After taking a gulp of water, M. opens a new Word document, inhaling deeply. He begins to write a sort of Introduction or Author’s Note:

‘This is to be my first real poem. No *******, cheesy rhyming or painfully forced verbiage. I am now only a seeker of truth…’

M., having just crushed two Focalin pressed pills, rolls a five-dollar bill and proceeds to insufflate, pausing momentarily when the line is halfway finished; he exhales before immediately finishing it off. His sinus burns fiercely. There is something masochistic about his preferred method of ingestion w/r/t pills. And but with a sudden albeit expected (in fact, M. was utterly beholden to it) rush of vitality, M. spends the next ten minutes finishing his half-page poetic manifesto [sic] (which term he actually wrote as a heading. “Poetic Manifesto”, that is), before beginning what he considers to be the first stanza. He likes that the location of the beginning of his poem is ambiguous. And so he begins thusly, consciously avoiding conventional rhyme scheme, instead opting for what he considers to be abstract.

‘My first poem, ostensibly an attempt at catharsis, was in fact a failed expression of my latent desire to be accepted. For today it’s a poem and last week a novel; tomorrow I’ll ferociously ******* some fashionably obscure, formidably pretentious prose [sic]. Consuming all but absorbing nothing…’

If he is to discover vicious truths [sic] in his writing, he cannot hold anything back. He thinks of a double-entendre using the word ‘blunt’, but decides not to employ it. Perhaps yesterday. Suddenly, M. begins to ruminate on his poem from the day before, which had earned him the opposite of acclaim from his peers. He must simply do the opposite of what he had done before! When he resumes writing, M. eventually begins to subconsciously fall back into the 12-syllable AABB rhyme scheme of his yesterday’s poem.

‘…Perhaps the following phase will stick for more than a wretched week.
Why have I wasted words on wan, vapid, wheezing lines
Of sickeningly phony, sophomoric, pseudo-sentimental ****?
Surely you see the salient theme,
That from which I hide,
Refusing to acknowledge life’s flaccid, tan **** as it floats in front of me,
Beckoning me forth,
A one-eyed, furiously fetid viper...’

M. chortles at his alliterative stanza’s ending. ‘This is how I write,’ he mutters to himself, maintaining a straight face. He writes without pause for nearly an hour. He is pleased.

‘…A generalist—that’s what I tell myself I am,
Because simply knowing a few facts,
Even for forty or fifty fields,
Is surely worthy of that
Respect which is given to those men and women
Who earn it by grinding away
At that which determine the sycophant vermin
Is worthy of lifting a lash…’

Hours pass. The poem approaches two thousand words in length. After taking a truncated cigarette break (the break, not the cigarette, was truncated), M. continues where he left off.*

‘…Believe you not for a second the frost-bitten-phallus,
That Freudian façade [sic],
The false faces I display to fake friends
Whose frequent fornication
Fills my mind with fossilized fleas,
******-spiritual formication [sic]
For which there’s no vaccine…

…Once I’ve come down from the mountainous apogee atop which I sit,
Calmly surveying the ever-receding landscape through the lens of fleeting euphoria
Which, fading faster always, gives way to—no, I will not say it—I refuse to legitimate her lies.
As I descend with increasing speed,
specters of judgment torment me into insanity…
    
B  r  e
a   t  h
     e  ;

...this feeling I simply cannot bear—
their sirens threaten to burst my eardrums.
Although it’s undoubtedly pathetic,
I can no longer lie to myself;
I desire the approval
of those specters
who haunt
m-
e
...’

M. begins to hyperventilate, panicking at his embarrassment at publishing such a bad poem the day before. He grasps his heart, which is beating out of his chest. The fear of cardiac arrest simply increases his anxiety. Laying down on the ****-carpeted floor, M. attempts to meditate, imagining this to be how it might feel to do TM on *******. Minutes then an hour pass.
Suddenly, a much-welcomed epiphany presents itself to M.; as if it fluttered through his window and hovered, eerily still in the way that only hummingbirds can be, just in front of his face. So obvious does it seem (the epiphany) that he begins to laugh maniacally in the pitch of a female voice either pre-pubescent or near-dead; a kind of

YEE!    

YEE!      

YEE!    

HEEEE!

HE!

HEE!                      

HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

sound.
After minutes of uncontrollable mirth, M. holds his abdomen and makes the lugubrious [sic], delirious noises of tired suffering. After a few more YEE’s and HEEEE’s escape, he begins to regain control, trying not to focus on what he’d realized w/r/t futility as it relates to shame, but certainly ensuring that he won’t forget. M. sits in his chair with a old-man grunt, the sort of noise over which wives divorce their husbands.
He sips water.
M. opens a new document and begins to type:

For what do we write, we talentless wretches?
To publish some
gooey garbage
in hopes
that some fleet of demonic tween-age sociopaths
adopts our work as part of the canon of cuntiness?  

Not we, the veritable “un-poets”,
Our haphazardly-conceived writing stinks,
No, it reeks of fetid, smegmatic phalluses;
Of a ****** of maniacal madmen,
Blue-balled after an abysmal night/morning
Tossing crumpled ***** of money
At Patti’s plump-lipped, positively putrid-looking

&&&&               *****               &&&&

In an I-95 truck stop;
“Taste **** and *****
At Trucker Tom’s ***** Taphouse
                                        Where friends meet
                                            and literally throw money
                                              into syphilitic snatches.”

We write for the duty of identity,
We who might be found with a serious face on,
Writing rhyming, rhythmic,
quasi-**** lines of lead-heavy, snobbish lifeforce-larcen.
The sort of **** that keeps you from getting up in the morning.

But of course we are writers, as sure as the sea
Is blue, the day is long, who daresay that I am wrong?
And he who
doth [sic] dare,
I point to that long
******* I posted
ere the day began.
There lies his evidence though it belongs in the can.

I unload your god in that laissez-faire way
where the bandages mend and have no need to be placed,
formidably, regret to admit the moonshine in my hair
looking Gothic, but beautiful:
sober the men’s breath as it falls, falls, falls
not more mild than a snowstorm in its final lapse.

Sat there to be dreamt. He put his hand to his beard,
and I would have kissed if had I believed
that he was not merely trying to haunt my body,
the hair I kneaded into air.

It flowers, and flowing these marzipan sands
where God lays man next to his wife,
she bears the peaches: juicy, ripened, but not to eat
expecting us to swallow ourselves in turn, spin the bottle.
I could not care less for the braces in his lips –
or their fur, but gums beneath like peaches.

**** it out until the pulps mirror,
you have the skin of a four fruit, or an eighty,
flames high as kites. But suffering for each flicker-****
and dating a girl who smokes cigarettes in bed,
I know he could not support that, your god.

Morning comes with a glare, now eating her hair
the involvement of some odd raconteurs. I beat them
and they beat my ******* for their heat –
God is a cabin boy with genitals in his palms,
said he would love the women as long as they are gone;
if he does not see me, the flames, I cannot exist
not more than falling falling falling hair.

Can I show you how beautiful you are? Can I take out the old photo albums and push my index finger into the faces, the places, and seas? I want to peel back the plastic and remove the square photographs from their sticky setting. I'm alluding to ideas that exist more formidably on the internet- there are no paper photographs, no sticky settings, there aren't even faces in the numbers; it's only ever been you or me.

Some of my things are crooked. The strings don't work, the wires are twisted and make the sounds all come out funny. There's a strange buzzing everywhere, it's like Mickey's gray cloud, a cloud Koopa throwing spiked shells from Park Avenue beach to Montrose street. Everything is quiet, consuming, unassuming and still recalcitrant. I'm showing nothing to nobody. Coaxing storm systems and netting foul play and ***** tricks, with my pants around my ankles or my fly unzipped.

I'm stinking of this stuff. These sudorific crevices on the insides of my thighs. I'm more or less always pacing. Rocking. Rolling. Small room I'm living room, cadavers I stuff my skinny fingers inside of- cold, wet hollow places I'm seeking skin covered gods in. I'm craving tastes and flavors. I'm looking at these pictures of me, of my face and the clothes I wore, the people that knew me. Where have I disappeared to? Every place that I went, every condition of my humanness has gone. Five minutes past my certainty, squirting hot molten magma from my ****, my lips, and my fingertips. Hysterical thoughts and homily. I want just a hello. I want just a hello.

Jealousy, a final decree.
Admittedly a fallacy submitted formidably... impervious?
She'll move onto sea.
Move on from those who can't see.
They'll show us what it means to see.

Presently a mistaken alignment of aliment, yet so indicative of the deceptive.
An intervention of emancipation requires degradation of the love that relegates, brainless.
Vindictive of the culture, fault, to penance, too addicted.
Somehow she heads an isle of the vile whom are consumed by denial.
Normality brushed aside with the hand whom highlights brushed, melting eyes.
Life, an achievable yet inconceivable lie shrouded by personality.
Subjective to the respective hospitality.
"Aint no love for thee..."

I have been given the boon of freedom
My feet were kicking placed
upon a journey
to discover the exhilarating arctic air
upon the mountain named Independence
It wasn't my idea
to forsake the traditions of my mothers
who each built homes and took the names of men in their youth
whose strength lay in raising strong
children and learning how to be formidably equal partners
It was not my first choice
me, who had from almost infanthood
idolized love
and longed to be rescued by a darling prince
I think perhaps I was my lineage's silliest daughter
my flights of fancy almost ruined me
the cliffs of my foothills more dangerous than the peak
I now eagerly climb toward
For now I see that glittering helm
that sun graced pyramid
that promises the reward
that self-love brings
Peace
the complete rest of contentment
the gift of eternal passion
that can never be stolen
or caused to be ****** inside a desperate pairing
There is no need for a marriage of convenience
Nor a tryst of loneliness
No shackles formed from crippling self-consciousness
But only deep, thrilling, ice-cold self-acceptance
I AM whole

Potpurri
Dusted on this everlasting scented wish
*******
Path indulged not taken braken broken
Don't speak
How you polish your rod don't you dare
Purr in society
Of begotten socialistic days every sister
Brooling
Brothers have to unite under the semiotic
Nonsense
Sensual carousels are misinterpreted maps
Printed
On glossy paper sheets which formidably
Stretch
Everybody's hands wide open to traveling
Roads
Not taken hands not shaken feelings black
Holes

there is a desert, lives inside me
she grows large, while I grow tiny

she likes to come around at times throughout the day
she puts my mind to sleep and keeps my friends at bay

when did she come? I do not know
how'd she arrive? When will she go?

I think and think and think and think until I fall asleep
and when I wake I cannot speak, can't even make a peep

she grows and grows within me, too fast to slow her down
but one can live inside me, how will I push her out?

It is hard to make decisions, they always lead to strife
but one here must be made, to end the others life

I plunge into this vacuum, ready for some fighting
I grab my bag of weapons and feel my blood igniting

I pull out creativity and she pulls out aggression
I then pull out vitality and she pull out depression

one swing one hit, one cut one blow, we battle on equitably
it looks as though I just might lose, she raises up formidably

high above her head, she wields one self-destruction
inside my mind I build one final plan construction

because I cannot fathom to let her win this fight
I take out my last weapon, and ****** my own life.

“And this drab spirit craving in sad eagerness,
Many basilisk twist and snarl afore my feet,
But every hour I am saved from that eternity,
Something silent is surely more  deserving,

Far on the ringing plains of windy ancient Troy,
I am a part of all that I have met all once before,
Yet all is a reality in mind forever and ever,
To rust spotted to always shine in use!

Altruist of courage where fore art thou,
Though the eupnea to my trivial life,
Endeared face of dawn from twilight glows yet,
I shall follow the sinking star for knowledge,

I don't know if time is passing or not,
Does it come together or as druthers?
Or is my future to be piled all at once,
Seek I still the truth divine in hopes to gain,

Take my hand and share divinity with me,
Abolition me thoroughly from my iniquity,
Surely it takes a lifetime to get over such pain,  
I never thought of an unhappy ending to procure,

I spent an entire life stuck in the labyrinth,
Thinking about how I will escape it and say,
Imagining what the future may hold for me,
How it will be on that formidably glorious day,
By Andrew Guzaldo 09/26/2018 ©

There is an old oak which sits formidably
Upon a tangle of spindly wooden arms
Which reach above from the grave
In the middle of a field
Otherwise totally barren.

The sun casts a shadow across the land
And just before it reaches its highest point
The shadow shows an unreflective image
Of a tree full of foliage.

At noon the shadow sinks into the earth
But as the hours pass, a new image occurs
Just as deceptive as the first,
Whereupon you will see the tree’s branches dead.

Whispers that the devil’s curse
Effects that half which so strangely
Refuses to mirror the other
Traverses between the two hills
Which make this town a valley.

It was the man who made his path
By endearing the hearts of the people
Who did see at this place
The last image which was burned into his cornea
Never to be seen.

No one could have guessed
That such a caring man
Was not the image he himself projected,
But it is the silent tears of an aching woman
Which would expose the inner soul.

For a time there was no sign
Except the scar which traced the woman’s face
From each tear duct
To the softened line of her jaw.

It was after the children had headed back
From their school houses
When she walked with light heart
Across the field, and headed home

As her mind considered the feeling of the breeze,
The freshness of a new school year,
The rich golden color
Which crowned the intricate web of branches above,
She was taken by surprise.

A pool of crimson covered the ground
In the shade of the oak tree
Which after the dry summer season
Quenched its thirst

The day following, the traveler was seen
Whistling as he walked
Across the field, with his belongings in hand
Stopping to admire the color which contrasted
Perfectly against the blue sky.

With a satisfied air, he left
Continuing in the direction of his original path
When suddenly, he stopped –
As did the mechanism within his ribcage
Which counted the seconds of life left.

When the spring season returned,
The tree no longer contrasted the sky
In all its glory, for one side no longer grew
And in the wind, the people fantasized visions
Of a man hanging from the southern limb.

There are times when all is afloat,
when no two waves fight,
a rock too appears light,
when all said, done, and thought,
all, absolutely, is right.
Then there comes the storm,
Violent.
Looking for refuge instinctively,
the comfort of former days long forgotten,
all there is is despair, weariness, in seas
in the selfsame stormy seas.
Why would the sense of security of old hold?
why would the memory refresh us and inspire?
why? The odds arise, setting themselves formidably
We try to rise up, shaken and distraught,
for we had fallen, short  of everything that is noble,
pure,honorable,praiseworthy...
Yet, through all days there remains the hope for all.
The man Christ Jesus

Draped in all our sheets
we are the purest kind of white
When I'm tucked into your chest
just before the pouring light

The kiss upon my forehead
means a break within the truth
That we are formidably broken;
at our fall, we are uncouth

Body forwarding through the sky
Borders formidably tasking to skip
Bonds firmly threatening this shift
Bare feet touching the sand

'ere i r: "thieving" around with some base ęgliş -

it must be admired: this citizen
politicized majority:

that a people can fathom fudge packaging
tier upon tier:

and serve both a democracy of voices
and the necessary vote: illiterate X
"acronym" piece o' pie for a signature's
worth...

wow and doubly: wow... on a continent when
there's this status quo class strictures:

moths, cobwebs(,) and spare change...
this grand asymptomatic clue...
i hope to pretend
to steal a language from
a people... that have no diaspora poignancy -
because: there's this squatting "elsewhere"...

litany of secrecy that has to become:
blunt dumb and grating
cheddar: stoic-esque...
the blunting of the knife and
the sharpening of the tongue...

i will still find the sort of reggae i want...
culture's harder than the rest
(full album)...

picky moi: burning spear's
marcus garvey -
the black voice
that demanded of his
choccy people a repatriation
process:
how alien it must seem
to be african-american
going to a majority black
country...
how unwelcome
one must be...
to be black and thrown back
into kenya...
speaking no word of the native
breath...
what statues of agony
an IDI AMIN could...
and did... dying a slow death
in the ***** of arab racialism...
oh sure joys of sculpture...
unforgiving in how
legs dismembered would
be reattached to sockets where
arms ought to imitate bird flight
with flapping: and vice versus...
i suffer to have not this sort
of imagination!

but that is a song...
   i'm here attempting to steal
english from the english:
it's not "about to" happen
either...
i'm getting drunk on
the cocktail: before, of course...
i come across some
bureaucratic "sensibility":
some angry ***** mad
enough with the least
authority given...

         that people given
the least authority tend to abuse it
the most...

i had to look at europe "elsewhere"...
milan kundera pointed
out this quote
'quarrel in a far away country,
between people of whom we know nothing'
by neville chamberlain
when appeasing ******
concerning the merger of
extended bohemia
into the third *****...
                
  it would seem: it would always
be easier to treat the middle east
with enforced straight lines...
e.g. iraq / jordan never look
like naturally invoked
land masses -

no mountain range no river...
it's not that i have to blame
the english pauper for
a past history of colonialism...
but... to have little knowledge
of your neighbour's lot...
was there any similar ignorance
when: outstanding brits
matched napoleon's ambitions?

i test my own patience with this...
at what point will i finally state:
well... given the air of politics
weaving its way trickle down
into the publically paid bureaucracy...
em...
is it racism or is it...
an african fetish?
     like me... i'm all for porcelain girls
of the orient: no one wants
to **** exhausted gammon... do they:
in this mismatched kama sutra... do they don't they?

i'm sensing a fetish for... it's gone beside
a racism: i'm looking to the east
of what's still europe -
a zilant semblance written
in "old orthography" of the tatars...
   qazan - someone's knowing on my door...
the germanic peoples pushed...
then the slavic peoples pushed...
then the mongols and the turkmen pushed
this great funnel and sieve
of a: pseudo-continent that's probably
only an extended experiment
of great mother asia and uncle siberia...

after all: isn't australia an island?
who ever has to hear the same
soft-narrative: out-of africa...
except those pesky eskimos -
      frisky... but we left africa
with no thinking equipment -
no phonetic encoding...
    if we left with some arabic...
but we didn't...
if we left with some sanskrit...
but we didn't... some chinese ideograms...
but we didn't...
no wonder we left...
i don't endear myself to pursue
hieroglyphics as sensible enough:
to counter the modern emojis...

which they are...
pits and falls in the latin alpha-beta-coy...
then..
to "work" by loiter -
no wonder: grievances
when work is drudgery -
when one cannot perfect
a deed - but has to churn out
appeasement after appeasement:
slurp an oyster from
an ****...

i still must be thieving english
from... the english...
leftovers of the forever debased
schizoid - or the new lineage
bound to bilingualism:
a return to thematic crude-,

no... i can't digest this:
there's some sort of drama:
but there's no staging for it...
an open round-up of applause...
devoid of choice is a higher
tier condescending-
           for lacking will -

to write this very little...
but then to harness the prospect
of a sunrise: an 8am welcome!
welcome to no night
of finitudes... of conclusions...
my foot will never stand
in thailand: because
of the thai surprise...
easily a ****-along story
for a vanguard torry:

        i will have two Plantegenant
old housewives
when there's: the food
i need to curate for my palette:
a sad sad show-story...
when i... walk out from the house
and tug a dead-weight
of consumerism from my
mother's girdle...

          i call it... playing banjo
with toothpick... 'n' esse...
      the pristine curation of sharpening
teeth: to bite into a tide...
into a swelling heave of a wave...

i want to be able to be normal
sleeping with a foreign body
in my bed...
i was once able to sleep with a dog...
i am as finicky as the cat
that attempts
to sleep with me in the same
bed....
shadows clamour and therefore
clash...

  the british isles are too grand...
i want something smaller...
i want a life among the faroe islanders...
escape escape forever
this unforgiving narrative...

can you look at a people you're acquiring
to "ally"...
never marking your own horrors...
with your own black hitlers...
i can attest to the bleach...
but you can't somehow blank slate:
state a genesis without a dichotomy...

let's go! black history month!
now is the time! now i want to remember
IDI AMIN!
  black history month!
i want to remember IDI AMIN!
no... not marcus garvey:
proponent of repatriation...
i want to remember: IDI AMIN!
after all... the mongols have
their "abraham" their genghis khan...
and they have their pocket
of leftover in crimea with
that mongol-europeans: the tatars...

i have no love for history come
the tide of relating the Iberian peninsula...
south h'america... "mine"?
the north coast of africa...
fizzling out of in-breeding...
when the goth came across
the instigators of conquest of the "muzzies"...
cocktails on us! boyos!

i want to... ******* boil with teasing!
i want to fathom a spectacle of trolling!
i want to smear faces into ****!
i want the wholesome crescendo!
i want to itch with
******* out buckwheat digestion!
i want chocolate!
i want a swiss fountain of chocolate!
i want to see IDI AMIN
a proud addition to:
no blacks ever do or did:
any b'aah... b'aah ad ad...
            
i wish "my" people came to "origin"
with a post-colonial narrative...
poor shmucks the scots are...
but they were: "missing"...
you can't retrace a colonial past
to the present citizen of spain:
how well the post-"racialists" peoples
of the southern continent managed to:
you can hear talk
of an argentinian... but he's not spanish...
a brazilian: but he's not... portuguese!

this anglo-saxon "pond" livestock
of memory... do away with us...
i know it's terrible to have a genesis
story so short-lived that europe
is a *******-riddling reminder:
when there's an already political class
harvesting the least worth of fathom...
don't pretend to be historical tourists:
my dutch ancestry...
my german ancestry... my "ancestry":

you deserve the quiff and joking slander:
superior the world's a-hole all over...
who are your little people looking
for in our little funnel of
a constipated asia looking for?
currently?!
the greek aren't admired...
they aren't admired because
they gave a birth to the antagonist
in cyrillic...
and that's that!

or... the greeks aren't admired
because: the metaphor: byzantine -
a complexity of bureaucracy -
but the singing... deaf tone reading of plato...
forget aeschylus -
they were prone to heave
a turkman invasion of
the balkans... given...
the venetians sacking:
the supposed holy place of...
aan eucharist convo. with a pagan "pope"...

like... the 4th crusade was not
a hard-on... for anyone to not fathom...
the inheritance of a history
i must truly deserve...
otherwise: the history overtly given...
to subsequently filter...
how the capetian king philip
augustus is known to me
is: it's not a beyond noticeable
comparisons...
it's just stalemate...

i am furroging in asp and waspishness:
i need a language of antagonism...
i find my most pristine "saint"...
i could cling to a fetish for
interracial *** exploits...
but then i'm a bland white man
and i might require a dodgo lemon
squeeze of eyes...
when a ***** is not in use
and it's hardly a reserved reading
for: expansion... broadening one's mind
with: *******... that "sort" of phallus
size just wouldn't do...
it's no joke but then i prefer
jerking off to... something akin
to... bronzino's venus, cupid,
folly and time...

even then! then!
a woman directly descended from
the titans... aphrodite was...
beside the lineage... from hyperion...
astounded... passed into
the ***** of the olympians...
cherry picking my vavous ego-foetus
of mind into a progress and
future investment...
how the **** spoke...
and became apparently a parody
of parrot chokes...
given the farts would have
to commence at some, point, or "other"...

to demand "pushing boundaries"...
i have them here: ever present always
apparent...
i would sacrifice my whole for these...
as to never have to:
speak a language of appeasement...
as to never speak a language of
a gradual inclination...
or / of never rocking the boat...
i want to drown drunk!
i want to drown a drunkard!
i want to savour a relfish for...
autumn perfumes towing
accents of a variation of timbers...

now i want to stand naked!
i want to be awash with moonshine...
i want more of the night
i want more of the creases in
attaching bone to the formidable
tendon pressures...
i want the technicality of nouns
being lost... i want misnomers...
i want all this supposed word / techno-salad
to be all! furore!
i want to eat the native
with an imagination worth
of a tartar -
  
           i want my tongue to sliver into
the cheddar spronge of their borrowed
brains every time they test themselves
on eating a tartare: notably raw beffrey (b'ee'f)...

yes... this is my former european
status: having to cleave... from it...
because the liberal authorities of
vest-inwested western georgian:
gregorian: kiev is my own project
of last interests...
how isn't it...
ukraine might somehow
rely on article usage: notably:
the ukraine...
there's that "a" associated
with the polish-lithuanian commonwealth?

from sea to sea:
from the baltic sea
to the black sea...
oh look! i too can inherit something...
like a hebrew might inherit
the aesop the king solomon...
like aesop might inherit Tironian
notations...

i am drinking but my cat isn't agitated
by it: troll troll lullaby!
let's celebrate!
dancing monkeys dancing
truants!
it wouldn't: it couldn't possibly
be a black history month
without mentioning
IDI AMIN... dying peacefully
in the arms of sleep
among the saudi camel-jockey "racists"...

how they have been fleeing
the ****** status of harems...
how they were escaping polygamy...
how i wasn't racist how i was
merely ill-conceived over
a work-around of fetish...
i was already a walking abortion...
manic street preachers' debate:
i wasn't enough gay or
feng shui enough...
or brilliant neon purple enough...

hello brilliance! hello party! hello
gay...
ancient europe:
ai viast lo lop....
               creases in my forlorn...
i want: besst attired summation:
this  ****** bulgarian...
this european that's only aa figment
of imagination:

indignations of scythe:
that nothing is borrowed:
that all is: at limbo gested...
                      to heave a scythe
and stone...
i pretend to swallow a breath...
i am aching at the knee
and ankle...
             i am formidably
   nuanced amsterdam...

                  i have to tell
that yawn and "story" for some
variation of catholicism to trickle down...
this forever impossible
and: my-overtly-inflated
char of wording...

                harvest the pea and
dollop of hypersensitivity toward
hue best ascribed to "foliage";
or a burgundy that's neither
purple or red
or wine... or the papacy
of Avignon.

oh!

                                      look here!

                          a blank canvas...

   i sometimes open one
                     up and forget about it...

i scroll through minor
                                  drama on the internet:

i was never a big fan
of soap opera...

  however english...
however ******...
or mexican or turkish...

but given that i'm
drinking a bottle of ol' jack...
i sometimes over-stretch
the "markers"...

bourbon is no whiskey...
and whiskey: who can enjoy
too much of that sort of:
"debating"...

     i have before me
a myopia of sentences...
the far right's: kind sir... sir...
n'est ce-pas: mr. samuel weller?

oink oink rock a boat?
i have lived in england...
well into the count of 2 decades...

who are the natives?
the irish are the natives
of these isles?
are they? i.r.a.
placard and the plantagenet
name: in name alone...

           the scots are the natives?
well sold! this... union of
suppose-we-do-so-and-likewise...
yes?
             i hear... a... ochenaid...
sigh... hark at the CH...
          o"X"e-n'ah-eed...
                      rummagining
for... sparrows... wheelbarrows...
squirrels and rats and cockroaches:
the natives!
i'm looking for the natives!

i must have been... cushioned...
oh too well...
by the irish immigrant population...
back in Goodmayes... Seven Kings...
i don't even want to think
i met a PROP'AH english custom...
of the tongue and patriotism...

always had to mingle with
the irish... the scots...
    somewhat the welsh...
   once i visited Cheltenham...
for the festival... the book awareness:
slogan read:
they're not door-knobs!
  brick would have been just fine...
fine...

             but i never heaved...
to curate myself around...
the ****** diaspora...
one thing "we've" learned...
there's no concept of mafia...
a china town... a mossad...
                the ottoman barbers...

over 20 years in england...
and... yes... i've perhaps met a few...
"locals"...
but the other "locals" have already
treated the locals i've met as...
paving... something...
worth a digression...

       i calls it the irish cushion...
the hard work has already been invoked...
not that... an englishman ever fought...
on the plains of masovia...
but i'm, pretty sure,
    the ****** squadron... 303?
pilots... dog-fights over dover an la manche...

what-a-doodle-do-no-more-doable?
Cheltenham... such ripe...
harvest of... ****** **** pears and plums...
and a little bird asked:
were these fruits plucked...
picked... and stashed for selling...
by Romanians?

my dearest: Dorset!
         my Exeter...
               as "we" all know...
my... my... "my"...
          hardly... speak the tongue of
subservience... make "my" and... "own"...
  subconscious complications
of affairs with an already established...
philately...
                          
can anyone please tell me...
what ING-land... and at what point...
is an E ever stressed?
banking on the mixer...
the letter-stripping: shape in place...
but the sound a bit: 'ffy...
               iffy... i.e. off...
         did some roundabout loops
on the matter...
came back with clues from sahara...
i.e. no footprint...
pretended to **** on the sand...
to ease... some moisture onto
the riddle...

  no dear: rhubarb sprout...
                   but once in a while...
i hear the natives speak...
i've heard the welsh...
i've heard the scots... i've heard
the irish...
  but the ING- and the ĘNG-LEASH...
tow... baron tow a...
            Florida over-ere!
         let's have! Maine!
                      
   king john and the pole:
****** - lack-land...
              ha ha... the fable of richardson...
and big richard... with no whittle...
charlemagne... my my:
         sr.                and no future jr.

will smith in gemini man...
plays... a... incel... killer...
                               will smith as an incel killer...
gotta rock the boat...

colonel hans christian and a heg's...
a statue with a missing leg...
bonkers united...

        i sometimed hear my parents
speak... and being the sort of loser
that still lived into his 30s
as a charcaol - a slave of the solipsistic
adventures of tending to a ****
and some *******...

             the heaven of a mother
and father... and the hell: theremin...
wax job...
a father met a mother...
  the crux of the story...
is that they met...
in a vicinity... a town....
          the story suggests...
they knew: the names if streets...
and the names of cafes...

             mind you... i know
a whittle place... ol' loondon...
on the outskirts...
ballerinas come 'ere most often...
for skate and a chance to
break a ******* leg:
call it a: spot a vaginal floral piece...
come up with a fortune...
selling a...
                     julian grater:
otherwise known as:
                  a peter gabriel album
sleeve... nimb cutting...
         from an eight part series...

      charcoal / graphite / pastel / acrylic /
       bitumen / beeswax / straw...

floral patterns... "somehow"....
revealing / revelling in a crucifix...
               whatever... happened...
to depictions of glorified... madonna...
and the iron maiden?
they will stage coup e'tats on statues...
but not...
the torture instruments of
the state...
the crucifix needs! preserving...
thank god... for the guillotine... no?

i need to heave a lasting...
exhaustion of breath... bound by a tidying
in a crucifix...
gold-mine! a ******* gold-mine!
i see... words like
strobe-light flickering discoteque
"nuances"...

my parents knew... several streets...
and their town was...
a makeshift... Basildon...
i know a different reality...

   Coventry St....
         Beehive Lane...
                   Havering Road...
      i know streets...
little to do with a concept of
bubble... and town...
              this... luquidation of time...
time... well spent...
time... invested... time... abandoned...
they have these shared avenues...
i was supposed to jump ship...
bail-out... find myself a decrepit suitor
of warm womb flesh...
a sparring partner to no tennis...

   and abduct her... with... a foetus...
lavish!
                     suppose there came:
two!
                it was all... formidably:
accurate... in how... the "game" would...
progress...
the loser that i am:
so much for not being homeless...
a lavish drinker of bourbon...
i'm more of a slave...
a curator for cats more than anything...
the 2008 financial crash
didn't bother me...
when... i was rudely woken up
by the existence of soul...
never... make the least concern:
psychosis a waste...
it's not... a l.s.d. "overdose"...

there's something... special...
a temporal... synchronicity about "it"...
the "magic" happens with a loitering...
bravado...
   it happens but it doesn't happen...
at the same time...
you're humbled... without a tenacity of...
being... a forewarning prophet...
there's not memorable time...
shifting forward...

       the persistent prison of all that is...
now... it's a London...
and it's a London with...
say... dull-strapped Sikh done two-ways...
a welcome... proselyte grief
for the jew: having succumbed to islam...
a catholicism: with no necessary
protestant conversion...
no sung anthem... no...
dickensian take on...
a *******... lackey...
there's just: the moderation of...
a... "speech impediment"...
      
  n00b for *******... whenever...
a **** would appear! and...
a face with a beetroot tinge would just so...
happen... to blush... to... keep you away from...
singing in the choir's crescendo!

the looters' choir theme boy:
a **** "bono" wałęsa...
    to have invested in a dynamic
of a foreign currency...
best better: than... in...
made in china... in the metallurgy
exploits etc.
                      i am no patriot...
   a bit like... the jew in new york...
might think himself an israelite...
              how much time away...
among... foreigners...
will make you... inclined...
to return to... "home"...
               israel is about much a home...
as poland is for the diaspora living
away from it...
               there's... a lithuania?
there's a... latvia... an estonia?
                          
israel is like a baltic state...
              of those who do not live in it...
and of those...
cosmopolitan enough...
living outside of it...
  i bless this anchor...
this... dragging my down...
seemingly... insensible...
when... english... puritanical / liberal...
sensibilities... oh god! the french are coming!
continental intellectualism is...
is what it is...

                    two maxims emerge
as modus operandi...
  when the people have lost trust...
in both the media and the politics sham'b'oh...

oculus per oculus: eye for an eye...
and... the golden rule...
      treat others... as you'd want others
to treat you...
           i would be inclined...
to look beside the doorsteps...
of western liberalism...
   the black in mongolia...
and the antithesis of celebrating genghis...

what statue of his... could hear...
the echo... of a... toppling?
                 sooner a horse laughs!
the pristine whip of:
alienation...
               the liberal cuck-mantra...
of western diplomacy...

   somehow iraq was and...
oh don't get me started on libya...
                the posthumous will
of a pristine... resurrected Winston C.!

the terrible price of writing:
you also desire to drink... more...
for all their worth...
the sober... the un-****** pristine angels...
selling matchsticks and pockets
filled with toothpick humour:
for the toothless!

                   i beckon... the details
of both ditto and a filling...
akin to a full...       stop                               .

syncopate a sentence succinctly
take that thought and
slice and serrate across lines
synth steady and stolid syntax
stitch surrealism to sanity symphonically
scatter sadness, sow sunny spirit
slather language with excess
dole diction in dearth
depose dialectical dogma
dredge dreary dreams and not so drearies
foment formidably
froth and fracture finalities
syllogise spectacular speculation
simplify abtruse abnormalities
whet words wonderfully

if my life was scripted by a guy ritchie
or a tarantino...
oh god: it would happen so smoothly:
i would never:
but always fake it as an n.p.c. -

ol' grandfather died and i finally resolved
to never ever like writing:
and this pain is a crease:
i wish it was a goosebump...
but as b.c. socrates said it:

find yourself a good wife...
and you'll be happy...
ol' grandpa didn't find a good woman
in my grandmother...
he became a philosopher...

my luck lies with prostitutes...
now the sketch, sketching over a sketch...
i tried that path once:
the gamble...
invested in being swept under
a carpet with the bugs and dust...

now i approach the song i heard
at an open mic night in edinburgh
once... neil young's old man...
and only recently:
      cumberland gap: hence the reference
to guy ritchie...

there are instances of dementia patients
living out their last best preserved
in care homes...
3 months...
blitzkrieg shock a day before
he died: ****** gwandm'ah calls
up...
who does that?!

             i apparently own a phone
i can only make calls with:
i am not to receive them!

"my god he loved that woman!"
beside a god
the mythological sophia:
patriarch ***** of abraham:
but what of this mythological woman?
this mother this sister
this grandmother this ****-buddy...
this word-on-word 69er...

it's hardly a mystery:
it's not like death played poker with me
over the debate of 3 months:
such is family...
once upon a time...
before the subsequent diadems
would disperse -
before the little town was swallowed
by: dying and the nomads it spawned...

no luck with women:
my father is the only exception...
which probably implies my mother
is the exception too...
but even now my father is being strained...
and as ever: i'm mediating some flimsy deal...
but i guess luck with women is
hereditary...
promise me the one in a blue moon
lover!
promise me none of such "things"
just a horse with stirrups!

pain as a numbing sensation from:
it's impossible to feast on details...
and i will not rhyme, rhyme...
i will write my heaving lost...
   i have no more...

but if my life was scripted...
oh... i just imagine the litany
of the omni- god being true: of a god not
taking sides:
how we're still not landlocked
by a reference to the 20th century
sheep-count for the slaughter:
how now, only now...
just as ever: we hear the heroism
of some marcel marceau...
who was never going to be one of
these newly converted readily waiting
for the gestapo max jacob types...

i sometimes wish i would have
invested in that siberian banshee that
st. petersburg's doll and buggy and trolly...
esp. after i heard her: ways...
obviously as toxic as it might
have taken turn:
i'd compete with bottle and brothel
as she would have skidded off
for some m.d.ma. and some buckle &
friendly ****...

thank anyone for this morning
how the newspaper was brought home,
then the muddied walk through
the bower wood...
that my feet take me walking
and i obey: a dog of chess...
   and then back for coffee and a revision
of morning going out
again for some buns...

by the afternoon i found a new walk
and will undertake it come tomorrow...
at the entrance: a couple were looking
formidably anti-
        a forwarding of feet onto it...

come: let us steal the moon as
the scythe it appears when it reaches
its sharpened crescent slit of a gaze!