Dotty was a beautifully coloured dragonfly with four wings
And a  long slender body,
She was made by Evelyn on the coldest day of the year
When the ground lay under two inches of snow
And a southerly wind blew flurry flakes of whiteness
Into faces and down fronts of coats.

All the way home Evelyn held on to Dotty
Protecting her from the bad weather,
Until she was safely on the kitchen table.
When you make things your heart wants
To share so Evelyn thought of her Grandma
Who she knew would just love to see Dotty.

Now in 2018 there is FaceTime a magical device
Allowing one to speak and see pictures of
One's family and friends,
So Evelyn asked her daddy if she could
Show Dotty to Grandma.

Grandma heard this ringing in her room
Coming from her iPad.
Who can that be she thought and went to see?
And there was Evelyn with Dotty
" I wanted to show you my dragonfly
That I made at playgroup this morning".

Well Dotty was beautiful with her painted wings
And Evelyn flew her round the room for
Grandma to see.
This made Grandma so happy and they both laughed
And talked and then Evelyn showed her Bagpus on her
Own iPad and Grandma and Evelyn both sang
The mice song.

It was only a short call and soon time to say goodbye
Evelyn said "you have made me very happy "
And Grandma smiled in her heart all day.

Love Mary ***

Dotty was a beautifully coloured dragonfly with four wings
And a  long slender body,
She was made by Evelyn on the coldest day of the year
When the ground lay under two inches of snow
And a southerly wind blew flurry flakes of whiteness
Into faces and down fronts of coats.

All the way home Evelyn held on to Dotty
Protecting her from the bad weather,
Until she was safely on the kitchen table.
When you make things your heart wants
To share so Evelyn thought of her Grandma
Who she knew would just love to see Dotty.

Now in 2018 there is FaceTime a magical device
Allowing one to speak and see pictures of
One's family and friends,
So Evelyn asked her daddy if she could
Show Dotty to Grandma.


Grandma heard this ringing in her room
Coming from her iPad.
Who can that be she thought and went to see?
And there was Evelyn with Dotty
" I wanted to show you my dragonfly
That I made at playgroup this morning".

Well Dotty was beautiful with her painted wings
And Evelyn flew her round the room for
Grandma to see.
This made Grandma so happy and they both laughed
And talked and then Evelyn showed her Bagpus on her
Own iPad and Grandma and Evelyn both sang
The mice song.

It was only a short call and soon time to say goodbye
Evelyn said "you have made me very happy "
And Grandma smiled in her heart all day.

Love Mary ***

Dotty screws the pen lid,
puts the pen down, folds
her hands in her lap. *****
has finished his poem, he

is now silent, his muse has
gone. She watches as her
brother sits back in his chair,
pushes his fingers through his

dark hair and sighs. That makes
her almost cry, that poet muse
going like that, him sitting there,
face empty, sighs leaving him

instead of words. Tonight she
will enter it all in her journal,
after cocoa and a biscuit and
*****’s kiss and him gone off

to bed, humming to himself.
She will sit by lamplight, take
out her pen, and write on the
clean page, how he wrote,

what he wrote, the words,
the muse, the leaving of him.
She will leave out the kiss,
the embrace, the seeing each

other face to face. ***** hates
writing things down, he just likes
to sit when the words come and
he can speak them and let Dotty

write the words in the air floating
there. He gets up from his chair,
paces the room, his hands behind
his back, his words gone, his mood

dark, becoming black. Dotty looks
at her hands, entwines her fingers,
makes a church, makes a steeple,
looks inside, sees ink stained people.

I might have known
said Dotty
I might have known

you were just like
all the rest of men
but

said Brintskin
don’t you but me
you slime snake

Mother always said
men weren’t
to be trusted

and she was right
I should have listened to her
instead going off with men

at such a young age
but hang on there
Brintskin said

I was getting a lift
in a woman’s car
after a hard day’s work

sure
Dotty said
sure you were

I know women
and I know men
and what happens

when they get together
and what did she want huh?  
want to show you her etchings?

no it wasn’t like that at all
she just asked
did I want a lift home

after work and I said yes
Brintskin said
I bet you did

I bet you couldn’t
get that word yes out
quick enough

why I bet she had her ******* off
before you could blink an eye
and as usual

you had to get
caught out didn’t you
and Dotty paused

for a moment
to pour a drink
and sip it

all the while
glaring at Brintskin
and he stared at her

as if she’d changed
into a bullfrog
and then she sighed

and said
well what happened?
nothing happened Sweetie

Brintskin replied
she just offered me
a lift home in her car

and I said yes please
and so she gave me a lift home
Dotty sat down

in the armchair
and crossed her legs
and Brintskin studied her thighs

as the skirt rose up
as she sat down
and Dotty said

ok so maybe I believe you
maybe what you say is true
and I am just getting

the wrong end
of the stick
you sure are

Brintskin said
following the line
of his vision

as far as his eyes
could go
and caught a glimpse

of ***** line
whiter than snow.

I'm a socially awkward person
Who comfortably pretends not to be;
My friendships are so spotty, I'd be dotty
To delude any of them not to be!
Although, its true, I have no foe,
But who would be my friend?
My silence is my shelter,
When the chaos never ends.

Young Americans, all volunteers
Sampling English women and English beer
Over sexed, over paid and over here

In the scrubby bit next to Sally's house there used to stand another cottage. If you scrape away some soil you can find floor bricks. A german fighter tailed some bombers back, shot one down as it made its final landing approach.It crashed short, demolishing the cottage. When Sally first moved in there were bits of metal laying around and dials hanging in the trees. An old boy turned up one day, a surviving crew member. They gave him some bits of his old plane to take home.

On planes with names like
Frivolous Sal, Dauntless Dotty
Million $ Baby, Memphis Belle

Sylvia was a child during the war.They saw a german fighter shot down, the pilot managed to open his chute. He walked up to their house, knocked on the door and gave himself up. Sylvia's dad marched him down to the Police Station.

Braving the freezing hostile skies
Thousands and thousands of you guys
How can we thank you
After you've died?

Next to Diane's house, hidden in the trees are the remains of nissen huts built as accommodation for the airmen. Not much left after 70 years, a few concrete block walls. Now and again she used to see some misty-eyed old guy gazing into the trees.

Long after you're gone
The land remembers
Bears the scars
Of those few years of turmoil

David is a gardener in our village, nice guy, should have retired by now. Don't think his father ever kept in touch.

i have three books of poetry in front of me, and i'm asking the preliminary questions that needs to be answered before i add my own little scribble - as always saturated with the cross-Atlantic soul-searching audio, this grand world and this tsunami from across the Atlantic, all ravaging my ancient soul spanning from Iceland to the wheat basin of Ukraine and the Caucus in general (kałczatka), Finnish, Estonian and Hungarian anomalies, sounds exotic i guess, what with Minnesota english, Californian english, Maine english, Texan english - it can almost feel a little sad with so much biodiversity outside the realm of spoken tongue occupying such a vastness - always mesmerising: americans in Europe - ever the few across my path - anyway... the three books, three writers, jack spicer, miroslav holub (czech for pigeon) and j. s. harry - the question? who would i like to imitate, or at least write as? answer? none of them.

like today, cool night, open skies and constellations,
a police helicopter making its ridiculous
coleslaw of sound - chit chit chat chat (my best
approximate, even if that, not really - chop variations
will be better excused for reasons why the words
were include) - change of tactic, uncoupled
the starter of beer before the main course of whiskey
with wine - god, haven't drank it in such a long time,
i forgot how well wine compliments cigarettes,
even if it's drank via the Basque desecration of
the Nazareth covenant, i.e. with coca-cola -
yep, kalimotxo - 2/3 to 1/3 coca-cola - once i gave
it to someone and they went spaghetti knees -
it's a right-odd cherry - shame i drink a bottle of
wine like i drink a bottle of beer - the whole joke
of Nick Harper (turning wine into water) -
2008's most watched sitcom - Chiswick, London -
middle-class family (for whoever is class-conscious) -
my family* - but what i really wanted to mention
was the Babylonian unravelling, it's no big deal,
i didn't exactly want to remember the encoding that much,
but i realised that even though the English do not
use diacritical marks, the French do, but they are worse
at profanities of writing letters but sort of veering off
from using them - Rimbaud in America is apparently
said: 'Rambo' - not Rim-Baud(elaire) - eclair -
dotty d d - surds or cloth softeners? i don't know anymore.
like in the already mentioned example of desecration:
kalimotxo - kali-mo-t'cho'h - a bit like mojito -
mo'he'to'h - surely with the world getting global there
should be a standard, universally speaking -
sure the borders are down, but the phonetics are still
in distinction - like in Czech-mate when asking:
š works with č - sh and ch respectively - or sz and sz
depending if you're germanic with the former and
slavic with the latter encoding - but ě and ň? the alternatives
are ę (a sound that resembles something like an e
          and swallowing your tongue)
                                                                ­and ń (a higher-pitch
of a syllable from knee, a bit like née, but more like
Anaïs Nin) - never mind, wine really compliments cigarettes,
thus the compass:
                                                å     ­         

                   àá                         æ                        ä, ą

                                               ã, â

all roads lead to Rome, you'd never imagine the unravelling
of this ancient γραφεμη would yield so many additions
to the respective letters contained within it,
just look at Adam and the baggage that came with it,
Eve isn't exactly free from the excess baggage either,
if you don't believe me, see the diacritical additions she's
carrying - but who the hell is Oswald? oh right, it's
the 21st century, it might be Ophelia or Olga;
and yes, i'm bypassing the linguistic alphabet - shoving
it into the dark, working from scratch.

How Long Is A Dream?

How long is a dream,
Stream of consciousness
Mirroring –unconsciousness,
And speed of thought
Reckoned
In seconds,
Pinned into entities
Clear as a bell.


The pain or the joy of
Of a day gone away,
How long is the theme
Crammed into a dream,
The bad and the good
Reflecting the childhood dance
Of experience,
Mire of desire explicit as film.

How long is a dream
Is the same as to ask about time
And the time that it’s taken
To organize, star in, produce and direct -
(You do/are all four)
Constructions so tricky and dotty and flighty
It might take one years
To write out all those fears, hopes and wishes
Compressed into minutes
From snippet to whole.

How long is a dream,
In its limits or boundlessness
Fluff as reality stuffed into seconds.
Puzzling, perplexing,
It keeps a man guessing,
The question as madd’ning
As how long is string?

How Long Is A Dream? 1.25.2017
Circling Round Reality; Nature Of & In Reality;
Arlene Corwin

Soon the northern sun has a corona
nations bound to its regal attitude tide
high sea son's tossed
a half crown head turning golden summer
seas on ends
to land shiny tails down south
as if every sea's on wings
away to seek or sink an immortal sun
I stand on
the divide
feeling the hesitation

two day's
the moon's
seas wax fuller
bridges
spangling love waves
from a salt shaker
on a pearl within
your aphrodisiac
world is my oyster

hinge wriggled open
to be held at bays
sliding into the mouth
of nature's hunger
for where a tan fades
into season spicy
summer's parting harvest
of farewells

surface mining to be done
by stripping vegetation
down to bare branched amber
ore deposit shafts
of light marking
the sun dial's changed number
with your toppled hourglass figure
a vase
pressed with dahlia
and salvia flower
upset without the friction
of pepper heat
milled into smooth skinny
latte malt
drunk on moisture
laden skies

layered over swaying
thought bubble dreams
of cloudy evenings
freckled rain
and streaming grain
fleeing the field seemingly overnight
as fleeting as goals
scored between our legs
running off home
hands full with harvest in
cartwheeling arcs
stored with the last gasp
solar flared nostrils
wild as meadow ripened
yearlings

in the joy of escape
we join their bare backed
flight circuiting dizzy
shamanic heights only to fall
back to earth like Pegasus
shaking off Bellerophon
striking a mount Helicon
with hooves whose marks
cause springs to channel
fountains of inspiration
after defeating a Chimera
with great spirited whinnying
breathing out tipi fire vents
gone sweat lodge native
skins lashed outside
keep the glow snug inside

rustling about the bite
incoming winds of change
fright the landscape
flocking to shower
in fresh cooler air
lifting us like birds to shadow
the moves to renewed
lighter climes leaving
soaked sticks
dripping acorn colour
scattering an autumnal quilt
around tired bed fellows
an interlocked cycle pattern
for coming riders on the storm
to be in memory trunks
splashed with mist
pooled effort

released to dry and recover
side-by-side
once the wardrobe fills wooly
headed
for warming coats of evening
russet
we settle tone down on a chill out
wish
list ridden dotty by a love chauffeur
cycle
ticked off sun set to be sent
to bed early
just when ours clock on two
four
season
happy hour

I want to tell y'all a story
About a man named McCrory
Made a law about who can use what *****
The rest of the world thinks he is dotty
This man is a bigot
Can you dig it?
North Carolina really wonders
How he could make so many blunders
But soon we will make him pay
When we throw him out on Election Day!

drawing the child with found fabrics

watching the marks come good, no dots
intended
yet they came
without warning

I fear one day I should have daughters,
Yet I already know their names:
Ruby, Jane, Dotty, Maggie, Charlotte.
Would it be a blessing or a curse
If they turned out like me?
My mom told me when I was young
“it ain’t easy being a woman, I’m sorry.”
Sure as **** that was true.
I swear I never took that woman for a fool.
I can’t help the way it plays in my head
The pain in a woman’s eyes
Her smile so alive
It tells every lie
Deep down she’s half dead.
As I walk this path myself
Just as generations before
I wonder if that’s why
Little girls have such pretty names
To have something to keep it together for.
I’m older now and I still dream of their faces
How they’ll do right by
Our family of strong women
Whose names they were given.
Don’t be sorry, Mamma dear,
You pass your burdens to me
So our family can survive another year.

Dotty lies in Willie’s bed,
he’s gone to fetch Sammy
his poet friend and will return
in a few days. She sniffs
her brother’s pillow, smells
his hair oil and aftershave.

She snuggles into the bed
for warmth, pulling his duvet
tight around her, imagining
it’s him holding her, his arms
about her. She has a headache,
a coming near the edge, migraine.

Feels sick, light leaking through
the curtains makes it worse.

She puts her head under the
duvet, shuts out the bright light.

She smells him better here, his
love of scent, his personal choice.

She hears birdsong from the garden,
a blue ***, great ***, unsure which.

Willie’d know. She squeezes her
eyes tight keep out whatever light
might intrude. Willie’s left her some
of his poems to type up and file away.

Later in the day, she muses, once
the sickness and migraine’s gone.

He had a good day yesterday with
the poems, she recalls, him reciting
over and over as they walked, her
scribbling down, pencil and pad,
her finger and thumb holding the
pencil tight until they felt numb.

After they returned home and sat
by the fire and he spoke them out
one by one. She loved the one about
winter dawn. She turns over, faces
the wall, her head buried into Willie’s
warm indentation. In the darkness
she recites the poems one by one,
the words pouring from her lips,
following each other like children
out to play. She shuts out the dawn
chorus of birds that celebrate the day.

Our beloved Aunt Bertha.
She didn’t see pixies and elves
She saw ******* and jerks
With no obvious perqs!
That's the breaks of being someone
That, all by themselves,
Can have arguments and fights
And even though it wasn’t right
That is who she was, unique;
Immune to other people’s pique,
Surrounded by unseen creeps.

But she loved us kids, she did.
And found us when we hid
And cooked cakes and pies.
The love in her eyes spoke clearly
And nearly bowled me over
Because it was not deluded.
Yes, her quirks intruded on us
But we let her cuss and rail
At invisible fools. Those the rules.
She couldn’t help herself a bit
And that was the end of it.

So, we listened covertly
And overtly smiled at her a lot
Knowing what we had got
Was the dotty aunt they put
In the attic in the old days
In less loving times and ways.
But we loved her and wanted
A place not haunted by wardens,
And nasty nurses robbing purses,
Where she could live her life.

She liked to sing and dance
And every time I got the chance
I danced with her, as thin as a zipper
I guided this middled aged aunt
And when she started to pant
We changed the music to slow
And right back she would go.
She sang the tunes from the war
And more from movies and shows.
Can anyone know how great it is
To share with someone impaired
And know the gift you have shared?

i used to play guitar,
as i also used to fiddle with
my fingers, against the thumb...
titilating experience...
playing guitar?

    let's just say...
how would a guitarist read
a morse version of
braille,
would it be easier
to read the morse
version of braille...

   or just braille?
numbed tips of fingers
of a left hand...
                                      ∴

   morse                                   braille
. _                                             ⠁
_ . . .                                         ⠃
_ . _ .                                        ⠉
_ . .                                           ⠙
.                                                ⠑
. . _ .                                         ⠋
_ _ .                                          ⠛      (g)
. . . .                                          ⠓
. .                                              ⠊
. _ _ _                                       ⠚
_ . _                                          ⠅
. _ . .                                         ⠇
_ _                                            ⠍ (m)
_ .                                             ⠝
_ _ _                                         ⠕   (o)
. _ _ .                                        ⠏
_ _ . _                                       ⠟ (q)
. _ .                                           ⠗ (r)
. . .                                            ⠎
_                 ­                              ⠞
. . _                                           ⠥ (u)
. . . _                                         ⠧ (v)
. _ _                                          ⠺
_ . . _                                        ⠭ (x)
_ . _ _                                       ⠽ (y)
_ _ . .                                        ⠵ (z)

point being... you really must have
tender finger tips to read braille...
which also implies...
if were not born blind...
   when you were not blind
and had to roughen your hands up,
with some mediocre "waste of time"
akin to playing a guitar?
   ****... you're ******!
no, literally...
   because if braille is the answer...
and you have thick finger-tips?!
that's it...
  
   unless of course,
braille is replaced with morse...
test: i write with my right hand...
but... if i were to read?
i.e. use my left hand
for both playing the guitar
and reading?
      braille, or morse?
morse!
    at least it is adherent to some
sort of translateable
arithmetic / quasi-algebra...

you must have very tender
finger tips to read braille...
i tried it a few times,
given that its provided on
most of the packaging
of pharmaceuticals in england...

      i.e. diabetic type 1,
born with it,
diabetic type 2,
                        overdid the chocolate...

sorry, my finger tips are too rough,
shouldn't have learned to
play the guitar,
              i couldn't read you braille
with these fingers...
but if you translated braille
into morse?
       chances are...
                              i probably could.

plus? i wouldn't require tender
fingertips, akin to a french origin
braille reader...
    
      give me morse, blind?
i could read it...
but, the current braille?
requiring tender french
finger-tips? no hyphen,
solely dotty?

               well... good luck...
finding the next blind lemon jefferson...
who, apart from playing the guitar,
could also read braille...
good luck!

you know Philip Larkin was the king of the selfie - the contrast a painter would have made with a self-portrait, a fascination we all inhibit or exhibit - how about a selfie to end all selfies, open hangman style?!

- ᚹᚨᚱᛞᚱᚢᚾᚨ son ᚻᛖᛚᚹᛖᚷᛖᚾ -
chisel in timber is nothing compared to ornamental marble
on the streets of Rome; the Coliseum god's chosen architecture
above pyramid by far, and temple prior -
as care worded: let man be entertained, even with the man
dead the entertainment exists to be furthered - athletes instead
of gladiators, less blood, more chemistry and cheats
who are asking for the full capacity, otherwise chemists
are extensions of dentist and fluoride pushers via pastes* -
the runes though - chicken scratches - etching -
i too croaked while the Barbarossa prophesy
resounded in my birth-town: the return
of the horde of nachtklappe -
me chasing a night butterfly in my bedroom:
in the glass eye you go; in!
fed the tarantula with you! but that's affirming
origin in the equatorial axis - dear moth,
my woollen jumper bemoans your larvae trims.
with me a Woad ****** tattoo -
with that song, hangover i preyed on misery
with a gratifying cascade of tear -
how some men strive for popular beliefs in their
coordinates outside their chosen realm of expertise,
a soldier outside of war, a gladiator outside a
coliseum, an artist without paint and canvas,
while the so called mediocre's search is done ever
so quickly with a shop selling necessary goods...
travesty transcendental or travesty simply necessary?
it takes trans-generational interest to become
a Turkish shop-owner in the medium of art,
it literally takes St. Samael (angel of death) to get involved,
you're writing poems, you're not selling tomatoes,
to become recognised while living, for your art
is, well, some would just utter the word: unfashionable.
unless of course you write utter drivel...
then the stage is yours - for the most part we're not
aiming to write oration pre, but aim to write echo -
capturing aquatic vibrations, waves, sine or cosine.
but i still wonder: given the lazy diacritic above iota
(and jasmine) - ι - i.e. dotty rather than comatose -
why is it necessary to have a Buckingham Palace royal
flag waver from í to ì via ι / concretely i but no
straight comma stress as necessary involvement pin-point
usage as rather the simply visible ιota without the dot?
no wind or simply a camera zoom to pinpoint
the tourists' fascination?
whatever the answer, punctuation marks
added to letters reveal: outside of letter-attachment: timing,
invoked with letters: stressing - shame no semicolon
made it to be added to a letter: thankfully we have ;) -
wink wink smiley - this is me,
reminiscent of Wittgenstein bedazzled by Copernicus'
late entry with the heliocentric system, later to be
replaced with an egocentric system - whatever good
that did to improve the geocentric beginning -
and the horizontal colon (:), the hyphen added / macron,
comma, full-stop, the approximate ~, but no semi-colon -
the Adam of emoticons - the reason most banker Jason
Fritzes don't use punctuation is because they don't
use diacritics.

Chasing camels knowing nothing
Faded, crossing the grass!
Dollar signs in my hair, nothing nothing, despair
Something sweeps along!

Pirates (become) cool again, kingdoms crossing dens
I wonder what keeps you afloat!
In the end however
You shall ought to ought discover
You better pay attention
Cause those wallabies won’t be merciful today

An hundred ***** dozen
The earth’s cosmic crap
Don’t worry about a thing
Let it all hang out loose

The floating desert above my window
Seeing cacti from miles around
That melty feeling in the floor
Buddy, buddy, buddy, buddy

Cortisone, Caroline, chlamydia  

Ryan Reynolds’ ***** fat old swine
Never letting go of this once-ward prime
Purple moles with drills on their heads
Green dotty daughters of pinkness concoction
Creation of the nullness of the black thing-a-mah-bob
Relapse and relax, do your slam thing.

I just might have to trip
To the Anza-Borrego Desert State Park today, I've longed for a good park experience lately, this place, a place of the Colorado desert of southern California, hot dusty climate, just might match my skin, or will it crisp my skin off my grainey bones, its open 9-5pm, I think I might be a naughty dotty and stay past park hours. Looking forward to the fishhook cactus, and the
Apricot Mallow's. A good trip for this man of old and hollow.

We women
Have our brains inside our knees
Are crazy about shopping
Talk too much
Cry without any reason
Break everyone’s heart
Are weak, dumb
And yes mean and rude
Never accept our fault
Treat our husbands like slaves
Don’t get sarcasm
Get offended too easily
Are dotty about wealth
And are gold diggers by nature
Is there anything left?
In your long list of misogynist ****
Do tell me
So we can finish it one go
I mean what’s the point in repeating
The same lame jokes everyday

title: copepod
body:
blister-whale:
somewhat: 2. 502 bad gateway give-away

i have to admit, i took a hiatus from listening to
Marilyn Manson... by chance i came across
a review of... either Born Villain or the Pale Emperor...
clearly: i wasn't paying attention...
ever since i missed the chance to go to a concert
when he was touring the Holywood album...
that same year Mudvayne were touring with L.D. 50...
i switched off after their debut...
i switched off from the music of my youth in general...
went down several rabbit holes...
notably medieval music - blues - jazz -
                      some extra-curriculum classical....
but the artist ages... well... so does his audience...
i don't even remember when i started writing:
let alone posting dotty-doodles on this platform:
i had only one focus... for all the ills that the internet
enhanced... revealed when it comes to the interaction
of people: sure... the older generations found it
convenient to shop... to do banking... to book plane
tickets... but for us younger folk... the ones born
into the years prior to the inception of the internet...
this was our time to build up an underground
of communication... for me? what better way to bypass
the gatekeepers, the publishers...
having amassed some readership... 44 thousand on just
one poem? hmm... let me spell it out: 44,000...
if i were to write it out in matchsticks, i.e. |||||||||| = 10...
what is 44,000 of those pretty stacks of arithmetic?
let me see what 100 looks like...
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what about a thousand?
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                                                  = 1000...
now... i know what 44 thousand looks like... roughly...
how many spectators were there at Wembley...
for the woman's F.A. cup final?
                                        let's say... 41K...
now multiply that space of matchsticks by... 44...
but this is only one poem... i have... thousands of poems...
some are still stashed on my facebook page:
or rather lost on my timeline...
           mind you: i haven't performed any of them...
why? they don't rhyme: for starters...
i like listening to people sing Aud Lang Syne
on new year's eve... and even Shakespeare can't
beat that... Shakespeare's words were never put
to music... and they won't be...
sure... great meter blah blah... but you can't sing
Shakespeare... so there goes the baby...
with the bathtub and the water out of yer
******* window...
                            i'm more a composer than a performer...
i'm more a composer than a performer
therefore not an entertainer...
i gave myself this: jinx... the moment i start
performing... is the moment i stop composing...
i'll just be regurgitating the very few poems
that might be left in my repertoire like...
Ginsberg... having to recite Howl ad nauseam...
me? i'm sort of in the mindset: plough along...
let's not beat around the bush...
   for all the ills of the internet... there's one good...
the possibility to bypass gatekeepers...
publishers... no one would touch my ****...
and yet: they are printing tabloid spew...
           sorry... tabloid *****...
                they are printing propaganda left right
and centre... my work would be... obscure...
revealed: ha ha... perhaps after my death...
let the people judge for themselves...
                     i'm not saying it's Shakespeare...
god forbid writing that stuffy ****...
                             it's contemporary... i don't even think
i'd allow myself to belong to a movement
akin to post-modernism...
   hell: if **** comes naturally... it comes...
if it doesn't... well... i usually need to do something...
ha ha: "cope"... do some cooking, do some cleaning,
do some gardening... so some ironing of the shirts...
go to my part-time job... wait a year until i'll ask
for references and then apply for a job as a teacher...
or take the current route and become a security guard...
which route would allow me to write, more?
probably the latter... then again... experience
as a security guard... could come in handy...
on a curriculum vitae... when it comes to crowd control...
in a classroom of kids...
    but i really don't want to teach chemistry...
i'd love to teach English...
                   - but don't get me wrong.... some artists /
bands got the mix right... they understood
that there needed to be a prominence of the BASS guitar...
Metallica sure as **** didn't catch up...
pretty much all those kinds of bands didn't...
barely audible... well... with the exception of
the intro on Devil's Dance... but then the bass disappears
into inaudibility...
it's like a post-jazz hybrid... in rock music...
the rhythm guitar and all that is considered "melody"
can sort of *******... let's just leave in the screetching
accents of the guitar... keep the vocals...
but... but... let the bass guitar exfoliate...
   and... let the drums compliment it...
    no no... the drums are no longer the building block...
the bass guitar comes first...
  it's a bit like borrowing from opera...
    bass is the baritone... rhythm / solo guitar the soprano...
yada-yada-blah-blah some minutes later...
songs like the Gardener from Born Villain and
Third Day of a Seven Day Binge from the Pale Emperor...
if you listen to them... you can truly... truly: groove...
you can't stop nodding, can't stop swaying...
you start thinking: how is it that pigeons don't
get headaches? i guess they must be listening to cosmic
music only pigeons can hear... like those dog whistle
scenarios... humans can't hear it...
but since... all birds descended from dinosaurs...
they strut... nodding... head-banging... some ancient
music of the cosmos: ergo? no head-ache...
hmm... and this writing coming from a guy who
drinks like a pirate... and is waiting to do psychedelic
drugs if... he might enter the confines of dementia...
oh yeah: i'm keeping that option open...
should i start to slip up... on my pedantic spelling
and punctuation... i'm ******* off to Amsterdam
to a brothel and some magic mushrooms... ****...
i'll need to get a bus out of Amsterdam and find some
forest... something scenic... mind you:
the Netherlands are not that scenic... flat... upon flat...
upon flat... although... that's the jist of things you see
from the motorway when going through...
i'm sure i could find some beautiful spots to trip...
  should the worst come...
but the artists i was fond of listening to in my youth
have finally caught up with what i was thinking:
where, the ****, is, the BASS?
       ****** music jerking off the solo guitar...
no, please... and all that rhythm guitar...
   challenge the drum & bass crowd...
that sputnik crowd of... turning African drumming
into... a stampede of hyenas on amphetamines...
    boomboomboomboomboomboomboom...
mind-blowing load of headache....
the bass guitar can do two things...
it can set the rhythm... it can set the beat...
but it can also can create an undercurrent of a melody...
oh ****... that's three things...
   early Marilyn Manson did respect the bass playing
of Twiggy Ramirez... but... there was still the guitar-maker
melody overload...
the mature artist... given songs like: the Gardener
and Third Day of a Seven Day Binge...
respects the bass guitar... it comes so gloriously to the fore...
something a band like Metallica can never
accomplish... or Led Zeppelin... all those 1970s greats...
those bands had the bass guitar pop up...
in a segment of a song... NIB? by black sabbath?
and then... disappear... don't undermine the Leviathan...
this rock fusion with post-jazz...
oh of course... there's no section in this music...
whereby each instrument takes a chance to solo...
there's no need... everything is just ******* dandy
as it stands...
             - and where would i be... the internet is evil!
ooh: boogie-woogie! sure... people are acting
like ****-storm brainiac... brainiack... brainiak...
   brainiaq...      just four of the possible aesthetic questions
regarding the spelling of: Otto Binder...
not that i'm a massive comic book fan...
well... if you get a chance to meet Declan Tan...
Declan... yeah... for my birthday he gave me a copy
of... Batman vs. Alien... no wait... it was Batman/Aliens...
published in 1997... i think Declan liked me...
i sort of think i liked Declan...
                      the first time i tasted chicken soup that
wasn't Slavic born... with sweetcorn...
(ISBN 1-56971-305-7)...
sure... it's evil... people ghosting each other...
dark-web ******* inner circles etc., the silk road...
hmm... ghosting... poor Jeminah...
how many times did i play roulette... cycling down
Mawney Road in the past... 3 weeks?
not that often... i tried at least once a week...
not that i'm stalking... but it's a decent route...
it's all downhill... and chances of cycling onto sharpnel
is limited... mind you... never... ever...
cycle into the London borrough of Barking & Dagenham...
chances of getting a flat tire... esp. if you're cycling
on 23cm wide tires of a road bicycle?
no brainer...
   before pulling into Mawney Road... i was...
blinded by a sunset... idiot me forgot to wear his sunglasses...
but i stared at the ***** with eyes wide open
waiting for white phosphorus to start pouring
from under my eyelids...
   oh... i'll be looking at you... until the point
where i see you for what you really are:
but you're never really that when you're at sunset...
or sunrise... it's only at your zenith when...
staring long enough at you... exposes you as this
pulverising... vibrating mirror of fluorescence...
sort of silver... sort of white... but not when you're
coming down from your zenith... you're still blinding...
  - only a day prior i thought i saw Frankie...
Friendrich... her son... getting on the bus...
from a 5-a-side football centre off Eastern Avenue...
turned out it wasn't him:
no, it couldn't be him... over-protective mother
would never allow her son to take the bus on his own...
plus... the kid is supposed to be an actor...
she's milking him... "apparently"... he's into bedroom fun
on a games console... you couldn't find him
climbing trees or playing sports... a *****... basically...
the only sport he might have heard of...
is... boxing... to defend him mother from abusive
boyfriends... where: he'd always lose...
- i was waiting for this moment...
the sun blinded me gloriously...
   as i cycled down Mawney Road...
that's the thing about meeting Jeminah... her dog...
i had these self--inflicted knuckle wounds
from putting out cigarette butts on them...
her dog... oh man... her dog loved me...
he really quickened the healing process...
he licked and licked and licked... and licked...
the scabs off... to the point where i started bleeding again...
looking at my knuckles...
nothing prettier in the world... no tattoo could
compensate them...
so as i was cycling down Mawney Road...
who do i see? the over-existed dog... barking... chewing air...
i see the dog first... the dog sees me first...
i later make out that... glorious colour of her hair...
that darkened ginger that's mingling with oak-cask
auburn... i put on my most impressive frown...
i don't look her in the face... mind you:
everything's ******* fluorescent before me
having been blinded by the sun just minutes prior...
i'm not stalking... she was the one that invited me
back to her home twice... yeah... i know where she lives...
that's when i had that mad moment
of leaving her flowers on the porch...
and a Valentine's card through her letter-box...
o.k.: fair enough... that's borderline creepy...
what isn't... with modern woman and feminism?
          a simple boy can't offer up simple love...
i learned from my supervisor...
the daughter of my neighbour that she's no longer
working for the company...
SLANDER... in H'america you can go to court
for that sort of ****... false-accusation, no?
that's what happens...
when a devil tries to outsmart a devil...
the latter devil pushes on... with gifts... with niceties...
the former devil has no option but to retreat...
to its own, former: hellhole... bog...
imagining someone i wanted to love...
stomach pains... mistaking them for butterflies...
single mum, dating much younger men...
or dating men who were big on *******...
former ex-boyfriend women beaters who ran her
into bad credit rating... with... debt...
i know of the mistakes i've made...
   two... in my early twenties... that's why the rest of
my twenties are a blur... that's why only now
i've reemerged as this extroverted silent type...
in my mid-30s... having plans...
   i wouldn't call it: ******* away my youth...
i'd call it... sorry... what? no, sorry... i was sort of absent...
probably alone in the forest... probably at night...
problem being... she can block me on whatsapp...
she block me on the internet...
       hmm... small world... a very small world...
she'll have to move... or commando the minutes she takes
her dog for a walk... the ******* dog licked my scabs / wounds
clean... he has my blood in his veins...
if he sees me... he's going to bark in my direction...
ghost me, *****? in the good old days...
the claustrophobia of a little city where i was born...
my parents lived... let's say... 600 metres apart...
but it took... being jointly invited to a wedding of fellow friends
that brought them together...
Jeminah can't ghost me... like she could forget about
all those guys she flicked left on
when we worked together on a shift on Tinder...
you can't shake off locality...
i'm practically her neighbour... in terms of of how
globalism comes across... what? i'm not allowed to cycle
down this street? she's not even living on the street i'm cycling
down... she's living on the cul de sac...
but i'm not paying for... the debt her ex...
whatever he was racked up in retaliation...
what a pretty face... what pretty hair: hair that i'd give
up drinking whiskey for... it's almost the same colour...
just keeping to the foundation
of routine... i like that street... cycling down it...
if she has any complaints... she better take out
the scab tissue of my DNA from her dog's gob...
but dogs don't simply: forget who they endear...
with affection... the internet distance conundrum
is not going to work on me... the only way she's going
to ghost me... proper... is moving somewhere else...
small world... small town... in the vicinity of Collier Row...
obviously i'm not going to bother her...
god forbid... i have Khedra to mind...
the ******* that gets all the *** that no man
rarely does... and has to text me: come over...
i need you... yeah... that type...
i cycled past with a frown... i just spotted the dog...
ooh... right... well... i know who's behind that dog...
yep... a flicker of dark ginger: disguised brunette...
yeah... that's Jeminah...
but this is counter to how the internet works...
no? in a cosmopolitan setting?
she can't exactly ghost me...
  sure... she can block me... on whatsapp...
   from a ****-show she herself orchestrated... why?
because she didn't have the confidence to compliment
me, directly... she had to: slander me...
she became one of those... idiotic... sappers...
she self-sabotaged herself... notably? after i pushed forward...
with... wine, cake and flowers...
she became a self-saboteur...
   like i said to one of the other girls: lies don't walk on
stilts... lies have short legs...
just wait... see... i've been alone long enough to know...
certain little, ******... analogies?! behavioural patterns
of blah-b'ah black sheep...
             now... i'm waiting for the crescendo...
there's no denying it... i do drink...
   but... allowing women this "sixth sense" of sniffing out
alcohol on... a person you just met...
accusing them of drinking on the job?
i know the territory... my grandmother had the same
sixth sense... when she turned my grandfather into
an alcoholic... he finally broke down and threw her
through a glass door...
        me? ******* prostitutes?! i'm trying to escape that
headache... keeping it sorted behind a... paywall...
   first comes the payment...
i'm not landing on something that's... ahem... "free"...
- it is a big deal! you slander someone
and in H'america you can be taken to court!
i do drink, heavily... but when i'm working...
i half my intake if not third it...
      i wash, i pamper myself... i end up sober on the shift...
at the London Stadium people either take
selfies with me or give me sweets...
i'm a sucker for pop music and... gelatine infused sweets...
i can't refuse them... chocolate can simply not
exist... but... give me a bag of Haribo...
esp. those sour-sweet types... i can't help myself...
i just have to eat them...
- but, this is... a 2nd Jeminah Revelation...
she... she can't swipe left on me... on Tinder...
i'm not on Tinder: never have...
    i'm almost her neighbour if i take out the bicycle...
i can be round her house in a matter of minutes...
London, even Greater London... has... shrunk... for her...
she can block me on an APP-lication...
but she can't... block me... cycling down a road
she takes her dog for a walk...
               i wonder how this dynamic will work out...
on her mind... i was waiting for this moment...
you can't just... ghost me... when i'm living: locally...
sure... you can... "ghost" me... but... that implies:
you have to move... i'm not moving...
i'm rooted... i haven't been this rooted in a long time...
funny how that works...
whatever it is that works... bicycle breaks...
the wheels... the moon and the tides...
that sure as **** works...
the sun and photosynthesis... that also works...
but... the interaction between women
and men, these days?
sure as ****: it's not working...
  which is, rather... a crying shame...
do we really have to go into interracial territory
for it to work?
personally? i don't feel like it...
    no, not really...
                  whoever takes over...
oh... i'm pretty sure the current white overlords
are planning an ultra-coup-uprising of
being the chosen typos...
               whatever...
                i have lost interest in this world...
from about... 2 years ago?
yeah... the world is sort of automated for me...
i lost interest in it...
the whole matter of the "pandemic"... sort of desensitized
toward any sort of attitude toward Ukraine...
i sort... hmm... ahem... don't care...
Ukrainians celebrated the invasion of Poland
by the Nazis during World War II...
if i'm not directly involved: invoked...
i'm going to play the "solipsist" / pacifist card...
the Pontius Pilate poker...
               i'm out... i was already out...
i just don't want to be involved...
                         is that somehow a Buddhist monk
"sentimentality"?
             to hell with Buddhism...
                         1960s cultural appropriate import...
i'm yet to be rid of the **** Christianity that
turned European barbarism into European
secularism.

.numbers numbers, numbers, always these concerns for numbers; as ever, concern, for the wrong sort of numbers.

unlike that old english saying -
   it's not what you know,
     it's who you know

...followers, followers, blah blah dotty dittos...

it's not who you are -
   it's what you do
                that matters more on
that blue-chip verification "VIP"
                                         polo club.

I did not expect to get such a surprise,
When I opened the door, not believing my eyes,
It was long-lost cousin Johnny, standing right there,
The wayward son of my dotty Aunt Clare.
“Well hello,” he exclaimed, tipped his hat with a grin,
“You’re a sight for sore eyes, well then, shall I come in?”
And without missing a beat as, “yes of course?” I stutter,
He steps boldly indoors, and I recall he’s a ******.

“So, how’ve you been?” he asks, as I make us some tea,
“Oh, you know, pretty good - let’s not talk about me…
And yourself?” I inquire, ‘it’s been such a long time.”
“Tis, true,” he replies, “but I’m mostly quite fine.
The thing is though, I’m in a bit of a mess,
It’s all been rather a source of stress
And I may need somewhere to stay for a while,”
He gestures around, with that old winsome smile,
“I just need a place to sleep, wash and eat
Till I sort myself out and get back on my feet…”

people are still getting the existential-ist 'air quotes' wrong: i'm pretty sure they are supposed as metaphors or... quick-misnomer takes on: but you can't just air quote "ingredients" when... involved in a culinary competition... can you? i thought that INGREDIENTS were... power brokering: the sigma; no?

quick! ****** out wilfred zaha...
wait, it's not Wilfred?
it's: wil-fried: i will have fried?
chips?!
anyway... ****** 'im...
down... at the knee-cap: whichever
leg... i think he's a right-footer...
so take the left kneecap out...
make him "take the knee"
like the rest of them doing
in imitation of Derek Chauvin:
the jury heard that a man with a knee
on his throat could shout
21+ times: i can't breath...
i tried it... without a knee on my neck...
i would possibly stretch it to
two shy off a dozen...

so much for "taking the knee":
Derek! take the knee!
take two! chow down: shoving through 'em...
quick quick! take as many knees as it takes
for the jury to fake:
being able to utter that phrase...

it's clearly a ****-take on the capacity
of man's endeavour into breath...
oddly... to take a knee like Derek Chauvin
took the knee... there's not critique of
anything... just a laugh:
on how... irony can be capitalised...
how: you will know the difference between
good &, &... evil...

point blank range: oh, you'll know...
you'll sniff it sushi raw...
but you'll still rather conflate the two
as: dichotomy "biased"...
it's the ultimate dual!
it's the only dual!
should you arrive at the monism of inanimate
things... good for you!
good, for, you!

- and i too came to a trans-
conclusion...
it couldn't be a mistake that my parents
gave me a Hebrew's first name
and a German second name...
it wasn't like they gave me
the name: Stanisław
or Bolesław...
   of my two given names: none are
Slavic in origin...
     i'd settle for Nikita Lothar
if i were to be honest...
if i were to be honest i'd name my
son that... Nikita Lothar...

sounds formidable: he could even
write one of his names in katakana
like a would-be samurai:
サムライ
      ニキタ -
      a name so perfect it would require three...
clear... syllables...
as you get with Japanese
in general: the vowels & N...
but the consonants are muddled up
it's hardly an AM for a マ:
since there isn't one... ergo? cage...
as much as i admire the katakana:
Hangul is "superior"...

oh sure... good luck writing Lothar
in katakana:
good luck finding the letter L...
and the free-standing R...
at least in the latin script i can dotty:
ditto... capsicum typo... capsizing...
****: that didn't even come out
as a... ah ha ha: a typo!
my bad...

  oh hello: ******....................

Conrad:
just shy off Lothar... and most certainly
way off from: Otto...
because like all the bad men of history...
Stalin... ******... i too have a terrible
surname... i changed my twice:
or, rather... had it changed for me...
good to know i will not be
curating lineage ambitions...

- in the stillness of the night i leech
onto the wall dividing me
and my Nigerian neighbours...
the candle is burning the cats are either
sleeping or pretending to sleep...
and i listen in on the shouts...
they had a party not so long ago...
funny... those people who want
others to be with them:
but when alone: as unit of "family"
they're at each others' throats:
no wonder the need other people...

give me the night...
give me the wind gently brushing
the eucalyptus tree...

the Nigerian men agree that their women
are crazy: i'd just push the envelope a little
bit further: i love cats:
i love cats in my capacity to not
give them attention:
but of course... a woman being a woman:
would pander a ******* tapeworm
should that relieve her of her anorexia
when she's not...
prescribing herself... bulging out...
i.e. modern anorexics: i find...
don't eat... to later... "regurgitate":
whatever the term is:
to alleviate the metaphorical representation of
a Caesar's ****... mixed food:

PURGE! lying in a muddle, puddle...
muddle... puddle... it would take *******
down the throat
to imitate choking...
but... that's all done outside
any of the modern pornographic antics:
yuck...
i get turned off by modern *******...
i sometimes try and do get away with
a shy... happy monkey slap
but in general?
i'd rather be downing shots of *****
with frostbite particles... iron trimmings...
whatever: in Syb-eerie: ah...

the next time i hear that the ethnic noun:
Slav is etymologically rooted in Slave...
i'll denote the same roots for German:
a germ of a man... "my" people were more...
forthcoming... to denote the German
as less a germ and more a: deaf-dumb-mingles
into: not speaking out zunge...

when "we" first heard ICH:
i said: their ownership...
while when they first heard JA:
they agreed... the Spaniard laughed...

project pronoun denotation:
this... little game these pseudo-linguists are
having in the English language:
of course i'm not included!
but the game is for mortals!
i'm certain my writing is immortal!
i sacrificed too much to think it might
be otherwise! ha!

petty mortals... not the sort of mortals
you might want to respect...
itchy... *****-whipped types...
believe me...
i have my eternity already planned out:
i'll drop into the brothel from time to time
to sample the ol' Turkic raven hair
tongue like octopus' tentacles occupied...
slobbering...

i was 18 she was 14...
my name was...
her name was Pri-
                                   -ya...
but... she only the third: love at thirst of sight...
there's the first: Kotówna...
surname alone: no name...
there's no need...
then there was Samantha...

i fell in love twice: that's twice...
before i learned to swim...
it would seem...

i'm growing old... vampire-esque:
i.e. vampiric...
i don't think i will ever find a love at first: blink...
like i have found...

oh... wait... wasn't multiculturalism
part of the experiment?
no... for Nigerian neighbours? no?!
moi... as... neighbour?
do i have to live among these:
can he: won't he: will he:
maybe... yes: no... sort of... scared
deer pretend *******?!
i'd sooner pretend sane with...
birches...
the last dream i encountered was...
plucking out a piece of flesh from my face
that wasn't "quiet" a maggot...
but was... in that it wasn't a wriggling
maggot... it was a dead maggot...
acne... excess white blood cells...

how do these 40+ newspaper columnists find
stamina to lie to themselves
on the crux of: leaving nothing for further generations
to... latch onto!
there's no future in journalism
from the currently surrendered to...

oh but there is... spewing opinions some of us
have not diacritical access to...
like: when... fine... & dining...
why do you... obliterate the existence of...
carbohydrates?!
the "stealth" materials...
        fine: dining: my *** is fine dining: ha ha...
said any... precursor to a premature death
sentence of a pornographic galore that:
would never make it to the cougar shelf
of antics...

                                           what?!
once more... no one is shocked...
it's just me: either mad or just dandy / stupid...
from now on... when i tell you:
*******... the world is going to burn
i want you to agree and clap and watch:
as the world... will burn...
why?!
oh... for the fun of it...
how?
via neglect...
          
i'm pretend drunk when debating the TRANS...
you... who? he's... she's... no! they! they can't be
******* serious!
the post-Soviets and the prior-pseudo-Prussians
are on my back: if i have one..
i'm a ****** that dated a Russian ******
that... likes to listen to Teutonic crusader songs...
i'm... TRANS-!
i still like to use hammer...
corkscrew... argument for "individualism"...
oi! *****! chase the Samaritan!
calm the ****: back down... Mr. Messiah...
who's who?! i actually wasn't pointing at anyone:
beside... myself...

i like the faces of children...
they remind me of... the faces of animals...
ooh... wait... now i have a problem:
some... pseudo-Buffalo pseudo-impromptu...
now? come to think of it...
some people deserve to suffer...
they have the stress membrane intactness to
flow: "through": idiot squirming...

      i just gave you the name(s) of a son
i will never: ever... have...
i sort of squirm... i sort of assure myself...
i also take pointers...
there's no submarine at the helm...
just the flimsy vocabulary... no?

well: here i am... don't expect me to
**** the crazed-up cat ladies:
i'll leave that to the **** quacks...
and... whatever magic is to be associated.

The sky is blue
The pavement grey
And I'm feeling particularly gay
It's a good life
It's a good day
To slit your throat.

Living in the circle
of a Hawthorne tree root
Cassandra the white
sits in cradled silence
while a fairy-dust moon
perches glowing in a fay sky
aqua vapors
dotted by stippled stars
deep in thought
she touches gnarled limbs
shall she take
her will-o-the wisp wand
and lead another human child
on a very dotty journey
bespangled by
pixie-dusted lights
she laughs out loud
at the thought of her trickery
and the fay games of wooded sprites

come:
   and of the few -
to join in, in the spectacle
              of humanity;
however many bones need to be
crunched, broken,
and allowed a  suffocation with
                                     to allow a flute
                                                    seer...­
               if only
the mortals didn't implant
                                  a "future" from
an immortal perspective...
there is a death-defying
act...
         it's called: a lie...
  much of my mortality
has been wasted on
               this puppet show
of claiming
to be part of, the events...
      i too, once, could reap
a shadow
of an impeding trot
as arriving at a "desired"
destination...
             old age is no
achievement within the confines
of the impeding death...
   but i do love how the dead
implore for a singing
encore,
        with epitaphs and
               asthmatic half-laughs...
king matters,
   while the very many
become the favoured few...
we can work with that:
   zeitgeist is apparently
an aphrodisiac:
to counter the "heilig"-geist
                                  momentum;
can't be too prudent to mind
nearing autumn,
  and the fallen prune...
    P.R.                  für sie (foor sigh,
in quasi-german, that's english,
which is the highest form
of saxon you'll ever have
a chance to experience).

     in the title, inclusive of the syllable
count, the counter with a
doubled-up: consonant...
                     matter, though,
isn't a problem...
           you can guess i've had
entertained a background
in chemistry...
                Na is no different
to sodium to me...
             liberal arts?
        social "sciences"?
               i have a fixation worth
an itch... then i'm reminded
of the 3rd party authorities...
        you know, that form of
an insatiable itch...
               something quiet relevanat
to improvising a headache,
   migrane, in mimic form,
second cousin, boring as ****,
but nonetheless utilised...

   ah... but poetry:
the candy equivalent to:
a sweet, said nothing...

            i like listening to
the jeff deist sanity...
                     you get the feeling
of actually wanting to wear
a crsip, well ironed,
white shirt,
          being able to, yourself,
manoeuvre donning a tie
           unlike it being a noose...

doubling on consonants?
   it's not exactly an english thing,
in how, western slavic is approached...
   ch' ch' chequers or chess?
     ****... called it drit in times of draughts...
or O...                the big moom
and the lesser whee,
   but more or less a concept
arrived to, from exposure to a pregnant
                                                        ­ woman...

         sh' sh': hushing the *******
narrative?
              not nice...
    counter with a noun...

                                  shish kebab'ah!

told you H was a vowel-catcher...
minus the laughter, + a sigh...
      
     unless that's macron-style-africaan...
i.e.
          doner kebāb...

                     reign / rain from
                                           above...

   i always loved juggling,
or tossing aside,
        inter-mingling the english
punctuation marks, with a complete,
absence, of "punctuation marks"
above, or below letters...

            sympathetic fren'cheese...
(whatever the "correct" spelling
is to boot, to market
equivalence) -
                     say ******* when
someone takes a photograph
of you and a bunch of ****-clinging
turds?!) -
                        
                  right.... who knows!

some consonants are not well
equipped with a quasi-syllable-invoked
doubling...
         verbum-intra has
                  apostrophes and diacritics,
primarily the former...
verbum-inter has
          commas, and allusion of
grandeour with colons, hyphens,
semi-colons and...
                 dot dot d... dotty: dittoing -
down-to-earth metaphors
without italics, or "air" quotes.

i still love the fact that rubber-ball
                , (comma) can jump and
attach itself to ceiling of a sentence
          and become an ' (apostrophe)...

because that's what existentialist
"mastered", or rather tried to exploit,
borrowing a re-framing of
the capacity of the metaphor...
                  with:           "                    "...

what the **** happened to
the good old days of fiction with
the gaelic narrative impetus
akin to a genesis of a paragraph,
beginning with a:

    -                      yes, a hyphen!

if it weren't for the exposure to
pedantry: making language encoding
into surd a technicality-bias
               for pedantry per se...
i really don't know,
what i would do...

                hyper-literacy is not some
teddy-bear you squeeze to get a giggle
from...
              i was never fond of
americanism's acronyms,
                      grafitti,
                or otherwise
the internet fission of hieroglyphics
through memes...
                        the: an image + a word...

what, if anything, can ever be justified
      as "self"-explanatory?!

it explains itself to a self?
        i think that's a rhetorical question...
point being:
              who governs it
in bypassing phenomenology,
  and attributing a self,
      to the confines of a noumenon?

like i said before:

   i'm a sentimental schmuck...

but i've never, ever, never
heard a pop-grunge song

while, clubbing...

   say...
i can't decide between
soul asylum's song black gold

or blind melon's
song no rain

having grown up in England,
at the height of
the Brit-pop enterprise,
i wish i could have sentiments
allocated to Oasis...
or Blur...

Stone Roses... **** me...
going as far back as the Stone Roses...
sure...
Depeche Mode...
      and to an extent The Cure...

surprisingly the 80s had
very decent music,
Indie and what not...
sure... on the outside the era
looks pretty **** terrible...

but look into it...
and there's some pretty gravitas
sounds in the undercurrents
of culture...

hell, name them:
Hot Water Music,
Cage the Elephant...

               Dinosaur Jr.,
The Levelers...
                            
there was only music to begin
with,
and there will only music to
end it all...
the tirade of the angels attempting
to imitate the jazz sax
of Coltrane...
or the horn of Miles Davis...
or... for that matter...
   Chet Baker...
     white boy did goo'...
                 diddly-dotty-do...

because it's not exactly a bout of
nostalgia...
   nostalgia is a faking of
what eventually is bred by
a collective memory...

       no... i'm just a sentimental
*******...
         i've heard too much Slipknot
et al. of that era in clubs...
and Nirvana...

            so? i stopped going to clubs...
became bored ****-less
with the choice of music...

once, only once,
i danced to a DJ with some sense...
to Tool's song
stink-fist... only once,
only once... never mind...

                  and once... sometime in
Camden...
  watching a pretty girl attempt to
dance, or rather dance around
a fat boy to the song
dancing in the dark,
                   by you know who...

god... the sadness in her eyes...
she looked like an octopus
with the right count of extra limbs,
but all of them were limp...

i couldn't help her then,
i couldn't help her now...
   now... i'd love to go to a club
at night... and ease off the steam
and a stiff neck
and a stressed-firm back and
shoulder-blades...

    but the music choice?
it just started bugging me...
        there was only nostalgia...
and nothing to be said of
sentimentality...
curating the piquant
   oddities...

i guess the new mode of a DJ focus is
to combine...
music references,
with literary events,
paintings...
and what not, current movies...
i guess the new DJ outside-inside
the new public square needs
to hoard influences from
many sources...
   not music with music alone...

say...
when would you not make
the following arithmetic...

camille saint-saëns'
dance macabre,

boris grigoriev's
painting
   portrait of theater
director vsevolod meyerhold...

and the fact?
the fact that...
     either
  peter "the yorkshire ripper" sutcliffe
or...
   ian "the moors ******"
                                        brady...

requested this particular composition
to be played... while his body
was to be cremated...

whoever it was...
i'm pretty ****-sure am sure that one
of them, and if it's neither...
wanted his cremation to take
place with the dance macabre
playing in the background...

and then you look at grigoriev's
painting of meyerhold...

makes perfect sense...
    guess this makes me...

die neu platterennreiter:
                                         the new DJ.

Poemhunter.com
has for some reason
began to stalk me!

First thing every day
is Meteo France with
liney or dotty rain.

Next up is trip advisor
reminding me that I need
to take another holiday

Ryan Air just offered me a
cheap flight to Cork, the last
place on earth I want to visit.

Then it is Facebook, asking
me if I know the person who
is not looking for me.

Poem-hunter is my bete noire.
I am amazed at the necks, like
jockeys bollixes, of some poets.