We went to the movies and I didn't bring a sweater.
But the night was coldly filled with goosebump raising weather.
There were goosebumps on my skin but I didn't have my sweater.
I thought it would be better if we sat closer together.
You wrapped your arms around me and were my warmth spreader.
You made my heart melt and now I will forever be your debtor.

The skies were clear the day after he died.

I peeled off my clothes by the river
and watched the water breathe,
folding into itself like a chest wound.
It trembled at my touch,
as foot became current,
kissed thigh and naked breast,
warm cheek and curled lip.
The water was soft
and the world sighed beneath me.
My skin was built of goosebump
condensation.
I floated on my back and my body became the water cycle.

Evaporation is just another word
for rebirth.

The night was right it ended wrong
Heard something that hit a nerve be strong
No more self destruction cope with the pain
Good memories drown out not much to gain
Trusting the wrong want to believe it ends right
You can leave won't be around forever
Eventually say whatever find the confidence to start over
Not settling for less all I want is the best
I'm not perfect but want to be close to doing so
Lots of personal growth seeking closure
Hurting find the power within to forgive
I don't want to give up sometime you have to move on
Tears of relief and new beginings just believe
Don't blame yourself its not you
Sometimes lies are mistaken for the truth

Path less traveled, Path unknown.
Mountains, Sand, rocks and stone.
No water, vegetation so scarce.
Sun at its ugliest, sun so fierce.

In this wilderness I fear I'll get lost.
I dread I'll be ruined, I will exhaust.
Some say this road will never end;
More I travel, more it will extend.

Soothing sound tells me to continue;
Sun is yet to set, travel miles few.
The heat forces me into a slump.
Solacing sound gives goosebump.

Very soon the blazing sun will fade.
I search tree with hundred years of shade.
They say to give up in this dusty heat.
I seek Gardens with rivers underneath.

i actually like the way slavoj žižek understands fascism, given the fourth movement of Beethoven's ninth symphony... as it stands: i really had to take pleasure in my suffering... i once called it: an exquisite pain... it's not that acknowledging pain is difficult, what's difficult is taking pleasure in it... on a whim... nothing as flamboyant as baron sacher-masoch's take on it, transcending toward the ****** thesis... i am the grey matter, the everyday comparison to a factotum sort of analogue of what pain constitutes... and i'm actually free from depressive apathy... i am sometimes prone to laugh like i might be experiencing what the Fore women experienced... the kuru "disease", otherwise known as the creutzfeldt-jakob "disease"... yes... mm... uncontrollable laugher... akin to St. Vitus' dance... sydenham's chorea.. it's hard to see why there should be any cure to the experience... given that the experience is so liberating and has no materialistic mono-mania of a well tended to economy... cannibalism really has a great array of noun-arsenal... a bit like the poetry of Christianity it's akin to... to really believe this *******: you have to take it to the extremes and make every word: utterly isolated, and in a sentence utterly meaningless... it's like a swarm of wasps honing in on a body of a bear that mistook its ash-phlegm nest for a beehive feast... sometimes it happens... but sure as all else concerning: why not take pleasure in an anti-cross crucifixion, i.e. a sick-bed? sure, it's less theatre and many less marble statues worthy of a church... but, if according to žižek / rzirzek / really? ź ż vs. ž... a fascists takes pleasure from suffering... i must be in this club, since i do, the pain in my brain with its sizzling quiz of blood emeshed in synapses has moved to my *******... ******* ahoy! i sit in a chair, and when drink (esp. when drinking): they are goosebump prone, titilating me... amusing me... all the pain concerning my brain has moved into a pleasure reaction bound to the testicles... i couldn't have foreseen this waterfall if i didn't explore the word fascist beyond the communal horror of spotting an orthodox practitioner in either street or cyber-space...

e.g. the fore of papua new guinea
(ghee-knee... later the debated about
quinoa... apparently it's not qui-
       or french agree, we-noah...
  but something else... oh, it's related to a quiz
asking me whether i could possibly be a 5% liberal
elitist... well, if you were reading
the sunday times magazine: it would ask you
that... i did cut it apart as qui- -noa...
  but apparently it's pronounced:
kin-wah...                 once again my point:
you don't use highly concentrated phonetic
units, i.e. diacritical marks...
you're bound to leisure in this linguistic hell
of constantly "correcting" people....
just saying... what's the matter, toad stole
your burp?)

   and i really wanted to write a neat poem...
poems like this emerge,
you go to a shop, by the cheapest whiskey
two cans of beer and a bottle of cola...
it's early February... the cars parked
have the eerie circumstance of jack o'fogfrost
breathing onto the windows...
    your fingers itch from the cold...
you start to really see a skeleton walking
rather than something resembling protein
fat and carbohydrate...
    thankful for winter: to naturally imagine
a skeleton walk in the cold
   smoking a cigarette and drinking the beer
while the whiskey cools in your rucksack...
all you end up needing is
   a square mile, and outer English suburbia...
and a look into that forest you once frequented
walking as if with gauged eyes into
the custard darkness...
   then sitting on a stump, taking all the clothing
items from your torso and listening in
as something neared, cracked a branch
and you uttered into the forest:
  no animal would dare come so near...
      
... (man has to drink, take a break...
         sneaky ******* get to see
a work in progress... lucky them...
           too much of a sober me)...
hey! i'm warming the stove, it's not going to
shoot out firecrackers made from words
into a
     hoghmony celebration.... oh look...
another googlewhack!
      http://tinyurl.com/z8xeqpsn
(billionth of another! this is how i play the "lottery")
ah freckle feckle ****... scoot for new years...
hogmaney...  hogmoney...
  hagmanny...
                 ­  ****! Hogmanay!
    what was i "saying"?
                            
ah wait... i know... i know...
i was watching this film goat (2016)....
with james francko doing cameo but mainly producing...
if anything could put you off going to
university, well, notably an american university
it's this film... now i drink, i really do, heavily...
but what went on in that film was nothing short
of happens when people lack any respect for liquor...
i could watch the roman empire in a zoo...
what i witnessed in this film was:
well... can't see a point of caging a lion,
but i can see all the reason for caging man...
but the problem arises with:
you can take children to a zoo...
          you couldn't even want a child
to experience this sort of Iraqi **** made in
America...
                       i drink, i really do...
i slurped on a prostitutes ****** when drunk...
hell... i even wrote this...
          and i am really starting to believe
that going to university was the worst mistake of my life...
i left it, educated as a chemist,
without a clear move toward a career as a chemist...
    would i care to learn the use of language
to university level? i.e. get an english degree?
      not if i were a middle-class woman
   who's daddy was a doctor or a dentist...
                            people from my background,
double that up with a father who works in construction
and me being of immigrant stock (when will i get
to say expat?) -
  it was the biggest mistake of my life...
you see... other immigrants start to get jealous...
     they say you have to die: for raising for head
above the water...
         a bit like they kicked the hell out of
Jamie Redknapp's career in football...
now he's a pundit... but not a football player...
they smacked him about...
good thing my grandfather was a Silesian miner
for some time... i decided to dig trenches...
yes, metaphor: write poems...
   because i still can't see what nature ordained me
to possess... and why these little hitlers decided wasn't
fair for their "sense of worth"... oh i can name them...
one of them, a childhood sweatheart of a friend,
egyptian / persian, used to call me during
weekdays and sing to me over the phone...
   apparently he could ******* 20 times a day...
i tried 4 times in one day... nothing came out...
      the other was an add on to being in school from
the age of 16 to 18... a paddy-sikh...
   loved barrington levy and driving a car while
******... loved the whole gansta gimmick...
a complete *******...
                           and to think i was fooled into their
little of jealousy... this will make absolutely no sense
to you... given we (a) never spoke outside the realm
of my tornado... and (b) had a coffee?
               well... let's just say: one stupid move on
my behalf while intoxicated on marijuana
aged 21 taught me all i needed to know...
  from the age of 21 through to the age i am now:
some could consider me a monk...
                 or that infamous word: cenobite -
oh i'm just obsessing about how i want to
put my top 3 picks into classic.fm's hall of fame,
and write 3. christopher young's something to think about,
2. christopher young's something to think about...
1. christopher young's something to think about...
as i realised the past two days...
  collecting a personal library of classical music
makes no sense... unless it's Händel... (æ, i.e. :)...
and classical music only makes sense
with a d.j., and yes: a radio...
            there's no point being poncy about classical
music when you collect it...
        unless it might be something by Hans Zimmer
or any other movie soundtrack...
      and you can just sit back, listen to the radio,
and the classics just come and come...
i spent today lying in bed, because classic.fm
was playing from about 6am to about 1pm...
  and then i extended it to 3pm because
of aled jones and the voice so necessary as
that of alexander armstrong... in between?
                     bill turnbull... a news anchor
if i'm not mistaken... couldn't handle it...
  no, not the voice: the choice of music...
but even such people are absolutely necessary...
and would anyone care to remember
the ****** megastore on oxford street?
  the classical music department?
does anyone remember is being sealed off by
   glass like an aquarium from all the other music
genre departments in the store?
   a bit like walking into a lunatic asylum:
everything had to be cork-lined waiting for a Proustian
novel... first you had to appreciate
and build up a palette for silence... before
some concerto could be "ate" like refined sushi...
    radio and classical music does work,
i might have made a mistake collective obscure tastes,
i.e. proto-folk examples in Polish and compositions
of German industrial music...
   i might have done that... yeah, so true with the jazz...
but you have to have a Houdini weak-spot...
so in bed... rummaging through the radio and
television listings and reviews...
   after doing a bit of a crossword (which i can't
for the love of god) and a 6 x 6 su doku...
        now that's definitely sunday activity...
looking through the radio and tv listings...
   esp. noting the day's programme of bbc radio 4...
well, it's not that i'm a convert, with a house
in south-west london...
                i just heard that england is famous
for its eccentrics... i wanted to experience
    the most eccentric practice on these isles...
      tending to a garden would have made sense...
if it wasn't February...
   so reading the listings and reviews was the next
best thing...
    what with confusing Aled Jones with Alex Jones...
that famous britpop bassist turned cheese-maker.

then how do you begin taking fatal
mortal steps, simply motivated by biological
dynamics? i could have ended that
servitude to the waterfall, or should
i correct myself: required it to continue...
      but then interludes in the case of opera
leave me peasant-like, most ignoble...
      there's the 15 minutes were no fame is mentioned,
and no one forces art to become advert...
   since we're talking of the thin-red-line,
i can't but help myself reading more book reviews
in English, than actual books in Polish...
because i care for the cognitive labourers,
i really do... i think they are needed
to bypass actual books, meaning they do all
the work... or should i say arbeiten?
well.. enough critics about, you get to
dissociate yourself from the actual origin...
     a bit like waving your hand at god
and embracing the "awe" inspiring profusion
of the human tongue becoming over-bearing...
not even bearing grudges...
  but no gratitudes either...
                it just is what you care to make of
germans the sole originators of
   the proto "bayeux" tapestry given a.i. -
but then you treat the germans as they
are currently given the sway,
and you awake a humanity in them:
a humanity only germans know how
to acknowledge: a collectivisation -
germans know no concept of individualism
akin to the late-removed isle Saxons...
i.e. the English... the English are always
blitzkrieg specific about the individual,
the fact that so many individuals get a chance to vote
leasves me with blisters of what i can best
estimate as noted to being conscience...
          the germans are best appropriate to
express the volk... the english are like stuffed
animals worshiping the name Byron... Milton...
Blake... Newton...
         and let's leave them there, because if they
finally manage a homogeny of an ethnic
accord to give a momentum unto it via their lack
cohesion... i am assured a passage to
the houses of parliament to laugh,
as a test of my carve to veto, rather than vote.
mainland europe calls them: the islanders!
you can't help but see a care to blow up
the tunnel la mange... the channel tunnel...
because if a 2nd ****** arose...
the tanks would flod that serene countryside...
     i come across foxes all the time...
once i picked a dead fox near the bus station
in romford using two bin bags from the nearby skip...
and walked with it home, weighed it,
just under 10 kilograms... i weighted myself first,
then with the dead fox enclosed in the bin bags...
then i walked with the fox and threw it into
a meadow... i was thinking along the lines:
at least the sanitation officer will have a day off..
  obviously i was tattooed with the idea that
i was some sort of shaman, given two people witnessed
me picking up the corpse...

900 gull herrings eating their own...
      chimanzees also take to a nibble...
        banana slug females are fond of eating
"******", when the mating gets heavy...
not ever, as ever, but with Darwinism had i ever
managed to see a woman like a mantis...
  sorry... looking at the ***-hole of nature like that
will eventually leave you paralysed and
not even awe-struck but fear-woken...
             because it really can't be so much a desire
to look at it as if it was necessarily needing
incorporation, but was necessarily incorporated
nonetheless...
         the ogasawara incident... 1945...
       yoshio had a fine fine palette...
                          cannibalism was never suggested
as equivalent of a war crime...
  and one said: human thighs tasted like chicken,
another said: a bit like raw tuna...
          judeo-christian food prohibitions...
    well... once the prohibitions come along with
the poetry... left can mean right...
and right will evidently mean left...
                 during the yuan dynasty...
         pedohpiles were more or less reductive in
their transgressions... they ate more: than they ******.
two freedoms then, china prone to omnivore status
and hindustan prone to vegetarianism...
               both examples lead to a success rate of
a billion examples...
                       it's only these pest-like infections of
mono-this omni-that are keen to always give their
i love yous as politico dictates...
  maxims even... so very fond they are: of their maxims...
they even infected their youth in the 21st century
stating that: no one is akin to us,
if not in his youth, having been ***** by abou10
10 favourite maxims... most kept, hardly any employed...
1261 edict: when children were asked to stop
plucking out their eyeballs...
   horror films are therefore, equivalent to soft-core
******... history is thrice over the real horror movie...
    but given our faculty of memory is so
(putting it mildly) "biased"... i think we're over-sensitive
in giving imagination the scenes from both
horror and Disney... we've already gave the former
and the latter we have just sold...
           but hey! a placentta fry-up like a setting sun,
illuminates with more choice of hue than
noon and the "dehydrated" shadow (yes,
i know, a better word would be suited, but i have
no time to ascribe it to a tailor-fitting, a neat and tidy
resonance... treat dehydrated as a dwarf shadow,
mingle that with photon and phonetic -
that light illuminates, and traps things into bites,
like H or He denote hydrogen and helium
respectively... and qui- and -noa denote
necessary argument of what sound goes where,
rightly)...

evidently i did take the quiestionnaire about
whether i am a liberal elite...
it had to be done... why would i otherwise read a sunday
newspaper?
            end result? 0-50 (norm), 51-100 (aspiring),
    101-150 (not quiet there), >150 (elitist snob)...
(ref. the 5%, charles murray, coming apart,
   the bell curve... superzips)
q1: what is the top prize in the thunderball and when
is it drawn?
   a1: i play the googlewhack lottery.
      alt. a1: 0 (alright), 5 (days rights), 10 (what is thunderball?)
             talk of chav tax...
q2: how many people in your vicinity voted for
    Brexit?
    a2: i just had an opinion... voting is cheap
when you can't express a ballot veto.
   alt. a2: 0 (all of them), 5 (one or two)... 10 (aghast at the question)
              a bit ******* obvious, no point explaining....
q3: what is your favourite dish on th

​Explosion of the white tree,
A synapse in the damp air.
The fluid around the corsair,
Ambassador of the secret;
The perfume of a comet
Descends upon the wetland.

A goosebump stretches my hair;
Ripples forming across the sea
As nostril and flowers meet
Miles and miles without end.

The green flame always return
In a frenetic haze, a burst of fire,
As the solar wave caresses the earth
At welcomed glances, so soft a fur.

A last effort renewed forevermore;
Delirious poison continually brewed;
An elixir against the veil of dusk;
Cause and effect from dust to dust.

As the mind steps out back further,
It finds itself returned at the core,

Til all of Spring elapses.

that you may read poetry without a tongue, with a plight
of sore eyes, of eager eyes, only eyes,
and shelter yourself from the rain
with a hand agreeing to greet it falling extended:
plucking mushrooms as you
might be reasonable meeting it with
umbrellas - but umbrellas
far beyond the flowery gutter of scent
and decaying ambition where the frugal
fungal arise like lechery of goblin ****
celebrated - some might add
a dice throw of Macadamia nuts -
eyed i too you the death-stinker;
this is the English revision of Zulu -
primitive tongue extended into abstract,
by those speaking English as foreign,
my English is an English reversed on
the colonialists - its a robbing tongue when
effectively used, with this in mind
i'm starting to think the Irish are bigger *****
than the Welsh even with the middle exported
as V into France and the longbow-men -
remember the antonym of German compounding
is the hyphen in English - optic talk -
failed rubrics of arithmetic for one,
failed rubrics of spelling the other -
i wish you knew English as well as you once
you knew Swahili - i actually wish you knew
Swahili ably talking to you grandparents...
i'm not your grandfather, even though
i wish he wishes he was -
you became gluttonous in tongue as they in body,
fat overdose from mono-linguistic apartheid -
you let them undermine the bilingualism
inherent in you... the Prussians
and the Russian and the Austrians never stole our
tongue... of course we devolved it borrowing
too many words, but loan nouns are never able to evolve
into slang, into urban talk that deconstructs nations,
where once was France now there's only Paris,
the same with England and London;
that you may read poetry without a tongue,
and make tongue read unto mind a Braille -
goosebump fidgety prickle - sour palette without
saying Thai in York - for the eyes to see the deformity
at hand, for the tongue to turn silent for one evening
alone, Venetian snares of the omni- eyed fake
entrusted with Cerberus' oath (only howl a wake
when your master Hades passes into the Styx for
voice of democratically reprimanding judgement over all
souls to arise from droplet into their own content
river form); for i too would have taken to resurrecting
the tongue, but the tongue was forgotten for a purpose
of agility in sports and un-thought poetics of excessive
rhyme, hardly the jazz, hardly the blues,
and hardly poetry - jazz i agree beyond measure a mint
cloud among the down-pouring heavy-clad-grey-clouds
of Mozart - i admit the blues the invigoration -
but rap? rap i just don't get.
me and this homeless man just laughed it off:
and i'm a Brazilian (blue tracksuit bottoms,
yellow t-shirt, green hoodie) - Eminem nemo Emo?
get the beach bleach out... we're going to stain those
starfish as coordinates' worth of horoscope... twirling
twirling twirling... cartwheels a'hoo a'hoo a'hoo ha hey.
i mean, sorry, i don't get the "hood" -
i don't get post-grunge either... i think i'm getting old -
and it's true what they say... the only black friend
was a drug dealer - wanted me to teach his daughter
to play the guitar... i said i listened to Bob Marley's sons
and he said i listened to culture -
racial stereotypes can be fun, i guess, if you're honest
about them... keen on the Illuminati,
so i said: anything better than Kubrick's eyes wide shut ******?
n'ah? hell, if it can't beat that, what's the interesting part?
or as i itemise the rewards the Koran states...
those 72 virgins... is that a metaphor for gym membership?
if you're a lazy drunk like me... the last thing
you want is 72 eager beavers.

naked skin,
sun-baked brown and sunkissed freckles, and ***** white, an olive from overseas.
we traipsed down the road, the never-ending black of concrete.
we yelled. we screamed like there were marching bands in the cages
of our ribs.
we drew in smoke and our instruments played the music
of lit tobacco
“you're a hurricane”
one of the best things ive ever been called

cut skin,
as blackberries slapped our legs,
leaving marks of red and purple,
as we ran through secret forests,
our laughs rising into the sunshine,
filtering through the leaves,
like chiming bells in an empty sky
we started a fire, dancing as earthy smoke
slithered on our skin.
we lit cigarettes in the flames.

icy skin,
as we stumbled,
springs bubbling inside us,
down the brown, mud painted hills,
and cried in wonder as we saw a treasure in the thicket of trees;
a frozen lake staring us straight in the eyes like an
antarctic cyclopes,
daring us to take a step closer.
first, tentative,
then we went rawly, crashing through the undergrowth
like small houses,
headfirst onto the ice,
with all our skin for its one eye to see,
our clothes in a mountain,
and our vulnerable bodies free
on the cold surface of a
secret winter in the middle of a
sun coated town.

warm skin,
as we raced down asphalt mountains,
like goosebumps on the skin of the earth.
we ran like tigers and cougars and cats and
lions,
roaring in the afternoon sun
as we embraced the completion,
of a four piece puzzle of our
youth.
warm,
as throat burning brandy from the womb of my couch,
and burning pain
as we poked holes into our skins,
red tattoos of a flamelike
trilogy.

red skin,
as blood dripped down through the
cracks of the Balcony,
as we painted the walls with it,
laughing squeezed between every
long drag of our cigarettes,
burning like two new stars in the
oncoming night,
tattoos and shapes appearing on our skin
faster than bruises
showing a young girl the ways of our corruption was almost as
fun as learning them
ourselves.

goosebump skin,
as we sank into reality again,
halfway in,
other half still shaking
hearts beating fast
i trembled
as i screamed across at a cat eyed girl
i was too shaking to fight like this,
and you are too lovely to cry like that,
and my dear sunshine,
your blue hair is almost as soft
as your voice floating in the
after dusk darkness
assuring that things would be
alright.

tired skin, as we lay on my sheets,
and kissed one anothers soft cheeks,
tired skin as we dragged our drugged up
skin
all the way home,
in a careless sack.

yes,
maybe “three ****** up girls”
one tall, soft words,
one kneeling on the pavement,
one shaking like an
earthquake,
but thats what makes it like
dawn,
beautiful.

wouldnt you rather be a tornado of impulsive decisions
raw twilight words
whiskey ridden breath like summer
air
sunset tears
and icy skin painted with shivers?

alive skin.

Luscious ruby red lips, tell me white lies,
gorgeous supple ****, there I hide my alibi's.
My eyes can't see anyone else anymore,
my life isn't the way that it was before.

Her womb welcomes me, her sin invites me.
She violates me, and I, hurt her too, willingly.
Her warm tender fingers ****** what they will,
every touch is the chilling goosebump overkill.

Feet fall on golden cobblestones, never alone,
'cause I always know just where she is.
Luscious ruby red lips, tell me white lies,
gorgeous supple ****, where I hide my alibi's.

Outside the backyard windowpane
owl's clover beckons a butterfly
to feed in the wildflower meadow

silver tree bark and naked branches
stand lining edges on two sides
songbirds sing symphonies in flight.

Opaque shadows mark the horizon
in a blink, blurs eat blue from the sky
and as clouds circle back sunshine dies

winged creatures grounded, insects too
with no moonlight -no critters can fly,
cicada shrill to a coyote pack's howl

little hairs rise in a goosebump dance.
Heartbeats pound- pulse rate climbs high,
a scream -glass breaks -then silence

purple is devoured inside a chilled fog
as lights 'round the world pass me by,
weep with the willow- sob to the breeze

darkness yanks and dew kisses flesh,
curls, clothes, and soaked skin drip dry.
Body shakes- lips quiver- teeth rattle

my grey view bleeds into ebony,
no Seraphin cradles me in a goodbye,
tunnel lantern holds no oil for the light

too dark to lift me or for us to fly.

Yes, kiss my neck.
No, don't go back to my lips.

Give me more of your warm, wet air against my goosebump covered neck.
Bury your face into me.
More!
let me show you
just how much.

Yes!
right at the base of my neck where it meets my chest

Don't be shy,
I don't care if the world can see this tomorrow.
Actually, bruise me,
make sure
they all can see
it feels so
much better with that
assertion.  

I don't need to see anymore, just let me relish the bright blindness of eyes shut tight
I'll figure you out with my hands.

Yes! press your tongue against me in that seal you made with your lips.

And yes, the only time I want you to stop laying those kisses is for
an audible breath.

Better yet a small moan
when my hands slide under your rough denim and past your soft jagged ridges of lace,
a strong grip and squeeze of your ***.

That's it..
Now you're setting me off.
Yes, I want flesh on flesh.
No, I'm done with this hesitation
and your shirt.
I don't need mine either.
Actually, you can stop making my blood rush
through my neck.
Better only be for a moment though
while our hands grasp
for whatever part of our shirts to pull them off.

Yes, crawl further up me
let me feel your heating skin
against my blood boiled body.

No, don't just crawl-
straddle me
like this.

Actually, that sly lick against my earlobe made me groan.
Better yet
move your hips like- yes! just like that.

And Yes, we're still wearing too many clothes.
And yes, exactly, fix that problem.

No! I'm not done with those lips quite yet.
Exactly. That's the spot and don't you stop.

Actually-no-yes!-what was I saying?

Oh- that's right,
better yet,
turn around-but don't let go of me with your tongue and kiss-
my tongue also wants a taste. Y-yes..!

This is not a rhyme
this is not a poem
there is no hidden messages between ambiguous word
or conveyed through complex metaphors
this is the tears of my heart
bleeding
fuelling me
so that I can find the courage to speak
to speak the words of my soul
the words I've been dying to say
... no
to scream!!!
The words I've been dying to shout out
as a proclamation to the whole world...

I DON'T LOVE YOU
I DON'T because I don't know what love is
but I do know you make me wonder
you make me philosophize about it
about what it feels like
I DON'T know what love is...
but you make me feel
something that must be close to it
...
if not better

I think about you ALL the time...
there is not a moment that passes where I don't think of you...
not a single message from you at which I don't smile
not a single night where I hate the dawn of sleep, because it means goodbye
ALL OF MY FRICKEN POEMS ARE ABOUT YOU

last night when you were here...
in the three seconds that we kissed
in those mere blinks of an eye
when our lips softly brushed
... I was paralysed
... It was the first time in my life where my mind was COMPLETELY quiet
the first time I didn't instruct myself through a kiss
and just let go...

now your scent is stuck to me...
I smell it all the time
the smell is intoxicating
and I think of you with every breath I take
unwillingly falling further and further into your arms...

and so I call you...
just to hear your voice...
just to hear you laugh at what I say...
because hearing your voice makes my day...
the sound of your laughter...
it's a toe curling
goosebump-giving
heart-wrenching
pulse-rising
start-smiling
start-crying
but never nail baiting...
because I know you hate that
... sort of sound.

and I envy the guy who is lucky enough to have you
I envy him with all my heart.
I have a bitterness towards him compared by only few...
and a sadness towards you compared to no other greatness...

why can't you see
that his love for you is not...
nor will it ever be...
the same as my NOT-LOVE for you

can't you see he doesn't give you the romance and the happiness you deserve
the laughter and the acceptance and the complete free will...

can't you see that I adore you
... so much so that I have turned into this monster who envies...
one who feels bitter towards someone he has never met!!!

I am lost without you...
I want you...
I need you...
I want to need you...
I Better-than-love you
I xoxo you and mwa you
forever and continuous
(not-)love (- but better)
me...

I'm melting
into tangerine
thoughts,
floating
in a pool
of orange

a pool of lemon
zest and peel

that comes to
sting
when I pry
open
my eyes

Tangerine thoughts
that look so sweet
so sincere
the bump-de-dump-de-dump
of textured life

where you can run your
finger on the goosebump
skin
and feel only
a fruit
and I can wrap my
soul around
and know that
I'm it too.

like the flap of butterfly wings,
and softer, smaller, thinner things.
golden shimmer blackened rings,
the tips of your limbs fluttering,
landed weightlessly on my skin.

tickling to my bone glowing hot,
you whispered in my ear, the *****,
hairs at end by winds collapse,
revealing secrets, treasure maps,
weak rubberband encircling snaps.

the spot was marked by sweat to graze
the endless fields of goosebumps raise
an image of a butterfly, it plays,
and whisked into my range of hair.

when i can smell the sound it makes,
and feel its taste in stomach aches.
the butterfly of the body shakes.
into its home, my heart, it takes.
and wraps in black my golden shimmer veins.

your breath the breeze that brought the butterfly's
wings to form to speckles of your eyes.
and lashes batting winked into the skies,
and kissing cheeks and spaces between thighs,
to make goosebump mountains to scale.


when you feel the flap of butterfly wings,
in your bones valley, in blood springs,
into your ear a hush, whisper, the insect sings,
and pulls you in by golden harp strings,
wrapped in black in ropes and rings.
a melody in passion, it begins.

I lay in awe as an angel lays beside me
and I can't help to wonder if this is it,
if this is the heaven-sent, God-sent miracle I've heard one has to experience to believe, to believe in God, to believe in heaven, to have hope, to believe in blessings. I wonder if she - this angel - is what one needs to believe in divinity, for It's impossible to meet an angel like her and not be tempted, and practically forced to, and be left with no choice but to believe in the celestial. It's impossible not to believe in God himself after you've been able to lay beside such holiness, after you've been able to watch an angel sleep in all Its sacredness, speak in all Its sacredness, revive you with all Its sacredness.
You're left with no choice but to believe that those days you believed to be your last days of life, those shaded days in which you prayed to a God you never before saw, the almighty invisible being you believed was deaf to your plea, wasn't really all that deaf.
It's impossible not to believe that God himself - the God you now only believe in because of the angel who leaves you no choice but to believe - sent you and angel, that he has heard you.
I lay in awe, blessed I lay, as an angel lays beside me, for how can someone with those hypnotizing eyes that devour you every time not be an angel, how can someone with that majestic, goosebump-causing skin not be an angel, how can someone with that gracious walk not be an angel, how can someone with that spirit-grabbing yet spirit-giving touch not possibly be an angel?
I lay in awe as an angel lays beside me
I believe, as an angel lays beside me
I now live, because this angel lays beside me

                                                               ­                     - F.V.

Save me this sensation
to savour for
one more day

I

She exits herself on the
Sofa. Blanket, dog, and bits
Of a poem on a pad of paper

On the table, like a half-eaten
Piece of homework.
Shades of wine on her sleeping

Lips. Exits herself; space-walks
Outside that frame of mind she's
Been expected to hang herself

On the wall within; she knows
There is more.
There has to be more.

II

She has to be more.
Like so many writers, she falls
Asleep working. Sometimes

Works to fall asleep.
Digging her way through
Herself, mining for words,

Hacking away at painful pasts,
Gathering emerald experiences.  
Diamond doubts and ruby

Regrets all fuel her poetry.
And she reads, spotlight kissed;  
Audience adored,

Goosebump summoning; hairs
On arms and necks stand up as
She whispers directly to me.

About me. Because of me.
In front of everybody.
To music, and I've brought a box

Of pins, and between each of her
Every word, I drop one. And I
Swear to the gods, you can hear

Them all. Like the unsteady
Ticking of a clock too cool to
Care.

III

Poetry jewelry; set with stones
From her innermost. Chips of
Gold from her heart melted

Down to a key pendant she
Holds in her hand; chain dangling,
Eyes closed, forehead resting

Against a door she knows it is
Time to open. Key in one hand,
Pen in the other,

She
Enters
Herself.

we'd walk with our noses up,
sovereign against the grey, moving sky.

we'd pay skinny women with wrinkles like canals
on their sagging faces,
with yellow teeth of ash and smoke,
and flitting eyes, buzzed off coke,
to buy us brandy and cigarettes
in the small gas-stations littered like filters
around town.

i'd convince you,
and a girl with silky hair like frozen rivers,
to run down in the safe enclosure of night
in suffocating fields, choking in ice
and reduce our clothing to dark shadows
scattered around the moon-reflecting snow,
and to run bare and naked,
with our ******* taut and heavy
against the bitter winds.

we'd be wearing heels
like deadly cliffs, thorns like
biting roses,
stealing little gulps from each bottle in a tall girls
liquor cabinet,
a tiny mouthful of
butterscotch ***,
bombay sapphire sliding down
achingly painful, dry gin exploding
our tongues.
a little bit of Tennessee whiskey,
it was always my favorite.

we'd crawl out looming windows
like dark, slanted mouths,
into the night
on top of a shrouded mountain,
silky underwear,
goosebump legs, and
celebrating her first real shot.

we'd be laying on mattresses under the
breathless stars,
eyes heavy, cement filled
and hazy with hash.

we'd be on my bed, listening to brand new,
because it reminds us of words unsaid,
and kisses that
wont be taken back.

smoke a cigarette for me darling, wont you?

I love the way you prance up the stairs in nothing but your boxers and socks. And the way your footsteps are so soft that I can barely hear them. Just hushed music in the quiet Sunday afternoon air. Like children when we dance.

I love the way your skin is so warm when you tangle yourself with me. Like there's a fire underneath every nerve. And the rhythm you drum on my legs under the blankets where no one can see. A secret song for only you and me.

I love the way we drive in your truck at night and find a secret place to park. Just so we can jump into the back and share kisses for awhile. And I love that the music never stops. It's always on low. And the moon beams down on us like a proud parent.

I love the way you fall asleep on me sometimes. Not even next to me or cuddled up to me. You've put your whole being on top of mine with your head turned on my chest. Within minutes you're asleep and I trace patterns in your hair to keep you there.

I love the way you gently breathe on my neck because you know that's my weakness. And when my mother calls and you distract me with your lips and the air. I stammer through the conversation, repeating things that don't matter. And I love the way you chuckle after every goosebump rises.  

I love the way you groan when I tell you I have to leave soon. And when I confess that I don't want to go and you whisper back, "Then don't." And the way you kiss me then, tangling your tongue with mine. They battle for the upper hand, and I love the way yours always wins.

I love the way you talk about the future like you've got it all written out in a storybook; pictures included. You know the color of your first sons' eyes and the way they'll shine in the moonlight during the tired nights. And I love the way you think you won't mind the sleepless weeks.

I love the way you shiver under my touch. And when I tease you tracing your trail to the very edge of your jeans you put your head back and watch me intently. And the way I hold the world in my hands for those few short moments. Like my next move decides your fate.

I love the way our hands have to bump three time before either of us have the courage to link together. And when we finally do you rub your thumb softly against mine. And I love the way our fingerprints line up and sew our skin together.

I love the way your name looks. On paper, on the screen of my phone especially at 2am. A two word poem. And the way it feels when it rolls off my tongue catching every emotion on the way out. Then it lands softly in the air and melts there. Too sweet to stay solid.

I love the way your scent follows me. And it clings to my sheets and all my clothes. And sometimes even when I know you're nowhere near a wave of it will hit me and crawl up my skin and fill my every pore.

I love the way you're so unashamed of your fear of scary movies. And you'll paint yourself to me and jump at all the right places. And when I look at you you're peeking out from under the blanket or hiding behind your hand, the one that isn't laced with mine.

I love the way we whisper in the dark. In between pressed lips you confide in me. Well I love the pale freckles on your arms that are only possible with porcelain skin and the shortened breath through your not-too-big teeth when I steal a kiss. And your hair never does what you want it to because my hands are always through it.

Forgive me. I love all and every which way.

The wet smell of the earth
was **** enough
I woke up to the moon glow
feasting his eyes
on my silky skin

The sultry feel of the night
covered me like silk sheets
caressing every goosebump on my skin

I tasted you in yesternight's alcohol binge
there were bits and pieces that surprised my tongue
along with my memory

The cigarette stench in my hair
whiffed instances that slapped
the drunk off my face

The crumpled money
harvested ash from the drive
in every crease

The burn marks on my hand
brought back the inhibitions
I felt that night or lack there of

what happened I have yet to decipher
yet, I still remember the blurred lights
that lit my eyes with seduction
one that I shared
with you
on
that
one
night!

He's an artist
The way he paints
With bite marks and hickeys
On my goosebump canvas

clothes are uncomfortable
but so is the cold
whispering against my neck

goosebump constellations
gather in congregations
along the salt skin of your arms

and your mouth opens
but no words are spoken
instead a rotten tongue falls out

and you soak into my skin
like a warm milk bath
and you settle in my bones
like the age of a million years pass

There is no silence in the night, darkness breaths, it grows unbound,
It is filled with shadows shifting, whispering, waiting to be found,
Silhouettes block out electric's shine, darkness creeping through the door,
Together searching, trying to, find out what they are looking for,
Frigid breath capers coldly, shoulders crack with goosebump-scars,
Her porcelain skin glows brightly, in the broken light of scattered stars,
Staining black like flecks of paint, a shining blur of cut glass shards,
Sweet scent is lost, we are found, my burning cheeks, she disregards,
Singing breaths whisper love, wishing the night will never end,
The empty night is beautiful as she, we now no longer have to pretend.

On the desk, there lies a fountain pen
It doesn't take cartridges
Rather, you dip it in ink and press it to paper
It makes a sound, not unlike fingernails on a chalkboard
But not like it either - it's satisfying instead of goosebump-inducing
Slowly scratching the page until it's gone
The ink has bled onto page 3
I've pressed too hard
But this paper is thick
Previous poets pondered profusely
Pretending this pen was a pipe
Holding it between their teeth until an idea came ripe
This pen holds a history of poetry
Of spilling thoughts that otherwise stayed internalized
And of sometimes spilling ink
It gets everywhere
I love it

My hands look old.
I don't know what happened to their previous beings,
their soft, pale, younger selves.
My hands are cracked from the dry humorless days of anticipation.
I have hangnails, my skin so dry it's splitting from itself.
And they shake.
They shake along with my voice and my thoughts.
Trembling with excitement and worry.
When you're in the room,
especially when you're not, though.

I have stretch marks.
On my inner thighs, and on my sides,
they remind me of roads, of maps, of going places.
Each goosebump is a hillside,
each little crack in my dry skin is a riverbed, waiting for rain.
My body is a terrain of  imperfections,
and I'm just trying to keep still enough
as to not disturb the world that I harvest.

I've always wanted to travel the world.
So I will trek,
Across your skin,
Sail through your veins,
And climb over each goosebump.
Your bones will guide me,
So that I don't lose my way.
I'll explore the ridges of your lips,
And swim in the pools
That are your eyes.
I've always wanted to travel the world,
But your heart
Is where I'll make my home.

The wind, it comes now, from a fan above my head
It draws me out like thread through so many needles
And sews me back from my pieces
Pieces torn apart by your
Hungry mouth

So many small spells spelt out with
milk white goosebump skin and
Red as blue flashes pulled out from
Every single touch, every contact
Of fingertips and palms

Theres an eclipse dilating on the moon
Expanding discs, breathing outward
Black and spreading in your eyes
Flown across my neck
And up your chest

You fold me up, and wing me out
But my legs are too heavy to walk
And what is there, what is here
Is a ghost
Of seconds ago.

A space I'll always feel as full when you have left
and I'm alone.

Vinyl, old, crackle and turn,
Intimate moments scored into grooves;
Atmosphere burns,
A revolving truth.

Needle, record, goosebump skin,
Long played moments again and again;
Our favourite track
An unrepented sin.

TS Lefort 2021

go ahead
and worship yourself once in awhile
let the breeze come and, once in awhile,
remember how to stand -
check your posture, shoulders back, feet apart
and if all you see is cobblestone or pavement or dying brown grass,
look up
remember how to be valiant
check your heart rate
feel your fingertips
loosen the knots in your eyebrows
open your throat
remember the way sunsets look and that puppies and butterflies and popcorn exist

go ahead
and buy yourself flowers
once in awhile
buy a bouquet or seven
fill up a vase with water and let them drink love
place them on your windowsill or
coffee table
or bedside table
but remember to smell them every time you walk by
and once in awhile
buy someone else flowers
or chocolate or honey or a brand new notebook or coffee
make them feel special and important
remind them that tenderness is the root of peace
and you'll remember that tenderness is the root of peace

go ahead
and head outside
if it's raining, get wet, if it's chilly, greet each goosebump with a deep breath
and remember, once in awhile,
your eyes rain and your heart floods and they wash away whatever hurt comes
you are a rocket, baby, you are a fresh hardcover book sitting on a cafe table ready to be read, you are a tree trunk so wide, people must gather around you and hold hands to hug your circumference,
you are bright yellow rain boots, love, you are red pink white roses and lilacs and lavender and the entire flower bed,
you are the sunset, sweetie, the puppies and the butterflies and the popcorn and the peace
so, once in awhile, baby, worship yourself
go ahead
and worship yourself

Through wooded glen I walk
looking up at the rain entranced by it.
I'd drown myself in the beauty of it as it falls
if not for the role that death would play
The goosebump feel of its icy fingers gripping
me as it falls off of naked flesh.

Stepped gleefully across a stream
to peer into the crystal waters and watch swirls
of sunlight bounce off of the surface.
The fog rolled past  
tightened its already frigid hold on the earth below it.
I run my fingers through her soil  
caress her oceans, I am as much a part of her
as she is of me.

Ran into the wind feeling it hold me
and try to push me back, lapping all around
but hear not a sound.
She blew furiously through the wood
bending every bough, nearly snapping the saplings in two.
I feel it's warm and gentle embrace
as its fury is unleashed and it's power
is laid to bare on the intrepid soulls
she winds in and out of.

Watched as snow covered mountaintops
were engulfed by the oncoming storm clouds
that bring with them the life
giving rain I drown myself in.
Life renewed to be viewed
yet again by another eye who's wonder
it will capture who's imagination it will light.
Fuel for the fire that burns to create
to live and to enjoy
all that can be enjoyed.

it would seem,
   a maine **** cat, male, is best appeased
by a shoelace...
     hardly a comparison
aligned to the master mikhail bulgakov...
this cat doesn't drink *****,
or play chess...
nor does it drink wine...
      it prefers sushi shrimps and
       sushi trout eyes...
and... shoelaces... for a game...
as i too might, imagining being infested
by a tapeworm...
shoelaces: but no shoes
   do women really keep cats for
replacement company therapy sessions?
i just keep cats as the last
resort format of a curiosity
learning curvature... they're just weird,
or rather, of all the petted animal,
so subtly idiosyncratic...
  i have too many nicknames for them...
the male? quarus? osama bind laden:
the terrorist... the aria king...
   bodzio when he's wanting
to cling to head-butting you as a greeting...
   pavarotti...
          he meows to the point of howling
come 4am...
   the female? veroniya?
       ss-obersturmbannführer,
witch,
            tyson fury when she's trying
to hide her "oopsie" of a ****'s worth...
jaws... since her tail is always upright...
like a shark's fin when she's strutting...
oh but animals have their character...
   less visible in dogs...
    give it enough time:
you're bound to spot it among / in cats...
even a cow was a character dynamic
proding suss... however subtle...
most people don't encompass a capacity
to encompass this sort of
                    gift.  

.and some would claim that there exists, a contradictory-"******" related to the psyche of suicides... it would appear the mere thought of suicide is a "disgruntled" variation of arousal, nay, the mere thought is more potent than a ****** arousal... it's less the ultimate taboo, but the ultimate fetish... why blame those, who have managed to satisfy this urge? my father never complained about suicides, he had a story, where his friend committed suicide, becausde his father was ******* his girlfriend, and he, simply, reached the threshold of what was acceptable, for his psyche to manifest a will inclined to entertain life, rather than that omniscient lover, death... i've come to realise that death, is... as ****** as whatever harlequin / de sade ******* allows, nay, more... how mere thinking can create an arousal, of goosebump testicles, imitating a ***** dynamic, without really achieving a hard-on, rather, a protruding tongue, silenced, which gives the hands momentum, to doodle, something, akin to this; suicide is forever going to be, the exacted limit of passing a free will judgement, however wrong... if the argument goes: humans are without free will, a suicide will always provide the antithesis; i've had a fwend (" ") once, who wanted to shame michael hutchence for his suicide... one brave ******* in all honesty... to experience that sort of a metaphysical ******, well... don't know what it would feel like... any science is contrary to the details, given that... all your "proof" is ascribed to the dead... but at least a philosophical mind-set provides, some groundwork, for imagining a counter-argument, and... the justification for the most "abhorrent" expression of free will... it feels good, to be left without the shackles of the free will argument, that excludes the act of suicide; that's the 1st step: if someone can't commit themselves to suicide, then... man has no free will... there's nothing quiet like engaging with a conscious choice, freed from conscience, whatever post mortem arguments come after, don't even matter... flimsy ******* sparrows, scheming and fluttering of wings! fly! fly! be free! be free!

                           tim pool:
being gay is not a choice,
being religious is,

except the whole
bureucratic fiasco
of the catholic church

the whole pro-life
and pro-baptism...

   i made it blatantly clear
that i didn't want
to be baptißed,
when i dissented from
having to be
confirmed...

mind you:
one great aspect of a catholic
school?
   uniforms...

yeah... i guess you don't
get to create a group
dynamic borrowed
from clothing,
there's no high-school "culture"
that later translates itself
into a resentment culture
that lends the high-school
years as blueprint,
for "extracurricular" activities
of: the motivational life
(aspect)...

i can't remember being
asked whether
i wanted to be baptißed
or not...
i do remember being
asked to be confirmed...
i declined...

so... i am an apostate,
but for that to have any
clingy-meaning,
you'd need catholic
bureucracy to imply
"something"...
nothing protestant:
*****-nilly on the side...

   an uncircumcised man
succumbs to the allure
of hebrew mysticism
and (g)nosticism...
   namely the qabbalah...

oh sure, sure,
i was going to side with
the younger devil
(islam) on matters
of my, "christianity"...
i was going straight
to the jews to find
reasonable answers...

      oh ****...
    i should have done that
protestant "thing"
of borrowing from
either buddhist or hindu...
****...
must have slipped my
'ed.

i still don't understand how h'american
adult life translates itself from
a resentment of the h'american high-school,
if it does not lend itself to
the critique associated with faith schools,
and uniforms...
                 at least in english,
catholic high-schools...
everyone was made uniform,
akin to joining the army...
an army of jesuits...
         h'american public schools,
and their non-uniform policies...
bad idea...
       we had about 3 non-uniform days
in school, we were allowed to not wear uniforms,
as long as we gave money to a charity cause...

i hate the notion of the genesis
of culture, being excavated from h'american
public schools, where uniforms were deemed:
non-complicit...

i liked the uniform,
it's the closest i ever came to my father's
stint in the ****** army...
           being the most handsome,
recruited for the "royal guard" equivalent...
i.e. the republican guard...
pretending soldier status...
shooting blanks, at state funerals in
a "bargain" of the salvo...

thank god i never attended a public
school, i liked my catholic school uniform...
i never dressed to impress...
i never made a cultural backdrop out
of it... there was never a piggy-bank's
worth of a twilight saga to bank on...
     thank god not all of h'america
left the shores of america...
  thank god some of it: stayed in its place;

what?!
  
      i live in england...
  why wouldn't i whistle the le marseillaise
alongside the british grenadiers' fife and drum,
rather than... oh god... god save the queen / king?
the most ****** national anthem in
world history...

  sorry, i can't...
                it's a ****** anthem...
              at least the russians and the scots have
the grounds for an anthem covered...
****... beside vaughan williams...
    elgar?! that's it?! no wonder.

i can see the Sun,
and it twinkles and winks at me from across the horizon.

i’m promised.

i lower my eyes,
Its brilliant gaze makes my heart skip,
but It melts out my shyness
with yellow rivulets of soft warmth upon
my goosebump-ed skin.

your shadow flits
just outside my vision,
maybe.
hard to tell.
i’m not exactly sure who you are,
or whether you’re even there.

all i know is the Sun,
caressing me with Its intense love—
you, who are also brought to this place by the Son—

are you promised as well?

they say that 2000 years without Israel
will necessarily bleach your skin,
that ancient fable of the Mediterranean
olives, turning into haram pigmentation
that god forbade to eat:
     ask them: why so pale, so like us?
why are you so pale, brother?
                  too few of us have seen ghosts,
unless they be ghosts of our former selves.
everyday, people disappear with their
selfless acts - everyday: puff! gone.
i never write to entertain or distract,
i'm a non-oratory sort of guy,
i imagine myself like a larynx punching
bag that people speak into -
a persona non grata, but otherwise a
persona esse: that necessarily is.
grata... grata... grata... gratis means
free - i really don't have that vindictive
american woman, stay away from me
sort of attitude: one peg, two peg, three;
but i do like that ancient seemingly
under-used word - frajer -
whereas said in anglo: frayer -
or *******.       the whole bejesus
and           yacht debate asking for saintly
interludes in the general grime of ****
said, **** done - and of that inherent vice
in us? the part where the ants took to
the tarantula and impregnated themselves
with the venom: and turned on each other -
as any civilised thing ever could be.
          what's the difference between
blues and punk?
     an extra chord?      see me blink?
           white boy blues: punk -
three chords -            and so the Mongolian
horde hoarding skulls in Baghdad -
and that's me, sitting ever so lightly,
pretty orange like a peach: apathetic tongue
in the ivory bull terrier grip of a handshake -
a girl might have once said: with
the pulverising stare, he could sit on the pavement
and across the street a fox took to
goosebump nibbles, while a girl walked
past the fox and the fox didn't stir from the spot.
wet snare *****: that's what they called him -
but on top of all that: everyday, the world
crashes in: newspapers? i call them avalanches.
they have non-filter: condoms with a slit in
them - and every time she's gagging
for legislation into birth control,
the Chinese dicta has been revised,
     and she's thinking of honey honey feed
me homely snug and cuddle: scented lavender
candles on your way out, including
the autographs.
   i once claimed that the television is akin
to the Platonian anecdote of the cave -
       now i'm starting to realise it's the outdated
variation of a campfire:
               vatra: and soon our hushed
capacity to tell familiar stories -
once it was talk of whole bodies: now
dismemberment and disembodiment -
                         soon enough a *** or a Juan
in Spanish - soon too łen or when -
łej           or way - those are not: chiral twins.
from what i can remember i found it hard
forgetting my northern Swahili -
         ****** hard, i couldn't have that post-colonial
tattoo done on me -
            but it still haunts me,
how one man took apart the Pharisee Israel apart
and where people had coppery visage: dimmed
gold of the skin, and one has to compensate that
taking apart with his own ethnicity in a biographic
similitude - been there, done that,
off the Unesco map for a century or two,
a Napoleonic haven sort of bollocking,
       **** 'ed over 'ere: old MacDoogle e ah e ah oh,
ha ha. Catholic shortening Mc
         Protestant on a wild surf of St. Thomas' Gospel
and all things trans...
as it should be known: transphysics -
god is dead, poetry is dead, metaphysics, is dead:
nou vogue: TRANS! ***** slap that ****
across the knees: say gnostic (surd g), then say
diagnostic... seem: or properly understood.
******* wankers and cowboys and other
ulterior gunslingers; but the prima ballerina aesthetic
found when excavating the ęglish?
                never talk ***** in public:
really, really vocalise that Cockney bulldozer
vs. culture when vocalising more tongue and less
**** when ******* - appearances are everything
after all - talk pretty, talk lily -
talk rose: and when it comes to the knitty gritty:
slosh!        i mean diarrhoea slosh -
            i mean: not unbuttoning a shirt but
ripping it open: fanciful that: equating courtesy
and otherwise doing the Frankenstein to a limp
**** with words of encouragement...
        (oh the sarcasm i enjoy hiding in symbols)
but i never understand why we talk pretty
and play ***** - why not talk ***** and play pretty?
       this revised "aversion" / ~aversion toward
fascism is really taking hold of people:
        the only difference is that there are so many
charismatic sprechen pseudo Deutsche -
                   i'm starting to feel left out;
still though, concerning the first point:
they really are pale -
                 2000 years without Israel:
it will definitely take them 500 years to get that
Mediterranean hue back of palms olives and dates -
        understandably the siding with
balaclava Palestine:        'cos you're white and
you said ku klux sneezing - or from what i heard
of recent history, my fellow colonial thingy-ma-jigs
     are internalising inherent violence of
the past and shoveling it all at the young -
   many o' man's woes as nothing more than
an evasive self: kindred of the lunatic.
me too: i too wish to have been able to stage
a confrontational and subsequently condescending
conversation with my great-great-great-grandfather,
       but i ain't got the **** or the V, and
                                  not much about the Welsh-middle
of the longbowmen and Churchill's cigars;
funny thing... smoking cigarettes, you get this
taste flashbacks... just now i recounted the taste
of my first love's ****** juices mixing in with my
phlegm cough-up... surely memory is not cognitively
abstract, like tattoos aren't really abstract:
to prove a point i coughed up a memory
of wild strawberries yesterday: well... fair enough:
today it's a memory of eating out (as they crudely say):
Poseidon's pearl.
does **** have to be constantly floral or aquatic?
    oh the cascade into faux pas and cliche: endless!