurses to their graves are gone,
But the prams go rolling on.

Whispering neighbors left and right
Daunt us from our true delight,
Able hands are forced to freeze
Derelict on lonely knees.

Close behind us on our track,
Dead in hundreds cry Alack,
Arms raised stiffly to reprove
In false attitudes of love.

Scrawny through a plundered wood,
Trolls run scolding for their food,
Owl and nightingale are dumb,
And the angel will not come.

Clear, unscalable, ahead
Rise the Mountains of Instead,
From whose cold, cascading streams
None may drink except in dreams.

March 1936

VII.
Underneath an abject willow,
Lover, sulk no more:
Act from thought should quickly follow.
What is thinking for?
Your unique and moping station
Proves you cold;
Stand up and fold
Your map of desolation.

Bells that toll across the meadows
From the sombre spire
Toll for these unloving shadows
Love does not require.
All that lives may love; why longer
Bow to loss
With arms across?
Strike and you shall conquer.

Geese in flocks above you flying.
Their direction know,
Icy brooks beneath you flowing,
To their ocean go.
Dark and dull is your distraction:
Walk then, come,
No longer numb
Into your satisfaction.

March 1936

VIII.
At last the secret is out, as it always must come in the end,
The delicious story is ripe to tell the intimate friend;
Over the tea-cups and in the square the tongue has its desire;
Still waters run deep, my friend, there's never smoke without fire.

Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links,
Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks,
Under the look of fatigue, the attack of the migraine and the sigh
There is always another story, there is more than meets the eye.

For the clear voice suddenly singing, high up in the convent wall,
The scent of the elder bushes, the sporting prints in the hall,
The croquet matches in summer, the handshake, the cough, the kiss,
There is always a wicked secret, a private reason for this.

April 1936

IX.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

April 1936

X.
O the valley in the summer where I and my John
Beside the deep river would walk on and on
While the flowers at our feet and the birds up above
Argued so sweetly on reciprocal love,
And I leaned on his shoulder; "O Johnny, let's play":
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

O that Friday near Christmas as I well recall
When we went to the Matinee Charity Ball,
The floor was so smooth and the band was so loud
And Johnny so handsome I felt so proud;
"Squeeze me tighter, dear Johnny, let's dance till it's day":
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

Shall I ever forget at the Grand Opera
When music poured out of each wonderful star?
Diamonds and pearls they hung dazzling down
Over each silver or golden silk gown;
"O John I'm in heaven," I whispered to say:
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

O but he was fair as a garden in flower,
As slender and tall as the great Eiffel Tower,
When the waltz throbbed out on the long promenade
O his eyes and his smile they went straight to my heart;
"O marry me, Johnny, I'll love and obey":
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

O last night I dreamed of you, Johnny, my lover,
You'd the sun on one arm and the moon on the other,
The sea it was blue and the grass it was green,
Every star rattled a round tambourine;
Ten thousand miles deep in a pit there I lay:
But you frowned like thunder and you went away.

April 1937

XI. Roman Wall Blues
Over the heather the wet wind blows,
I've lice in my tunic and a cold in my nose.

The rain comes pattering out of the sky,
I'm a Wall soldier, I don't know why.

The mist creeps over the hard grey stone,
My girl's in Tungria; I sleep alone.

Aulus goes hanging around her place,
I don't like his manners, I don't like his face.

Piso's a Christian, he worships a fish;
There'd be no kissing if he had his wish.

She gave me a ring but I diced it away;
I want my girl and I want my pay.

When I'm a veteran with only one eye
I shall do nothing but look at the sky.

October 1937

XII.
Some say that love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world round,
And some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway-guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like classical stuff?
Does it stop when one wants to quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't ever there:
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn' in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
Or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories ****** but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on the door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.

January 1938

We'd bound around
For golf downtown
Frisbees always in hand

"The students are coming!!”
Was a seasonal refrain
As we’d goofily gallivant

Mother’s Day shows
We‘re free, mother-suckers
For your kids, a show we grant

A CLOWN SHOW!
A DOWNTOWN SHOW!
THERE IS NOTHING WE CAN’T!

Rock their world with juggling
See the Doctor for what ails
Rudi and O in laundromat land

Jeanie, Splash, Allison, Donna,
Silly girls astonishing with
Leaps, jokes and handstands

Chewey, Steamboat and Grog
"Yeah-yeah! Yeah-yeah!”
Silly boys grandstanding

All hail Papa Gale! We
Funned with Cpt. Plunge
Leader of the band!

Sweet Georgia!
**** croquet!
It was grand!



(**** croquet was the official lawn game of the Sweet Georgia Brown Clowns during the summer 198x Trinity Country tour [wherein we masqueraded as a Norwegian Salmon Kissing team at a Moose Lodge Talent Show in Lewiston, CA* {true!}]: “Don’t forget your hat!”)

*(we won)

IN THE AFTER-TIME

" Alice thought she
had never seen such

a curious croquet
ground in all her life; "

It was somewheres near
Roswell

18 something and something
there or there...abouts

& Billy the Kid &
the boys have just

...paused:

in their croquet
for a tintype photo.

Billy's the guy
in the cardigan sweater.

Him & his gang
( the Regulators )

are posing like
they were a prototype

for
Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

or the band
THE BAND.

Pure Americana.

Billy the cardi-cowboy and
his gang of croquet playing outlaws...

Not exactly how
one would have  somehow

imagined them
. . .passing the time.

One of the outlaw...eh...gentlemen

points out that
Billy

" . . .the Kid has spooned
his shot!"

A ricochet of tobacco coloured
spittle hits a spittoon.

Silence congeals
about the accusation.

Now, whether Billy has
merely pushed the ball

silently through rather than
soundly hit it

is:
neither here nor there.

A cold revolver
clicks &

"I says I hit it...I hit it
get it?"

The other gentleman outlaw
begs to agree.

"Ok, Billy boy...keep yer
cardi on!"

And so, we leave them
there

in the croquet craze of
1878.

Time like a yellow ball
hit through hoop after

hoop until: it arrives
at this

present...NOW!

And a photo found in a store
for a dollar or a few dollars more

repays the expense
by morphing into

the 5 million dollar
photo.

But I hit the ball
back through hoop after

hoop after hoop

until it arrives back
at Billy's boot.

And a voice cries:
"Ok, kid...play!"

Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow!
It is not a color.
It is summer!
It is the wind on a willow,
the lap of waves, the shadow
under a bush, a bird, a bluebird,
three herons, a dead hawk
rotting on a pole—
Clear yellow!
It is a piece of blue paper
in the grass or a threecluster of
green walnuts swaying, children
playing croquet or one boy
fishing, a man
swinging his pink fists
as he walks—
It is ladysthumb, forget-me-nots
in the ditch, moss under
the ****** of the carrail, the
wavy lines in split rock, a
great oaktree—
It is a disinclination to be
five red petals or a rose, it is
a cluster of birdsbreast flowers
on a red stem six feet high,
four open yellow petals
above sepals curled
backward into reverse spikes—
Tufts of purple grass spot the
green meadow and clouds the sky.

They say
you will be extinct
by 2032

the Queen of Hearts'
favorite past-time
the joy of summer

a sign of class
& breeding
in your time

brought over
from France
during Charles II's reign

the memory
of playing you
in that mansion house

across the  river gorge
amidst the roses
will stay with me forever

as a sign of the Britishness
I lost abroad
& when he left


* Queen of Hearts - from ' Alice in Wonderland' by Lewis Carroll

At last the secret is out,
as it always must come in the end,
the delicious story is ripe to tell
to tell to the intimate friend;
over the tea-cups and into the square
the tongues has its desire;
still waters run deep, my dear,
there's never smoke without fire.

Behind the corpse in the reservoir,
behind the ghost on the links,
behind the lady who dances
and the man who madly drinks,
under the look of fatigue
the attack of migraine and the sigh
there is always another story,
there is more than meets the eye.

For the clear voice suddenly singing,
high up in the convent wall,
the scent of the elder bushes,
the sporting prints in the hall,
the croquet matches in summer,
the handshake, the cough, the kiss,
there is always a wicked secret,
a private reason for this.

i write for an injection of a venom, for a sense of disorientation, poetry shouldn't be about the skill of narration, a clear Renaissance painting of some school, it should invoke a ******* random macabre, a sense of disorientation, there's no real technique to practice with poetry invoking a tarantula's venomous bite... poetry the art of disorientation and a fulfilling disillusionment, nothing else, nothing more... to prescribe disorientation... upon charging into a blank page... the brute of squalor and slashing of grime, marbles and marrow!*

as quoted by Bonaparte (oddly enough
a psychology student and former
girlfriend of mine who i lost my virginity
to, while she got drunk and slid into my
bed at a party, and asked dreamily for condoms
scolding me about the three pictures adorning
my student room: marquis de sade, Bonaparte
and Plato) - quicker the goat in the frying
pan than on the steep cliff face - mooch kiss
you Isabella i would a second time,
you remind me of Annie from Masterchef -
the way the stiff upper-lip is missing: signature of
french girls, the curling and cuddles -
ooh mooch chuckles and mushy peas -
p p p - belinda carlisle melted cheese goo in my heart;
stony ******* i ain't, but my drinking habits
are not boyfriend material, sorry... try next door:
se vie se la - the french know their eccentricities,
and therefore exploit them in the grey -
the english stiffen up and exploit the same
but to a too obvious exploit: bowler hats and umbrellas,
nothing will make this London gloom repent
even if you're donning St. Petersburg's architectural
multi-colour... did i mention Bonaparte the patron
saint of the Duchy of Warsaw?
over here there's Adolf with a heretics hat
never bothering to read history twice,
history you read in a blurry haze of being drunk:
reminiscence is hardly nostalgia, but sure as ****
history save Moscow from the French and the Germans
but not the Poles and Mongolians...
the Russians know this and hush thing over,
sweeping stories under the carpets using
a babushka as an excuse for the prime propaganda
technique - go on babushka ride the Ferrari
on the stairway! canapé mit crayon caviar?
yes, Isabella, if i weren't a ****** i'd move to
Grenoble - sheriff's honour.
                                                  you weren't
the first, you weren't the last,
i need bragging rights - and a hot colt to shoot with...
then the lacrosse initiation ceremony -
Lycra tights, drank a whole bottle of whiskey
of Glaswegian whiskey, stumbled into
Isabella to my shame parade of whatever that was
lad banter etc etc. - pleaded on my knees, my knees...
apologies for the inexperience,
she was seriously into Japanese cartoons,
studio Ghibli;
                          so she scolded me over Bonaparte,
and i said: it's not exactly Piłsudski - in my town of
birth they praised him, raised statues,
later with communism desecrated them, then later
raised new statues - but what's bothersome is that
she didn't mind the Marquis... a psychology student
after all... she wanted native speakers for a little
psychology experiment, that got me,
learning from scratch aged 8,
pitch-perfect elocution and she didn't bother to use me
in the experiment... that ****** with me...
hey! i'm hardly a cockney! coached croquet pears
ready for a beating... what's the rhyme, ah yes:
apples and pears = stairs... seriously, musically
cheese sometimes works, they had a Monday cheese
night at the union - all the usual buggery of
a mid-life crisis...
yeps, that Annie from the current Master Chef reminds me
of Isabella - dracul - RA!
a bit of high culture (Ezra's cantos) and a bit of low
culture (marco bailey's Enter the Dragon)...
while sitting on the throne of thrones (a toilet)...
it's like my dream... although better... Ibiza two-point-oh.

Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow!
It is not a color.
It is summer!
It is the wind on a willow,
the lap of waves, the shadow
under a bush, a bird, a bluebird,
three herons, a dead hawk
rotting on a pole—
Clear yellow!
It is a piece of blue paper
in the grass or a threecluster of
green walnuts swaying, children
playing croquet or one boy
fishing, a man
swinging his pink fists
as he walks—
It is ladysthumb, forget-me-nots
in the ditch, moss under
the ****** of the carrail, the
wavy lines in split rock, a
great oaktree—
It is a disinclination to be
five red petals or a rose, it is
a cluster of birdsbreast flowers
on a red stem six feet high,
four open yellow petals
above sepals curled
backward into reverse spikes—
Tufts of purple grass spot the
green meadow and clouds the sky.

To talk to the menace of man
To hear fast words belched out
Like a drunkard holding His gun
Time trickles tears
Of the one's
Left behind
How beauty moves
Is a mystery
To minds unprepared for chance
I hear year long struggles from bugles
Laced
In
Gold
And am very very bored
There are times when I speak
And I cannot recognize the voice
Somewhere far off from me
A woman pulls up her flowered shorts
Was I there to pull them down?
Or was I here?
**** wednesday forgot its own name
Distracted by the glare of the bad masses B's
Expensive and ludicrous jewelry
To take a moment is to take a slice of life
Forgetting that you were once nothing
And soon will be
Nothing
To fret the death of the ego the work the paint splattered soul dirt
Chipped teeth line curb side markets
With trinkets and hairy arm pits
I destroyed a letter I wrote to myself today
Because the nakedness of mine own soul
Was to boring and dreary to read
For now we are the waking still lives
Of the art we all wished we could create
So close so far so long so short
Is our time here to giggle at the way a dog must walk
When it is constipated
Don't laugh at that because dog constipation
Is a
Very
Serious
Thing
Regression in the Freudian sense croquet neck tie polar bears
My mother named me after that
But not before
She shot the winning shot
In her hometown
Volleyball game



Letters of three make me sneeze

I'm sitting on your bench and thinking
about the times that used to be
How we played in your glorious garden
from breakfast time 'till tea
Croquet games upon the lawn
Or pirates swinging in a tree
We sat and watched the goldfish
Or dressed in clothes you got for free
Now I've bought my own house
I'm married and age thirty three
And I'm sitting on your bench
And thinking 'bout when 'I' was 'we'

On my garden lawn,
A croquet field of red *****,
Whoops without mallet.

Happy birthday Marian
A thousand mem'ries of you
blow across my mind
tiny miracle of life
held close to a mother's heart

Today you turned twelve
still I see my sweet baby
smile into my eyes

no flute to give thee
harp or cello have I none
chilled by poverty

hungry mouths to feed
our furry little darlings
their eyes beseeching

if I had more time
I would play croquet with you
and dress dolls again

hear a mother's heartfelt cry
baking loaves of bread and rolls
planning simple meals

May this humble poem
a token of my love prove
my dearest daughter

Through the looking glass I peered, hoping,
Hoping to see another world.
Alice, oh Alice, how envy I you,
Dreaming, still dreaming,
But your dreams come true.

No one moved, not a single spoke, silence,
All around the world grew, or shrink it did.
It was you, Alice, you,
You were the one who grew.
Eat of that mushroom you did.

The caterpillar, smoking its pipe, wheezes,
In the garden, the flowers did sing.
You fell down the rabbit’s hole,
Not too long ago,
A new world you discovered.

The Cat, what was it called? Cheshire.
It’s wide grin, plump body.
Here, there, nowhere, it vanishes and reappears,
A cat without a grin, you’ve seen,
Not a grin, without the cat.

The Mad Hatter, the March Hare, seated,
Dormouse still sleeping.
Table long, tea cups and pots,
All set and ready,
Truly a Mad Tea-Party.

The Queen, oh, Her Majesty, Red hearts,
Loyal subjects pay their respects.
Golf, was it? No – croquet, you played.
Flamingos and hedgehogs,
Certainly a difficult game.

Painting the roses red, they were,
Red, red roses. The gardener,
He grew them all wrong: White roses from the trees,
Card soldiers, hard work.

Roused, awakened, your sister came, running,
A dream you thought.
It must have been, maybe,
The mushroom in your pocket, the white rabbit’s glove,
You know where you’ve been.

’Tween hither and thither we wended our way
skipping, dancing through sand dunes, in seascape croquet.
While woven in waves watching dolphins at play
I first tasted her lips in the ocean’s wild spray.

Mystic moonbeams, suffusing clouds’ shimmering sails,
unleashed us and whisked us down sensuous trails,
soon evoking the trills of untamed nightingales
as our passions pervaded green valleys and dales.

Being spectres of splendour in wanton sashay
we mastered our meaning in love’s matinee –
the breezes, in passing, slowed down to survey
blazing bodies embraced in youth’s blooming bouquet.

With the wind as our wings, till the Never we flew,
two gypsies, on junkets through dusk’s residue
gently floating like pollen to everywhere new,
so eluding pearled teardrops that paint the past blue.

Yes, we gamboled and gambled, two waifs led astray,
with our shackles afire and anchors aweigh –
rising higher and higher, the sun lured our sleigh,
teasing time was our temptress, night’n day after day.

Having stars in our eyes and all time as our view,
we’ve drifted, like dreamers where sprites rendezvous
and feasted on laughter and sipped morning dew
while rambling forever as one made of two.

sometimes a private message on the sly
outlasts a poem,
i'm no quack - my prescription list
if a bunch of theories,
i can't the Hippocratic oath even if i wanted to,
which also means a theory here,
or a theory there can't hurt -
it's levitating as a chanced choice of consideration,
in terms such stated, there are
the questions of consolidating the problem
socrates faced as to how confront a unity
of particulars and universals -
well, a mathematical impression
with the prime expression of division would be
a start, a comprehension of units
akin to millimetre, centimetre and mile
would be due a referencing to.

i hardly know what to call the cartesian
subsequence equation -
sartre tried to invert it -
let's say that thinking is an *essence
and being is existence -
drag in newton's causality and einstein's
lack of causality - i do believe
descartes is pivotal in terms of causality
and what existentialism suggested
via sarte: that existence precedes essence
or vice versa - causality i should think -
but if the itemisation of space
as divided enduring placebos of millimetre
and centimetre with each point
as the Freudian id to divide is loosely estimated -
i understand Sartre's argument when
being a revisionist via Descartes -
existence does indeed precede essence -
you learn from your mistakes -
first can existence example itself
before thought (essence) begins its learning process -
indeed it can't be otherwise, intuition
does exist to a cloning zenith reached by animals
who're only vociferous via the medium
of onomatopoeia - ferrous sounds -
but among men there are more enzyme-related
processes to create the Enlightenment from
the Renaissance - the latter an artistic progress
the former the scientific -
study chemistry or physics and philosophy becomes
a playground - biology for some reason
has too many octopus tentacles attached to
obvious things - mutations of Chernobyl to mind -
and history, **** sake's the stone age and the
17th century will deviate far between on the spectrum
of analysis - there is much more bureaucracy from
the 17th century than crude cave drawings from the stone
age - i'm hardly saying it's not plausible
but the time-scale leveraged with boiling a cup of tea
is the worst kinds of distraction - scout's honour,
cross my heart and count to 20 in under 10 seconds.
anyway, for the majority, people are hardly
innovators, a few can claim to be a pure res cogitans
(a thinking thing), since such a being would require
an id scale of division, not necessarily a scale of division
akin to the majority of people, with their
9 to 5 working days, monday through to sunday,
january through to december -
with the latter list of exemplification we're talking
about a res narro / a narrative thing - alt. include
res transloquor (a thing talking over -
a loss of etiquette when talking over older people)
etc. -
           since i find that thinking is primarily
about innovative feats - but most of the time what we
call thinking is actually narration -
a book never written, an idea never materialised -
and the existence of the Buddhist "mindfulness" /
simply not thinking, a full cartesian sum embodiment,
akin to driving a car, a bike, whatever you like.
or i could have written about the news review
articles from sunday: the boo! that's Broadmoor,
the lush living conditions in blocks 2 & 5
and the squalor in blocks 1 & 6...
names include the murderers:
jonathan lowe (aged 52) writing a letter about
the Ritz hotel like conditions in 1898,
croquet and cricket, tea weak beer and gambling,
tobacco luxury and servants via the lesser
fortunate inmates,
william chester minor's addition to the inaugural
edition of the oxford english dictionary (ex-military
surgeon he was),
chippendale bookcases, bathed once a week,
shaved three times a week,
(now you can understand my fascination with
Ezra Pound) - thomas harry a would be assassin
of the p.m. Gladstone of 1893 walking about
the asylum gardens mentioning Gladstone's
last plea with a smile akin to the eager buds of
may appealing to harry's sense of "remorse",
a dutchman who attacked his wife with a mallet
pleading to renter the lunatics' Ritz circa 1895 -
a jack the ripper suspect amongst them -
dr. richard brayn hardly ***** burroughs' dr. benway -
a madman had never so much luck under **** brayn -
but the less fortunate remarked:
'my name is T Perkins, i have been murdered here,
by those that know not what they do,
because they have ether in their heads!'
i'd guess ammonia to add to such a confession,
or skunk ***** to mind the least.
thomas cutbrush was the ripper suspect.
jimmy saville wetted his ***** in the female wards...
can't complain with ******* adolescent girls
why complain about ******* crazed chicks -
Michael Meyers in the room? i thought so,
democracy is the ideal export, people know
jack the ******* by compliments from the toilet's
perfumery as described: strawberry scented,
mm hmm - Kentucky tattooed on my left buttock's
cheek. but boo! a.k.a. Broadmoor is closing,
pristine lunatics on the street - mind you
in the news review they had an article about
seymour hersh - what he called
dum-dum and darth vader of the galactic empire
surround fashion trends of 9 / 11...
joy uu bushy and st. francis cheney -
prior to this poem looking at russian sables in
fur farms going berserker over the size of the cages,
a lynx rummaging in a theory of geometry
walking out lemniscate treading on its own faeces,
and i felt good for the jews
not wearing leather on Yom Kippur -
in their orthodox black attire walking into a
synagogue wearing trainers -
yep, lived next to a synagogue for several years,
a flat above an estate agents...
but of course weddings and mazel tov a rekindled
happy event!
scurrying like rats in an area not allowing pride -
apologies for the comparison,
but Gants Hill wasn't exactly Golders Green,
well the Hanukkha did stand proud at the roundabout,
but then the social project took over
and subsequent evictions proceeded -
Bangladesh came over - and half of Pakistan.

It had been a long day, an early start, a hundred mile drive, and he was going home, back to a quiet evening before another busy week.
 
The January afternoon was the wrong side of three o'clock, but the relentless wind and rain of the morning had subsided leaving clearer skies, thin high clouds. He had driven a few miles out of town, metaphorically shaken the dust of its Sunday streets from his shoes. Either side of the road vistas of vast fields stretched into the distance. There was an 8-sail windmill, a sign to a doll museum, the occasional church spire rising above trees. He found himself looking to turn off the main road: to wander into unknown country, to stop the car and walk a little. A few miles further on he saw a promising turning and left the main road.
 
The house stood on its own a 100 yards distant from the road. In front no garden, just an expanse of cropped grass, where one could imagine croquet being played on a summer's day. The building was probably early Victorian, a balanced structure, a porched front door separating two large rooms with French doors leading out to a gravelled drive. The masonry was painted a subtle mustard brown, the window frames and doors a brisk white. A gentleman's residence of another age; perhaps the former vicarage of the redundant church he had strolled to explore a little further up the road. There, he had peered into the locked building to see an expanse of black plastic sheeting hiding the once pews, and at the end of a side chapel an arresting stained glass window glowing in Mediterranean blue.
 
From the churchyard unfenced grazing land lay unanimaled, sheepless, and cattlefree. Large oaks held singular positions against the steep fall of the sky to the far horizon. In the nearer distance woodland stood in a general air of managed tidiness.
 
A little further down the road a fallow field beckoned his interest. Its grass winter-bleached in a ten-acre square, fenced, and before a wood. He took out his camera and composed a shot. The image held stark simplicity: the field, the fence, the wood, a touch of sky.
 
He realised these environs into which he had wandered were quite unpeopled, empty of life. Only rooks swirled around the church tower. And silence. No cars on the single-track road. No tractors in the wind-parched fields.
 
He felt himself rest in the peace of it all: the house, the church, the fields, the empty road. At his feet yellow aconites graced a shallow ditch: a  grateful sudden colour in a washed out landscape. It was all of a piece this place, nothing and everything. He had come, stayed a while, would get back in the car a little colder than when he'd left it. Was there some story here he would never know? A village-less church? Or was this a place to trigger fiction, on which to bring the imagination to bear. He thought himself into the gentleman's residence. Sitting at his worktable before the almost French windows. She would enter, only the rustle of her dark dress a welcome disturbance. She would place her hand on the back of his neck. He would close his eyes in gratitude and in love that all this should be so.

the day my cat was about to die
i was in poland, visiting my grand-parents,
then i became psychotically nervous
and asked my parents to be flown back
to england, i had all goosebumps eeriness
on me, they didn't allow me,
my sikh neighbour was taking care of
the cat, a sadistic ***** who on any given
opportunity would whip her husband,
the cat's name was Oscar, a grey maine ****,
days later my parents returned from their
holiday in the maldives, the cat was dead,
died of kidney failure, he had a heart condition,
but cats that have kidney problems
live for years to come, they **** very slowly
as if they have prostate cancer than narrows the
****** oesophagus ;
the cat used to be cared for by my hebrew neighbours
and was fine, but then this sikh ***** took care
and in my post-mortem analysis killed my companion:
take away the descriptive elements of a person,
whether religion, ethnicity and you're racist to be honest,
you bleach people, leave me and my vocabulary intact
before you turn into a **** english teacher:
leave people intact for descriptive language, o.k.?
but you know what i did afterwards?
the cat was toast turned into ash,
sat on a shelf in a cardboard urn for a long time.
but you know what i did after?
i marched into a world war i memorial ground,
where a graveyard was once,
now like a hebrew graveyard with the gravestones stacked
back-to-back... i took a croquet trolley,
a hammer, and a chisel.. and there in the graveyard
hammered each grave to wake the dead,
until i hammered at one long enough to hack
off a piece of it with writing, wrapped it in
a black bin bag, put it on the croquet trolley
and wheeled it off... and then in the moonlit night
with shovel dug a shallow grave,
in the garden, opened the cardboard urn of remains,
scattered some into the dirge hole,
closed the urn's lid, and put it in,
covered the remains with dug-up earth,
and then placed the gravestone on the dug-up site.
mother inquired what i'd done with the ashes,
i told her... walk to the back of the garden
and see the gravestone.
once too in the same memorial grounds
i took a rock cross and put it on my shoulder,
walked with it, and put it at the foot
of the memorial where enforced memorisation
of the 1914 genesis took to a public spectacle
of where poppy wreaths are laid,
and i put the stone gravestone crux over
a poppy wreath - it must have weighed about 40kg
if not more: a roll of roofing felt weighs about as much.
but i buried my cat, and that's that.

She lived along the Atlantic coast
and had a collection of lobster pots
by the porch
and her lawn was trimmed for croquet
smelled of clams at low tide
the house was set near barnacle rocks
just beyond a stand of trees.

I found her by looking in a phonebook
next to her name it said, "Poetry Journals,"
so I called the number, and said I was on my way.
"Is that ok?" I added hesitantly.

“Well, yes,” she laughed, “You can come buy one.”
I passed the sign for fresh eggs
and arrived at a black wrought iron gate that said,
"Poetry Journals - 2 for $5.00."

“You’re the first one
who’s ever made it all the way to the house for a journal…”
“In four dozen years,"
she said.
Then she asked,
“What’s your name?”

“I don’t really have a name," I said.
She nodded and understood.
She'd heard from Byron
that the Banshee drags souls out to sea
but sometimes the nameless
manage to float back looking for poetry
these lost ones are like driftwood
bringing a sense of chilly dusk
a retrospective on the sea
in a seashell
appearing by happenstance
at low tide
"yes, I hear a distant mumble of waves,"
she might have said of me
I was one of the lost
turning her porch into a quay of despair
the first one in almost 50 years
who had made it so far
to latch on
until high tide
when the rush of sea returned
washed me out again clinging for dear life
to a raft of poetry

If only, on that fateful day,
my Draft Board had been on LSD.

They might have sent me to Wonderland
to explain croquet and the proper pouring of tea;

they might have sent me to OZ
to get into Dorothy's pants or train flying monkeys;

they might have sent me to Hogwarts
to get an advanced degree in something useful;

they might have sent me to Narnia
in search of ****** pelts and talking mice;

they might have sent me to Never Land
to counsel Captain Hook on anger management;

but no, instead, imagination failed utterly,
and those patriotic imbeciles sent me to Vietnam.

If only, on that fateful day,
my Draft Board had been on LSD.

Rising from the darkness,
the evergreen dilemmatic soul
waking from the displeasures
bound by reluctance.

And slowly it slithers
upon the filth in life
only to fall back
into the reverie.

Disgraced eminence,
of this priceless concoction.
Enigmatical views,
but doomed by nature.
Born to change,
with time , with people.
To stay phlegmatic 
as it writes its own destiny.

Dreams of falling into
the lap of luxury
like any ordinary soul.
But with a hint of transgression.

No robotic means,
just emulation.
Pulled by the ties of
prevalence.

Swindler of identity,
benevolent of jauntiness.
Passes through many loops
of croquet.
Yet saves its inscrutable soul
from the disrespectful world.

Fake concrete crosses and the worn black skeletons of barns hover above secondary looped highways. We weave and bob over the Mountain.

Old dirt roads share the same name as the mailboxes that still line them. The Walker Homestead: now a pile of trucks stacked on top of a doublewide toppled next to a house once built in classic southern architecture.

Stripped naked pines are whipped by cold mists.

I awoke during the credits. I lay with tongues. I fall to sleep in verses.

For $30, you can heal in an hour at Hot Springs.

“The Dali Lama has soaked in our tubs!” The woman told me on the phone. “Seven years ago, that is.”

“He’s not still in there, is he?”

The Lama’s not betting on Hot Springs North Carolina for total consciousness. Or maybe he is.

Maybe any *******, even Madison County, can bring you enlightenment when you’re basically a God on earth.

Google: Does the Dali Lama have a car like the Pope-Mobile when he travels? Is he carried on one of those Cleopatra looking things? Sedan chairs.

Ross plays a CD he listened to when he drove the flat empty asphalt of Montana and Colorado.

He was searching for stunning landscapes to shred. A kind of enlightenment I don’t think the Dali Lama could do.

Google: Has the Dali Lama ever snowboarded? Read the whole Dali Lama Wikipedia page.

It’s only the Killers though. We both sing the chorus, staring straight ahead.

I got soul but I’m not a soldier.

Ross says he never liked that song. It’s something I never knew.

Hot Springs has been one of Western North Carolina’s premiere locations for rest and relaxation since 1778.

Except in 1916, when it was an internment camp for German civilian prisoners who were on a cruise ship captured on the coast.

They were all very friendly and really bonded with the townspeople. Some of the Germans even returned with their families and are buried in Hot Springs.

Some prisoners are buried in the town graveyard.

The building to our left was the most lavish resort in the Mountains. It had sixteen marble lined pools filled with healing mineral waters that were surrounded by groomed lawns. The summering crowd played croquet.

It burned down in 1920.

We don’t get offered a lawn game when we arrive. Just visitor towels for $1 and an ashtray.

Cold mists whip among the mineral pools.

I awoke during the credits. I lay with tongues. I fall to sleep in verses.

Ross and I consider having *** in the hot springs. We try once or twice, but parts don’t fit they way they do usually.

I see tiny flecks in the water.

Are they essence of the healing mineral springs or elements of the soakers’ fat bodies before me?

Ross lights a cigar. It smells like burning hair. I light a cigarette in retaliation.

The chubby spa attendant knocks on the door.

“Your time is up,” he drawls.  

What does that mean?

Are we going to be executed and laid next to the German civilian prisoners?

≈Did the Dali Lama receive such treatment?

The water drains, screeching as it is pulled away.

They don’t tell you where it ends up.

The mineral pools swirl with tiny flecks .

I awoke during the credits. I lay with tongues. I fall to sleep in verses.

trunks filled with junk and the crunk juice flows
flunked out pill popping junkies with no cash go
drunkenly to the shrunken head show
knowing they stunk.
The monks dunked funky mumps victims
on bunk beds and licked them
instead of fixing lunk-headed situations
with linkin-log technologic advances
drinking dogs retrofitted with dance moves
groove on the wooden floor while ****** bore
the Moors with tales of divorce and random *******
on all fours in doorways
during bad plays on the interstate…
demonstrators, unregulated, on roller skates
wait at the gates of the ingrates filled with hate
and throw pie plates with fated accuracy
and the belated bureaucratic picnic
nitwits in knickers knuckle bump
and plump debutants snicker
the wicker croquet mallets
perform ballet in the chalet
and I have to valet the cars –

How do you tell if she’s a lady,
When she’s turning eighty five?
She doesn’t wear much jewelry
No furs or fancy styles.

She doesn’t play croquet,
But likes to root instead through dirt.
Her uniform’s a crumpled hat,
Old shoes and a muddy shirt.

You can find her on any sunny day,
Outside in all weather,
Stacking stone and hauling hay.
Collecting white stones & robin feathers.

But don’t dare swear or she’ll object!
Don’t watch **** TV or
She’ll tell you what to do instead:
“Rake some leaves or sweep this floor!”


She might strike you as old Rose Sayer,
Prim, proper and cold.
And to God each night she’ll say a prayer,
“Jesus please, don’t let me get old!”

Dedicated to Mom, Who Believes in Living Forever

The night went away.
The sun came out to play.
The hedgehogs are hiding.
Until tonight.
The cats are not crying or calling and screaming.
They went back indoors and they're taking their cream in.
Along with cat biscuits and a little meat.
The dormice are sleeping until bedtime comes.
He's dreaming of Alice and teacups and fun.
In his dream  the Mad Hatter hides,
The queen of hearts decides,who's lives and who to dies.
Who at the end of the day is alive.
It off with his noddle said she.
Stroppy witch, she takes control of croquet games and rabbit holes.

The grub the hedgehog ate, destroyed his mental state.
It was nothing to do with dormice at all.
Somebody gave him milk and bread, instead of worms and garden bugs.
Gave him ****** weird dreams.
Went straight to his head.
Dawn broke.
Shuffled back into his home, under the bushes.
In a bit of a queer confused state.
He went straight back to sleep.
Hedgehogs don't eat bread and milk.
(c) Livvi

The most curious thing in my acre of lawn
This morning, the day when long winter departs
The brown croquet ball of the rash Queen of Hearts
A bristly thorn bush of quills tinted fawn
I watched as he plodded so wobbly on
He snuffled and snorted with hesitant gait
His little nose twitching and smelling the air
He spotted not apples, but he did not despair
The cat had left food which he noisily ate
I watched and I realised how I could relate
The long snooze impending, he had to prepare
Half his life wasted no time for a mate
And prickly spikes would make love hard to share
How sad life would be if each hug ripped a tear
Pain is much worse when you hurt those you lean on.

Treasure your holidays
in Llandudno, Alice.
Skip along the promenade,                          
play tag on the beach
and when it’s time for bed                                
wave goodnight to the sea
as it drinks the sunset.

Go boating on the Thames.                            
Paddle your fingers.                                      
Listen to stories, doze.

Chase a talking  white rabbit
sporting white
 kid gloves.    


Take tea with a dormouse,
  play croquet with a Queen:
  
  this is not your dream
  but makes you smile.

  Don’t wish too hard
  for womanhood,
  it arrives soon enough.

  You’ll be feted, photographed,
   posed as holy Agnes
   and noble Alethea.  
                
  With "dreaming eyes of wonder" 
  Discover Alice
  in your own looking-glass.

   And when it’s time to dance
    in your bridal gown
    cherish the moment.

    Two sons will die
    fighting for their country.

    Remember them
    as flames that burn
    long after each candle’s
    blown.

i can't remember the last time i was satisfied with
only drinking one cider and 35cl of whiskey,
i honestly can't... then again i plucked two of my
favourite aphrodisiacs that night...
i beat up the whittle 'ichard before
(aphrodisiac no. 1 - exercise, exertion) cycled
to the brothel... then bought myself a bottle
of cider (aphrodisiac no. 2 - no other alcohol
works that sort of magic, no wine, no whiskey,
certainly not beer: cider...
and for that matter a very specific cider...
merry down cider, with a fox playing a violin
on the etiquette... the label... served in a 75cl
portion... 7.5%... medium dry...
so no...  not Thatcher's... or a Hertfordshire Weston's...
it has to be the Merry Down... probably
because of the portion) and did the victory
lap around the park and the brothel around
Goodmayes station...
obviously i bought 35cl of whiskey before walking
in... inside after we ******... hmm...
******* sets me off so quick... i don't know:
seeing a woman on her knees... from behind...
a bit like watching women in churches on
their knees before certain deeds are done...
i think i'm going to go back to a catholic church
one Sunday and draw out fetishes in my head...
kneeling before a cross... maybe Jesus the ******
would have loved to be nailed to some X cross
and then get ****** off by some Magdalene?
maybe he was into sadomasochism...
    who knows... but ******* sets me off on
an easy path of ******...
at least in the ******* it feels more
like exercise as i'm using the upper part of my body
to arch over a woman... from time to time
lowering myself to kiss her when she shows her tongue
licking her lips: i guess that implies: kiss me...
so i do... or lowering my body to brush noses
with her... press my forehead against hers
or just bite her chin...

is it just me or did the band Priest use certain accents
of Lana Del Rey's Summertime Sadness
in their song Phantom Pain? have a listen...
i think they did... never mind...
aphrodisiac no. 3: music... just listening to some
music you'd like to listen to when *******
fills the mind prior to the act with the act:
Trevor Something: into your heart...

work has transformed me, working with people,
dealing with drunk football fans...
i walked into the brothel: three beauties sitting there...
i never thought i had a thing for plump girls
or girls wearing glasses...
but this third one... the blonde... that lied
about being from Romania when in fact i know
from Michaela that she's Poland looked like:
a frightened doe... her eyes almost teary... her lips
moving as if trying to tell me something...
obviously i picked Michaela: she's going back
to Romania for a month to visit her family...
she worked so hard that she managed to have
a 12 room house with 3 bathrooms...
she's thinking about retiring in a year's time...
setting up a restaurant... i told her i make ****
good mint and chocolate chip ice-cream and i love
looking... who knows... i heard that Romania
is beautiful... and she's from Bucharest...
so... easy access to Ottoman heritage... and Dracula...
who knows... life is sometimes a house
of windows that are opportunities...
the same blonde that:

Khadija... Khadira... Khedra blocked me on WhatsApp
just before she ****** off back to Turkey
for a holiday... yeah... Khedra sent me
a photograph of herself with this girl...
now look at her... a frightened doe...
why did she block me? i don't care...
she was there last night... i asked for her...
but she was bringing back £60 for an extra half
an hour with a man she was already busy with...
we said hello: i kissed her cheek as a greeting...
me and my hardly jealous heart...
but Michaela can do i don't think even Khedra
could... after all... with Michaela it was
first time quick... second time longer...
third time quick... 4th time much longer...
first time? i blame it on the fact that she forgot
to pull back the *******... what sort of uncircumcised man
wants to **** without a circumcision imitation?
i know women prefer the aesthetic of a circumcised
man... but at the same time:
in the old ways... a man would be circumcised...
but the woman would have to pay some compensation...
just look at Islam and Judaism...
not the current American raw deal of circumcised
men... that's not how it works...
circumcise a man and his sometimes need to
pleasure himself makes no sense with no *******...

hardly a joke... it's called the acronym FGM (female
genital mutilation, but it's not called MGM male
genital mutilation?! oh right... all those eunuchs
in harems who were walking ******... because: hardly...
Solomon couldn't **** all his harem...
it would probably take him a whole year
to make the rounds and **** all his concubines)...
so unless he didn't have eunuchs to please his concubines
he had the concubines turn to lesbian acts...
even great kings of old didn't mind other men
******* their women... as long as they didn't impregnate
them...
i'm a modern man... i really don't care who she has
been ******* prior...

me? with Khedra... i know why she blocked me...
but it's only on WhatsApp... i still have her number...
i just have to use the conventional routes...
but she must have received advice from fellow prostitutes...
you're sending him pictures of yourself?
you said you'd gladly have a night with him
in a hotel room for free?! are you a ******* or his
girlfriend?!
mind you: Michaela asked me for extra money
for unprotected ***... Khedra simply gave it up without
any extra cost... to be honest... i don't mind either...
****** off: obviously...
****** on? honey... do you have two spare latex suits
we can wear? oh sure... and a tub of butter
we can both jump into and smear each other
and pretend we're snails... ha... ah ha... terrible joke...

but ever since starting work again: i feel more and more
alive... my confidence has shot through
the roof... two prostitutes sitting opposite me
don't really intimidate me...
one tries to be a smart-***... the other is gearing up
because she knows i'll choose her and the third
looks scared...
hmm... i know that Michaela would ask me to pay
extra to perform oral *** on her...
Khedra? she gave it up for free...
i love seeing a woman who shows her hot-shivers
or ******... not ******* are so ******* oratory
as might be portrayed... hot-shivers of ******...
and, to be honest? ****** vaginas are very...
not tasteless... i've had one once... they sort of stink...
there are not enough lubrication juices...
and i mean from multiple men...
it really doesn't bother me...

thank god none of them ever asked for me to perform
****... pop pornographic culture with all that
**** fixation is ill to me... i can understand
if two Russian soldiers on the front feel like
gagging each other's anuses... but with women?

that was Khedra... freebies... i would otherwise have
to pay for with Michaela...
but Khedra is a slim nymphomaniac...
Michaela is a business minded woman...
and being plump: that's an added asset...
Khedra has her eyes open throughout *******
while Michaela has her eyes closed...
hello: a welcome return to the Unbearable Lightness
of Being by Milan Kundera...
i have to see: everything... i gorge with my eyes...
i'm eating: but i'm not eating...

but i know why i only drank one Merry Down cider
and 35cl of whiskey last night, wrote 'Biggie"
and went to bed...
huh! i have a nickname? that's so endearing...
that's so much better than a girl calling you by your name...
English doesn't really have a diminutive
aspect of language: esp. nouns...
in ****** speech you can create diminutive "concepts"
of words: to make them more endearing...
Matthew, i.e. Mateusz can become Mateuszek...
duck, i.e. kaczka can become kaczuszka
dog, i.e. pies can become piesek
woman, i.e. kobieta can become kobietka...
what's the equivalent in English?
it's "diminutive": but it's not an endearing-diminutive...
it's belittling-diminutive, that's the distinction
between the two languages i own...
little women... you can't actually morph the word
woman to imply woman a "tiny", or, "small"
in an endearing way... only in a belittling way...
thank god i know two languages...
fluently: bilingually...
perhaps a third would be useful if i wished
to travel and start a business... most certainly a knowledge
of Spanish would open a world of opportunities...
obviously i'd settle for German... large enough
territory... but? as a personal psychology basis?
being monolingual would be claustrophobia for me...
or equivalent: therefore...

oh man... it would have been such a mistake if
i just settled for my high-school sweetheart, Promis...
when dating her i went to a friend's birthday
party and was presented with a chance to cheat...
she was much younger than me and eager:
i declined her even though she was already all
over me... it wouldn't have worked...
my father: i'm not my father... mentioned only
two women in his life...
one girl who tried to trick him into becoming
a surrogate father... i.e. not raising his own genes...
and... my mother... but i'm not my father:
i think my parents are freaks... seriously...
it's like monogamy and the swan song was all
about them...
my estranged uncle was a serial polygamist...
he tried a monogamy once: FAIL...
she ended up being a journalistic-wannabe
with an abortion as a notch on her belt...
i learned from my maternal grandfather too...
he was married at the age of 18? 19? but cheated
on my grandmother... he mentioned 3 women
in his life... me? i didn't lose count on purpose...
i lost count on the basis of: and how many different
selves of myself have i found along the way?
i can can't at least 5...

but unlike Khedra with her hot-shivers when i was
performing... eating-oysters on her ****...
there was Michaela who said last night:
look! you're making me dance! and she looked
the happiest girl... she was dancing... lying back...
it wasn't a dance: dance... it wasn't a samba...
she was dancing by wriggling happy on her back
after all that missionary ***...
plus?! i now have a nickname: i'm: Biggie...
and... fair enough: i have more beard envy than
***** envy... even though i've been approached
by guys at work with a similar envy... beards...
apparently i have a perfect beard...

i'm Biggie... now... a few years back i was
KAKASHKA for Ilona: little ****...
it could have worked with Ilona: if i wasn't a ******
and she wasn't a Russian...
Russian pride against Polacks was already
stated by Dostoyevsky demeaning us...
even though i'd be the first to celebrate Russian
isolationistic culture upkeep...

i don't think i could love one woman...
that would be selfish... after all... all the most beautiful
women are either prostitutes or...
actresses in the pornographic industry...
strange how beauty works: it works perfect in nature:
nature wants to showcase itself for the greatest
number of people...
that's a bit like beautiful women...
that's why beautiful women in Islam are an
antithesis of nature's parody...
i heard one Pakistani once tried to teach me
the "mystery" of Islam...
if you owned a jewellery shop... and you had this one
massive sapphire in your shop...
would you want to keep it in the front window
so that anyone could look at it...
huh? he continued: no... you'd keep it hidden
in the back...
                       rrrright... huh?!
he actually didn't mention: so people would ask about?
how could anyone know that you have
a massive ******* sapphire in the back
of your jewellery shop?
point being... why have a jewellery shop
if you're going to be so selfish about what's beautiful?!
you're a ******* jewel merchant or some stingy
****?!
then again: the allure surrounding women is the same
in the west as it is in Islam...
make-up and the NIQAB...
in the west make-up does what a NIQAB does in Islam...
it's the same-****: just a different cover...
i look at a woman in a NIQAB: i'm curious...
i watch a woman heavily overdone with make-up...
i can sometimes say:
there's less paint on a masterpiece than there is
chemical junk on her face to hide her imperfections
that: i might find appealing...
sure... with a NIQAB i can only see the eyes...
but with western standards: i see eyes... exfoliating
in feline fakery... and the rest of her is doubly faked-up...

thank god i'm man... i just need to wash myself
on a regular basis... trim my beard... shave my *****
region and my arm-pits... no chance of me shaving
the hair on my pirate chest and my stomach...
apparently Michaela likes flowing her fingers through
my body hair and teasing my *******...
tonight: i need more whiskey...
not because i'm miserable: i'm happy...
that's why i continue to drink and not get drunk:
i'll feel drunkness when i stop writing and relax...
until then my memory is working overload...
and this is only memory from yesterday...

maybe that's why i don't dream so much...
i don't dream because i'm not seeking escapism
some people seek via imagination...
since their memory faculty has either been eroded
by pedagogy... or? as Bukowski once noted:
some people never go mad: what horrible lives
they must least... a recurrent spontaneity of
"amnesia": or simply looking down on people?
not treating them fairly, lovingly?

life's not difficult: other people make life difficult,
their games of hierarchies...
life's not difficult... other people make life difficult...
and? i could never understand men
who associate cats with lonely modern women...
celebrating dogs...
oh **** me! cats are the best: esp. Maine *****...
then again... maybe i have a spezial cat...
why dogs and men why women and cats
why blue and men why pink and woman?!
who said?
   and who didn't say: cats of Ancient Egypt?
the Pharaohs probably owned cats...
what about Muhammad's favourite cat? Muezza?
who the **** said that cats are efaminating creatures?!
these Bonsai tigers are just as much fun
as dogs... if not more! why? you can have time off
from petting them: when they be themselves
and... no leashes! no muzzle! fickle sleeping and feeding
patterns...
but i agree... there's one negative of cats
that i remember was a great positive having petted
Bella... my Alsatian... well... two...

cat's can't pull a sleigh... with you on it as a toddler...
you can't ride a cat as toddler...
but you can a dog... like a Shetland pony...
you can't be a toddler and put your hand inside
the beast's gob and pull out an imaginary tongue...
and... this is my biggest envy of dog owners...
Sundays at my grandparent's house...
chicken broth... basically an entire poached chicken
in a soup of... choice of vegetable to create
a chicken and vegetable stock?
carrots... root parsley, fresh parsley... celeriac...
baby celery... leek... garlic... burned onions...
the usual seasoning... vermicelli pasta...
but that's the biggest difference between cats and dogs...
i don't know why cats stopped drinking milk...
classically they drank milk...
as a child i remember glowing with glee that i owned
an animal that would eat the leftovers of the food i just
finished... dog are special in that way...
some of the soup wasn't finished...
Bella the Alsatian was whimpering after the leftovers...
she got a bowl... a bountiful bowl...
she loved her chicken broth...
   with the vermicelli... with the vegetables...
and added to the mix? the chicken bones...
my grandfather always bemoaned the fact that me
and my father ate our chicken to the point of biting
off the cartilage off the bones... i went further...
i bit off the heads to get to the juicy-dry marrow...

a different season for a different animal:
i loved dogs for the simple pleasure that they would
eat what you couldn't finish for dinner...
but i love cats for the fact that they behave like
ferns... sorry... houseplants...
you can ignore them from time to time...
they only come up to you when they feel like approaching
you...
the rest of the time you can just ignore them...
but when they love you: it's unlike a dog
waiting for you to equip yourself with a leash...
when they love you: or rather: you're ******* more interesting
than any human prior... they rarely scout for more room...
you've already enlarged their perspective on existence...

perhaps i could be your neurotypical man by
any standards: in the Old Testament style
of breaking away from my father and mother
and chose a wife: i tried it with Promis...
i hated the experience... i have to abandon my mother
and father... in order... to marry you... woman...
and... abandon my mother and father...
in order... to give a **** more about: YOUR... mother
and father?! seriously?! that's a raw ******* deal...
i haven't been raised by my mother from the age
of 6 through to 8...
and by my father from the age of 4 through to 8...
collapse of the Soviet Union:
if it wasn't the brain drain (that came later)
it was a labour shortage in the early 90s...
i don't think i'm clingy... sure... if my parents raised
me throughout those LEGO-years...
i'd be out of the house already: or? no... the cost
of living... what? at least i have intellectual comparisons
with me...
times are changing... i was lucky to be out of
the cosmopolitan game of dating ever since i went
mad aged 21... my whole 20s are a fog...
i woke up mid-30s sort of happy to be simply
alive... i'm happy for that "conundrum"...
i missed so much that was required of me to miss...
i can go to the brothel with a clean conscience
of being able to satisfy prostitutes...

at least we know something personal about Muhammad
that's more than however many wives he had...
a man of his times of his region...
i can't be a judge of that...
but at least he had his favourite cat: and we know
his name: Mu'izza...
like i had a favourite cat of mine:
Darshan... who my Sikh neighbour killed
by poising him because: she offered to take care of...
but couldn't be bothered to clean up his ****
or give him food... easier to **** the poor creature:
make him suffer kidney failure...
i was visiting my grandparents
while my mother and father were holidaying
in the Maldives... two days before they were
supposed to come back... i woke up with a stinking
fear... i phoned them up, i need to go back home!
i'm worried about Darshan...
a silver beast of a Maine ****...
dead... "kidney failure"... i was so stricken
with morbid emotions... after he was cremated
i found a Croquet buggy...
took all the pieces off... strapped a belt
to the handle... walked into a World War I
memorial graveyard...
had a hammer and a chisel with me...
started carving off a piece of grave...
put it on the buggy... dragged it home...
picked up the ashes... started digging a shallow
grave in the garden... buried the poor sod...
then placed the hacked off gravestone above him...
i'm still not speaking to my neighbours...
they're scammers anyway...
that's how Sikhs and other Asians get to flaut
their money on rich weddings and Rolls Royce
limousines... sure sure... i hear you...
they own corner shops and get rich by selling 1p
gummy bear gelatin sweets by the million!
like, ****!
oddly enough... i'm sometimes perched on my windowsill
throughout the night till 4am...
4 break-ins... "break-ins"... and some during mid-day...
******* insurance scammers! SCAMMERS!
i saw jack-****!
no one broke in into their home...
that's how Asians get rich: that's how anyone rich
gets rich... they're not playing by the rules...
thank god i'm willing to make sacrifices...
i don't want to get rich: i don't want scammers
or gold-diggers in my life: i want to build up a natural
filter when it comes to resources!

if there won't be enough women in my life:
i can always test my "fertility" with cognitive ambivalence...
i can always think about more things than most
people are not willing to think about...

after all: Muhammad had a favorite cat... Mu'izza...
since Darshan passed away at the hands of a sadistic
*****... i now have Quarus...
i'm not going to be easily relieved of him:
easily divorced from him...
he has more nicknames than the times i actually utter
his name...
what was the name of the donkey that
brought Jesus to Jerusalem on Palm Sunday?!
no one knows because he had no name...
i'd call him Quizy... Quizy... no... don... key...
REGALO TECLA... or? DON TECLA...
but Jesus didn't give a name to the donkey...
psychopathic, if you ask me:
animals you ride, or pet, to be: nameless...

just maybe: there might be some sympathy for me:
it almost feels like i was there...
when Mel Gibson released that movie of
his: the Passion of the Christ... i cried when i first
heard Aramaic being spoken on screen...
i think i cried throughout the entire movie...
i was so moved that... some other guy in the audience
started crying with me...
maybe it was the music all along...
i'm a sucker for a decent music...

but i just couldn't stomach the raw deal of wedding
a woman: a man is to abandon his own mother
and father... esp. one who wasn't raised by his
mother from the age of 6 through to 8
or by his father through the ages of 4 to 8...
who spent his early developmental years
in a house filled with 20 other immigrant
labour-drain men... for about a two years...
the fact that my father was abandoned by his own
parents: through divorce... i was raieed
by a ***** of a grandmother and an alcoholic
grandfather: i loved them...
but she was such a ***** to the point
oh him pushing her through a glass door
and breaking her hand...
i blocked all of that out... maybe by way of blocking
out several personal memories i have been
given access to access certain historical details...
i question them: unflinchingly...
why didn't Jesus' donkey have a name?
while Muhammad had a favourite cat with a name
like Mu'izzi: i know it's Mu'izza... i prefer Mu'izzi...

my Quarus? a clever cat... i bemoan the fact that
he won't eat my scraps... from dinner...
that's the only great aspect of what Bella the Alsatian
and Axl (the Dobberman) used to be capable of...
they'd eat what man leftover...
i'd call cats vegetarians if i could...

i know that the definite article in Hebrew is HA...
i.e. ha-satan: the-Stanley... the Stanislav...
i forgot to remember what the indefinite article
is in Hebrew... oh... right... there isn't one...
to define someone: definitely is to suppose:
laughing at it in English...

the whiskey flows slow and cold...
my heart it growing slower and colder...
i like it, that way...
Biggie... oh **** me... then again: Michaela does stand
about 5ft2 beside of me... while i'm towering
6ft2 above her... no wonder she picked a nickname:
Biggie for me...
the smaller she is: the plumper she is...
the more endearing she becomes...
you just want to cuddle her...
the more tender her forehead feels and tastes like...
she mentioned: i haven't washed my hair...
i tell her while sniffing it:
it doesn't matter... i washed myself prior to seeing
you... you think i'm going to wash myself
after seeing you? i want your scent to fill my bedroom
with your ****** perfume...
i want to dream of orchids! i want to dream
of lavender! i want to dream...
of a desert and your being the oasis in it!

i love women... but some women are too proud...
too stuck up...
they miss out on a lot of fun *** can be...
can't we just have fun without taking to
the serious business of paying gas bills?!
are we simply things before the altar of the eternals?
can't we spontaneously break the rules
for the eternals to be envious of us?
have we, seriously become so shallow:
so boring, that the gods abandoned us due to the fact
that we became imitating immortal:
their own boringness, manifest, that we stopped
being mortals?!

if i a were an immortal deity, and had to overlook
the modern man? i'd die too!
i'd die from boredom!
i'd die from predictability...
i'd die from looking at mortal men and thinking:
we're the luck?! where's the gamble?!
where's the unpredictability?!
where on earth is the stupidity on earth,
that might make these men take enough chances
to later allow them status of sage?!
everything is being to closely manifested in keeping
a "slave" stock of workers...
no one wants to dare... and if they do want to dare:
it's all for the wrong reasons:
no for reasons akin to: i! i am Spartacus!

people say awful things about slavery...
i wonder... what slave was ever homeless?
what slave was ever left without food, without shelter?!
well **** me: if you're not a self-developed
business man... chances are: sure... you're not a slave...
just someone who earn a wage...
but someone who earns a wage is not someone
who's someone's responsibility
to demand the person bestowing said responsibility
to keep the slave: alive, fed, sheltered...
by simply earning a wage does not imply
my status is better than that of a slave...
is it? IS, IT?!
i just earn a wage... i have to provide food and shelter
for myself... as a slave: and not a wage-earner:
i had to have food and shelter provided for me:
for my services...
i didn't care about money because i was already
given what money would otherwise provide:
or rather, in the ancient realm: wouldn't...
since shelter was inherited by the manor
and food too... from owning farmyards...

i don't think slavery was bad... wage-employment
is far worse... esp. those zero-hour contracts...
no one can tell me that's beneficial to anyone...
zero-hour contracts is worse than slavery...
at least as a slave you had intrinsic value...
obviously disposable...
but as a wager... SLAVE CONTRA WAGER...
you have no instrinsic value:
you only have extrinsic value:
you're doubly disposable...

           like the concern for INFLATION:
the end-product is inflated...
but the manufacturing mechanism isn't...
then there's the deflation aspect of
football clubs increasing the payouts of their
football players... but not decreasing
the price of their tickets to attend a match
or their merchandise: t-shirts etc.!
fair enough: pay the players more...
but at least have the decency to cut down the ticket
prices to see a football match...
or the price of the merchandise...
but no... these clubs either keep it at the same price
or inflate the ticket prices...
but if the players are earning more?
why should the people pay more?!
surely they should be paying less!

SLAVERY wasn't a bad thing... not in my eyes...
i think slavery was a good thing...
you had protection... a SLAVE had more protection
against the peril of a "free" society than a WAGER
will ever have...

what are the chances of me retiring at my grandfather
did? getting a proper state pension,
passing it down my wife after my life,
allowing her last 10 years of life to be lived
in a luxury that only old age might hinder?
ZILCH!
of the people that applied for job i'm currently at....
i seem to be the only "slave": i.e. employee...
the rest are self-employees...
i do my job well because i don't have to:
invoice my presence... i get invoices by someone
else...i trust my "handlers"...
i look at dogs, i look at cats...

who was Proximo to Maximus in the fillm
Gladiator? a mere slave-owner?
really? Maximus was merely a WAGER?
Proximo didn't care about Maximus was more than
a WAGER and more a, commodity?
i'd love to feel like a commodity again...
i'd hate to be treated as a WAGER: as an EARNER...
i think slaves, "slaves" had more monetary rights
than people of our current age...
owning slaves came with responsibilities...
a bit like owning pets these days...
you had to be rich enough...
for one...
you had to clothe them... you had to feed them...
you had to put a roof above their heads...
to be considered a nobleman:
you had to treat them fairly...
these days? none of these rules need to apply...

the system of slavery worked on a decentralised
"bias"...
not on this, current, centralised bias of
the universal WAGE concept....
you're worse than a SLAVE... you're a WAGER...
communism tried to figure this out...
it never came close...
well, it did, for a short period of time...
the sort of period of time where:
drinking whiskey tasted like drinking regurgitated
garlic *****!

it's not working now...
not everyone can be some moon-blessed
entrepreneur... some people are truly allowed
the joy of being allocated the status of PAWN...
rather than BISHOP...
there are people that are like that...

if it was working NOW: it would be working WOW...
people exist for others to be looked up to!
you can't scribble some Darwinistic mantra
and expect people to stick to it!
it's either Darwinism or Christianity...
you can't have both!
there's one alternative... but you're not going
to like Islam...
i don't like Islam... i don't like circumcision...
that's why i'm expecting a 2nd schism
in this grand religion... spear-headed
by the Turks with a bunch of uncircumcised men...

i want whiskey to drip from my beard
while i drink it... and rub it into my chin...
and recall the number of tattoos i ought to have
from rekindling my mind to the past....

no one knows the name of the donkey that took
Jesus to Jerusalem as the fifth: "horseman" of
the Apocalypse toward that fateful Palm Sunday...
but... Muhammad's favourite cat's name is known...
the birth of the Korean script is known via
King Sejong... no one can rob me of this historical presence:
nothing is mythological too...
just easily forgotten...

me? i'm just clearing the path... for something...
more... expedient... more... clarifying...
let's share cats.

here to pray
here to remember days
who sought after peace in pain
what happened in a field of spiderweb croquet
when i was eating my words in company
where my own truth shines, gleaning
why only here, mind met meaning

return to who you are, as expression in essence
is a truth that nobody can ascertain