well, sure, it's a central american dish...
         taragon... infused rice...
no, wait, that's wrong, i'm thinling
of cheap-*** saffron...
           ah! turmeric infused rice...
    it's a chili con carne...
and i'm looking at it, thinking:
   needs some garnish...
         **** it... cut up a few mint leaves
and dropped a dollop of yogurt
   into the dish...
       what?!
                   what do you imply with
serving a dish, where fresh mint is a garnish?
does the dish sound like any european
might cook, call it a stew and then sprinkle
some parsley onto it?
or does this plate of food, look like something
indian, where you garnish a dish of curry
with some fresh coriander?
  ******... this is american...
     you garnish your grub with mint!
the "apéritif"? hence the inverted commas...
       as in... it's not really a drink...
    what was it?
                 brie cheese...
            which sounds a lot nicer than having
to brush your teeth... as if expecting to snog someone
in the basin of an hour's worth
    of leftover conversation.
china just throws in a bunch of spring onions.
but a chili con carne?
            you garnish it with mint,
  and if it's really spicy... a dollop of yogurt;
and yes, turmeric is the only substitute to using
     saffron...
       no... a chili con carne doesn't sound
great, when the garnish is either european parsley,
   or south asian coriander;
            the north asia garnish? spring onions.
this central american **** (stew) needs mint...
and perhaps some yogurt... if no kashmiri chilies
are used.

Nothing turns this angel down
Excellence, in the flesh
And if they try, an evening gown
In satin works the best

Is beauty deeper than the skin?
Surely she'll impress
Instead of showing what's within
She forces you to guess

Eyes of gold been tarnished brown
By tears that have been wept
Dark and shining locks abound
Make up for shades not kept

Sin runs red in times of blue
Every angel's seen
Temptation's there to carry you
When you have lost your wings

Consider but the outside shell
For that is most well-known
Appearing to be straight from hell
To garnish feelings shown

How could she be so mean, you ask?
What makes her be so spiteful?
Why can't she see it's not a mask
That makes her feel delightful?

Lies frozen, held through time
In silent desperation
Hiding at the scene of crime
A ****** confrontation

To free the memories from her head
Would unleash such a fear
She'd rather end the night instead
As not to feel him near

Ah, here's the one; the big bad wolf
That's haunted all her dreams
Whom proved too well by wearing wool
All are not as they seem

But I am ****, but skin and fur
And showing her my core
And telling her the parts that hurt
While donning nothing more

He's changed her mind, she's cast astray
But I could be the shepherd
To keep the hungry wolves at bay
As countless dogs endeavored

One light can only shine so much
Before the flame has died
To reignite it just a touch
Of love might satisfy

Surely there is nothing worse
Than feeling left to dry
Entrapped within a lover's curse
And never knowing why

Well, in defense of self-defense
I must admit it's snide
To hang a face upon the fence
Until you've picked a side

It's safe, my friend, just be yourself
Strip down to nothing hidden
And let emotion feed your health
By eating the forbidden

A heart must be coaxed from its hide
With tenderness and passion
In order for the passersby
To notice what has happened

From way out here it's hard to tell
But underneath a soul
That liberates a girl of twelve
Longs for a soul to hold

To hold would mean to carry, too
When harsh times rear their heads
To be the one to follow through
When love needs to be fed

But most of all it means to dress
With confidence or loathing
Just make sure you can impress
A saint in Sinner's clothing

Cake, the meat of culinary delights;
Icing, the sauce.

Cake, the main entree, the special of the night;
Icing, the decorative garnish.

Without Cake, Icing has no purpose
A clump, a blob, of meaningless goop.

1 spoonful of Icing alone and you're done.
Spread out amongst the firm surface of Cake though,
Icing becomes much more interesting, and much more fun.

I am the Cake.
You are the Icing.
Without me, the base, the entree, the meat
You, the sauce, the garnish and blob, don't matter

You can be the Icing to your own Cake or to another
But without me, you'll do nothing but rot teeth and smother

So, to enjoy you, Icing, to the absolute fullest
I must, first, combine the ingredients, stir and bake
Because it is vital, if one is to appreciate your sweet taste,
To properly prepare my foundation, the meat, your Cake.

- BPW

Blondes illuminate
The dizzy world of men,
Confident and forthright
And simply, oozing acumen.
So sensually brazen
In a silly sort of way
Yet intuitively capable
Of leading all of them astray.

Blondes are irresistible
When they catch the errant eyes,
When their pearly, sky blue peepers
Irradiate and mesmerize.
When they catch him glancing
At a nicely rounded ***,
When rosebud lip's apouting
Leave him breathless, limp and numb.

Blondes move in a manner
Which defies all things right,
It's a sweet undulation
Which turns day, straight into night.
It's suggestion incarnate
And quite breathlessly so.
Causing pulses to race
And his expectations to grow.

Blondes think in straight lines
Periferals are lost,
And woe betide myopics
Who underestimate at their cost.
Golden locks breed pushiness
The will to have her way,
And the man who calls a challenge
Won't survive another day.

Blondes are soft and fluffy
Dimpled cheeks and curve of thigh,
And are specialists in the art
Of come hither to the guy.
But just beneath the garnish
Is a mind that calculates
And a passion for success
And a taste for wealth that rates.

Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
19 January 2010

The forgotten gem among the precious
Your love is too dark for a child
Also precious
Yet pure like a diamond
Diamonds are so common

Garnet, you are rich
Richer than most in quality
Perhaps a banker or lawyer would remember you
But no, sapphires are rich
Richer than dull gold, not rich enough I say

You reach new depths, Garry
Like an ocean trench filled with the remains of the unknown's lunch
Not as deep as the amethyst, apparently
That is spiritually charged and better for the soul
Your violence is a stain, but I say it is a warning

Garnish, you lack value
Topaz is the quality they seek
The eye of the sun, so bright
Too bright
The eye of Jupiter is too much, I say enough

Oh Garnet
Forget Ruby, your sister
Forget Emerald, your opposite
Forget Opal, all in one, the God of the gems
You are Alfred the Great, so great, yet forgotten

Incumbent victim
gets blown around like litter,
thrown out the window.

i was directed to this place by Marty Feldman, and he said i should say this password to gain entry: float like a chapati, sting like a vindaloo.

i' not good at making passes at someone's death,
just yesterday i was thinking
while a quiz show took place with haiku clues
regarding famous people, so i wondered
aloud: would it still be the correct answer if
you said: cassius clay? what a cool name,
colossus of clay - what the hell does Muhammad
and Ali have to do with african rooting
when you hardly speak Swahili? a bit pointless,
but a name like cassius clay... unstoppable -
already mythological, rather than a family
feud between Ali and the Caliphs after Muhammad's
death - maybe he should have confirmed his
baptism as Muhammad Ali with a confirmation
akin to catholic practice and added a surname, like
Khadijah, well... if Mozart is turning in his coffin
for his music being turned into a muzak
or a Porcupine Tree tree song, then the first wife of
Muhammad is turning in hers... a wise women
of sound economic acumen could be compared
by secular standards to Gabriel's voice, women tell lies,
just today i saw plain Jane turn into a stunner,
she was gagging to go on a date with a guy of her dreams,
by media standards a subsequent loser in Morocco,
at a photo shoot of practising flirtation a half-and-half
love affair between the Gothic island of the Caribbean
that's England and the Bahamas flirted with olive skin,
blue eyes and pecks, and an ego shaped like a woodpecker...
or an u.z.i., poor guy, got to make a show,
but the ***** is out! she noticed her eyes!
what further shahada of scheherazade?
just one more night, just one more night, one more, night.
demigods and men, traces of narcissus in man resides
in his eyes, nowhere else, man and woman fall in love
with their eyes, rather than narcissus and the complete
visage, but as i once said: imagine narcissus looking
into the sea - he might as well have fallen in love with
the stillness of the lake rather than the image represented
by it - across the seven seas he roamed, across the seven
zeniths, until he came across the Lake of Echo,
and heard the echo of footsteps beside him, to have seen
the natural mirror by moonlight, and settled to lie,
disguising himself as a flower worth recycling:
each god in polytheism his own individual, reigning ideal
in the pantheon of gods: solipsism - with man's intervention
a notably study of, himself.
although i'd love to chat thoroughly about this,
i'm not so sure i want to - hear the words:
you're a good man... you're a good man in a brothel?
you think a ******* would forget saying that
and continue? *persona incognito grata -
a golden crown on her tooth that i peered into with her
Ukrainian accent speaking polish, i lost my virginity
to a French girl without any connection - proceeding
from the way she decided a child learning a new language
aged 8 could not be considered a native speaker
for a psychology experiment - i gave her a silent lesson
in history concerning Napoleon and the last heroic act
of warfare, after that, civilians were utilised like bombs
or rifles, the many guilts after all the killing seized.
anyway, today i decided to cook two knock-outs...
the first was intended as a kolhapuri chicken curry,
the latter was chicken do'h pyaaza, with the later
the title, indeed the fenugreek incident, fenugreek
being a concentrated version of kasoori methi,
if the Turks invented hot & sour with a pickled chilli,
the blue Indians invented a whole palette of sour and hot
with this dish, and the crucial ingredient that's
fenugreek - although the crystalline form of this spice
is more potent - the recipe asked for one tablespoon
of the raw products, the leaves (kasoori methi) -
i added a teaspoon of the concentrated stuff -
what a disaster! i asked for two tasters to tell me that i
wasn't tasting bitterness in the gravy as if i added some
English ale revenge against continental beers...
because the excess of the component of intended sourness
of the fenugreek turned into an ale-like bitterness -
hence the notion that sour isn't an antonym of sweet,
but bitter is - hence sweet & sour rather than
sweet & bitter - you can have a turkish pickled chilli
and still have a compliment on the palette of hot & sour,
but imagine tasting bitterness - excess of concentrated
kasoori methi does the trick - and since Faust doesn't
have an Igor like Dr. Frankenstein, he turned himself
into a hunchback, and started picking out most of the
fenugreek crystals from the gravy, one by one, ony by one,
hunched over the sauces - until the bitterness disappeared
and the intended sourness came through -
it took a while, but Faust as his own assistant kept on
saying: stop lying, stop lying! i want to eat this sauce too!
that's the thing with chemistry and cooking,
i received a present not too long ago, an arsenal
of spices, which means i can punch-bag you a Peshwari
naan with raisin and almond stuffing (a bit of sugar too),
and i can add the raw ingredients - i'm richer with
spices than with drugs or gold: turmeric is also known
as saffron - although saffron is more potent,
turmeric does the same job... coriander powder, cumin
power (also seeds), mint the prime garnish for
do'h pyazza curry... garam masala made from scratch,
meaning i have: cardamom pods, cloves, black cardamom,
mace... and i can make you a kohlapur masala...
honestly... in this great culinary babylon of english society,
from pizzas to chinese to Kentucky to New York
street vendors... i'd give up the cuisine i was born in
and convert to India's palette... i don't need to convert
anything else... religion can remain with those who
barely read, or who read and cite only one book...
let them have it... i don't care...
i already converted to a non-religious fascination with
mystical Judaism (sorry Allah, couldn't do anything
with your name, it didn't fit the Latin revision of thinking
about it), and as such, converted to a dreamy everyday
of India's culinary prowess - Kama Sutra is nothing
compared to the recipes from Kashmir or anywhere
where the blue bloods fascinated the merchants rather than
scalped them in berserker rage among the puritan
envoys.

I read a story today.

Like any good story it was layered upon the premise of the love between two perfect strangers.

Like any good story it was about romance that blossomed... and then flourished as quick as it was fierce.

Like any good story it spun a far-reaching web of hope and longing whilst still holding on to the uncompromising nature of responsibility to one's dreams.

Like any good story, there was a spot of intimacy. The gradual build up of physical and psychological attraction that culminated in the merging of two, was nothing less than tasteful.

Like any good story there was conflict.
But it was not the cliched garnish that involved oppressive parenting styles nor glaring racial differences.
It did not rope in the overused notion of "we're so different, we're two parts of a whole".
It was... a beautiful conflict.
One that does not allow the audience to choose sides.
In fact, it encourages you to think inward and root for both parties - be them together or apart.
If anything at all, it boils down to the pursuit of each individual's happiness.

Like any good modern day story, it ended with a breath held in a gasp. You hold it there for the longest moment and you have to close that breath with a heavy sigh of loss.
It also leaves you with ample room to deliberate the "what if" factor.
Happy endings last a while but sad ones... they rip a hole in you that almost never closes...
and you cannot help but go back to read it over and over again in the hopes of finding the elusive right answer or the best alternate ending.

Like any good story it was tailored in my fit. Because I envisioned myself in it. I got consumed by it. Overwhelmed by it, enough to almost break the pipes.

And like any good story, it's worth keeping...
In heart and in mind.

So I read a story today. And I didn't want it to end.

Water the Greenhouse
Water the plants on the deck.
Walk Autumn Moon.

Salutation to the Sun
Yoga on the deck
Prayers
Angel of Air
Reading & Study with Ken
Sipping herbals & he, his coffee.

Pick up.
Moving the living room furniture
Rearranging. Sweeping. Mopping.
Clean the kennel.
Fresh bedding for Autumn.

A break for Sevenfold Peace in the sunshine.
Listening to the Holy Stream of Sound.

Playing with Autumn.
Laughing with Ken.
Continuing with rearranging & cleaning
Done!

Another break
With Ken, Autumn & Habibie
By the firepit in front of the shop.
Auti chasing water up and down and around.

Walk to Alli's, talk and pick up the key.
Cut broccoli, cabbage, carrots, & kale
Add a few pods of peas
Drizzle poppy seed dressing.

Two bowls with 1/2 cup of rolled oats each
Add cinnamon.
Taking a teaspoon
Half full with honey.
Dipping it into the center of the oats
Pouring boiling water over the honey.
Into the oats.

Stirring and stirring
Watching the cinnamon spirals
Mix into the sweet porridge.

Small cacao chips, sunflower seeds
A few raisins
Sprinkled as garnish.  

Eating together
Smallville, playing with Autumn
Habibie resting near by.
She maybe carrying kittens.
Too early to tell.

Tired. Good night. Sleep.
2:30 am.
Ken up watching a movie on is phone.
My, my, how times have changed.

Return to bed.
Writing, writing, writing….now it is done.

after the body has decomposed and decayed and is done being with being a body, the insects feast on the flesh, desperate for nourishment.

           1.  after: the close of
               decompose: to separate into parts
                decay: to decompose; to separate into parts; to rot
                 done: to be finished
                 feast: any abundant meal
                  flesh: the sweet, outer coating of a body
                   desperate: having an urgent need for nourishment: something that is necessary for life

First came the blowflies, then the maggots. They attacked you while you were breathing. They thought you were done: to be finished. They crawled in and out of your nostrils, through your gaping mouth, down your throat. Your body took the phrase "being eaten alive" too far.
          
             2. maggots: legless larvae of flies
                     attack: to set upon in a hostile or violent way
                        nostrils: holes in a face that helps a body: the physical structure of a material substance breathe
                        down: on or to the ground
                          throat: the part where insects run through and burrow and live in the not living

You're imprinted into the ground now, your ribs a perch for vultures to peck upon your carcass. Your skull is laced with sand and other sedimentary rock as a nice garnish. Bodies are strewn here, peppered with dynasties of dust, ancestry of asphalt.

           3. ribs: curved bones shaped like armor to protect the heart and other vital organs
                carcass: a human devoid of being
                   skull: the bony framework of a head
                      laced: the lightly draping of a thing
                       garnish: the supply with; to decorate; to lace: lightly drape a thing
                            ancestry: generations and generations of sediment forming into people forming into lives forming into experience forming into decay: to separate into parts


**~~a.s.f.

An angel transposed as a being. So innocent. Always staying far from corruption.

she traded teddy bears for a bible and holds it just as tight.

They say if you believe something with all your heart that it must be true.

I believe God sent her down from a glorious height along with other angels; who with their broken wings teach others how to fly.

She has morally stimulated thighs that stimulate my mind and an inner beauty that fans out from her lonesome eyes

to her freckled cheeks all the way down to her partially chapped lips that are

softer

than

mine

God has to exist because i've never felt more faith in one hug.
Purity is her truth.
She's an angel for not falling into American youth.

I pepper
Your face
With soft flecks
Of kisses
In search
Of the spots
Free
Of acne cream
(Rarer than the spots
Free of acne),

Like it's a game.
My freckled,
Toothy queen
Is still behind,

four years,
and love swells
From out
                  Bellies
we have in common.

yes, i know he said he was a vegetarian, delicate counter-priesthood prince - a manner of vegetarianism that expressed an abhorrence of the practice of Eucharist, i too think the Eucharist as a metaphor is a bit porridge: i.e. yucky.  but as Wagner said to him: up north, either you eat meat or you lose the plot (loose - ß - again, not scharfes S - but die scharfes'zart - sharp-tender - already prerequisite of what sharpening omega meant for the w); mind you: salt & pepper to taste according to your own palette - if you're not a sugar ****** you won't over-salt the sauce... and you certainly will not overcook the pasta, halfway between dreadlocks and poodle hair: desirably experience bound al dente, and here comes Socrates with his knowledge of al dente: me no muffin! true that... like all these excess sugar breakfast cereals - ******* the outside, soft inside... or like the idea of ants having an exoskeleton... that's pure culinary theory - al dente exoskeleton; did i already mention salt and pepper to taste? yeah, the beef stock cube is salty, but not salty enough, given the already unsalted meat and vegetables: i cook, i take care of a toddler - Nietzsche keeps bragging: cooked by a cyclops.

who would have thought that a personal
revision of mama Italia's classic
could end up being so tasty;
Nietzsche is the foremost diner in my humble
abode: i just like the way he says:
who let woman into the kitchen?!
that's right, i deviated from the standard recipe
of mama Italia's cooking for papa don
Giovanni - honestly? in lonely times at
university when everyone was into ******
ad drunk debaucheries, and ****** fancy dress
parties? Aria Giovanni saved the day...
just look at the classic beauty, plump as a plumb
in between two cream bergs - such
exfoliation... where's that daddy long-legs
on the catwalk... come on! shove a malteser up
her *** like a suppository escutcheon - i'm sure
the salad leaves will keep her starving even more,
or walk her in Gucci with a drip-pole -
intravenous therapy while on the job -
but can you believe what only a quarter of a teaspoon
does to the Bolognese sauce recipe?
wonders... you don't add the carrot, or the celery,
among the vegetables you add button mushrooms,
and the three colours of peppers -
onions and garlic (a lot of it) as standard -
oregano, rosemary and thyme too,
some Italian five-spice - but the fennel seeds!
the fennel seeds! after i learned to cook i see
ready meals are diabetics in disguise,
and restaurant foods as defunct -
what? we're all expressing our capacity to
make choice, apologies if you made the sort of
choices you now hate... hardly a reason to
complain about my exercise in freedom,
i don't blame you, i'd have chosen differently
if i were you too... but there we go...
i'm cooking Bolognese from scratch because i like
to tickle my sense of smell and the buds of
the palette garden, i look at the sauce and
write fiction: the plot thickens...
                                                     and that's the great
3 minute microwave sequence on the other
side of the spectrum... because we're all so *busy -
busy bees and that's merely the generation Y
dads getting hormonal treatment from tending to
babies - choices choices choices -
                                                          oddly­ enough
the mediocre work that goes on in those glass
shards - by comparison, the default argument is
pretty obvious: i too would have not invested
in caring for art, or as i once said:
you can't get good art and raise a family -
you can create good art that will support the family,
you'd end up being a great technician,
an artistic engineer - the standard model of bridges /
already in your head - is refining yourself
via plagiarism - you end up plagiarising yourself -
but come one! a quarter of a teaspoon of fennel seeds?
well, i'm not talking cumin seeds...
or maybe it was the turmeric powder that
coloured the onions yellow while frying?
2 tablespoons of garlic - for sure, enough garlic
and we're already talking Dracula -
~5 strips of bacon too -
                                          no, not necessarily involving
carrots and celery - why be boring?
this is me in my furore days in an organic
chemistry class at university - back to the esters
and perfumes, but this is raw, it's analytical
chemistry, it's nothing synthetic -
birds and the bees and some hippy buckles over
a giant butternut squash - which is why i find
people who ably memorise and recite poetry
are the same people who probably write polemics,
and do the peacock verbal dance for a woman
in a restaurant - rather than give her raw grub
of your own calibre - 1 cube of beef stock
dissolved in water - simmering for about 40 minutes,
tomatoes chopped - obviously tomato puree -
500 grams of mince beef -
                                                ever think that poetry
could reinvent journalism and also the way of
writing recipes? FENNEL SEEDS! that's what goes
in first, you roast them in chilli infused olive oil -
let them sizzle for a bit - and yes,
you pour some oil into salted water where
you'll be boiling the spaghetti - the oil means the
spaghetti won't stick together, plus pouring
oil into a saucepan of boiling water is the other
famous pastime of chemists... the former?
watch paint dry. i'm pretty ****** sure i missed something,
like mama Italia missed something to keep
the recipe a secret - well... there's Parmesan cheese
to garnish and fresh basil -
                                                and if i were raising a family,
i wouldn't be listening to the dead skeleton's album
dead magick... oh sure, the reward would be:
i'd have a little crowd at my funeral, some gibberish
about how many people knew me so well... but really
didn't... the whole street profession...
                i never got the idea of solitude and how it
might be sad from the Beatles' Eleanor Rigby song -
don't know never became an impressionable counter -
oh yeah, Darwinism helped! it helped a lot
in creating a world view, a world view that said:
don't touch this ****... leave them to it:
these people are more influenced by opinion columns
of newspapers than philosophy books -
in England, where, i dare say, the daily telegraph
is actually respectable, as is the guardian -
and the central of the two opposites? tickling
tabloid, i call the times posh tabloid, because it is
a posh tabloid: i like the way fame
desired for sales becomes toilet paper
the next day... or the newspaper on the street
that gets the footprint on the plastic surgery escapades...
love it! mm, yes darling! lovin' it!

i.

Certes, where wouldst I be, without the visitant who visited me, hallow and calefacient is mine sweet. Her camaca flaxen brown far east bisayan covering, like the wind upon her bones; Cling's on to wing's crystalline, hovering.

ii.

Many callisteias doth she hath, even in her most burdened of day's, light echoes the wall's of her laugh. Her nacre eyne, as a naos doth garnish the sign; spelling "ángelos mou".

iii.

I phlebotomized pond's of despair's tether's, I implored God for the mate of mine soul; even pictured this vasílissa in mine pounding blood's fetters. Thus one moment, in death's valley, undeservingly the Trinity whom always was and is; gifted me mine other-half, the woman from Asia's tribal secrets, the one with a aureole surrounding her chest.

iv.

Now, after generation's of awaiting, just to touch her luminescence I won't tire, nor debate the timing; for all
Cometh in good time, I just thanketh mine Yahweh.
For its his daughter he didst send, thus me didst he
Openeth mine eyen. O' blest divine, O' blest divine.



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( àgapi mou) Dedication

Starters (salad/fruits)
Wash it,
Chop it,
Dice it,
Slice it,
Garnish it,
Toss it,
Greek it,
Decorate it,
Serve it,

Main course
Cut it,
Chop it,
Slice it,
Mix it,
Bread it,
Sauce it,
Roll it,
Garnish it,
Fry it,
Boil it,
Gravy it,
Season it,
A pinch of salt,
And one over the shoulder for good luck,
Paint it,
Taste it,
Judge it,
Perfect it,
Decorate it,
Serve it,

Dessert
Cool it,
Ice it,
Slice it,
Decorate it,
And serve it!

A dinner by the candlelight,
And I give you a chef's delight

Collage of College
Sharpened carrot sticks
Twenty hundred lettuce leaves
We eat this salad

Fall Fails
Summer: The Sequel
Starring Flora S. Fallen
Directed by Son

Sweater Weather
Snow covered beignets
Cider and cocoa rivers
Gingerbread people

Mojito Vice
Muddled leaves of mint
Lime juice and syrup downpour
Ice cube avalanche
A *** and fizzle drizzle
A spri(n)g of mint to garnish

Meat meet Heat
Baritone beer belch
Sweet symphony of pig parts
Oyster orchestra
Beef, chicken composition
The sun sings A Capella

welcome to the hollow cake
buttered by cream frosting
its no fun being the rat in wax
is it?

was the garnish good, at least?

we're here only moments
and they're being wasted every minute
just like all the opportunities
that have gone on by

there's still plenty game to be had
a plentiful lot in play
pennies for each of their fads
hair changes, and ripped stockings
handmade

but when the dye fades
your mascara runs
was it fun?

he used to say he was speaking for an entire people
probably he meant that he understood the sheer veil of
not possessing the Owner yet cursing closed veins
and i can cut Narcissus' marron curls twice think about listing emotions regularly
unafraid some blood refuses to flow my way i feel deficient

behind the sheer-blue veils of eyes
and the water/the waves there is nothing more
than an unpoet
a piece of work
very much instead
a fool also
behind Narcissus is the unbending floor
i can see some gushing grey pieces of completely undusted power

his hands do not interfere with heated temperatures
when Narcissus touches my red-left-ear
without asking the rest of his body remaining same
steady
not even refreshing/refreshed anymore

he again and again clasps his shell hands around
my shoulders some sort of hug and i
freeze yet dissolve i am a watered down paradox
i do not know how to behave
i wish another Nemesis would clasp me that she
would put me into a bathtub my natural
habitat is water anyways
they are Rex and Regina and
i love how her hair remains darker, shorter
even after i cut his curls it does not matter what i do
they are powerful

meanwhile i am in the clouds all
blue all by myself i blurred my vision for
mountains of misunderstandings
those are my trophies i float and
scratch the tips of my fingers on all
the glowing god
awful drama i am a naked goddess the clouds
take me away
they shield me from lightning but not from darkness
i find myself fixated on the dark side of the moon for
scraps of paper it lulls for
individual letters it spits out
i wish i could stop being eighteen or nineteen or
twenty or twenty-two why do numbers come
for me algebra was never my forte i count
and count but my feelings never add up

and i finally feel grounded
into dirt Lupin closest to me our legs
line up without lights always
a little more wild
animal-like and
he kisses my back right where
i chose the moon to reside still it does not
phase me it does not change my desire
to dissect the muscles in his arms
leave the ones in his skull alone
doubt his feelings for me and my feelings for him and my feelings for me i lost my path and Lupin remains
third chasing me down dark chasms
consciously or pinned down we're always in bed
all of us pinned down by the heat by my pillows by the
lines on my neck
Lupin, i love it when you pin me down but you do not
keep me awake when
i've retreated into my bathtub

last blood moon made me bleed i am an
open wound still i am ******* holy/wholly
when you are conquered by me you will
scream for mercy

on middle grounds i shake the veils
around my waist that ground me minimally
i shake and shack them wishing to glue eyes next to
the garnets that garnish my see-
through dress i assess my desires again
i do not know about mildness i want
every star in the milky room every level in the crossed-out
game i want materials rough i want materially everyone on my list

you will never see through me even when
i open my chest there will be vaults of veils
Salome counted only seven but she was
a woman in the first century after men ****** up i
am intellectually miles ahead of her
i have sewn miles of veils together
a silky harness i shield myself with

my egotism is rising on a mountain of misunderstandings
in the milky room they all revolve around me my planets,
my moons crystal clear
my comets and you are dark energy Possessing me
everywhere yet persisting unveiled/unknown
not even your existence can be proven and i do not
ever want to see you/not see you
you are completely parallel to me

and i know my river sweetness is not over
me when he paints me i see his own
****** features through holes in my
face it pains me
how he still wishes we could
come together how he wouldn't
fall so far behind

you will never see through me
i twist the truth to be a diluted version of your thoughts which
i have read and despised i despise tongues and *****
still i dwell in wetness was this what i wanted to reach?
do i know? why do my eyes itch and i scratch until i bleed
never let it heal i want to be in pain

why do my eyes itch whenever i eat anything
itty bitty spicy risqué
why do i cry over four flights of stairs,
four flocks of friends,
four flights back home,
and the exit is wide wide open

Everyone knows Christmas Cake
but, I have got a hunch
That you've never heard the story
of Mike Fields Christmas Punch

Whenever there's a party
for Christmas or the like
A punch is always needed
And we call...Uncle Mike

It's a family tradition
It's Mike Fields secret brew
Like Mrs. Fogarty's Christmas Cake
This one's a killer too

It was Christmas Eve in London
The house was open to the street
We were celebrating Christmas
Sharing drinks with all we'd meet

The fridge was full of foodstuff
No more room for beer to go
When Mike in all his glory
Said "Let's put it in the snow"

So, laundry baskets gathered
We filled them to the top
It only took an hour
Before we heard them start to pop

Brown snow was in the basket
The beer had all blown to hell
But, Mike was not discouraged
And, it's this that rung a bell

Mike stood inside the kitchen
Looking for a bowl for punch
when he spied one on the counter
That we'd just used for our lunch

"Pat", he said, "don't worry"
"I know exactly what to do"
"I'm going to make an English Punch"
And he created witches brew

Like a mad doctor all frazzled
Mike quickly set about his task
With bottles full of god knows what
And no one sure was gonna ask

A bit of this, a splash of that
Some ***** and some juice
Some ginger ale, an orange twist
All were poured into his sluice

Every bottle he could muster
Were emptied in the bowl
To make a special Christmas Punch
That was Uncle Mike's new goal

Cranberries and almonds
Milk, champagne and then some ice
Some fruit juice and an olive
This would make it all taste nice

The spoon was spinning solo
Foam was pouring out the side
I wasn't sure about it
but, I was coming for the ride

Mike poured it into goblets
Paper cups would not survive
this brew was so ferocious
One drink and you won't drive

To add a little garnish
He put some orange slices in
They were already four days old
In fact, he pulled them from the bin

The room was a disaster
But the punch was a success
It was going to take a fortnight
To clean up all the mess

We drank the punch that Christmas
With the gusto it deserverd
To me it was the finest
Christmas punch that has been served

The recipe does not exist
It will never be the same
And the punch we had that Christmas
Doesn't even have a name

It was Michael Field concoction
That made that night one for the books
With a bowl of steaming, foaming punch
That garnered some strange looks

The next morning at clean up
We went to wash the bowl
And there on our back counter
Was nothing...but a hole

The punch had done a number
Eaten through the fruit and dish
and the smell left by the remnants
Made you think of rotting fish

It ate away the orange
Left the rind, disolved the fruit
Whether the punch was healthy for you
Well, that question was now moot

It was a punch beyond description
It was a punch, I know you'd like
It was served for just one Christmas
By our madman, Uncle Mike!

She readies the tomatoes & radishes
fresh lettuce leaves & green onion
then finishes with salad cream as a garnish
& puts the evening’s fish pie in the oven

The salad sings sweetly to her
of the bygone days of childhood summers
fast cars on winding country lanes,
the way her grandfather would say

something to his sheepdog
& watch it rush away again
in the sunlight’s  warm
grasp,  before the rain

wandering fields & farms
or out by Thor’s cave
always with a pair of binoculars
for counting birds & bats

& how he’d sleep in his armchair
in a red brick stack of a house
& how the dazed garden air
always smelt of tea roses

many years have gone past
& she keeps all the old photographs
under lock & key in Europe
& old birthday cards in their envelopes

Every Christmas the phone rings
out above a coal-filled fireplace
& the call goes to the answer machine
all that love gone to waste

* Thor's Cave is a cave in Manifold Valley in the county of Staffordshire in the UK

The Glasses were everywhere.
We'd ordered thirty minutes ago.
Through the trough of people, I spied a warning moon.

The piano man was drunk;
Carpet spinning into a disoriented equilibrium
Listening to the music of an
Unfinished album in D minor - bells and whistles in tact.

Caught off by no one, I learned quick to grow larger shoulders.
It was dark and I stood next to a man that a son once called Pa.
Two wenches of the street's West were moaning and smiling;
Lost children of a generation connected.
Their father's had abandoned their love to search for his own - for good reason.
To create and not love is the worst of the treason's.

Tailored suits and ten cocktails later, the mood lighting came down.
I saw the things I wanted to see at the time.
Looks like there's nothing else to do when the world ends but drink.
A foreign sound came from the kitchen line - love mixed with parsley & tender short rib.  
Garnish the hearts around you - keep it interesting - for the seconds are dwindling prettily.
Orange grove, scattered leaves, a pepper tree where underneath lie you and me.
Peace near the mouth of the river where Jack London swore he'd make us dinner.

"The heart can take more than the mind," advised the unwritten sage clothed in blue.

French pastry brunette burns through our bill like a forest fire.
She says she's from Paris, but she looks like she grew up in one of those small towns.
One of those small towns where sheep roam and trees are cut down by hand.
Her eyes remind me of polished almond's and when she smiles, we all smell strawberry lemonade.
She walks in the rain without an umbrella and, when she speaks,
The world turns another rotation, but slower this time.
She walks in the rain and doesn't mind getting wet.
With nowhere to be and no one to see, she is simply and ultimately free.

I press my palm on the edge of the table to watch the drinks slide toward me.
Everyone's dressed up like it's the prom and I'm wearing a baby-blue, leopard print cardigan.
I try again to remember another story of the past, but it's loose in my grasp.
When one is away for so long, it is hard to feel those old emotions.
Though we grow, parts of us stay the same.
And when we die, we are buried and given another life, another name.

The maitre d' dances to his own tune.
The barstools speak for themselves.
The glasses clink back and forth in rhyme like crickets in a field.

Bartender's and their backs are like soldier's in the heat of war.
These drunk's have money and we want it, men! This is what it's all about!
Head tilted toward an art deco fan, it spins like the old day's with elegance and indifferent ease.
White jackets, slicked back hair, she asks me what I want and I tell her I don't care.

We were young and we were old.
We made our choices, bad and good. .
We never once did what we were told
Everything was bought and nothing was sold.
Her love was like the smell of copper or gold.
She took my hand as it was shaking and cold.

We stand to shift against the tide that has thinned.
Particular's are exchanged by misguided currencies and unspoken promises.
The wenches are back and they're both dressed in black;
Masterpieces never looked so good.
Monet tips his hat and Gogh takes a sip,
As the white coats fire their third volley into the crowd.

A grin never said so much,
And never sounded so loud
As I watched you melt away
In the thick, seething crowd.

We paid our bills and walked outside.
The stars above walked with us in stride.
Son's and father's always give each other the tough ride.
There is no grander show of love, than one in disguise.

Thank you's and fare thee well's.
When we'll see each other again, I can never tell.

A moment becomes a memory.
A memory becomes a story.

A story becomes poetry.

And the poetry becomes life.

The room was packed in a kinda vacant almost like my mind way.
People posting words most spelled right most all  deep with big words which I really didnt understand.
Dam you kindergarden why didnt I pay more attention !

I was deep in some sort of cult meeting.
I belive people in that third world country called Canada people
call it a poetry reading.
You here to share your work sir?

the woman asked in a strange way unlike most women she didnt seem to be armed with anything but thoose dam tassers were getting smaller and smaller everyday but hey it isnt how big your tasser is it's how
you use it right girls?
Im know im not right.

The grand dragon or queen and owner of the cult approached the mic with a lingering want in his eyes
he gripped the mic firmly in his hands and from the way he handled the mic i could tell this was a man who enjoyed holding a mic in his hands hmmm must be playing for the other team like Green Bay Packers.
But enough about the man for who's name I cant mention or i'll be thrown in the princeple's office yet again.
And no man should have to face that *** dungeon by themself or at least without being paid first.


Hello poet's welcome to are open mic night he said in a very manish like Justin Bieber tone.
Oh baby but enough with the forplay children.

One by one the group said there verses covering many subjects most which were about fairy tales
like love and men who put down the seat after taking a **** duh who ever does that!?
And as these hampsters went through there woe's and tales of  lakes and long walks on the beach many had to question on such a deep level.

What the **** was ******* up semi insane ****** with a heart of gold like myself doing the **** here?
Im kidding im not a ****** I never charge.

And now fellow poets id like to welcome a very special guest.
Please give a warm poetry welcome to notorious black sheep of the site
one word can only describe him the man the mith the ******* who's so long winded he'll
put you into a coma Gonzo.


Without wasting time to speak utter nonsense in a utter crap style
Drew how we miss you.
I stood befor the group.

The silence a strange sister indeed many looked and i could tell what they thought
Whos this long winded *******.
Okay that kinda hurt.

I took a nice long breath of air in looked to the cult leader handed him my drink .
And began.

Poetry what can I say about it ?
Why did I ever start writting?
You may belive it was to voice the inner struggels of daily torment to give art to chaos.
Yes indeed.
Ahh **** folks im kidding i just did it to  make chicks think i was deep and its the only sport ive played where being a drunk is just a added plessure

Hey we can express are pain or just party are little drunken arses off
Me I only drink twice a week.
Weekdays and weekends.

Sure I could have come here been serious uptight never cracked a joke or mispelled anything cause i was having a few social bottles of whiskey with a like garnish of acid but what fun would that be?

Look everyone needs to laugh and every class needs clown just like every town its *****.
And every village its mispelling  idiot!
A voice said interupting my epic speech theres always a smart *** somewhere
but hey that was a good one ******.

Mr Gonzo is there any advice you can give us to make this write any longer?
Why yes young little hampster.
Always carry plenty  of cash for the strippers write more about drinking and *******.
And most of all Stay Crazy


Oh yeah and if your parents like your writing  it probaly *****.

And from the hushed voices i could tell i had touched the young minds but not in a weird avoid uncle Charlie and his nonexistant candy bar in the pocket kinda way.

It was more like uhh what the **** is he on and I hope insanity isnt catching cause i was
sitting next to that perve kinda way.

And so like a mad hatter or a kinda weird guy dressed like one at a all you can eat buffet
I was off.
And as I  put the pinto to the wind I herd the   applause
As that person for which we do not name said.
And finally that twisted freak Gonzo has left the building

My family What's app group
Is homemade soup.
It keeps me calm,
Soothes me like a balm,
Reduces tension of the day,
Appeases my appetite for what is happening in some way.
Family relationship is savoury broth,
Holds a strong bond and growth.
Photos and videos,
Not to forget audios,
Are seasonings which enhance the taste,
Just some, only the best.
Gossips,jokes and sayings need time to simmer,
To reach full flavour.
Family moans and groans,
Are birthdays, death,sickness and new borns,
Raining with condolences and wishes,
Tangy, no preservatives.
Family members are garnish,
Quite a relish,
With active members as crusty croutons,
That promote sociability  and traditions.
Passive members are fresh herbs,
Rarely a comment,only few words,
But,are there to bring out the lovely aroma.

Bitter snow blankets the ground
Cotton ***** fall like stars from the sky
Its heavy weight drags me down

The cold flakes don’t make a sound
As they garnish bone bare limbs and the
Bitter snow blankets the ground

It clings to trees, mound upon mound
Loaded like the truths never spoken
Its heavy weight drags me down

Beneath the surface life is drowned
Trees slouch like tired shoulders
Bitter snow blankets the ground

But a blizzard pales when you’re around
Stiff and frigid as any storm
Your heavy weight drags me down

Stony icicles crack in your frown
Will this winter ice ever melt?
Bitter snow blankets the ground
Its heavy weight drags me down

Old men in dresses wave hands across baskets
casting magic spells on sausage and oranges
then hocus pocus over horseradish root as
thick as a forearm, potato-peeled later
we'll garnish meats with mystical power.

They expect us to kiss the ****** feet of
a God immortalized in plaster while granite
saints stand watching a procession of misty-eyed
martyrs shuffling down the aisle like sheep,
and all the while the bells are ringing.

Always the ringing of bells.

Bells rung by boys standing still
ring like angels.

The old men hold crackers up to the light,
then more bells and drinking of blood
and finally its done. They waddle down
the nave casting incense in a metronome spray.

The boys follow behind the hypnotic smoke,
their bells have been put away,
pall bearers of the crucified Christ
they lead us not into temptation,
rather deliver us out the doors
and into the street,
redeemed and safe behind
the hedge of numbing ritual.

jesus i hate
          christmas readings --

low intonings,
bursts of song,
prayers -- so many
       ******* prayers ...

all in name of th'
                          "wonder & mystery"
of christmas,
                         the birth of
                     quote-on-quote
                               holy babe.
                                                  nativity story spoken
       as
true   granite   fact
                                ,
heads all nodding..

Caesar Augustus, yes,
the census -- oh good!
                   ... some lady doing a
Mary monologue ...
                                   my own father playing Joseph!
          father!
(lumbering Boris Karloff father of Christ)

-- grandmother!!
quit jabbing my shoulder
                 as i        
put pen
to page!
              these hands
              are not
              the hands
of a devotion blinded
         christian!
(blasphemous thoughts do i write!) (poems on *******)

here is
a woman in white!
                                (angel?)
very performance art
with that lighting
                              but
i'm not convinced ...

.  
                
    /
advent candles on
the altar ......
when the last is lit will a
heavn'ly chorus
                            ring out?,
blue flame batonning round
the sanctuary? orderly little halos.

-- grandmother get your
uplifted hands out of my face!

am i doing my part by
                                        holding this candle
        & singing hymns? ...

       (my arm is being twisted) (i call this penance/comes once a year)

                                                            where is my eggnog & ***??
a friend / hiding behind some poinsettias (****** good idea)
supplies a fitting finish. garnish for my thoughts:

           "man ...
i want
            some
christmas h
                    anky-
    panky. "

(then:)

*"****.                            that
            doesn'
                        t
fit under a
                   tree..."

She wore a smile like a scented candle. It was warm and comforting but… too easy to extinguish. This other girl existed on one end of a knotted piece of string suspended between 2 tin cans… It was hard to reach her, and when you did, her tongue seemed as knotted as the string.

But on days where these two can’t seem to stop smiling. When their bow tie tongues make phone calls sound like miracles… we say things like..

Don’t jinx it.


When underdogs bark like poodles but bite like alpha wolves. when the up-and-coming upstarts undercut higher overseers. At the risk of burning too quickly or too brightly, we say…

Don’t jinx it.


When the meek and the naive achieve more than we perceive.

When we dream on Christmas eve of what we may receive.

When we say things like ‘We’ve been through worse… she won't leave’.

we say…

Don’t jinx it.



The human condition demands so much caution and fear, we shed tears and rub our eyes till all we can see is the least of what we can be and we… live like slaves to the thing that stole our confidence away… ourselves. Somewhere down the line or self belief was found K.I.A so when we try something new, we’re already D.O.A.

So when we play pika-boo with our power, appear like a shower of rain in a desert when you’d already chosen dehydration as your only way out, we dare to tell ourselves, don’t jinx it.



Ladies and gents, boys and girls, you don’t have to rule the world. You don’t have to cure a disease or discover new species or banish hatred from the hearts of man or travel the and experience sights and scenes that only in your wildest dreams did you think you’d see. You don’t have to do a single thing!

But you can do anything.

When Martin Luther King said Let freedom ring, he didn’t fear jinxing a single thing.

And when the Beatles sang love is all you need they weren’t deceived by the forethought that their song wouldn’t be well received. They believed that they could plant the seed that would lead  this musical scene into places unseen.

They believed that all you need is love. That they had the stuff to turn lyrics into legends. They wrote songs so deeply entrenched into our musical history... you’d need a yellow submarine to find them all and… they didn’t care about what they jinxed along the way.

They held their hearts like David held his sling when Goliath told him he was too small, and so should we all, we should stand taller than our legs can and every man or woman who said you can’t you, you shouldn’t will fall! Fall silent like when the voices in your head are all in agreement and are screaming yes!



Confidence is a bag of marbles with a hole in it. You’ve got to think back to where you’ve been to find it again. But whether you’re happy with your marbles, still looking for those you’ve lost or if you lost them entirely… we can share. We’ll stir sweet smiles into your coffee, stitch compliments into your clothes and we’ll garnish every plate and bowl with the untold hope that you’ll believe in yourself.

Like I believe you. Because I do believe in you… and I won't jinx it.

Banal though you seem to be
I charge you to envisage free
A scarlet thought, a venal throb
To garnish with a stifled sob,
A crystal tear to reinforce  
The reticence I suspect, of course,
The reticence which binds you to
A crass and **** dogma's view.

Why, you say, why take this tack?
Well??? Someone needs to bring you back.....
Back to face your beauty's soul
To extricate this black Popes' goal
Of binding you to penitence
Obliterating freedom's sense!

Marshalg
8 July 2013

When I was young, I was given a ring.
My mother gave it to me before she said goodbye, with a kiss and a wave.
Honestly, though, purity rings, even then, seemed like a fluke
with me. I was a rose
then, too. Blossom to the eye and thorns underneath, eyes stained an icy blue
and childish hands that were calloused, from playing, and rough.

I kept that trait with me. Being rough.
like a boxer in a ring.
I learned to fight, body covered in bruises in shades of black and blue.
My emotions were as dependable as waves –
tender and tranquil. And sometimes, unexpectedly, they rose.
Sensitivity was always a fluke.

So, naturally, falling in love was a fluke.
I wasn’t so pure at sixteen, because it was rough
to keep my mouth shut and my hands to myself around a girl named Sydney Rose.
They say sharks circle you before they attack, making endless rings
before making decisions and going for what they want, rising to the waves.
I just wanted to take her with me, into those murky depths of blue.

My fingers laced with hers, even years later, when we saw her veins of blue
beginning to become more apparent. Her sickness, a fluke.
It must have been, because it hurt her hand to wave
goodbye from behind hospital curtains. Grabbing at something you’re barely missing is rough
when all you’ve wanted is to garnish the finger with a ring
since you were sixteen years old, loving this Sydney Rose.

But as I’ve learned, despite its beauty, a rose
will one day wilt, and fingers tipped in blue
may never wear their rings.
Love, even in its most pure, must have been a fluke
with me, when someone can no longer kiss you roughly
against your mouth, passion no longer coming in insatiable waves.

I gave a little wave
to a stone marked with a name, date, and roses
piled high, petals tenderly grazing against a marker so rough.
And salt-water rivers threatened to drain, so blue,
from my eyes and past a mouth pursed in confusion against such a fluke.
And to say goodbye, I buried with her the symbol of purity that could match our love – my ring.

Now I wear another ring, one with a gold tinted with rose.
I sit in our house overlooking waves, overlooking an ocean blue.
And solitude seems such a fluke, when a life taken means making life remaining rough.