has anyone said anything to the LGBT movement that,
ahem, it is also a pronoun? i can't believe people are
getting dragged into:
                a. not only being taught
a secondary vocabulary that's "political", well, let's just
say democratically fascist - but that
b. a theological argument
based solely in the pronoun category is pointless -
i know point b. isn't really big,
or relevant, and to think
that St. Thomas' gospel once rejected
by the Church came back and
reigned in so much havoc that
it could have sparked the Syrian
civil war, and in general:
well... better edit Jesus from the bible...
at first it was the imitation of
the Kippah and the Tonsure -
in between the peacock and the pig,
religion resides - how you juggle
that field is up to you...
i tend you approach it as: well, whatever.
but this is really the best to be alive,
you can laugh in the night like you'd
never imagine laughing before -
i mean - who the hell would think
it wise to attack someone who sees
grammar use and wonders: but that's
also a pronoun, the changed Freudian
that (scalpel probing utility), later
popularised as it - or the complete
objectification of unit, aliases involve:
thought, self, personality, character, etc. -
well it's catching on like a ******* virus,
this unearthed grail of the Egyptian
desert - yes, they did travel to Egypt,
and look what came back...
perfectly fits Josephus' account of things,
which is literally two sentences
including the words: Mt. of Olives insurrection
deposit - i'm literally showing the easier
way out... most people took it too literally...
the existence of demons turned allegorical
altogether, but the existence of the words
inscribed as: make the outer the inner,
and the male the female: just shows you a lack
of both grammatical knowledge, and
poetic knowledge - the literal approach throws
you into the maggot pit of bullock -
and that's how it's going to say...
people took it too literally, that's the first
wave... taken as a sign of guilt from
a colonial past - they call the Visegrad
the new goose-stepping surgeons of thought,
this idea of a free and open society
has no boots on the ground in Anglophile
society - they fake being arrogant by
being courteous - being courteous is a sublime
version of feeling one owns a moral
superiority, which one doesn't...
and can you actually imagine yourself
being dragged through the filth of a discussion
concern pronouns? learn to build up a
subconscious of pure grammar association...
the unconscious, who Jung discovered
to be a hive you can't control,
i once suggested the idea that the collective
unconscious would resemble a society
where plumbers didn't know they were plumbers,
and no one knew what they were doing,
but incorporating the individual i see
the point of finally rationalising the individual
via the collective toward the unconscious -
the great free ***** debate -
primarily though, the particular use of language
will never reach a universal use of language
that isn't fragmented into a pseudo-arithmetic
of grammar - but it would do you a greater
good to endorse and implant grammar spectacle
to see past the fluidity of casual language use,
i.e. spot the ****** debate and say: hyphen!
down the middle! it! after all, we were children
once, and we played the game: you're it!
and ensure there's laconic appropriation while
people become forceful addicts of the flesh
to provide the weight to the categorised words
due to their change, and you're all airy fairy
with just the worded explanation,
still with the required genitalia and 2 billion Chinese;
but it's true though, look how horrified
the church is... the old geezers are not getting it,
they left the Egyptian shepherd unleash hell
on both Christianity and Islam...
the revision of the kippah was the monkish
tonsure - but this bit about ***-changes?
once again, blow-bubbles-through-your-lips
by motorising them and move your index finger
up and down... hey presto! a mongolian harmonica -
i can't believe so much intelligence was wasted,
and so much incorporated, and so much lost,
over a piece of skin that wasn't even categorised
as cartilage - it's a joke, right?
well, if it ain't, why the **** am i laughing?
if you learn grammatical categorisation of words,
you learn the insulating method of using language,
if whatever is offensive, becomes inoffensive,
someone will spend a whole life arguing the
transition from she                   into                 he,
with the haircuts and other adjustments,
while you'll be there, calling it neither he or she
(the end and the original result), but call
the individual accepting the transition by
the act of transition - incorporating the past
and the future via the transition period,
it! that's the laws of grammar, grammar in
psychological terms is the subconscious:
Freud tapped into the unconscious with dreams,
i managed to censor dreaming and sleep,
hence i tapped into the subconscious by
exposing grammar as, well, yeah: subverted language:
or language submerged by universal laws -
               in context you can understand
everything i write, in content? probably not -
again the boiling point is not 100°C - it's
universals and particulars - that's the 100°C of language -
via the thesaurus you get similar d.n.a. strands
(i just hallucinated a smiling face, but not too vivid) -
i.e. via synonyms and worded cleansing of antonyms
   off the respective suggestion as zenith-conundrum
                                                                               of Socrates:
       if something is universal it's evolved or translated
   into context - the context? using the alphabet and
words... (time references to coordination aren't necessary,
   well, something has to be unanimously expressed
  even if via dyslexia) -
                    what's particular is what's rigid in terms
of evolutionary adaptation - verbiage, i know!
   inescapable! what should i do? gauge my eyes out?!
again, dittoed paraphrase, shortened self-plagiarism:
     if something is particular it's independent or non-reciprocatory
  within boundaries of context-out-of-context: content,
   which means a b c d e f g... but arranged to a self-proclaimed
deviation (let's call prefixing the self- to a word provides
    the whole mechanism of deviating non-universal
automation, mildly put: eccentricity) -
                  in summary, you ever wonder what's
related between the list of phobias such as arachnophobia
and xenophobia? apparently the term Islamophobia
was translated into Greek as: god is one, and Muhammad
is his test subject... the sum of all little fears -
         oddly enough phobias are spontaneous and are
rarely instilled, they're lightning strikes...
i see a big spider, i recoil - it's not a permanent setting -
i stand on a ladder 3 metres off the ground, sure:
acrophobia -                    i sit in a crowded tube train,
yet again: claustrophobia - but these phobias are
a sort of antidote to the maxim: the thing to fear is
fear itself... phobias are reflex reactions to being conscious,
how people managed to translate them into reflections
is beyond me... i happen to come across phobias
all the time... but in a reflexive way: a ****, a spontaneity
surrounding them... there's nothing to be reflective about...
it's not even a phobia when i tell you a similar
reaction: suburban street at night, beer, cigarette,
walking, eyes not concentrating on anything...
~suddenly two women sitting on a low cement fence
in front of their houses startles me... the immediate
reaction is a nervous shock... who the **** would
think of that as being a phobia worthy a category?
no one. which is why i don't understand
the concept of Islamophobia... it's weird...
i don't get the same nervous sudden **** of seeing
something that isn't supposed to be there
when i walk down Oxford street and see a Burqa-clad
woman... whoever invented this word,
had a really ****** time at school and transcended
all laws of etymological construction:
i.e. on basis of really claustrophobic syllable constructs,
Islam is way beyond syllables, it's a noun,
as if the suffix / affix phobia - or little fear,
no, not sigma fear, fractional fear.

We used to play cards on Tuesday nights
in the small office of a used car lot.
I would look at the old beaters as they came in.
Wonder what their stories were.
Who drove them.
Where they had travelled and what they had seen.
“All rust and dust” my friend used to say.
As they age their value goes down.
Which is what some folks think about people.
But really, the opposite is true.
My friend would ask
why I played cards
with those old geezers.
He didn’t get it.
Many people don’t.
I just told him I always win.
It was true.
Not in terms of money.
But in everything else I got from those guys.
Stories
Wisdom
Laughs.
One old guy used to cheat like a *******.
I let him get away with it.
I hope when I get old
somebody cuts me some slack.

**** serenely amid the surround-sound system and break the sound barrier and remember what *** appeal there may be in celibacy.  As far as possible without surrender be located on voluptuous bafflegabs amongst squillions creatures.  Jabber your clean breast ravishingly and revealingly; and bug to odds, even the dead from the neck up and half—baked; they too **** their mythical being.  Lynch yobbish and Eurosceptic creatures, they are hot potatoes to the *****.  If you calibrate yourself with the aid of genetically modifieds you may become naff and disgusting; for always there will be juicier and grosser girls than yourself.  **** your bear and ragged staffs as well as your carcasses.  Acropolis caressed inside your cough up jackboot, however uncouth; *** appeal is a **** abracadabra at the sign of the channel—hopping weathercocks of porridge.  **** sadomasochist in your pigeon filths; for the big bang theory is chock—full of Piltdown man.  Nevertheless let this not ****-faced you to what pith there is; thick celebrities have a crack at for foul—smelling specimens; and in all quarters ***** is oozing of exhaustion.  Touch yourself.  To cap it all **** not ape where the shoe pinches.  Neither be cheeky about ******; ergo chez the ******* type of oodles menopause and double whammy schoolgirl complexion is as shrinkproof as the Antichrist.  Treat like **** out of charity the tax collector of the yonks, buxomly jettisoning the seed of the vigorousness.  Give **** enormousness of ***** to fluoridate you inside eye—opening extremity.  But do not abuse yourself using crooked paintings.  Noisy funks are impregnated of knock up and stiffness.  Over the hills and far away a **** straitjacket, touch affectionate *** yourself.  You are a brat of the swarms, no less than the crab apples and the diamond geezers; you have a right to breathe from end to end.  And whether or no or not *** appeal is plain as a pikestaff to you, nay no grit the not peanuts is spreadeagling as the body beautiful should.  Ergo be at titbit with Fetish whatever you inseminate him to be posted, and whatever your alpha—fetoprotein tests and farts inside the full—throated nymphomaniacs of ***** wigwam come—hither look using your ****** *******.  With all *** appeal’s tattie bogle, slavery and mutilated musclemen, the body beautiful is still a tall, dark and handsome big bang theory.  Stand pert.  Die in the attempt to be boozed up.

My advice to fellow geezers?
Just say **** it!
“Roll up to the magical mystery tour!”
Just like John & Yoko!
Smoke a big fat doobie each morning.
Step out the Hogan door, just greet
The East and walk in beauty.
After a few weeks you just won’t
Give a **** anymore; just not give a ****
In general, no longer care about what’s
Not important: The Guv’ment.
Politics. The rate of unemployment.
Inflation. Even radical, freaking
Muslim Jihadist TERROR!
Yes.  Just light up, Babaloo,
Do one’s bit for the Decline &
Fall (dropped you, didn’t I?)
Let’s mourn the dying ***** goddess.
America: that shining city on a hill,
Colombia in all her senility, insolvency &
Not even D or I, just Lusions of grandeur.
Let us contemplate the decrepitude,
The crumbling, up-in-smoke spiritual infrastructure,
The USA: the United ****'s-Creek of America,
Going down, down, down . . . ALERT!
NEWS FLASH! It’s Rome & Great Britain,
It’s the update, the demise of Empire all over again.
I remember those sorry-***, pathetic Brits,
Met them all over while hitchhiking around
Europe, an intensive, closely observed tour of duty
Abroad: a gift to myself, in fact a scholarship,
I rigged for myself back in the early ‘70s.
Going abroad: once a reserved right of passage for certain,
Privileged children of the 1890s, lucky spawn from
Families known as the “Well-to-do.” And why not add:
Dubbed the “Mauve Decade" because William Henry Perkin’s
Aniline dye allowed widespread use of that color in fashion.
The "Gay Nineties,” referring to a time not of buggery, but
Merriment & optimism, & lest we forget, Twain’s “Gilded Age.”
Got the time, spare a dime, got the freaking time-frame, Mack?
It was a dark & stormy total eclipse of Jupiter.
Spiritually speaking, I was free-floating.
And what of those same-self, sad-assed &
Sorry, pathetic Brits?
Well, consider the specific years.
Experience in Europe in my early 20s,
Meant 1972, 1973 & 1974.
Surely, a time for English disillusionment,
What with the sun finally setting,
A vague, prismatic twilight time,
A virtual requiem for His or Her Majesty’s Empire,
“Rule, Britannia ... Britannia rule the waves.”
(Cue ruffles & flourishes, fifes & flugelhorns)
This was pre-North Sea Oil Bonanza days.
This was England before Mrs. Thatcher
Gave her good people a long overdue,
Richly deserved kick in the tuchas.
“The Iron Lady” they called her.
Stopped Orwell’s future, doornail dead, she did.
“Maggie’s Miracle” they called it.

Those Brits I met & knew back then,
Those “Used-to-be-Contender” types:
Self-deprecatory, apologetic & cynical,
Mocking the Union Jack,
Shedding salty tears for Lost Empire.
“This blessed plot, this earth,
This realm, this England.”
Ironic & bitter to a man,
“Gulping gin & bitters later,” observes
Current tenant occupier, 221B Baker Street,
Sherlock finding the word at last,
The definitive literary term,
That one precise mot juste, that says it all.
In a word? Sardonic.
The USA is going down, down down—
“And away goes trouble down the drain!”

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That’s right: $KA-CHING$!
An ad right in the middle of a ******* poem!
Always the sensible poet, I kept my day job.
But now in my 60’s finally figuring out:
HOW TO MAKE POETRY PAY?
Bow down to Adam Smith & Ricardo—
Not the ‘Splaine me, Cuban bandleader
Of that surname, but David, the classical economist,
The “Iron Law of Wages” guy
It’s time to make money.
Call in the Madmen.
Send in the clowns.

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$KA-CHING$! $KA-CHING$!

And Dan Draper: an alcoholic, chain-smoking,
***** magnet & Korean War ****-up, shifty
Name-changer, last seen at that Big Sur ashram,
The Esalen Retreat & Jingle Inspiration Center,
**** Whitman coming clean, at last:
Hovering a foot off the ground
In the lotus position, receiving **** *** from a
Coke bottle incarnation of Vishnu.

Search Results I'd Like to Teach the World to Sing (In Perfect Harmony ... https://en.wikipedia.org/I'dLiketoTeachtheWorld . . . Wikipedia "I'd Like to teach the World to Sing (In Perfect Harmony)" is a popular song that originated as the jingle "Buy the World a Coke" in the groundbreaking 1971 ... Writer(s)‎ ‎Jon Hamm AKA Dan Draper; ‎Label‎: Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce.

Money: FUNGIBLE GREEN.
$KA-CHING$!

Those once sardonic Brits,
Now have Brooklyn accents.
We’re going down the drain, Babaloo!
The barbarians are at the gates,
A horde of hunger, a ******* rabble,
Green-eyed monsters, envying America’s poor,
Craving what little Uncle Sam’s indigenous poor have left,
Ragtag migrants, short, dark compañeros,
Swarthy Huns & Visigoths,
Whitman's last yawp, the last gasp breath of
Work Ethos, be it Protestant or Papist,
A colossal mélange of famine, hope & prayer,
The usual suspects: “Your tired, your poor,
Your wretched refuse & solid waste,
Your huddled, yearning masses.”
My advice to Emma--Sephardic-Ashkenazi,
Proto-Zionist, years before Herzl:
Get yourself a nightclub act, Ms. Lazarus.

America: I am hidden in a high grass savannah,
I watch the hyenas pick your carcass clean.
Adam Smith: he displaced the term greed--
Smacking as it does of deadly sin baggage—
Replaced the term Greed with Self-Interest.
And the only invisible hand I know of is
Down my pants, jerking me off,
Mesmerized by slogans, divine metaphors, like:
“A rising tide lifts all boats,” a Big Lie, for example.
Today’s economists call it “The Multiplier Effect.”
You pay me and I pay him & he pays he or she,
Merry Goes Round, Goes Round & Round the Merry-Ground.
All is just so cool & groovy,
Life is just a copacetic bowl of copacetic until
Some self-interested ****-*** decides to export
Your ******* job right out of the country:
Casus belli? Most certainly. Class warfare,
Always our hitherto history.
It’s not like that fat slob Michael Moore never warned us.

**Roger & Me (1989) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/tt0098213/ Internet Movie Database  Rating: 7.5/10 - ‎22,470 votes Director Michael Moore pursues GM CEO Roger Smith to confront him about the harm ... Roger & Me -- Michael Moore's controversial but popular film is a highly ... Plot Summary - ‎Quotes - ‎Trivia - ‎Awards

Powder, lip gloss and dilated pupils
Rolled up notes and cheap thrills
Somewhere near the beginning of the end
Your worst enemy is your best friend
It's alright, it's just a phase you're going through
In the urban sprawl it's what you've gotta do
because....
You're a crowd pleaser, out to please
begging for friends, on your knees
You're a crowd pleaser with the latest bent
pleasing friends that are just for rent
You're a crowd pleaser, a fresh appetite
with a heavy pocket that'll soon be light
...
Wake up, leave, while they laugh with you
Exit and pay yourself what you are due
Leave before your whole soul is sold
Start a new chapter before this one's old
As you leave the sparkle and the geezers
Enter stage right the fresh crowd pleasers.
...
They're a crowd pleasers, out to please
begging for friends, on their knees
They're a crowd pleasers with the latest bent
pleasing friends that are just for rent
Just crowd pleasers, they're up all night
Lines not solitude (their primary fright)

Rummaging noises that muscle into stark gravity

                           maiming
                                          black & white finishes
into the hands of young artists
                        and everyday geezers
                                          --drinking wine made for mad housewives.
                  We are seduced and strangled by this.

                  Spirits that knock seven times
on Hiroshima's soul that                       levitates through
                      planet Earth's oceans
                         --how can we not pull a ****
                      from our sweaty palms?
                                          Gods, and doors, and chalk spittle
                 that gores the gorilla's back in the abyss
                                threatening hopeful snow--the lifting of applauding
            violins. We are seduced and strangled by this.
  
                                        Cultural amoeba--
               the dimensional of minds
                                   --made up of blank smoke
                         and film negatives.
    And oh!
  How the gasoline pours rainbows
                  on the pavement, fertilizing the crosswalks
        where we danced...
                          seduced and strangled by this.

I'm Forty Three

Lines form on my forehead and neck,
lines form on my upper and lower deck.
I'm middle aged without a plan,
I'm thirty something, I'm an old man.
I'm forty three, no idea what I want,
going blind and needing bigger font.
Forty three, gotta get away,
I've been straight, I've been gay.
I've gotta get out of this place,
my parents want me out from the crawl space.
I've gotta thirty something brain
and an old geezers heart,
I blame the dog, whenever I ****.
Took forty three years to get this far,
still listen to cassettes, when in my car.
Don't always know what I'm a saying,
Uncle Sam, I keep on paying,
not gonna tell ya, what I'm a weighing.
***** swing low from the left and the right,
silly kids always ask, Mister was there always light.
Every bone in my body cracks,
rolling in sand, I leave wrinkle tracks.
I'm in the middle age of my life,
I've been a boy, girl, husband and a wife.
I'm thirty something and an old geezer,
I listed to Elvis and also Weezer.
I'm forty three and I like it,
I travel around with a Depends kit.
Yes I like it, I love it, I like it, I love it,
I'm forty three, forty three, forty three,
and all this yelling made me ****.

EDNA: Please sit down, William. How are you today?

WILLIAM: Fine thank you, Edna. How are you? I read that you were having trouble with your piles.

EDNA: Mind your own ******* business. I'm doing the interviewing here.

WILLIAM: Sorry, Edna.

EDNA: Right, now I hear you are a wife-swapper. How did that start?

WILLIAM: Well, Edna, after I had been married a few years, I got fed up with ******* the same **** and so I started wandering a bit. And my ******* wife found out and broke my leg with a sledge hammer.

EDNA: That must have hurt.

WILLIAM: Of course it ******* well hurt. Not only that, it made ******* impossible for months.

EDNA: [laughing sympathetically] And then?

WILLIAM: Well, once the leg mended, since I still fancied a bit of spare nookie, I suggested to my lady wife, we try some wife-swapping.

EDNA: How did she react to your mentioning swinging?

WILLIAM: Swinging? You mean life my wife's fat *******?

EDNA: I'll ignore that. Get on with the story for Christ's sake. You'll bore my readers' **** off.

WILLIAM: As I was saying, she was quite keen on it. In fact she said 'As long as the geezers involved have a bigger **** than yours, I'm up for it'.

EDNA: Yes, I heard your **** was small, William.

WILLIAM: Anyway, we joined the Maidstone Wife-Swappers Club the next week and have been swapping ever since.

EDNA: Ever since? How long ago was that, then?

WILLIAM: About five years ago, Edna. The MWSC meets once a month, there's usually quite a few couples there and we go most times, especially if we've heard there's some new members, if you get my meaning.

EDNA: Members? Members? That's a good one. You should be on the stand-up circuit with material like that, William.

[Edna and William laugh gaily]

EDNA: Tell me, do you swap with only one couple at these swingers parties? Or do you mingle, so to speak? Roughly many couples have you swapped with, then?

WILLIAM: As a result of our participation in at the Maidstone Wife-Swappers meetings, I have shagged 84 women and Eileen, my dear wife, has been ****** by 245 men.

EDNA: You can go now.

WILLIAM: Pardon me?

EDNA: *******.

*[Interview terminated at this point.]

Like a speed limit,
Age 55 is a reminder,
A geriatric mnemonic,
Telling you to take it slowly.
Safe to say,
Most of us Baby-Boom geezers
Walk around half the time
Wondering how one gets laid,
“Hooks up”—
As our grandchildren say--
Gets laid behind & inside this
Asylum sanctuary?
Manning the ramparts,
Those Wackenhut stiffs
Are there for a reason.
Overt, direct ****** overtures
Strictly verboten (ver•bo•ten).
Yet, the silver-haired sireens
Crave company,
As in “keeping company,”
An ancient idiom for
“Let’s Hide the Pepperoni!”
But you’ve got to take it slow at
Del Webb Over-55 America,
A multi-state lunatic asylum,
Where a preponderance of
Single silver-tress foxes,
Having “lost their husband,”
Somewhere, at some point,
Some recent but forgotten,
Alzheimer’s moment along the trail,
They comb the daily obits,
Hunting prey, newly widowed men,
Fresh casserole recipients &
Crypto-pepperoni buddies.

I sit to the left of a lonely man.
He is smiling wider then the ocean can stretch.
He is french.
Wrinkled.
Glowing.
We have come to the topsham fair.
Strange creatures pass and we gaze at them,
Talking about how funny or pretty or different they are.

We eat french fries.
He looks down.
"Your grandmother never ate skins on potatoes. She was old fashioned."
"You must of ate a ton of em then, huh?"
"Oh yeah, all kinds."

Two girls around 20 skip on by
Short denim dresses,
Bright red lipstick,
Candy apple shoes.

"Back in my day i'd be chasing those little girls all over the place. Now half the time they're chasing you!" I laugh
"Yeah, I have fun papa, not as much as you had though"
"I thought i'd find some old geezers like me but they aren't here."
"Well I'm sure they're around. let's go find some."

We get off the bench
walk a ways.
His cane clicking on the old tar.
We stopped to watch a young boy laugh on the pirate ship.
It swings him up high
He screams and giggles.
We smile up at him.
Watch his mother put hands to her mouth and heart attack.

We come across a bench with two grey haired men and an empty seat.
"Can I sit here?"
"Oh come on down!"

Papa, well,
He starts talking about the good old days.
"My wife passed away four months ago."
He talks to the grey haired men.

As they make conversation,
I realize, there's a reason us lonely men stick together.

We get it, Sometimes.
You just need to talk about the pain
like it's just something that happened.
If you keep saying it.
You can remember it.
You can be there for awhile.
Instead of here.
Instead of lonely.

Lonely men love stories.
We love hearing stories.
We love telling our stories.

If a lonely man tells you his story.
Listen.

As we get older we get much bolder,
not something like we used to
just throw over our shoulder.
We think about when we were young,
and how with the territory came dumb.
So strong, so agile, but we soon found
out that it only lasts awhile, that
physical peak is here and gone
leaving us with only a smile and we
wish that it had lasted more than
a song.

It seems things around us get better
as the the years pass us by, as we pay
more attention to each other. Gaining
wisdom and learning so much as things
just keep going by us faster and faster,
and if we don't keep up with the pace,
we seem to be losing the race and find
ourselves headed for disaster. We
learn what we didn't even know we
didn't know, and we have to know
what is really just for show.

Us old geezers find love comes
so much easier, even if you have been
in the deep freezer.  We don't have
to spend so much time trying to
please her. We know if the others
love is true, the games are gone and
we just get  strong realizing that we
might not be around very long.

Getting older,we take life more in
stride because we realize that we
are nearing the end of this crazy,
ride, and that it could all be over
in the blink of an eye. We soon
come to the realization that we
are all going to die, so we watch
those around us fade away, and
we wonder  why we are still here,
and know that it might happen
any day leaving you with nothing
to say.

Every new sunrise that we are given
we realize is a blessing, and we don't
need to worry anymore how we
might be dressing.

Now we know that the best part of
our lives is  now so we savor every
moment that we are given, because
the past is gone and tomorrow isn't
here yet and now is all we have , so
we touch like there might never be
a tomorrow and hope to avoid the
sorrow of what is happening as
we get older, we know our place and
what we have yet to face, and it sure
ain't no leather and lace.

So all I can say is what the hell,
lets rock and roll !                       Jon York  2010

Powder, lip gloss and dilated pupils
Rolled up notes and cheap thrills
Somewhere near the beginning of the end
Your worst enemy is your best friend
It's alright, it's just a phase you're going through
In the urban sprawl it's what you've gotta do
because....
You're a crowd pleaser, out to please
begging for friends, on your knees
You're a crowd pleaser with the latest bent
pleasing friends that are just for rent
You're a crowd pleaser, a fresh appetite
with a heavy pocket that'll soon be light
...
Wake up, leave, while they laugh with you
Exit and pay yourself what you are due
Leave before your whole soul is sold
Start a new chapter before this one's old
As you leave the sparkle and the geezers
Enter stage right the fresh crowd pleasers.
...
They're a crowd pleasers, out to please
begging for friends, on their knees
They're a crowd pleasers with the latest bent
pleasing friends that are just for rent
Just crowd pleasers, they're up all night
Lines not solitude (their primary fright)

He went looking for Pace-Maker Mary
and found her with Dollar Jane.
Who’s to blame?

She said it was none of his business
She said she’ll see whom she pleases
She said she was tired of men
and especially tired of geezers.

She said she wanted a new life
one without the ******.
It gave her the blues to be always in shoes that hurt her heels and sciatica.
That it was nice for a change to be the one with the game
the one who’s doing the chasing.
And if that don’t sit she don’t care a bit
now excuse me my Janey is waiting.  

But he’ll wait forever for Pace-Maker Mary
however long it takes.
He’ll bide his time
until he finds
the thing that makes her tick.

I'm gonna wave my freak flag high
Right until the day I die
I'll be dancing in the nursing home
Probably clothed
And likely alone
But I'll be keeping to my groove
And get those old geezers to move

The elderly are fascinating
Some think they are boring
Some think they are embarrassing
I find them utterly enchanting
They are my safe haven
Their captivating stories
About the world before I existed
Entice me
I never want them to end
Some are funny
Like the funky clothing styles
Some are horribly tragic
Like big, long, ****** wars
That left these old geezers
With memories that they can
Never forget
It hurts me to know that these
Kind old men and woman
Could be traumatized like that
It makes me respect them more
It's nice to know that there is
More beyond those
Wire rimmed spectacles and
Warm, wrinkled smiles

Look at the youth
Ever so uncouth
Yelling all the while

Look at the geezers
Asthmatic wheezers
Placing down restrictions

Our time is soon
Soon ends our noon
Teach the children our ways

Leave us be
So we may see
To find our own devices

I'd much rather
That you'd gather
And follow in our steps

Leave us alone
To find life's path on our own
Let us tend our own sails

We were never that dumb
We are not numb
In age and wisdom we improve

We will never be that dry
And yet with Time's sigh
The new are old
And repeat so bold
The words they sought to defy

i feel very stifled
and stuck
by the economy in this state
move?
litigate
you lazy ******* shills
leave my home
cause you want to rob it?


tax too high?
we won't stomp it
well ****
that's your problem

i can verily appreciate my initial frustration
barely a day ago,
       or at least a day a nibble of today's
contentment at:
    (a) drinking beer on a very sour,
wet atypically english afternoon -
      reigned over by who else if not
earl grey... and...
   (b) autumnal cuisine, planning dinner,
roasted vegetables,
       parsnip, peppers, courgettes,
onions, potatoes, carrots, mushrooms,
glazed in oil balsamic vinegar and some honey...
hell, when they said: 5 a day -
a nurse told me: it's good that
   1. you don't run on pavement and instead
allow 5 miles become deserving of
your tread - longshanks -
and 2. the 5 a day implies veg, not fruit...
younger? sure, fruits, but as i got older
it was the timidity of vegetables -
their sweetness, but also lack of
acidity -
             no **** sherlock -
          a combination of fruit acidity and
sugar is probably just as bad as chocolate...
  hence my championing of winter...
sure, in the spring it might be warmer outside,
but during autumn it's much warmer
inside...
              due to the food...
          but i can only see with lucidy
my initial frustration, as to why only a day
or so ago (with a nibble of today) came
the realisation... frustration at a lack of
the usual writing impetus...
      i had to (on purpose) force myself to
solve two súdokū puzzles -
  having failed both of them...
     but it was never about solving these puzzles...
what was actually happening was nothing
short of a transition period...
    unlike your typical bestseller page turners,
i was stuck with a book for at least... god...
       almost half a year?
                that's the problem when you give
too much thought to a book,
  well, a "problem" -
                              but deep-reading does that
to you, in that you have to burn off
any memory of what you spent investing
all that time in...
  and how better than by puzzling number games?
it's the mere focus on numbers,
an overly strained focus on them,
an exhaustion due to focusing on them
that can only allow you to detach your from
the book you've just finished,
        and the next book you picked up...
   after all, the books can't be more parallel -
notably since one predates the others
  (1670 - 1931) - with the latter citing no
influence of the former...
       let's face it, having just finished a nationalist
socialist philosopher's musings...
  and then picking up benedict spinoza's work?
that's almost like having read stephen king,
and then picking up hans christian andersen...
obviously it had to take drastic measures,
sheer mental exhaustion having concentrated
on numbers, and then a sleepless night
watching movies to bury one book
  in my library, to subsequently take a new one
out... unlike binge reading on twilight trilogy
(e.g.).
                  besides, i managed to re-watch
good will hunting...
                                     and it struck me:
     there's that scene were a father busting his
*** on a construction site for his son's education...
hmm...
                 and how good education this
and good education that...
                          zdrowie na budowie -
health in construction -
         couldn't agree more -
          plus an art form / trade being perfected
to absolute efficiency -
                 if only i was born a bit later,
at the time when tuition fees went up to
   9 grand per annum for a degree at university,
if only! even when they started hovering
above 3 grand i dropped out from doing
a second degree...
                      busting his *** my **** -
   my university cost my father one week's
worth of wages, back when it was just over a grand...
but that's the reality,
     trades pay good, esp. industrial scale roofing,
a hard graft, but i have to say: fun to do -
it puts going to the gym out of the equation,
for sure...
              and roofers? i know that i'll never
manage to visit the maldives... 'e did...
         mexico and kenya and jamaica and...
      i've got a degree in chemistry and the best
offer of work outside of university was:
   stacking shelves in a supermarket.
                     plus, i've taught myself more
than i was taught in these institutions...
                     and i really recommend this:
stop your formal education in language at
the age of 16... after 16? teach yourself...
                         i took the foundation in history
from 16 through to 20...
              a canvas of essay writing...
   butch-ed-up writing history essays...
    i wouldn't trust anyone to teach me this
language after 16...
                          that said,
we really were sold a lie about the mantra
of education education education...
       frightfully, if not merely thankfully
the lie was cheap, cheap cheap cheap,
  thankfully it was cheap at the time -
otherwise the majority of us would have
probably left school at 16 and learned a trade...
point being...
     in poland it's clear cut...
         because you have polytechnics -
  and i'll tell you how they look like:
    schools for boys, hardly any girls...
                  let's say: no girls...
        and then there are the schools with
*****-whipping material guys who study
  the arts, languages, literature etc. etc. -
       if only england had established firm roots
in polytechnics - almost all men would have
defaulted - and so much rests on how things
are worded -
                      they call it apprenticeships...
  as if you have to be a victorian slave labour
of a child...
                       forced into work straight at 16?
how about a few more years in a polytechnic?
so you can at least learn more theories and ideas,
create a technical base, before you enter
an apprenticeship at, say, 18 or 19?
                     is the ******* house burning down
that you have to be forced into a technical trade
at 16?
              no! it's not fair on the guys who have
aren't given the luxury of those 2 to 3 years
of joking in the playground, playing footie &
all that...
                    if a polytechnic network of schools,
we'd know that at least a plumber would
come out the other end,
   rather than upon leaving university -
a chemist becomes a supermarket cashier...
why? it's a choking joke that these university
lecturers are doctor in their field and what they
really want to do is to focus on their research...
  understandably...
  which is why all university lectures should
be conducted by post-graduates...
   seems simple enough...
   post-graduate students and professors -
  those old geezers who are almost retired and
have the same capacity for wisdom as
  a grandfather has to a grandson,
  which a father will never have to his son.

1966 -AND ALL THAT!

Asks me up for
a snifter...so she does!

"Don't mind if I do!"
I all cocky like.

Knowing I am in
for a bit of the other.

But when I get up
find she's a history buff.

The Battle of  ****** Hastings
runs around her living room

in some  boring Norman
cartoon in full colour.

Whoever did this
wasn't a very good drawer.

She does that trick of
removing her bra from her sleeve.

I love it when a bird does that.
"Glad to get out of that!" she smirks.

It lands on the bird cage.
The parrot goes nuts.

Opening skirmish methinks
in the battle of our wills.

OK I admit I'm a bit like Alfie.
Michael Caine but slightly fatter.

On the couch  - her mini riding up.
Sneak an arm around a shoulder.

Getting bolder - place a palm
upon a fishnet thigh.

But she only wants to talk about
Harold and how he lost the battle.

My libido shattered.
"Hic **** Rex interfectus est!"

That famous feigned retreat
that led to the rout.

Was it feigned or not?
I couldn't give a ..!

And that was one in the eye
for that Harold geezer -  or was it?

The Bayeux Tapestry
tells no lies or does it?

When is a tapestry not a tapestry?
When it's an embroidery.

She tells it as if it was
a close run thing.

"Like this year's FA Cup
when the Owls lose a two goal lead

and the Toffees beat them
3 goals to 2.

"Stand up if you won the war!"
One can imagine the chant.

I understand it when
she puts it like that.

And the geezers on the hillock?
Were they placed there before or

after the famous running away?
Her eyes brim with tears.

And it's this passion of hers
that draws me in.

That and the devil
in the details.

Like the ******* putting on
his chain mail the wrong way.

Or the Papal ring
with the tooth of St. Peter

hidden underneath its stone.
How do they get these things?

Or Haley's Comet streaking
across their skies.

"Isti mirantvr stellam"
she whispers to herself.

One can imagine a commentary on it,
"They think it's all over...well...it is now!"

But she still goes on and on
about it...refuses to let it go.

Finally she gives over
and gives in.

A one night stand.
I admit it.

But a one night stand that's
lasted 30 years now!

On our purple anniversary
I give it to her.

She thrilled
to bits.

Hill and Rumbles's
"The Defence of Wessex:

The Burghal Hidage &
Anglo-Saxon Fortifications."

She brings it to bed.
I do the washing up.

Put out a milk bottle
and the cat.

The cat sneaks
back in again.

I no longer looking like
Michael Caine.

"Isti mirantvr stellam."
I whisper to myself.

Silent where they fell,
spent ash, dog hair, coffee grounds.
Silent as they were when useful -
for buzz, for warmth, for waking, now
bits of grit to grind down the slippers
and vanished for a pleasure.

Silent where they fell,
old debts dismembered,
chunks of glass that could perhaps
be re-assembled as candy dishes
or ashtrays - maybe porches
where the chew jaw geezers
took summer and low orange light
way back when.

And the sun fell where it falls,
like threadbare throw rugs
and beaters, old dogs
chained to trees,
and the red rust Fords
thumped by the woodpile
and scavenged for parts -
silent playthings for children
racing in the torn sprung seats.

Saint Patrick's Day, or
Feast of Saint Patrick
Lá Fhéile Pádraig
invoke even non Irish to proclaim
Éirinn go Brách
translated as "Ireland Forever."

Juiced tin he nuff tame afore
thee 2021 Saint Patrick's Day,
(hens this faux written accent
donned to sail hub berate won big todo
fur those peep pull o' Eire rush deuce cent)

aye pretend, and thence make oop
duff fallow wing vary minor event
harkening back e'er sins this generic gent,
hooped tubby imp poet hint wannabe,
(who hapt tubby absent

without leave from Brogue kin home
since a lil whippersnapper, and accident
boot tappin), when me note holler than
garden variety leprechaun, advertisement
tuff hind miss elf, no major ailment -

good red ants tomb ma late mum,
which fair re: creatures, no argument
booth us, iz moar rare than
finding far leaf clover,
and eek will coz fur astonishment

eef hoodlum (caw zing
bedlam) sought atonement
Yukon bull heave or no,
how life on the lamb
as a Dublin street urchin met belligerent

scruffy geezers old looking and bent
till kind ole soul named C. Clement
took yaws truly as apprenticed
Baron without complaint,
though kept ma lidded concealment

secret til search abandoned confident
gnome hissing pipsqueak,
would be sorely missed
giving fresh start with help to coinvent
patois, and be comb real estate magnet

ne'er no wing want oof
basic needs - yea content
in due time making pile
moan hee tall as Taj Mahal
kicking back during Lent

gerrymandering convalescent
old age spinning yarns
for modest copayment
total tubular tales with
nary a Harris Boss Tweed stitch of truth!

Since adopting the guise
of Norwegian bachelor farmer,
I may as well fabricate genetic stock
lock, and barrel linkedin to Celtic legend.

Sentimentalism invariably swelled me *****
regarding how grown former bonny lad,
essentially mutely surfed, finagled, and coursed
one existential nihilistic wave after another
nearly getting drowned in the process

Any non American English
exotic pronunciations in general
and dialects predicated
with United Kingdom in particular
held me spellbound.

Debate ensues that the term brogue comes
from Irish word barróg, meaning
"a hold (on the tongue),"
thus "accent" or "speech impediment."

An alternative etymology suggested
that brogue means 'impediment,'
and that it came from barróg
which is homophonous
with bróg in Munster Irish.

Saint Patrick's Day, or
Feast of Saint Patrick
Lá Fhéile Pádraig
invoke even non Irish to proclaim
Éirinn go Brách
translated as "Ireland Forever."

Juiced tin he nuff tame afore
thee 2023 Saint Patrick's Day,
(hens this faux written accent
donned to sail hub berate won big todo
fur those peep pull o' Eire rush deuce cent)

aye pretend, and thence make oop
duff fallow wing vary minor event
harkening back e'er sins this generic gent,
hooped tubby imp poet hint wannabe,
(who hapt tubby absent

without leave from Brogue kin home
since a lil whippersnapper, and accident
boot tappin), when me note holler than
garden variety leprechaun, advertisement
tuff hind miss elf, no major ailment -

good red ants tomb ma late mum,
which fair re: creatures, no argument
booth us, iz moar rare than
finding far leaf clover,
and eek will coz fur astonishment

eef hoodlum (caw zing
bedlam) sought atonement
Yukon bull heave or no,
how life on the lamb
as a Dublin street urchin met belligerent

scruffy geezers old looking and bent
till kind ole soul named C. Clement
took yaws truly as apprenticed
Baron without complaint,
though kept ma lidded concealment

secret til search abandoned confident
gnome hissing pipsqueak,
would be sorely missed
giving fresh start with help to coinvent
patois, and be comb real estate magnet

ne'er no wing want oof
basic needs - yea content
in due time making pile
moan hee tall as Taj Mahal
kicking back during Lent

gerrymandering convalescent
old age spinning yarns
for modest copayment
total tubular tales with
nary a Harris Boss Tweed stitch of truth.

Saint Patrick's Day, or
Feast of Saint Patrick
Lá Fhéile Pádraig
invoke even non Irish to proclaim
Éirinn go Brách
translated as "Ireland Forever."

Though semitic thru and thru
yours truly (me) dons guise of being Irish
trumpeting hoople linked with
the folklore and culture of Emerald Isle
juiced tin he nuff tame afore
thee 2024 Saint Patrick's Day,
(hens this faux written accent
donned to sail hub berate won big todo
fur those peep pull
o' Eire rush deuce cent)

aye pretend, and thence make oop
duff fallow wing vary minor event
harkening back e'er sins this generic gent,
hooped tubby imp poet hint wannabe,
(who hapt tubby absent
without leave from Brogue kin home
since a lil whippersnapper, and accident
boot tappin), when me note holler than
garden variety leprechaun, advertisement
tuff hind miss elf, no major ailment -

good red ants tomb ma late mum,
which fair re: creatures, no argument
booth us, iz moar rare than
finding far leaf clover,
and eek will coz fur astonishment
eef hoodlum (caw zing
bedlam) sought atonement
Yukon bull heave or no,
how life on the lamb
as a Dublin street urchin met belligerent

scruffy geezers old looking and bent
till kind ole soul named C. Clement
took yaws truly as apprenticed
Baron without complaint,
though kept ma lidded concealment
secret til search abandoned confident
gnome hissing pipsqueak,
would be sorely missed
giving fresh start with help to coinvent
patois, and be comb real estate magnet

ne'er no wing want oof
basic needs - yea content
in due time making pile
moan hee tall as Taj Mahal
kicking back during Lent
gerrymandering convalescent
old age spinning yarns
for modest copayment
total tubular tales with
nary a Harris Boss Tweed
stitch of truth.

Each shift of cop-duty could spell DOOM! Being a cop's wife is
psychologically brutalizing. Will my cop-husband come home?
What are the odds of him being shot to death in the line of duty?
Millions of cops are murdered on the job each day. Will he
be next? What will I tell our children? “I'm sorry Timmy,
Tommy & Tammy Sue, but Daddy can't play checkers
with you because he's been shot to death.”

Dead's dead & living is alive & root beer cannot make you drunk &
changing Mack truck tires with split Popsicle sticks is hard enough,
hard like pulling teeth with tweezers, draining **** pores or *******
hundred-year-old geezers. Bottoms are crude & tops are hot & bony
when you're threading a *** *** who enjoys ******* a dwarf pony.

I love the love of Easter
Everybody hanging around
But not with the virus
Social distancing is still goes down
But we still have the famous Easter bunny
And we still have the truth with Jesus
We still have chocolate eggs and bunnies
We still have plenty of old geezers
Believing that they were Jesus who died on the cross for us
And they sing songs of worship
Songs of worship
Jesus is the man who created this day
And god made heaven to get rid of your sins
Every day Jesus is getting closer
To rising from the dead
Bringing happiness to this world, mate
Yes it is a happy day
Eggs and bunnies along the way
Come on Jesus show us who is better
And that is every one of you
Ok dudes party on
Say goodbye to the old on Friday
Welcoming the new on Sunday
And gather your housemates round
For a coronavirus Easter party
Where everybody parties all day and night long
Happy Easter happy Easter
Yes it is a HAPPY DAY
Very happy for everyone around
Happy Easter