We'd bound around
For golf downtown
Frisbees always in hand

"The students are coming!!”
Was a seasonal refrain
As we’d goofily gallivant

Mother’s Day shows
We‘re free, mother-suckers
For your kids, a show we grant

A CLOWN SHOW!
A DOWNTOWN SHOW!
THERE IS NOTHING WE CAN’T!

Rock their world with juggling
See the Doctor for what ails
Rudi and O in laundromat land

Jeanie, Splash, Allison, Donna,
Silly girls astonishing with
Leaps, jokes and handstands

Chewey, Steamboat and Grog
"Yeah-yeah! Yeah-yeah!”
Silly boys grandstanding

All hail Papa Gale! We
Funned with Cpt. Plunge
Leader of the band!

Sweet Georgia!
**** croquet!
It was grand!



(**** croquet was the official lawn game of the Sweet Georgia Brown Clowns during the summer 198x Trinity Country tour [wherein we masqueraded as a Norwegian Salmon Kissing team at a Moose Lodge Talent Show in Lewiston, CA* {true!}]: “Don’t forget your hat!”)

*(we won)

This sleepy little galaxy,
lost in the milieu of a billion others,
is filled with song and the finite
thrum of human hearts.

This glow-in-the-dark Milky Way,
whose pinwheel arms
are spun with satin stars,
emits Mozart from its crevices.

This nondescript spiral,
axled upon a super-massive black-hole,
frisbees across the universe,
curving it with the maths of Einstein.

Space travelers are we all,
learning the gravitation-crawl.

" It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews,
            Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and  
                Illuminations from one End of this Continent
                      to the other from this Time forward forever more.”
      John Adams – July 3, 1776.

Webster Groves - 2016

The Townhall fountain dances
cheerily in the morning sun.
The red-white-blue shirted crowd
rises as one for the colors.
Laughing children scramble for
tootsie rolls and sweet tarts
tossed by a strolling  clown.

         Philadelphia, July 3, 1776

        Carriages sped toward Philadelphia
        where resolute patriots
        would turn the pages of history
        and tell an unsuspecting world
        that a new nation had given birth to itself.

Sousa strains peal from the marching Statesmen,
Girl Scouts guide their well-groomed mounts -
hooves echoing through concrete caverns.
Vintage firetrucks and autos
sound their horns and sirens
as candidates work the crowd, pressing the flesh.

        Each crass insult from the British crown
        had tightened the noose on the colonial neck.
        The middle ground was soaked with patriot blood
        and revolution was the only course left.

Barbecue clouds drift over Pat and Lee’s farm
Horseshoes spin and clang and frisbees fly.
A ***-luck feast with beans and franks
interrupts the pop and glare of bottle rockets.

        One by one, each patriot quilled the parchment
        resolved to endure the costs of liberty -
        knowing to the marrow that defeat
        would spell certain ******* and death.

We reach the lakeshore at dusk -
unfolding chairs - spreading out blankets -
strains of Americana drift over the lake.
then a pyro-technic extravaganza
blazes across the summer sky.  

        Washingon’s tattered and bloodied men
        cornered Cornwallis at Yorktown.
        Then surrender - all British claims
        to American soil banished to the tomes of history.

The grand finale pummels the darkened sky
raising cheers and whistles from the crowd
Toddlers collapse in parental arms,
car doors slam, engines ignite
and head-lighted caravans, turn for home,
spiraling off in every compass degree.

“Happy birthday,” America and endless happy returns
"from this time forward forever more!”  

Robert Charles Howard

The bread blushes into a golden brown,
lettuce whispering to itself in the bowl
and Frisbees of cucumber at the bottom.
Later, men will grumble satisfactory masculinities
(bertha bertha you’ve done it again)
while dishes in women’s hands
laugh their way to the sink and
the yellow light inside keeps out the pitch black
universe beyond the light splashed windows.

Summer is

bikes and rollerblades
and go-carts and skateboards,
kites and frisbees
and ***** and gloves,

rainbows and suncatchers
and white fluffy clouds,
blue skies and green fields
and sunshine and flowers,

bare feet and sandy toes
and waves on the shore,
tan lines and sunburns
and goofy tourists,

yellow and orange
and summer rain,
butterflies and gardens
and fresh vegetables,

smiles and funny faces
and silly conversations,
smirks and giggles
and big belly laughs,

playing outside until the streetlights come on
and picking flowers for the dinner table,
building sandcastles just to knock them down
and shelling so many peas your finger go numb,
staring at a sky so blue it hurts your eyes
and running barefoot through the cool grass
and laughing so hard you can't even breathe.

Summer is.

Mrs Dryden
sat behind you
on the beach
combing your hair

you watching
the racing tide
the sounds
on the shingle

the other people
sitting or walking
or playing ball
or flicking Frisbees

each to each
her fingers
parting strands
patting down

waves of hair
she maybe reflecting
on the night before
in the cheap hotel

the creaking bed
the second rate
furniture
the Full English breakfast

she having
a young guy
between her thighs
she spoke

of her husband’s failings
his betrayals
his preference
for younger women

you taking in
the scarcely cladded girls
sitting or walking the beach
out of your safety zone

out of reach  
and Mrs Dryden’s fingers
moving down your jowls
her lips kissing

your neck
at the back
her breath
whispering words

you thinking
of Miss Fox
the year before
how you nearly went

all the way
(as they used to say)
until her parents
came back home

too soon
spoilt the fun
of one on one
look at that ship

passing over there
Mrs Dryden said
pointing out to sea
her other hand

holding yours
her words carried
on the air
and you imagining

Miss Fox
maybe sitting there.

beach’s brightness and heat
soothe weary skin and bones
so good to feel warmth upon shoulders
and sand between toes
reminiscing in familiar scents
of cool salty breezes
and warm sun tan lotions
shaded eyes swimming in clean ocean’s blueness
witnessing waves’ wonder
as a wet world walks onto a dry one
so many people seeking refuge
in rest and recreation
so many voices volleying beach *****
and tossing frisbees
so many feet leaving 1,000,000 footprints
rendered shapeless in loose grains
casting shadows in cups of sand
as day wanes and crowds disperse
curiosity ponders this micro desert of mini dunes
who has walked here through the eons?
who walks here still?
the setting sun shimmers on the sea
sparkling upon 1,000,000 crests
surface tension of the ocean’s tableau
rippled by wind and gravity
driven by earth’s rotation
forming floating cups of golden iridescence
resembling footprints in the sand
moved by their beauty, curiosity ponders
did someone walk upon these waters?
does someone walk there still?

3900 light years from earth
a mere 1.2 billion miles across,
makes me wonder who your master is
and what magic it takes to fill
your feeding bowl

I wish I could ****
the kiloparsecs keeping us apart
and see you, unleashed, maybe chasing
Frisbees left by the barking big bang

I hope you don't bite

Does it exist?

I look down
The direction of sight, below the concrete rail
There’s grass and blankets, Frisbees and pups
And a vision of love gone right.

The hands intertwined are wrinkle lined
Worn out with age and aching
Rough from life’s work
Yet soft in the finger’s embrace.

Those hands have perhaps held a plow
A newborn aloft
A needle and thread in fine intricate work
A rifle in a foreign trench.

A pen pushing letters to form words
A gavel to hand down sentence
A mixing spoon and bowl
A handle of a coffin.

Maybe they’ve held an unopened letter
A glass raised in a toast
A wedding dress
A framed photo of someone lost.

Chalk in a classroom seminar
Hard packed snow ammunition
A nervous hand in a dark movie theater
Clean sheets of motel rooms.

They look up
Their direction of sight, above the girders
There are clouds and birds and me
Studying their hands holding on in lasting love.

They walk away
Hands still knotted
And it is my proof
Of a love like that.

Dumping skip-loads of furniture through the missing wall of my three-story house. Tossing a broken pool table with its hammered slate-top. Me and Max smashed it to pieces. We shook the whole house as if it were jelly, flavoured lime green and mixed in with insipid gobstoppers that block drains. One mahogany-stained side, with rusty poorly placed nails jutting out of it, flies through the air towards the arresting vistas in a makeshift panoramic frame. It frisbees, then falls. Falling like the leaves outside Carol and Dave’s place did, in the umami-infused oxygen. I have never tasted cleaner. They are graceful autumn helicopters that scythe the strings holding the world together. Until the world can repair, we are somewhere else.

The ******, mouldy wood flew like that. But, it cut the strings differently or severed different strings all together. Rain is curling the once neutral carpet, and I sit where I can see the mustard yellow skip receive another treasure.

Bared every piece of my soul
I knew how
Still these trees remain barer
Thrown a hundred frisbees in spring
Turned a thousand saucers in fall
Still pie in the sky wins
Watched a lot of people
Seen a ton of smiles
Still trust is obsolete
Walked a million streets or more
Tamed even more shoes
Still I’ve gotten nowhere
Read all the books they told me to
Seen all the classic flicks
Still most amazed by fire’s flicker
Every city seems the same
Every person less a wonder
Still they say life is wonderful
And the wedding gowns blend into the snow
I somehow like them better that way
Still one or the other seems off-white
Plucked the petals off a garden
Wished on endless shooting stars
Still no miracle of love

You like to pretend she's me, don't you Miss December?
When you watch the dice fall from her hands like they’re broken
Or when you accidently call my name down the abandoned streets,
But realize I have fallen off the map?

Miss December, do you remember watching me cry over girls in green and white?
Do you remember me tossing my textbooks down the hallway like Frisbees,
Only to have you chase me to the nearest empty corner?
My eyes would shutter like paper, and I would ask you to turn the page.

Do you notice the scars left on your ankle after a humid day?
Miss December, do you remember the days I spend mending your wounds?
Only to realize you were too broken and shattered for one woman to heal.
As if lightning through your temporal lobe would be the only escape to sanity.

I held your hand through dying dogs and relapse.
I told you, you could do anything.
Did I push you too hard and shatter the last glass?
Is that why you turned the purple car away that day?

Relics (House of Stolen Light)
by Ryan P. Kinney

When I pull up in my battle-scarred truck
That old song is playing on the radio
Whose lyrics I have misheard and, hell…
“Who did that **** song, anyways?”
Nonetheless, of what I do hear through the cracks and pops,
It definitely suits this house

It’s an old run down bi-level, with a winding porch
And more windows than walls
But the windows are heavily tinted and shades are all half drawn
The windows do not let the light into the home,
But rather steal it, consume it into the darkness, never to be seen again

How many neighborhood rumors revolved around this home?
For how long has it been whispered that THIS is THAT haunted house?
Or this is where that one creepy guy did that one horrific thing?
Or even that series of horrific things?

Did the boogie man originate here?
Inside the darkness of that house, stealing the sunshine from precocious little boys and girls
Finally freed from the confines of scholastic imprisonment
Until eventually their days of play started getting shorter
And they return to their nine months of confinement
With no one to blame but the invisible tenant of that ever decaying, but seemingly indestructible and insurmountable home

I imagine a stone in my hand
To be thrown into this house of glass
I picture it not breaking the glass so much as piercing a pool of darkness, that ripples across the entire house, melting each window and finally freeing everyone’s abducted childhoods
I see the sunlight exploding from the foundation
The cracked, brown leaves in every dead, broken tree suddenly springing to life and filling with green
Years of devoured Frisbees, kites, and baseballs launching into the air from every crevice

And then, I think, maybe appearances can be deceiving
Maybe, this house is not so much the spooky old ruin
But rather a cracked and worn old photo album
Housing years of relics of lives spent well and with love
Love that our generation could not possibly fathom
Devoid of the electronic means of expressing and spreading it

How many boys turned men turned soldiers here?
How many mothers turned grandmothers, turned cherished memories?
How many years were cried over scrapped knees and first loves?
Or spent on lover’s lanes, backyard barbeques, and drunken sibling brawls?
Is that old tire finally getting its deserved rest from someone’s swing, or off the wheels of a well-loved ancestor to my vehicle?
Who’s lives and legends were parked in this dusty driveway?
Who’s footprints am I standing in right now?

Maybe those dark windows never really robbed the light
But, rather were meant to hold it in for the love growing inside
So that anyone within would always feel its warmth and brightness
And anytime someone left that house, they returned that light to the world in kind
Richer and brighter than it ever would have been had it not spent its time within those walls

Who are you, oh house of stolen light?
What secrets do you hold?
How many childhoods were used up here, either stolen or spent fully?
What lives have you had?
What adventures can you tell me?

I smile.
“This is gonna be fun.”
As I kick in the front door

When I look at a picture of me,  
I don’t really remember the person in the picture.
Who she was and how she saw the world.
I can educate my guesses.
But they are guesses only,
based on what I don’t really remember to be true.
Because I am not who I was (any number) of (anything) ago.
One, two, three, four:
years, months, weeks, days, hours, seconds,
ice cream cones eaten, smiles given, frisbees thrown, breaths taken.
I am the sum of all my moments,
all the years and months and ice cream cones and breaths.  
Every moment culminates in me.
And so when I look at a picture of me,
I see a piece of the person standing with a picture in her hand.
I see a moment of the baby, girl, woman who’s
loving and living and breathing
and adding her moments up.
I may not really remember her, but
I know she is still real.

A harsh Winter day , sweating copper , shoring ditches , sporting long johns and ***** coveralls , thankfully returning home to hot coffee and a chair in the kitchen ! Glance at a seashell on the window sill from Daytona Beach , recalling beautiful blue Summer days with Brown Pelicans , white seagulls and salt water taffy ! Ships on her horizon , children laughing with frisbees and sweet Summer memories ! What beautiful token from that magnificent coastland tempers a thick skinned , calloused workers train of thought such as mine this very evening ?

Man plays his guitar as he sits in the grass
With Frisbees flying over his head
The man has a stash
Which gives us our moments
What makes things expensive
I don't understand
But what I know is that
living is the best I can

Peter Gabriel's got sun in his eyes
He's still searching but hasn't got a clue cause he's blind

What a sad picnic party and its melting form
Let's ditch this place so we don't have to mourn

Let's go away from the stupid, sad people

So      we     can      be        sad      on         our                      own
  Sad                on         our            own       on      our   own
Sad           on      and    off        and    on   and    off
     Sad    on  our           own              on         our   own       sad

Months fly by, the seasons go
Springs into summer, fall leads to snow.
Dreadful hot Junes melt blizzard-filled Decembers,
While April and Autumn are hardly remember’d.

Times when trees begin to blossom,
Those with Frisbees start to toss ‘em.
When school lets out and the students cheer,
Forgetting the halfway point is here.
And when the leaves turn red and gold
Couples huddle to keep from the cold.
At last, when the first snowfall blankets the ground
We see the year has finally gone ‘round.

So the next time you have a dull moment
Do this, it will make you content:
Stop everything and look outside,
See what the world can do and provide.
And savor these moments for any reason,
Whether you’re sad, or in a different season.

I have been beside her
  in joy and love.
Been inside her
  in joy and love.

I have seen straight into her soul,
  stared awe-struck in love a million-fold.
Been sent further than I knew you could go beyond control
  by the sweet succulent scent of her soul
    (it is trails & rivers & bamboo
      & cooking & kissing & always true
      & music & wild wonderful lover
      & absolutely amazing mother
      & blue eyes which made mine bluer
      & spinning fire & adventures
     it is staring into the sun without going blind
     it is the One Love i waited my entire life to find)

i worship and weep at an altar of forever remember
  where we bike and hike and soul-stare-share,
    make love anywhere
                      everywhere
                      sharing a shower
                      or a counter encounter,
    fling frisbees by our beach scenery
      before flinging footballs at a winery,
    toss pebbles at windows
      before she curls my toes,
    clown horn swarm her iphone
      as rock n roll ring tones
        rock n roll my real phone,
    fall asleep holding her
      happier than ever before,
    dream of years of days of seconds with her
      each somehow better than the one before,
    and awaken to the miracle of her
      even happier than ever before!

Then in a dead dream
  never to be our reality
    (aborted before my belief dream
       actually became our forever reality)
i somehow play guitar,
  become Yur miracle musician poet star,
and in a perfectly uncontrollable embrace
  You scream & whisper as You kiss my face,
and as we make each other *** & then some
  and tremble at the power of what we've become
we are dazzled by discussions of the future,
  of our family and activities and Love so pure!

Eventually i wake up
  why?
i hate when i wake up
  cry!

Shannon
  oh Shannon
    my Shannon
the One i waited forever for,
  why did You show me the sacred shore
    only to **** me and leave me bleeding in agonized gore

You are the Love of my life,
  i'll always wish You were my wife!
& with Z-O-E
  we were a family :)

**** You killed US,
  crushed and swept away the dust.
You loved me one day,
  the next You threw me away...

The 3rd day of February
  is when i ceased to be me.
There are sporadic moments
  where i'm almost clint
**** mostly i'm merely a regression
  into deeper darker depression....

Sunsets of a thousand colors,
jumping into crystal blue waters,
yeah, school's out for summer.

At first, it’s a shock - ignoring the clock,
we’re like prisoners set free
- for a two-month party
- and no responsibilities

Ditch the books ******* - you’re my tribe
- summer’s our vibe - it’s time to slip-n-slide.

Barbeque, corn on the cob, juicy peaches,
lemonade, popsicles, hot sandy beaches,
thunderstorms, short shorts, cotton candy clouds,
let's get a little too silly and a little too loud.

Coleslaw, hotdogs, sharing French fries
Charles smokin' ribs, burgers piled high,
lounging by the pool, with friends dropping by.

Sunglasses, flip-flops, midnight walks, crop tops,
sunrise mornings, throwing frisbees in the park

Playlist DJ’n, the bare feet are tappin', we’re TikTok dancin’,
and, truth or dare, I’m seeing a couple of new romances.

Ferris wheel spinnin', funnel-cake eatin’, roller coaster screamin’,
the kettle-corn’s poppin’ for rom-com streamin’ and reality-TVing.

My mom asked, “Why are you girls all sleeping in one room?”
The answer? “Cause there ain’t no cure for the summertime snooze”

Why doesn’t someone make a sunblock perfume?

Umbrellas, watermelons, 3am dips, Taco Bell trips
and roasting marshmallows on the poolside fire-pit

Beach towels spread like butterfly wings,
hey, our tans are starting to match our bikinis!

Come on, relax, have an ice-cold martini.
We’re not doin’ nothin' - we’re makin’ memories!

I live in a neighborhood were
Even if you got a job
You’re still barely getting by
Hardly get to live your life
When your bosses can work you
Anytime they like
Any shift day, or night,
Part, full, or overtime
While the yard gets grassy
Cops come passing out ordinance tickets
Frisbees float away falling into thickets
Surrounded by various forms of scrap metal
While bricks once baked and harden
Crumble to dust
The foundation cracks and busts
And your house comes crumbling down
Letting critters come and go
This is my block
What a shocking show

tumbling up hills while running through air
singing songs underwater
lakes floating in space
spinning in circles and drawing  straight lines
needing to start but can’t find my pen
answering doors with nobody there
diving through snow escaping the heat
feeling my way through clouds that talk
wanting to wake but finding no strength
trying to speak with sand on my teeth
sweeping the floor and shifting the walls
chanting the prayers
throwing frisbees of lace
how can I sprint with skis on my feet
raging red sun bursting with ice
crazy these dreams unpacking my head

@journeyofdays

We ended rough
Like the dreams of dried maple leaves
So let me tell you this
Thank you
Thank you for warming my heart on cold nights
Like hot chocolate in the rain
Even though the illusion of you
Took the whole of my brain
Thank you for the long nights
When I couldn't bring myself to stop reading your words
Or going over them again and again in my head
Thank you for letting me hold on
Little do you know the many times you saved me
Even though it killed me
Thank you for showing me that someone could care
Even if not for too long
Thank you for teaching me to see the stars
The moon and every constellation lit my way through the darkest nights
Thank you for the good memories
From frisbees to video games
You made me smile
You made me cry
But most of all
You were there
Now I have people to turn to when times get tough
The more distant moments when I remember you're not here

Waffle-like prints in the sand,
maple syrup sun pours across the land,
sunrise beach bulldozed clean,
sandhill dunes growing green.

Opalescent sheen of mother of pearl,
old oyster shells spin and whirl,
the waves come in with a slap,
seagull wings beat and flap.

Sand dollars here, but no change,
the crab runs sideways it's quite strange,
bottlenose dolphin swims right by,
the sun climbs higher in the sky.

Jelly fish, opaque blue balloon,
sandpipers squeak out a tune,
colored clams exposed with every wave,
they dig in fast like crawling in a grave.

No longer alone as the day begins,
kites now fly in the onshore wind,
parents and children, with frisbees and nets,
picnics to come and skin surfing I'll bet.

People lounging on the grass
the tents, they form design,
displaying wares that no one buys,
the walkers stroll with their canine.

Arts and crafts and food vendors,
it's a human carnival;
they're shaded by the trees,
the shapely elms stand tall.

The boys are throwing Frisbees,
there are picnics in the making;
there are people in the shade,
it looks like naps they're taking.

It's noon-time at he Courthouse square,
and the fair is simply bustling;
panhandlers at the corners,
it looks like they are hustling.

I take the public viewing in,
amused at their charade;
the only thing that's lacking...
tomorrow's grand parade!

Remember the sandwich of youth?

On a drizzly beach with actual sand,
the grit crunch making things somehow better
for the supermarket cheddar
and margarine on sliced white

Let the memories come

The loved ones flinging frisbees,
or playing impossible cricket matches,
grand unplanned architecture,
studded with dead shells,
monuments to a hopeful utopia,
collapsed by the heavy-heeled truths of vengeful siblings
or everyday tides

Sea air makes you hungry and tired,
content,
like life and years try

The game Wii or We_
and never wear me out
You're the roundabout
All He  etc, etc,
It's now or never
She?
No-one ever loved you
As long as me
So SGT. Pepper lonely
We never were?
Hearts eating the club
sandwich

Ringo the drummer
We were never the
noses those yenta's
The fan- open-switch
We could never be his
Manwich go -fetch

Like the Walrus-wish
Our sign was never
The tear-jerker like
Taurus a light match
Matador bull

The ******* Barrel South
witch, this world is a glitch
The dark sunnyside turf
Boris Karloff
I see the moon arising
Wolfe, not Bruce Lee

The Madmen Mr.Softee
For sale
Love notes in San Diego
The campfire with
Eggnog Amazon Congo
We never enjoyed
Eggo well red-breasted
( Robin) took the eggrolls
left her boys sesame seeds
In their hoods

So many milestones
The ringtones new cellphones
((Hello))zip the lip Zorro
Cup of Joes Muffler sounds
of Moes

Beef gravy Sandwiches
Curly- top fries
Oh! Yes Arby's going
beyond a dollar Uber car
Unique breeds of dogs

Became a horse of Oz
The Wiz of frisbees
We never got to really see
What we never were

Not behaving love
attachments
Star Wars, No discount on
Starbucks
After Christmas past
coffee ghost the blind host

Forest Gumps Ba Ba shrimp
If this was twenty years ago
I would never see the
mobile phone of Trumps

Like Space Alein ET
Taking the city train
You got taken
From a B.L.T
yummy***

You're with your wife
That's life she wants all 
Your cards etc
The Cheese Gigilo
The wine's computer
mouse
The spouse of the day
websites I smell a rat

How I felt so grieved
Even if I was getting
money how long
I mourned
Your next door
neighbor
he borrowed money
He said he will give
it back
He will never give
it back
All you could do is
smile back
Her's, Purs, furs, bars
E-bay other peoples identity
Selling your books with
their names
Refurbished cars
His health drinks
We never saw it coming
to his death the last
strawwhat health

Gym with him wealth etc
Pix, Canadian cups
Venus, burn those
Divas leave me
The expensive plastic Visa
The Candy Man Miss barb-wire
barbecue hamburgers hotdog
Eating animals like cannibals

The soul man and he's never eating
The Slim man__
The piano when you're a
stranger some enchanted
evening Uptown Girl
Just put your key in
her car and leave her
Go-flirt
Flag down someone else's
dirt
Zigzags or Jag-Jaguar
Billy Joel tiger fuel
Walk like a man
and women talk
To be stalked
Your  eyes up
Meals on wheels
Candy canes Black/Blue canes
Who wants to be a senior

These discounts are S--T!!
But the senior prom
Were are you from?

Sick-land  meet
Disneyland
Another round
Robin drinkers
Heres to the world
we never were
Go out and celebrate
We never realize
It's never too late

i've done a full circle on my music listening habits, i've started listening to music i could play guitar to, oh man, that drop-D on almost all of the songs of System of a Down is mesmerising to listen to, esp. Aerials... it's right up there with smoke on the water and iron man... i even have a pretty decent voice when it comes to singing when no one is listening, it's surprisingly idiosyncratic, sort of rhaspic... ooh! ooh! i'm onto another google-whack... rhaspic alone generates only 10 results... rhaspic glue? 2 results... hmm... not to overcomplicate matters... let's just add a D... rhaspic glued... bingo! 1 search result: study number theories... great... i misspelled that first word, i was looking for something to the singing style of the dear, late, still lasting Chris Cornell... the message from Google reads:

It looks like there aren't many great matches for your search

nope... it's not that... i'm a google-whacker... it's a mild version of hacking... i like to find the needle's eye for a camel like me to walk through... because i do... and if i'm going to procrastinate it will be either google-whacking or solving a sudoku... ah... so no surd H in the word i was thinking of, i.e. raspic? ****, i didn't even realise there is a technical term for raspic: dysphonia... hell... it's not even raspic: it's raspy... oh... esp. with a "handover" from drinking to sobering up and a "hangover" from cigarette smoking... me singing is like me *******... best done so only the heavenly dead might want to see...

I.

strange occurrence at work, so i was given these nine stewards
who are a tight-knit bunch on the south stand of
the London stadium...
well... i say i was given nine, but Danni is a terrible
supervisor, everyone says...
who has ever worked with her...
she might have the qualifications to be a supervisor
but... i don't: and whenever asked i do the role...
because the greatest lesson my grandfather ever taught
me was how to deal with people,
i learned how to deal with unengaged problematic
youths by myself...
good training if you're going to go in the teaching
profession... i can see it now...
a fox in a hen shack...
obviously i'd love to have a wolf as my totem...
but you can be choosey... no wolves on the British isles...
plenty of foxes... fox it is...
and i can be a sly ******* if i really want
to be: i'll pretend to be naive... stupid...
ooh... ooh! "what's happening"?!
i know what's happening... i'm just figuring out
if the people playing games will figure out that i'm
also playing a game: their game and my own game...
i like pretending to be an idiot...
but when a chance comes and i can launch an
assault... i can be a merciless Rommel... Erwin...
i just play a waiting-game game...
it's fun... it's very much akin to a game of patience
when it comes to making wine...
or cooking a pristine curry...
like with Frankie, the girl i work with from time to time...
of all the colleagues she's the first one
i made personal references to...
she's also the first colleague i met up with outside
of work in casual clothing... i pointed it out:
a bit weird, not seeing you in a shirt / tie or a black
t-shirt...
it took me back... to the old days of...
"smooth-handshakes": i have £25 in my hand
she has a sachet of hash in her's... we shake hands in
public and the transaction is over...
she texted me last night: so... how's the "gear",
the dealer Adam wants to know...
i replied: well, i don't know... i haven't smoked it yet...
i'm all for delayed gratification...
i must have mentioned this already:
when i was younger i used to smoke marijuana to a level
of stoner, a stereotypical long-haired blonde "surfer boy"
type that an Australian girl would and did go out
with... i stooped to the level of binging on reggae music
and stoner rock and progressive rock blah blah...
an 1/8 (ounce) would last me a weekend...
then psychosis hit and i haven't smoked it for over 10 years...
a ******* invisible choir in a church
and a great wind that dispersed it... sad, sad story
(ha ha... back in 2007 it might have been
if nothing spectacular happened since...
but a lot has happened)...
but like i revealed to her: i need a smoking session
to be ritualistic...
i won't be delving into the mind that's high on hash
with the use of these two hands and a keyboard
and imaginary paper...
funny... when it comes to typing i'm very much
ambidextrous... you have to be... using a keyboard
to type... although... i once encountered
a general practitioner, old geezer... who used only one
hand to type, well... "typed"... he chicken-pecked with
his index finger the keys on the keyboard...
sure... some people go as far as use two index fingers
on both hands... me? i need to use all my fingers...
some i use more frequently otherwise i don't...
the pinky and the thumbs are especially favourite when
it comes to spacing and line-breakers and all the SHIFT
additions to a text... i think... i think i use the ring fingers
the least, mostly index, middle, thumb and pinky...
yes, the occasional ring finger: ah!
right hand ring finger is mostly used when deleting text,
and sometimes using the enter button
to give ground for a new line...

no, no one likes working with Danni, she's a terrible
supervisor, as most women when given
charge over young men,
instead of working with then, trying to gain them
she dismisses them and sends them packing: home,
not getting paid for a shift...
rifts of resentment... there are some aspects of
life that women don't understand:
their enlarged hearts are dismissive of certain
nuances... you can work with boys that
are not engaged with this simplest of works
concerning crowd safety, but you need to engage with them,
you can't just dismiss them!
i play into her thinking process that i'm
somehow her friend... she has already bought
the line and sinker... i'll keep her there...

i had to, for ****'s sake, take care of my staff
and her staff too, why?
who did she choose as a breaker,
Darwinism beckons, nature yawns...
a diabetic sick-girl who suffers from spells of standing-still
vertigo... i had to ask this sick girl to change her
function and stand in one place...
Danni? oh... she placed her in the worst possible
position... in a place where all the fans are rowdy
and constantly standing...
some people "think" they're thinking...
they're not...
i don't think they are being purposively
******* ******* but it just looks like this:
all-inclusiveness is not working out
as many have thought it might...
what are we talking about?
single men... tiger-mums in the East
and mantis-wives in the West...

how will a boss ***** relate to an unruly bunch
of teenage boys?
she won't! me? upon signing in i fist bump
or shake their hands... i recognise them...
men crave being recognisable, familiar,
constant... women? just attention-*******...
anonymously... or in passing...
men like to adapt to being recognised:
being familiar... women don't understand that
through their own self-objectification...
men are more prone to the: other's-subjectification...
a woman is self-objectifying
while a man is the subject-of-the-other...

i've watched enough people, i should know...
at a usual game i've built up this rapport with a few fans...
all the men are shouting out from the crowd:
hey! 5 bottle man!
a point of reference i should know about...
when this guy asked me for five bottles of water
from within the crowd...
he's referential point being: the subject-of-the-other...
women? ha!
they're like the solipsists of their youthful advantages
of looks... they are self-objectifying...
they are never a subject-of-the-other in their perception
of reality... they are not even an object-of-the-other
in their own mind's cravings...
could i ask a woman to dress up or put up make up
without her wanting to a priori the demands
or her own conjuring?!

but this one shift amazed me...
i had this breaker tell me...
'i'm not really sexist... but would you mind if i gave all
the female stewards breaks first,
before giving the males a break...'
i played it out... sure thing mate... you do that...
after all... the "new" gynocentric is the "old"
egalitarian movement, no?
let's see how this plays out...

              the old model worked according to: left to right...
or right to left... oh... not a spectacular specimen...
started talking me with all seriousness of
casualness... i hate my hair...
but you wear a baseball cap, mate, no wonder your
hair is matted... heard of Agar oil?
it's so much better than wax or hair gel...
but of course i didn't say it...
all the Asians with beards use it on their beards...
they carry bottles of Agar oil in their pockets to oil
up their ****** *****... i would too...
hadn't i oiled up before every shift...

sure thing mate... you do you "i'm not a sexist"
experiment by breaking the women before the men...

i'm just trying to figure out what i could possibly write
if i were in the vicinity of children that belong
to other people, how i could mould them with
the PROPER sort of ROT of explorative
tactics... hmm...

i'm getting a hard-on just thinking about it...
just the past two days i've been punishing myself
with a pleasure-delay tactic,
tomorrow i'm going to scoop the buds...
******* without *******...
my god... my hands are big...
no wonder i built up a beard-envy
and sort of forgot about a ***** envy...
the last ******* was sort of inhibited with her
pleasures... sort of uncomfortable...
half-way in and already the signs of discomfort...
big hands... mega business of jazz clapping...
well... that's life...

the KOMBUCHA mushroom people!
   shoe-g'ah!
rewrite everything in English phonetically!
come here, pwetty! give us a kiss!
smooches: yummy yummy!

but this guy "thought" he figured it out...
giving out all the breaks to the women
first, before the males...
i gave him the "substance" of "sport"...
work out? like **** it did...
one elder steward rebelled...
d'uh...
i'm taking into liking the Somali girls...
a Somali girl actually sent him back
to do things hierarchically...
from left, to right...
i'm a man... but i'm not a sexist...
seriously, mate, you're not a male...

it took a Muslim girl to teach you otherwise...
all smiling, smiles in slime...
i implored her: you know it wasn't my idea...
you know that he was just trying to get
his ***** wet in your ****:
not as literally...
she agreed with the most beautiful smile...
i'm starting to get turned off by white girls...
i'm starting to get turned off by white girls...
i'm finding the ones in niqabs and of a certain
ethnic "persuasion! rather attractive:
like one manager in the company
said the basics: black don't crack...

i'm looking at these girls and thinking:
butter melting by the power of the moon's rays...
how pretty they look...
i terribly want to **** them...
i'll terribly **** them!
these clues into nuns that Muslim women are
for a Don Giovanni...
these pretty petite Somali noses...
i bite i bite i bite i want to bite them
like cherries!

no wonder then...
i masturbated for two days prior to engaging with
the prostitutes...
i checked the proportions and non-proportions...
i'm done dealing with the ***-affairs of
stereotypical men...
i'll be ******* anything that moves...
married? not my problem!
seriously, not, my, problem!

mosh-pit carnal maggot fun!
well... if one generation sold us the patriarchal restrictions
being lifted, and what? we're to return to
a patriarchal system of "authority"...
you, what?!
i'm not going to live a life my elders lived with
full freedom that i'm somehow supposed to
inhibit, deny myself...

oh... i'm going to have the same as them: please!
no please?
then i'll **** the status quo!
simple!

the night crawls into a fruition of being limited
with being imbed....
two spiders for the worth of my hands....
i will die the most exotic pain
imaginable....
i iwlll surprise the "lost crowd".....
i will surprise the brothel...
30 minutes with one...
then as i am about to leave:
30 minutes with another...
and another... and another...
and another...

              one of those Lucy Letby trials...
only men are monsters...
my hernia and my Chernobyll
tattoo: the one she almost choked me
with... i survived...
i shouldn't have survived...
woman! agony to come!

i scratch my beard... i think: time is...
precious...
but women are very little inclined
into this dynamic.....
the world can burn!

death's trough: and pigs eat ****....
   best, kept reminder!

       well what a shift i truly wasn't expecting yout atypical
chocaletiers to come up with a game
of: broken chair frisby...
that yellow burning man pyro-technics was also
spectacular... but not even my mum would be
so concerned about my well-being as
this supervisor was today... what a terrible sloppy
mommy... i don't need to be protected
by your inability to protect me: i'll judge for myself...
******* busdy body...
i want in on the action...
    
i just couldn't wait for the shift to end...
i promised Frankie a review of the hash she sold me...
i told her:
i need to be tired from a shift,
i need some whiskey... i need an imaginary
octopus slobbering on my cranoum,
i need ***...

funny... the freely i have *** the more i'm detached
from it...
once upon a time i was all about pleasing
women... after they stopped pleasing me
i figured out: a **** it modus operandi...
time to be taken care of...
i think i'm so emotionally detached while having
*** that i'm borderline psychopathic...

not that i have any vanity project coming across
implying i might be hurt by
this condescending word...
no, rather the opposite: i very much enjoy it...

just today i stole another kiss from a *******...
she was so unwilling telling me:
you moustache is fiddly and it's tickling me...
but we kissed nonetheless...
she wasn't into ******* vaginally...
i felt growing limp at some point...
mental blockage...
it happens...
never again will i spend two days prior
jerking off without *******...
i know the "even horizon" of jerking off
and the moment when the head of the phallus
is being pierced via the ******* being
expanded: for men... anti-circumcision...
it's like being a ****** again and again: and again: and again...

she blew me, then massaged me with her long
fingernails...
oh... once she reached my cranium,
neck and shoulders... it felt better than the *******...
i was going limp... why? mental constipation...
it happens with men...
i was actually thinking about the furnace
of nothingness after *** after smoking some Afghan
hash... having grated into a cigarette on
a Rodin's take of ******* NUTMEG!

i ****, i love *******,
but i'm surrounded by people who don't like *******...
a terrible bewilderment...
to be alive is to love to ****...
who am i surrounded by? people who have attired themselves
in: progeny...
  people with children...
careless and carefree mothers of agony...

II.

i have to admit, it took me about 4 hours to wake up:
wake up proper...
each time i opened my eyes i felt myself
needing to turn to my side and fall back into nothingness
of that currency of switch-off brain
(let the body recuperate) -
a comforting numbness with a side dish of tickling
and fuzziness...
i woke up absolutely not interested in thinking...
for once... i wanted to absorb last night: fully...
frankly, i didn't want to let last night go...

O grand father time and the river that's your bride...
what a gloomy day... my perfect sort of day,
i'm so very fond of the weather of England,
more so the weather of Scotland,
island weather: my kind of weather,
gloomy, autumnal, the sweetness of botanical decay
and all the flourish of chlorophyll retreating from
the once bulging leaves of green...

wow... so that's what it feels like?
like that photograph by Richard Lam with the couple
who were knocked down by the riot police
during the Vancouver hockey riots
(Stanley Cup playoffs)...
well, last night it wasn't exactly like that...

west ham vs. Anderlecht... what a shift...
flares were thrown either side, chairs were ripped out
and used as frisbees... coins were thrown...
and i was on the edge of the tension...
me? never in a million years could have thought
the Belgians to be so triggered...
in comparison the Danish and German fans were tame...
phew...

afterwards like i said:
a magical combination of work fatigue,
an 8.2% cider and two or three sips of whiskey...
three cigarettes,
brothel... ***...
well... she didn't feel like having ***...
she felt like performing oral *** and looking
at herself in the mirror...
that's the first time i've seen it...
alternating from looking in the mirror at herself
and looking into your eyes
and then closing her eyes... a rare combination...
it's usually eyes looking at you
or eyes closed... rarely out of her own accord
looking at herself in the mirror...

and then? laying on my stomach the better part
of the evening: a massage... shoulders...
back... long nails digging into my flesh and...
roughing up my hair...
then? persuasions to steal a kiss...
yes! stole one... she was put off slightly by the tickling
of my beard...
but my god... those nails digging into my shoulders
neck and head...

another one i will give a book of poetry to...
raven hair work of a blue night in Venice...
then onto home and some more whiskey
and... that Afghan hash...
   two pinches of it being heated up... so... not much...

i just smoked a cigarette and opened my cigarette ash
tray (a jar that formerly housed pickles)
and peered in... what?! i only smoked half of the Afghan
hash joint?! seriously?!
i'm a light-weight... that 15 year break from smoking
anything has seriously did me some good....
me? last night? i was travelling across the entire
universe... i was hallucinating a darkness that was
a thinking-darkness that was heartbeat-darkness
a musical-darkness... i was travelling with the sort
of energy that could connect the dots between
gravity and antimatter...
     i was on the edge of a black hole and my heart was
dancing...
upon waking you have to listen to something
like Bruce Springsteen's Human Touch...

a touch of a woman... i'll agree with any critic:
i am a paranoid psychopath during ***...
i don't like being lied to during ***...
i have enough pornographic doubts to understand
that i don't want to be ******* an actress...
she might be a *******: but to hell with *******
actresses... even in their own words
they are asexual... prostitutes on the other hand
are closer to nymphomaniacs than actresses...

what, after the ****** revolution of the 1960s
future generations would tame the whole Pandora down?!
i don't think so... the Vietnam war had the best
soundtrack (period)... am i going to slow down?
no! but this Western Model that a man has to have a *******
horse cart and cottage to have *** is beneath me...
no! no! i looked into the Japanese model of
the Love Hotels and figured...
well... that's not getting any traction over here...
and since i'm only willing to follow the Laws of the Dogs
i.e. a dog only ***** if a ***** is willing to give...

and if prostitutes are the only ones willing while
the remaining women are interested in pair bonding
*******... i tried that... dates... clams and oysters
and spaghetti dates... cinema dates...
russian roulette of condoms and contraceptive pills...
i tried but i figured...
not even the whole dating app hook-up culture...
that **** passed me by, i was being busy in my 20s
unravelling a schizophrenia misdiagnosis
and reading up on philosophy...

                         imagine that... unlike Syd Barrett...
i descended into madness and... looks like many years
later i have emerged a pillar of nerves...
i'm calm during crowd riots,
i'm calm in the middle of one guy trying to choke
another guy to death while calming both of them...
and i can sit very calmly across 5 women that
i ******... oh sure... and i don't need that much
alcohol to have a brave heart... just a little...
and i won't flinch... i'll look all five of them in the eyes
and take my time before choosing one
of them for yet another night...
  
Western narratives morphing words like
******* into *** worker... "*** traffic" blah blah...
spoken by women about women
who actually enjoy having ***...
a female intellectual is hardly interested in ***:
true or false statement?
sooner rather than later i realised that i'm
more than just a political or a social animal...
i'm a ****** animal...

i like the idea of: an abstraction of people...
a sort of pedestrian abstraction... a quickie encounter...
a snippet of an entire other world that appears
and disappears as one might assume for it to be the case
in the macrocosm reality of time and all the people
in the world and the past and future to come...
but this... in a microcosm sort of imitating-the-host-of-god
so of way...

maybe because it's because of that Van Morrison song
Brown Eyed Girl... maybe, just maybe...
a well worn leather peeping through those eyes,
a body i could pretend to sit on
and snooze, or something like that...
it's just so much easier when women drop all their guards
and something casual can be achieved
without all that neuroticism of relationships...

i wish i learned this lesson when i was younger:
you can never love one woman,
well... you can love your mother,
you can tease your mother in a way that she feels
more like a friend than some authority figure...
and even if there's Lucy Letby when you were
born, attempting to **** you by somehow choking
you in a way that enlarged your heart
on top of the hernia and oh: if mother was in agony
giving birth to you you gave a second birth unto
yourself with equal agony:
no wonder that i turned to prostitutes for what
i really needed...
the medication of touch...

i'm not going to hide my intentions or for that matter
boast with "performance cues"...
sometimes it's long, sometimes it's short...
sometimes this, sometimes that...
but i'm sometimes a very impatient man
and i don't like being impatient...
even now: it would be pointless to merely focus my
attention on one woman...
a projected investment with Khadra that i ended
with buying her lingerie and not over-stepping
her demands to push further with 18-carat
earrings and necklace: let's be realistic...

of all the things i gave her, my bleeding heart of
poems blah blah...

point being, i just have Samuel Little and Jack the Ripper
on my mind when engaging with ***
with prostitutes... esp. when kissing them...
how could they?
**** me... not enough girls out there to ready yourself
for work in a nightclub and save up enough
dough to buy a mandolin and play it outside one
those girl's windows...

in a way i'm a loser that won...
a very limited number of pastimes occupying my mind...
reading, writing, listening to music,
cycling, walking, ***...
i replaced watching movies with the cinema of
my memory... surely if i were a bad man i wouldn't
want to remember anything from the past...
hell... if there's no afterlife i'll just relive my life
in reverse... i jump into the vehicle of memory
and unravel all that i have forgotten...
because i don't believe eternity could be spent
so idly as presented by either heaven or a hell stasis
of a realm...
i could fill out eternity given the dynamic of what
i remember and what i have forgotten
(not by choice, but by the naturally fickle selection
of memory, eroded by the pedagogy rubrics
of arithmetic and spelling, to begin with)...