i have a break at 12 o'clock
will you please come over
you don’t have to knock
i’ll leave the door open
it will be unlocked
a bouquet of flowers
i’ll have in stock
a vase and a candle
a knife and a blade
a face and a cigarette
its all about the way we explain
i mean rationalize away
do time-lines justify our decline into tyranny
send me back again to sublime infancy
retrofit the celibate instigator
lemniscate the elephant’s fingerprints
impress me with wit and charm
storm troopers unarmed
star-gazers, shadow-haters, sand-blasters, ice-skaters,
morning's lovers, fathers, daughters, shoulders and elbows
rub brows and crease foreheads
wrinkles in your timelines
define lines as destiny unwinds
reminds me of blinding light
the heights of old empires
sire warriors, stories as tall as soldiers
for real, heal the split between mind and body
kindly, lovingly, bump up against me
and kiss me again
i am music fused together with eternity
space and dust and rusted armpits
a hundred diamonds, drops of sweat
skin like leather, weatherproof, foolproof too
determine to use it all
for you are the muse of all
do as you need to
fuse it together lest it come apart again
return to heaven and mend the tear
split the hair or the atom
magic is a language
tragic is the cancerous neglect of syntax
emptiness is manic
gargantuan attacks of presence
defenseless, we are taught worthless ****
neglect it, but remember important words
stories, looms of drawings
forming in my mind’s eye
i cannot be bought or controlled by pirates
the best moments are private
you are not invited
so go home and create your own zone of entertainment
its necessary
your gentle fingers
blessing my soul
courage to roll with life’s blows
no need for stoics
or poets who deny reality’s arguments
slippery slopes
walking tight ropes
can you cope with all this mistletoe
restring your bow
dance in the snow as if everyone knows
you are crazy in love with the whole
motionless vision swift as an arrow
roofless rooms
prom queens flip you off and turn you on
sons and daughters, lions of the prairie
a child portable and small
respects the walls that you’ve made
they are not your cage but your shelter
self culture is affluent and not arrogant
sand mandalas tall as waterfalls
golden rainbows pour from the faucet in the sky
like mighty images
wisdom bridges the gaps in our imagination
i can’t wait to get this on the page
written in stone, reflecting thrones
made from the bones of pharaohs
consciousness narrows as you approach
are you a cockroach, coach or a student
strokes of wonder for different folks
cold call your own homes
do you prioritize lightning over thunder
words over rubber
sandwiches to clutter
are you interested in diamonds or other
precious gemstones
that flutter like butterflies when i utter
emeralds like butter
do you waste time arranging your clutter
stuttering utter nonsense
frequencies wasted, gentleness chased away
fantasies radioactive
magic lacks targets
darkens our fathers
keep chasing actions
satisfaction is attractive
your eyes are like fragments of rubies in the fire
i see beauty in desire, features in the sky
i look skyward and see higher
minds are wired to remain stagnant
stranded in a lack of entertainment
change this and make your own amazement
wonder over thunder, lick me down under
gone asunder like the burning acropolis
topple this bottomlessness
can't stop this, its impossible
i wonder do you make blunders
in underground mountains
we shout words like fountains shoot water
curtains topple over
and form a blanket over our consciousness
after our performances
swarms of crazy people leave the theater
shattered and too stunned to speak
to ****** to leak they keep walking down south
toward Plymouth Rock,
Mammoth Mountian or Rehoboth Beach
take stock of the situation and just move
first one out is rewarded
sordid and sorted like straw from the hay stacks
caskets of black iron casings
tastings of wine whose shelf-life is expired
past due cheese overripe and stinky
like mustard dusted with lightning
striking on time is all that we have
thinking that was a close call
we fall down and get up, remove the uppercuts
and lowercases from our mouths
doubt is a ***** word heard too often,
coughing from a coffin she offers me her hand
cold as ice cream, these nouns are deafening
love is lazy like a muffin
and hot like a dumpling
but a liaison with time cannot be rushed
i have lived long enough to learn this
a privilege to give birth to this moment
again and again vintage feathers
send me your sweaters
detest impostors who give robotic answers
i am in wonder at all this grammar
that i was unaware of
ignorant as mustard
and smooth like custard
in this blustery weather
i am glad i wore a sweater
and have an umbrella
to keep me dry and safe
i am in love walking toward the gate
and boarding that plane
i am your heart served on a plate
with a side of coleslaw, soul food for dinner
you are a winner and i am your hunger
a porcelain gravestone
a copper bathtub with claws
stored in your basement
storerooms cold as a skating rink
please don't think, unless its about me
let sentences drift away
while we chase arguments from yesterday's
armistice

The music at the party is pumping.
All the teenagers are     jumping.
But I only hear  my  heart  thumping.
Alone   on the sofa and   slumping.
Stewing in   solitude,   a dumpling.
Starting to   disintegrate,   crumbling.
I feel a disturbance,   a rumbling.
I reach for my phone, I'm   fumbling,
For a text, a call,        something,
Anything to enhance   the    numbing.
I rise from my perch,  stumbling  .
I  collidewithsomepeople, they're grumbling.
Now I'm    falling  out  the  door,   tumbling.

People are laughing, tutting frowning.
They see me on the ground, but I'm
                                                             ­   drowning.

Brown-Eyed Girl-
they say she is the weakest link
gone and sprung amuck
through clouded fields of poppy seeds
and cottony ******. they say she is a sprain
of chortling pain in the dumpling
maker's yeasting wrist.

brown-eyed girl seeing powdered
blues of glass-stained eyes,
he wore a plaid shirt, nip-and-tucked,
rat-a-tat-tat, and a silly looking bow-tie
slopped slightly off-kilter and to the right,
a frenchie little pear of a man. he said he liked her-
tie-dye thighs. she said, he said, she liked his
dumpling hands - and flakey chest.

they say she is that button-down clad-
sunflowers-printed kind-of, sad.
memories tainted, she said, he said,
she's the kind of girl you've got to love every night,
my kind of a woman. my salted oils, fried
and phat-  
                brown-eyed girl.

Born to be a bumble bee,
Bumbly more than acceptable,
Bumbling opportunities,
Dim at best, shh ghmm ack ole

Friends we are
You, we, bumblers
Bumping things too far
Until off with our bums

In prison will write book
"Bumbler Chronicles"
I'll put that I bumbled first
And that you bumbled
Ever
After

** Xuan Huong (1772-1882) was a risqué Vietnamese poetess. Her verse — replete with nods, winks, double entendres and ****** innuendo — was shocking to many readers of her day and will doubtless remain so to some of ours. Huong has been described as "the candid voice of a liberal female in a male-dominated society." Her output has been called "coy, often ***** lyrics." More information about the poet follows these English translations of her poems.

Ốc Nhồi ("The Snail")
by ** Xuan Huong (1772-1882)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My parents produced a snail,
Night and day it slithers through slimy grass.
If you love me, remove my shell,
But please don't jiggle my little hole!



The Breadfruit or Jackfruit
by ** Xuan Huong (1772-1882)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My body's like a breadfruit ripening on a tree:
My skin coarse, my pulp thick.
My lord, if you want me, pierce me with your stick,
But don't squeeze or the sap will sully your hands!



Bánh trôi nước ("Floating Sweet Dumpling")
by ** Xuan Huong (1772-1882)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My powdered body is white and round.
Now I bob. Now I sink.
The hand that kneads me may be rough,
But my heart at the center remains untouched.

Most of Huong's poems were written in Nôm script, a complex Vietnamese adaptation of Chinese characters employed from the 15th to 19th centuries. Through her Nôm poems, Huong helped elevate the status of Vietnamese poetry. A century later, she was called "the Queen of Nôm poetry" by Xuan Dieu, one of Vietnam’s greatest poets.

** Xuan Huong was apparently born in the Quynh Luu district of the north-central province of Nghe An. Xuan Huong means "Spring Fragrance" or "Scent of Springtime." Her father, a scholar named ** Phi Dien, died young. Her mother remarried, as a concubine. Huong grew up near Thang Long (modern Ha Noi), in a male-dominated society in which polygamy was permitted and men were more privileged than women. Huong may or may not have been a concubine herself. Very little is known with any certainty about her life. In 1962, Nguyễn Đức Bính admitted, "I don't know anything about the poetess Hồ Xuân Hương and other people don't know any more than I do." And yet legends do take on lives of their own ...

Keywords/Tags: ** Xuan Huong, Vietnamese, English translations, snail, grass, shell, hole, breadfruit, jackfruit, tree, skin, hands, sap, stain, dumpling, body, powder, powdered, sink, bob, swim, pond, heart, center, red, nom script, spring fragrance, spring essence, concubine

I just tasted a memory. BANG . slapped me on the tongue like a freight train out of a rip in space and time,

of garlic and peppercorn chicken with jasmine rice , a clear broth and fresh cucumbers, a wedge of lime and chrysanthemum tea.

oh .. my mouth  , how could you spring this on me .. when i'm so far from the motherland...

then they come thick and fast -

thai iced tea , thai iced coco , thai iced coffee , thai lime soda ..

papaya salad with sticky rice , Mango and coconut sticky rice , Roti with condensed milk and banana , coconut ice cream in a white bread bun with coconut sticky rice and peanuts, fresh fruits of rambutan and mangosteen for 30 baht a kilo......oh.....oh...who could forget the fried flat noodles , or the fried pastry's called explosion *****..... oh... oh my

heart..... my heart...... my stomach... calls out to you , oh glorious green curry with roti , morning congee with little pork ***** and soy sauce..... come to me my dumpling and noodles let me lick the chillies and sugar off my lips , may i taste once more

the conception of such marvelous treats , unfathomable to the western palate , little sweet corn and flour discs cooked on a special cooker over a real fire...dried squid sold on the back of a bicycle , fried garlic with sticky rice , a pink soup !

I just had a taste memory
****.

MANILA, Philippines - The public knows me as the Father of Philippine Franchising but what is hidden from the public eye is that I am a father of five sons and a daughter. This fact became very real to me again recently when my youngest son, Sam Gregory, got married.

Like I said, I have five sons and all of them are achievers and successful in their respective fields. My eldest son, Sam Benedict, for example, has a master’s degree from Kellogg and works for a top American company. My fourth son, Sam Christopher, on the other hand, got his master’s degree from Oxford and used to work for a top British conglomerate.

When my other sons got married, I was happy and proud as I could be; but when Greg got married I have to admit that there was a certain tug in my heart realizing that my little Sam was finally leaving the nest. I am not the sentimental type, but I guess every parent has a special place in his heart for his youngest.

But don’t get me wrong, Greg is no pushover. Being physically small, he did have his share of bullying when he was in school. But Greg knows how to deal with his problems. He befriended a number of his bigger classmates and that solved his problem in a snap. He may be small but he has a big heart.

Greg is idealistic and principled. He usually volunteers for civic and charitable activities and contributes to fund drives for disaster victims. My wife and I have accepted the fact that every time there is a typhoon, we can expect our cupboards to be cleared of canned goods and our cabinets purged of old clothes, which Greg would donate.

He follows traffic rules and regulations even when there’s nobody watching and even if following is not convenient for him. He saves energy. He recycles. He even convinced me and my wife not to use narra wood flooring in our retirement home.

Being a careful planner, he is the most prepared among our family for the “Big One.” But what I find most admirable is that he keeps two emergency kits in his car in case he finds himself in a situation where he might need to help others.

Greg is also romantic, creative and dedicated. When he was studying in Beijing, he would organize a virtual date with Charmaine Haw (who would eventually become Mrs. Sam Gregory Lim), who was in Manila. They would watch the same movie on the web and Greg would order movie snacks, which he would send to Charmaine’s house. The couple would also have virtual dinner dates where Greg would order similar meal courses, which would be delivered to Charmaine’s house and then they would chat via Skype while having dinner.

When the time came for Greg to buy his engagement and wedding rings, he refused to let us — his parents — help him. He used his own money despite being the one among his brothers who could least afford it, being the least salaried employee among them. He did this as a symbol of his love and commitment to Charm.

But when the wedding came I insisted that it should be a grand wedding.

To guarantee a great party, we made sure to have great food, a great place and great companions. Being an avid sci-fi fan, Greg already had an idea of a unique garden wedding. He wanted to transform the New Grand Ballroom of the Marriott Hotel into the forests of Avatar. To do this, the wedding stylist had to import a collection of trees, hanging plants, shrubs, flowers and other plants. The images projected on the giant 15-meter panoramic LED screen added to the reality of the scenery. It was a unique and original “garden setting” and was certainly a sight to behold and remember.

For the food, Greg was at his meticulous best to make sure that the evening’s feast was memorable. The dinner opened with a mouth-watering appetizer, lemon-spiced pan-seared scallop with tomato cucumber timbale in creamy ginger soya sauce followed by Manhattan clam chowder with cornbread dumpling. For the main course, we had the beef tenderloin prepared by the master chef of Cru Steakhouse of Manila Marriott Hotel, sea bass with roasted shallots, dauphin potatoes in perigourdine and mustard herb sauce.

The espresso-infused tiramisu and the white chocolate cheesecake with mango salsa served with piping-hot coffee completed the culinary feast.

With 800 guests, I would have to admit that we did splurge a little. But we also wanted the wedding reception to be an opportunity to thank the people who have been a part of our family. These are our relatives, friends and associates who have inspired, mentored and helped mold my children to be what they are today.

To my youngest son, Greg, and my new daughter, Charmaine — quoting from the Vulcan salute of the Star Trek saga (of which Greg is a big fan) — may you both live long and prosper!

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses

http://www.marieaustralia.com

My daughter fell in love with a potato,
                        "A potato.......
My mind was confused and my face was a picture...
of why would someone ever love a potato?

I asked this myself in my head then out loud.
     My darling how have you a fondness for a potato?

He is the only one for me he is so soft and never
has a chip on his shoulder..

A chip? really, how did you meet my little lady.
He was just mulling around in a mash pit,
The music was the spud rock and he was my root.

I will have to meet you new boyfriend,
Dad, I love Barry, he even let me  wear his jacket
it was so fluffy inside...

Fathers out there would have the same look on
their face as I do now!!!!!
"OK,  as I was waiting impatiently to see this lad.

She walked in hand in hand, I just gave the daddy
look, hi Barry he stared in a starch looking gaze.
my daughter spoke "I'll just get my bag,

I spoke in my sternest voice,
"Barry if you don't treat my daughter right,
"Lets just say ill mash you up, understand....

And then they left not the gentlemen of before
no jacket to lend her, just walking out the door
like he had just been roasted by my words...

Hours had past worry in my thoughts then my
daughter came back, tears in her eyes.
"What ever was the matter my darling?

"He had steamed off because I wanted to know
why he never leant me his jacket,

"He said I was being a dumpling with him,

"So I told him you were right and that he had
a chip on his shoulder, he replied I was fried,

I told her that potato's can be a little mashed, and
a chip they will always have, because you cant change
a potato they will always have a little starch inside...

Players,
Upon people’s weaknesses they play.
Tramplers,
Upon people’s happiness they trample upon.

They preach,
Oh they preach,
Preachers of men,
Preaching their manifestos.

Their mass oppressions,
A whipstroke of slavery,
Keeping freedom away,
Allowing unspoken speeches.

Mr. Government!
Your planting of truth,
Yet acting lies,
Like Lucifer upon earth.

Our lost lands,
The cornering of leaders.
Our cherished freedom,
The bounds of greedy mortals.

Their moral compass,
A dumpling for gutters.
The words of restructuring,
A lie they tell to sleep at night.

The revolting of souls,
A bribery round the corner.
The dawn of a new day,
A shutting down of a never casted dye.

The Bantu they throw at us,
An education of their disloyalty.
Equality they preach,
Yet enjoying the fruits of our labour.

Our heroes past,
A burden dropped,
To be forgotten,
Yet remembered for belly sake.

Me, My belly and I,
A stomach infrastructure,
Catering only to the rich,
Yet diminishing the poor.

The controllers of affairs,
Dictating one’s future
Offering obedient slaves,
A slaughtering for their ****** souls.

Their theatre signatory,
A passing for comedy.
Our leaders,
A legacy of betrayal.

The citations of a bad fruit,
Their forever plantings,
Bringing over odour,
Of sadness and slavery.

An act of niceness,
Yet taking my bones at every given chance.
Giving us no choice,
Yet claiming we have no bounds.

Stirring us along
Giving us hope
Talking of a bright light,
Yet sinking in your treacherous torture.

Stealing of freedom from our lips
Pushing us into the dark quarters
Digging our early graves,
Yet cometh like a Redeemer.

Telling us of your democracy,
Yet ripping off our fundamental rights.
Your dictatorship,
Creating our unfree society.

Coming out,
Telling us of our victorious times,
A bribery to generations,
Yet helping to dig out graves.

Giving heart-warming patriotic speeches
Telling us not to be afraid,
Portraying tunnels of hope,
A bribery we didn’t reject.

Your illusion of a god-complex
Crushing everything in your path
Giving false hope
A mockery we carry on our foreheads

Our daily tyrants,
Walking freely,
Taking slaves,
Yet leaving no man to rise.

We envisaged a better tomorrow
Leaving the past behind
Creating new dreams
A dream you cut short

Our pens as placards
Establishing dictatorship
Safeguarding a revolution
Writing hopes of tomorrow

Your speeches
Bringing apathetic graves
Letting out your brutality
Showing life’s forces

You stand on the hill
Shouting your command
We all gather in fear
Singing silently “dictatorship free us now”

Written by Tosan Oluwakemi Thompson

1)
see the yurei
the ghost of Oyuki…
hair free of the ornate pins
and scattered over her shoulders
she hovers in her white robe
her hands loose
and she’s covered in mist below her waist
she has a smile, her eyes turned inward
and you had better not wish
she’d cast her glance on you
just a look, just a glance

2)
Oyuki was the sweet love
of Maruyama Okyo
Oyuki was as delicate
as the plum blossoms outside her window
she sang songs of love
and covered Okyo with sweet kisses
Ah, she was young
and she played the shamisen
and she had such pleasing arts
and uttered such words
they lingered days and nights in Okyo’s mind
But she died young…
beautiful, like the cherry blossoms in the morning
and gone, faded in the evening

3)
and at nights
all Okyo could see
in dreams and in the dark
was gentle Oyuki, sweet Oyuki
hovering in the mist
floating, lingering, smiling
in his dreams, and in the dark
and he painted, Okyo painted
the Ghost of Oyuki
a portrait of his beloved Oyuki
and that freed him into sleep and peace
into quiet and calm


4)
but at nights
if you see
in dreams and in the dark
the form and beauty of Oyuki
floating, lingering, smiling
in your dreams and in the dark
then you must offer a petal, a dumpling
or what must please her
so she will go, that
gentle Oyuki, sweet Oyuki
or you might offer her a poem,
a soothing one
as I did, and she might plant a cold kiss on your cheek
a cold one
as she flits past, gliding away in all the mist
to see who she might catch
with no love of art, with no skill to please

Unchained day beneath dumpling clouds in a baby boy broth
I tumble from the snake's mouth into the belly of the bullfrog
kicking across the river in fits and starts of sloshing and falling
great mirror arms reach imploring
asking the sky to see their brilliance
as steel-grey bracelets encircle one wrist and
then another
and skyward we turn
and vomited unceremoniously from the bullfrog's mouth
I slog easterly through the setting concrete of the new-fettered day
kicking across the avenues in fits and starts of staring and falling
shiny electronic arms reach imploring and
ask the stars to hear the cries
as invisible chokers encircle one's throat and
then nothing
and skyward we turn
and jostled and sweating as fresh popcorn into the gluttonous hall
I ride the current past the kiosks and shuttered kitchens of boutique cafes
kicking down the rapids in fits and starts of surfacing and falling
a majestic and world-weary arm reaches defiantly and
shakes a fist forever at one moment and
then knows
and northward we turn
and
     the girl shared my Luna bar
and
     the phones were passed around
and
     the woman had no shoes
and
     the conductor took no tickets
and
     the women shared their seat
and
     the man gave her cab fare
and
     the woman went home with no purse, no keys, no shoes
and
     the girl went back to Buffalo
and
     still we turn
and
     still we turn
and
our shackled arms raised against the sword reaches
                                                                                             necessarily and
blocks the blow as if we were one arm and
then holds
and
     still we turn

What do you call people endearingly?
Sugar
Honey
Dumpling
Lemon Meringue Pie
I get hungry thinking of things to call her
Love
Babe
Baby
Darling
Am I being old-fashioned? Do people still speak this way?
My dark angel
Mon cherie
Deliciae meae
Dove
Doll
What to say?

I navigated
a sea of dumplings
in the heart of Japan
but none of them came close
to that perfect dumpling
I shared with you
in what now seems
like a dream.

I can't eat this mother
the pearl barley has the constituency of snot
Ok beat me around the head again, give me another
but I swear from ever on..... no more stew mother

From those days
those dumpling filled days
the ******* chasing me
over hills and valleys in nightmares

No I will not put that in my mouth
ever if my life depended on it
I tell you what you can do with your stew
give it to another, no more stew mother


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

My Darling, my Child!
My Little Baby Dumpling!
May Your Child grow true!

Poetry is not just a mess of words thrown together to tell a story about the boy you adore .Poetry is the letters that ****** a reader's sight, smell, touch, taste, and hearing. Poetry is supposed to make you feel something as deeply as you love the dark haired boy with knobby knees, as you love your grandmother on her deathbed, and as you much as you love the feel of someone else's dumpling lips against your own. Poetry holds your heart up among the angels or drags your sensitivity down below dark waves of pain.

early-morning
apartment that smells
of fresh laundry.
not night yet,
not day anymore —
an outdoor coffeeshop
with a string-light roof.
making buttered
grilled toast
and eggs with cheese,
garlic and parsley
on a rainy mid-day.
wet, salty hair
from the seashore,
fresh clothes,
reggae music —
in candle light,
for dinner with friends.
passing by
a bakery smelling of
freshly baked
bread and cookies,
and deciding to
get some.
sitting under lamplight
in a living room,
listening to a
magnificent song
just discovered.
wandering in a
secondhand furniture
shop — finding
the perfect white, wooden
table with three legs
pinned on a vision board.
a long, warm shower
on a very cold day.
leftovers from
the most delicious dinner,
for today.
lighting a vanilla
scented candle
in a clean, organized
peaceful home.
homemade cake with tea.
walking along
an uphill market —
dumpling shops,
man with the local spices,
earrings, singing bowls.
petrichor.

things to imagine
when lying in bed, anxious.

HITHERING AND TITHERING WATERS OF..

Aaw sure she's my own
little Finnegans Wake.

For my little skeowsha
language is lava

the mind is molten
flowing.

She catches tones and hones
in on the last word.

"pleaseyawannanicecupof...TEA?"

She knows how to
stick question marks on

things like
"...sweets?"

The thunder scares her
on Thursday

& becomes
Thundersday.

The flies bother her on Friday...
becomes Flieday.

Not realising  she is
quoting Mr, Joyce

following in his WAKE.

Or she makes up her own

"ONESDAY...TWOSDAY
WEDDINGDAY...FATTERDAY
SOMEDAY!"

She my little trinketotes
my dear ***** Dumpling.

I read her to sleep.
Not a peep

when Anna Livia Plurabelle...
tells her tale.

Beside the tickling waters of.
Beside the chuckling waters of.
Beside the laughing waters of.

She loves
the music of it all.

"Again!"
she agains it!

" Can't hear with the waters of.
The chittering waters of.

Night now.
Tell me, tell me, tell  me elm.

Night night!
Tellmetale of stem or stone.

Beside the rivering waters of..
Hithering tithering waters of.

Night."

God Bless the Europeans
All talk Islander Carribeans
S=S Seance Superstitious
The cool pledge Americans,
Suspicious regions secretively
scrumptious Gummie bears
legions

Rambling computer dummies
Those dragonflies showbiz
Dummies the crew
Zazzle S to Sparkle
Pickles and pregnancy
The Hebrew National

Nathans Franks contest
Are we missing the SS
without the ramble, it will  be
someone's gamble
Not many things to impress
Those little bites to nibble
The bigger bites stumble

All words over Google
Too much rice or noodles
All Gods foreign hot rods
With their lady poodles

Ramble words at the racetrack
All talkers hail to the Queen
The King deck someone is all
talk watch your back

Without the poise
Well mannered words
They will never be back
Backing up her timeless rose
Holy Grace SS for Serenity
smoother sail rephrase

Deep contemplation
Ramble on the
crossword mission

Rambles but silently
Like her meditation
So many changes new
revisions of more
accusations
Up-words like the
Moonwalkers

Show business SS- Abby-Abyss
Access summer dress more or less
Abrasiveness  love blindness
Aggressiveness to kindness

Rambling on words
The plethora
Traveling in Space like
Dora the explorer
True love confessions
Being subjective way too
submissive
How do we live without them
The right words to say to them
To live with someone
Not talking to them and
holding them
The wanting feel the loving
Time so in the needing

Rambling for lust well being

But bust to bust
All she got was ashes
All layers like a desert storm
So alarming like clockwork
Ramble words again and again
They were all deceivers
To Ramble or rambles on
like her last will OH Bill
What a smile ****
Double **** good cheater

And  those hope words
they named her

HOPE SS Smashing table setting
But silent words like
a deaf-mute accidentally wetting
How do we cope to
fly like a kite
The last testament to my
Savor S to be
(Blessed) to be visited
Her **** Chanel French lips
with nothing to say Oh! No
Her French skirt rips

Say Yes! to LUV she rambles
on and on just dream on
Like a recital play
Her rainbow sky
of the skittle

Who needs this
midnight rambler Joker riddle
At midnight he talks and his a
certain physique

He does have lip smacker
Fruity trustee puncher
He's the mighty hot roses
Bless S for her sanity
There she goes
Rosemarie eating Italian
Calamari for dessert
Tiramisu with her
Tiddly dee TUTU

Her cousin mumbles
Eating leftover
Campbells soup
Feeling like a chicken
without my words
I will crumble

There she is Robin Rambles
Hot Scrambled eggs
What about Rod Stewart
see those
rocker legs
Hot mouth rambling
Light her fire with
Apple mystique
candles

Her body angles showing her
good talking samples
She had the best cheeks
and dimples

Loved her Chinese food
Veggie steamed Dumpling
But jump for the love
Her or him to Babble
Westside story Maria
Word fight rumble
So cosmic her coffee moon-shiny
talk of the comic funny bones

Ramble like a song I tunes
The midnight traveler what
hot body fuel

Why is this world so in shambles
I need to find a smooth talker
The nocturnal
Writing so many words in
her journal

Roll of  words SS SCENIC -SOUL

The greater expectation
The poem of philosophy
Birds and the
Rambling Robins
Biology
Only one word saved them
(***) she rambles 69 reasons
Why her voice should be heard
Hour of rest full bloom season
Her rambling head
The French chef brioche
baking
The bed post was shaking

SS>> Sensual-Seductive new
awakening she worked hard

But he rambles forget the
S- Solitude words we
have no peace
And sometimes
Road less traveled
Full of maniacs with
arrogance
Let's not take the fun
out of the resistance

Ancient Grecian times
of swords and more
Sensual Roman words
A love decent she is
rambling
Like her first love
delectable
Like her first taste most
recent words can also
come and go with a stroke
of her paintbrush

Her most important words
can be deleted
Do you really feel blessed
Another (SOS) SS? save me

like
ribbed-knit fabric,
when we put the old ribbed La-Z-Boy out front, "FREE",
and whoever picked it up
has no idea my grandfather died in that chair.
like holding my knees in the hot tub,
quiet, wet, baking tiles,
a certain safety in a room with only women,
and crouching in the water like a boiling dumpling.
shortbread cookies in bed.
mac DeMarco on the way to the doctor's office,
my love for you is so real,
separating from my body in a goodwill,
curly-haired boys and impossibly beautiful girls in the movie theater bathroom,
whipped cream on her nose,
the golden lights of applebee's, and then
like it's all over again.

HITHERING AND TITHERING WATERS OF..

Ahhh sure she's my own
little Finnegans Wake.

For my little skeowsha
language is lava

the mind is molten
forever flowing.

She catches tones and hones
in on the last word.

"pleaseyawannanicecupof...TEA?"

She knows how to
stick question marks on

the end of things
like: "...sweets?"

The thunder scares her
on Thursday

& becomes
Thundersday.

The flies bother her on Friday...
becomes Flieday.

Not realiasing  she is
quoting Mr, Joyce

following in his WAKE.

Or she makes up her own

"ONESDAY...TWOSDAY
WEDDINGSDAY...FATTERDAY
SOMEDAY!"

She my little trinketoes
my dear ***** Dumpling.

I read her to sleep.
Not a peep

when Anna Livia Plurabelle...
tells her tale.

Beside the tickling waters of.
Beside the chuckling waters of.
Beside the laughing waters of.

She loves
the music of it all.

"Again!"
she agains it!

" Can't hear with the waters of.
The chittering waters of.

Night now.
Tell me, tell me, tell  me elm.

Night night!
Tellmetale of stem or stone.

Beside the rivering waters of.
Hithering tithering waters of.

Night."

sleep curved miles of patched dead boys into me like a scythe.
their quilts were not mine to sweat through,
to drench nightly with my self.
but i cried out anyway.
said i needed stained warmth more than coffins ever could.
bare as they were.
prodigal as they were.
i turn aside in bed. i sweat it out.
sleep handed me its crowded city plots and boxes of
one-way ticket disownment boiled down
to an art exhibit of photographed bodies.
black and white bodies. end of life bodies.
i tore them into manageable halves.
their varied human pieces quilted themselves together onto the floor.
their eyes floated to land at my shoes.
i stared.

yet it was sleep who drew in
the fluttering array of lost bandanas dyed with every coy color
present on the rare days here
that always smelled more like mornings,
the colors peeking like barefoot children just around the corners of their smirking, drowsy city avenues after rain.
sleep dreamt me an after hours carousel.
the revelry of skintight garbage bags
brimming over with ****** boys.
lovely boys.
boys with a gleam.
faceless baby boys with sores like eyes,
full of their junk they
treasured, fondled, kissed
the little pound of flesh that was theirs,
they gave freely, bait and tackle
to swallow whole.
dust bowl dumpling soft.
pulsing expectance.
those skins underneath you’d discover pressed to an eternity of sorts
between two slurs of the same brick,
that its nightless club grime
mumbled disco sickly to me & him.
and i’d be on my knees.
by a bed, a river, a quilt, a pew, an avenue, a grave.
whatever useless dreams may come,
i always find myself there.
already knelt in every way i couldn’t possibly comprehend.
gravely, maybe beautifully-
beside another slumbering boy
too distant from life not to reach for.

Where I met allure
she was my craft inured  

that round my futon
when her neck was born

ready her an all nighter
with vita relinquished

uproariously keen in swelter
but really resurrected platitude

a scorcher for sure
and dreams whetted with desire

while attire was crumpling
here round my dumpling

the weather most attested her rap
that I'd relish her bare

much than sympathy again
always tile her spree.

the dentist
sets his drill
a-spinning
into the pupil
of your right eye

liquor
a fountain of it
spurts
such
a thin stream

don’t you know that
when you hold
the coca cola juice
in your mouth like that
your teeth
will dissolve
right
down
to the pulpy center?

now they’re walking past
your open
incision
and
they each place
a small
dumpling
into it

the gases
rise up
like the chicken meat
you left
in the fridge
for too long

and you live for that moment

tuck in, tuck out
the irregular edges bother me
the filling slowly peaking out
of the corners i have yet to mend
flour coats apoh’s veranda floors
as she tends to aunt jenny’s calls

tuck in, tuck out
she’s left me all alone
with the dozens of wrappers
still staring back at me

tuck in, tuck out
i look away and she’s back again
she takes the dumpling from my hands
fixing the bits and pieces i have seemed to miss
she laughs and picks up my other one

tuck in, tuck out
the lines by her eyes are deeper now
her reading glasses are slowly sliding down
she folds down the left corner for me

tuck in, tuck out
and suddenly i’m 6 years old again
at the soy sauce stained dining table
eating the last dumpling left on the plate

At ringend on june sixteenth nineteen hundred and four
                                                                     Molly opens her door
and Literate Leopold plonks his kosher black pudding into her hand
                                                                                        Isn't it grand
                                                                 to be remembered this way?
Walking the streets and ******* the teats of the sow that eats its children
Searching for meat on O'Connel streeet that has the tang of scented *****
The well known literate degenerates
long to have  their hot-dogs stroked by baaaaaaaaaarnacles
whilst sellin' knick-nack Paddywackery of dear old ***** dumpling
                     How do they walk with her sausages
                                  and inner organs  of beasts and fowls?
their shanks ****** dry of whuskey on Denny's big breakfast show
                Well **** your ****! With a flame-grilled
                                                                       samuel
                                                                                 becket burger
                                                                             and a side order
                                                                       of oscar wilde fries

"warmth showered gently over him, cowing his flesh. Flesh yeilded amid rumpled clothes.
Whites of eyes swooning up. His nostrils arched themselves for prey. Melting breast ointments.
Armpits oniony sweat .
Fishgluey slime.
Feel!
Press!
Crushed!
Sulphur dung of lions
Young!  Young!

                 In the petri-
                               Pish
                               Pish
                               Pish
                               Dish
spitoon culture
           the illiteraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaati
                                      hold a party
                  
                "I'm a tiny tiny thing
                     Ever flying in the spring
                       Round and round a ringaring
                                                  Long ago I was king
                                        Now I do this kind of thing
                                     On the wing, onnnnnnnn the wing!"
                                                    Bing!

Professor Latelate Lateshow Late review
Was talking to ME……..        about yew
What do yew think of that aesthetic crew?
                                  The opal hush poets?
                                   The master mystiks?
The wanz thit
       *** to me
          in the sma' oors
               o the mournin'
                    tae ask aboot
                       plains o consciousness?

They're all Barbers, says he, from the Black Country that would hang their own fathers for five quid down and travelling expenses!

In Dublin's fine city
Where the wine bars are pretty
You can't find an ashtray
You must smoke alone.

                                                                                  Isn't it grand
                                                               To be remembered this way
Walking the streets and ******* the teats of the sow that eats its children?

A street urchin
The slums his home
An unwanted foetus
A born-throwaway
Carrying signs of vagabonds

An unlucky fellow
A seed of the night
Loveless memories
Hate be breathed

Everyone knows him
A street worker's seed
The planting of an agbeero
A drunk for the night

Like rotten eggs
A dumpling for garbage
The torment of a grieving mother
Unwanting his kind

Left to rotten
A mistake on the road
Paid for like a bargain
His coming
She hated

She bereaved at his sight
An unlucky fellow
Thrown into the night
A dumpling for garbage

#Tosanation