i wannt some fanta i wannt some fanta i wannt some fanta i wannt some fanta i wannt some fanta i wannt some fanta i wannt some fanta i wannt some fanta i wannt some fanta fanta fanta fanta fanta fanta fanta fanta fanta

You're like the caffeine-free soda
FANTA-stic.
I actually have many more words than that
But i'd go on all day
And you'd fall asleep with how many i have.

Today we shall have the naming of parts. How the opening of that poem by Henry Reed caught his present thoughts; that banal naming of parts of a soldier’s rifle set against the delicate colours and textures of the gardens outside the lecture room. *Japonica glistening like coral  . . . branches holding their silent eloquent gestures . . . bees fumbling the flowers. It was the wrong season for this so affecting poem – the spring was not being eased as here, in quite a different garden, summer was easing itself out towards autumn, but it caught him, as a poem sometimes would.

He had taken a detour through the gardens to the studio where in half an hour his students would gather. He intended to name the very parts of rhythm and help them become aware of their personal knowledge and relationship with this most fundamental of musical elements, the most connected with the body.

He had arranged to have a percussionist in on the class, a player he admired (he had to admit) for the way this musician had dealt with a once-witnessed on-stage accident that he’d brought it into his poem sequence Lemon on Pewter. They had been in Cambridge to celebrate her birthday and just off the train had hurried their way through the bicycled streets to the college where he had once taught, and to a lunchtime concert in a theatre where he had so often performed himself.

Smash! the percussionist wipes his hands and grabs another bottle before the music escapes checking his fingers for cuts and kicking the broken glass from his feet It was a brilliant though unplanned moment we all agreed and will remember this concert always for that particular accidental smile-inducing sharp intake of breath moment when with a Fanta bottle in each hand there was a joyful hit and scrape guiro-like on the serrated edges a no-holes barred full-on sounding out of glass on glass and you just loved it when he drank the juice and fluting blew across the bottle’s mouth

And having thought himself back to those twenty-four hours in Cambridge the delights of the morning garden aflame with colour and texture were as nothing beside his vivid memory of that so precious time with her. The images and the very physical moments of that interval away and together flooded over him, and he had to stop to close his eyes because the images and moments were so very real and he was trembling . . . what was it about their love that kept doing this to him? Just this morning he had sat on the edge of his bed, and in the still darkness his imagination seemed to bring her to him, the warmth and scent of her as she slept face down into a pillow, the touch of her hair in his face as he would bend over her to kiss her ear and move his hand across the contours of her body, but without touching, a kind of air-lovers movement, a kiss of no-touch. But today, he reminded himself, we have the naming of parts . . .

He was going to tackle not just rhythm but the role of percussion. There was a week’s work here. He had just one day. And the students had one day to create a short ‘poem for percussion’ to be performed and recorded at the end of the afternoon class. In his own music he considered the element of percussion as an ever-present challenge. He had only met it by adopting a very particular strategy. He regarded its presence in a score as a kind of continuo element and thus giving the player some freedom in the choice of instruments and execution. He wanted percussion to be ‘a part’ of equal stature with the rest of the musical texture and not a series of disparate accents, emphases and colours. In other words rhythm itself was his first consideration, and all the rest followed. He thought with amusement of his son playing Vaughan-Williams The Lark Ascending and the single stroke of a triangle that constituted his percussion part. For him, so few composers could ‘do it’ with percussion. He had assembled for today a booklet of extracts of those who could: Stravinsky’s Soldier’s Tale (inevitably), Berio’s Cummings songs, George Perle’s Sextet, Living Toys by Tom Ades, his own Flights for violin and percussionist. He felt diffident about the latter, but he had the video of those gliders and he’d play the second movement What is the Colour of the Wind?

In the studio the percussionist and a group of student helpers were assembling the ‘kits’ they’d agreed on. The loose-limbed movements of such players always fascinated him. It was as though whatever they might be doing they were still playing – driving a car? He suddenly thought he might not take a lift from a percussionist.

On the grand piano there was, thankfully, a large pile of the special manuscript paper he favoured when writing for percussion, an A3 sheet with wider stave lines. Standing at the piano he pulled a sheet from the pile and he got out his pen. He wrote on the shiny black lid with a fluency that surprised him: a toccata-like passage based on the binary rhythms he intended to introduce to his class. He’d thought about making this piece whilst lying in bed the previous night, before sleep had taken him into a series of comforting dreams. He knew he must be careful to avoid any awkward crossings of sticks.

The music was devoid of any accents or dynamics, indeed any performance instructions. It was solely rhythm. He then composed a passage that had no rhythm, only performance instructions, dynamics, articulations such as tremolo and trills and a play of accents, but no rhythmic symbols. He then went to the photocopier in the corridor and made a batch of copies of both scores. As the machine whirred away he thought he might call her before his class began, just to hear her soft voice say ‘hello’ in that dear way she so often said it, the way that seem to melt him, and had been his undoing . . .

When his class had assembled (and the percussionist and his students had disappeared pro tem) he began immediately, and without any formal introduction, to write the first four 4-bit binary rhythms on the chalkboard, and asked them to complete it. This mystified a few but most got the idea (and by now there was a generous sharing between members of the class), so soon each student had the sixteen rhythms in front of them.

‘Label these rhythms with symbols a to p’, he said, ‘and then write out the letters of your full name. If there’s a letter there that goes beyond p create another list from q to z. You can now generate a rhythmic sequence using what mathematicians call a function-machine. Nigel would be:

x x = x     x = = =      = x x =      = x x x      x = x x

Write your rhythm out and then score it for 4 drums – two congas, two bongos.’

His notion was always to keep his class relentlessly occupied. If a student finished a task ahead of others he or she would find further instructions had appeared on the flip chart board.  Audition –in your head - these rhythms at high speed, at a really quick tempo. Now slow them right down. Experiment with shifting tempos, download a metronome app on your smart phone, score the rhythms for three clapping performers, and so on.

And soon it was performance time and the difficulties and awkwardness of the following day were forgotten as nearly everyone made it out front to perform their binary rhythmic pieces, and perform them with much laughter, but with flair and élan also. The room rang with the clapping of hands.

The percussionist appeared and after a brief introduction – in which the Fanta bottle incident was mentioned - composer and performer played together *****’s Clapping Music before a welcome break was taken.

you think this is funny?
you cheer with your boys?
making nonsense and noise
go find all your toys

i could take photos of you
and they always show me the truth
of how beautiful
you
are

you're not one for dates
but i could take you
some
where

if you would maybe care
i would try
and we could be ly
ing
under the stars

but instead i'm in here
crying
wishing i was
dying
wish you were
beside
me

so why is it
surprising
that no matter what the
night
brings

i'm always
fanta
size
ing

about you
taking photos
without your
consent
i'm sorry i didn't tell you
yet
but you're my best
asset

funny i fell in love with a dark skinned boy named Justice during all this racism *******

....right?

Are you bored?
Do you feel there's no point to the things you do?
Is your life missing an element of excitement?

Fear not, I have just the thing

Put the Awe back in Awesome
Put the back Zing back in Amazing
Put the Fanta back into Fantastic

What?  Fanta is great.

Anyway

It's rather simple.  

The next time you have to do something you find boring, depressing, or unfulfilling, do it FOR SCIENCE!

Some examples:

I'll be out later, I have to do my English homework...FOR SCIENCE
I'm giving the big presentation tomorrow...FOR SCIENCE
I got into a car accident this morning...FOR SCIENCE
I don't feel so well, I need to use the crapper...FOR SCIENCE.  I'll be in there awhile.  For Science.
Someone tried to steal my purse, so I stabbed them...FOR SCIENCE

I guarantee that if you use this handy tip, your self esteem will rise, and people will find you exponentially more interesting!

Or they might think you're crazy

They definitely won't think you're boring, though.

So go out there and show the world what you're made of

For Science!

11:44 PM // do you remember the first time we met? i do.

12:02 AM // i remember the first time we locked eyes like it was yesterday

12:09 AM // i remember the swirl of green and brown all in one mesmerising gaze taunting me like a bad dream

12:57 AM // you were never just a stranger to me, you were never a face that didn’t matter  

1:18 AM // from the moment i laid eyes on you i knew you’d break my heart

1:32 AM // i can't stop thinking about the last time you told me you loved me

1:55 AM // you called me up after weeks of nothing and told me you'd never love anyone like you loved me

2:07 AM // you were saying goodbye, weren't you?

2:50 AM //  i could have forgiven you if it was only a kiss, but you fell in love with her

3:49 AM // i've kissed lots of people since you, but none of them pulled my hair and tasted like fanta

4:27 AM // my god i loved you with everything i had

5:01 AM // it still wasn't enough, was it?

5:55 AM // it was always meant to be her.

If you'd care to help
I'm saving up cans
With the brilliant idea
To build an aluminum can friend

One that shines bright
That never will rust
In whom I share secrets
One I can trust

He'll have Coca-Cola arms
And Dr. Pepper legs
Non-caffine Sprite
I'll use for his head

Don't want my aluminum can friend
To have jitters all day
Restless at night
Staying up late

I'll give him Pepsi hands
That are willing to please
So when I do chores
He can help me

For my friend on the go
I'll give Mountain Dew feet
A couple Red Bull
If I decide to do wings

And an idea that is good
Would be a Fanta heart
For a colorful beat
With all the flavors there are

So if you'd like to help
I'm saving up cans
With the brilliant idea
To build an aluminum can friend

i am a blade tucked safely in Tupperware
my lonely teeth hidden under clammy pillow
feel these nightmares like they were yours
i could blush with you all night
when my mouth feels dry
it is not from the absence of presence
but from the rotundity cascade
that your hair ebbs as it collides with mine
i'd like to think this folly is something
i can put on the centerfold
a gift too pronounced with an utter
of my masked gravity inside all the
beer you pour into a proud papercup
days shrink into nothingness

The ball goes down the lane
it clinks on pins
and down they go,
the shoes fit just right
and everyone you know is in sight,
being taught how to spell the letter R
of your name by your great aunt Vi,
seeing your funny aunt Marlene,
being with your grandma Ross,
and going to Sammy's Restaurant
for grilled cheese,
and the pharmacy for pink Trident gum,
all this under one roof.
I run to the lane
the ball goes down the lane
I run to the counter in time
shut off the lane
and CRASH!
no pins fall
the sound of the ball ricochets
from one end to the other;
my mischievous ways fulfilled,
and God I loved the Fanta pop
which my dad, the manager I was
proud of, readily supplied,
the place is now gone
but it's life still goes on
the pins crash even louder,
the disinfectant shoe spray still as smelly,
the oil of the lane still slippery,
and the grilled cheese still as good;
and carried on to the current day...
Georgina would have been proud!


http://www.robross.ca

There's an office away from the high street
Where the ordinance survey resides
And the walls there are painted with boredom
Not a singular giggle abides
But there's one room below, in the cellar
Where Connor completes the new maps
Adding green and blue spots and churches
Putting pine trees in all of the gaps

Now just two days before publication
He was feeling mischievous and bold
So he pulled out the map of his village
And he penned the words "Here Be Gold"
Then he folded them neatly and deftly
He took them for copy and print
Bid his colleagues a wonderful summer
And he left just approaching a sprint

So the map making season was over
And his handiwork soon was for sale
Connor waited and made preparation
To ensure that his scheme didn't fail
He rented a tired ice cream van
And he filled it with cunning supplies
When his phone rang one Saturday morning
He spoke with well measured surprise

That call brought a knock to his doorway
And a nod to a neighbouring field
With a mind to extract precious metals
And a promise of half of the yield
"That field belonged to my father"
Young Connor was quick to invent
"You can dig just as much as you like there
It's three hundred a day for the rent"

There was much in the way of discussion
Then a scratching of paper and pen
A shake of a hand and a smiling
They were gone by a quarter past ten
So he counted they money they left him
They had paid him a week in advance
It would certainly pay off the mortgage
With some left for a weekend in France

On Monday there came with a rumbling
A convoy of notable size
There were trailers with diggers and cabins
And vans full of tools and supplies
All halted by general consensus
They unloaded each pallet and crate
Not seeing that over the field
Young Connor had bolted the gate

With a fever they started to burrow
With the sun beating down on their backs
They were tiring by the mid morning
But provisions were curiously lax
When in rolled a tired ice cream van
Playing green sleeves in hideous tones
Soon the workers were queuing in masses
For Fanta and lollies and cones

But the bill drew a gasp from each punter
Though the thirst had them caught by the *****
So they paid the extortionate prices
And stripped to their workmanlike smalls
At the end of the day they departed
And only young Connor remained
With a plan and a shiny new toolbox
Which he'd only just lately obtained

The next day the foremen and drivers
Found their diggers unable to dig
The engines were gone from their bonnets
And the oil had escaped from their rig
There was much of the pointing and cursing
And some harsh accusations were made
In the end they decided to press on
And continue with bucket and *****

They made quite a hole in the field
And they slowly descended from sight
They were forty feet down by the evening
And lamenting the vanishing light
When one of them turned with a bucket
To ferry out some of the spoil
When he came to what should be a ladder
And found only two dents in the soil

Connor slept and he dreamed of his fortune
And was thankfully hardy and stout
Or he'd certainly be more exhausted
After dragging those ladders about
In the morning he took to the field
With a bag and a rope and a smile
He leaned forward and peering downwards
Did proclaim in benevolent style

"Ahoy there you diggers and bucket men
Are you stranded in this here hole?"
There were cries from the depths and more cursing
And pleas that would shatter the soul
"I am sorry but I have no ladders
But I do have a coil of rope
You'd better shed weight for I'm sickly
I'm afraid that I may well not cope"

"So take off your rings and your watches
Your mobile phones and your cash
And pile them into a bucket
I'll hoist them all out in a flash"
After further complaining and shouting
Connor stood with a bucket of loot
And with that he went back to his cottage
Twas a very successful commute

The next year in the ordinance survey
On the map of the place he resides
In the field that belonged to his father
Amid pine trees and yet more besides
There are words in the faintest of letters
Between pictures of diggers and tools
Saying "Here Be Gold if you know where to look
And a ****** great hole full of fools"

Half asleep, driving for hours
with Budweiser bottles,
warm from the heating.
The windows were all down,
we were smoking rollies,
all sharing one lighter because the driver
dropped his in a can of fanta.

Next thing,
the roar of an army of twincams.
VTECs, something insanely beautiful,
and incredibly ridiculous,
a convention of petrol heads—
Gardaí everywhere, searching for tax
and insurance. My God, I was in it.
Hundreds of thousands of them,
all excited like children,
the screaming of a million voices,
no exhaustion in the exhaust fumes.

The hills rose around us, the traffic
packed backwards,
expensive cars all sardined in a roundabout.
How loud can you get it?
Can she sing like a canary?
Can she find herself at the Letterkenny rally?

One juice box
One scone
One apple for Noble
and a pita for Peter

One sandwich
One coke
One green pea for  me
and a pita for Peter

One fanta for Santa
One pizza for Caesar
And extra mozzarella for Ella
The spare is for you
And as for the bean
Put that in the bin
and a pita for Peter

One ice-cream
One pie
One pasta for Busta
and a pita for Peter

One cake
One steak
One milkshake for Shriek
and a pita for Peter

One pita
for Peter?
Give each one their own
*and a pita for Peter

Pop bottles. Boxes of them.
The old man brought them home.
He collected them on the construction site, between lifts.
Sometimes it would be days between lifts,
So he filled time collecting bottles.
Hires, Fanta, Tab, Fresca, 7 Up, Mountain Dew,
Canada Dry...
Emptied by men, like him, from all over.
What conversations did he have with them
When he picked up the empties.
Did he indulge? He'd have liked Vernors.
Pop bottles were as good as gold.
Large bottles, a nickel: Small, two cents.
He kept us busy, weeding, straightening nails, digging, mixing cement, building fences, painting them, and the house;
Root cellars, garages, additions;
In fair, wet, or hot conditions.
Winter had it's own cuffs.

We'd cash in the bottles at Walker Bros.
Every Sunday he'd leave for weeks,
Up North, to places like Kapuskasing and Hearst.
He must've been thinking about us up there,
Collecting our bottles,
In fair, wet, or hot conditions.

odor remover
and soaked carpet
the memories are
harder to exstinguish
clinging to songs
and scents
i loved you more
last night
when i realized
that we grieve
the same way
it’s nice to know
it’s not just
me

Audio version- listen.        
https://m.soundcloud.com/ehazuagbe
you can also drop your comments.


i'm just a vessel, words pass through me,
my mind is a clouded place, you cant understand my nature,
I have been through alot of tortures, mental,
you see, i revived myself in other find myself,
tired of hiding in the shadows, becoming so shallow,
my mind is a battlefield, my words are my greatest shield,
beauty, lied under her lips, her words,
she, she was my greatest gift, but I have learned to let go the best things in life,
shoutout to my ex, she made me grow.
she turned me from been an ordinary guy to a poet,
now i dream elusive. i think exclusive,
even tho I tried to make we work like a telecommunication,
when I find my next, I will never lose the communication,
they say, they don't know me anymore, the person I have become,
you changed me, the world, you made me,
i write poems on my skin, in hidden places at night when it's 2am,
in between heaven and earth,
thats where I find my serenity,
counting the stars as I dig my feets in the ocean in motion,
so many things I see not, I wish I saw to pen into words,
the waves, war of both worlds, a constant battle like the heart of man,
we claim we are educated but still find love complicated,
broken every piece of physics still can't find the mystery to life,
we claim we are soft hearted but yet, we find it hard to forgive even those we love,
these are deep words that burn in my soul as it echoes at night,
as I chat with my folks I see them lose hope,
hope on life, like the knife was drawn to their throat ready to slay, cold.
imagine,
imagine how people see life, they have planted a seed of failure left to grow, groomed & watered with empty thought,
but no,life is beautiful,
like the eyes of a woman, so delicate like an egg,
we protected by God like the shell,
sometimes we need to climb the hills to feel,
to heal, to grow,
my mind,
my mind is a hidden room, filled with words,
& poetry is my only escape,
from the ridges to the bridges,
I seek to know more, I flip the pages,
in each flip I flip, I have a tear drop on each page to remember me of we,
I once wrote a poem on a red rose,
and sang each words to the moon at night,
hoping the stars will kiss her through the window,
with a light so bright,
once upon a time I watched Romeo & Juliet,
I never knew u would leave me so soon in June yet,
without no melody,
do you still remember my name, or you only tune me on. when you bored?
my love was so deep I told motherland she wasn't as pretty as you are.
she still reflect,
I dreamt of you and me together, summer, my hand inside you further,
I kissed away your fear and inhaled your breathe,
I tasted your fanta a fantasy and you complimented my size,
fantasize,
if my heart was to love till now, I place my hand on my chest,
for I have never seen true beauty till that night.

Do you remember Mexico?
How old were we then, twelve?
That place was so loved
It smelled like dust and slow-cooked beans
We caught a toad
We painted dorms
El Sauzal, the willow, the willow
A beaten-up concrete playground
Bright, yellow sun
Red, sticky Fanta
Worn-in smiles adjusting to the smell of strangers
I fell in love with a Mexican boy
We didn't even play soccer together
Watched a movie in a language neither of us spoke
Climbed trees with leaves that needed a rake
Cleaned a nursery room
Told scary stories around a red campfire
Letting the world seep into our veins
Saw the dolphins when we camped at the beach
Named and re-named the tick-ridden dogs
The water was wetter
The air was headier
The sun shined more unrelentingly, more heavenly
The blisters harder-won
The rain more of a blessing
The life so much more tangible and delicious

I

You’re higher up on a train so the flatness the far horizons the empty fields the ***** disappearing into the distance solitary houses set amongst windbreaks of trees and surrounded by the loam-rich fields the serious machinery turning or drilling the earth raised levies of a distinctive green birds gathering notating music on telegraph wires suddenly a mumuration of starlings undulating wave-like in the drab mouse-grey skies arching and over this train riding perched above the land and now acres of water not a lake flooded land gradually tapering towards a sprawling city all but hidden by its hill-less topography

II

Smash! the percussionist wipes his hands and grabs another bottle before the music escapes checking his fingers for cuts and kicking the broken glass from his feet It was a brilliant though unplanned moment we all agreed and will remember this concert always for that particular accidental smile-inducing sharp intake of breath moment when with a Fanta bottle in each hand there was a joyful hit and scrape guiro-like on the serrated edges a no-holes barred full-on sounding out of glass on glass and you just loved it when he drank the juice and fluting blew across the bottle’s mouth

III

It’s the other side of town past and running the gauntlet of the shops we’d love to stop and look Don’t lets That’s for later Now it’s the house we’ve come to see four narrow cottages joined as one hard to believe the inside from the outside Oh that lemon on the pewter plate Ben’s drawing beneath the windowsill you had to kneel to look at The long table surfaces decorated with stones shells wood on shelves of the right books and the right chairs to read them in we sat still I sketching you in the grey fading light

IV

Suddenly the brightness of the adjoining gallery a dozen paintings nothing here of the interstellar abstract chilly world of the ellipse where she failed to make a home preferring to make a cup of tea alongside a growing bud and the tissued plants the gathered flowers in a chapel niche the white saxifrage of the Highlands and washed out colours of Bamburgh’s beaches then suddenly a child and that life-size photo a tall girl hair braided painterly somewhere in the Italian lakes her obsessive colour chart searching for the unknown purple she had once glimpsed with her father in India

Audio version- listen.        
https://m.soundcloud.com/ehazuagbe
you can also drop your comments.


i'm just a vessel, words pass through me,
my mind is a clouded place, you cant understand my nature,
I have been through alot of tortures, mental,
you see, i revived myself in other find myself,
tired of hiding in the shadows, becoming so shallow,
my mind is a battlefield, my words are my greatest shield,
beauty, lied under her lips, her words,
she, she was my greatest gift, but I have learned to let go the best things in life,
shoutout to my ex, she made me grow.
she turned me from been an ordinary guy to a poet,
now i dream elusive. i think exclusive,
even tho I tried to make we work like a telecommunication,
when I find my next, I will never lose the communication,
they say, they don't know me anymore, the person I have become,
you changed me, the world, you made me,
i write poems on my skin, in hidden places at night when it's 2am,
in between heaven and earth,
thats where I find my serenity,
counting the stars as I dig my feets in the ocean in motion,
so many things I see not, I wish I saw to pen into words,
the waves, war of both worlds, a constant battle like the heart of man,
we claim we are educated but still find love complicated,
broken every piece of physics still can't find the mystery to life,
we claim we are soft hearted but yet, we find it hard to forgive even those we love,
these are deep words that burn in my soul as it echoes at night,
as I chat with my folks I see them lose hope,
hope on life, like the knife was drawn to their throat ready to slay, cold.
imagine,
imagine how people see life, they have planted a seed of failure left to grow, groomed & watered with empty thought,
but no,life is beautiful,
like the eyes of a woman, so delicate like an egg,
we protected by God like the shell,
sometimes we need to climb the hills to feel,
to heal, to grow,
my mind,
my mind is a hidden room, filled with words,
& poetry is my only escape,
from the ridges to the bridges,
I seek to know more, I flip the pages,
in each flip I flip, I have a tear drop on each page to remember me of we,
I once wrote a poem on a red rose,
and sang each words to the moon at night,
hoping the stars will kiss her through the window,
with a light so bright,
once upon a time I watched Romeo & Juliet,
I never knew u would leave me so soon in June yet,
without no melody,
do you still remember my name, or you only tune me on. when you bored?
my love was so deep I told motherland she wasn't as pretty as you are.
she still reflect,
I dreamt of you and me together, summer, my hand inside you further,
I kissed away your fear and inhaled your breathe,
I tasted your fanta a fantasy and you complimented my size,
fantasize,
if my heart was to love till now, I place my hand on my chest,
for I have never seen true beauty till that night.

@ a cristian @ a catholic @ an all round ruddy good athlete. @ herd roast beef @ herd mutton. @ i used to lead the pork and dairy through the fields of cotton. @ wear football socks and wellingtons and fleeces and march to the top of the old south downs. @ make a jump jet from bits of old pieces @ act a goat or a hero or a clown. @ do front flips straight from the backflip @ sing who put the dog with the cat fish @ say ship! Take the P add a T @ break the day with a bowl of muesli. @ play snake if my mate had a phone, but playing with others isnt always better than playing
alone.

@ like films made for kids my age, glamourised ideas of aristocracy and faith. The good will win and the bad will be sad and the age of the raging mad will begin, its a fad! @ wear jean jackets, go to the parties @ have fanta and chocolate log rushing through the arteries. @ chew through books faster than a vulture, faster than the fastest man at the height of zombie culture. @ play football everyday football winter time football, dont need sun. And then we play cricket. 40 legs of cricket. 3 days later im counting up the runs

the coke machine
up on the hill,
the hill it’s been on
for forty years or
more,
reads in angry red
letters:
SOLD OUT

the coke
the diet coke
the sprite
the fanta
and
the mello yellow
too

all gone
but it still begs
for your dollar
fifty
even though
it can’t give you
anything back

the forty year-
old coke machine
up on the hill
is sold out
but it’s still thirsty
and so are
you

You have never been anywhere but here.
All of your memories are mine,
too.
Sipping fanta from ceramic mugs,
curled up on the kitchen floor.
Theres supposed to be a lesson,
here,
about growing up
and growing apart,
but I am sunblind,
unseeing.
Even when the gowns come off,
when the train door closes,
I still care about all of this.
You will never not be a part of me.
Four years
and still,
still,
still,
the light bends around you,
reaching through the dark.
I am glad we got to do this together.
All this time.
I love you no matter what you become.

I’ve got better things to do
Than not drink orange soda
My winter is long enough
Without that summer in a bottle

It’s the taste of my youth
That magic orange soda
Fanta, Crush, or Sunkist
They all take me there

Carbonated sweet sun
This icy orange soda
Every sip is a portal in time
Take me back, take me back

I still remember the taste of
orange fanta, sticky and sweet
on your lips.
It’s as nostalgic, as it is painful,
remembering you.
I swallow a bit easier, with each
coming sip.

I throw this *****
like a tantrum

He say my name
like a mantra

Slappin clappin ***
like a hand drum

Had him so thirsty ask him
"Don't you want a fanta?"

one of those beautiful nights...
    there's absolutely nothing to write...
memories keep flooding in:
coagulating, constipating me with
inactivity:
    perhaps this comes off as a complaint:
sure... a complain of a workaholic-alcoholic
nights like this i wish my wages weren't
stalled by 2 months and i could
take the bus to the brothel and
snuggle...
            pretend that smoking cigarettes
gives you the limp when it fact
withdrawing from smoking and then
a cigarette during ******* reignites
passions...
          lazily: oh too lazily...
                    perhaps reading some Ovid might
help... i need to finish his ****** poems
before i take to Zhuangzi all the more seriously:
i tried doing what some people do:
reading several books simultaneously...
at least today one thing came close to
an intimate contact with a woman...
8am sharp... at the hair-dresser...
  her floor-sweeper brought in her puppy...
such tender hair... cocker-spaniel...
i picked him up and snuggled her
before sitting down in a chair... closed my eyes
and talked blah blah this... blah blah that...
my hairdresser already knew my passion
for cycling: she recently picked it up...
then breakfast back home...
  and two decent hours spent watching
the world championships in athletics from
Oregon... then bottle recycling...
then... ooh... at my most "*** starved"
i conjured up the idea that getting a beard trim
is almost on par with oral ***...
i still think so... it certainly beats a haircut...
and no one does it better than a Turk...
by the end of it i looked like i slimmed 5 kilograms...
which was great: my cheeks and neck could
breathe again...
i just sat in the chair without talking...
just the casual hello... and he already knew
what i wanted...
                          i must have one of those
faces you can't forget... or one of those faces
that's familiar... or one of those faces you want
to punch... but i didn't ask for a hot towel...
i've never seen anyone of English heritage
get a Turkish towel treatment...
a menthol infused towel gets placed over your
head only exposing your nose to breathe...
while the barber turns to massaging your arms
and hands and fingers...
maybe i should go visit a massage parlour
for real... it's only half the price...
and i might just feel that much better than having
to pretend i'm competing for "something"...
beside my own egoism...
then again: and you will know the difference
between good AND evil...
              clearly i'm not the one to know...
it's not a clear-cut case of GOOD or EVIL...
the terms diffuse from their absolute pyramid
scheme into the subtler matters of the mind...
i can feel: negation-prefix-action:
i can feel: DISgust (disgust)
  i can feel: disagreement
              i can feel... disingenuousness....
as it stands? there no good or bad...
there's: THAT and DIS (phonetically THIS,
since THIS is not implying theta...
    for that? a missing T... i.e. fist)
                  women's Euro finals on the 31st
of this month... get paid on the 1st...
i still don't know why of all the people employed
around the same time as me
i'm the only one with an employee status
while everyone else is self-employed...
writing invoices...
someone working this job for 12 years
asks me why i've been made a supervisor after
no qualification being granted for me and having
only worked: since last December...
    maybe my grandfather taught me something
more indispensable than anything "said"
person might learn...
i want a heart of emptiness...
              i want the wind in my heart
with an easier beat to the sometimes: thumping of
my head as nothing comes knocking
in a manner that's: wake up thinking...

ah! now i know what prompted me to write
something today... my father was getting
a haircut prior to me...
i stalled my "styling" sessions by ordering
a can of Fanta and a white coffee two doors down...
i sat down at a table outside the cafe
and downed the can of Fanta...
bad idea... it was the first thing i ingested
in the morning... i finished it... started smoking
a cigarette, started drinking the coffee...
opened the newspaper an skimmed reading
news: eh... the world? same old... same old...

die welt: gleich-alt... altgleich...
"quizzical" and at the same time queasy...
i need to feel better...
i'm not going to pretend to feel better by just
sitting there trying to keep it all in...
this article prompted me:
Janice Turner: Soldiers should not be buying sed
anywhere...
i need to puke my guts out...
so i walk across the street and enter a cornfield
and start puking my guts out...
this bright orange mix of phlegm and bubbles...
ooh... release... now all i need to do is
grab a loaf from my *** while sitting on the thrones...
how i managed to sit through a session
of hair-cutting i will never know...

the day ended with me watching French women
batter the Dutch women at football:
deservedly...
so hold on: because this article stuck with me
for the entire day...
if soldiers should not be buying *** anywhere?
what about civilians?
i started thinking about the alternative reality...

women have all the agency in the realm of ***...
right up to the point of being the ones favouring
infanticide: she sleeps with a loser...
gets pregnant: termination:
because the "loser" is not geared up to shackles
and commitment of... whatever...

"research" shows trading money for consent
reduces empathy:
so does meal-tickets... dating...
trading free meals for *** reduces both
empathy and: trust...
                that's why when i read a newspaper
i skip all the news and go straight into
the editorial section: the opinions...
opinions?! ugh... in journalism that's synonymous
with unchallenged dialectics...

i think this "article" prompted the morning
sickness more than the can of Fanta...
i felt sick...
i find a £1000+ mobile phone in a supermarket...
i cycle home with it... it starts ringing with:
mommy... title for the ringer...
i get a churning in my stomach...
i can't rob a child of a mistake she'll learn from:
that... not everyone in society will do this...
hand in a lost phone...
best to get her hopes up...
at least i won't be the one disappointing her...
like that Iron Maiden song: afraid to shoot strangers...

yeah... that's what got me all weird and jittery...
soldiers should not be buying *** anywhere?
what about civilians? are, they, still, allowed?
or are we in a one massive ******* nunnery
of western women's feminism?!
*** is ***... *** is bad when its exchanged...
but good when it's free in *******?
a next: elevated ******* harem of would-be eunuchs?!

what if you buy ***... but at the same time...
manage to give a ******* an ****** by performing
oral *** on her? lies?! LIES! LIES! LIES!
she's always faking her ******* ******:
just like the woman is faking her pregnancy:
with "you": but not "him"... right?
the oldest story in the book of fairy-tales...

better *** work than journalism...
once upon a time there was journalism...
now journalists enter the realm of a secular priesthood...
who are these pope-editors?!
humanity has returned to a secular-religiosity...
it's that ******* plain and simple...
it took me a day to react...
i wanted to enjoy the day....
watch some athletics... some female football...
water the garden... cook a bbq...
the usual ****...
  but when you wake up with headlines:

MAN GIVING A WOMAN AN ****** = BAD...
you're like? well then... the next best "thing"
is probably killing her: so she shuts the **** up...
you don't play "sane" psychological dissonance
with a misdiagnosed schizophrenic:
someone with a psychotic "disorder":
you dye you hair pink or purple
and build up weird ****** expressions:
and shut the **** up...

          and you start listening to God-Smack:
esp. the song: stay away...

    if it weren't for Turkish or Romanian prostitutes
i'd still be an "incel"...
                        to hell with that...
that's paradoxically the "west" in a nutshell:
it wants both the superiority in morality
and a superiority in stressing its pillar of individualism:
which is supposed to be freed from
moralism... or did i get something wrong?

my morality? if i find money?
you're not going to find it or therefore get it back...
money is money...
i use money to turn a stone into a plank of wood...
even though the stone is not exchanged
for a plank of wood...
money is money is money...
money is also time...
  money is emblem... money is the fingernails
of Mammon...
                why do all frauds happen in
the realm of the credit system?
why don't i use the credit system?
for all the gained security...
              there's less self-awareness within the credit
system... ergo? i've primarily focused on
the debit system: i spend what i have...
i spend what i own...
                      i've stopped using the credit system
donkeys' years ago...
    who's going to scam me? who's going to bribe me?
to use the debit system implies:
you have to be the person using
the debit card... anyone can apparently use
a credit card...

here: a schematic...

body-shadow... hmm... what language will i chose?
the usual...
i like squares:

body                            ghost





breath                          shadow


breath being interchangeable with soul...
ergo?

leib                                  geist





atem                                shatten...

  (
seele... somewhere donw the line...
                    )

so what the **** are we supposed to do?
can civilians "buy" ***? what the **** are we "buying":
we're certainly not buying what being in a relationship buys...
being a married man you're not buy whiskey...
you're not buying vinyl records...
you're not buying bicycle spare-parts...
you're buying?! lip-gloss... too many *******
kitchen equipment...
i... i seriously don't want to earn money to do that...
******* THICK SKULLS!
women pretend they become... ******* Albert Einsteins
in the biology department very: clearly: early...
and then lose all their sensibility...
i need 20 hunting dogs...
i don't need a woman... i can cook food for myself!
what are these lunatic Lucy types thinking?!

here's a worthwhile review:
ALL WARS SHOULD BE FOUGHT WITHOUT ANY
VIOLENCE ANYWHERE!

ha ha... ha ha!
no sentence should be stringed with grammatical
intelligence: since the time immemorial
concerning a Helen of Troy...
war was not ***?!
right... so... currently... the un-****** women
get to dictate to the "*****" women
what... ******* is?
all of them are ***-starved: petty paupers?
*** is no fun?
  it must be primed: based on the focus
of a prim?
                          there needs to be an awe aspiring
consensus of the ******* "sisterhood"
oh **** me... i really must have missed
the shady alleys and brothels and forgot
about the leisurely activities of "proper" women:
the sort that prescribing announcing
themselves to the gig economy stewards:
but i'm a law graduate student:
i forgot to tell her...
i'm a former  chemistry student...
you're not half way from floating my boat...
but i'm pretty sure you'll find your
African anti-racist commodification you wish
to find... ergo? i don't give a ****...

seriously, by now?
          i start waving my hands in the air like
i just don't care...
i'm looking elsewhere... Turkish... esp. Turkish...
i'm looking for a second schism in Islam...
i have "plans"...
                
ugh... African women? i don't find them attractive...
does that does make me "racist"? ah ha ha...
                  how-z'ah... how-z'ah...
you find tapeworms attractive...
i'd love to pet a hyena...
  almost like a dog...
                          
well... wouldn't you know: with article such as these:
#metoo can die a silent death...
with opinions like these:
unchallenged...
no... nope... i don't want to **** these women:
i best avoid them...
              i won't want to touch these women
with these kind of opinions...
i want them in the ******* nunnery of both the physical
sense and in the sense of ideas...
what for? soi defensive...
            i'd rather wrestle with a dozen of Rottweiler
cubs... for fun... than **** a woman like that...

to hell with the imagination of 72 virgins:
they must be all middle-Eastern...
they can't be Western...
just give me a dozen of Rottweiler cubs...
i just need that...
                            i know how to orientate my thrills...
they are never enough...
            but i know what's enough:
give me a dozen of Rottweiler cubs...
and go **** yourself and your harem...
no... because: that's not how it works...
it works via "X"... and the said "X" is: said X...
which is this.

This year I will need Santa
to bring us more than Fanta
and i don't mean world peace
our wars will never cease
and i don't mean more presents
they are for kids and peasants
but this year Santa Claus
must think hard and then pause
and moments before swooping in
spread love and joy with his vaccine

All I know about Beau
is that there are about
six and half feet
between his head and
his shoes.
All I know about Beau
is that most of his paycheck goes to CEO of Fanta
and on a good day
he can carry four glass
bottles at a time.
All I know about Beau
is that today for lunch he had expensive ice
cream in a waffle cone.
All I know about Beau
is that I have never seen him smile.

I tried to throw the phone on the bed,
but threw the glass instead,
sprinkling ***** and fanta fruit twist like holy water,
This is where I hurl my head
and wake, and wake, and wake.
Crust seals the eye like a crypt.
Dreamscape duvet: paint your colours,
Phantasmagorical shadows sweep the brow,
walls blend blurred images,
dream friends pass like flocks of birds faceless in flight.
I could ask you what it’s like to be a character in my dream,
make it all about me or you could tell me I’m a character in yours.
Shatter my reality,
tell me I’m your worst nightmare.

From corner of eye’s mind the luminescence of lamplight spills.
A startled stumbling, a fumbling with covers out of worlds and into new ones.

I close my eyes
So I could see,
Perceive what lies
Infinitely -
A cluster of
Realities -
That if becomes
How great would be

Is it love?
Or is it Fanta sea?