Based on a painting, "Nuclear Puppies", by Julie Nagel, 2001*

You’re a mutant, you know—
got funny dog babies sprouting
out of your head like they were
ears.  Those copies of your face

look up at a sky of ashy gray,
perked and tense.  Are you listening
to yourself?  What choir
of dog-eared deformities

sings to you?  Maybe they should have
howled louder before we dropped The Bomb.
Maybe the yellow caterwaul of their
melting butter bodies would have stayed our hand.

I doubt it though.  
This is what we do. We burn things.
We tinker, adding and subtracting until
what’s left is blasphemy—until what’s left is

you.  A yellow almost-dog, a sagging
body with melted flesh where there should
be fur. Sad monster; beg your alms
from the atomic Frankensteins who made you.

Your skyward eyes are bright, still happy
anywhere but here.  But your abominable
body lies here staring into gray space with
Alpo still sticky on your nose, wet, brown snow.

moment to moment
we are the sum total of
our chemicals

we think of ourselves
we think of others
as an average of our
time and spacial synergy
an anatomical amalgam
a biological brine

frankensteins with
personalities, commonalities and
unique agendas
sprinkled with neuroses that
range from microscopic to
catastrophic, whether
chemical reaction or
hyperbolic extraction

you can choose to
canonize or demonize
as long as you can
recognize
the flesh and the blood
versus the fantasized

it was only the first screening of ex_machina,
but the words 'deus' and 'placebo'
were uttered after a walk of thus pondering:

understanding this movie requires kant's
critique of pure reason matter of frankly,
i lost the kantian concepts of *a priori and
a posteriori using the cartesian method of understanding,
gravitating in my realm of understanding
almost unconscious why the cartesian uncoupling
of the kantian compounds is required:

invoking a purely cognitive aspect of analytical
and synthetic i took the temporal realm of
pre- and post-, which is respective of the definitions
of the above italicised -

when watching the movie... apart from the groovy
part where music has no central role as is usual
in all horror movies... the aesthetic of horror movies
has been cleaned up thanks to technology,
that knife into the chest like knife into butter
is perfect... the knife into the chest also perfect...
it's the robotic of man's daily routines done by a robot
that does the horror bit...
it's music replaced with claustrophobia,
the theory is mesmerising... generally speaking
phobias are tiny... and the horror scenario
losing focus in terms of music and instead
focusing on an expanding phobia, like claustrophobia
is a gigantic leap in the horror movie scene...
i wonder what the moving imagery of arachnophobia
would look like... without technological frankensteins...
a massive thematic move but still trendy with mary shelley's
original idea... more clean cut... no scar marks...
a beautiful frankenstein emerges...
but enough of that...

the kantian translated with cartesian methodology,
losing the a priori and a posteriori coupling
with analytical and synthetic notions -
like me when i first learned language,
21 years later i've just started the analytical procedure,
prior to these years, the cut-off point at 21
i was merely synthesising the language,
so well that i even managed to phonetically
strain my tongue to fake having a limousine
and a mansion and a horse... posh posing fake...
it happens - no geordie no scouser no cockney in me...
just mundane pure elocution to a ****,
harmless if i'm being honest -
but no, no no, i mean i had to synthesise the language
first, before i lost all possible synthesis of it
attributed to vocabulary... it's then that i started
to analyse it!

so this robo chic... i was thinking:
what's the analysis to synthesis ratio in her?
that must be balanced, right?
there are so many things to analyse in life:
all those biologists, chemists, forensic scientists...
but only one successful synthesis - almost
like free will that does not dare to conflict
with other possibilities...
there's no before / after concerning what one knows,
a symbiosis has to exist between these two things -
it's not that she's artificial, she's pure analytic,
she can't be pure synthetic:

deep blue is pure synthetic - he was given all
the possibilities of a chess mastermind,
he's purely synthetic, because the only thing
he can analyse is chess, and in only doing so,
he can only synthesise the authentic craft of
playing chess and nothing else, meaning he has
limited parameters -
but this robotic woman / frankenstein
would be lost in terms of pure synthesis, unlike
deep blue - she's pure analysis, meaning
the interaction is almost two dimensional,
meaning that if man questions his free will,
she would also have to do so...
i'm thinking analytical intelligence (a.i.)
either pondering suicide, ****** - morality
in total... and being drunk...

the same conceptualisation applies
in my own scenario, using the cartesian methodology
on kantian concepts i realised
my thought is an interchange of analysis | synthesis |
analysis | synthesis... this interplay
is staggering... first i cognitively synthesise
then i cognitively analyse, ping-pong.

i have no care for attaching a priori to
synthesis or a posteriori to analysis, or whatever
dogmatic building block is expected,
in the temporal sense i see the future
as ordained by the faculty of imagination
and the present as ordained by the faculty of memory;
in the present there's only this:
a lot of verbs, some which i can control, some which
i can't... depending on my noun bank account...
that same old fascination with flowers and
the complete and utter lack of apps. for deciphering
names of flowers...

but of course there's a moral to the film's plot -
it mentions consciousness and awareness to something...
a bit like man being conscious of his evolution,
hence the necessity of forgetting **** sapiens
and embracing deus placebo...
after all... it will please the vanity of man to
think himself a god...
and in so doing... craft the possibility of a deus sapiens...
a rational god... given that we're still monkeys
in spandex shooting bullets at innocent random targets
in the minority.

did i forget something?
four beers does the trick... i watched a great movie...
now i'm going to drink some whiskey
and paint my room blood red
donning a dracula bun of hair tickling with excitement:
but prior... if the universe is an undifferentiated substance,
say... water... i imagine the geometry of it's boundlessness
concerning the capillary effect of water...
what sort of geometric shape would allow the singularity
of the universe to provide the parabola of it
being in a tube of glass... in comparison to it...
i'm an indentation... i'm like mercury in similar circumstances...
hello big void... filled with aurora colours and magpies.

Watch out! They're coming everybody beware
they walk around real life,
from our nightmares.

Through the town their creeping
to get the things they want;
they come with a password
to each house they haunt.

From a pirouette forms Draculla
as he comes to full height,
he draws his cape to his chin
to hide his overbite.

Against a full moons light
hangs a witches shape
all year shes been waiting
for this very night to escape.

The wolfman howls through the distance
and sprouts coarse red hair.
As ghosts and goblins frenzy
through the cool nights air.

Two lights are yellow glowing
above a toothless grin
on an old Jack-o-lantern
born from a pumpkin.

Into the light comes creeping
a cat as black as coal,
from out of hiding places
upon the night to stroll.

Out of the closets rattle
old Mr. Bones,
and from the tombs rumble
a mommie moans.

Outside they all gather
monsters of every size;
from huge Frankensteins
down to the little guys.

Here they come, be quiet,
wait for a knock to be heard.
There it is get ready
for the password.

"Trick-or-treat's" the password
then comes the trade,
for the small price of a treat
no tricks will be played.

"Happy Halloween!"
before they all turn and disappear,
back into their hiding places
I'm safe again till next year...

The future has razor-sharp
edges, swiftly cutting
bright red wet and ugly scars.
The past is a blunt knife,
dull and rusty
and I'm being stabbed
and stabbed
and stabbed.
I am stuck in the
present down on my knees
swimming in blood and saliva
with dry tears streaming
down my face
unable to catch a breath
choking on misery
nails dug deep into
my skin
and I am screaming
but no one can hear
and I want to rip
my trachea out and chop
my lungs and eat my heart out
and pull out all
those miles of intestines;
I want to flay my skin
and lay it out for you to
see my scars.
I'm a grotesque of
days long gone
of days that reign
of days that soon will be.
I am the monster you created,
you Dr. Frankensteins,
I am your masterpiece,
I am what you made me
but you won't leave me be.

I know it's called "the present",
but God help me, it's simply not a gift.

When you started to love me you created a monster
The devil inside
My demons on my shoulder
You promised we would always be bonnie and clyde

In the dark corners of my mind
There is a tealight of hope
Thats dimming by each passing day
My stomach feels like im walking on tightrope.

If you need a place to pick your nose,
Eat contraband &/or beat your meat,
God bless the child that's got his own,
That's got his own bedroom,
His personal Reichstag bunker,
His private Junker Bauhaus,
If you get my drift?
If you don’t, “Get Bent!”
I am not here to entertain you.

So I am coming in from garden hosing--
Not lederhosen, you Aryan punks!--&
I'm on my rear patio thinking to myself
I couldn’t get any higher,
Even with Jackie singing:
Search Results Jackie Wilson - (Your Love Keeps Lifting Me) Higher And Higher (Best ... Aug 11, 2011 - Uploaded by jakebucknall 123 Jackie Wilson - (Your Love Keeps Lifting Me) Higher And Higher (Best Quality). The Staple Singers -I https://www.youtube.com/watchv=mzDVaKRApcg.
But I digress.

A spot of hose magic,
Watching my garden grow.
Keeping things moist & fertile,
Leonard Cohen (RIP) on the airwaves,
A fat blunt betwixt my lips,
"Curling up like smoke above my shoulder."
“Don’t get me started,” I said,
Paying tribute to beloved Joan Rivers (RIP)
Lost so senselessly, so humorlessly,
To some whack-job-wonder boy,
Who just happened to score perfect 800s
On his high school SAT exams, &
Later worming his way into Med School,
Which rather begs the obvious question:
Those 11-year old Frankensteins,
Why did their Bubbes give them a
Chemistry sets for Chanukah?
Later earning state Medical licenses,
Licenses to practice,
Licenses to **** & just say
*“OOPS, I did it again!”

O Eve, we love you to death—
More than we can say, BUT
Why did you have to go
And get us into this rut?
Hey, you had it so good.
Talk about life of leisure!
But one little bite and zap!
That put an end to our pleasure.
Of all the fruit in the garden
You fell for the apple, of course.
You’re lucky that dear hubby Adam
Didn’t request a divorce.
Kicked out of the Garden of Eden,
You had to suffer the throes...
And because of you look what happened:
Now we all have to wear clothes!

Oh, woe is me!
What’s there to do?
Thanks to dear Eve,
We’re all in a stew.

O Pandora, beautiful lady,
Did Zeus not foresee the hard knocks
That would have to befall us
After you opened that box?
Did Hephaestus and Athena
Mold you out of the earth
Only to let out the evils
And put an end to our mirth?
We know that you weren’t being malicious,
For that’s not the person you were;
Your curiosity tricked you
Before you knew what would occur.
With all the plagues and diseases
I don’t know how we would cope
If you hadn’t left in the box
That one little glimmer of Hope.

Oh, woe is me!
What’s there to do?
Thanks to Pandora,
We’re all in a stew.

O Prometheus, why did you have to,
After making man out of clay,
Go and present us with fire?
Now we all have to pay!
Surely your flames have been useful
For helping us to warm our buns,
Or for boiling our drinking water
To keep us from getting the runs.
But look what else you have started:
Because of you and your fire
We now have powerful weapons
That we can never retire.
If we just had rocks and arrows,
We’d still be inflicting much pain.
But bombs that could blow up the earth?
I swear! That is truly insane!
 
Oh, woe is me!
What’s there to do?
Thanks to Prometheus,
We’re all in a stew.
 
Victor Frankenstein, tell us:
Were you not cognizant prior
To making your monstrous creation
That it was sure to backfire?
For the suffering that you caused
Numerous victims have scorned you.
I’m sure some wary friends said,
“Sorry, Victor, I warned you!”
We all know that you suffered.
Your daily life was hell.
And because of you and the others,
We all have to suffer as well.
We in our infinite wisdom,
Ignoring all the signs,
Continue to assemble
Our own Frankensteins!
 
Oh, woe is me!
What’s there to do?
Thanks to dear Victor,
We’re all in a stew.

-by Bob B

Test my patience
Is a virtue
If you think
These words can't hurt you
Or subvert your bricks and thrones
To shallow caves of sticks and stones
And early graves of mogul masses
Unenlightened social classes
Cashing in the broadcaste system
Fearful fascist feudalism
Cataclysm communist
Red dead to rites of populist
We can't resist the terrorize
In refugees we demonize
So televise the violent crimes
And lionize the Frankensteins
Cuz' we all scream for Isis stream
To guillotine the fields of green  
The Vaccines are the influenza
FDA is salmonella
Poisoning the stomach bile
In the processed garbage aisle
As the vile needle kills
The blood which pours as rivers spills
Polluted by the politics
The very air we breathe is sick
Like respirating pits of tar
A pack of Marbs is all we are
On par with country clubs of pigs
Who sell us lies and oil rigs
And stuff the stockings up with coal
And change the climate of my soul
To winter's blight of coldest steel
Still rusting in this rage I feel
Then melting in the wildfire
Of the funeral empire
Rolling thunder power dice
Of life and gambling on its price
As they repeal and then erase
All knowledge of this human race

I left my darkness at home in a drawing i did
Capped my pen with its lid
And slid it under the table
Still on my mind like a drug
So I tried to sweep it under the rug
But spring cleaning had a different meaning this season
Greetings my darkness said
I thought i hid you with the rest of this mess
I'm only hidden till you are stressed
See there are things in your head
I am not one of them
But those things lay my bed
And so there behind your eyes I rest
Your inaction and content my crest
Though I wear it plainly
It seems you can never see it
A symbol for your Frankensteins monster
In hindsight you might has well be it
So Doctor when will you decide to believe it?

In the scrap workshop

I build monster vehicles --


Modern Frankensteins.

The only difference between God and Frankenstein
is the success of what they deemed their magnum opus,
and when it comes down to the end of days,
the Great Judge must turn his gavel inward,
lest he condemn his doppelgänger to an opposite fate.

It is a universal human experience to fail,
even more so to fail at the apex of triumph.
When God made the world, did he imagine
that it would go to waste?
Would it ever have crossed his mind that love is conditional,
at least for the flawed creatures he expected perfection from?

Does this, then, make God human?
Or just a Heavenly Lady of Shalott,
weaving a tapestry of emulation, of the very same
thing he cannot be.
It is considered blasphemous
to entertain the notion that God is inferior,
but is this born of punishment,
or of shame, of trying to save face?

It is stated so many times that the student will surpass the master,
and isn’t that what is happening here?
Perhaps God created trees, but humanity cut them down.
Destruction is just as artful as creation,
if not more so - there’s more finality in it.
It’s possible that God is too scared to ever end a story.

But we - our nation of Frankensteins -
will end everything.
Given the right tools, we’ll end the universe,
far beyond the reaches of this insignificant planet.
We’ll lay waste to God’s pride
and replace it with our own hubris.

We go down on our own sinking ship with smiles;
even if we can escape, we won’t.
We are cruel that way.
We will never accept fatherhood or responsibility,
but spite and death work hand in hand
at the fall of any empire -
what can be done to stop us?
We are fluent in the only language God speaks.

i recycle my words
stitch them rip them
tear them apart
turn them into monstrosities
frankensteins of lines
transplant them from here to there
from yours to mine and mine
to none
dead brain dead weight
fallen limbs and the
butchers table
to who or whom
do they belong not mine
let them rot decay
and fade with the times
a madman and a cleaver
cleaving clinging slinging
syllables together senselessly
sensually
torn flesh from bone
marrow and bloodletting
to purify the sickness

i'm an egoist like i might be a spider -
a quizzical pointer and a loiter of hubris:
that word again...
   i must have mistook hubris for hiatus -
i see no future for the arguments
concerning genes -
         beside: solo project i -
                and what will continue is
the concept of a species -
i am quiet thankful that i don't demand
the face of the slobbering gods to be
of a particular inclination -
     in that: i was never fond of english:
philosophy - once the parameters
of darwinism became established:
there was no longer any blinking involved...
or at least missing the abyss -
the abyss forgot to manufacture dreams
and the darwinistic enterprise wanted
me to peer into it with unflinching metaphors:
and scarred details...
that a man might refrain from
potentially petting an arachnid...
   then again: i'm only a cat person because
******* are one thing...
but parading with genitals of dogs
is just another daydream -
      once upon a time:
                   it wasn't like the darwinistic adventure
came with a cute poetry akin
to the copernican revolution:
cited: he stopped the sun and moved the earth...
perhaps to borrow from history:
when people were wrapped up in
a "solipsism" of their own species -
           that not much from "elsewhere"
could be borrowed, tailored to
a mimic... incorporated... slyly suggested...
the full bodied and ****** consequence
of the old lies and emotions of squabbling
men and ferocious women -
beside this current neuter:
flimsy generic loaning of insect:
             ontology?
                for what was deserving for men
to imitate: a rhetorical crux / pinnacle...
that would never become a cocktail of
more robots more a priori nibbling at
the old unfathomable god:
a god outside of a polytheism that can
only become a brain-freeze and a tongue tie...
it's not that darwinism isn't... a truth beggar...
but you can't exactly make incisions
of an existentialism with darwinism -
how the 20th century becketts got "away with it"
is beside me...
but i can't be a man no more
a brick when i'm facing a comparison
from an alien revelation of insects:
to **** is to be eaten - just as much...
hell... i wouldn't mind being eaten
as long as i couldn't be milked...
         i am truly alienated by the task of
preserving genes:
there are a billion chinese and a billion
blue indian raj examples to pick... from...
it's not like the species will die...
i am no atlas and this solo project
is bothersome to have to question: to begin
with...
  i never liked darwinism because
i knew it would go far beyond a mere
observation: it had to be incorporated -
the behaviour of lions or of insects -
          after all: i am not subject to my own
undeciding human...
                  any more than i am:
objecting to: the crowd pleasing objectification
snooker or borrowing from:
these ambivalent critters of pouch shadow
and a thought...
             i'd want to summon
the old gods but there they are...
no subject matter ignites their need for
a presence...
            they might as well have secluded
themselves on the gentle silence
of a scratching orb trace to tease saturn -
i want to find the crows mystifying -
i do - but that doesn't help much...
i don't want to delve into life that's not
immediately concrete -
i followed a whiff of making concrete
but then i knew: ****'s the real stinker
and the juice...
                    i played a ****** when looking
at a spider feast on a moth...
days prior i was inviting
moths to the nursery of my bedroom...
- you simply can't create a cosmopolitan
allure for cafe existentialism with
priding yourself on darwinism -
it's not wrong it's just: i don't want to
borrow from the very base, crude:
psychopathically teasing tendencies
that... well... deviations from mammalian...
if "we" borrowed from elephants alone...
from whales...
were we oh so solipsistic prior...
yes... we must have have been...
we domesticated horses...
we domesticated dogs...
   we created bonsai tigers...
             we probably petted poster / glue
nibbling goats...
we forgave the cannibalism of chickens
when one could meet the stump
and axe: a golgotha like congregation
of drinking blood...
         a violent old god...
death and jester but a pretty innocent
apple...
now a benevolent god and a fruit:
a bundle of metaphors and metaphysics -
it's still the old trick of poetic cannibalism -
i'm sure that if i worked on the apple...
i'd get a cider from it...
am i cured from the curse of the wine -
what if my body is a rumble of whiskey
and a potato chip?
  is my corpus "antichristi" this...
wheat "buckle"... what if i can turn
the bread into a consecration of meaning
with... a ******* gnocchi or a noodle: bundle?

- catholicism - well: perhaps born into it...
but i'm missing the confirmation language
that even the great atheistic tinker and tailor
and: how biology and the rule of
the thespians killed off the alchemists and
poets...
            let's just pretend! let's... let's...
just... pretend...
             years later i can finally appreciate
Al Purdy...
   i know what put me off...
the notes in a copy of his: rooms for rent
in the outer planets...
i need to buy some rubber
to erase these pencil details...

             female handwriting -
i know it... the letters are al bubbly...
they're not akin to chicken scratchings...
bubbly ******* of toads...
"unsentimental view of nature"
a real "treasure trove of antics"...
what put me off: what always puts me off:
a need to annotate poetry:
to teach it like one might teach
a bunch of young Frankensteins
a lesson or two in anatomy...

that language so already sacred in it
being scarce has to endure...
a postmortem of additional details
of: that it can't be left alone like
a floral insignia on a base dulling of
Hittite brown:
     a bark of wood the colour of cardamom...
the argument of: well...
those egyptians were so advanced
back then... even the Iraqis...
hell... the Greeks were advanced peoples
too... looks like they took a *******
bicycle to hiatus land!

burdening me with a past and:
that darwinism doesn't really life...
a concept of / a "concept" of the Avignon
Papacy...
  i'm strapped mr. gill and mrs. gimp all
latex to a spider and some
******* chimp'zee bonanza...
           no one teaches dogs to swim...
in a priori dimming they: know
a duck from a water...
   they know a pancake from a victoria sponge:
hypothetical:
borrowing from the 1960s:
a hitchhiker in the form of a mushroom
apparently opened my eyes
and i am now: the ego-son
of the fungus with potential to:
amass the same sort of gorilla build
architecture from... scraps of...
a plethora of vitamin sources...
i'll eat the deer...
the tame the boars and shave them
to attain crick bacon...
the ******* gorilla will laugh a blank
autistic look at me:
weighing in at a K.O. from...
papyrus and twigs and perhaps
a concept of: straightening bananas...

this slow sludge of walking "backwards"
from **** sapiens to **** similis -
this opposing venture into
anti-literature -
it's not that the mirror of hopes
is now a glass grieving from a lack
of shadows...
  no one wants to find themselves
beside: an exfoliation of tongue...

once more: the church bell of the uvula...
the brain the sponge...
my liver the punching bag
of an alcoholic opponent -

    that bukowski is some this that and
the other: and he knew:
the pressures of 100 years...
that there was also this Al Purdy...
and i too made my own wine -
pretending to blindly support
a Vest Ham -
             way way out west in the east:
that i did see a tease of Venice but
that i probably will never venture
south of the thames to
this cut from the home counties
of: how Burial (dubstep)
originated...
strapped to a mythology of the north...
Thames: a river without a clarity
of mountains:
how the Thames cannot
be celebrated akin to the Vistula
or the Danube...

              murky grey fonz -
this lingering tide amass of custard...
england's last lacklustre exertion
from the 1960s...
some kingly riddle ransom of
crimea associated for the purpose
of crimson -
a taming of purple in the hue
of hooded Burgundian -
  my solving tiresome base for
eyes -
    it's not that Greenwich mean-time
could ever be "important" -
insomniac polyphony of the hours
in passing...
   is more beside the equator...
some topsy-turvy pancake a butter
lofty toast:
that toasted rye that toasted
sourdough... or a ciabatta slice...
             is more and more than this
arrogant prize of english worship
"Blumenthal"...
        
a bonsai tiger's eager inquisitive prompt
from behind a door:
retreating like a lasso or
a folding of bedsheets -
or an ironing of unironic jeans...
some things to be worn should
be best unironed -
   notably jeans -
          azure: clarity chippy of:
variation:
   death's desire to come along
the purpose of lost purples:
in denim like a...

              arbeit macht frei will
forever stand the test of time among
the workaholics...
it's as little infamous as it is:
the currency of keeping with
details of a towing of two un-opposing
factions...

these service jobs and their lowering
of physical exertion:
substituted by gym maintenance -
service jobs and the "work" of...
loitering the hours in...
                 these service jobs and the clocking
in of hours: eternity begot the yawn...
adam begot the scratching of the head:
god conceived of the hierarchy of
taking the knee:
satan borrowed a circus and
a seizure for the future of
ronin imagination...

   can a fire itch?
        i'm pretty sure the licking of ice
can be allowed a fathom of both
an itch and a burn and:
       towing glue...
pockets of dry water staging coups of
crystalised details
of attention *******...
  
and a: between...
   the suffocating mantle piece of...
morbid avenues:
the t.v. robbed the zombies
of their pitiful dues...
machinery hatchling detail...
                  a burden of phallus and
a hammer...
crude "avenue": a **** the size
of a nail...
all life a coffin an scalp that snow
is also dandruff -
and there is nothing of a limit to tow
a continuity -
the species will survive...
the species will survive:
there are enough "stupid" and *****
people to preserve it...
more ***** than "stupid"..

             they are not to be...
coerced with submissions on the grandours
of religion...
having to preserve their appetite
of disinhibition...
they are to be kept on their own
worth of: kept perpetual:
there's no siding of the **** similis project
akin to the lizard kings with the meteor...
so it happens: the moon was sleeping...
when that little nugget of: oops...
****** up the tides and sleeping
patterns of proto-happenings...

    - as i am having "my" kitchen refurbished...
the surrealism of a fride-freezer
occupying a space in "my"
living / civil room -
where the t.v. is this altar of mundane
sacrifices...
at least there's still a concept
of a bedroom and the need for
a bed and the thorough avenues
of abating sleeplessness...

       i dare to sleep because i have
no wish for a *** life that's
a demanding expansion of...
custard-**** of an alter-ego of paragraph...

biting the ******* of
a schadenfreude category:
by the time she becomes an exhausted
**** in the pornographic clogging
of exhausting the machinery:
there were some organic components?
there was a "riddle" of
a lumberjack and a carpenter..
associated to.. ahem... wood?
i want to wish for a plain & simple
trucker analogy...
but then the agony of
conjuring up a chair & table...
and a rocker... and one of those
serpents of moses...

    god blessed grievances
to make elaborations with mahogany
that it would never become:
tantalizing marble:
                            
in a periodical inconvenience of tome:
this time: my lacking...
i will never find it an easy ride
to appeal / appease the
morbidity of the throng...
  having to tow a romance
of england...
a little detail a little of everything
and everywhere...
a pact with celtic / ginger
*******...

    ooh! hot coal... i am an european
5ft8 dwarf... a 6ft6 african goliath
is picking my cotton...
and i own a whip: and i am:

       nie z tego rodzony...
                            it's my little alien
planet of: but it's not important
right now: 100 years from now
when... my contemporaries are
a wish for sanskrit in both
itch and dust...
      
                biGGer... beTTER...
tease the doubling of consonants...
i'm tired i'm just simply tired
of excusing my contemporaries...
whatever they wanted to be
achieved: they have achieve it...
i'm proto-****** little cog little
blister: tamed mustard...
my little nowhere this "here"...

                good enough...
   a variation of aleister crowley bids
you...
      a night knitted with dreams...
and no... pangs of the horror of doubt...
closure for the things eaten
raw... a beef superstition
surrounding... what came to be known
as a tartare steak.

        god - to appease a minor public...
this little ******* gauge of a little public:
this carthage beside a blooming rome...
no... i'm not: excuse me...
i'm not native: this tongue is acquired...
i will not be mentioned in
the colonial anals as
this ******* imbecile of coercion...
this past without ridicule this past
with: goliaths toying the junctions
of exhausted base q. to an "i." unfathomable
first...
               runner junction...
i'm becoming tired of either
side of this bothersome argument...

hail babylon! hail an impeding tomorrow!
**** the 100 year from now.
best of me: no fear mongering
game to tow genes as me too:
a gamer invoked...
humanity survives...
the individual dies...
perhaps a beethoven is riddling
the hive with nuance...
humanity survives:
the individual dies...
i probably wasted my life on
ambition...

   then again: i didn't waste it on
a delusion of a societal project of
poly-                 multi-culturism -
                     i wasn't born on the Faroe Islands...
i had to come about an itching for
life: ventured for a cleaning and a kippah
for a tonsure -
i came across a grief of scalping -
i came across a curry...
i imploded an empire and sent out
invitations and became...
day by day less and less of London...

i ventured out of London and i found myself
in: inbreeding territory -
i became... sick from the homogenous  
zebras of parlance...
   black on black: white is white...
       it's a sickness from detailing
the aftereffects of gravity when having
to sort-out: a belief in the promenade...
            
   whatever... 100 years from now...
i will need to be dead:
for my writing to be elevated from
mere hobby to... this suffocating pride
and orthodoxy canon i want
it to exfoliate in...
then again: no...
                  then again: i am not in a position
to leave behind a pyramid...
i might leave some rattle and bones...
but most certainly not the toils
an wavering of others...
for... a flimsy prospect of: transcending
ambitions...
best played out as truant...
gobshite a god-envy
of a rhetorician's envy...
         stutter to excavate punctuation...

   yes... tomorrow and that: again...
and come sleep come death
come... the tiresome first breathed...
red and ginger...
ginger a tinge or orange ******* with
brown... this precursor of
loiter: a dirtying of earth with ash.

Doesn’t come easy
I have jars on the shelf
Filled with
Jarring metaphors
Sparring rhymes;
Poems aborted

Dead ends.
Some just clumsy fumblings
Some un-clementine Frankensteins
Some too painful to finish
Some too personal to post

But for me, a life-line.

if I didn't f-up the chocolate chip
and macadamia nut cookies
(although I somewhat did
since I didn't have the right
chocolate with a higher
melting point but instead
chocolate buttons for melting)
then I had to f-up the savory
breakfast muffin recipe...

...and there I was all happy
with the chirping birds
bright and early at 5am
with all the birds in flight
and among the trews that not
even the roosters were awake...
...simple enough recipe:

(measurements halved)
1 pound of tapioca flour
2 teaspoons of salt
1/4 teaspoon of black pepper
1 teaspoon baking powder
2 cups of shredded zucchini
2 cups uncared ham
1/2 cup of scallions
2 cups of shredded cheddar cheese
1/3 cup of grated parmesan     "
2 eggs
3/4 cups of full fat milk
1/4 cup of olive oil...

...so I prepped everything:
the dry ingredients
and the semi-wet separately
the milk and oil were brought
to a simmer...

...in the meantime I made myself
some espresso (cafe bustelo)
in the percolator on the stove
diluted it with some water to get
a longer drink...
rolled myself a cigarette on
the lanai while listening
to my new favorite pop song
(Black Box - stan walker...
...only two days ago me and my
wife saw him do a gig
on this fine fine island
and I'm not a real music snob
so Australian Idol... whatever...
catchy is catchy is...
...me bopping along like
a self-aware psychedelic mushroom
about to impregnate a monkey
with cognitive ingenuity)...

...before I was going to relax
I figured I might as well put
the muffins in... 30min until firm...
...so I did... 20min I come
back to an unusual sight...
the sun does rise but the muffins don't?!

Well of course I was going
to f-up this properly down-under!
all that prep I should've known!
did the recipe ask for a somewhat
dry dough almost cookie-esque:
I remember blueberries and
a dough somewhat liquidy...
that's all prior to relaxing...
I just added more milk and oil
to correct the consistency...
Aha!
Well... a muffin is a muffin
            is a soufflé is not a cookie!

Thankfully as the Heaven's wide
the 5am get up and make muffins
for my wife and (step) daughter
(I'm finding it hard to call her
a stepping stepdough)      me...
made room for me to enjoy an error
a cliche mad scientist bad chemistry
experiment in TEXTURE-ALTERNATIV

4 Frankensteins later
6 correct EGGS INCLUDED muffins
in... replaced the zucchini
with zuccini (leftover asparagus
and one carrot shredded and squeezed for add veggie volume)
to go with everything else...
but as it turns out...
little difference whether an egg
is used or not...
given the fundamental end result
of topiaca flour texture...

then the kid gets dropped off
at school
no longer wanting hot chocolate
just glugs down a cup of weak coffee
all adult aged 14
took a muffin for the drive
(hope she likes it)
         while I pour myself
another cup of coffee and roll
another cigarette
    and get back to my morning
hygiene: persistent in my lecture
of "mein kampf" vol 6
where ****** disappears from
page 600 until 679
in between just some bible-bashing
and I do wonder whether
me giving my attention
to Knausgard is democratic enough
I'll only know when I'll finally
take up reading Proust...
            to balance out having
the horizon, complete -
never one to step into a Stephen King
sort of cult of a loyal reader:
unwavering quality of product:
brick-book: brick-a-book
in that formidable Bastille of Yawn-Kaptur.

oh yes, but would you like to see me smile?

i stand above the bathroom sink,
staring in the mirror
under the flickering light over my head.
the dark circles, familiar—
a pair of scissors, one hand twitching,
strands of hair lying in the wash basin.
i chopped my hair in half,
shredded, shaggy layers framing my face.
a smile of freedom, one of acceptance,
the glistening madness in the eyes unsaid.

i stir what once was my skin,
now mere blood—tying myself to this life with an oath,
my ode to swear, to protect and to stay
true to my kin.
cruelty vibing in chaos-kissed violence.
how many times do i shed this skin
until it's not me who remains in the mirror,
and i finally forget my own name?

babies grow old into something brutal—
monsters that walk this place,
sing lullabies to their own preachers.
i've slipped and fallen and i've been left behind,
but the board i'd been playing upon
it turned upside down.
here, the world relies on my head.
i've got the ceiling under my feet,
the skies in my chest.
every ragged breath speaks a tune—
a horror comedy, ransacked, askew.

anew, this curse—
laughing while running through a field,
landmines under my feet.
drapery of melancholy, slips forsaken, hugs me tight.
the curtain of reality—i tear it half.
hands reaching out as claws,
drawing scars on the delusions.
there's beauty in forgiving,
madness in illusion.

once again, again, and again once more.
sixty-one days crossed out on the calendar
that once held way too many promises.
the ladder of failure and of persistence
carries bodies drowning in trying and abstinence.

there isn't any exit in the end.
the broken headphones,
cacophonies of blown-out candles
and half-smushed chocolate cake—
a brief history, periodical, falling,
hell-bent trying to be treacherous,
reaching out to pull the noise from music,
leaving raw voices, hearing them bruise.
archive this, paint the mess, click a picture,
write a note, believe the misplaced faith.
chase that feeling,
run half a mile toward the grim.

oh, but do you see the lights
when you close your eyes?
shattering silence.
the dance of a rugged doll—
i turned her key thrice, and once more.
better to be safe than sorry
amid the growing legions of undeterred regions.
do you hold her or stay near?

tsk, tsk, tsk—sounds of your begging,
faking every emotion, every gathering.
these masks of clay, carved to stone.
pity, pity, pity.
do you even remember who you were before?

empathy is a sin disguised as understanding.
sympathy for the weaklings.
you're playing monogamy,
devour the strength of the flies and the snickers.
tattoo yourself with flames—
let them draw in the scorching heat,
watch them be triggered.

sinners walk this place,
absent, indigenous—
they'll perish soon either way.

proclaim the promises in disguise
of gods for whom you pray.
metamorph into frankensteins,
surrender fascism—
believers of the wrong truths.
mercy shall be provided to you.

i might be the villain.