The bloke's a sad sack.
To another joke of a
mad
hack.
He's beginning to
spike up
as if the heart beat
of a heart
attack.

just point and stare
call him flapjack
just once then be done with it
not worth your precious time
neglect and tragedys the sum of him

To a flip-flopper,
Gobstopper.
Act so
as your colors bleed through.
I see you
and you, and you
analyzing him like a haiku.

Well off..
but yet on the street one thinks
a ***
Of this man who takes the alcohol and drugs to make him numb.

But on the inside, through
The Corduroy and winter fabric
there stands not a man,
A boy
Who thinks himself a maverick

Sometimes.

Bad as a ***** *****
Bas as a ***** *****
Flapjack rippin up tracks
Call the conductor
Oh wait that’s me
You need training
Wheel’s on the track
Traction that you stuck under
N never wonder who is coming with the blunderbuss
All up in yo face, one shot n you under us
Ain’t wonderous?
****** up a couple plastics, pause, chill, kickback
Smoke a couple blunts
M to the A G, N to the Ificient
Life’s nice isn’t it?
That is, if ya got a little life light to lighten up those, like,
Way heavy dark instances.
And I don’t give a **** what you’re inference is
Psh, this ***** tryna tell me what the difference is
I thought it was obvious
I am, they are not the ****.
Now we all got a nervous system
But that don’t explain why you’re so nervous mister
I done chained two chains up by his whiskers
Gave away his dummy money needed hunny ****** his sister
It’s the
Little Rapscallion
****** up your fleet, better bring the whole battalion
And I rap stallions, you stickin to the stable
Fables of your ladies n your many medalions
****, I’m goin off in this motha *****
Tossin these ***** fuckas wall to wall
Knockin bricks out with a fist pound
So get out n stand back, take notes, watch it fall
I’m bach with *****, don’t matter what your speed
I can clock em all, No cops involved, knock knock knock knock    
Lock down drop top n ball
I’m all tweaked up n ***** you bound to stall

Oxford one Thursday before Christmas.
Down Ship Street for lunch,
sticking to what we know.
Inside, into warm familiarity,
away from the chirp of bike-wheels,
tuba players and cold latching
onto our cheeks.
A trio of guys, one female at the back,
preppy students sipping coffee,
crumbs scattered like sesame seeds
over white plates and laps.
Smashmouth on the stereo,
a choice between Coke or pink lemonade
(Coke it is),
a flapjack for one-seventy if I wanted.
My stomach growls for grub.
I think of winter drizzled everywhere,
scrawl all this upon a scrap of paper
using my father’s pen.
Then a black-haired girl
with a sincere smile hands over
my baguette, chopped in two
and I think of her until we are finished,
well out the door
with my coat zipped right up.

There they are in all their glory!
Poems 'bout food to tell a story...

The sunny side up of a summer day
The yolk is rising to a fried egg whey!

There's plenty of grits
to fill the spoon...
With sizzling stars
and a flapjack MOON!

Pasta hills with pesto grass
Sure to give your hips some sass!

Fresh salmon salad on some greens
You're much more likely to be lean

Sensual fruits delight the eyes
And they're easier on the thighs!

Bread and muffins in a race
With cookies and cream
to stuff your face?

Cleanse the body! Cleanse the soul!
You can break the jello mold!

But I don't know if I can last...

I write about FOOD
whilst I do a FAST!


SoulSurvivor
(C) 8/4/2015

down the Dearne on a digestive,
up the Thames on a Bourbon,
down the Sheaf on a Garibaldi,
up the Don on a Flapjack.

down the Tyne on a Brandy Snap,
up the Wear on a Hobnob,
down the Severn on a Ginger Nut,
up the Lune on a Custard Creme.

down the Styx on a sunflower seed bun,
up the Lethe on a lemongrass stick,
down the Rhine on a Raisin Slice,
up the Seine on a Belgian Pancake.

Flabbergasted and betwixt,
At the fairy's cascading figure,
Fixed between the man's fingers,
Like a burning cigar,
In western sunshine,
Falling like toppled coloration,
Of lumberjack flapjack,
Hit the road Jack,
And Jill,
To copper,
Whatever they want,
Without a fuss.

Alack!
Taken aback!
It’s a fact, Jack.

Think you’re on track
Then: smack!
It’s a backtrack.

So you go back, Mac
Give yourself some slack
Have a flapjack stack

Carry what you lack
Remove it from the black
And take it back, Zach!

I play video games on easy.

Yeah,
I know how some folk will see me,
but now, here’s the thing:

I don’t thrive on challenge.
I grow from knowing
what I’m capable of knowing
and showing all of that
polished up

I get that people see mountains
and climb because they’re there
but me knowing there’s a cafe at the top
with flapjack, tea and Kendal mint cake
seems to make it fair

Better still if a tarmac track
or funicular railway
can get me halfway or more,
I’m all over that,
you just watch me summit

To return to the original sort of analogy:
if I can beat the enigmatic end of level boss
who tosses a second or third energy bar
in the mix
by spamming the same overpowered move over and over,
I’m doing it,
end of

When I stand in the ashes of the beast
whatever it might be
and take loot or XP
that might be not quite as good as on normal or hard
I’m good
I still feel the buzz of winning

If I have to grind repeatedly
and learn intricate enemy routines to evade or parry
and die
and die
and die

It’s not for me.

It could be because I cut my gaming teeth in eighties arcades
where I judged how good a game was
by how far 10p could take me
at a time when 10ps were limited

A forgiving difficulty level was a boon
(Yeah, I’m looking at you Mad Dog McCree
50 flipping *** a go and dead in 30 seconds!)

Anyway...

A little friction in life is fine,
no drama without conflict and all that,
but given the option
to up up, down down
left right, left right
B A Start
my heart will always take it

Drunk,
and starving
I stumble
tumbling
into a hole
in the wall
where I order the cheapest thing on the menu,
pancakes.

I lean against a nearby counter,
staring at my feet below,
measuring distance,
as I time my spit.

Slip,
from my lips.
Drip,
on the tip,
of my wing-tipped,
shoe.

After eternity,
they call my number,
I was ready to go.

The callow man places the dish on the counter
then slides it over to me and asks "The works?"

I nod stupidly.

He then proceeded, with gloved hands, to smash my flapjack and streak odd colored syrups, concluding with a confectioners' sugar storm from above.

"Enjoy."

Drunk,
and starving
I stumble
tumble
out of a hole
in the wall
where I regret ordering the cheapest thing on the menu.

flapjack breakfast love
buttered up and sticky sweet
I licked that plate clean

we met in the half painted bedrooms
where they speak words from a holy book
you cut yourself on the glass from a candle
and the broken pieces of me that I left on your floor

you recreate the parts of us
like you don’t even want it
acting out a play in real time
because you’re heart doesn’t mean it

i can still smell the fragrance
the out of date flapjack on the bookshelf
the vapour from the green tea in the cups
the feeling of together
all alone
just us