baby I got hours of green
to edit, mondays goes dumb hard
like kicking kittens like footballs

leg day to finish myself off
to seal my confidence into the night
i hate days like these, rocky roads

and nowhere to hide from the sun
and the ugly, being assimilated into
the lifeless machine in a lifestyle-less queue

A Tale of ****** Excitement by Herr Barty Maulwurf

Often **** tales of my past I am writing and sometimes they are a little rude and porny but now I will try to be only slightly profane at request of new friends I am making everywhere. This tale very sensual story is, told by master storyteller (which is me). Filthy bits included. *Danke sehr.

Although I so much hate repetitive to be, Barty Mole must as always apologise for his occasionally slight errors in English-writing as he writes the English language not so very top-class (but he ***** English girls' tongues lots and likes them his tonsils to wipe so good). I (me, Barty) am German person but special type of that because as I are half-and-half black/white (not striped or even top half white, bottom half black, but mixed-up goldene-brun colouring), by this I must explain mein Papa was black US soldier in Germany who did enormous number of bouncy-bouncies with various ladies including meine Mutti (note to monoglots: this means my Mummy) - who was part-time Lili Marlen type tarty number, great **** and much-used **** - for tinned milk, coffee, ciggies, silk stockings and comfy underwear with soft non-scratchy gussets for once instead of unlined which tickle *****-*****, also she was a major sort of a ****** in her day so combined business with pleasure, and why not, we got these bits under our ******* so use them or they dry up (so thinks der Barty.). Also please you will remember black market utterly rampant in post-war period because the kind ****** Allies smashed my beautiful homeland (Germany) to little bits and then guess what even worse Russkies came and stole anything leftovers and did mass rapings of anyone with two legs (or less, in fact easier as poor tarts can't run away), but my Mutti ran and avoided Ivans, she not any kind of idiot, not going to give it away for free, and not liking cheap rotgut ***** anyway. Also Russkies never wash bottoms-hole so not much fun in the sack with smelly-bummed Ivans.

Nowadays Barty (that's me) am not so young, indeed now out of work living in Hamburg (home of inventor of hamburgers, Herr Wendi McDonald-Burgerkoenig) but I remember some super **** going-ons from mine mis-spended youth and middle age, my God I was a right goer, make no mistake about that, I had more lady friends than most people have hot luncheons mainly because I inheritated huge lovepole (23 centimetres, well over 9 inches in UK/US measurement style) from my dear Poppa, God rest his swindling soul. And ladies like the big bronzed stick as ramrod lovepole, you bet your fat wobbly ***, dear reader, 100% sure.

As often I say to my multitudinous readers, I never accept that it is only top-class ***-event to make love-humpings between male person who is in all one piece (full complementing legs, arms, naughty pieces etc etc) and lady who in similar state of repair (2 legs, 2 arms, 2 boobos, back and front naughty areas also) so I shall now recall romantic interlude with one-legged groupie I am meeting at rocking Konzert in Berlin with famous German group DIE TOTEN HOSEN (this means "The Dead Trousers" look them up on Google you think I am joking? no, German musicians have great sense of humour and also almost for free get to **** a lot of birds).

This story are total true, swear it on Mummy's honour (big joke, what honour I hear you said out of side of mouth, but watch your manners please or I smash you one in your effing gob) this not so explicit as usual so much apologies to filthy pervies wanting cheap smuttings, you come in wrong place (*******).

So now here we go with telling of how I got on good and ***** with one-legged lady I meet in bar of Grosse Konzerthalle in Berlin after we go from Konzert by Toten Hosen - noise so fickende loud we not able to hear each other talk as we total deafened for at least 1 hour, so just wink over bar to each other and Robert is dein Onkel.

I digressed - when I saw really pretty girl at bar with **** three-inch bolt through her lips and I think, WOW, if she got so much metal in her face, what the Fick she got in her *******!!!!  I notice she leaning against wall, I think she a bit drunk but I find out she only got one leg and it's because she has only one leg she would go falling over if not lean on walls. Never mind, I think to myself, I'll try this out for size, in for a pfenning (penny), in for a pfund (pound), except now it's in for a cent, in for a euro which sounds naffs. So we have several dozen beers and a couple of schnapplis and she is good fun, laugh at all Barty's filthy jokes and innuendos and then, out of blue, she says with naughty giggling, "The night is young but we're not so effing young and when you have any more beers you don't stand up, fall flat on handsome face, and not able to get great big ****** up me to shove it", WOW I thought, this is some forward one-legged piece of work. So no more further ado and we jump in taxi (pay 50:50 as Barty is gent and refuse to allow her pay whole fare) and go to her place.

Hildegard is her name and she was pretty good looking bird, great booboes, narrow very **** waistlines, very cute botty sticking out like great big pair of rubber footballs, but let's be frank, liebe Freunde, her main claim to eternal fame in Barty's immense ***-memory bank was the leg-stump, only one of them she had. She tells me missing limb result of accident with vicious bacon-slicing machineries at LIDL and I not like to probe too deeply, because I leave the probing up to my 23cm (9 inch) lovepole instead.

Thus we had many love-makes that night and I got to find her stumpy-thing quite **** in weird kind of way, very smooth skin on it and odd colour (purplish) too. Only problem of was hard to do it Alsatian-style as she topple off bed and me with her, especially since we have many more beers down hatches by that time. Never mind, make up for this with very high class (FIVE STAR!) "neunundsechzig" (German for 69 just in case you not understand)! WOW she utter hot stuff in oral department store. Her tongue like starving St Bernard guzzling the bowl of nice fresh spring water on hottest summer day in century! Swallow everything, stray hairs and all.

Also Hildegard very noisy lady when she does the comings, which Barty likes very much indeed. Like demented demon being bashed around her head with three-metre long metal crowbar every single time she gets one off, she screamed. "Ooooooh, ich komme, ich komme, ach, ja, ja, ja, ja," she shrieks GOOD & LOUD like fat Wagnerian heroine with immensely red hot poker up backside-hole (which not far off the truth when Barty gets stuck into his fabbo ***-rhythm, like whirring up and down piston on Mitsubishi motor tricycle). Even allowing for drunken prematured senilities lapse, I happy to recall seven times for me that night and maybe twenty for her, WOW, what a filthy one-leg hornbag!

We meet a few more time for repeat bonky session but never so good as first time round, but that's because Barty sober next times, nothing new in the history of love there which is very philophical pensée. Also Barty's interest in the leggy-stump waned a bit after a couple of weeks.  But Barty has good live-action photos to keep his memories warm, WOW, they are some totally hot ones! I know Hildegard must have the equal happy memories of old Barty, bet she never saw such a big ***** as his ever again (NB: 23 cm lovepole)!

Mit freundlichen Gruessen
von Ihre
Bartholomew Mole (=Maulwurf)
(23 cm brown lovepole)

Folded pieces of paper.
Old past due assignments.
Made paper footballs with-
Corners pointed like diamonds.

Spent all that time.
Scooping out room for-
You in my heart.
Like guts of a pumpkin.

Stay close to you I tried.
But the pumpkin got rotten.
Corners got bent.
And my company unwanted.

A couple of cans of root beer.
Sitting along my windowsill.
Sitting still, lukewarm and flat.
Dragging in gnats.

I remade my bed.
Cleared off the pillows-
I pretended were you-
And made room for two.

I took down the pictures.
I took down the lights.
Took down some notes on-
How to resist my-

Need to be loved and-
My want to be fine.
My urge to move forward and-
Hunger to fight.

I get lost in the right-
Ideas and go wrong.
I hope that you don't think-
That I belong here.

The kid could throw, he really could throw

Scouts were watching back in high school

Arm like a rocket and vision like an owl

Smart too, had all the tools

He could pick apart a defense

He just knew what he could do

But he could throw, the kid could throw

He wasn't coached, the kid just knew

He was fourteen when first spotted

Junior ball in  Eastern Michigan

Throwing footballs, Setting records,

Just to break them all again

His mind was agile like his feet

He just knew how plays should go

He was gonna knock them dead in college

He was a sure thing for the show

He made the coaches look amazing

They never, ever  called a play

He'd run the team alone while playing

He knew just what he had  to say

Three perfect years in highschool

Undefeated every year

State champions...why naturally

The kid just had no fear

He was a leader with that football

He was a man amongst the boys

He sure could pick apart a defense

He broke 'em up like little toys

In third year scouts were knocking

Every college from the East

Full rides without a question

The schools all wanted this young beast

He settled on a team with promise

He knew he could help them win it all

The scouts and coaches stood in awe as

The **** kid could throw that ball

He kept his marks up to the level

That he needed to stay around

He wrote up plays instead of homework

Some in the air, some on the ground

The kid could throw the ****** football

The NFL already knew

He'd already broken most school records

The scouts just knew what he could do

It took two years to make a bowl game

On TV beneath the lights

The country knew of the boy wonder

And they would see it Sunday night

The one thing without question

Was the rocket they called his arm

The coaches built a line around him

They would keep him safe from harm

In third year he decided

He was turning pro that year

The pro scouts all knew of him

The price to get him would be dear

Deals were made through out the summer

Teams were phoning every day

The school was upset he was leaving

The league knew he was set to play

Two first round picks and a reciever

Went to Detroit for his rights

The Lions had the chance to grab him

But the Texans had him in their sights

The Texans proudly took him

He was gonna lead them all the way

The way that this kid threw a football

In Texas they sang "Happy Day"

Our father who are't in heaven

Hallowed be thy name

We lay this boy to rest before us

Before he even played a game

A celebration in a men's club

The boy had come so ****** far

When shots were fired in the crowd there

Two gunmen drove by in a car

He had the world in his possession

Man the kid could throw, really throw

But, fate had chose a different story

How good he was we'll never know

.
The oceans are dying,
Coral reefs are bleached,
Ghostly acidic in the seas,
Climate is changing, not for Nero,
But for subjects who wait in whirlwinds
Eye, underneath uncapped mountain peaks,
And water is draining underground.  Where is
Reason, where is sense uncommon?  Not with
Elected hands who are wringing to lords of zero,
Whose legions are sent off, engaged in foreign wars,
To scathe, faraway dramas brought back home,
Politicians squabble, as they reel, cashing in,
Seals of unapprovals, witness hollow, low rings,
Infrastructure crumbles, above our dry heads,
And Nero plays his fiddle, in a land of perky dead,
John Lennon said NYC was in reality the new
Rome, soon set to burn, in a decade or so,
Nero knows, Nero plays, could give a ****'
Humanity is Nero playing his fiery fiddle
There is only one issue of news that matters,
Not bread, or circus, Kardashians, or deflated
Footballs, it is our survival, the earth, heating up,
Is angry and we are small, deaf, blind and numb,
A mankind of fools with Nero playing his fiddle.

It’s the week before the Super Bowl,
where the Patriots and Sea hawks will meet,
and all that folks are talking about
is Bill and Tom’s softball deceit.

It’s cold up North this time of year
when the Patriots made their playoff run.
Snow and ice require gloves;
If footballs slip, they’d be undone.

“Taking the air out of the ball”
Once referred to the running game.
Deflated ***** are easy to grip
But it’s cheating, that much is plain.

It seems the ***** that Brady used
spiraled nicely through the rain.
When you ***** are small and soft,
Like Brady’s, it’s a different game.

When Tom was asked about the scheme
He laughed at first and wouldn’t tell.
The truth about Tom Brady’s *****
is closely guarded by Gisele.

You look best in my lamp light. Your belly scar
rough underneath my fingertips as I jump the scratch
and attach myself to your hips, kiss your pelvic bone
until even my teeth can taste your sweetness. I can feel
black kettles and the burn from the ironing board crash of 1999.
When we’re wrestling in my duvet covers, the shadows
cast your memories up like a sanctuary projection. I see red race cars,
your brother jumping on the couch, fishing bait kept
in your back pocket. Your lips taste like liquor but I hear nursery rhymes
from when you were little, wobbly, an over-all dream
in the yard seen through the kitchen window. I know,
that you’ve dressed yourself in bad dreams
and broke yourself over footballs and houses of green paper,
but you look best in my lamp light when my hands
cram your face into my palms, your blush dripping
from you cheeks. Because I see the way
you burrow yourself into my chest when you think
I’ve gone to sleep, and I’ve seen the way your foot catches
on the edge of the woodwork right before you fall.

PROCRASTINATION
By
Joe McDonald

Part I:

How often can I keep putting off everything in life that must be done to the point of frustration and despair?  

How often will my work sit and stare at me with the eyes of hungry children always whining their demands for my attention to each task always wanting my full being beyond my own inner abilities and doubt?

How often can I walk past the damaged concrete step on my own house that sneers at me everyday as I walk up to my front door?

How often can I make promises to old friends to get together, celebrate life, and not expect them to wait on my return call of cancelation because of illusionary diseases?

How often can I feign in my backyard the beauty of my roses, sipping white grape while the grass under my bare feet remains brown, coarse, and over grown with dandelions stifling all vegetation?

How often can I pledge my good faith to a worthy cause by ending up watching from the back row as the needs prosper or fail regardless of my lack of motivation?

How often will constant kicking of the can down the yellow brick road be considered the excellence of a long line of Shakespearean resumes?

How often will my lack of courage blind me to opportunities of abundance and force my family to a life of stagnant economic asperity?

How often will I consent to others disrespect of my mastery of skills to the verge of closing my mind to all that is important to dwell in a soup of anger, self-doubts, and ache?

How often will the peeling paint, blistering off of my house like shards of cheese at my wedding feast, augment my anguished indifference finding every physical, spiritual, and any other of a multitude  of “…Why not’s…” festering in my dome of “..Do it tomorrow’s…”?

How often can I rattle my saber of position, roar my battle cry of “Tomorrow” to postpone today’s tasks? Bundling them all into neat piles of future promise completions. All the time smiling a grin of a used car salesman.


How often can I sit on my couch on sunny Saturday mornings enjoying the sun rise? Its beams slowly sliding across the finished oak; warming my unkempt hovel to the boiling point that tuffs of unwanted cat fur dancing over the varnished grain like tumbleweeds in a Sam Pechinpah film. Yet, I sip my morning brew, acknowledging their existence but, my head movies are of other unattended illusions.

How often can my inability to act or respond be accepted by those who expect perfection in all things?

How often can I permit the disappointment of a moment fire the indifference toward the needs of the here and now?

How often will my journey up my front walk be changed from the joy of daffodils and hyacinths filling the air with aromas of lung cleansing delights only to rediscover the pine foliage  are still dressed in the lights of Christmas past?

How often will I put off leading because of failure of seeing the needs of those who need leadership? They cry out for direction but, plead for independence. I use the pleas to drown out the cries.

How often will I have the epiphany of a lifetime only to have inaction and fear
drag it down to the bowels of an enlighten brain ****?



Part II:

I keep plugging in the mechanism of delay to power the animal of the moment.

I blind myself over and over and over and over again again again again to my abilities of now in favor of promises of later.

I smell success in the air every time I do the nows but, the stench of celebration’s to come is easer, sweater, more in line with who I am and not who I want to be.

I hear the praise and accolades of present victories and in time I’ll drag my triumphs out over the gravel road of time until they have lost their luster.

I’ll blindly stare at the tube of adult babysitting, at images of various eye candies trying to escape my own drive to do and yet failing in this as well.

I can’t spit out the bitter taste of the act of putting everything off nor drown it in the wine of determination without repeated reminder that I am drinking from the same cup of vintage to come.

I spend much needed dollars and valued hours gorging myself on self-help aids and assistance. Only they too become part of the beast’s feast of my misused time.

I awake every Monday with dreams of a new but, I’m so accessible to countless distractions. By Friday I face the inevitable doom of looking back over the landscape of a week gone up in the flames of the undone.

I try to grab each day by its throat. Choke out the desired results. Only it offers the slights resistance and I let it go to torment me from its lair growling “…not now, not now, not now…”

I’ll spend time with my mate for life. Half of me is relishing the moments with her. Half is wandering over the tablets of what I haven’t done.

I have mismanaged, misused, balled up, blundered, fouled up, mishandled, muddled, muffed, spoiled, and fumbled the footballs of my life again and again avoiding all that has to be done now driven farther down the boulevard. Constantly stopping at any insignificant store front; staring at juvenile trinkets of distraction.

I have sinned over and over again. I offer prayers to anyone who will listen. Begging for the enlightenment to solve my weakness. “… quia pecccavi nimis cogitatione verbo et in cogitations, et in hoc opera, quod ego facere non, mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa…”



Part III:

Who else do I have to make suffer in confused patience waiting for the promised end results of my superficial excellence?

What has to be done to make me arise from the ash of self doubt, indecision, and fear to conquer this demon within my psyche?

Where are the answers I seek in my time of apathy?

Why has this inferior deity have such a grasp on me?

When! Again, when!!! When will I face this issue and start to find the peace of timely attainment?






(“… that I have sinned through my own fault in my thoughts and my words, in what I have done and what I have failed to do, through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault…”)
Part IV:

I have lived with this for over a half century.
Trying to climb out of the hole of misused time.
Falling back into my penitentiary.
Serving a sentence of intimate crime.


The venting is complete, pity-pats written down.
My confession exposed for all to share, witness.
If this public sacrament exposes me a clown.
Mock away; have your jest. For I could care less.


My Ginsberg rant is to open doors of avowals.
To aid in my cure; in hope start my salvation.
To trust myself; to believe in oneself. I am all.
To look into the morning glass willing a reincarnation.


Only I can face the beast and make it heel.
Down inside I have to find the straight for each day.
Try a new, lighter approach; a new Don Marquis feel.
“…procrastination is the art of keeping up with yesterday…”




April 2014

Here I write some recipes,
From our anti--football league,
How to cook a football totally,
Must boil it for twelve hours, ritually,
Then you can dice it and fricassee,
Or maybe bake, broil, and grill,
What won't fatten, shall fill,
Or you can make mini-football custard, eh,
Chocolate footballs in a bowl, let's say,
We call it Footy Iles Flotante,
Star sweet in the anti-football restaurant!
Then a recipe for Grand Final Day, swell,
It's called footy Croquembouche Noel!
Hear the anti-footballers yell!
You, too, can write recipes,
For the Anti-football Society,
It's like dining at the Waldorf Astoria,
Anti-football recipes from Melbourne, Victoria!

Footballs always dazzled me,
composed boxes on the shelf,
like pigskin half moons and suns
needing tees from toppling down,
a kick or a toss to send them
hurling to human planets.

The long run, perfect spiral
is inherent in its form,
as is carnage, grace, error.
Its life is moving forward
in the give-take of the game
and the frenzied need to score.

In the flash of flight my dreams
ran thoughts of the gridiron:
the quick release, the jute fake,
the deer stride to the end zone,
the soft jump over the safety
for the champion touchdown—

existed in perfection
on the lined green schoolyard turf
until the surest pass ever thrown
slipped like butter through my hands,
the handoff fumbled down, down…
I was born… to be a fan.

The doorbell chimed
She answered
It’s a pregnant woman
She never read the no cold callers sign then, he thought
Are you going to see what she wants
Footballs on, a man should never be disturbed when the footballs on
Was it eight months ago
Just a bit of fun
Why the hell dont women take precautions
This was not going to be pleasant
Hi John, you’re probably wondering who I am
You spoke to my husband about a month ago
He says you’re great at assembling flat packed furniture
As you can see, I’m getting to the critical stage
Yeah, right, I remember
Listen, dont you worry, I’ll pop round tomorrow
Have that nursery built in no time
Thanks John, that will be great
By the way, if it’s a boy
John was one of the names we were thinking about.

I will wait here.

I will wait precisely in this cabinet,
Until you prise it open
In that delicate curiosity
That is lost in ‘today’.

My words are more patient than myself.
I know that now,
I think I always did.
It is why I love and

Why I love so patiently.

I will wait so gladly in my place,
Until poetry is fashion once more.
It is a sure case
In a sorry state.

Hearts that beat too fast
And breaths that are too frequently
Forsaken for a foolish enterprise
Of some invested individual

Sat watching behind a blast screen.

I will wait here and think back.
To remember the fuzzy nothing
Of my childhood mind. I recall little
But the polarities. The spaces of life

That intercede mere existence.
I bask in these doctored images of a past
That I never quite had. A fatherless summer
Forgotten instantly in garage top vigils,

Kicked footballs and years that were endless.

I wonder if my words will last longer
Than the etchings of your gravestone.
I wonder more so whether you would
Approve of them and how much I would

Have cared if you did not. A father is lost
And is abstract for me. Like God,
An ever-present utterance of nothing at all
Or perhaps everything that I am

Or could possibly ever be.

I wonder whether my love of words
Is nothing but a longing for permanence
In a world that has forever shown me
Futility. I have read of it in your name

Again and again through till now,
And thenceforth years to come. Your name,
How it needs to mean something,
Your voice, your ‘I’ through the ages,

For it envelops me within it - we are the same Mr.

It is within your void that I search for a father.
An ancestor to tell me who I am
And from where I have come. The plight of the
Ape-men that have been, their legacies

Wrought in blood-stained gold
But also in each yellowing poem
And from the hand prints on cave walls.
These are the will of my fathers,

The trinkets on my mantelpiece.

It is within you all that my words
Remain patient. It is within you all
That my will remains clear. For I know now
(Or perhaps I always did)
That there is a voice amongst us.

It may sleep through the noise of today,
All-talk and no communication. It may sleep
Right on through until we awake. Our eyes
Will burn for staring at the screens,

But our hearts will sing for their reprieve.

When I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
I carry my homeland as if it were in my arms.
Remembering:
chairs made of wooden crates,
footballs made of newspapers,
cigarettes made of camel dung.
Someone once said: a best friend will help you move
and a best friend will help you move bodies
but if you have to move your best friend’s body,
you’re on your own.

When I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I think about how you and I
belonged where nothing belonged:
shimmering with heat waves Africa,
rainy season pounding the mabati roof Africa,
weaver birds weighing down acacia trees with their nests,
Africa.  Where do we lay the blame and the bodies?
It could have been me holding the machete,
could have been me holding the machine gun.
Why is that?

When I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I see acts of courage and sacrifice that take my breath away.
A boy, shielding his sister's body with his own.
A girl, leading a blind woman to safety.
And you, holding an old man in your arms,
his life dripping down your clothes.
What I wished for you was a place where you would not fear
the terror by night, nor the arrow by day,
nor the plague that walks in the darkness,
nor the destruction that lays waste at noonday.
I wished for you the deep red sunsets over the vast hollow of the Chalbi desert,
the brother that reads to you in your break-bone fevers,
the camel that carries you and doesn't get tired.

When I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I wonder why I lived
and you didn’t.
And for your sake, and mine, and the world’s, and God’s,
I want to leave behind the failed resolve and the excuses
that keep me from leaving the world better than I found it.
When I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will learn
to fear no evil.

I wish to see a world of my dreams

Full of rejoice and sunbeams



I wish to see the children

Not growing like weeds

But like flowers in the orchard of humanity

With adequate feeds


I wish to see the poor's children

Carrying books like me

Unlike their parents working in sun's steam



I wish to see the teens

With footballs rather than

Sweating in the farms with ploughs



I wish I could be the change

That this world of my dreams need

But alas! My friends this only happens

In my dreams .

you can find me where the thorns start to thrive,
in the long grass with the lost footballs of better years,
and childhood memories buried under
thistles and weeds.

you can find me where the path is grown over,
under the tree where a hundred boys and girls
who had once kissed eachother,
will never kiss again.

you can find me in the pawn shop,
among the wedding rings engraved
'I'm yours for eternity'.

That day stands sharp in focus
Whenever it's called to mind;
A peaceful Sunday Morning,
just before the Harvest time.

They held a picnic benefit
Each year on public land
For the Widows and the Orphans
Of the firefighters clan
.
All gladly paid to enter
and bought chance books besides.
The old men brought their families
The young men brought their brides.

Bouncing on the rides and slides
erected for them here-
The children had the best of times
as their mothers hovered near.

The men were cooking barbecue,
Tossing footballs, drinking beers
You'd recognize their names-
because you hear them once a year.

The day was nearly cloudless
Seldom was the sky so blue.
Who knew so many would be lost
before that week was through.

Within two days too many here
were cut down in their prime.
Betrayed by poor equipment-
They could not escape in time.

But I, permitted to grow old,
remain to testify
about the courage of my friends-.
so that their memory never dies.

That day is sharp in focus
Whenever it's called to mind;
A peaceful Sunday Morning,
just before the Harvest time.

Today at exactly 4:07 p.m on September 2, 2014
On a perfect kind of weather tuesday  
Standing in the press box, which is normally like an oven, but not today. The cool air filled the press box like it could snow or prince charming himself could come kiss you at any moment in the rain.
Filming people running around on a field catching footballs like bullets
I felt my heartbeat
It was pulled from way back on the selves of your heart where you can't seem to put an order to things because well, it leaves space but this time
This time you took the time to grab mine again and dusted it off for finger prints but you only found yours.
you text me to tell me, I wasn't the only one.

*T~

The garden served little purpose
It sprawled across the bored ground, despondent beneath the yawning sun
My mother would wail her annual rage
At the snarling weeds that softly smothered the flowers
How I loved those flowers
Rejected footballs perplexed the lawn
Their obtuse hulks spoiling that ripple of green
I found a four leafed clover there once
He poked his obscure head above his brothers: a suicide mission to bring me luck
They are all dead now
I didn’t waste nearly enough time reclined on that jealous cushion
Watching the lethargic clouds wobble on

But most otiose of all in that seldom wandered paradise was the Wall
That Wall was never high enough
I see it from my back door
Squat, depressed, sighing, each dusty clot of red brick seems so lifeless
Doomed to live out the rest of its days as a failure
All flung ***** that compress their rubbery bodies against it will soon vault over
It crudely bookends the busily neat hedge
Simply because that is where the drunken soil runs out
It fails too at its chief instruction:
Be the purgatory bridge between Our heaven and Their hell
But the Wall was never high enough

I remember the other side of the Wall
How I crouched in filth
Needless to be afraid of a cut from a single blade of grass
Impoverished chickens clucked in the squalor
How they survived such malnourishment awed me
The friends I thought I had there cheated me
And I ran from that disastrous place
Where chaos twisted the agonised branches of the hedge we shared
But it followed me like an age old Gypsy curse
Even today, a writhing, mewing splodge of night will sit on the Wall
Looking too fat for its own fur coat
It will viciously attack the thin air for a while
Perhaps accept a stroke but, seeing no morsel, wander home
But I am not spared
For I can see its wasteland kingdom from my window

It is not an evil place
But the Wall was never high enough

.
The oceans are dying,
Coral reefs are bleached,
Ghostly acidic in the seas,
Climate is changing, not for Nero,
But for subjects who wait in whirlwinds
Eye, underneath uncapped mountain peaks,
And water is draining underground.  Where is
Reason, where is sense uncommon?  Not with
Elected hands who are wringing to lords of zero,
Whose legions are sent off, engaged in foreign wars,
To scathe, faraway dramas brought back home,
Politicians squabble, as they reel, cashing in,
Seals of unapprovals, witness hollow, low rings,
Infrastructure crumbles, above our dry heads,
And Nero plays his fiddle, in a land of perky dead,
John Lennon said NYC was in reality the new
Rome, soon set to burn, in a decade or so,
Nero knows, Nero plays, could give a ****'
Humanity is Nero playing his fiery fiddle
There is only one issue of news that matters,
Not bread, or circus, Kardashians, or deflated
Footballs, it is our survival, the earth, heating up,
Is angry and we are small, deaf, blind and numb,
A mankind of fools with Nero playing his fiddle.

I marry you in the playground.

This limitless concrete jungle, a place where wars break, houses are made and tea is served now hosts a grander event.

Spring blossoming hedgerows arch over head framing our glee, we stand together.

Resplendent in sweatshirt, Teflon and scuffed Clarks, your gingham has never looked so glorious, and I feel under-dressed and overwhelmed next to your face. The one that every mother could love.

Presided over by a select few and away from prying eyes, boisterous scuffles over footballs and teachers who just wouldn’t, couldn’t get our love.

Our diamonds and sapphires might be gelatine and e-numbers, but this commitment is delicious. As sweet and sticky as the hold you have over me.

I take your hand in mine and run for the boundaries.

Splinters, blisters.
Losers, winners.
Saints and sinners.
"Come in for dinner" s

It's where we learned to socialise.
Our very own sovereign land
zero politics
and conflicts always solved
hand to hand.

Loud junctions juxtaposed
against our little corner of paradise
motorists peering in when they stop at that red light.

Ringing on doorbells, buzzing on intercoms
The anticipation
to hear whether your friend was home or not.

Colourblind kids with the most vivid sight.
Retrieving footballs under parked cars
was the extent of our plights.

I didn't know where the world would take us
or the type of people it would make us,
but something I learned from a young age
is that the rest of the world isn't like
Gooseacre.

Plastic pistols, cowboy hats
action men, palitoy combat

Hotspur, Tiger and Hurricane
leather footballs, broken panes

Matchbox, Corgi, Airfix, Meccano
Stickle Bricks, and (only) red and white Lego

Triang scooters, Raleigh Choppers
Dunlop plimsolls, orange space-hoppers

Down the park’s obstacle course
Witches Hat, iron rocking horse  

Bumps and scrapes, grazes and cuts
rub it all better, just-get-back-up

Home before dark, in time for tea
Billy and Ian, my sisters and me

The puppy seemed happy to see me
when I seen her at the park that other day.
you coulda seen it right away.

So the shrink lady she say, so what?

Dunnno, jisayin' somebody seemed happy

after seeing me naked paraded before all
who may have noticed,

maybe not.

What if nobody noticed and I am happily
seen a naked thing I am

unnoticeable save for seekers of knowns

believed to be known or
knowable

by you, down in the slew, Bunyan's slough,

ya got iron in yer blood?

ya areckon.

Yer Uncle Sam needs ya, boy,

you leave that Kansas lass to
stare at those July buttermilk skies,

there's a war awaitin' for Rough Riders,
Arizona reared and steered

Say what, sir? Steered? Not me. Done my time.
Played footballs, by damtotell, at Fort Bliss,
I threw hand grenades,
Football was Ft. Huachuca, autumn, 1967

Bien Hoa was in the spring, one day after
My Lai, my country's legacy from my year

beyond the whole idea of war. History said,
if we are not the Redcoats, we are the Hessians,
at least.

Allegiance to a legion because they are many?
Perish the thought.

When the time comes...
I want a large festival named after Mark Twain,
I want the streets to be cloaked in color,
I want peopleto ride in on horseback lightsaber in hand,
I want the wind to be whispering the best puns the world has to offer to the trees,
So that trees can laugh, giggle, snicker, and chortle with fluffy forest friends,
I want music of every kind playing across the living mountains and through the clouds and rain I envy,
I want it to rain so hard that persons of all shapes and sizes are forced to take off their heavy drenched clothes and just dance in their underwear, playing with glow-in-the-dark footballs with Lionel,
I want absolutely no lights,
I want the ugliest girl in the world to appear to be the most beautiful under the sun of the night,
I want everyone to come only by bicycle, skateboard, foot and any other non-mechanical way,
Not for the earth but because i don't like the sound smell of look,
But most of all...
I want to leave a legacy,
Not a huge one, just big enough to live forever...
In the back of one's mind,

Bars.
Footballs.
Blue.
Peach.
Green.
Enter my bloodstream.
Help me forget,
All of the things I don't want to remember.
The demons within.
Grasp me in your strong arms. Don't let me go.
My eyes are getting sleepy.
Time is moving slow.
You make me forget my fears.
I've forgotten how to function without you.
You're always around when I'm in my lows.
You bring me up so high.
I don't want to come back down.
You are like my best friend.
With you it's hard to wear a frown.
I would let you ruin my life.
It could be just us two.
Without you I am nothing.
I am always feeling blue.

Before
birth of arithmetic
games are social relaxing
there was no winner
or loser..