En l’an trentiesme do mon aage
    Que toutes mes hontes j’ay beues…


Pipit sate upright in her chair
     Some distance from where I was sitting;
Views of the Oxford Colleges
     Lay on the table, with the knitting.

Daguerreotypes and silhouettes,
     Her grandfather and great great aunts,
Supported on the mantelpiece
     An Invitation to the Dance.

     . . . . .

I shall not want Honour in Heaven
     For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney
And have talk with Coriolanus
     And other heroes of that kidney.

I shall not want Capital in Heaven
     For I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond.
We two shall lie together, lapt
     In a five per cent. Exchequer Bond.

I shall not want Society in Heaven,
     Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride;
Her anecdotes will be more amusing
     Than Pipit’s experience could provide.

I shall not want Pipit in Heaven:
     Madame Blavatsky will instruct me
In the Seven Sacred Trances;
     Piccarda de Donati will conduct me.

     . . . . .

But where is the penny world I bought
     To eat with Pipit behind the screen?
The red-eyed scavengers are creeping
     From Kentish Town and Golder’s Green;

Where are the eagles and the trumpets?

     Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps.
Over buttered scones and crumpets
     Weeping, weeping multitudes
Droop in a hundred A.B.C.’s

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
Money in the pocket of the biggest shareholder

Day by day, we grow older
Love is lost, hearts grow colder

So while you still can, you should hold her
Say what you feel, before you wish you'd told her

Don't stash your dreams away, in that folder
As you care less what they think, you'll get bolder

Listen to those, who need a shoulder
Let her live, don't try to mold her

Don't sell your soul, for something golder

What the hell is wrong?
What do you think I'm on?
I'd prefer a downer,
And that you forget about her
My hair is longer and golder
I look like a mermaid when it falls over your shoulder
My waist is small, I could give it all
A bad baby with an always broken heart
When you tell your stories I listen to every word
And I love your shampoo and your sadness
And you know how to read the method to my madness
And how to talk me down when I'm freakin out above this
And all the weird things you do, I do too
Since I was a little girl I didn't think I'd find it
A shooting star that knows how to rocket
Rock it, rock it, dance with me
Smarter than Miranda, prettier than Maddy
Darker than Zoe, sweeter than Bella
And I know it's true cause you always want more
I never get old, you never get bored
Make the smart decision boy, you're a genius
Here's a quarter and a scratch off ticket
Ill be under the first layer
You'll know when you see it

And as I lie here I think of you, to bring me back to my dream of yesterday. Sleeping sound on my island listening to that Leonard Cohen play, hoping that dream will become reality by day, being with you is golder than the dragons treasure and gem named Kai turns my mind to clay.

Born of Gaia's womb
    an Olympus beholder
Forsaken by Zeus
   fatherless, growing older
Promethean flame
   of mortality colder
Like Atlas I've carried
   the world on each shoulder
Condemned to the weight
   of my Sisyphus boulder
A Minotaur slaying
   Medusa's gaze holder
Lion amongst men
   an Achilles heel soldier
For argonaut strive
   makes my fleece all the golder
As Icarus pride
   razes my wings to smolder
Beneath Helios
   I will shine all the bolder  
Releasing my mind
   from Pandora's enclosure
And Tartarus pits
   of my Hades exposure
No shears of Fates sever
   my heartstrings' disclosure
Andromeda bound
   by the promise I told her
In fields of Elysian
   once more I shall hold her

A parakeet sits, with colorful wings
and sweet dreams of grandeur
now shattered in vain.
It's dreams are of blue skies and of billowing clouds
which it sees everyday
through the bars that surround.
And only to someone, who's been there before
do the eyes tell the story of someone forlorn.

The lion does walk with bright golder mane
and a remembrance of a kingdom
he lost one dark day.
He remembers of tall grass and plentiful game,
and a roar that sent shivers
now no longer the same.
And those eyes tell a story, as he walks to and throw
of a kingdom once had and a freedom once known.

And me?  I'll just sit here for I truly know.
The story the eyes tell and the hearts mournful woe.

good morning from the north coast
where i ran a hurricane through the wash
and hung it up to dry
before i chased a fever down a battered thermostat
to sneak a swap between its truth to my lie

welcome to the north coast
where all the older all the golder
even if it was once nightmare black
we here do have a habit of missing what we lack

where i stretched to touch the morning, to find it so closely out of reach
and did the laundry once more
drowned the daytime dark with bleach

with another voice, seasoned, worn, hurricane-ripped but not tornado-torn
fidget still in my fingers, sore still in my head, still
beginning upon a realization, only further away

drift, so it drifts, the push is a blessing
till sore turns to burn and fidget becomes seizure shake
till all good things worn out with season-anticipated break

and no break is a good break, no efficiency is deficiency, deficiency is lack
lack is no good and no good is evil

and evil is darkness and darkness was meant to be bleached
if all good-really-but-bad-really things could be survived
as lessons but to teach

and how many more? till my voice loses hold again?
till all hope comes loose? cog in the machine and the machine hates itself too?

till chapter begins with over till book reads end

till i found myself another war to tend. till the summer thins and the fall rains begin to pour

once more, it's flooding out my door

and door keeps evil but not from coming in
keeps my own mercilessness trapped deep within

and within leaves room for thought but fall leaves fall

and drown in my admission, or don't bother trying to make it out at all

and delusion is my saviour and delusion is her crown

till all my good promises became people to let down

and i love you my baby, i love you with good will
and good intention. and all the seams i tried to sew

but there was so much more you did not know

If you've ever had vertigo
You always worry about losing your balance

His parents named him Ponyboy
Hers named her Cherry Valance

Nothing can gold stay
Truer as I get older

Can anything improve?
Can anything ever get golder?

Should I have told her?

having completed my chemistry
degree at Edinburgh...

thanks, but no thanks...
when i heard that Polish citizens
were relieved
student loan requirements,
and i just became a
British citizen?

dual nationality? out the window....

but when i applied to study my
passion, history,
at U.C.L...
        some ******* from
Birmingham....
   plus the added expenses of
£3000+ a year,
from what
Tony Blaire envisoned at
hovering well below £1500 a year...

never mind Iraq and Afghanistan..
as i said to a Turk in his shop:
while some random Englishman
listened in:

   for that? i could thank him,
the rest? brushed up with
a savant wave of the hand...

   but when i went back to U.C.L?
after having dropped out
after half a year?

   i was invited to a pro-Palestinian
student drama theatrical
exposure...
   Jews were there...
wherever they pop up from like
mushrooms... Golder(s) Green?
        last time i checked...
orthodoxy central...

   but these ******* from Birmingham
turned to me after the student play...
and before i had anything
to actually said,
they retorted with:

WE'LL CRUCIFY YOU!

         good thing that i dropped out,
before paying into the already
extortionist debt...

  ****... what year was this?
  graduated from Edinburgh in 2007...
the Northern Irish post-graduate
in French gave me a 1st
for an essay on Albert Camus' essay
regarding  the outsider...
and the Canadian ****
in history class liked my essay
on Napoleon...

          but back in London?
thank **** i left...
            WE'LL CRUCIFY YOU...
how do you even react to that?
not being able to give an opinion...
as late, or early, as 2008...

             nothing to speak of regarding
dialectics...
      Birmingham, the shadow hanging
over London...
     if you want to study further,
even though you don't need to,
esp. in England, given the legal
drinking age is 18 in England,
  and i suppose the main reason
   why people take to university is
for the oath-fulfilling I.D. of
    the seniors in fraternity bulks...

drink first, learn to drive later...
     learn to use a bus, and your legs...
coordinate yourself like so,
before experiencing demands
to drive a car...
my "problem" with America was
never, and never will be about
gun control...
    you're joking, right?
the legal age for drinking is, 21?!
daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa(h) ****?!
so you are legally able to drive
aged 16...
   but only legally bound to consuming
alcohol aged 21?
    gun, no gun...
what's the obvious problem?
haven't traveled on public transports
on a N86 ****** out your
head wishing to spot some
leprechaun or some Parisian
absinthe fairy...

but the legal argument goes:
you are allowed to drive first...
wait!
   take the ******* bus!
learn to wait!
        drink... but let someone take
the ******* responsibility!
guns... blah ha ha ha ha ha ha!

but come on...
i already had a degree...
30+ hours of learning...
12 hours of which was practical application
of, actual chemistry experiments...
for less than £1500 a year
under the labor manifesto of:
education, education, education...

back in London?
£3000+ a year...
   for a 6+ hours of "learning",
which actually allowed me to keepa part time
roofing job with my father...
   for what?!

          so i started investing
in a private library... the kind that my local
town library couldn't provide...

but what sort of "comrade"
says to a fellow "comrade", after just under a a year...
having invited him to a pro-Palestinian
student play

    WE'LL CRUCIFY YOU...

thank god i dropped out;
i wish i never reapplied t study for a second;
as much as i loved history
at A-level...
              with that hit of a piece of coursework
for the next graduates of
Canon Palmer R.C. -
      about the counter-Reformation.

come to think of it...
i should have replied:
  CRUCIFY?!
      such a, limited... imagination.