The London*
underground
Shoes Chatterbox
Choo Choo train
Mr. Earl Gray
Greyhound
Doing cartwheels
Head over heels

Milk the Cow
"Going Moo" in her
Jimmy Choo
Yahoos
Kickapoos
The Odd Mom
Cocker Doddle Doo
Goody Two shoes
'Peekapoo"

The women living
in her shoes
All Mighty God
  
The dog to chew
Her most expensive
shoe
Lasous
The genius
La Cruz

Goody two shoes
That's show biz
Vacation Dr. Seuss
John Hughes
The master of clues
La mousse
Love truce X-File

Instagram, please smile
In her ballet slippers
He's at the Hub
drinking beer
In the London Fog
Her wooden clogs

Ladybird chirper
He's down to his
goulashes?

Got sidetrack hot
fever lovesick
La muse shoes
Cozy at the caboose
Playing golf in the
Gulf of Mexico

You ain't got a thing
if you don't have
the shoes to swing
Kick up your shoes and
start to sing

I LIE IN THE BOTTOMLESS PIT OF BITTERNESS
What have I done to life
That it kills me even though I lie
Down in the bottomless pit of bitterness
I am ****** down to the barest state of anarchy
Too choking and breathless, I can’t talk

Catatonic, I stand in dumb
Severe as I lay in me numb
I can’t wish to have life within me
I only choose to let go of it
If it will let me, leave me!
Leave me! Leave me! Life
For I hate you and everything in you

I am a genius, always eager to go along
You are too jealous of me
And capture me in your wicked web of limbo
That I may suffer and strip away like straw
Waiting to be burnt for the cloud smoke
I barely uphold my breath and strength
As tears and mucus mixed at my chin
All streaming down to my mouth

Am sick and tired of wiping
My weakling hand also tired of wiping
I’ll only let the constituent enter my mouth
Or pass down the earth

What have I done to life
That it kills me even though I lie
Down in the bottomless pit of bitterness
Rolling in painful rub of suffering
Dejection and rejection am screaming!
And sobbing as I struggle to doddle out
Of the brutality of life

Leave me; let me go for am tired
To be thrown, tried even tired of tossed
Who shall set me free, who shall deliver me?
Can you hear my cry?
Help me! for I am drawing
into the boiling ocean of life

Get to the Market

Some people take the back road
Others use the highway
Some arrive early
Some arrive late

Get the market

We all follow our own way
No persuasion
No need to jump a red light
A river will flow where it flows
Carve its own way

Get to the market

Some exhilarate
Others doddle along the way
Walk or run
You will arrive when you get there

Get to the market

Everything better simple.
Everything better with words sliced to size.
The chasm between
waking and not being waking,
all moments minute
and colossal lined up,
delightful in their plainness.
The making of friendships,
a cinch, interests shared
and food eaten,
laughter that ricochets from wine glasses
with a shrill giggle.
Then the maintenance work, a doddle.
Dialogue runs as blood through a body.
Time to see each other.
Time to make an effort
to make time to see each other.
Clutching onto loves
before sell-by dates.
Labels disposed of
before they are even affixed.
No rise of an eyebrow
when the different ones
open their mouths,
revel in the spaces
where they don’t fit in.
Decisions made without
a flutter of uncertainty,
a bubble of anxiety
that bounces round the brain.
Everything better simplistic.
Everything delightful in their plainness.

Life is like a doodle,
        you may not see the
                               picture.

But to the one that
                    scribbled it,
it makes perfect sense..

The mind is a misuse of reflections,
we gaze upon the maddening of our
life and make order from a doddle
of randomness.

"A tree barks, still no one hears it?

We have the wisdom of moments,
but are we still infants in the scheme
of our growth. Are we still crawling,
but the illusion of us standing gently wilts.

"Freedom is a leash, getting tighter everyday,

Sleep is the illusion of time, for we wake
reliving the same day, but envision it as new.
Time is non-existent, were just a tape replaying
different moments till its overplayed then just ceases.

The only big struggle
Is for money bristle
Finishes like a bubble
When we see Sin puddle.
Is this so thing doddle?
Actually it is a circle
Vicious; none to fiddle
As it makes one nuzzle
In their cozy castle.
Earlier there was raffle;
Making us quite subtle
In all innate our struggle.
Money’s single ripple
Can conscience straddle
Into treachery subtle.
So dear when see boodle
Don’t forget to whistle;
And flee away with chuckle
From this vicious girdle.

A beautiful and sweet girdle
Collecting it is quite doddle
Counting is like a hot fettle
Touching it is a bit brittle.
Let be the Geeta or the Bible,
Let be grapes or pineapple,
Importance of money able
Is not be explainable.
Money can make a castle
Or buy handful cattle
Or can earn a good title
Or can bound to peddle.
All is easily possible
By the mint boodle.
Carry them in a duffle
Or in a golden vessel,
It is going to be a rouble.
So friends value a boodle
And crave for it to chuckle
The taunts of world little.

This Poem was given to me by my friend the Author
and poet J Alexander thank you so Much Jay!
Where are u queen?

Somewhere...
seated in-between faded lines of a potent love poem
written in the 60s by hippies named Flower with the
power putting peace in pens teaching Zen to 10 crescent
moons refusing not to glow, only to then grow-up making
a living as a breath-taking metaphor?

Somewhere...
in a private casbah being made to feel like more than
a woman while God summons a handful of her ebony
angels giving each an epiphany of ample high-5's and
performance promotions for a magic potion creation
well done, one eternity at a time?

Somewhere...
still reminiscing about a kiss that could soften stingy steel,
calling no cobs on the cookie unless cats come correct,
not like rookies but like roosters that ****-a-doddle-doo
and make you sit still while layers get peeled till you fulfill
your fantasy feeling the
power of Niagara’s flow?

Somewhere...
letting tomorrow take care of itself as it usual does
while wishing someone-unlike-no-other would take
care of you today, tattooing the inside of your eyelids
with the letters L.O.V.E. with binding blood for you
to gaze at a view of outer-space using commitment
constellations as mental masking tape, sticking by your
side until there is no such a thing as time?

Where did you go?

Somewhere...
sleeping solo, dripping "I'll show him" slob on pride
pillows instead of riding bicycles with no seats -
just the pole, juxtaposed underneath unapologetic
satin sheets swapping gossip on unlimited minutes
about unfinished business to bitter listeners with
limited vision, although behind your back would switch
in an instance, since it's existence - misery always needed company

Somewhere...
thinking about making the 1st move for the 2nd and 3rd time?

Somewhere...
keepin' it 100 with 90% of your single friends?
Where are you my luv?

Somewhere...
becoming conscious, covered deep with earth on a
continent in a South African mine in your prime,
replacing the black blood and applying your tear drops
upon diamonds, making them shine twice as bright
with infinity shelf life?

Somewhere...
practicing saying a surname on for size in front of a
candlelit white picket fenced vanity mirror,
placing pillows near navels underneath your
blouse knowing it fits your style and hoping
that daddy will be speechless proud about his
princess, pride and joy?

Somewhere...
working too **** hard?
Where are you irreplaceable?

Oooooh.....still right here, sippin' Verbal Koffee,
listening to Sade’s I Couldn’t Love You More and down for whatever!!
©2009
jAy aLexander
Fountain Head Publishing

Years back!

I am only an author of a voice to silence your worry.
Listening is not my virtue, it's bloviating my lure-y.
An appeal to be appealing has left me reeling
For lucidity in a city that has forgotten who I am
Which is me.

I am only an author of a voice so silent, so worry.
I hate to live in my mind, yet it is the ***** I scurry.
From my mind's eye's **** I suckle with fury.
Silver-tongue, golden-throated, and nothing else
To be spoke of. With my chest swelling; pleurae
booming with the boon of pride to ensure he
is able to amount to another morning rise.
Which is me.

Since when have I become so masturbatory.
They say youth is self-absorbed and centered.
So full of themselves they think of fireworks and glory.
But what of youth misspent, snuffed whence
They were in the first chapters of their story.
The forgotten rue. The golden rule.
Somewhat few, follow that truth.
Which is me.

Which is me, the me I knew, or what others, to me, show.
If my personality is borderline, and that is disorderly.
How is my fin not to be written as a tragedy?
Will they paint my funeral with superfluous filigree.
Recite a remembered, and cold opened eulogy.
For a man they did not know.
For a me I did not know.
Which is me?
The me I knew?
Or what others, to me,
did hew?

"Debase me!" I say
Burn me alive, for I did not live.
I stole from you, my cherished youth.
I am only an author, let me rejoice in my depression.
My writings are not narcissistic, hardly a confession-
I am a writer that writes what he knows.
My Socratic allegiance agrees that God is wise
And men, surprise, know nothing.
And if men know nothing.
If men know nothing.
If Man knows nothing.
Why are we so full of discovery?

Man may not find themselves but in a quandary.
Mine is this, and it haunts me unjustly.
Which is me?
There's the positive, the plural.
The public, the private.
The reticent and internal,
Jonathan.
But I am awash in my self without knowing myself,
Engulfed in my blood, my bacteria,
lacking opsonin.
I strike at my heart, my mind, and my tendon.
Uncertain of where I end or where I begin.
I am the stalking horse and predator
An author with no editor
Which is why my poetry is so sloppy.
If writers write what they know,
and youth is all for show,
where do those like me stand?
Are we plagiarists that copy?
Chameleons sipping coffee
Bloviating about the bouquet,
Abusing sophistry?
Do I mean to deceive, is it impulse,
is it instinct.
I must ask,
Which is me?

I am only an author of a voice.
Perhaps I am a mute.
So cut my chords, snip them clean.
Let me live a life serene, as I work and doddle
away with my pen mightier than sword.
Which is me? Who am I?
No Greek poets or philosophers
can define.
The one question begged to be answered.
I am me, who I am. Son of God.
King Solomon.
My sin is idolatry. The commonality of my age,
stuck in neutral of self-display.
The world fell into dismay,
split in two,
The Judgment of Solomon.
Will show which is true.
But even in this *******
Of rhyming, scheme, and infatuation
I've still yet answered the question on my heart
Which lettered the head of my distracting start
Who am I?
Which is me?
Narcissus drowned staring at he.
And left the Nymph alone, all alone
Lest I be as pretty, as the rippled reflection
in the Spring dew.
Let me hem, let me haw
Let me hew,
say what I saw,
and I stared at my reflection
staring at you.
Which is me?
Which is us?
This poem has turned
into an omnibus
for a worried mind
to letter and scatter
everything the matter
from a mind stuck
or struck
with ardent aim.
Which is me?
I sound with glee, an answer unto thee
I am an author with a voice.

3 months old little Paddle began to change
His fluffy yellow feathers rearranged
His new feathers silvery brown exchanged

A little taller in stature, neck now long
Mrs. Fiddle and Mr. Faddle waddle doddle
Little paddle, full of **** and vinegar
full throttle singing a song

One fine day his family got larger, they say
Mrs. Toodles, and Mr. Doodles and their
3 triplets aunt, uncle cousins, arrived today
Doodle , Caboodle, and Scoodle  Triplets
The girls walking  and talking  liplets

The triplets Doodle, Caboodle,Scoodle and little Paddle scurry flurry off to play
Mrs Fittle, Mr Faddle, Mrs Tootle, Mr. Doodle  between them not much to say
Frazzled and dazzled, caring for their offspring each day

The geese parents getting older
The Young gaggle of geese growing bolder
As the weather grew colder?

The familys stay away from the flock
Each day time takes away the ever changing clock
Both parents know one thing fear the dock

The first snippet and tip it good weather
No longer needing those thick feathers like a sweater
The sweet smell of flowers, hang in the air, lilac, and Heather

It’s time to learn how to Fly
The gaggle of geese begin to nervously cry
Trying to lift off the ground their parents
Not a sound, cautiously, look around
Keep trying, encourage, parent geese flying
Take a run for the sky lift off high battle cry

The exquisite excitement is in the air
Feathers to and fro flailing everywhere
The triplets hover lovers without a care
Little paddles Svelte feathers show a tare
Slowly draft drifted Earth bound
A shaky *** slump, defeated down

Mrs. Fittle, and Mr. Faddle right behind
Little paddle’s battle to stay in the air
Incidence grew in intensity with Care

The truth his feathers were just not ready
Sadly madly he wanted to soar not steady
His wings too small it was not his time
The hardest lesson is being left behind

Little paddle’s glorious day will come
He will gleefully glide, in the big blue sky
With Mrs. fiddle and Mr. Faddle closely by

Back then - as a lad he picked up his millions from his dad. He’s Trump.
Yeh - Dad made millions… passed one on… he picked it up and started the run -
Need to make a zillion? Just watch this - be rude about people take the ****.
Buy a bit of land - build a casino - use slave labour - treat em like dirt - we know,  in Atlantic City, It’s a dump…

Moves On. Stamps on the meek makes ‘em squirm - He’s Trump.
Do something naughty - Oi - we saw yer - I’ll cover it up - get a good lawyer.
Loves the limelight can’t get enough… **** Star? Can’t tell the truth...makes up stuff
One rule for me - one for you… Fancy a slinky bird will she *****? Fancy a ****?

Say you didn’t do it - who’s to know… He’d refuse a pardon to an innocent on death row. "I’m Trump".
I’m a bit special and Life’s a doddle… Havin’ it off with a Slovenian model (or two)…
Yeh…fancy a broad grab her *****… I’m up for President and obviously I’m not fussy.
And, behaving like a total ***** house doesn’t stop you from reaching the white house… He’s Trump.

He won the nomination and the election - power makes him nuts, gives him a cerebral *******. He’s Trump!
Smarmy? Yes…but in charge. Yes! Barmy! So I won’t let gay people join the army.
Immigration control Law and order?… won’t let Mexicans cross the border.
Heavy malice aforethought and negative intent. ******* I’m the President. "I’m Trump!"

Thinning hair - Tonsorial arts…let it grow… swirl it - coiffe it - spray it gold, spray again with ‘hard to hold’ - "I’m Trump!
In the wind it unfurls and makes him look like a ****…but he has the answer - the baseball hat…
And the cap allows him to carry the message… Making America Great Again!…impressive!
The permatan the orange strangulated hues… completes the picture, ties the noose…  Internationally - Bit of a chump.

Sociopathic with a personality disorder. Narcisist!…Doesn’t drink so he can’t be ****** - But He’s Trump.
Tell a lie, a big one - deny it. Most sensible people wouldn’t even try it - but he does.
Whatever you think… and it’s been said, he eats big Macs whilst he’s in bed - Tweeting!
How does he do it? What a nerve - a shining example to the people he should serve… They could be going to do ‘the dump’

Foreign policy? …ask the Pope… He summed it up in a glance…NOPE! Putin ‘NYET!” Macron ‘NON’. No go for Trump.
He insults the press corps at home and abroad…It’s fake news this - fake news that - read the message on the hat!
“Impeach… Impeach” some folks cry… “**** the lot of you it’s do or die! I ain’t going down without a fight” -
So, after all the brickbats, guffaws, jeers and jokes… He loses it… lights the fuse… That’s all folks! That was Trump!

Trouble is he could take a lot of people with him! And he will... He's Trump!

It's a different way of life being big
I don't mean eating until I want to be sick
I mean my height, my clothes, still as tall as you when I sit
Not being able to buy the shirt I want because they all say Slim-fit

That pair of jeans I want but not your off the shelf clobber
My wife looks high and low bless her, as nothing will stop her
A pair of shoes to fit in with the latest fashions
No size 13 sir, you'll have to look online, that's where they usually stash them

I fly to America where they know how to treat me right
Trying on a Medium shirt, hell, its not even very tight
The only thing is their taste in shoes here
I'll order online as I wash it down with a beer

Even getting in a car can be a pain with a certain model
Head space, leg room, come on Mini, us lads want this at a doddle
And what is it the smaller woman that finds you such a pull
Hell, I'm not complaining, look after me and wrap me in wool

For I'm not violent in any which way at all
But get a man who thinks he's big and you'll get it with a bar room stool
Little man syndrome is our worst curse of them all
There is always one you thinks he's hard so has to act like the fool

But I like being a big bloke as you gain a respect for no reason at all
Some look up to you because your big and rather tall
But at the end of the day were just the same as me and you
Finding it hard in everyday life, and a love that is oh so true

JJB

this has to probably the best weekend of my life... yes, as a weekend i hardly think anything will top it... although i'm working in three different locations: yes, if i heard about SML sooner before promising to do a shift at Wembley for the Taylor Hawkins tribute concert, i would have spent the 3 of the most glorious days in Basildon... alas... but i guess today filled me up: there's always the next year... and then Sunday? a shift at the Romford ice rink...

it was a perfect day... i'm sitting back with a smile
on my face... relaxing with a whiskey...
i have until about 3am before getting up at 9am and
heading out to Wembley for the Taylor Hawkins gig...
i managed to butter up one of the managers
in such a way that means i'm starting at 12pm
and not 9am and i'm part of the internal staff rather
than outside... sinking into depression for 15 hours...
i buttered the managers by never blowing-up...
and being extremely punctual...
and getting good feedback from the crowd...
arbeit macht frei! truly! it's not a **** joke...
    i'm not doing pointless work...

but today... hell even getting to Basildon was a doddle...
all i had to do was walk for 10 minutes to the petrol
station on the A12 for 2pm... give a co-worker 10 quid
and get dropped off at location, then get driven back
to a bus stop opposite the petrol station i was picked up from...
they only forgot to mention that i needed
a black t-**** rather than a white shirt...
but that was soon dealt with...

SML... short of: Show Me Love... a Garage festival...
i never liked Garage music... i'm currently sitting listening
to the Verve's Lucky Man... then i'll listen to Pearl Jam's
nothing-man...
mind you: i didn't like Garage music when it was popular
in school... all the ******* ("popular" boys)
followed the music... MC ******* Mallets...
   they'd play some pop song and rap over it...
a pointless genre of music if you asked me...
Garage compared to Rap is a poor man's choice:
at least Rap music samples certain things...
Garage music is basically rapping over entire tracks...

but... at first we were allocated our spots...
i thought i was getting punished by Dan: once more...
but now i'm starting to think he really likes me...
i was placed on the entrance...
i was the first person the crowd would see...
i had to keep the flow of the crowd in the parameters
of the L cordon to the entrance and...
ensure the artists where allocated their parking space...
oh sure... i saw all these "artists" up and close and personal...
i swear to god... i have never seen so many
beautiful Essex SLAGS in one place at one time...
i love slags... they dress ridiculously...
they look ridiculously ridiculous...
some can pull off the look... others: unfortunately can't...
i don't see even close to this much of *** as
i see: and i see plenty of *** and legs in a brothel...
but here?! **** me... that's different!
i wasted my youth going to rock concerts...
i should have been going to Garage concerts...

one group of lads walked past with one exclaiming...
good ratio, eh boys? i hollered after him:
mate! believe me... the ratio is (*******) beautiful...
oh yeah... it's like 5 to 1...
i know why Dan put me in this position...
he knew i could filter the whole movement of people
and i was the poster-face for first contact....
i took photographs of girls before the SHOW ME LOVE
banner... blah blah... and...
ah ha!

i mentioned this woman before... the doe-eyed woman
from the London Stadium...
the one i really fancies... the ****...
turns out her name is CHILL-Y... i'll have to ask her again...
she used to be a nursery teacher,
before becoming a recruitment consultant...
she had a company she shared with someone
who disappointed her... she broke off from said X
and "took" the people she recruited with her...
even she reiterated that she didn't take them:
they left of their own accord...
i mean: i have the absolute hots for this woman...
who was i paired up outside? yeah... her...
she looked like a scared doe at the London stadium
when i first saw her... too many people...
i wasn't going to talk to her casually in front of so many
people... perfect opportunity to make my move...

she asked me a little bit about myself...
it's not like i'm going to boast about having a degree in chemistry...
i told her... i'm only doing this to get good reference...
ideally i'd love to teach primary school children:
as they say... it's not what you teach:
it's who you teach it to... but if i couldn't...
sure... high school chemistry?
where have i lived? Ilford... Romford...
oh... and prior to being 8... Poland...
my accent? oh... i couldn't put on an Essex accent...
i think you have to be born in Essex to have an Essex accent...
plus, i speak two languages so that buffers the chances
of me having a proper Essex accent...
like a Cockney accent...
she lives in Kent... in Dartford... Kent boys are
apparently different...
i knew this moment would come...
she has two children... looks like... the father of her
children didn't stick around...
she has these beautifully scared eyes...
like her beauty is slipping from her fingers...
she's probably only 10 or so years older than me...
she's stunning... i like older women...
and she's the sort of an older woman i'd imagine
being a widower to...
i really could imagine being with an older woman
and seeing her die first...
taking care of her... and spending the remaining
years of my life memorising every detail of
her in the years i spent with her...

so... i rationalised my first position as: well...
i'm the first face the crowd would greet...
i'm good with greeting people... blah blah this
blah blah that... before the hounds of the search teams
would get their hands on them...
i was hoping for something more... once the crowd
was almost entirely in... mind you: i managed to sieve
through all the beauties coming in...
it was like a roller-coaster for my libido...
Dan comes along and says: you're getting swapped...
**** is going to take over... tell him what you're doing
and just come to the concert arena and...
**** it... just float... walk around... be everywhere
and "nowhere"... **** turns up... he has no high-viz.
jacket... i radio in the predicament... i'm told to give him
my high-viz. jacket... grand...
now i look like someone of a higher rank...
i still have my radio but no high-viz. jacket...

and? i slither between the crowd of mostly women...
ah! so that's why i stopped going to night-clubs, yeah?
i slither around loads... loads of women...
i watch them dance, get drunk, dance some more...
i prowl... slowly... in between... i go behind the stage...
in front of the stage... bring water to my fellow colleagues...
blah blah... the looks i get...
i find that women have really low self-esteem...
there's one doe... there's another: all deer in the headlights
sort of aloofness...
sure... they can dress revealingly... but inside:
in their minds... they're all wearing NIQABS...
it's just one big mighty... farce!

one pokes me, i turn around, she waves at me...
i wave back... about three purposively pretend to play
snooker with me... bumping into me...
i'm wearing this tight fitting large black t-shirt...
copper-neck serpent has his sun-tan back...
his torso is bulging and so are his hands when folded...
another girl grabs my hands and starts dancing with
me... implores me to spin her around like a ballerina...
then spins me like a ballerina...
ah... these beautiful women... no wonder i never had
any success in the night clubs...
now that i look like i have some authority:
i'm all over the place...
another stops me in my tracks and implores me to
smile... i smile... and we dance this little dance
of moving left to right with our necks and heads...
she's only satisfied until i smile back...

i get put on a gate while some problem is getting
sorted... i tell myself: wait until the guy who asked
you to stay there comes back...
good thing i waited... some ******* high as a kite
jumps over the perimeter fence: straight into
the security area... tries to jump over that...
i stop him just as the managers walk up to me...

there's this other girl who approaches me:
are you security? i've just found this phone...
i take the phone and drop it over at control...
half an hour later i'm at control watching Dan give the phone
to a friend of the girl who lost it...
**** sake's i go on my first break and say:
i have some sandwiches in my backpack...
Dan takes out a 20 squid and says:
buy me a burger: no cheese... no sauce...
just the meat and the bun...
oh... and get something for yourself... seriously?!
yeah...
great... free 6 squid burger...
cheese, please, BBQ sauce and mayo...
i'm done with the ketchup and mustard combo...

oh... and i'm standing there fixing my radio to my trousers...
these two girls walk up talking to me about
pregnancy and toilets blah blah...
they say: you're playing with your *****?
what?! i'm just putting the radio onto my trousers...
i hate you one says... then retorts...
i can't hate you... you have beautiful eyes...

see! i could have been approached by countless women...
but most of these women fear rejection
so much that it's impossible to know...
whether you are approachable or not...
i shouldn't be going to brothels to "bury / drink away
my miseries"... but if it really takes a geared-up
drunk girl to break her inhibitions...
it really doesn't work like that...
i'm catering to their safety... once in a while picking
up an empty glass bottle from the floor ensuring
they don't step on it and slip...
i'm sober: they're drunk...
i feel awkward... they feel elated...
                                 it's a bit ******* pointless...

plus i have my sights on Chill-y...
from the very first moment i laid my eyes on her:
her nervy looking eyes...
eyes that read: i'm middle-aged and the men in
my life are really not worth my effort...
i'm going to spend the rest of my life alone...
my children are already starting on their adult path...
well... the Wembley shift is on tomorrow...
i wish i was at Basildon tomorrow...
but i already promised the London shift
and i buttered the managers up to the point of being
allocated inside...
i admit that i liked the first Foo Fighters' album...
i don't care much for their mega-band arena filling songs...

hell... until i meet "her": which is probably... never...
i'll follow up on the methodology of the VERCRUX...
i'll keep splitting my soul between many romantic
and ****** encounters... not when i'm 36 and in my prime...
i just don't want to be "thirsty": i.e. desperate...
that's why i waited for the right opportunity to pounce
on Chill-y... i couldn't just speak to her in front of everyone...
but Dan sort of noticed it...
that's why i was paired up with her at the beginning
of the event and was paired up with her upon egress...
we stood together and pointed people in the right
direction and chatted...

such a beautiful woman... i can imagine myself
being her widower... of **** me! what's wrong with me?!
i'm going to the brothel after i finish the Wembley
shift tomorrow... and yet here i am returning to my
teenage years' romanticism!
well... i guess that's how you balance the whole affair:
you **** a lot of women in order to fall in love
with one... i still don't know whether i'm in love with her...
i like the idea of love...

but i'm not going to give up the years of my prime
on just one woman,
i need more than one: it would be selfish of me...
plus? id abhor levelling off my testosterone levels
by taking care my my DNA-halves (children):
like i told Chill-y... i'd love to be a primary school
teacher... like i was having a conversation with these
two fine ladies: who had to go the primary school
of their children and tell the teachers:
you''d not indoctrinating our children
your sick identity-politics of a non-biological
reality and gender politics...
i agreed with them... you don't go after the children...
you don't teach children this *******' worth
of identity politics!

that's the only reason i'd go into primary school
education, rather than teach chemistry to a bunch
of insolent teenager brats...
a man is a man(full stop)
a woman is a woman(full stop)
                 perhaps David Bowie was allowed
to play with the androgynous nature of himself:
but he was an artist: not everyone is an artist...
and i'm talking: fully-bodied women who said
such things: back in a medieval period they would
be the ones with ******* serving hungry and thirsty
travellers pies and ale...

some of us have become immune to any sort of
cosmopolitan strands of argument coming from America...
esp. in England... we're looking at it thinking:
what, is, this, *******?!
surely children should be taught the distinction
between noun and pronoun... noun and verb...
noun and adjective... what's... gender neutral pronoun-nery?!
**** all... pronouns are either singular
or plural... mind you: nothing is also categorised
as a pronoun... to me? that's the only "gender neutral"
pronoun... nothing is a pronoun:
but it's more than "gender neutral":
nothing is both a singular and a plural neutrality...

in a way that the pronoun I is an absolute
singular centrism... nothing is the absolute neutral
centrism... i can be nothing...
we can be nothing... they can be nothing...
nothing is nothing and also a little bit more...
of nothing... roofing? it wouldn't allow me to write this
much, about, "nothing"...
physical labour where you're expected
to produce a high quality product that insulates
a building's structure against any water invasion
is unlike crowd-control... within the confines of crowd
control: i do one after another...
that's why i'm sitting in an armchair hunched like a crow
over a keyboard... pecking at it with 20 beaks...
worth of fingers... reminiscing...

ha! in the past my high school friends laughed
at my dole...
they worked jobs in supermarkets...
they worked jobs in DIY shops... in pubs...
me? i'm currently riding the tide...
i was a "joke" of a supposed "genius"...
i hope the "pandemic" taught them a valuable lesson...
this one "mate" of mine who worked
in the Homebase between Seven Kings and Goodmayes?
i'm just watching it get demolished...
what ****** me off about him?
once upon a time i once tried to confide in him...
tell him about my problems...
what did he say? his problems were bigger than mine...
he said the words:
'oh, you want me to take out a violin out for you?!'
we parted... i hope he looked back as i raised
my hands up into the air... and then dropped them
with force... **** it: let the "pyramid" topple!

i just wanted to confide: i knew his problems...
his parents were getting divorced...
his father flew out to Thailand and picked up a newer
model... his younger sister had some sinister
disability...
he was still living with his dad.... although:
his dad was was renting the top of the house to him:
sure... he was paying rent...
but he had the sort of space to allow him having
a girlfriend...
problem: his girlfriend's brother was prone to kiss
his mother's lips when saying goodbye...
we could have talked about that...
we used to watch movies together...
i'd ask if i ought to take my shoes whenever in his flat...
whether i could smoke cigarettes...
i used to drink beer he used to smoke marijuana...
watching a 2000 Space Odyssey was a treat...
i never talked so much about a movie...
  then again: ADAPTATION... starring Nicholas Cage...
that was a great movie to watch with him
high and me drunk...
but i just wanted to confide...
i too had my ******* troubles...
and for him to state: with his ******* violin crescendo...
my problems are bigger than yours...
oh... **** it mate... you're no good to me!
i left you in high-school! actually:
i should have left you in high-school!

look at me now... i'm having the time of my life!
i even tried to help him out with his writing ambitions...
i once wrapped a copy of GEEK LOVE
by Katherine Dunn in aluminium for his birthday...
he mentioned that he cited Beethoven's Moonlight
Sonata in a novel he was writing...
well... Katherine also cited it...
it looked like a great book...
what i wrote, to him? that was the first insult...
i knew the term: i think i didn't know what it implied...
the psychiatric term WORD-SALAD...
lucky for me i read the entire William Burrough's oeuvre...
so i knew...
but he said it with such spiteful-envy...

eh... it does hurt... thinking you might have some people
remain in your life from your youth...
but... you just tend to always outgrow them...
like a serpent shedding its skin...
it doesn't hurt now... it hurt back then...
before the pandemic... but the pandemic levelled
out the playing field: tremendously...
i found my footing: i'm guessing they lost theirs...

why am i still not married? i guess i didn't feel like
raising a child into a process of indoctrinating "it"
into the patch-work i sometimes find found among
father's at football matches:
why would i want a clone of me? what legacy
would that be deserving of my current "predicament"
if i only cared about whether my son supports
the same football team i support, like my father supported?
what, a, load, of, *******!
the only "thing" my father ever indoctrinated me
into was liking King Crimson's debut album...

his hands off-approach left me able to manoeuvre
by myself... to feed on my own desires...
he once even expressed that:
philosophy shouldn't be read by young people?!
i replied: so if not in youth? what good is philosophy when
read in old age, when i might be prone to dementia?
philosophy prepares you for life
unlike what pedagogy expects of man as a child!
no... i'm not waiting! my mind is fertile:
like my libido is fertile my mid-30s...
i'm not waiting! **** that!

i'd hate to be a father who takes his son to a football match
just in order to give him bias scrutiny for
localised geographies of adherence to... said...
"patriotism"... which i find paradoxical whenever
the club-scene dissipatates and the national team takes
over the fervour... of football fanaticism...

could i really breed a child with a woman
that might adore the music i like?
i'd hate t force upon them my likes of,
for example: fear of falling - like a lion -
prodigal - you / me (1983)... what comes closest?

bruno coulais' - dreaming... from the Coraline soundtrack...
i wouldn't want children unless they are their
own truer than me: selves of... themselves...
i wouldn't want to **** them up....
it takes so much mad, starving energy to allow
a person to become themselves without you
influencing them to become a replica of you...
best watch other people **** up...
then you have enough reasons to know why
you chose the alternative route of:
ideas can reproduce... ideas are like *****...

i will not shower my would be biological
"legacy" with a sordid mind...
mind you: a mind not sordid is verily available
to be luckily reproduced in a biological legacy...
people like me appear... then disappear...
we're not supposed to maintain a status quo...
we're devoid of such affairs...
we come, we go... we're never those with the legacy
of the in-between...
we think: we don't deal with what's already
established... thinking is originality...
by consequence of this originality one of our
faculties suffers: either our imagination,
our memory, or our capacity to dream...
i suffer from a lack of dreams...
and a lack of imagination...
but i'm brimming full with a capacity to memorise...
faces.. pointless facts... i can remember being 4...

oh well: life for life... and life to live some more.

perhaps i'm just... tired from making christmas eve
preparations...
the mother is fresh from hospital having had
a hip replacement - and she's only just teasing
being 60... and this sort of thing waits for women...
coming to 70+ and in 15 years or so...
there's a high chance of a second replacement
and that's only one leg and socket...
but christmas eve has to be covered...
whether she's sitting at the table or whether she's
lying in bed...
return of the dutiful son... some son,
some duty... and by no means a return...
i can't remember my 20s...
fog of psychosis or... never quiet allowed
to get a neurological perspective outside of england...
when i had the dough to get an m.r.i. scan...
they sent me with my early-dementia riddled
grandfather for the results...
i said: so, doc, kind herr neurologist...
am i mentally ill?
the doc replies: anyone who says you're mentally
ill is mentally ill themselves...
21... 33... 12 years of some sort of brain damage
and i'm still... typing and minding typos
like a neurotic or some variant on the spectrum
of impulsive-compulsive disorder...
i still want to see the face that ****** saw...
when he gave me... what he said was going to be...
an LSD trip shortened... so much for my naiveness....
friendships... ties to growing up and school...
so much for reading any C Castaneda
for that matter...
christmas eve is coming and i'm doing everything
i can to find an hour of drinking and typing...
it's hardly enough to find the perfect lotus...
i have to lay down twelve dishes for the table
come christmas eve...
christmas day is half sorted...
there's the meat already baked...
and all i'll have to do is the *******...
wrapped in an envelope of skin which will
be filled with butter and fresh thyme...
the baked tatties will be just fine and
the honey glazed carrots and 'snips will also be:
just fine...
and when the 26th of december comes i'll
be... hopefully... left with...
so much anticipation... over a month's worth
of advertising... i haven't bought a single gift...
i offer my time...
grandma calls today and says how...
it's nice that her son (my uncle) is there...
i have missed 4 consequitive christmas celebrations
in england... 4 years and now i see the banality
of christmas... in a catholic nation it's...
slightly different would be a major *******
understatement...
i should question... but...
i have come to understand that...
whatever the truth might be...
esp. if its the coincidental unearthing of
the nag hammadi library, the dead sea scrolls...
the year is 1945 and the great bomb just drops...
and... the gospel of st. thomas is only cited by
psychiatrists akin to r. d. laing in the 1960s
about... make the male female...
make the female male... the innter the outer...
or just your casual invigoration of the transgender
zeitgeist... and medicine catches up to the psychological
whims... and...
i'd just like a cold ms. amber...
perhaps a london derby in football...
a robin on a fence in my garden...
a migrating flock of canadian geese in the sky...
and a frosty morning with a cold azure delight
of a sunny pristine sky...
no pompous summer with her sensual ****
of scents and colours and distractions...
and how: winter is never old...
never somber... lucky for me... winter is always
drunk and readying itself for a birth in death...
or some pseudo-mystical *******...
but i can use a plethora of psychiatric terms...
last time i checked...
i was tested for regression in one instance...
regression being: having false memories being
insinuated for you to believe in...
a ***** trick done by psychiatrists...
i still don't mind...
those 12 dishes will be served...
- a mackerel paste salad
- herrings:
(a) in cream with apples...
(b) classic... oil and ocet
(c) kashubian
- a crab, prawn and smoked salmon pate
(cream cheese and trout caviar, dill)
- oven baked salmon with veg trimmings
- beetroot borscht
- borscht "ears" - dumplings stuffed
with cabbage & 'shrooms... or just 'shrooms
- short-crust pierogi (oven baked dumplings)
filled with pickled cabbage, 'shrooms onions etc.
- a trad con. salad
(cubed... eggs, potatoes, leek, carrots,
celeriac, pickled cucumbers in brine,
etc.)
- racuchy
- an oven baked cheese cake
- a poppyseed roulade
- a keks (fruitcake... very much a...
loan of weihnachtsstollen)... i've been feeding
this ******* 3 tablespoons of ***
every 2 weeks for the past month or so...

how many is that? there needs to be twelve...
****... herrings count as x3...
leftover prawns...
so... a...
- prawn cocktail...

and of course a plate and utensils for that...
un-expected guest...
would i go to the christmas eve mass?
the "shepherds' mass"?
last time i went... i dragged a monkey with me...
250ml of ***** is a monkey...
and i had a swell time...
listening to the nuns pray for the alcoholics...
but not the workoholics...
and playing itchy eyelid and nerve tourettes
with an itchy face with some kid
in the aisle in front of me...
and... then walking out mid-mass
to **** on the church: to ensure... it would...
grow!
but... this is england...
i can't afford to go to a catholic mass...
and not stand out...
not that many catholics around these parts...

i have my twelve dishes+...
christmas day is going to be a doddle...
the roast potatoes have been perfected...
the meat is ready to be sliced
with sour dough bread...
there are no children,
no presents to open...
just enough time to survive this over-hyped
*******... enough time to wait for
the true celebrations,
and these ones... if not in the company
of two people nearing 60...
then... two people nearing 85+...
with easter, in a catholic midst...
walking to church with painted eggs...
to subscribe to this... advent of the castrato choir...
easter and spring...
a crucifixion... that we do indeed pay such
obsolete rigour to tradition:
even if we're not expected...
i guess justifies everyone else being
so hyped-up about the birth and death
of a demigod...

i just imagine: but what if i didn't do all this?
what's the alternative to:
r.i.p. marie fredriksson - god rest your soul:
you beau lass... 'spending my time'?
the t.v. zombie? the internet claustrophobiac?
what alternative?
are you a downton abbey up fan...
or a downton abbey down fan?
up? the sirs and the class distinctions
and what the **** it has to do with
a room's decorum?
or... the staff locum?

all i know is that i'm about 20 minutes away
from a 25mg / 250mg naproxen / 500ml
of ms. amber knock-out sweet dreams goliath
*******...
i'm already thinking about...
postcards from Geneva...

the falling asleep part i never mind...
the waking up part: oh god i do, i do...
and there's nothing worse than apathy:
but of course there is...
there's the truth... and having to have
some secular decency...
in attempting to carry the burden
of disbelief...
a natural consequence of an equilibrium...
to have to have experienced the truth
in some way:
you can only carry disbelief with you...
as you somehow try to cover
a poppy's seed's worth of diameter every
year to a nibble of that once
grand truth...
a disbelief... a negation of:
because if i were to believe in... whatever
i have to disbelieve in order to covert and
tactifully let everyone else a place ahead of me...
what's the alternative? will what then becomes
"the truth" / a truth?

to have truth in your mouth...
in your ears...
in your eyes...
and then... to have to stall...
to carry with you a disbelief...
without a plethora of agnostic doubt...
imagine being...
excused from the thrill of entertaining
the plethora of emotions bound to
agnostic doubt...
i miss those days...
when one could simply "wish away"
a thought...
or a thought would disappear of its own accord...

yes the grand-wise master of a grandmother:
she fell from a chair...
which she stood on...
when a cushion was still on it...
because... she really wanted to change
the curtains in the kitchen...
the epitaph would have run...
i lived my life... but i died:
because i really had to change those curtains
since christmas and ****...

i am burdened with disbelief not because...
i don't believe it...
a marijuana hallucination in central london,
located with me hiding in a church: elevated...
a ******* choir, an iPod check,
a great wind...
polite society would not allow me to...
do much more...
i can't doubt... that's my problem...
i have to... "negate"...
i can't negate outright...
logically... premises, presuppostions...
web of rhetorical angst... etc. -
and i can't believe it either... by believing this:
marijuana auditory hallucination...
what? it's already 12 years "late"...
and by belief: will it?
to what end? my own? its: "its"?!

"my prefered genger pronoun is: ITS"...
well hello... ITS...
yes, ITS because it's not it is...
or rather it's because my it's ITS is already
included: so... i-its t t t t t...
have its ****?
em... samuel beckett... watt...
**** up its... etc. -
and grammar is that grand ******* crescendo
moment when all the apes will fall from
Julian Tuwim's opera carousel -
and fall they will: and will immediately
stand-up straight... and figure out...
the blessings of the thumb...
thumbs' up up anyone's ***.

with a thumbs' up like that...
in anyone's ***... you're bound to see
a thumb's peek-a-boo in Beijing...
like: swap-prizes! this one isn't even surreal.

perhaps my theory of learning comes too late,
it's experimental, still, it's only curated to me...
i still don't know how i learned English...
when i came to these isles...
perhaps i watched some ******-Doo on cartoon
network... i do remember...
that GI JOE movie... that really cool animated
movie... from the late 80s or the early 90s...
COB-R'AH... COB-R'AH...
                           silly little **** that i am...
hell... back in the day we used to play tic-tac-toe
with the girls... we used to dig a hole
in the ground... and throw marble ***** into it
sometimes we'd put more marbles in the hole
prior to the throwing session...
we... gambled... with marbles...
or we'd put chewing gum into bottle caps
and invent labyrinths where we're slide the
weighed down caps along... **** me...
did we role dice? to make moves?
i do remember getting hit by a swing... right in
the head from the back... where the kippah /
tonsure shave ought to be...
it hit me... i stood still... touched the back
of my head... the hand came back with blood...
i started crying and was taken to hospital for
stiches...
and when evening came... all the kids gathered
round and we played hide & seek...
or we talked...
i wish i could remember all of that with more
clarity...
i don't even remember how i learned English...
got thrown into the deep end of the pool:
swim ******... swim...
i had a copy of Disney's animated Robin Hood...
in Deutsche... perhaps that's why i'm teasing
myself so much with the zunge...
well... if i can't find a partner in England...
perhaps i'm thinking... let's try Germany...
          perhaps the women over there are...
more... "sensible": is a word that doesn't even
cut close to the slither of a cut...
sure... i remember... St. Augustine's primary
school in Barkingside... hiding in the toilet...
mute... unable to to speak...
then, suddenly... out of my own initiative...
i started reading...
hey presto... i started talking...
          my parents didn't speak this ****** tongue...
my father tried to teach me how to swim
on several occasions...
i'm ashamed to say that i speak better English
than my father... is that how immigration works?
for 2nd generation migrants, sure...
but 1st generation?
i also learned to swim on my own...
         peer pressure got the better of me...
and i'm thinking... this German "thing" i have...
my thinking is aligned...
what is the art of learning a new language...
well... i guess you'd have to start with a bank account
of nouns... oh... you need to have a bank acccount
of nouns...
red ist rot
    spatz is sparrow...
backwards and forwards we go...
swan ist schwan...
    sonne, mond und himmel: sun, moon and sky...
respectively...
i think you learn a language by first
associating yourself with the nouns...
calling things by their proper: designated...
understood, encryption... cipher...
nouns are ciphers...
because that's how you decipher what
someone who speaks another language
is talking about...
after the nouns? come the verbs...
what is done around nouns...
a tree?
   ein(e) baum...
you: du...
     chop... hacken...
down... nach unten... ein(e) baum...
to: zu... machen: make...
ein(e) tisch - a table...
oder / or...
                     ein(e) stuhl! a chair!

when i was younger it just: came! boom! like a big bang...
i was mute one day, speaking fluent the next...
but now that i'm older...
i'm thinking about going into hiding
somewhere in Germany... how do i do that, though?
i need a bank account of nouns...
that's sort starters...

i need to ensure i disorientate sky in my mind
for himmel... then i'll burn verbs into my head...
grammar itself will come last...
and since... prepositions, pronpouns,
conjunctions... are shrapnel...
i'm least worried about adjectives... although:
adjectives tend to be the most complicated...
well... unless it's an adjective like:
the best...
       der beste...                 beast...
do i need a French acute E to stress the second
E in beste?!
         no... i don't...

reddich... face...
    rötliches gesicht... see... adjectives morph...
from red: rot, to reddish... on its own: rötlich...
but coupled with a noun like: face?
the added suffix of -es...
oh the accenting would be a doddle...
under no circumstance am i learning Russian!
Greek... i could learn Greek...
but i have a fetish for German...
even though it should have been Danish,
or Finnish... Swedish or Norwegian...
nope... it had to be German...

it will take me months to start investing in
the noun bank account in German...
then the verbs...
then the adjective... i don't even know how
to categorise adverbs when it comes to speaking
a language... what's an adverb?

eh... conjunctions, prepositions, pronouns...
that's already taken care of...
the words in these categories take care of themselves...
they come, they go...
no one really gives a flying **** or a nun's "wisdom"
about them...
i don't understand why a small minority in
the English speaking world has such a hard-on
about one category of this shrapnel *******...

V US M! you what?!
come to think of it... hmm... i think i might have pulled
a truly spectacular trolling campaign with this
former love interest of mine...
well... i insinuated when we were travelling
to Oxford that my grandfather: god rest his soul
still had memories of asking two SS-men in
black clad: Hugo Boss uniforms for sweets...
that he said: herr! bite bon-bon like German might
write it, as one word: herrbitebonbon...
that he received sweets so sticky that his mother
had to out his hands under the tap
to unglue them... that the Russian army were all
colts... and slept in barns with goats...
true story... no need to lie...

i think i just trolled her: insinuating that i'm
secretly a ****...
   then there was this Millwall fan...
who just turned as a grandfather...
   and his comments were: oh, you're with him!
look at him... Adolf ****** over 'ere...
marching... hands behind his back...
                  i always said... if people want a villain...
they'll get a villain...
but... it's not the sort of villain they'll be able
to stomach...
**** me, i trolled her...
   but she doesn't look like the atypical pink faired
***** brigade type of post-careless
global communist... whatever it is that these
people are up to...

   can you believe it, though?
who attired the Wehrmacht?
      yeah... Hugo Boss...
                            i must have trolled her... a little...
just a pinch of salt... just a little...
but look how amazing they looked...
ah... never mind the sickly sweet mustard Khaki...
i'm talking about the philosophy
of Karl Lagerfeld...
wear your clothes like animals wear
their fur... **** me: in Deutsche!

wie tiere anlegen ihr peltz!

i have a comfortable, petty, standard...
look like a ******* tri!
         brown shoes, brown-green trousers...
brown t-shirt... dark... dunkel...
and a lighter heavy shirt... also... ebenfalls... braun...
braun-grün bäckerjungekappe...
i'll change my attire when the seasons change...
right now: ich bin hier...

but hell... if merely speaking German...
wanting to learn it... is a sign that you might be a ****?
i'm ******* going for it!
in defence of my historical enemies...
i'll be the first one to show up...
why? there's a historical tie... either at the pelvis
or at the *******... i have no narrative with
these newly arrived people...
expect in England... what... with these Pakistani
kiddy-fiddlers?!
right... well... if you're going to start somewhere...
might as well, start there, no?

well... at least with the Turks.... i'll gladly go to a Turkish
barber shop... "my" people had some run-ins
with the Ottomans in the past...
and if... they see... that i have a potential for a
fu manchu... because my moustache is blonde
as is my love spot... while my beard is brown...
and i didn't ask for one...
that they're doing the styling of(f) their own accord:
so be it... they know better...
i don't mind Muslims...
as long as they are Turks...

the rest? sort of... huddle... *******?!
i mean: who could have it even conceivable...
how can you mingle... rosemary...
with beef? but apparently you can!
i hate lamb... Nomadic meat... rich in stink!
in circumcision! i hate lamb!
******* Semites and their protein preferences!
Hebrew or Arab... all the entire host of them!
i hate lamb!
stinking meat... but these previous cultural
jewels of monotheism...
not too bothered about what of cheeses
they gobble down... if any...
at least a pork pie knows where a truffle is
hidden... ******* camel jockeys...
necrophilic usurpers of mountains...
backwards death-riddled people...
their superiority complex is... insufferable!

       you have to belittle these sort of:
******... cousin ******* sorts...
i get the gloryhole bukake fetishes...
but cousin *******?! come on...
how ancient do i have to be to allow
these people on Noah's arc?!
cull them... what?!
                      if push came to shove...
would you?
it's called a bullet to the head...
ask that lovely.... Ukranian serial killer...
why he was dragged into a cell...
shot in the back of the head..
ask... left for dead for almost two weeks...
ask... christine chubbuck...
femme incel... ask her...
            i'm not here to... care...
i'm looking for something:
"something"... exclusive...
exclusively monogamous... swan ******* lake...

now... let's line then up... shot to the back
of the head... in an isolated cell...
please... stop selling me the Hollywood
******* that a shot in the head is the quickest
way to die: no... it isn't!
******* psychopaths....
stab to the heart... that's less cruel...
but a shot to the head?
that urban myth of a cockroach....
living its best days without a head...
for almost two weeks...
why would someone... shoot a a man...
before... putting him inside any empty
prison cell?! bleed out of your ******* head:
herr orientierungshilfe?!
jawohl! jawohl!
   das ist rechts! beifall! beifall! zugabe!

how much i loved and wanted to love...
yet... how so little was afforded to me...
no matter... the world is what it is...
a very predictably unpredictable focus for
a deityto master...
  nichts ist nein:
   was hält diese welt: zusammen!

mein... besitzen... ich! bin! ihm!

sure... sure... pork is bad... but the niqqab
and cousin ******* is ******* kosher!
silly little "oink"-beards... inbreds...
protein selective wankers...
because your shoes... your belts are...
what? not pork?!
   your god is the equivalent of me saying:
i have an *******!
cousin *******... you insulted pig...
how about i insult you...
the pig is the most graciously domesticated
animal... priority over the dog...
but then again... you have have women...
that you treat like dogs...
eh... ****** cousin *******...
    nothing new...
nothing old... just same old... same...
i'd like to say: disappointment...
but i'm used to that, sort of crap...
you do you...
  but just don't get me involved...
******* *******...
         yeah yeah... you do that drill to the head...
no... we're not talking...
we will never be talking...
not over some vegeterian dish
or the idea of a global H'american quest for
a universal democracy...
come to think of it...
wasn't the H'american experiment...
the exact... antonym... of what the Soviet
communists attempted?
global democracy... is it so different
to global socialism?
thank god... that i can't tell the difference...
******* camel jockeys.

Nothing is accomplished
with ease, well, not worth
mentioning, if it's a doddle.

Give us our daily bread has a
Socialist ring, that same bell as,
please Sir may I have some more.

Bakers have never had it easy,
inclement hours, heat, solitude,
why it is, there is no Breadwalk.


For the Bread Muse.

There IS nobody to ask, you say,
when we turn our stomachached motor
up another wavy lane, temporarily
rest it as we squint at the AA Big Easy
Read Britain 2022, locate the B3220
and realise we’re in another
splodge of a town, homes in a hodgepodge,
the obligatory church. A mistake, we know now,
to leave late in the day, another hour ‘till
The Hole in the Wall where they’ll wait,
no doubt sigh, waste time spinning
the beermats as a gaggle of rowdy
just past-the-post teens blot the night
with the guzzling of spirits, their hangovers
like belches of fog come lun - Satnav wasn’t
on the blink, but it is. Now look, I say,
calmly because tempers can boil over
matters so trivial, if we take the A3124,
wriggle right at Whiddon Down
to the A30, breeze by Exeter, a doddle
down to the coast, we’ll make it by nine.
You know how impatient they are. Ten
minutes won’t hurt, the vehicle grumbling
into action, tired and miffed with our
wonky deviation. It’s then, eking back
the way we came, an image forms - a bronzed,
slippery chalice named Stella, flat cap
of foam on the rim of extinction.