It's as easy as, 1, 2, 3.
Understandable as A, B, C.
Undesirable as, Don't Take Me.

A simple ditty,
So listen, Kiddie,
There's no singing in the grave.

No foot tapping, finger snapping,
Lip smacking music where you're going;
But don't be in a hurry to get going
To a place where you're a gonner.

You won't be chatting with a Brahma,
Discussing laws with ancient Moses,
There's no sitting Buddha posing,
You ain't in blissful Nirvana.

You'd be  in heaven in Havana.

There aren't virgins waiting;
No loaves and fishes baking;
No bells ringing,
No Mecca wailing,
No roads paved with gold.

I miss those stories I was sold.

Whatever it is that ails you...
Whatever it is that ails you...
Whatever it is that ails you...

Was it us who failed you?

Stay a while, don't leave yet,
You'll find nothing you expect,
But you won't remember,
And you won't forget.

I awoke from this dream in the rubble of my mind. Lost alone in there among the falling Sands of Time. Stricken by the knots that are tied with in my sheets. No more sickness mama please no more grief. All my screws are loose there's too much confusion. Let me fall onto myself into that dreamy illusion. I took the needle from my arm but it's still planted in my head. I've got that feeling I can't take and it's filling me with Dread. I want to slide on down where the muddy water creeps. Where the ****** river flows who's filled with sweet relief. I want to climb into my mind find Oblivion far away from the feelings of the body I live in. Take me to that place that we all want to go. Suspected fugitive lost out on that Lonesome Road. Your constant conversations have me twiddling my thumbs. She was a torturous deceiver with her hand upon my gun. The wind swelled with a gust and I woke from this dream lost all along the lonely streets looking like a fein. I stepped into a paradise searching for my mind. A gonner with a periscope see me from behind. I'm gaining on my final breath aiming for the moon. Sewing up my only close with a needle and a spoon. Drowning in the desperation brewing in my grief. Searching like a street cop lost along his beat. Awaken to the circus that same old ******* show. A sing-along of corpses hitchhiking down the road. The Badlands and sands of time it's the gritty kind of life. Batten down the hatches so to not let in the light. When dependency is slavery there is no kind of thrill. ****** ******* just a feeling kinda ill.

Drip drip,
Tear drops came From a slip,  
Hit my head on the wall,
My mind went on a trip,
Layed there on the hall
And no one payed attention at all!

I woke up on a hospital bed,
All confused and hurting on the head,
People were standing around me with faces full of dread,
I have lost my memory they said,

Oh what a ******,
I guess im now a gonner,
I sigh as i go back to my slumber,
And dream as i ponder,
Now i wonder,
What other events will come to me this Summer.

HE DO THAT TED HUGHES IN DIFFERENT VOICES

Nothing but
- a waste land.

Crow is bored

perched upon a branch
like a haiku

waiting to happen
but where

is a haiku
poet when

one really needs one.

Crows agree to play
Charades.

One falls to the forest floor
clutching its chest shouting

"Aghhhhh ya...got me
I'm  a gonner!"

Then another and another
with a more cornier

one-liner than
the one before

looking more like spilled ink
than the last.

Crows having a blast
laughing their feathers off.

All big Film
Noir fans.

"Yeah, yeah...I got it
a ****** of crows!"

Across a hillside
a human stands

as if he had just sprouted
out of the land.

An Easter Island
of a man.

The sneer of cold command
upon those chiseled lips.

An Ozymandias!
"Look upon my mighty words and despair!"

Or more like
a granite gryphon

glaring at the crows' play
turning them over in his mind

until they
become words.

"Oh not that ******
Ted Hughes again!"

Crow mutters
to itself.

The poet unaware
that human thought

hangs frozen on the air
on such days as these.

The giant Hughes man
a poet made of iron

by some process of
emotional osmosis

absorbs their world and words
making it up as he goes along

for he great poet though he be
never learned to speak Crow.

The great man glares
at the sun

willing it into submission
the sun falters on a hillside.

He disappears into the snow
his fragile footprints

vanishing in a trice
lost to time

as if he has
never been born.

Crow does his best
impression

mocks and mimics
the human's thought.

"Nailing Heaven and earth together -

So man cried, but with God's voice.
And God bled, but with man's blood. "

A bell breaks
the sky's silence

crows scatter to
the heavens.

"Oh that Charlie
Crow...he is a one!"

One crow smirks to another.

"He do that Ted Hughes
to a tee!"

Keep friends close
Keep enemies closer
Now you're a gonner
Because you kept your friend closer

HE DO THAT TED HUGHES IN DIFFERENT VOICES

Nothing but
- a waste land.

Crow is bored

perched upon a branch
like a haiku

waiting to happen
but where

is a haiku
poet when

one really needs one.

Crows agree to play
Charades.

One falls to the forest floor
clutching its chest shouting

"Aghhhhh ya...got me
I'm  a gonner!"

Then another and another
with a more cornier

one-liner than
the one before

looking more like spilled ink
than the last.

Crows having a blast
laughing their feathers off.

All big Film
Noir fans.

"Yeah, yeah...I got it
a ****** of crows!"

Across a hillside
a human stands

as if he had just sprouted
out of the land.

An Easter Island
of a man.

The sneer of cold command
upon those chiseled lips.

An Ozymandias!
"Look upon my mighty words and despair!"

Or more like
a granite gryphon

glaring at the crows' play
turning them over in his mind

until they
become words.

"Oh not that ******
Ted Huges again!"

Crow mutters
to itself.

The poet unaware
that human thought

hangs frozen on the air
on such days as these.

The giant Hughes man
a poet made of iron

by some process of
emotional osmosis

absorbs their world and words
making it up as he goes along

for he great poet though he be
never learned to speak Crow.

The great man glares
at the sun

willing it into submission
the sun falters on a hillside.

He disappears into the snow
his fragile footprints

vanishing in a trice
lost to time

as if he has
never been born.

Crow does his best
impression

mocks and mimics
the human's thought.

"Nailing Heaven and earth together -

So man cried, but with God's voice.
And God bled, but with man's blood. "

A bell breaks
the sky's silence

crows scatter to
the heavens.

"Oh that Charlie
Crow...he is a one!"

One crow smirks to another.

"He do that Ted Hughes
to a tee!"    

*

T.S. Eliot’s 1922 masterpiece “The Waste Land” was originally titled “He Do the Police in Different Voices,” a quote from Charles Dickens’ Our Mutual Friend.

I went to see Ted Hughes at the Royal Festival Hall after an extensive day and night shiftwork in mental health for about four days as staff went sick or simply didn't turn up.. Couldn't remember if I was to meet my ******* Thursday in Friday street or not or wot. I was right under his lectern and he looked immense ;and a lot like Sam the Eagle in the Muppet Show in looks and manner. I kept falling asleep between syllables and would **** myself awake and every time I did so I would get that fierce Hughesian glare!

HE DO THAT TED HUGHES IN DIFFERENT VOICES

Nothing but
- a waste land.

Crow is bored

perched upon a branch
like a haiku

waiting to happen
but where

is a haiku
poet when

one really needs one.

Crows agree to play
Charades.

One falls to the forest floor
clutching its chest shouting

"Aghhhhh ya...got me
I'm  a gonner!"

Then another and another
with a more cornier

one-liner than
the one before

looking more like spilled ink
than the last.

Crows having a blast
laughing their feathers off.

All big Film
Noir fans.

"Yeah, yeah...I got it
a ****** of crows!"

Across a hillside
a human stands

as if he had just sprouted
out of the land.

An Easter Island
of a man.

The sneer of cold command
upon those chiseled lips.

An Ozymandias!
"Look upon my mighty words and despair!"

Or more like
a granite gryphon

glaring at the crows' play
turning them over in his mind

until they
become words.

"Oh not that ******
Ted Huges again!"

Crow mutters
to itself.

The poet unaware
that human thought

hangs frozen on the air
on such days as these.

The giant Hughes man
a poet made of iron

by some process of
emotional osmosis

absorbs their world and words
making it up as he goes along

for he great poet though he be
never learned to speak Crow.

The great man glares
at the sun

willing it into submission
the sun falters on a hillside.

He disappears into the snow
his fragile footprints

vanishing in a trice
lost to time

as if he has
never been born.

Crow does his best
impression

mocks and mimics
the human's thought.

"Nailing Heaven and earth together -

So man cried, but with God's voice.
And God bled, but with man's blood. "

A bell breaks
the sky's silence

crows scatter to
the heavens.

"Oh that Charlie
Crow...he is a one!"

One crow smirks to another.

"He do that Ted Hughes
to a tee!"

i's party: that's i have 8 cartons
of camel cigarettes...
i smoke one a day: there's a feel
to it a taste like
a tender mush and some oyster...

there's also that reflection
monstrosity
worth         55cm
   of a bookshelf...

             and it's like: wrestling
with a paragraph...
but it's also akin to...
the completed poems of walt whitman
and... the collected poems of
jack spicer...
   and nietzsche had to boast:
write as little /
           no: not so very much...

i don't want to write
because i have found reading
to be more pleasurable...
i want to read more than i write;

once upon a time
i'd want to read as much as i'd write
and i'd write... bargaining:
no... clearly there was a pause...
etc.

          it is a rather outstanding
bookshelf...
   i still want to add stephen king's IT
to my diet...
for some strange reason that
the writer is still alive...
             a "perhaps" and perhaps a "maybe"...

party fiend:
a tease of whiskers of amber...
nightcap comrade...
a camel cigarette...
           having showered
after a day toiling with putting up
a pagoda...
itchy evergreen tree
and spiders without webs...
spiders all roughage
pure protein
   and nothing a priori wedded
to a web...
nothing of that sort
of: "remember"...

i's party: best catch cotton-candy...
a dream of being 7...
candy-floss...
a cloud... lemonade sold
in... plastic bags...
my grandfather's missing umbrella:
more -esque toward:
my missing grandfather...

a fiat 126p and... a dozen clowns...
marking dogs' worth of ****
of a joke in: testing... testing
claustrophobia(s)...

or "she" would cling to singing
some ******* riddle
and they had to...
the horrors would became
tame...
"she" would be some fear
that... life does not
continue under the bridge...
that "her" mother
was the last and first
remaining evil...
she could become
superstitious to thought...
of the other...

             any free thought...
as a "mother"...
she wanted the pontius pilate
pose of washed hands...
nothing written...
prior to the hour of sleep...
a train song...
a ******* ******-ward...

- and it's not all that:
it's that the mother had a mother
and the whole "affair" of
a life is not knitting with knots
because
you can't translate
1950s h'america
                     and 1940s europe...
the train song
and the dead-knot is
limbo-squaring....

                 the use of stairs
is: a dejected scrutiny of sounds
hinterland of grief...
mommy was not....
but mommy was...

                          the best passed...
the best kept ambivalent...
crab bucket mentality torn
toward: sooner to the grave...
engulfing an utopian sober...

my and "my"
             and "a" people...
the train...
        the blister screetch....
       stampede...
                 my fellow gone...
my lost loose and in-between...

my mother abhors the idea
of there "being" a mother prior
to her...

                i scratch the invisible
stretchline of what is not expected
to stress the fringe: bowl...
cranium and itchy skid marks of
a razor...
dwarf wonder...
                     bubble frenzy...

       the best served in 3rd person...

because the moon has become
so blatant...
         and there's no hagia sophia
knot no new this...
self-awareness / consciousness
ratio
                  fully: exploring
banta-bash-up-base...
            mongol and darwinistic
jou-jou               r-gon.... gonner...

sponsoder by carpet burning....
          and there's this grieving future
IN and replica...
                                    
     all are best equipped...
because there's that base...
for... a 19th century novel...
    
                 tossing coal nuggets and camel
    humps...
                     new fire!

From The Queer History of Portugal's Cowboy T.V. Shows, p. 452:
“The weirdest T.V. show was sponsored by the large Nash-Kelvinator
Corporation & it ran for 243 episodes with its star Ruck Gonner as the
Rifle Guy. No one watched it & it was canceled & Ruck became so
gay that he married Aaron Spelling & they had 9 ***** daughters.”

HE DO THAT TED HUGHES IN DIFFERENT VOICES

Nothing but
- a waste land.

Crow is bored

perched upon a branch
like a haiku

waiting to happen
but where

is a haiku
poet when

one really needs one.

Crows agree to play
Charades.

One falls to the forest floor
clutching its chest shouting

"Aghhhhh ya...got me
I'm  a gonner!"

Then another and another
with a more cornier

one-liner than
the one before

looking more like spilled ink
than the last.

Crows having a blast
laughing their feathers off.

All big Film
Noir fans.

"Yeah, yeah...I got it
a ****** of crows!"

Across a hillside
a human stands

as if he had just sprouted
out of the land.

An Easter Island
of a man.

The sneer of cold command
upon those chiseled lips.

An Ozymandias!
"Look upon my mighty words and despair!"

Or more like
a granite gryphon

glaring at the crows' play
turning them over in his mind

until they
become words.

"Oh not that ******
Ted Hughes again!"

Crow mutters
to itself.

The poet unaware
that human thought

hangs frozen on the air
on such days as these.

The giant Hughes man
a poet made of iron

by some process of
emotional osmosis

absorbs their world and words
making it up as he goes along

for he great poet though he be
never learned to speak Crow.

The great man glares
at the sun

willing it into submission
the sun falters on a hillside.

He disappears into the snow
his fragile footprints

vanishing in a trice
lost to time

as if he has
never been born.

Crow does his best
impression

mocks and mimics
the human's thought.

"Nailing Heaven and earth together -

So man cried, but with God's voice.
And God bled, but with man's blood. "

A bell breaks
the sky's silence

crows scatter to
the heavens.

"Oh that Charlie
Crow...he is a one!"

One crow smirks to another.

"He do that Ted Hughes
to a tee!"

*

T.S. Eliot’s 1922 masterpiece “The Waste Land” was originally titled “He Do the Police in Different Voices,” a quote from Charles Dickens’ Our Mutual Friend.


I went to see Ted Hughes at the Royal Festival Hall after an extensive day and night shift work in mental health for about four days as staff went sick or simply didn't turn up.. Couldn't remember if I was to meet my ******* Thursday in Friday street or not or wot. I was right under his lectern and he looked immense  and a lot like Sam the Eagle in the Muppet Show in looks and manner. I kept falling asleep between syllables and would **** myself awake and every time I did so I would get that fierce Hughesian glare!

HE DO THAT TED HUGHES IN DIFFERENT VOICES

Nothing but
- a waste land.

Crow is bored

perched upon a branch
like a haiku

waiting to happen
but where

is a haiku
poet when

one really needs one.

Crows agree to play
Charades.

One falls to the forest floor
clutching its chest shouting

"Aghhhhh ya...got me
I'm  a gonner!"

Then another and another
with a more cornier

one-liner than
the one before

looking more like spilled ink
than the last.

Crows having a blast
laughing their feathers off.

All big Film
Noir fans.

"Yeah, yeah...I got it
a ****** of crows!"

Across a hillside
a human stands

as if he had just sprouted
out of the land.

An Easter Island
of a man.

The sneer of cold command
upon those chiselled lips.

An Ozymandias!
"Look upon my mighty words and despair!"

Or more like
a granite gryphon

glaring at the crows' play
turning them over in his mind

until they
become words.

"Oh not that ******
Ted Hughes again!"

Crow mutters
to itself.

The poet unaware
that human thought

hangs frozen on the air
on such days as these.

The giant Hughes man
a poet made of iron

by some process of
emotional osmosis

absorbs their world and words
making it up as he goes along

for he great poet though he be
never learned to speak Crow.

The great man glares
at the sun

willing it into submission
the sun falters on a hillside.

He disappears into the snow
his fragile footprints

vanishing in a trice
lost to time

as if he has
never been born.

Crow does his best
impression

mocks and mimics
the human's thought.

"Nailing Heaven and earth together -

So man cried, but with God's voice.
And God bled, but with man's blood. "

A bell breaks
the sky's silence

crows scatter to
the heavens.

"Oh that Charlie
Crow...he is a one!"

One crow smirks to another.

"He do that Ted Hughes
to a tee!"