One day Frick when to the place to buy some stuff
While Frack stayed in the area to do some things
Frack tossed out some junk
He used the the whatchamacallit to clean the thingamajig
Pick up the odds and ends
And he scrubbed a doodad with the thingamabob


Frick purchesed some knickknacks and bric-a-brac
A few sundries
A couple of tchotkes and trinkets
Some whatnot
A gizmo
A gadget
And more miscellaneous paraphernalia

When Frick got home Frack asked "What'd you buy?"
Frick said " Oh, this and that" "What'd you do all day?"
Frack said "Just a hodgepodge of etcetera, etcetera"
       -Tommy Johnson

When Alison left the bath to run
It ruined the parquet floor,
It spilled on out like a waterspout
And ran right under the door,
She’d gone back into the bedroom, so
The spill continued to run,
Across the landing and down the stair,
‘Now look what our daughter’s done!’

We couldn’t dry out the parquetry
It swelled, and loosened the glue,
Then bits would lift and would come adrift,
I didn’t know what to do.
Then Barbara said, ‘It’s coming up,
We shouldn’t have laid it down,
I’ll go and choose some ceramic tiles
At that tiling place in town.’

I said that I’d lay the tiles myself
But Barbara would insist,
‘We really need a professional
For a job as big as this.’
I shrugged, and let her get on with it
I never could win a trick,
So the tiler that she employed was one
Ahab Nathaniel Frick.

I’d seen this tiler about the town
All hunched, and wizened and old,
His wrinkled skin was like parchment in
Some leathery paperfold.
He wore a hat with a drooping brim
So the sun never touched his face,
A puff of wind would have blown him in
To leave not a hint, or trace.

‘Are you sure that he’s up to this,’ I said,
‘He isn’t the best of men,
He’ll probably get on his knees all right
But never get up again.’
But Barbara shushed me out of there
Was keeping me well at bay,
She wanted to prove what she could do
In laying the tiles her way.

I didn’t get in to see them then
‘Til the tiles were laid, with grout,
Nor see Nathaniel Frick again,
I supposed that he’d gone out.
I stood and stared at the new laid tiles,
Their pattern was in the floor,
And Barbara, waiting proudly said,
‘What are you staring for?’

‘There’s something a-swirl in those tiles,’ I said,
‘Some pattern you didn’t mean,
The way that he’s put them together, well
There’s a sense of something unclean!’
I said the tiles made an evil face
And showed her the curving jaw,
The squinting eyes that could hypnotise
And the cheeks, so sallow and raw.

She said that she couldn’t see it then,
That I must have twisted eyes,
I wasn’t wanting to hurt her so
I tried to sympathise,
But the monster’s face was set in space
And it wouldn’t go away,
I dreamt about that face by night
And I saw it, every day.

At night, the face seemed to snarl at me
When I passed it in the gloom,
And I worried that it was set right there
Outside our daughter’s room,
Then Barbara thought she heard a noise,
An intruder in the house,
And tipped me out of the bed to chase
The night intruder out.

The moans began in the early hours
And the groans came just at dawn,
Then Alison came into our room,
‘There’s a shadow on my wall!
A man with a broad-brimmed, floppy hat
And with squinting eyes that gleamed,’
I said, ‘That’s it,’ when she had a fit
And our darling daughter screamed!

I went on out to the lumber shed
And I brought a mattock in,
While Alison jumped in the double bed
As the tiles set up a din,
A wailing, groaning, squealing sound
That would raise the peaceful dead,
I raised the mattock and smashed the tiles
Just above the monster’s head.

The tiles rose up with a mighty roar
And shattered, scattered around,
As a shadow from underneath the floor
Rose up with a dreadful sound,
It hissed, and made for the stairway, leapt
And it almost made me sick,
For fleeing out of the open door
Was Ahab Nathaniel Frick!

David Lewis Paget

Your name,
has become a curse word that falls from my lips.
The picture of you in my head,
has become blurred and wants to be forgotten.
Your voice,
has become a door that lacks oil.
The way you move your body,
must be because of your deceiving bones.
Your rat like eyes,
have become the worst color of diarrhea.
I know this is not the just the “Call out a back stabbers” poem,
lets name the flaws on and in my own skin,
that just so happened,
to be pointed out by you.
As you covered my face in nine pounds of a “makeover”,
you said you couldn’t see the flaws on my skin anymore.
Flaws?
You went far enough to point the pubescent scars.
of my lips, cheeks, and chin.
The shyness I have of talking to my friends,
was pointed out because you didn’t have someone to talk to that night.
Excuse me,
but I thought the effort of the friendship was supposed to be put forth by both “friends”?
Next,
near the end of the friendship,
you often told me I was a terrible friend.
I cried.
A lot.
Later when that came up,
you told me you were just trying to make a point.
Why as a friend didn’t you just try to talk to me,
instead of trying to start insignificant bull crap?
But here I sit now,
with friends that could always be so much better than you.
I often hear your snickering words behind me a your lunch table,
and I turn around and smile at you and your “friend’.
You usually **** your head in confusion,
but really,
that's me.
The 15 year old giant ginger with a second graders personality,
stinking my pinky finger up at you to flip you off in Chinese,
and to say in a nonexistent voice,
“frick you”.

11-6-14
I saw my name on your contacts list
and wondered how many times your finger hovered over the "call" button.
---
I hope you, or at least someone
thinks at least some things about me are cute
the way my hair sticks up and then flops over when I try to fix it
and, when pinned up,  the way it becomes gradually messier over the course of the day.
When I mouth the words to a song on the school bus,
scrunching my eyes and headbanging,
or when I spin around on my heels, and try to look graceful.
---
Frick, I shouldn't try to write about love, i'm just a thirteen-year-old girl
who grew up on the internet
and doesn't care about the ****** music she's listening to.

It's easy to say things when they don't mean anything,
and that's how I've always gotten by.
But then I said something that ripped off my skin,
and my sea-soaked beauty didn't want to give in.
She ****** me, I ****** her,
we danced all night,
I wrote her a poem,
when I forgot how to write.

So let us now place monetary value on information.
Let us return to the source,
Mining & prospecting that fertile intel seam.
To wit: WWII and G-2 shenanigans.
Wild Bill and OSS-capades,
Artificial disseminations.
Partial recriminations.
And PSYOPS:
A literary nightmare--
THE CYCLOPS from The Odyssey,
For example,
If you lack your own,
Your own personal Bogey Man.
Or men. For me:
Allen Dulles or Richard Helms.

The Intelligence Community:
It was a small tightly knit crew,
Less than battalion strength in 1942;
A few myopic soldiers,
Who, although could barely type,
Were still too cerebral to
Waste as infantry fodder.
It was a huge converted Army-green warehouse,
Space strategically partitioned,
Sectioned off into cubicle-like spaces,
By giant 4-drawer file cabinets
Standing tall like MPs,
Sentinels & Guardians,
Monuments to pre-electronic storage,
Data relatively comprehensive, and an
Archive secretive & intimidating.

Within the Army-green incunabula,
Scattered throughout the intel landscape,
Here and there a few commissioned officers,
A smattering of college psychology majors,
Personalities with predilections,
And penchants for mind games.
These self same WWII vets,
Would morph into Cold War Mad Men.
Stalwart, stouthearted men of Eisenhower,
And J. Walter Thompson,
De-mobbed, as they say in the UK.
Consumptive.
Self-indulgent,
Particularly when it came to the kids;
Children of the peace,
Called Baby-Boomers,
An entire generation enabled & destroyed.
Who would produce little of value
Except medical marijuana and
Coupons, clipped by that sober ruling class—
Fat interest-bearing college-loan portfolios
Held by that neo-Calvinist Elect: The 1%.
Fat cats one and all,
Loaded dice & canasta cronies--
In concert a stacked deck,
“Una mano lava l'altra.”
The words of my namesake--
My grandfather Giuseppe--
His vowels reverberating,
Rattling in my dreams.
Not friends, but
Fiends in high places, like
The Fed and dark liquid pools.
Thank you, Barack, for
Fooling us again.
For giving us
“Belief we can believe in.”

But I digress.
It was when the Government Secrecy Act,
In all its transnational incarnations,
Embraced capitalism in a big way,
Elevating the ideology to whole-Earth saturation,
Systemizing the ethos of Darwin,
Into one global Moby ****,
One solitary leviathan,
A multi-level marketing labyrinth,
Where wealth is the end game--
Greed: pure, unbridled & unrestrained.
Bond--James Bond—
Did his bit, supplying catchy
Slogans & tag-lines:
“For Your Eyes Only.”
“On a need to know basis.”
“Confidential Information.”
“Top & Ultra-Top Secret.”
“Hush, Hush & a Bag of Chips.”

The sealed letter sits in a locked drawer,
In that stout desk,
In the Oval Office
In The White House,
“To be opened by my VP in the event of my death.”
Another staggering work,
Of achy-achy-heart breaking genius,
The culture commoditized,
A disease containing its own cure,
Assayed, graded,
Portioned & packaged.
Priced accordingly,
To a logic that goes something like:
“Anything this tightly controlled,
Anything the government deems to be
This illegitimate and/or & secret
Must be really, really God-awesome,
Must really be Da ******* Bomb.”

Brother Coolidge was right:
“The Business of America is Business.”
And INFORMATION:
“The Most Valuable Commodity on Earth.”
So said Stanford Stuyvesant Whitehead III,
19th Century robber baron, and
Consummate Fat Cat.
Get the picture:
We were smoking cigars and sipping cognac,
Mighty comfortable in leather armchairs,
Muted billiard clicks,
Punctuating the atmosphere
In this spacious lounge,
His East Side
Downtown & private
Manhattan club.
I, his guest, had not the slightest idea
Why I was there.
"By God, man," he went on,
My eyes speared by his laser gaze,
His bushy eyebrows,
His monocle.
His bulbous nose;
His thick wet mustache.
And those EYES:  
Those crazy,
Insane eyes.

"I am talking about a profound change,” he continued.
“Back when the steamship
Gave way to electronic wireless radio."
He puffed smoke,
Removing the cigar from his mouth,
Holding it,
Examining it critically for a moment.
"I'm talking about communication,
Instant communication
With business associates, &
Cronies far away,
Way out there,
Far beyond the places we know well.
Picture it:
You're running a fleet of
Ramshackle Filipino banana boats,
Out of some nameless cove,
Indenting the south coast of Mindanao.
A cyclone comes out of nowhere.
Good God--there’s sixteen banana-packed
Coal burners lying on the bottom of the Celebes Sea.
Think about it:
You've got telegraph radio.
Everyone else has the post office.
Now, I ask you:
‘Who's going long,
Who’s getting rich on the
Caracas Banana Exchange?’
Good Lord, man, it would be
Like being omniscient!"
“This very conversation,” he went on,
“Could well be a verbatim transcription
Of a conversation right here in this very room,
Between people like: J. Pierpont Morgan
And some lesser Gilded Age nabob;
Some Astor, some Rockefeller,
A Gould or Vanderbilt,
Whitney or Duke,
Some Frick or Warburg--
To name just a few, old sport.”
He stopped suddenly.
He looked down at his hands,
As we both realized he had counted these names
Out on his fat curled fingers.
He looked at me and smiled.
I was afraid.
Why had I been invited to this meeting?
I smiled back at him,
Doing my best to mirror his
Carnivorous menace.

I knew it.
He knew it.
He knew I knew it.
Mr. Whitehead’s growling rabid jowls,
His slobbering canine smile held me steady.
“Okay. Touché. ‘Ya got me.”
He shook off the phony smile,
An absence, accentuating
His stare: lethal, carnal & rare.
“I never had much formal schooling.
I’ve been hungry.
Hungry enough to know for sure
That the correct fork,
Don’t mean ***** from shinola.
When I’m dining out, fancy-like,
Me manners is the least of me problems,
Far less important than
The dinner chit they
Hand me after I slake
My thirst & appetite.”
Again, he stopped suddenly,
Recognizing that, perhaps,
He’d revealed too much of his
Bedford-Stuyvesant pedigree.
He turned again and stared at me.
“None of that,” he said.
“None of that means squat to me, Boyo.
What matters now is I’m rich.
I’ve got mine, By God,
And ******* It!
Tough ***** on the rest of you losers;
The rest of you fecking whiners can go
**** yourselves over at Zuccotti Park.”
He pounded the armrest,
The padded armrest of the rich Corinthian leather—
( . . . ***, Ricardo?
Get your Montalbán
Mexicano ***, back in
Random Access Memory Land,
Where you belong.
**** ya’ Fantasy Island
Hospitality, Mr. Roarke,
Go be wrathful Khan Noon Singh,
Somewhere else.
Now is not the time, or,
Let me rephrase that:
This narrative will not allow your meme here . . .)    

Whitehead pounds the armrest again.
“My point is this:  
None of JP Morgan’s decidedly,
un-nattering lesser nabobs of negativity . . .”
BAM!  Again, he pounded the leather . . .

(Back in your ******* hole, Spiro!
Do you realize just how far back,
Just how far back
Maryland’s reputation
Has been set back by your venality?
Not to mention any shot at ethnic assimilation,
The rest of us grease ball non-Wasps
Have in this country?
You ******* Greek!)

I stopped thinking
When I realized Stanford Stuyvesant Whitehead III
Was reading my mind.
“So that’s what it’s really all about,” he said,
Rank smugness in his voice.
“So, I’m just a nouveau riche upstart,
A socially inept parvenu,
Yet they still let me
Join their tony clubs.
It chaps your ***, Boyo, don’t it?
I’m still Scotch-Irish, and
A WASP, Laddie.
Something your skinny
Greaser-Guinea-****-Spaghetti-*** ***,
Ain’t ever gonna be.”
But I digress, again.

So I joined one of Uncle Sam’s
Lesser-known clandestine services,
An assignment appropriate to my ethnic identity,
Namely GLADIO in Italy,
A NATO stay-behind operation &
Cold-War comedy.
I infiltrated the Brigate Rosse.
I drove the Aldo Moro kidnap vehicle.
I cooked minestrone for General Dozier.
I sliced off J. Paul Getty’s ear in Calabria.
Ironically, I lost my hearing during
The Stazione Bologna bombing.
I am consequently pensioned off,
Off both the radar and the payroll.
Years later now,
I live in one of those gated, golf-coursed,
Over-55, sunny southern California
Lunatic asylums.

Most days I am drunk at 9 AM.
I fill Bukowski mornings,
Conjuring up Jane Fonda,
Jazzercised in camo spandex.
She is high atop a Vietcong tank in Hanoi.
Or Daniel Ellsberg
Enjoying a second act in American politics,
Praising Snowden & Assange,
& Bradley Manning,
I summon up the ghosts of
Julius & Ethel,
Benedict Arnold,
Rose of Tokyo & Mata Hari—
And Ezra exiled at Rapallo,
And John Walker Lindh,
A Yankee Doodle Dandy,
Born in Washington,
District of Columbia,
By way of Afghanistan,
Taliban Americano,
Kangaroo-courted,
Presently residing at the
Federal Correctional Institution
At Terre Haute, Indiana.
Spies.
Traitors.
Saboteurs.
And Poets?
No longer capable of keeping secrets.
Desperate now to tell
The truth.

Look here.  I've been admiring the spectacle  
of Ng’s bare ****. Yes,
this is simply because I have to say
Ng’s bare **** is magnificent.
It’s not a bouncing Botticelli but it’s
a slim, firm bottom, subtly rounded,
real split peach and cream stuff.
And Ng at the other end
is a real nice girl, too!
She's my friend, see?

But back to Ng’s bare ****. Let's stay focused.
I contemplate this vision,
along with the meaning of life,
quite often in broad daylight
with a slash of sunlight across her little buns.
This is more profound than the Tait, the Louvre,
the Met, the Frick, the Neue, the Helly, the Hermitage or even
the Natty Portrait Gallery all bunged in together.
Ng's bare **** is also better, by far,
than anything you'll see at the Bolshoi or La Scala.

I’m amazed at how much I’m amazed by
this work of art. It’s awesome.
And I betcha the most famous galleries would
fall over themselves to display this finest little ****, that is,
if the world wasn't so hung up with hypocrisy and hysteria,
yeah, it'd be heaps more famous than the Mona Lisa.

Mike T Minehan

I like the thin blond hair on the back of your neck
in the light
and the way you touch your lips when you're nervous
(yes I know you don't know you do that)

these 16 years (square root of 256 with a root of 4 8x2)
spinning anxiously excitedly
baby jeep happiest thing independence is sweeeeeet

raindrops are euphoric thank you spring
please bring a storm to shake
my bones

my ****** control
growing ravenously
frick this shoot
I can control my mouth too

Having a Coke with You
is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles

and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them

I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the **** Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse

it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it

by,
FRANK O'HARA

I have sticky skin
it's too humid outside and
looking through the bathroom mirror
into myself I think my
veins are sticky too
and maybe the blood in them
is too
I'm not sure
does moving blood make
your heart rate faster

all you people
u r losing it mummies frick the mummies
spinning in circles in Beatles boots
     C     I
S            R
E      L    C
of throbbing pulses
brand new birthmarks on
necks of people
why so empty
vacillating back and forth like miniature
seconds seconds of time
time like
breath marks in a piece of music
BREATHE beFore YoU dIe and it is over
the 'it' has yet to find a definition
this is a rhetorical question
why did you leave?

for lacy clothes under cotton
pants bought somewhere on the beach
in MuMbAi covering
a gentle sloping navel
u ppl
feeling nothing
like a rubber band snapped
on a leg covered in jeans
snapping a rubber band against my wrist
until it is red

feeling things
lips are stained with coffee
and my teeth taste sour
of caffeine
this is the song of the
Lost oNe

my arteries burn less now and
breathing without
laying backwards on the carpet
comes easily
lOsT OnE hasn't changed
but I
have

Say that we are enemies
Arch-eyed sharp means you ridicule.
You don’t get what our spit means to each other.
You mah frick; I you frack.
Yolo contendere, peace out bella pie.

humans are just small planets
i want you orbiting me
we could play frisbee with the stars
i want us on the moon sleeping in it's craters
frick me on the big dipper
we'll make our own constellations

Frick.


Don't feel bad for yourself.
You have it so good.
You have a house
to live in
You have clothes to wear
You have
a family
who loves you.

You have a boyfriend
who wants to spend the rest of his life with you.
Everything is going to be okay.


Bad things ****.
Good things are hard.
Life takes a long time to get right.

Let's see...
Ooh! No...
What about...?
Nah...
Maybe if I....
Nope...
I could probably...
Ew.
Hmmm...
Ah ha!
Frick...
Let's try...
Never again.
For the love of!

Faygo and ******* **** and a little braded naughty nancy who ain't really named nancy Tom Clansy sheets nasty. ***** nasty. Sheets nasty thats frequent from the New York jogger flopping floppy frogger. She stunk like hose water pan handling cleanly. Oh and touch my weeny weeny from the scene where Scheen bees. Hurt my hind haunches like the stank from the seat where old Ponch sits. Cooties grissle cookies wish, I wished yes betch I ****** up I bet-cha you're a ******* **** that facades as a proof fan because my homie used to use my Moving Van, but ****** I don't know your crow's feet until. Well.Well. Well know until this thesis because I wanted to write how more I **** **** with Rechard Simmons on the Weeknd's Porsche hood with permission because we isn't weight bizz-nitch. I'm itching Oren Ishy Iishi can you open up the crusty crumble, Wait I waxed my *******. ******* waste on bleach. I ******* bleached her *** buster with more catching up then mustard sauce. **** your Oddity I'll grab enough ***** from Fun-yun bags that reak fathered pharamones. Oh. I moaned Oh. Oh. Oh. I moaned.

4 and 20

Jump down, turn around, pick a bale of cotton,
scuse me, while I kiss this guy,
old times there, are not forgotten,
4 and 20 blackbirds, baked in a pie,

now of course, the question has to be,
just what is the point, of all these crazy quotes,
the message seems quite clear you see,
unless you've been too busy, tending to the goats

just why is it mandatory, that have to keep jumping down,
would it not be easier, to stay there all along,
and just what did Jimi mean, why would he kiss a clown,
or did I misunderstand, the meaning of his song

I also take exception, to the fact presented here,
that old times or not forgotten, never fade to black,
hey, I cannot even remember your name my dear,
just who were those jokers, Frick and Frack

Is it really possible to fit all those birds,
under the crust, of just one pie,
and of course the thing that bugs me,
is why, oh why, oh why

Gomer LePoet...

you enable me
you toy with me
you puzzle me
you frick with me, you frack with me
you scatter my thoughts
my wits
my heartstrings
but you also make me laugh
and that kind of trumps everything else

If its time to make love I’m ready for some history loving.
But when they said I had a bouncing babe in the rotisserie oven.
I said that you did not have to tell me that I had a belly.
Because in most foreign cultures it was a sign someone is wealthy
They retorted that my babe must be in nicu, I told them frick you.
But it sounded more like the word people use when they want to do.
They got offended and stormed off, but how did they expect me to reply.
Did they expect me to apologize to them as if I am that kind of guy.
Smile, and say hi, I’ll work so my belly goes down from nine months to one.
The worst is when they are a stranger and initiate the conversation.
Then I comment on their lack of hair, and say they are aging gracefully.
One person who I told this turned from condescending to a raging face to me.
He whispered my belly needed deliverance, I replied that what his hair needed was dead.
I thought that based on his comments about me it had to be said.
They left on a huff from the train, I’d just thought I would share some of my pain.
Such people need to be taught manners so they are not rude like that again.

DEATH
TIME OF THOUGHT:LOST
DATE OF THOUGHT:LOST
OGUNLABI OLAJIDE YUSUF-Nativepen

DEATH
Umm...............
The end of mortals sojourn
An Au'gust visitor
A must all living dislike
Is there any armour against it?
A thief that strikes unnoticed
A snatcher
A destroyer
He snatches the forgotten
The free born
The most sought after
Even the loved one's are not left out
He snatches the kings maker
The princes and princess
The queens are not excluded
Not to talk of the kings
He is a cruel messenger
He is no respecter of anyone
What a ruthless messenger
The offer of gold, brass and bronze
He rejects
The best attire in style never frick him
What a cruel you are
A ticket to the judgement hall
The leverage amongst all
He is not a friend of all classes;
Pauper,slave and the wealthy
Oh death
The breaker of the umbreakable bond.

I hate this so much
When I haven't been numbed
By society's icy disposition
And nothing has told me I am horrid
Or that I am nothing
I'm feeling again
And the feeling isn't dread

The forest of fears
Has captured my heart
It has told me
I can do anything I want
Just as long as I give up my mind
With only a blink,
I say no
But I wonder if the Forest knew I was feeling again
So just in case, I wasn't feeling it
I should start feeling pain.
But I hate feeling, I hate that I am vulnerable again
Even though I have always wanted someone
To save me
But I am unsavable
Because I am my own soldier
Who is so ******* tired of feeling

The (win)  d-y
city
Pop_ crackle
crunches
Crunchy Eye
On you punches
Like Philly
Steaks the first
The Prince
comes second
second best friend
Visa to the rescue

Chicago Bears
Goldilocks my pizza
Whole lotta love
So windy who
could hear!!
Led Zeppelin
Kashmir*

Chicago bands
Second-hand
Goodies

Windy- Indie
Hoodie
zipped
Me- in
Superbowl Beans
Dips
Second
largest city

Her lips but first
The second he spoke
I felt cursed

So frick-in cold
Do you even know
what time is it?
What crime was hit
Can Can Watch it

((Rolex))

Dresses flew up
dancers
Getting a
second wind

The death of a cold
Uninvited
What a pity
Windy__ city
Once
everything
was so
pretty_-*

Chicago
25/6/4
I'm 25 the 6th day
What a pair
What four?
Now it's
24/7
24 hours whiskey sours
North Star witchery
Chicago second
wings gallery

Oh! 4th of July
All flags what
a bona

Saturday in the park
The dark train Sienna
  settled in I met my
Second wife
Windy- chances
what do you
see with
your life?
I was gone with the wind
The lefty player
Second to none
mission to the right

The Buffy slayer
I need a break
everyday

His Wildfire*
Imagine all the people
John Lennon could change
a temple
To be someones
Second
hand
fiddle

I give you a
second,
Just make you
**** record

I saw a thrush in the gallery
I don’t think it belonged there
It was haphazard and wrong
Although framed
And people addressed it in third person
While all it could do was
not flap

Well I thought it was beautiful

And reminded wistfully of sewn together promises
bandaged with more thread than cloth
It’s inevitable they will decay
It’s nature’s way

The way the thrush was nailed to that
piece of marble in the ostentatious
collection of other half-wit
dead things soaked
in the nighty marble
Frozen in time, limp
Placid like an
amber crystal like an
18th century lollipop
Like a dead grandpa
in an open-casket funeral
home in middle America

I saw a deer spine in the woods with
an intact head
She smiled at me
From the neck down
She was was picked clean; I was
reminded by mother:
Don’t worry, as I went to sleep
It’s nature’s way
The light was off but I stayed awake

I counted the stars and tried
to match them up with
all of the dead pets and people
in my life and they
matched
It was just about right

People leer at the dead thrush
Expecting it to do something
All it is is just is

People leer at the heart and
expect it to do something
All it is is just
Holding my bones together
Holding the wall together
Like a loop in the knit
Frick archives
Like a syllable
In the Tanakh
Like a stone
In a stream
Like a star
In the sky
It’s nature’s way.

The next time we meet again will probably awkward as frick
Like if Jupiter and Uranus collided
In which they'd probably pass by each other because they're gas giants
(Or fuse into one big gas giant planet, but I'm too tired to explain)
And being in one room we'd might as well
Be two unmoving pieces of stone each waiting
For the other to make a move
After all the years without touch
(Cause a pandemic had to happen)
I guess we'd be stiff like that.

I mean, can't you see the stiffness in the way my hands
Wave at you wishing yours could just come through
The pesky screens holding us back
Just wishing they could make a crack at all the ice
My hands have been gathering throughout these years?

Cause it seems holding you will take ages
And I'm now left to read hundreds of pages of young adult couples
Huddling beside bonfires
Making it look so easy to move closer and closer
While realistically, we're stuck here miles and miles apart
Only huddling beside this hurt we call distance

By the gods, I pray to be a gas giant so I can permeate
Through all these physical walls
And give you the one long hug I've been saving since fall
Cause I badly need the body warmth right now.
Do I sound too hypothermic? I hope not.


...


But anyway, still and awkward hugs will do
I've noticed it's a bit cold here --
Is it cold there too?

I know you might've grown accustomed to it, you might even like it, but for just one night
Let me imagine what it's like
To warm you.

Tacitus admits croaker crowns taut history over unwritable forest.  
Near motel poetry chants land grabs, Selene overtops exuberant clay.  
Impudence arced Kentucky atheist,
                    alethia Schoenberg’s iron, Frick’s Pittsburgh.
Asbestos holiday rails at prairies’ lyrical pants.  
                                Judiciously insurrection arrives too late.  
Appled, quartered, windsor-knotted, waffen broken,
dasein eagle torn away, blood stews arpeggio, a fort children reach.  
Sea louse trawling deflects fluorspar.  
                                    Wipe out treasured.  
             Wipe away squiggles.  
Tamed Londinium troops to azaleas’ little meadow matinee.

I need to get ready for the day
Wow the snowflakes are big
Dang it it’s gonna be cold
Dang it I have to wear a dress to church and it’s cold
Ah frick.

As snow falls
I am filled with calm
Until I am reminded
Remembering
That people put Christmas decorations
Up before Halloween.
The calm is banished
Because
Who the frick does that??

/lust/ \frick\: a 502 bypass...
title... body...

there's this quote from American Beauty (probably one of my favourite movies from the modern era, by far, the comedy is bleak, almost hidden, but it's not as dry, as British as The Office, it's rarely american funny, it's not nervous, awkward like some British comedy, very much to liking) - but i'll probably butcher it, so i won't quote it, i'll just quote myself as reinterpreting it... the day you stop surprising yourself, is the day you die... i'm surprising myself: right now... sure, when i sometimes write something & subsequently retort: well... i wasn't expecting that: is one thing... but in terms of my behaviour... wow... i almost feel exasperated at the surprise i have become... at the leavers' assembly in high school i was one of only two available "poets" to give a recitation... i remember walking up to the stage, standing upon it... my right hands was shaking worse than anyone with Parkinson's... one of my friends even asked... are you o.k.? yeah... let's do it... i started speaking a poem i wrote a day prior upon which i shed some tears... job done... the "poet" that came after me... recited his load of *******: ******* ****... not based on the quality of his poo'em: we have a very, ahem... "specific" detail in life, circa 2007 i'd really like to forget, beside him driving high on marijuana & almost killing us... no, there's another... ill drugs he prescribed me on a promise... 'it'll be like taking LSD, but shorter...' well when he recited him ******* verse he broke down into tears... stunning, stunning & brave... ******... point being: this current job doesn't exactly require high IQ: should i even mention this prerequisite... then again: managing people takes some IQ... let's forget it... i don't mind how much it pays... i'm glad to be out of the house... today's Monday... Monday... i sweep through the house like a whirlwind... vacuuming, cleaning the floors... that's prior to a 2h commute... i earn enough to not spend more than i earn... how's that? point being... i'm surprising myself: i, surprise myself... there's nothing better in life... there's nothing more alive than being able to surprise yourself... the moment you stop surprising yourself is the day you die... perhaps not literally, ******... but your mind sort of shuts off... you're no longer partially wild, partially untamed... probably married... i like this new: new surprising me...

well... **** me... wasn't that a treat...
back at Craven Cottage for what would have been
a Premier Liege fixture between Fulham FC
and Sheffield United...
my first time i spent outside the stadium,
walking around the park making sure no one
was doing something suspicious...
i hated it... i felt disappointed...
i was allocated a supervisor: my neighbour's daughter
and... oh god... small-talk at work...
i tried to get into the conversation: which happened
to be ongoing since everyone knew each other
for a long time...
banter... banter...
put me next to a hundred strangers
and i'll smile and play the "friend" part much better
than: what felt like being back in a school-playground...
plus... there's nothing to do!
all i did was walk up & down the park
greeting people, giving them directions...
then once the crowd moved into the stadium:
nothing! what a ******* waste of time...
and then what, after the match ended wishing
the crowd a speedy return home & a good night...
i just caught the last 103 bus to Chase Cross...
when the bus driver opened the doors at
my bus stop: i bid her a goodnight & a thank you:
i can do that!

second time at Craven Cottage i jumped at the opportunity
to go into the stadium...
good man, Tony... allocated me a pitch-side
presence... yes! i'm in!
rules... people with a red sq. on their accreditation
can only be allowed on the pitch...
some might come with a red & purple sq.: that's the press...
stand facing the stands
(Hammersmith Stand to my left,
Johnny Heynes stand to my right)
then when the game starts... ******* to the side
so my body might not obstruct the view from H1...
then if a goal is scored... return to pitch-side
ensuring no one tries to get onto the pitch...

my third time today...
now we're talking, apparently this is going to be
a permanent fixture...
i'll be on the Hammersmith Stand every match...
most likely at the entrance, high up...
like today... i don't even remember how many
times i said: good evening to people...
each time i received a smile, a wave,
a direct look in the eyes...
sometimes a small conversation with an old man:
usually an old man...
prior to people coming in...
alright... rows 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6? right down the bottom
of the stand... then the entire alphabet...
then... from row A... through to row AA
and up to... VV? WW?
between H2 & H3... seats to my left
(when looking at the pitch) end with seat no. 65...
seats to my right (when looking at the pitch)
start from 71?! yeah... weird... i think
the gap for the stairs is being minded...

i loved it... i was so courteous, polite... extrovert...
when was i ever such an extrovert?!
the last step is apparently too high...
so old men buckle... caught one before he might
have fallen flat on his face...
a little girl started running down the aisle
to pitch-side to get a picture with the mascot
& Santa Claus... as she passed me...
god... like i will never forget the eyes of
my grandfather's Alsatian: Bella...
i will probably never forget those: soapy eyes
of this little girl... she didn't have to say anything...
they endeared me beyond all else...
they weren't soapy / watery sad...
just glad... happy... she had a bearded man
look down at her...
then a father & a son found themselves
in the wrong seats... the boy was walking with a flag
all dragging... i implored him:
hello little fella... can you please roll that flag up...
he was bound to step on the unrolled flag
when walking down the stairs...
but i implored him: his father only implored him
to hurry up...

make sure no one brings beer to the stands...
it's legal to watch a rugby match with a beer...
not a football match...
escorted a passionate drunk to his seat...
second time he became "lost" i asked him whether
he needed my escort... jokingly he replied:
will that be necessary... and then... oh... a man's
handshake... no fist pump...

more importantly...
we were asked to walk down the aisle every 10 minutes
of the match... to check up on anyone who might be in
need of a medical emergency...
i did about 3 tours of the first half...
on time, 10min, 20min, 40min into the match...
my partner at work took two toilet breaks...
so i filled in for him...
ha ha... a fellow STEM guy... currently studying for
a masters in engineering...
civil engineering?
stasis engineering... dynamic engineering...
only doing the steward job part time:
i'm thinking of moving up the hierarchy...
but... work a little... get ref. and perhaps go into
teaching chemistry in a high-school...
oh... dynamics? you know, this is where engineering
and chemistry come together:
we studied thermodynamics...
so we talked about this & that...

but i did my part... properly... then some kid walks up
to me... some, "fellow" steward and asks me...
can i exchange roles with him...
i get it... his role? sitting pitch-side facing
the crowd looking at a gate...
guess what? my legs are killing me...
standing still is worse than marching:
i've done easier 40mile sessions on a bicycle than
this: standing on purpose...
did you ask the supervisor whether we can exchange?
sure... o.k. just make sure you do those
10minute routines of walking down the aisle
checking on possible heart-attacks...

i go down... sit down... look up...
where is that gorgeous woman of my dreams...
5 minutes in...
oh! well would you look at that!
there's two!
pristine blondes...
i still have my face-napkin on...
i look up... the guys are not doing their job...
****** feeling imbues me...
i shouldn't be merely a steward...
i should be a supervisor...
then again... ****'s sake: the supervisor is doing
**** all... he should be motivating these guys to
do their job... instead... he would later complain
that the stewards were not doing their job...
mate! & you were?!
i think i've acquired this learned attraction(?)
to organise people from my grandfather...
who had a brigade of workers under him
in a metallurgy factory...

it's very funny how you can get a good look
at people at a football match...
you can literally stalk them...
look at them constantly... blink, wink, pretend
to pull faces at them... will they see you?
hardly... too engrossed by the match...
ha ha...
       but i spotted these two English blonde beauties...
the high-viz. & face-mask also doesn't help...
you're sort of invisible to the people...
because you're part of the architecture...
it's a... well... the feeling i got was...
better than... that awkward sensation you get
on a London tube... where people purposively avoid
looking at people...
this is un-purposively... i have a job to do:
obviously people will not look at me,
they're here for the match...
but... exactly... but sometimes... "**** happens"...

playing with 3 rubbers bands...
tapping to the beat of a song prior to kick-off with your
feet, shuffling with your feet funny...
pretending to pluck at guitar strings with the already
said rubber bands to get at the rhythm...
taking off your face-***** to drink a proper glug
of water...

oh wow... those two blondes thought i was invisible,
just prior...
once they managed to see my face... i clocked it...
for about 10 minutes they lost interest in the match...
eyes... ******* elsewhere...
i spent the next 20 minutes... lip reading...
FIT?
  IVE MET SOMEONE...
     shy little creatures: it would seem, is what they became...
giggles...
at Fulham they distribute these paper slappers...
pieces of cardboard you slap instead
of clapping...
em... is that unconscious a phallus you're holding?
daring eyes... really daring eyes...
but it only lasted for about 20 minutes...
20 minutes later... a yawn from either of them...
& some return to an interest in the match...
it's good i was wearing a face-*****...
i tried to ensure my eyes were smiling...
since i really was smiling...

yeah... at the end of the shift... the supervisor...
mate?! where were you! i could have told you...
motivate these *******! perhaps then they would have...
you didn't do the aisle check every 10 minutes...
i did... but this is not high-school...
& believe me... this is important...
school is not a workplace...
for that: i thank him... Luke?

one man did what was asked of him... namely: moi...
right... not good enough...
the entire team ****** up on some detail...
in school... i'd be a teacher's pet...
i'd be readily gloating...
it's different in the workplace: the whole team ******
up (the supervisor included, but he didn't own
up to it, i could have done better as a supervisor) -

it's the ******* edge of the universe,
it's a small role: i get be an egoist right up to & including
now...
but i wasn't complimented / congratulated on
my starry ******* execution...
work, unlike schooling: doesn't breed a healthy
competition... it's a "bit" different...
when... you're working in the medium of earning money...
some people just show up: expecting to get paid...
for... doing **** all...
some people turn up: & authentically want
to put in an effort...
problem being: in school... you don't really experience
resentment when someone out-performs you
at a subject to get a better grade...
envy, jealousy, sure... that's rife...
but resentment? hardly... you're not earning any
money! you're just getting grades!
smart on the supervisor's side for not singling me
out as some "employee of the ******* day"...
"model citizen" & etc.,
because... that **** has already been noted...
dissonance in the ranks is not desirable...
sure... plenty of brown-skinned slackers...
the YAWN-CROWD... there for the paycheck of:
"being seen"... i'd expect more ******* involvement
in crowd coordination from a *******
mollusk... it's London... fair enough...
the London crowds are more tame...
i didn't: not once... have to implore the passions
of the supporters to: please stop standing up...
sit down... a completely different story outside
of London, untameably unavoidable grown-men
a.k.a. little *******...

but i like my role... ha ha... i also have one on the side:
obviously it pays me nothing!
but... how many people are out "there":
who enjoy doing something for free...
for free: no, not volunteering... for free as in:
caressing their ego? these vanity project
cases?! i'm a lucky... 1%?

it only takes a child to approach me...
aha... that's why i'm here...
i'm a... fårehyrde af mennesker...
of all the Scandinavian languages... Danish is almost
"too much" akin to the deutschezunge...
then again... why is Denmark even considered Scandinavian?
isn't there like a sea between Denmark &
Shveeden?

well then... the **** do i need that
conjunction: of                    for?
can't i just... compound two words together like a German
might, ergo...

ha ha!
fårehyrde af mennesker becomes...
menneskerfårehyrde...

in zeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
deutschezunge, ja?
menschenschäfer...

funny... that... i wrote something prior to undertaking
this 3rd shift...
SZUFLA: shovel... slang for a handshake
GRABURA: "slang" for handshake...
SERWUS... a Germanic sort of hello incorporated by
the Wends of Posen...

hmm...should i write these, phonetically: "English"?
i guess  i should:
SZUFLA become SH'OO'FL'AH
GRABURA becomes GRA'BOO'RAH...
i can understand fame.... outright fame...
Jordan Peterson fame...
a Jimmy Carr sort of fame...
but when it comes to cult-like fme?
******* bewildering...
i changed tubes from the District Line
at Putney Bridge at Victoria...
to arrive at at Oxford Circus...
i enter the carriage... delay....
i board the tram... two women look at me startled...
scared almost...

i shouldn't be able to translate as a 3D object?
"stop looking": the lip-reading ends up being...
yeah, my legs are killing me...
i'd sooner be dead than famous...
all the quasi-cannibalism that's reinforced
with fame... no, no thank you...
leave this part of the world to me: & to me alone...

what's with this startling, though?!
supposedly proper Muslim *****: that Pakistani
fabled "reconquista": conquer it first,
prior the ******* labour of a ******* lecture,

if there's a Mecca... then there's a Jerusalem...
if there's a Rome when there's
a Constantinople...
but i have a fifth....
   MALBORK... Marienburg Castle...
the old capial of the Teutonic Order...
hind! heave! leverage the: reste!

schwarzkreuz-auf-weiß.

YOU'RE BAD
CATCH THE BALL
MY TEAM'S SO BAD
WHAT THE FUUU-

**** YOURSELF
I HATE THIS GAME
YOU'RE SUCH A ***
OH MY GOD

woah
dude calm down
this is middle school
gym class
not the nfl
you're not even
that good either
telling your friend
to '**** yourself
******' isn't
funny

what the frick richard

while men are looking for adrenaline "injections"...
women? women?! you can't be serious,
they're looking for anxiety?
if men are looking for adrenaline,
while women are looking for anxiety... no wonder...
that's me, speeding on a bicycle, dodging traffic...
while she's out there looking for
a pseudo-******, some gagging-demigod
blah blah...             that's why i prefer the transparency
of prostitution... i pay them...
why would i want to get "****" for free on
dating apps? i can still open doors for women,
be kind to them, but... ahem... "hook up"?
i'd rather be hang-over, drawn & quartered...
i'd say: if you want the cosmopolitan take on ***...
why date? why not: bypass everything
that's absolutely *******-wanking
time... time... genuine prostitution...
   she's a... nymphomaniac...
     you have to meet a nymphomaniac outside the realm
of the ******* canvas...
and sure... Lady Gaga can sing about her
"poker face"... what, a woman's poker face suddenly
appears when she's... 70?
women have a "poker face" for ****...
only yesterday women, girls... as young as 14 were looking
at me with some interest...
*******! i don't have money!
i vowed to write for fricko! i'm a steward
at a football match... i'm a foot-soldier in the hierarchy
of how this event is being organised...
walking up the gangway... two couple...
darting eyes of a woman, afraid eyes of a man...
i did the rounds about 4 times... every 10 minutes...
i mingled with the Yorkshire beefcakes,
knuckled to knuckle with them... kept the stairs available...
my supposed supervisor, where was she?!
nice nails though, acrylic? definitely red...
definitely too long to hold a rolling pin or a whisk...
by now i'm thinking:
cut the arms off, cut the legs off... blind them...
keep the torso for *******...
oh... right... that's from a horror movie...
bone tomahawk? yeah, that movie...
            at least if you pay them upfront...
there's no need to deal with a hook-up culture...
ha ha... ha... ahem... "culture"...
if you pay a woman upfront...
               who's lying to who? who's lying to begin with?!
but at least she's being paid...
if i can do roofing, tarring ******* brick on frick
on cement blocks... i can do... the steward's load
of ******* of crowd control at sport events...
i forget about football...
i lost the plot regarding whether i ought to be
entertained... arbeit macht frei, *******!
i'd rather do the most menial task than...
do what some of these people do and subsequently
have to watch a football match...
at least now i can pry on women...
watch them... i like watching...
i'm obviously also watching out for a potential
heart-attack / stroke incident...
but i like this game... women have poker faces
worth of ****... they can't hide certain things...
i look at children, smile, but in me a stern-appropriation
of: yeah... i wish i could be your father, too...
i know he's drunk and chanting *******...
while i'm here... moderating the fact that...
it's only a game... it's not a war...
how these poor children don't want to be
indoctrinated into the football mantras...
  they want to escape being somehow: entertained...
a good practice, i found... when dealing with
crowd control...
look at some text... then translate it into Braille...
or Morse...
for example:
                       i see
                       ⠊ ⠎⠑⠑

it sort of helps when beginning to even out
the physiognomy of people...
they might look like football hooligans,
then again, living in the south east of England,
in Essex... i think the Northern folk are
rather... endearing... childish even...
oh forget about the Western woke Bristol-esque *****!
even i think the western Londoners are
*****... the Leeds supporters even chanted:
who hates Chelsea?! who!? who?!
something to that standard...

no... women have the supposed lady gaga
"poker-face" worth ****... sure... when they're 70...
and "perspectives" run: rife!
you can sense tension, esp. if it's ******...
****** tension is more apparent than...
the tension associated to violence between men...
men measure themselves up in accordance
to potentiality... ****** tension is a *******
circus of clowns by comparison...
i might be 6ft2 and weigh 220pounds in winter
but... that doesn't mean i'll get easily laid
in... hook-up? culture?!

point being... i can get an immediate hard-on
when i'm with a *******...
i tried to do the act... casually... once... or twice...
******* limp... LIMP!

oh no no... ******* with the Christian motto of:
MEA CULPA... you ******* with that right off!
i know my faults... but i'm not going to give into
you pushing me into a solipsistic bubble!
you too! et tu! didn't Caesar exclaim those
words  concerning Brutus?! et tu?!

       on the brighter side of, "things"...
can you imagine world war I trenches with transgender
soldiers?!
i'm thinking about it... if some men can look prettier
than some women...
there truly is some "vague" brotherhood that
outlasts the need to procreate...
i'd give the more wholesome women the benefit
of the doubt if... from past ages... they arrived at their
postures by having to knead dough...
but... since... that's automated...
******* these women is about as appealing
at punching myself in the face...
****! punching myself in the face is more appealing!
as i sometimes do.

****... all the pretty ones succumb to prostitution...
of sorts...
i think the mentality is: beauty is to be shared...
i have no other counter argument...
beauty is to be shared... esp. female beauty...
because a woman is the world: a woman is the womb...
i stopped caring when i started paying
for *** and not paying for dates...
it's called a transparency of transaction...
i won't waste your time: if you don't waste my time...

vectors and ratios, simple, no?