My aunt’s in the garden,
     Growing gold.
My uncle’s in his new shirt,
     Growing mold.
My cuz’s in Af-ghan-i-stan,
     Growing cold.
I’m swimming in wine,
     Growing old.

This piece should make sense,
     But it don’t.
This piece should tell tales,
     Still, it won’t.
I’m home decades later,
     Or so I wrote.
My daddy’s days dead
     And so I’ll tote.

Sometimes people tell me my hair looks like a big nug of bud and they wanna smoke that **** but it doesn’t smell like rainforest when it burns and they also burn it when it is on my head so my young Rodger Moore looks turn expressly to exaggerated horror at the physical and emotional pain. When faced with such pain I often laps into an imaginary state where my unreality is built up by a self-supporting paranoid delusion from which there is little escape and often real life awakenings land me in the most extraordinary situations. The most recent of which was when I found myself tied to the under carriage of the Ghan train suspended by gaff tape and with a mankeeny blindfolding me. At the next train stop I ran from the troop of floberjack monsters and made a potion out of emu foot prints to give me magical protection from those monsters. Then I went to sleep in a painted cave and woke up from the gentle tickle of ants between my toes . I can never hear what ants are talking about because I am a bit deaf but I always like to know what they are saying about me behind my back so I poured honey in my ear and they went inside my brain. I realised that ant communicate by chemical smell and not sound so I let them crawl through the canals that go to my nasals and was able to smell their talking. After some weeks of difficulty in translations we were about to create a hybrid form of communication they assured me that they had only good intentions and desired only to consume my flesh from the inside out when survival strictly required and would stop when there was opportunity to collect the teeth from non-indigenous creatures. I found that they breaded a particular hate from the introduction of the cane toad and they intend to irradiate all the population of a very common variety of red rose bush in a 300 square meter area of Melbourne I told them I would take them if they didn’t mind going to the grand prix and this amplified their intents.  I don’t like the grand prix I was just lying and so when I left the cave I did a big sneeze on purpose and flew home on my special magic grass matt that is woven from red rose roots. After that I slept in the shed for around 45 mins and bathed my hands in petrol and told my wife I was just working on the motor bike so as to quell any suspicion she may have of me existing within a self-supporting paranoid delusional state.

in ref. to parliREACH: my own revision of "standards" / a return to fully functioning descriptive attaches / cubism / no! to colour-blindness / poetry of whites / communism was good because mostly starving Ukrainians or Kazakhs or other "badziewie" / pressure to instigate overt-nuances of language: a necessary intro. of ciphers / alt.? scythe and stone for every hammer and sickle... ardently pro private property - my own personal library would shame the Romford public 'un... excuses? none: at "face-value"... literally... let's not bother with transcending the man the albino the **** similis - there is nothing essential about a man's personality / character: i don't have a dream - all the better - a return to basics: fully primed HD vintage - bone-sore plum mascara pulp of a face in detail... yes... let's goo!

Afghani or Afghanistani -
         teasingly -
               tip of toe to the burnt heel -
bazar of spices -
and some angry prefix lady:

asian dub foundation: flyover -

iowa or ohio?
         'no iraqi ever called me a ****-'
this huge and coincidentally
hiding rainbow of
alphabets and a peoples
with strap-on or donning wigs

'burning up the Urals in south
Kensington'
little mongol warrior -
mongol or mongrel?

   the plethora of diasporas:
LGBTq-anon.
    and of course: angry prefix
lady...
dull twisting: a vaguness
of eyes and a schizophrenic's Is:
this iota a push-push of
plural with a possessive article
of an APOSTROPHE 'IGMA...

sha-tan...
     Mr. Ghan -
mr. gali-gali in old Bengal -
   cinnamon lives matter...
copperskins and culprits when
not smooching a molten heap
of choccy-blues...

my own stint at gammon:
hyper-inflating a lost character but....
this pronounced idle of...
himalayan salt: pinkish: really though:
pink through and through...

tired of the tan - tabs of a vit-D iet
nonetheless required:
the colour of wheat -
   a faint description of cardamom
once exposed to too much
sunlight -
              breaking barks of wood
in the same disease of the sun...

a running against eskimos -
    ******* a lemon to squint since
not endowed with enough eyelashes...
it's not an anger it's not
a gimmick -
            revelations of
accusations - no more mythical
sha-tan -
               a case for: digging trenches -
in the mud of flanders
better still: no flanders -
a knee deep ******* side of whittle
essex that almost all of
England wants to tease -

the origins of oranges -
and the whitening of teeth -
no one ever mentioned the whitey's
envy of the negros ivory?
pristine white in the ivory
and the sclera?

hyper-"racism"... a poetry that would
have someone bewildered at
terms 'apricot' / 'cinnamon' applied
to a dog's fur -
   yes... the thesis of anti-racism was
to dig deep into an essential man...

apparently that's not necessary
anymore -
there has to be a return
to picasso's african mask cubism:
the exfoliation of details:
and excuses of them...
no apology required...

nothing worse these days
than being colour-blind:
of missing the descriptive utility
of this tongue...
afro like sponge mingling with
cotton-candy in sensation...

too bad for the superiors:
h'arab and beijing middle-kingdom
pronto...
ya'llah! imsh'e...
      sinking in that dead sea
black custard thick:
a camel jockey and his camel;
choo! choo! the mercedes-benz
joked.