******. No white guy can say that, right.
People who can truly call themselves ******* can. *****-***** ****, W.O.P.,
maybe they can say ******, okeh. But they say it mean,
knowaddamean.
What'sbout Jewboy?
Can the Kaffen kid say ******?
Sand-******, but not ***** ******. Hecan say ****, too. And *** and *****.

Oy vey, okeh. We can take it. We can take it all. Rules is rules.

That's right. Wanna fight? Wanna be my enemy?

--- Grandpa had a play date. ***- Where's the Fun?
These kids got no guns.
And no enemies. Except imaginary ones.


Greedy little master mind sprouting odd fruits from Pokémon.
Can we make this work? Perfect it, in effect?

Marbles, maybe we can teach that old game and go from there to the funnest parts of FTA... Findtheanswer, like God and Adam played. The rules are some same, bounds, fudges and such. Keepsies, ante-ups and such, too.
Risk is right if-I-can-tation.
Losses can be baked, clayballs,
while momma bakes our daily bread.
Poor kids can make marbles in the sun, since forever, I am sure. Rolly-polly patti and johnny cakes roll marbles into spoons,
Momma knew that stuff. She could shake butter into cream, singin' along Que sera, sera, whatever will be
will be,

but it won't be the death of me,
watch and see,
babu boy oh boy
---
We can play war until we die, but don't tell the children.
They are the price we are to pay. They must believe.

We swore allegiance for security. We thought it best
for the kids to lie.

You know?
I believe, you know. It's unbelieving I need help with.

Can't you see? We swore allegiance and taught it has become the  honor-us-course-us-po-deserve-us ritual. A rite we pass for the protection of the eagles gathered around the body.

We are proud of our children who die taking
the courses called for, we never ask why,
except when we cry. Silently, inside.

It's our role to remember the glory
of our children dying for the IDEA that lives
in the statue of Freedom
under which our laws allow
might is right, if God was ever on our side.

You know what I mean.
Say so. You know the lies are being told.

Stop believing that is okeh, eh?

---
Mussleman dominance meme manifests once more to battle the flood of knowing being re-leased or bought, outright, to aid the seekers seeking the meta game.

F.T.A, remember? Find The Answer. Same rules as Hide and Watch,
"All ye, all ye, outsiders hidden in our midst, in free."

"Send me your- poor, huddled masses",
remember being proud of that idea.
Poor thing, lady libertine, so tarnished now that not even Iaccoca's glory loan could gild the actions she sanctioned in the name of the republic for which she (a proxy mate, feminine aspect of God) stands. Sig-n-if-i-cious-ly.

Seig Freud, we say, with the statue of freedom watching over the legislative body, she stands
quite similar to Diana of the Ephesians,
in her role as mob solid-if-er, if I know my mythic truths been told.
---
Trink, trink, trinkits gits the good good luck,
light m'fire witcha spark and see
a light in the night when the noises pending terrors flee.

Rite, we passed those places ages ago, now we hear echoes, only we know them, for we have been taught,
what echoes ever are.
Our own terrors screaming back at us.

Alot of lies are taught wrong
and a sleeping giant in a child may dream
of other ways to see.
New windows on new word worlds expressed in
HD Quad-processed reality
simulations. You know,
child eyes see right through those.

Exactly that happened. Slowly at first.
Good is more difficult to believe
you are expert enough to try doing than is evil.
Read it again.
This couplet or line, as time will tell.

Don't ignore known knowns,
stand up under the weight of knowing good and knowing evil.
Be good.

We know from conception,
we think,
whatever it takes means
take what ever we think right,
pursue happenstances in the favor of my father's world,
provided for me, the kid.
\
The son, a first-man son,
some several thousand generations removed.
Lucky some body stored the good stuff in the mitochon'orhea, right.
We'd be powerless. O'rhea, double stufft, blessusall.

Otherwise lies are left for kids to learn,
but not to
be left true,
as when they first was told.

Our sibyl e-gran mals tol' em true,
as they knew what they passed through, to the moment, then...

Around the fire, dancing shadows, make them play.
All ye, all ye outs, in free!

See dancing shadows, en-joy my joy, be strong,

long strong, sing along, long, long song

and laugh until you die.
---
Some con-served ideas will land a man in a prison with no keys.

Imagine that. Take your time, it is no passing fancy. Be here,
with me, a while. Pleased to meet you I am, no comma needed.
Now, we may wait, whiling away a time or two is common, in mortal pauses. Are you dead or alive?

Is it dark or light? Do you see in color here, or in gray?

Who built your prison? I built mine. You'll love it, I imagine,

whenever forever flows past those old lies striving for redemption,
recycling-clingy static hairballs and ghost turds
touch, once more,
*** potentia amber atoms in cosmic chili for the soul
of the loaf-giver, warden of the feeding forces life lives
to give dead things. There's the rub.

Spark to fire? Watts to fuel the favor, Issac, can you lead us in a song? A con-serving song for when the cons a fided or feited,
defeat my sorrows and my shame,
let me see Christ take the blame.

Confidencein ignowanceus. Worsen dignitatus evawas.

Blow on it. Soft. The spark landed in that ghost **** you thought you swept away or ****** into a vortex of hoovering witnesses,
if you whew too strong, you blow yer own little light out, and have to wait for lighten-loadin' bearers
to take care from you.

That can take time, too.

It always takes a while to get deep enough to see the bottom.

Cicero, old friend...

ne vestigium quidem ullum est reliquum nobis dignitatis 

[not even a trace is left to us of our dignity]

From <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dignitas(Romanconcept)>

See, from a single spark,
touching a volatile bit o' whatever,
you may see the root of the Roman canker sore
yomamma kistyawit.
And be on yo way,
satisfied minded there do seem to be a way, each day, just beyond the evil sufficiency we find soon after the morning's mercy's been renewed.

And may, if it may be,
ye see a rich man wit' a satisfied mind
and may that man be me in your mirror, as it were.

Carry on, as you were.
Or walk this way, a while,
mind the limp. I'll set the pace.
It ain't a race, y'lil'squirt.

Wait'll y'see.

Waiting is time's only chore this close to shore.

What manner of men are we, who could be our enemy?
What name makes me your enemy?

What peace can you imagine when no words carry hate?
Can you imagine evil peace?
Cromwell n'em said they could make peace wit' war.
They lied.
Their lies remain lies,
evil knowns
good to know, on the whole.

Knowing makes believing count for more than idle
oaths of loyalty to memes mad
from the first of forever to now.

now. stop. This is the bottom. I know the way from here.
Do you?
You can say so, but you never know,
if you never make the climb.

And that can take forever, I've been told.

A few hours after midnight; the world is fast asleep.
Alone and cold do I wander. Like a nightmare do I creep.
With the intent of nothing I sit and watch the street.
It’s a week after Halloween and my shoes are on my feet.
I near my house, I think I’ll shave, (My chin has an itch.)
But at my feet upon the ground a color doesn’t fit;
Black on black with a spot of white doesn’t sit quite right.
You’d think they’d be more careful, ornery little gits.
Yet here at my feet, some candy lies plainly in my sight.
I stop to stare and wonder, and my brain does a nervous twitch.
 
So here I am; with a piece of candy that might have mange
Meanwhile my mind is discovering a whole new range
For all the pain we go through, to keep the world nice,
 Nothing anyone does ever seems to pay the price.
I’ve got a new hybrid car, gets 50 to the gallon plus it’s electric.
And when I finish a snack trash is out the window. Are we epileptic?
I mean you’ve got to be kidding me, who can say that they are not
A miserable little hypocrite? World is full of betrayal and lies.
Filling with anger, righteous and hot, I feel a change in my soul.
I’ll be better! I’ll change the world or the two of us will sever ties!
The earth will follow my example and we’ll hold to higher goal.
Give me a few years and then lets see what we’ve got!
 
I hold onto the fantasy for a while, sad to let it slip.
But the truth does sink in and reality has a tighter grip.
Even if I spoke who would listen? One cry in a thousand’s not so great.
I’m not saying we shouldn’t try, to resign ourselves to our fate.
I’ve never been a pessimist, just a realistic optimist you understand.
If you want change, aim for what you can hold in your hand.
Think you can bring about world peace, think you’ve got the might?
Try to keep peace in your town, or your block, or home without a fight.
I stand and think to myself one more Sucker here and there,
Isn’t going to change a thing. If ten men vowed never to let themselves repeat
Their mistakes, the next day a chance would come, one would stand,
Nine would shudder and forsake him. Alone he’d return to his seat.
I step away and head home. I return my thoughts to the matters at hand.
Like my homework; a poem and some calc. I’ve still got to lose some ****** hair

Liturgy in Time of War

I will go to the altar of God
To God who gives joy to my youth

ENTRANCE ANTIPHON

The dawn (evening) is coming, another hot, filthy, wet dawn (evening).  Let us arise, soaked in sweat, exhausted, to speak with sour, saliva-caked mouths, to meet the deaths of this day (night).

GREETING

In the name of Peace in Our Time,
For the Hearts and Minds of The People,
For the Land of the Big PX
For round eye and white (black) (brown) thigh,
I greet you, brothers.

PENITENTIAL RITE

All:

I confess to almighty God
And to you my brothers
That I have sinned through my fault
In my thoughts and in my words
In what I have done
And in what I have failed to do,
And I ask Blessed Mary…

But how can I ask Her anything now?

My brothers,
Pray for me to…

But how?
Priest: (But there is no priest)

KYRIE

Lord, have mercy
Christ, have mercy
Lord, Lord, have mercy on us now

Have mercy, Lord, on a generation
That sits smugly in college lecture halls
And protests endlessly in coffee shops
The war they hear, see, on T.V., for free
Justice and peace by the semester hour
Like, y’know, peace, love, Amerika sux
Play the guitar, ****, apply to law school

Have mercy on us
Who crouch behind sand bags
And clean our weapons
And protest nothing
And **** in the heat
And die in the hear
And throw ham and lima beans away

GLORIA

Glory to God in the highest
how many bodies yesterday?
And peace to His people on earth
Vietnamese? Or us?
Lord God, heavenly King, almighty God and Father
ham and lima beans?
We worship you, we give you thanks, we praise you for your glory
Doc, I can’t go home to my wife with this clap
Lord Jesus Christ, only Son of the Father
cigarette, canteen cup of instant coffee
Lord God, Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world
******* magazine
Have mercy on us
relief behind the sand bags
You are seated at the right hand of the Father
i rot
Receive our prayer
i want to be clean and dry
For You alone are the Holy One
clean and dry.  just once.
You alone are the Lord
why do they chew that?
You alone are the most high
you mean the betel nut?
Jesus Christ, with the Holy Spirit, in the glory of God the Father
incoming!
Amen


PRAYER

A

Father, you make this day holy.
Let us be thankful for
The many little joys of
This day, for life, for
The chance to worship
You.  In the end, bring
Us to you, so that we
May be cleansed of mud
And sweat and filth and
Guilt, and live with you
In peace forever.

B

Father, just get me through
Another day of this mess.

LITURGY OF THE WORD –

FIRST READING

From the Intensive Care Unit, NSA DaNang

A twilight world
Of neither peace nor battle
And of both

A man world
Embracing life and the grim death
Both

Peering into infected wounds
Night building shiver
Down from the black sky flares float

Broken bodies from the war somewhere
Eyes of a shattered nineteen-year-old Marine
Staring at the door to Yokosuka

PSALM

A Song of Descents

I cast down my eyes
Into the mud
Into the blood
It seems cleaner than death and drugs and casual ***
Drink Coca-Cola

I turned my eyes away from you, O Lord
And made this
Build this
Came to this
Samantha and Darren on Bewitched

Have mercy on…but how can we ask?  How dare we ask?

SECOND READING

Old Man, Viet Nam

Old man, a dog is barking at your heels
Old man, with the tired, weathered face
Are you afraid to turn around and deal
This dog a kick, to put him in his place?

Or is it, old man, that you’re just too tired?
Just too tired to turn and show anger
Just too tired to have your temper fired
Beaten by years of contempt and danger

Where are you going, trudging so slowly?
What are you thinking, behind those tired eyes?

Probably not about ham and lima beans

GOSPEL

In the Cold White Mist

After an all-night run on the river
Our boats arrive in the village at dawn
Dawn is never cold along that rive
Along that steaming, green, hell-hot river
But the mist is cold, the grey-green dawn mist
And after the engines are cut – stillness
Foul brown water laps at the mudding bank
Sloshing softly with fertile, smelly death

In the cold white mist

The boats are secured, and watches posted
We step off the boats and onto wet land
And follow the track into the deep mist
It becomes the street of a little town
A dairy lane along which cows slopped home
And where dogs and chickens and children
      played
Bounded by carefully swept little yards
And little wooden houses with tin roofs

In the cold white mist

But some of the houses are burnt.  The smoke
Still hangs heavily in the whitening mist
The lane is littered with debris.  A lump
Resolves itself into a torn, dead child
Across a smaller lump, a smaller child
Their pup has been flung against the fence, its
Guts early morning breakfast for the morning
      flies
We smoke cigarettes against the death-smells

In the cold white mist

Beneath a farm tractor rots a dead man.
When they – they – had come at sunset
He had hidden there.  And they shot him there
A man with bare feet and work-calloused
      hands
His hair is black; his teeth need cleaning
They shot him beneath the village tractor
His blackening blood clots into the mud
And our lungs choke in the white mist of death

In the cold white mist

White mist.  The path disappears into it
Smoky skeletons of little houses
In which there will be no tea this morning
No breakfasts of hot tea and steaming rice
No old widows to smile in betel-nut
No children to mock-march alongside us
Pointing at our ******* boots, and laughing
At us, for wearing shoes in the summer

In the cold white mist

They are dead and rotting in the white mist
On the edge of the jungle on the edge
Of the world, here along the Vam Co Tay
And the people pour out of their houses
To greet us on the fine summer morning
A corpse across a doorway, another
******-doubled across a window sill
Still another strewn down the garden path

In the cold white mist

The other patrol doubles back to us
And they tell us that the Ruff-Puff outpost
Must have been overrun the night before
He had heard their radioed pleas, and had
Run the river at night to get to them
And the ARVNs had fled through the village
And the VC had stormed in behind them
And it was knife-and-gun-club night in town

In the cold white mist

A little girl is the lone survivor
She looks may six.  Cute, except for the
Bubbling, *******, bayoneted chest wound
We patch her, and tube her, and use suction
Sort of like fixing a bicycle tire
And in the wet, gasping heat take her back
With us downriver, where a charity
Hospital leaves her on the steps to die

In the cold white mist

It will be our turn again tomorrow
Not a one of us died today.  Today.
But a village is gone, burnt and rotting,
Soon to disappear into the jungle
Along the green Cambodian border
Up some obscure river.  Up there.  Somewhere.
A few hundred people.  Their ancestors’ graves
Will fade with them untended, forgotten

In the cold white mist

Radio Hanoi might blame it on us.
But maybe not.  We made our report and
Nobody really noticed; no one cared
The talk is of the VC battalion
And where it has gone, and where it might go –
Maybe into death under an air strike
“And you guys better get in some sack time,”
Says the C.O. as he turns to his maps.

In the cold white mist

HOMILY

I’m scared, and I want to go home.  I don’t care any more about justice or fighting Communism or winning the hearts and minds of the people.  I can’t think about all that right now, because I’m scared, and I want to go home.
I don’t care about truth or loyalty or bravery or honor.  If Miss March were here she wouldn’t get cold, but she sure would get sunburnt.  And in a few days her skin would start rotting.  Then nobody would want to see her in the **** anymore.  
I’m scared, and I want to go home.
Up the Vam Co Tay, everyone is scared, everyone is tired, everyone is sick, everyone could die: sailor, soldier, officer, priest, farmer, fisherman.  Everyone rots in the wet heat.  The skin bubbles and flakes and peels, and is pink again, to bubble and flake and peel again.  
I’m scared, and I want to go home.
I’m Doc.  I’m a scared, stupid kid with an aid bag and a few months’ training.  But I’m Doc.  I’ve got to fake it.  I’ve got to be cool and calm because this other kid with his guts hanging out will probably make it if I don’t ***** up and if the dust-off from Saigon can get out here now.
I have an old dog at home, and my folks write and tell me she sleeps outside my window at night, waiting for me to come home.  Someday we’re going to run and play in the woods and fields again.  She’ll bark and run wide circles, and dare me to catch her.  I will laugh under the autumn leaves.  But now my nights are glaring darkness, fits of sweat-soaked half-sleep, then sirens and falling glares and falling mortars, and then the Godawful racket of all our engines of destruction.  There isn’t any use in all this.
I’m scared, and I want to go home.

And I don’t want any ham and lima beans.

CREED

We believe in the Land of the Big PX
In presidents in suits, and generals,
In makers of economic strategies
We believe in flak jackets and .45s and peace

We believe in swing ships and dust-offs, yes
In the dark, green omnipresent Huey
Eternally begotten of technology
Blades to rotor, windscreen to machine guns
Made, not begotten, one in being with us
Through it all things are transported to us
For us men and our hunger and our hope
It comes down from the skies
By the high power of technology
It was born of the long assembly line

For whose sake are we crucified today?
Who suffers, and who dies and is baggied?
And on the third will arrive back home
To be neatly packaged in stainless steel

But not in ham and lima beans

LITURGY OF THE EUCHARIST

Preparation of the Gifts

Celebrant:

Blessed are you, Lord, God of all creation.
Through your goodness we have this cheap Algerian wine to offer,
Fruit of the vine and work of human hands.
It will become anaesthesia for our souls.

People:

Blessed be…we just don’t know

Celebrant:

Pray, brothers, that our sacrifice may be acceptable to God, the almighty Father, to somebody.  Maybe.

People:

May the Lord, or the baggies, accept the sacrifice we offer with
our own burnt hands
For the praise and glory of…of what?
For our good, and the good of all His Church.

PRAYER OVER THE GITS

Little green cans, and I don’t care
Little green cans, and I don’t care
Little green cans, and I don’t care
Air cover’s gone away.

EUCHARISTIC PRAYER

Preface for the Monsoon Season:

Father, all-powerful
And ever-living God,
We do well always and everywhere
To give You thanks
Through Jesus God our Lord
Even with diarrhea
thanks
When the mail doesn’t come
thanks
When we rot
thanks
When the heat ***** at our brains
thanks
When the mud ***** at our boots
thanks
When the horror ***** at our souls
thanks
We’re alive
thanks

SANCTUS

Holy, holy, holy, Lord, God of power and might
The bunkers are full of blood and death.
Hosanna in the mud.  Blessed is he who comes with the mail.  Hosanna in the mud.

EUCHARISTIC PRAYER

The Kien Tuong Province Canon:

A sailor is silhouetted against the dawn
Along a steamy river
Mostly helmet and flak jacket
Above dark plastic gunwales

The sailor has lost his New Testament
But there’s a ******* around somewhere
Naked, willing women –
Miss March wants to be an actress

He also carries an old plastic Rosary
To touch occasionally
While whispering a hurried Hail Mary
He hopes She understands

Those who in bell-bottoms and head-bands
Fight Fascism
In Sociology 201
Will never forgive him

A sailor is silhouetted against the dawn
This day he is to be elevated
His body broken and his blood shed
For you and for all men

OUR FATHER

Our Father, who art in Heaven
this ain’t it
Hallowed be thy name
Thy kingdom come
this ain’t it
On earth as it is in Heaven.
Give us this day…
not ham and lima beans
And forgive us our trespasses
as we shoot them that trespass against us
And lead us not into ambush
But deliver us from evil

SIGN OF PEACE

Peace on you.

AGNUS DEI

Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world: have mercy on us.

Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world: have mercy….

Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world: grant us peace.

Priest:

(But there is no priest)

People:  

Lord, I am not worthy to receive you,
But only say the word and I shall be killed.

COMMUNION ANTIPHON

They ate, and were not satisfied
They killed, and were not without fear.

PRAYER AFTER COMMUNION

Lord,
If we do not get out of this
Make some sense of it to those who remain
May we go home.  Home.  Or if not,
Take us unto you, in mercy.
Home.  Where you reign, for you are Lord
Forever and ever.  Amen

BLESSING

May you walk on grass that does not explode
May you sleep without rot
Without fear
May you never see or smell ham and lima beans again.
May you live
May you play with puppies
May you find forgetfulness
May you find peace
In the Name of Him who took your death for you

DISMISSAL

This is to certify that____is Honorably Discharged from the____on theday of____.  This certificate is awarded as a testimonial of Honest and Faithful Service.

CLOSING HYMN

Old men, smoking in the sunshine
Exiled outside the doors of life
Old uniforms, old pajamas
The chrome of wheelchairs, shiny, bright

Inside, polished wooden handrails
Line the hot, polished passages
Something to cling to on the way
To the lab, to x-ray, to death

And more old men, shuffling along
In a querulous route-step march
From Normandy, from The Cho-sen,
From the Vam Co Tay, from the deserts,
Past the A.I.D.S. ward and the union signs
On waxed floors to eternity

Portions previous published:

“Closing Hymn” is from “Outpatient Surgery – Veterans’ Hospital,” Juried Award, Houston Poetry Fest 1993

“In the Cold White Mist” is a Juried Award, Houston Poetry Fest 1991

“Old Man, Viet-Nam,” was published in Pulse, Lamar University, 1982

an entire day of abstaining from "syringe",
whoever said it was:
the perfect dis-satisfaction -
supposedly it passes as quick as someone
puffing on crack...
                well...
                      the first cigarette...
when "quitting"... after years of 20 a day...
and this quitting: because no cheap
ciagarettes on the horizon from moldova...
or bulgaria...

    the first hit... feels like electricity...
i can feel it from my head...
right down to my toes...
          in my heels...
the tingling at first... then it all subsides...
into a sensation of a thrown stone
into the stomach:
like a nun jumping a bungee...
i feel like a teenager... who first sipped
alcohol...
the carousel of intoxication -
yet: so contained...
        there's the thrill and an
insurmountable number of adjectives
to the sensation:
face like a sponge head like blitzkrieg
theatre...
         i'm "quitting"...
well... 10 years exposed to the numbing...
perfect the ritual:
i guess i must...
    how long will it last... long enough:
to base the drinking on what becomes
the cigarette: on the peripheries:
and closure...

must i take any more revelation drugs...
apart from what's taxed and legal...
a solipsistic cigarette and some
gomme syrope: putting ms. amber
into the refrigerator...
              
i can feel the horde the tsunami from
a fat head through
a whirlwind dropped into my stomach...
and then the magic toes: tingling...
of course: i'm "quitting"...
quitting as much as...
mellow lou reed contra iggy pop
when bowie was with him in berlin...

"quitting"... the initial hit is over...
the first impressions...
the formality is thrilling...
then comes the diffusion:
the informality of fractions and percentages...
from the brain... the nerves...
perhaps the heart...
and the last place to look into:
the liver...

         and other... soft-tissue glue parts...
and the ritual:
a packet of benson & hedges...
wrapped up with about 10 rubber bands...
it has been waiting for me
for the entire day...
and now that the night is here...
a day when an apple tree was planted
along with a cherry tree...

the garden is looking more and more
presentable for sale...
but before the sale: it must be enjoyed...
i never thought that...
a cigarette: after... this short prospect
of abstinance...
is almost like the first...
but when coupled with the whiskey...
hell... i can't remember the last
time i drank and it felt like...
i was a teenager: under-age drinking
in one of those ****** clubs that
high-school girls go to find boys
with cars... out of school without
a-levels...
and boys go... to find... ms. ambers...
and jazzy gits of mr. fuzzy mr. funny...
the bavarian brothers: the weisers...

please! please! more...
these days of "quitting"...
             because what could be fun
about an absolute cold-turkey...
when you have a stash of...
  600 cigarettes... and... if the math is
about right...
and since the free movement of
people is a rapunzel dream off-the-cuff...

600 cigarettes... if i get it right...
move from 2 per ritual of going to bed...
into 1... that's... either a year
with missing 56 days somewhere...
no rolling tobacco though...
look m'ah! no bongs no syringes!
look p'ah! no snorting bleeding nose...
no... plum bruises from...

as long as there's an inhibition period...
a period of: i wish i could send
a postcard from... Basildon, Essex...
to... someone obliterated by a craze-maze
of lights... like... whatever...

i just heard stories...
                  about the effects of other drugs...
but... it's not like they come back...
with straitjackets to rekindle old flames
of "crossing the threshold" within
the confines of tobacco and alcohol...
moderately: well: not to quote the ideal
units consumed...
     i'm pretty sure i read some pickwick papers
today and... dickens "forgot" some...
conjunction words...
unless of course: his style...
                    -open            
                          to question-
                        esp. adjectives that...
or is it... nouns that act like this that and the other:
as if verbs...
            
    roughly half an hour... the full extent of
a cigarette...
the very first is probably the same
as the "very first" when you're "quitting"...
from circa 20 per day...
to 2-a-day...
                      "quitting" and first getting
hooked...
           the whiskers and fire fathers
                                   of the apache
              are a balancing act that follows...
oh sure... i'll quit smoking...
when the ritual is over...
i have left the casual smoker behind...
somewhere... over coffee...
over the tradition of that cigarette after
a meal: the digestifs smoke-up...
i left these smokers behind...
the nervous smokers...
the waiting at a bus-stop smokers...
the after *** smokers...

          the day is coming to an end...
i'm going to enjoy some music...
drink a little... i'll start calling this smoking
cigarette pattern... what? what else?!
my tobacco ramadam!
chances are... i'll still be unable
to appreciate roxy music...
   and the english dandy...
                       the music is here...
the little bit of *****... and the "pipe"!
here comes my face...
here comes the zoo...
            
             but i'm quitting... "quitting"...
the wolf of wall st. -
                      drug addict... that all depends
on how you treat tobacco...
the cigarette... abstaining for a day...
after a "hiatus" from healthy breathing...
viruses and car zinc and lead exhausts...
cow farts...
                  
    a terrible way to treat tobacco...
i find... is the casual... informal way...
a bit like... internet access...
whoever grew up with it being stationary...
like... a telephone... or a phonebox...
it was never carried:
always a returned to:
like a swizz safety-deposit box
in a bank... that could...
bypass tax regulations and subpoenas...

the good old days...
saturdays the park... the high street...
the car park... climbing to the top
and spitting phlegm bombs at people...
peter ******* richardson...
and kieran o'mahoney...
samuel richards...
         a ****** among the irish...
in england...
then again: richardson...
eh...
                                   ascot?
      i.e. a shcoot?!
                    the break between my first
ritual cigarette...
         and my closing affair for the night...
whether i drink less or not...
in the middle of the night
i wake up on the floor...
         i sleep on the floor for about
an hour... two demons want to ****
in my bed... then i'm thrown back into
the bed of cushions and mattress...
  only yesterday i killed someone in my dream...
and i was... like the zodiac killer...
anonymous...
i heard hook & sinker teases of:
the crime scene read like a crime thriller...
to appease the ego...

two days running thrown out of bed...
this is a terribly composed...
it is... "quarantine" poetics...
i'm "quitting" smoking...
                   i'm making tobacco...
i'm giving tobacco ritual rites...
                   no lazy tobacco smoking...
end of the day... ms. amber in hand...
maxing out on 2!
the next two? the next day...
              the same packet of cigarettes...
2 inside with a lighter...
wrapped up using about 10 rubber bands...
a like-for-like replica of
pin-heads "tattoo geography"...

       yes... because... someone's nearing
the snorting olympics?!
           if all you were given...
was tobacco and alcohol...
             the first one... oh! mein! gott!
it feels like being a teenager... once more...
and experiencing the alcohol carousel
for the very first time...
tobacco? that came later...
after the alcohol... after the ****...
the **** came in age 21...
the tobacco came in... age 21.09...
whatever that implies...

                      it's nice... though...
absitance... you wait for the entire day...
by the of it... some variant of... tourette's kicks
in... it's all very nice asking for
cupcakes and bagels...
scones and daffodils:
or... suicide by: lily-of-the-valley...
i.e. room filled with them...
and no ventilation...
talk about... no hanging... projects...
of Seneca cutting wrists in a bath...
just... getting drunk...
and being allowed to fall asleep
in a vacuous room filled with
lily-of-the-valley bouquets...

             we can talk about suicide... no?
when... it's... beautiful? no? ha!
how was the hemlock... prescribed?
as a drink?
             i... it's almost irritating that...
i will not write anything more sensible
after i take the 2 cigarette to the grave of sleep...
no matter...
i wasn't hoping to invest in much:
today gave me enough.

each day is new.
each life is measured re-ified or ified,
--- but 1.0 can't think past named things and their uses.
--- 2.0 must have an intuition of good begetting
that includes 1.0 gnosis of aim in an immediate way.

Oh. Here's a map.
Like Disneyland as a mall...
or DC with the alu-mini-um pyramid on top.

A schema instantiation, says the blithering flow
charting our course to
sapins sapiens augmentatious
It's obvious,
the children shall all be 2.0 in 1.0 mechanical material;

the tree of knowledge was all inclusive.
hence, the POV development circuits
are cross sired-wired dialecticalishit

seen innerish, not clearly but
seen, men as trees sorta thing.
not blind
but not visionary in a professional
TED talk worth
attending to after eight straight.

The time on earth is variable.
The cost/value of a duration is perimental,
be
coming here
being still
unborn in silken wombs
--- chirp

there are ground squirrels in California
which chirp
incessant chirp chirp chirp with

enough variety in volume tone and frequency,
to make old Morse Code five-letter code groups
come rattling through the radioman's head.

killit.
no, focus, do some meditatishit mind over world,
silken swaddles to moth or...

squeeking wheel gits the grease.
grease it, no, go to the squirrel and trigger its
cog that has no
cognition save intuition. Click.

look it in the cute little squirrel eye.
see it see you, say to it, shut up.

it don't blink. it don't shut up.
bold rodent,
I AM MAN. I shout, it squeeks,
gnoshit,
no cognitive over ride of intuition to fear the man,
is thinkable.
It is a squirrel.

It don't mean nothin'. A curse o' apophrenia on ye.

Bubbles in bubbles, foaming Being
Thoughts resolve to gearish
imaginations
cogs and gears and wheels whirling through some
filtering of needless data informing points
big
number
dimensional, scale and distance, durational
direct
measure in systems
for value and balance,
with no true vacuum, but the idea,

the null-set. Where never happens and nothing is.

We twist hard here.
The torque is what jects
the ob at the sub, via a
mechanical cam-shaft, pusher-puller-twister system
mit ein trigger, which we
click.
Think.
Who is writing my part in the book of life?
I asked me, you are not here, but
in my mind I hear replies more wise than I was
inclined
to imagine
a common man of common gifts can be for
believing
magic has always been
what magi know how to do for goodness sake.
Magi. Heros.
Not a no knack common man, wombed or un.

Peace nullifes any reason War-corroded minds can
calculate,
the numbers prove it all. Count the stars.
Use your augmented eyes, search your global memory,

run the numbers, nullify time with eternity,
subtract the works of darkness,
(don't delve into the details, you can imagine hell some other time)

----
A Valis idea, stuck between my chew-eschew-awarea
P.K. ****, trips, bags, and scenes
as became the cliche'.

Let 'em imagine any thing, define the terms and force
agreement for access.

Insider wannabe, do you agree, come and see? Or
do you dare to challenge

the common sense of all man kind as represented in Christ
of Nicea and Abeka Books, from Pensacola, Florida,

Whoa, rock the box, make bubbles cavitate the prop,

spinnin wheels like the Bismark's final bow.

--- i'm un comfortable and I don't know why.
--- a feeling
--- those are mocked as meaningless, by apathetic slobs.
--- so easy being a ***, ethos pathos logos, ***
--- comic relief
--- in mortal moments of turmoil and confusion as things are stirred.

All that could be shaken, was shaken.
All that could be strained, was strained.
All that mercurial messages could mean, was meant.

We lie in wait, wishing cogs and cogitate was as symbiotic
a thought as we thought while thinking

earlier
Art is artificial intelligence. Imagine that. A.I.

Demiurge, my cultural osmosis of vocalizings,
left me thinkin' a demi urge
is a little urge, a diminutive urgekin,

urging me to be
creative, let that lil' light shine, Marjoe

these being public displays at the edges of some of the bubbles,

bubs, some kid just shook my bottle

to pretend the wine was moving of itself, making turmoil

careful as in accurate art-iculation, this is not realist materialist
gasping
grasping for
dignity, stalwort, courage, responsibility

we are yet legions, industrial models
used to build swords with motors,
when we come to America, we join the unem.
We, the people's industrial war complex, merge
with the abandonded gods Neil Gaimon pointed out,
formin a loose unity of spirits, engines and factories and artisans

self-defined, an unum from many, on a national scale,

Da deme demotic da-emonic conspiracy of steam, incorporated
with dwarven knackeristics of old,
fur usin' Hermes as a river to call gold to our rule maker,
food bringer, h'laf weard, Lord of the loaf.

Listen,

illiterate heathen, my Grandma said we'd be if we did not know the story
after hearing it told three times.
Third time's the charm.

We were weighing your worth,
got hooked on a breeze from the broom sweeping this
pile of parts and pieces of what you imagined being worth

that's not much more worth than one in eight millions of millions,
of you kind, unless you earned admitance to the inside

externalization of imagination
pro-ject that on next---
stop. Imagine all that
and guess... ob or sub... its your roll.

I'm the door, says the door. I have no key, it says to me,
come and see,

the progress regress con tro tra la la la

That rascal who just wondered by on Youtube

com a part mentalized, an urge to count the cost

ungrateful and thanksgiving
curse and bless
sweet and bitter from one fount, that ought not be, but
it is possible, all things are,
it can be evil, but
on
discovery
such a curse is not worse than miss fitting a taken point,

we ethos pathos logos ourselves, we say, my domain,
bad
poetry can have good ideas in it. Ah, I see.

Humble your self under the mighty hand of that which has been
given the joystick,

eh, what if a lie is running your ranking order?
careful articulation?

Jackson Pollack step up, this carefulness of art,
answer that for me.

Ah, the hero, around whom thy sun wraps, what haps ever after,

you get old and the world changes against your wish.

do you believe in God.
I do, the one Jesus believed in,

by my leave, my letting a true thing be

happily, after a life of seeking for another path.

The earth is round.

Are there ideas that cost, in the use?
Is there an ancient of days account
of idle words

verbs given for acts, as seen done, from an earthling POV
idle verbs that call no act
lest the cost come clear, daemonitic tech that seems magic,
blessing cursing and claiming to heal, all
mere art... the ability to be like Jesus, that knack

there was a wise man, as he was sweeping his way one day,
his daemon, who had the assignment,
reported finding meaning
in being filled
to over flowing, have you boasted that? Never?

Did you ever shed a tear for another's pain?

You know, pathos, commonality of us all, or you know
not
and the sufficiency of evil is calling you to be the inner hero,
making room for truth
in a heart fed lies from the womb.

After all is said and done. Believe the truth makes free
upon the point of knowing the story.

Love is a verb I seldom use. I dared redeem it for future use.
It cost me dear reader.
there are verbs we abuse at a terrible price. Paid. Not by me.

Show's over, Radioman morphed to Grandpa and Oliver
watching the real world turn beneath the sun,
relative to an earthling POV. The day's sufficiency of evil all swept away.

Don't worry, be stupid,
So sang some bright chappy,
I feed you lot of gits,
Don't worry, be stupid!

I envy your self-love, your ability to know that everything right now is how it is supposed to be
When you think of me, you think of good times and happy memories
When I think of you, I too cherish the times we spent together
But I'm also reminded of how lonely my life has now become
The substance in your life makes it so effortless for you to move on
Substance that I, myself, lack
And it makes me wonder
Am I really in love with you
Or do I just want you to make me feel whole.

To write a brilliant poem:
Use a concoction of ridiculous words.
Non-sensical message conveyed.  
Show off your manipulation to language.

Stop. And pause. And start again,
your repeated point no longer in tandem.
Then for some unknown reason ignore all logical structure and ask a question?

Darken your mood.
Randomly: use colons.
Where do; you use; semi-colons¿

Only poets admire your work.
The rests are ignorant gits,
who cannot see how your use of a thesaurus can bring upon untold bliss.

Reflect. Unreflect.
One or two words don’t quite make sense.

Finally summarise, your all-knowing point takes flight
Filled with silent anger; you’ve written utter sh**e.

i gather you're aware of the fact that i'm familiar
with the many "lesser" things, let us assume that you
think i'm wholly ignorant, but i know otherwise.
then let us progress beyond the realm of man's holy crest,
namely thought, and thus speak of the feminine emasculation
where all thought is a whirlwind, and we decide to delve
on the sacred destructive element, via fifth namely electric
(what element beyond the candle if not the light-bulb?)
into the sixth, and that being: a woman's heart -
for this is a heart that narrates the unspoken, un-thought,
a housewife's fable (why the y missing when clearly stated
fay babble? excess, true, but necessary), here the four letters
translate in our accenting to provide the basis for concerning
syllable scalpel incisions, toward the penultimate atoms
and the ultimate sub-atomic shrapnel (i've learned the heaving
and congesting difficulty that language can provide -
ponce off logos if you want toward the source that's Heraclitus -
via Heidegger); somewhere between the tick (grave stress-or)
and the tock (acute stress-or), less breve (˘) / or the pushing down
to concentrate - again: we are encoding merely approximates
and diverge into Glaswegian or Cockney accents,
or otherwise in Australia. so how to rewrite the already stressed
word in italics? oh please put us out of our misery!
how do you apply the syllable incision, herr doktor?
indeed: făble -         ˘     and |        and the y -
                                                Y - lazy ******* gits!
who? the now seemingly ancient red-coats!
        even the Greeks applied diacritical marking on their
beautiful alphabet - the English thought they were Latin
and didn't bother, they have absolutely no orthographic
rules... so here's my suggestion: before damning
all metaphysics, apply orthography -
                                 and then do something about that extra
limb para-     that you left unexplored when competing
for the benzene ring - now reality looks really 2-dimensional
to me... we have ortho-exploration via orthography,
and we have metaphysics, but para? evidently only toward
war, with the gloomy paratroopers... and excess political
jargon of neocon and what not.
i'll go as far as necessary and say: even the acute aversion
to fable suits the surgical procedure: fáble -
a Spartacus moment: people! oh people! do you not
see where the origin of dyslexia lies with you?!
and do you know why i'm referencing all this
(from one random word, to a less randomised word)?
dyslexia and asthma - learn to breath and syllable words,
you'd be in the Black Forest of Germany with their
chemistry aligned word compounding and banishment
of the Oxford hyphenation for constantly relegating
acceptance. i ref. to Aldous Huxley and the occult,
but less perverse and more pristine...
why do cats eat cobwebs and love to play with frogs?
Baal - or Bæl -
                              Siamese Adam and Eve -
   never the Siamese in reality, same-*** Siamese -
                                                 but now the cutting up -
variants: count two for the umlaut,
             or a heart-attack flat-line macron and out comes
             Bāl                    or            Bäl          -
but look at it, orthography has suddenly usurped
the Anglo aesthetic - it either looks less appealing...
or actually correct / necessary.
     after synthesising the English language for over
20 years, i finally get to analyse it
                                                 and ask a priori questions
in an eternal back-flip cartwheel censure;
     but back toward the original intent stemming from
fable - what if we're working from Bæl?
     evidently someone's going to don a diacritical crown...
just to ensure we are true linguists -
                               hmm -
                                                       i could
concern myself with a breve marking - but the graphic
suggests otherwise... let's simply say it as twin partnership
of incision, and mark the syllable cut
    via Báèl.                       that slimy duke of inferno
    appears whenever the cat, the frog and the spider
                   coagulate into a formidable dynamic -
                and i guess as being of the Taurus zodiac i can
simply say: i disregard the earthly months and seasons
and call upon the zodiac month divisions -
suiting to my personality; and i know this appeals to
women, who's reasoning is of the heart, rather than
of the abstract brain that's the mind of men;
     brain is fat anyway, but oh the eager thumping
             of a woman wanton in all the many possibilities
unexplored; plus the scientific discussion regarding
linguistics - to prove i'm not a hot-air balloon worth of crap.

He's King Louis.
I went to school with the regency.
He's superfluous, and
he taught me grammatical consistency.

Since the first day of education,
he showed me cultural emancipation
behind the bleachers in the gymnasium,
between three and six on Wednesday afternoons.

He wore a crown of indignation
to guide him in his transmigration
of lines no boy should cross.

He takes the bait from all the teachers
and all the handshakes from the preachers
until it's not just the heat that makes King Louis swoon.
The priests, they tell him in their French,
"**** de Monarque se viendra repentir!"
Much, much too late, the little wretch.

King Louis knows arithmetic, and
he listens to The Smiths with it
and thinks the rumors just aren't fair.

He knows the kids are uncouth gits
and all their sweaters are too loosely knit
and they don't spend nearly enough time on their hair.

Because he was King Louis,
time spend wading through the past is not a fling,
but a testament to getting up and staying there.

it happens rarely, but nonetheless it does:
an alcoholic walks out from his cave,
he walk the sticky wet cement from the onslaught
of rain, laughs-out-loud at the brew
of conjurings in his mind,
enters the supermarket, buys him ***
& pepsi, asks the cashier for some pen & recipe
paper,
scribbles something down -
   and then returns to his abode, less an alcoholic,
and more: a tornado.

what was scribbled down?
  a *******, rather than a thought -
psychology gets away with much
abuse of the ego,
    there's much to be said as to why
"ego-tripping" is underway -
the super-ego is abusive per se -
giving its origins in procrastinating
parents, that dreaded looming shadow -
and the id? does it expand into idea?
i thought not, no, it doesn't:
the id is by no means a worthwhile
segment of the psychological trinity,
it's not an unconscious ego "formality",
it quite simply is: a psychiatric form
of a scalpel: the probing - *it, the probing
vector that - hardly something
worth keeping:
that "benevolent" honing in on /
probing aspect of the "ill mind":
and the no-too-destructive doctor...
but what i wanted to find was a unit,
something specific...
  something that turns an alcoholic
into a tornado, when walking back from
a supermarket...
              a unit? yes! a unit of thought!
to craft a mathematical orientation that cuts
and measures "thinking"...
  i could only come up with the Φ-Θ
complex...
              since id becomes idea, and sometimes
the idea does not last, i wanted
to find the abstract...
  please mention the key & door analogy,
please... so much for omicron and zero;
but it's much more than that,
honestly, it's about heliocentric historiology
and geocentric historiology:
and history per se.
  when did one history end,
and the other history begin?
does it begin with the fail-safe idea of
the anti-christ, that precipitated into anti-matter?
or was it october 4, 1957, with sputnik 1?
or was it april 12, 1961, with yuri gagarin
in vostok 1? or was it that the ancient
maxim ringed true with laika beating
  albert?
this anglophone existentialism of puritanical
and exclusive darwinism is a bit like
shoving by ******* into a monkey wrench
and shouting: sneeze! (rather than ease up
on the squeeze).
   anglophone existentialism has become
nothing any intellectual should attempt
from the european continent,
believe me, i've been watching it for some
years... the anglophones have reinvented
existentialism by blackmailing the 20th
century movement, given the maxim:
you have to! whether in bed or in haystack!
you know what? *******!
you stop blackmailing my need to reproduce,
one thing's for sure:
darwinism & existentialism: don't *******
mingle, my dearest suga-pups (shoo-gah
paps, for posterity)!
     and we're talking jackie nicky joker's
sunset boulevard makeover.
hold on, hold on, when did heliocentric history
begin? surely you can stress the theorists
with copernicus or galileo...
  so the heliocentric history began in
the 20th century, mid-way...
and? didn't humanity simply enforce
geocentrism with satellites?
                        i still feel more orientated
around a geocentric historical realism,
than these mundane sci-fi heliocentric
ambitions that: mind the quake:
seem posthumous realism in...
              about 20 generations later...
i never understood why everyone who
"believed" in a flat earth was stupid...
well... "stupid" enough to be able to read
a map, and not rely on a g.p.s. *****...
    like i said: you navigated a car from england
to a remote part of poland, passing
the ****-hole near dortmund in germany?
   that's a ******* blast...
try navigating a car through that ****-show
of ******'s **** of the autobahn...
              but sure, if imagining an orab
from outer space helps: go for it!
i'm a man, a flat earth is practical!
   i get from a to b, i don't suddenly launch
a ****'s worth of monkey goo into outer
space asking for a meteor shower in return!
and that has to be said:
did satellites enforce heliocentrism,
or did we regress back to geocentrism?
   ha ha... what, a, funny, question...
        obviously the latter forest!
dip *****, plonkers, gits and gumps...
the whole lot of them!
       heliocentric history is infantile!
imagine: was that theory conjured up on
three-dimensional paper,
   or was that the best we could come up
with: in terms of abstracting the imaginative
sphere, i.e. on a two dimensional canvas?
it's not like copernicus conjured up
the heliocentric theory, while scribbling
on a statue, or making break-through
graffiti on a building...
   so? is it such a bad idea to interact between
the two perspectives?
                it's what i always asked for:
the humanities replying to scientific relativism,
i.e. perspectivism!
   a dog is man's best friend,
   while a monkey is man's worst enemy:
hence laika beat albert to claim
  the heavens above the allure of azure,
looking down, and licking its genitals...
my my, heliocentrism began with a dog
licking its genitals... what a mighty event!
and it's not even a century old...
seriously, don't people think that
heliocentric history making is a bit
of a loser's game?
      history is, and will remain,
for the most part, a geocentric affair,
even if star trek advancements come along;
i simply lifted the heliocentric curtain:
since, for most part, history
partakes in geocentrism,
    and heliocentrism as "history" is best
summarised by the news talking heads,
always coming last,
        along with cute, puppy stories,
or that panda that gave birth in some zoo
in china.

as is the case with all young people,
they think they own it,
but then again, they can't age with it...
tra - gic;
oi keith! oi! ola! keith! hey! throw us a lemon peel!
throw us a lemon 'cos i'm about to
make a smiley shortcut in a selfie!
gits and their bananas, i mean it,
gits and halfwits and their ba- -na- -nas!
you have a horror movie soundtrack ready?
i feel like playing it while i hallucinate!
i **** you not, three demons and a dog;
gives us da'h bandages... gives us da'h bandages.

Being a weekend binge drinker I don’t really like Mondays
my poor fragile mind is in a alcohol daze,
my limbs are slow and heavy, each movement is a trial
I feel like I’ve ran a marathon after swimming the length of The Nile,
I lop around all zombiefied my legs are full of lead
my eyes are groaning loudly, like an extra from The Walking Dead,
I’m on the verge of snoozing, I do that sleepy involuntary ****,
I pinch myself real hard “Si you have to stay awake in work!”.
So I take a trip to the disabled toilet and have a nap on the ceramic floor,
hoping I’ll feel much better after this tad of a tiny snore,
I rouse after ten minutes and decide to control this ***** ridden strife,
I must get a grip soon, I want a grasp on this Monday life,
a light bulb pings out of nowhere to brighten my maudlin mood,
this sweet recovery will be engendered by lots scrumptious of food,
so I indulge in a savoury overload and gorge on toast and crisps;
Discos, Hula Hoops, Quavers and defo tons of Frisps,
on my dinner I scoff a Mac Donalds and then a Greg’s sausage roll,
this hungry Homer gluttony helps to sustain my whole,
the calorific sustenance does it’s job and my hangover starts to diminish,
I gaze at the computer’s clock and think “hey it’s time I finished!”.
I ponder “ohh I can glide home knowing my day is done
and if it stays sweet and bright I can enjoy a few hours in the sun,
after that I can watch Breaking Bad and catch up with Coronation Street
while busting out the texts and having more to eat,
yeah I’m see what Walter White’s up to while being really greedy,
wait a ******* minute, tonight’s when I’ve said I’d help the needy!
*******, **** **** **** ****, that’s my evening of chilling down the spout,
rather than a hammock night in I’ve got to venture out
and feed a load of ungrateful gits who don’t even clear their plates
and ask me if I’m a cross dresser while sniggering with their mates,
rather then see if Jesse gets caught by Hank and how the story unfolds
I’ll have to scrub those scrubbers dishes pristine while wearing marigolds,
as oppose to nodding off reading with a Rustlers under my front room lamp
I’ll have to put a load of cutlery away after making a 20 sugar brew for a *****!"
So I decide the Wellspring is off tonight as I really can’t be assed going
I’ll just graft extra hard for *** next week and keep the drinks a flowing,
so I’m just about to pick my phone up and call in with a excuse that’s pretty lamey
but then I realise if I don’t go I won’t get to see Amy!
Suddenly there is a spring in my step, my motion feels on point
I shower very quickly and post drying roll a joint,
I have a zip in my posture as I sail and blaze down the road
all my thoughts of staying in they instantly erode,
I think “Amy is ace and topper, in her company all is fun
she’d make a day of gloom resplendent with the sun,
her chirping silly noises are always brill in the air
she turns my giggles to def com one, I laugh without a care,
I mean I know I'm hilarious, I can feel my own strengths in my head and tummy
but when I'm with Amy I'm even more funny!  
She makes it all sunny!
Cos we can berate that gormless Declan who eats with the speed of a cheetah
say he's troffing all the time, like a professional eater,
we can spray a bit of water, have a lot of chat
teleport through nonsense with the free degree of claptrap,
chill around the washer where all the cool kids hang
kicking back like Gs, knowing all the slang,
flick a fleck of sausage then have a speaking swirl
flex the talking muscles with sweet balletic twirl.
I mean she's not perfect, she could improve her lot
she's pretty immodest, always going on about how she's so hot,
alright supermodel, calm down, yeah, okay you were blessed with good looks
be you know being arrogant really ******* *****.
And she don't like the ***** cats, her brain must have a feline blur
how can she not warm to their whiskers and their contented little purrs,
her eyes sometimes don't always work and she is optically infirm
and she steals pies from the scrotes, she don't know to wait her turn,
she'd stab you in the back for a go at the counter, she's always trying to grab the lead,
and added to all that she can't even ******* read!
(I'm surprised you can read this actually.)
But i'll overlook these foibles, her flaws aren't yet that drastic
she has to merge some yang in there to be so yin fantastic!
Ahh, in this life where what was can no longer leave a reflection
it's always super to feel the natural flow of connection;
glowing with simplicity
our joyous synchronicity!"
So i approach the door of The Wellspring and feel sweet and glad
and think, "you know for a Monday you aint turned out too bad!".

I am a fork in a world of soup
a scout without a troop
a landline phone in a world of mobiles
a voicemail speed dial
a punchline which is a slow poke
a old bloke surrounded by stylish gits
a thong in a world of bras and ****
Facebook without the pictures
selfies at the right angle
a pen in a tangle
a stranger in a crowd
nuff said not loud
a cuppa tea in world of coffee
a defenceless toffee
in a world of chocolate biscuits
don't risk it or me
cause i am too different
a black sheep in a world of white
a short skirt in a world of jeans
a nghtmare in a world of dreams.
you may look
you may stare
but i am the unknown
you have to find me a home.

Cats make me laugh, the selfish gits,
They prowl through life, not taking ****,
We humans are just staff, to them,
Our independent feline friends,
Standoffish, surly and downright rude,
Very fussy with their food,
They change their minds just like the wind,
Very often gourmet food is binned,
And then they stalk into 'their' house,
And disembowel some poor mouse,
There is one thing you must never oughta,
Try to wash your cat in soapy water,
The outraged cat will then go wild,
You will then know the devils child,
On the coldest the winter nights,
Cat approaches, purring, right?
Jumps on your lap with kneading paws,
But one false move, you'll feel their claws,
You can never ever own a cat,
They own you, now that's a fact,
Our intelligence they have surpassed,
They've worked out how to lick their ****,
One thing deserves a generous pardon,
They at least crap in neighbours gardens,
I cannot help respect these beings,
I'd never wish to hurt their feelings,
And so I for one will doff my hat,
Towards our Royal highnesses , the cat.

I am sick of this effing town ****** ****** Rotherham
it simply isn't no **** good It should be called Botherham
because some of the people who live there are complete arseholes
most of which are ******* ***** out for there own goals
some of the ones that you thought you could trust and where on your side
are nothing more than tossing gits and out for a free ride

‘Sunrise.’* You breathe out
As the sky swirls
Its majestic colors
Of blue, orange, yellow, pink
‘It’s always lovely isn’t it?’
‘It’s one of the lovely
And lonely things,’ I sigh.
I’m sorry that
I just can’t help
Myself sometimes
On seeing the sad in
Beautiful, beautiful things.
I know you said
That it’s because I’m doubtful
But then, no.
Some things are just that.
Flawed.
We just fail to see
Past its beautiful exterior.
‘What could be possibly lonely
About the sunrise?’
You inquire (and
I love that you would want to
Hear some explanation I have).
‘Hope,’ I called out
‘Doesn’t it symbolize hope?
Doesn’t it sprays out the message
Of a new beginning?
As if you can undo all the
Wrong things—but you can’t.
Hope breeds eternal misery,
Doesn’t it? It’s effing lonely.’
It could be weird but I certainly don’t
See the sunrise as billions of eyes see it.
I had expected you
To give me a look and tell
Me to stop seeing the sadder side,
Goodness knows that what everyone does—
‘Here,’ You reached out your hand
I gave you a strangle look
‘Take it,’ your amused voice floats
‘So we could walk together and
Look like sad gits together and
Ponder on what makes sad things sad.’
But by then I am in no way
Sad, I could the happiest
Person alive.

I's don' really know much
only how to cook and clean
fa ma marster's and they chillun
they tries to teach me to read
i's neva liked the white folks edumucation
so I's just stay in the field
spend time with the sun
until the moon comes
and take me on away
das my's only time to heal
from the scars they puts on my skin
from the scars they puts in my mind
from the scars they puts on my family
my brothers and nem
I's wonder all the time
will we ever be free?
I's think of it everyday
cant wait for it to be
Mama always worked in the kitchen
but she has her fav spot
next to the chimney she a sit
listen to the white folks talk
I's pray all the time she ont get caught
one day she heard sumn
mussa been real good
Is seen her smiling
as Jesus himself gon an got mama a new dress
but I's know ha smile na
tha day she sats in a corner listnin'
she hurds them finely' say we's free
we's free
but marster wouldnt let us go
she herd' em tell mistus
he wont let us free till me make sommo'
for thems to eat
but mama hops out that chimey corner
jumps to her feet
I's herd' ha yelling
"I's free I's free'
"then she runs to the field 'gainst marster's will
and tol' all the other slaves n they quit work"
I's seen all the hoes and rakes falls to the dirt
dat nite ma slip out the house
like a banana was at da do'
she hids' in the ditch
I's get snuck out my bed
next I's in mamas arms
I's look at mama's tied' feet
running so fast
to chase her freedom
I's hear shots from *****
dem dogs barking n growlin'
Lord please keep mama safe
and the Lord hears ma prayas'
cause' that nite
afta alls the yelling cryin' n sweating
me and mama
we finely gits away



Copy Right 2020
©PoeticPat

So there's this
conversation
we have

Where you are
working
so hard

to learn how
that
happened to you

vexed *****
used
badly

and i
just try
not to sigh

whilst your ego
gits its
high

keeping you
away
from

here and now
as you're too busy
fixing then

which can't be
and isn't
to be fixed

Herding flatly in the heat of streets
They rise up
Expecting rights and comfort all around.
But there is none.

Well, as a matter of fact there is some
(Thanks to Matt Cook we can all be more honest now
In poems.  Gear-changing - so much fun)

For instance, take 1 - 4 above.  
It's about groups of people in cafes and bars
In a hot evening city.  I wasn't feeling
Like Joining In.
So,
They were all irritating gits in my eyes
All condemned therefore in writing about it.
Then and afterwards
They were sad desperate zombies, so they were
All looking for a fix of pleasure, distraction, coin
Of their toil exchanging misery for oblivion and so

Doomed
Doomed
Doomed.  

But they weren't really
Of course.

I expect many of them had a truly great time.
Staggering laughter, blow-out fun, exuberance
Of release - and dancing through the
Smoke and din and drink and clashing colours, scents.

Maybe in midst someone of special poise  
Looked felt words across that bar that
Roared and rocked them far apart.  
Then laser quiet unites:
A magic channel switching out the noise.
Later they loved.
It tasted good and lasted.

Years, children, garden, wins,
Losses, and still some Mayhem Friends -
'Remember that night, and the chap
With the crash hat
Who just stood and looked?

I wonder what happened

To him?'

Hey you!

Yeah

YOU!

i say,
somebody out there
likes my Big Fat Yellow Bootay!

and here
is what
they
say,

"Oh, the big fat bus
with big fat yellow bootay
always makes my day."

hey,
hey,
hey!

i say!

have yourself,
one
fine
Day!

big bootay!
one fine day!
hey, hey, hey....

...The Big Fat Yellow Bootay gives a wave of thanks
and gits going on her way....

Them shabby,greedy,grasping grabby gits what sits on Whitehall's seats gives me the heebies
what with all them bleeding freebies it beats me what we has them for,it's sods own law but them lot there don't give a flying monkeys,they just don't care for the likes of me and you,
but it's me and you what makes them rich and still the greedy buggers itch for more and more,
a case of Orwell's nineteen eighty four and there's no ragged trousered philanthropists anymore,the score being, them one and us nil and the swines send us the ****** bill and if you haven't got the readies it's off to beddy byes up hangmans hill,
them ******* will
get you in the end,bend you to their way of thinking,put holes in you until you're sinking and throw you a promissory note,does **** float?
I think not
but I think it's what we get and all they've got,
it's a right old liberty with the men at the thin end of the ministry and the fat cats get them rats to batten us down.

Out of town it gets no better,they google  and with the letter of the law move in to nick you,it makes me sick,an Englishman's home should be his castle not the knocking shop for them what has to hassle,but
it's in the doings and when the doings become undone, we see it now with the knife and the gun
and that's no fun.neither is the sharp end of the stick they **** and poke us with,
it's donkeys and dogs and the laps of the gods and we sit and drink tea when the clock strikes three
because we're all a little crazy,
a teensy off key,
we have to be
to survive.

Woke up eager and ready to go
Tell me no makes me want it more
Did it myself doing my best to maintain
All the pain heals and open to grow
Feeling myself over others doubting
No love but earning my way keep trucking
Haven't happened yet everything falling a part
Hopefully falling leads to falling into place
New friends old friends just need people accept
They can't handle rejection always holding a grudge
They deny others but can't handled being rejected
Woke up grateful doing my thing too bad no one is happy for me
Been doing what I love so no reason to be sad or miserable
Had it once lost it but working to get it back
Things aren't always meant to be every path leads to somewhere
Praying I end up where I'm meant to be been going strong
Take time to notice what's going on because might miss the view
Sometimes things don't feel right but things are going well
Lots of making it better and not enough enjoyment

shock-absorbing Christ has a limit... every man has a limit... you take pity you take up the whip and the hammer and nail... you take up the word you take up the heart, the ego, the placard of thought's freedom disengaged from concentrating on him - religious democracy? when did that exist?! oh, when we all became saints... but that was never a certain to be.

you're not saving the system, you're merely salvaging it -
meaning you're exploitative of youth
and leaving the old farts to fend for themselves -
i'm way past  theorising the established order -
by theory you invoke a solution -
Marx was too easily toppled -
the old gits bogged down on the review
and linked-in saying: the adventures
we had worth merely plight -
we ventured to authentic bookmarking -
these days nothing separates us from the young -
you really did place your criticism of
Communism due to the ethnicity of the Pope -
not partaking in the years of Martial Law authority -
it's Christianity built on
John Paul II forgiving Mehmet Ali Ağca -
what... no Barabbas as part of the story?!
in a prison cell - **** your principle of forgiveness
and a cell - GIVE ME SIBERIA! give me the forgiving
elements - not your superstition of forgiveness and cage!
no? oh... THEN YOUR TEACHINGS ARE WORTH *SQUAT!
HAVE A SINGALONG WITH CASTRATOS IN THE SISTINE
CHAPEL... and, personally (due to a Catholic school education)...
*******! i love how i can be Antisemitic in this region -
and be a Jew at the same time - CRUCIFY THE ****!
or hear the gas chamber choir for your birth at Bethlehem.
because what the mortal fears is what a mortal hasn't lived -
funny isn't it? the concept of the Antichrist wasn't
at all Adolf. like Sylvia Plath in daddy, 2000 years ago
from now... you ain't that special no matter whether gentile or Jew;
you disagree with me you undermine democracy -
you agree with me you undermine democracy
as in not automated anthill experimented with,
but as in demonstrated or demonised anthill -
something or other a priori; or the Kant i read today,
too drunk to coerce a sentence with,
thus better left unsaid.

People often ask me ' do you have a wife ? ...girlfriend ?
I tell them that i'm single , yes ..i know it's not the trend
But i would much rather be happy and live alone just with my cat
Than be with a controlling freak or a boring.... lazy tw@t
I often act quite silly , spontaneous and free
Happy and uncomplicated ...marriage ?...not for me !!
Don't get me wrong , i love to love and do so with my heart
Genuine , affectionate ?...i've been that from the start
Trouble is ..i've met too many fakesters , selfish users
Money grabbing nasty gits , lazy, boring , boozers !!
Lie-ing turds , compulsive flirts & one's that are not true
It's not a case of you & me , it's more like ..you & you
One day i'm sure i'll meet someone that feels the same as me
And none of this will matter ...then lovers we shall be
Until then i guess i'll stay as one and live as i see fit
You see it's as the saying goes..'if it's not broke..then don't fix it.