do you know when you've had a really long day, and you stop at the grocery store to buy dinner, and you don't really want to cook so you go to the deli section and you think, I could go for some cheese tonight, so you head to the fridge carousel and you pick up some cheddar and it says it's been aged for two years and it looks pretty tender and you think, This is some nice cheese, but as you put it in your basket you see another cheese and it's gouda and it's smoked and you think, Gouda? I hadn't even thought about gouda, so then you think about gouda and you start to notice all these other kinds of cheeses and you see that the gouda is lactose free and even though you're not lactose intolerant that somehow intrigues you, and you don't know a lot about cheese so you think maybe it's because gouda comes from goats not cows and then you think How come people aren't intolerant to goat's milk? so then you look back at the cheddar and now it doesn't seem so nice even though it's been aged for two years and it's pretty tender and you thought it was nice before, so then you put the cheddar back but as soon as you let it go you think What if I don't like gouda? and so you put the gouda down and now you're standing there by that refrigerated cheese carousel without a ******* thing in your hands and you get sort of sad all of a sudden and you wonder if you're ever going to pick a cheese and even if you do will it ever be the right cheese and suddenly you start to tear up but you think, No, I'm better than crying in a grocery store, so you pick up the cheddar again because trust your first gut right? and you pay for your cheese and you walk back to your car but as you sit there in the parking lot getting ready leave you realize that maybe it's not about the ******* cheese and it's never about the ******* cheese and maybe you don't even like the ******* cheese that much anyway and so you kind of scrub your fingers into your scalp and pull your hair and hit the steering wheel once or maybe twice and your cheeks are hot and wet and it's hard to see so you rub your eyes dry and when you look up there's an elderly asian man watching you freak out a little bit in your car by yourself, and so you slowly start your car and pull out of the parking lot and as you drive away you wonder if the elderly asian man ever cries and if he ever can't decide on a cheese and if he ever thinks that he doesn't even like cheese at all either.

You were so hot I spun twice to see, call me a fan
Your regal youth made my blood boil, call you peter pan

You were like a boomerang I wanted to throw away but you kept coming back to me,
And maybe I've always been scared of hurdles and you were my biggest one, 'cause I just can't get over you, you see

I thought you were like a paradox:
Cool as ice and hot as molten rock

You were like a magician with words, drove me so crazy I was pulling out my hare,
You steal my heart like a pirate captain when I sea you standing there,

But you didn’t have any morals, I deserve to call you *****ible
Yet you still think you're cute. you know? leaving my house the way you came would be adooreble

I discovered your texts to her on my birthday, the cake was ruined with my tiers
You caught my Eye with your animal magnetism, but you’ve been a cheetah for years

What? you think this is a game? No, you don't have a clue!
You had a monopoly on my life and now your name is taboo

You said you needed some time and space to yourself you were the only one in the galaxy I Wanted,
I guess life never turns out how you planet and since you left I've been feeling haunted,

Why did I believe you were a great catch? Just because you master *****?
You made me think we could smash; every second felt like a brawl

Loving you was no gouda, though I swiss you now that you’re gone, it isn’t easy,
I said goodbye, It’s not you it’s brie, sorry that was cheesy.

You gave my life flavor but you were just a masked spyce that made my life sour like limes
I know I need to chili but you have really bad taste and we’re out of thyme

I need a holiday from your lies, my patience is running short
I’m better off with you gone, and leaving you is my last resort

I guess we didn't have that spark no need to be astunished,
all I know now is: IT IS TIME YOU WERE PUNISHED.

COOL TENTS WITH HOT FOOD
From the 10th diary entry of Stewy Lemmon's childhood adventures.

Finally, the day Smoochy and I had been waiting for had arrived. It was Saturday the 7th of March. The day we were heading off to the, 89th Boy Scouts & Girl Guides, combined World Jamboree. The jamboree was held this year in the Nevada desert in Las Vegas, USA.

My dad Archie, was the local scout leader for the Shimmerleedimmerlee 1st scout group and my mum Flo, was second in charge of the Barefeet Mountain 3rd Girl Guide group. Mum's friend was the Barefeet girl guides leader and she was named, Miss Alice Springs. Dad was making the trip with other local scout leaders and 11 of us boys. Mum and Miss Alice Springs were taking 11 girls from the local Barefeet Mountain girl guide group, including my two much older identical twin sisters, Emma and Jemma. Also coming along was my much younger brother, Lemmy and of course my grouse pet mouse, Smoochy.

Dad has been in the local boy scout group since he was very young and his father, John Lemmon, my grandfather, was also in the same scout group when it first began, all of those years ago.

There were boy scout and girl guide groups from all over the world attending the big camping and adventure event. People from far away places like Norway, France, Egypt, Australia, Holland, England, Brazil, Thailand, Hong Kong, Italy and of course the host nation, the United States of America.

Every group, brought with them their home nations own colourful flags and individually designed tents, based on their countries culture or famous landmarks. It was like having all of the countries of the world, all in the one place at a time.

The boy scout and girl guide group from Thailand had a tent that looked like a Buddhist Temple and also had an outdoor kitchen where they would make, such great tasting, but ever so hot and spicy, food from.

The Egyptian guys and girls had a massive high tent, that resembled the world famous giant Pyramid of Giza. It must of taken them ages to make the angles so perfectly straight and with extreme precision.

Holland's tent was a large and fully operational, colourful windmill. It, even had it's very own water tank. The windmill tent was painted with colours and designs that even impressed my very artistic dad.

He said, 'He might even have to redecorate his unusually built, outrageously painted, outback, backyard shed and use some of the bright paint colours and fancy designs the boys and girls had done'.

The next tent was very big and long from the boy scout and girl guide groups of, Australia. It had been designed to look like the, Sydney harbour bridge. But it didn't have a roof to protect them from the weather, while they slept shoulder to shoulder, across the wooden bridge road. But, like most Aussies with relaxed and casual attitudes they said, 'She'll be right mate, Rain, Hail or Shine'.

The guys and gals from Italy, had a tent that was leaning over to the right, just like the, famous Leaning Tower of Pisa. They assured us all that it wouldn't fall over. 'Trust us, they said'.

Hong Kong had a very long tent that was based on the colourful, cultural inspired dragon. It had a lot of tent pegs on either side, to keep it's ever winding position in place. It was the most colourful and coolest tent of all. But at the same time, the most scariest tent of them all.

England's tent was based on the very historic, Tower of London. It even had two very serious looking guards on patrol out front, made out of paper mâché.

Norway's tent was in the shape of, a Vikings fighting helmet. It had, two large horns coming out from the left and right hand sides. It looked like a raging bull, in a bizarre sort of way.

Brazil came up with a giant yellow and green football, based on their national sport and colours of the country, for its design. All of us just hoped, 'It didn't get a sudden hole in it and start to knock over all of our tents, just like a giant pinball game'.

France went for a super, duper structure, that was wide at the bottom and became thinner towards the top. It was in the shape of the Eiffel Tower, of course. It was the tallest tent at the jamboree camping grounds and provided the best views from atop.

While the host nation the USA decided to honour the, Native American Indians. They, had a large tent resembling an original and colourful Indian Teepee, with a hole at the top. The scouts and girl guides from, the USA, sent out messages to everyone nearby, using the old, but still very effective, smoke signals way of communication. They said, 'Who needs the Internet, Facebook and Twitter, when you can send messages and cook a meal on a fire at the same time'?

After looking at all of the great tents made by all of the participating nations, we sat down to eat. Everybody had made a favourite dish from their home country. All the girl guides from Australia made the famous and delicious dessert cake called, Pavlova. But, it wasn't any ordinary Pavlova, for it was in the shape of the very large outback rock named Uluru. Which, by the way, is located in the middle of Australia, near a place called Alice Springs.

So my mum's friend has a very famous name indeed. The girl guides from Australia named this creation, 'The Alice Springs Rock'.

The Egyptians had made a dessert out of shortbread, that took them hours to make. Each piece of shortbread had to be skilfully cut, with exact precision or the creation just wouldn't stay in place. It was named, 'Pastry Plate of Pharaoh's Perfect Pyramid'.

The Italian Boy Scouts, prepared a series of huge leaning pizzas stacked on top of each other, on very acute angles, just like their tent. They named their creation, 'The Leaning Tower of Pizza'.

The host nation of the USA, made some yummy hotdogs with tomato ketchup, mustard and cheese. They made the hotdogs, pop up from each end of the roll and placed wooden sticks on either side to look like American Native Indians were rowing their canoes.

Norway had created a tasty snack made with salmon and biscuits which looked like little boats flowing down the Fjords. Also the impression of large rocks in the water that were in fact meatballs for all.

Thailand had served up several spicy dishes, including the famous Pad Thai dish with chicken and the hot soup named Hot and Sour with Prawns in Thai you pronounce it as Tom Yung Goong. It was so yummy in the tummy the dishes from Thailand.

In the Brazil kitchen they made us their nations famous Churrasco or BBQ. It uses a variety of meats like pork, beef and chicken which was cooked on large metal skewers stuck into the ground and roasted with the embers of the charcoal.

France baked up some crescent shaped flaky pastry named the Croissant. They added some great tasting almonds to a few, while some others had dried fruits such as sultanas, raisins and even apples.

Holland had an assortment of plates consisting of Gouda and Edam cheeses with mayonnaise and mustards and other plates had a rich variety of fruits, freshly cut meats and nuts placed upon them.

Hong Kong had very traditional Chinese meals prepared for all to enjoy. They had everything from fried rice, to Chinese noodles to my dads all time favourite Peking Duck, so when he saw the duck he said he was in luck. Also they had a plate full of Dim Sums and a Hong Kong favourite snack called egg tarts and another of my dads favourite drinks named milk tea.

Finally England had whipped up my Friday night special, which is Fish n Chips with tomato sauce. It was so good that a lot of the other nations said they would make it for their families, once they got home.

In the morning we had such great fun and adventure while trying every nations favourite sport or recreation. We started by having team races on the river in Native American Indian canoes, Norwegian Viking ships, Italian Gondolas, Egyptian river boats and Chinese dragon boat races in the nearby river. The winning order was Hong Kong 1st, Italy came in 2nd and third of all was Egypt.

We even had competitions to see who could do the best smoke signals and we even had fun rope climbing events to the top of the Eiffel Tower, the Leaning tower of Pisa, and walking and climbing events up the Pyramid of Giza and the Sydney Harbour Bridge tents.

Then some countries had a football game after lunch with teams from Brazil, England, Italy and France playing for the Boy Scouts and Girl Guides World Cup golden trophy. Brazil beat England in the final 3-1, to hold up the golden cup.

Some other nations had bike riding races, which Holland won with ease. Australia did really well in the boxing competition. Everybody laughed when Smoochy came out 1st, wearing a pair of boxing gloves, before they brought out a plastic blow up of their mascot wearing gloves "Big Red" the boxing kangaroo which was placed near the ring for good luck.

Thailand dominated the Judo and the USA couldn't be stopped in the 100m sprints and also the mixed basketball matches. So overall, everyone had such a great time and we all loved the tents, food and different sports to watch and perform in, from all of the world.

The week went so fast and it was sad to say goodbye to all of our new friends from all over the world, but we promised that we would stay in touch either by using smoke signals or the new generations way, which is either by Facebook or Twitter.

All my late night rendezvous
Have since been eclipsed
By stable days and nights with you.
You save me from the spiders in my shoes,
And when storm clouds start grumbling, I save you.

And I know that this sounds cheesy--
But I don't care. I don't care!
Because I happen to know you ******* love cheese.
And for you babe,
I'll be the best cheese.

I'll be thy holy Swiss cheese,
I'll be your buttered Brie.
And when we've aged 50 years?
Well then babe,
I'll be your ******* Gouda.

At least, that's what I want to be
If you'll let me.
I want to be the finest cheese your tongue has ever tasted.
So lay your wine-stained lips on me;
Let's see how we pair.

[tater tots, sour cream, & smoked gouda]

i'm deeply afraid
that i am
a kaleidoscope
of shards

crushed
colored
glass

there is too much
s p a c e
around me
deafening silence

i want to be
held down
i want to be
smothered
i want to be
warm
i want to be
in the sun

i feel like
an exploding star
or a character
in a movie
that gets overcome
and flys apart
into brilliant
shafts of light

i'm sick
of trying
to stifle sobs
because i don't
want my neighbors
to think i'm
a ******

and i've been
thinking maybe
i'm not as old
as i think i am

and that is
terrifying

it is worse
than being old

because time is
stretching into
a vast expanse
of nothingness

how do i trust myself
when everything
has fallen apart

when all my decisions
have led to this...

this?

...but i've
been falling from
space

hard.*

burning through
the atmosphere
like a
bat out of hell

and it is
the only thing that
seems right

i trust myself
in the realization
that plunging
to the earth
on fire
is maybe
the best thing
that has ever happened to me

i'm not trying to stop
in fact, i'm picking up speed
being pulled
by gravity

if i had to be catupulted
into space
unwillingly

to realize that
this *breathtaking fall
is better

then so be it.

and i will
put smoked gouda
on tater tots
unapologetically
in an effort
to class up
this joint.

and because it's delicious.

I am meandering to the market
In order to buy gold that is Gouda
If you don’t grasp this I won’t be upset
I will be as peaceful as the Buddha

I go as fast as a running hippo
I am speeding to the dairy section
I pass the man with the funny Zippo
I must go see this dairy selection

Cuando Llegando at the dairy aisle
The Gouda seemed to be calling my name
It appeared like I was walking a mile
All to reach the end of this silly game

The Gouda tasted very angelic
It was priceless like a fancy relic

saying ******* seems so much more
easier when you're petting cats....
they just say it for you...
there he is, Quarus,
the operatic singer nearing sunset,
200 variations of a mulling of meow,
i end up calling him Orbison Rufus,
the ginger Roy of Peckham -
he basically meows lazily like Roy
singing... as said / i.d. (id est): the umbras
or umbrellas - counting the shadows'
version of Apache's yawn: ah-woo ah-woo
ah-woo nagging the reflex...
gave them the yawn and gave them 1950s
America... Billy the Kid talking to the king of
Specs... hank marvin.... cheese grater
with those teeth... dozen cows buckling with
the herding in while the dog carved a feel
for religion in the translation of the Vatican
from coliseum into football requirements...
the movies were great in the 1950s, just after
the technicolour... petting cats was never such a thrill...
the operatic meow, onomatopoeia from echo
in a cave to knock-on-wood...
200 variations of the knock
and 12 whiskey shots downed
while playing poker... 12 cowboys
1 Milwaukee and 30 Turks... classic Tarantino...
i said the Apache yawn... i never said giving
out smoke signals...
Quarus my ginger is demanded as having laughed...
he's Roy Orbison with the meow,
pretty much lazy...
looks like a murmur when he tries singing,
pretty woman, trolling down the street,
Gucci, Chanel, and everything in the scrapheap of lobotomy,
as is Paris necessarily mentioned: chiselled
white collars... Roy knew before Elvis...
the trick came with sunglasses,
and the gluttonous slur of the half-opened mouthing
for subsequent mouthing it off...
no amount of cheese in French could ever
charter the success of the cheeses added to cheeseburgers
with the milkshakes, which were plainly Dutch
laughing cows named Novices....
quick-melts and some said:
dreadlocks of string-yellow Gouda pulled
for a hippies' worth of Chinese chugging down
a pint or two, for worth of gag and the slim mascot;
the Chinese never taught Cannes arithmetic
of the thumb through to pinky...
i don't know how they taught counting
with their complex ideograms, they never taught
arithmetic give their encoding...
they taught pure math.. they never taught the simplest
of assurances... meaning so few of them became bankers.

I swear I'm not a Munster.
Don't leave me provolone.
When you asiago away I really Swiss you.
It makes me bleu to watch you leave.
People keep telling me it'll get cheddar.
I'm feta up with going to havarties.
Queso, maybe tomorrow will be Gouda.

There is something about it
The inexplicable curve in the diet
Swimming in pink grapefruit,
Sharing the stunted manifestation
Of a slice of clementine Gouda cheese
The way, the solace in a lone glass of wine
Chilled iced, purged crayfish
Flushed from the brittle salt basked seas
From the callused knuckle of stony fisherman
Casting out at the crackling array of dawn
With the waters brimming at the hulk
And the mast scraping it's white and red tusks
The fisherman who left at dawn
Leaving his beloved steeped in slumber...
Allowing her eyes flutter to the beam of pink salmon
And there is just something about it,
Pulsing from the faint flicker of overhanging bulbs
A writer stoops over a sliver of miracle
Purged from the raw etched in his vast chest
The very act of describing compassion & sin
With the ink soaked mechanism of his typewriter
The legacy of a young girl
Who wasn't meant to save the world
But to find it, the humanity whisked away,
Drowned perhaps by whiskey and alcohol
Eyesights deterred from the long lone walk
Pocketed with threats and head shakes
The writer's fingers fly,
And funny how there is something about it
How it doesn't end in full circle
That we lack the great capacity
To seize the flesh of truce
So distilled we sail,
So perturbed we write,
So empty we feast
Never quite knowing
That elemental presumption
Of something more

Nobody can comprehend;
It baffles one and all
Just how much I love Edam
And pine for Emmental.

Gouda smoked is very toothsome
The same is with Gruyère
And Mozarella and I have
An eternal love affair.

Cheddar when it's sharp and sweet
Is an absolute delight!
Parmesan, simply divine
When it is aged just right.

Some may call it an obsession
But I don't seek a cure,
For though all the world may melt away,
My love for cheese endures!

romanticizing life
relationships
men
individuals
collectively
stripped

you are no longer what you were meant to be
fulfilling
like a buffet
knowing when not to get overwhelmed with the choices
but be humbled
and honest
to tell yourself what you know you really want
what you really need
what's
satisfying.

now i'm not trying to make men analogous to food
but i guess i am.
my meal
doesn't serve the purpose of leaving the table
with my stomach bursting at the seams
left alone
with a food baby.

my meal
doesn't serve the purpose of not serving a purpose
there just to quench a craving
to lead you in which ever direction because you think you want all of this when
really it's just
you don't know
what you want
what's the purpose?

my meal
is supposed to humble me
serves the purpose of feeding me with a thousand suns of your soul
to warm me
in my mind
and my heart
my meal is relevant
to my context
to your context
it's goldy locks
it's not being afraid to make mistakes
to learn and grow
and change.

my meal is shared with my family
enjoyed and just another
enriching aroma that give us a reason
to be together
not to
"bring us closer than we already thought we were"
we are not
a romantic novel
my meal is not a romantic novel

i know i'm a college student
that meals don't always align correctly
that they are forgotten
but always on my mind
i'm gonna be
honest
honestly
i don't know what my meal should be
where it should come from
why i will choose it
wait
what?

yea,
i'm confused, too.
Gouda.
can i marry you?

and everyone I know.

what air-conditioned heart is this
here where mothers meet and ports sing crusted sugarsongs
where I remember the synthesized forget-me-nots kissed by lemons
in chemical yellow

and blasphemous portraits seem to cry
with tears light as baby's breath against the heavy frescos
in the matchstick cathedrals lined with crumbling gouda
and bitter wine?

stags wear ruined antlers and crown the hillside
above the gilded city as it slides into the sea
to the echo of violins in a sprightly sigh
and then your laugh

(plaster-of-Paris is as beautiful as blood diamonds)

Its not blue its cheddar.
Its yellow not gouda.
Its cheese.

Good Cheese
It is hard to find
But I know which to get
It is the kind that is Gouda
The best of them all

this year for halloween
im going as a slice of cheese
so i can scare people
with puns

now how do i begin?
o-que, so

i walk down the halloumi and see
my friends colby and jack

colby's dressed as a camembear
scary enough to make you go emmental

jack's dressed as the Cheshire cat
who listens to baroquefort

we all sit down paneer the window

"so teleme," i ask, "what's gouda?"

"i'll tell you what's gouda," jack replies eagerly,
"see that girl over there, fonTina?"

how could i swiss her, i thought, with her looks and her cheddar, she could make it gruyere down there out of even the LEAST manchego of men

"go talk to her, jack, it'll be a brieze"

"no whey man!"

"yes whey"

"man i'm too anxious, i'd rather talk on the mascarphone"

"what do you mean, you're the goat!"

"we can'tal be buff-alo like you, why don't you talk to her?"

"already dating monterey"

"i didn't know you swung both wheys"

"sometimes i feel like my sexuality was madE backwards"

"alright that's enough!" jack stammered. "i'm fetup with these puns! it was fun at first but it's gotten annoying. some of this **** doesn't even make any sense! just go man, nobody wants you here."

colby and i exchanged a solemn glance
i turned to jack
"..................ricotta be kidding me!"

"LEAVE!" jack screamed, and i turned and walked away


now it's time i asiago home
feeling blue, heading back to my cottage
sad and provolone

It was an interesting thing
to be in a bookstore
with him.

The altered state came
almost immediately,
it was hard not
to notice the happening
of it.

It was an electricity
that changed,
charged his large
frame,

making him almost
mountainous.

For just a minute,
we were all blokes
who liked
books,

but he became
a book-buyer/bookseller
a few paces past
the threshold.

When he spotted that
one treasure, that particular
hardcover,
perhaps a first-edition,
he proclaimed
it’s value forthwith.

With his eyes wide,
a sidelong grin,
he dived into the pages,
inhaled deeply
through his nose.

Continuing,
he examines
the tome fastidiously,
expertly announces
the novel’s value
at thrice what the
shopkeeper is asking
and advances to the
counter.

Soon after,
we left that shop,
each of us weighed
down with brown paper
parcels.

Stowing those,
we then sought
smoked gouda,
beef sandwiches,
and potatoes fried
in duck fat.

It was time for lunch.

*

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016

And if you won't go down,
can I at least get you in my down line?
Let me appoint. Fast food crown.
The children are sleeping. Uncork the wine.
Slide a ******* under the gouda.
Glasgow smile and Instagram this opportunity.
I could recite the medication, but I shouldn't.
You want to watch something? Ever seen Community?
There's an art to being 30 and single.
There's cream for every wrinkle.
There's a sin in need of a kindle.
There's, for everything, a fee--it's simple.

i always find that one can still find a worthwhile bit of verse at night, provided one dips into daytime writing, as i also find not having written anything during the day, makes verses conjured in the night: a slightly (to be ironically mild) desperate endeavour.

to begin from where i left off...
   why do i make such large portions when cooking?
ah... the fact that my breakfast consists of
two glasses of milk, and that i only eat once
a day, it's nonetheless inexcusable -
   which ends up with me feeling like a boa
with about two weeks worth digestion and sleeping
like a cat,
     although i'm starting to think,
given that serpents do not have eyelids
(which in reality a much more evil curse upon
the serpent of eden who was told to slither) -
but saying that, i think that once the serpents
have feasted, they are allowed to sleep,
even if they don't have eyelids,
     perhaps as perfectly adapted as bears in
hibernation, but i'm suspicious of the notion
that once a serpent has began digesting its food
it falls asleep for two or however many weeks
it takes to digest a prey...
me and my giant homemade hamburgers
and homemade chips?
     i asked myself the question:
how do you actually cut up a potato to make
the perfect chip? sideways first, about the thickness
of a pinky finger, and then horizontally,
the ol' chippie down the road can't beat these
mean spuds, sprinkled with paprika and
cajun pepper, salted and... booyakasha!
oh, and they have to be cooked slowly, i mean,
slowly...  obviously adding a bit of olive oil...
but after eating this meal i felt bloated,
so i had to come up with an answer to ensure
i could feel a slight tickle of ms. amber in
my stomach, so i walked it off for an hour,
easing out farts, which was a good sign...
made it through the english suburban maze
of windy streets, and found myself:
  perfectly sound...
     in the hamburgers? beef, gouda cheese,
lettuce, fresh tahmahtees, pickled cucumbers,
pickled chillies, fresh spanish onions,
    slightly toasted buns, and two sauces:
a hamburger sauce + sweet mustard...
   brilliant combo;
but that's the boring, i guess the interesting
bit is that the sky is murky rather than overcast
and there's a full moon visible as if
addressing you from behind a hookah pipe...
if ever there was a night for strolling along
not looking for a caterpillar, it was tonight;
the obvious religious sudoku,
   and no, i don't buy the ******* that you can
call no. 9354 (in the times supplement)
   difficult, or mild, as it sometimes happens,
not with 1/9 of the squares being completely
blank! that **** is fiendish, i just proved
the point solving no. 9359 (difficult) -
only aided by killing a few brain-cells during
interludes of watching pop vlog videos,
some static music videos,
     and the more i drank the more i became
impressed with the effort,
  at one point inserting an obvious 7 into a square
making a face of a ****** exclaiming:
better get a pair of glasses you dummy!
so that's what i found: blind-spots in sudoku,
sure there's some logic behind it,
   but in the blind-spots just frustrate,
and frustrate, and irritate.
          the whole:

   either 1 or 7 | 2 5 8 4 9 | either 3 or 6
                             1, 3, 6, 7

didn't help, but ms. amber sharpshooter
later, and some youtube vlog video about
drunk advice or how to do make up,  
   and i finished the **** puzzle feeling
like someone injected me with steroids;

while some famous rich dummy complained
about the perils of mixing ******* with
alcohol... how about i teach you about
the not so perilous adventure of nicotine &
alcohol, high enough for just a tiny bit,
making hitting the "low": a smirking endeavour,
self-satisfying, if not self-congratulating:
to the last sip.

obvious some sort of bookish reference culminated...
yeah... the hebrew *sefirot diagram...
  i looked at it, started swaying for a bit
and then came with an answer...
   fool be he who aims at the keter (crown)
in this entire schematic, for the sefirot
is a schematic (apologies for the paraphrasing
away from diagram, but sometimes
you just have to sharpen the tools) -
    
the most famous e.g.?
    look who's hanging at golgotha...
      he who claims a crown over but one of
the other elements of the schematic,
has not understood the dynamism between
keter & malkhut (kingship) -
crowns are put on both kings and fools,
   notably alan ginsberg in prague in the 1960s...
see how the two relate?

  the real trinity embedded in the sefirot
is based, primarily, upon wisely disregarding
both keter & malkhut in terms of:
i'm aiming for that,
   no! always with a genesis always with a beginning
and always revising that beginning,
only at one's peril desire the ultimate crown
and the ultimate kingship, which belongs
to death alone...

          the sefirot can only be understood on
the base of yesod, i.e. foundation...

after all, you have: binah (understanding),
chokhmah (wisdom), gevurah (strength),
   chesed (love), tiferet (beauty),
hod (splendor) & netzach (victory) to choose
from, or if not by choice,
  then by the slow realisation of
not known the yesod (foundation) endeavoured
upon, to have gained

either the prize (keter) of said attributes,
or the authority (malkhut) of said attributes...
and this could be best described in secular
terms as the formulation of unconscious drives...

me? i crafted the combination
  based on yesod -
  i made it my foundation to stress my capacity for
gevurah (strength)... and it would have
been just that, but my efforts in verse
were acknowledged with the compliment of
tiferet (beauty) from the least of expected
of places... the mouth of a former lover:
god give peace unto her turbulent soul;

for i known i can't be king of wisdom,
  nor of understanding,
    nor all other attributes...

hence the foolishness, in kantian terms,
and the sefirot has kantian elements in it,
i can already see
   that keter is an a priori term -
  and that malkhut is an a posteriori term...
first comes the crown, then comes
the kingship...

                         i can't see how
it can be sensible any more to reverse that,
i.e. malkhut is an a posteriori term,
   while keter is an a priori term...
it's illogical to think the latter, since we already
known what sort of crown,
  and what sort of throne precipitated into
history...

               and why is it that these self-lacerating
attacks akin to christianity do indeed dare
to mention the men as "mentally unwell" -
do you even know how castrating that terminology
is? they're crusaders of the wake-up call...
because if you call the other group by
the term jihad "warrior" the moral boost it gives
them? no one calls them mentally ill,
   but suddenly someone comes along and
is included in the "mentally deranged category"
grouped with anxiety-prone teens,
  depressed teenage girls, socially-shy schizophrenics,
and the rest of the psychotic brady bunch?
i look at these cases and think of vanilla ice...
these other guys, these crusaders?
               you can't call one the jihad martyrs
and the other: enigmas of the fruition
       of the castrato complex "losers"...
        losers? losers work part time jobs or
whatever category of existence might tick
all the boxes of the criteria...
            there's still no proper term for it,
  but this self-mutilating culture of christianity
began with a man riding into jerusalem
on a donkey... so donkey's years...
   the more the media smears them as that,
the more secular "identities" are attributed
to certain instances of their emergence,
   the more it agitates the next psychotic wasp
hive of swarming thoughts in an another "loser"...

when behring breivik did what he did,
   the russian nationalists encored him as a hero...
and i still don't know why the message
he sent was such an "enigma"...
          pay up for your decadence or your
children (of the ruling class) get it...
         sometimes these real world commentaries
of events that have happened are
so unnecessary in my part of the world,
they are there because these events happened...

even though we bypassed the publishing
authorities,
   it has just become a case of
                   **** vitro in domus vitro -
which is why i never intended to make any
internet profiling based upon the faux pas of façade.

/    \
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:Some::days:::mind:::travels:::to::faraway::lands:
:chasing:wind­s:sailing:restive:waters::roaming:
:fields:caves:dark:skies::land­ing:on:dying:red:
:fire:trees:i:see:wilted:jasmines:bowed:lilies:
  :dark:faces:::i­t's:tiring:like:a:recurring:bad:
   :dream:but::it's:not::i:take:a:deep::breath:
    :prepare:hot:noo­dle:soup::fresh:brewed:
     :coffee:::toasted:ciabata:bread:::gouda:
      :cheese::white::wi­ne:is::ever:ready:a:
       :warm:bed:and:blanket::awaits:me:
        :hug:close:soft:pillows­::::i'll:grasp:
         :a:feather::afloat::in:the:air::then:
          :set:it:free::as:­::i:lie:on::the::bed:
           :safe::snug::in:my:own:space:
            :my:heavy:eyelids:give way:
             :my:known::freedom::calls:
              ::I:::am::::HOME::::am::­:I::      
              [[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]
                ­        
        

Sally


Copyright Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
August 16, 2015

I'm always trying to write my best poem.
Best vocab
Best rhymes
Most heart.
**** it.
**** it

I want that **** like venom needs
A parasite
A healthy host to feed
My needs. Like trophies in storage
Since you ghosted me.
Dusty and more expensive
Then just a storage fee.

I'm enormously
Neurotic.
Talk sick
In case you haven't been watching me
I'm that mental projection
Distortion
Border nostradaumus prophecy
I cause clocks.
To turn back years.
In talks of. Sharing bonds.
And stocks in an economy run properly.
And cooperation
Of all social scopes
But the racists need labotomies.
Cooperation isn't just for some.
Its how me March
Into our prospering.
And foster healthy dialog.
Between the darkness
We've been harboring
And enlarging
Love to overwhelm
The hearts to rid us of
Everything disheartening

To be the best

My husband is Europe's best salesman
she said proudly.
What does he sell? Things, she said.
What things? Well, many different things.
Putin is a good seller of hopes, I said.
Who is Putin? A man who sell dreams
and other things, I have never heard of
him does he sell houses too.
Reflecting upon “things” Brexit came
to mine, people didn't want to buy it
founds “things” a burden importing stuff
they could produce themselves.
“Don't look a gift horse in the mouth,” she did
And found it had many rotten teeth
needed a dentist to extract them.
I like fish& chips a man chimed in and for French
Cheese! I never bought one, what's wrong with
Gouda?  (Geography not his strong suit) and for
wine, I rather have a pint of lager.
So it is settled then (never mind the street talks)
we are half out but also half in.
Can we say Theresa May is a great salesperson?

with coffee next to a seventh
floor window somewhere,
i've waited for the rain.
a floating grey sky,
breeze that woke one up;
put one to sleep.
the power's out again.
i'm stressing about
something ordinary i said
a couple days ago, to you.
you know
how anxiety works.
i apologise
i left without
"good to meet you"s
at the sidewalk.
sometimes you meet
a stranger
and never see them again.
you couldn't care less
about the side of the bed
they sleep on,
or if they would like to
have plants with you
around your shared apartment.
but sometimes
you meet a stranger
and you want to buy watermelons
with them, for lunch
at the weekend market.
you have your longest
argument,
walking in a parking lot
and you decide to
take a cab to your
favorite coffeeshop,
instead of heading home.
the stars stay glistening
golden in a purple sky,
when you stroll along
empty roads,
under bridges together —
howling dogs and
soft songs from an
open window for a minute.
you spend an evening
reading derrick brown,
and then a hundred evenings.
in a small kitchen
on a wednesday
you make
macaroni and cheese —
sharp cheddar and
smoked gouda,
a nice wine
picked up
from the weekend market
you frequent.
alone on a terrace
in august, you cry
about a memory you thought
you had forgotten
and they can tell
from your eyes,
when you come back home.
after a long week,
next august,
of feeling lost
and non-conversations
they quietly cry
into your cotton shirt shoulder
and you let them,
hanging on
on the floor.
spoons swirling
in cups of tea
over the years
you learn the ring
of their laughter,
and somethings they
say, sound exactly
like how you would say it.
you move again,
and again
and they take you
to a few music festivals
that you pretend to like.
in the shower
smelling of
coconut bodywash,
after you've made love,
you say you love them
for the first time.
after singing happy birthday
in june another year
they say it back to you,
for the hundredth millionth time.
sometimes you meet
a stranger
and never see them again;
sometimes you
sit in imagination
and make a life out of it.
sometimes you meet
a stranger
sometimes
you don't.

Hating someone for nothing is stupid
Being bi is great
Being gay is great
Being straight is great
No matter your fancy. You're great
But the death of cheese is greater

Men Vs women is a bunch of bull
Both are cool and fine
Cis or trans. Doesn't matter
Both are good.
But certain cheese is Gouda.

No matter who you vote for
No matter where you from
Or what you look like
Everybody is amazing
Except mozzarella.
He's a pizza ****

Just so you know
You're pretty rad
To know you I am glad
Edam you're pretty **** cool

M: You so petty like Tom be
Roaming around the earf like a zombie

P: You so petty like Tom be,
Roaming round the earth like a zombie clad in Abercrombie
Shut up, Fitch.
Pitchin a fit like a tone-deaf finch singin out of pitch, lickin a wack *** riff
Lost in space, trippin tha rift
Ya'll won't dig what I spit, but you could at least sift through the remnants

M: Here's your penance for the Cubs winning the pennant
Shut up man, you're no John Lennon
If you was a car, I'ma say you'd be a Lemon.
Here's my lime, it's a rhyme that I wrote in no time
About how crime can pay well if you do it right

P: It's time to plunder and plight, I'm full of blunder and spite
The Boy Wonder, I'm a robbin and I'm about to take flight
The crowd be clappin thunder all night
I'm slinging lightning, that's right
I'm Zeus, you're Hades and we'll be warring for the spotlight.
I may be a hater, but you're my hatee and the boss' order is:
Don't quit your day job, just keep on workin your nine to five.

M:I'm deep in the slime call me a Muck raker,
**** taker, but I never really give em though
Not a nice dude, but I've never really hit a ***
Kinda wonder why I ever really spit a flow in the first
Flow is absurd, crow is a bird, and they're murderous.

P:The rhyme is evolutionary, **** man, but what's a Muk to a Grimer?
Ya'll amateur rappers are just slappin paint on the canvas without a primer
There's no substance to your "art", I'll see your Trap and raise you a Hip Hop, cross the streams and blow up like Slimer.

Ya'll just some nickel and dimers tryin to hold up a dime store so you can pick up that dime sack that you're trying to afford.

The kind of fools ain't nobody got time for.
I've ascended Mt. Olympus, you ******* need to learn how to climb more.

M: Climb up, climb down, or don't climb at all
Don't listen to those try-hards,
Watch Die Hard again and then give me my vengeance.
You ever do penance? If not that'll cost ya six pence
And I need that **** quick since I already spent it.
Rap Game Tom Selleck.

Tom Hanks is a real person
Celebrities are real people.
I wish everyone would just feel people
Not like corporeally, but emotionally worth it.
Sober immaculate cut the tension with a hatchet.

Black people hate me cause I say I'm not racist
So I guess they just hate cause they faithless

P: Do not mistake the faithless with the tasteless,
But before I screech all my beliefs, let's just sink back into the cool relief of giving praise tot he great King Nostalgia.

Welcome to Good Burger, hey remember Hans Gruber, let's watch re-runs of Law & Order?

Your girl gobblin up my junk, call her **** Wolf.
More sinister than any Stallone villain, call me Mister Dolf Lundgren
Nerdier than any dragon or dungeon.
Dirtier than any old man askin his waitress for more sugar packets so he can drop em on the floor and watch her bend over.

Red Rover, Red Rover, this verse should already be over, but I cant stop reading this Buzzfeed article telling me the 5 best lines from Crimson and Clover


M: Prolly skips like a *****.
Worth the risk.
It's curious, facts
When all I spit are spurious raps
I'm furious, Jack
Like I am jacks unbridled sound of fury since my patience is tried but with nobody on the jury
It's hard to define if I should be
Calm or Worried

P: My destiny is sittin right next to me, but I can't pick it up cuz it's too **** heavy.
I get a grip, my muscles rip, it's stuck tot he ground because I am Unworthy
How unfortunate that I made it all the way here, just to find out I can't lift up Mjolnir.

Or maybe it's a trick of the mind, I'm a victim of fear.
Maybe it's time to let my senses unwind and focus only on what is near.
It's time to make a profit off of what my prophet holds dear in his lockett, instead of settling for a Stepford Career.

Gouda is good, and Cheddah is bettah, but I'm to to make some of that Gruyere.

M: Gruyere, Camembert
List the cheeses til you're Jesus man,
Talking like you even know a lil piece of the Jesus man's plan.
I think if any of us knew it wouldn't even really please us fam,
Cause absolute knowledge is pain,
Actually growing is lame, and all we are is ever in between two planes of existence
So find the path with little resistance.

P: My prophet ain't Jesus, do you capiche this?
God's plan ain't nothin but a back-up like a clogged drain, or where the food came
that hadn't been chewed enough by the backward's spelling of the man himself.

D-O-G

Lookin for his bounty, but I'm a gatherer not a hunter
So you best expect that I'll be laid to rest in peace while you're still suffering from the disease of lying through your teeth.
Best BELIEVE!
Of my Philosophy, you can not conceive.
Whether or not you've thrown away your virginity doesn't decide whether you're imprisoned or free.

To be free costs a fee, but the sinnin is free.
It don't make no sense to me, so I consult my sensei who says to **** down a sasparilla, smoke some sensimillia, and tuck my head between my knees
Until the atomic wind has passed and I'm left to enjoy the cool breeze.
*******! Literally.
What if God was one of us?
He'd probably sob because of what he's done.
But with no consequence his reign will run.
Check the mic, make sure it's not a gun

M: Nuclear winter is chill boss
As your lawyer I need to tell you to lay off the pills boss put them ***** back in the pill box dude
all theology is toxic really and western ideology is very jesus-centric even though dude was basically just a fasting eccentric

Oops the mics been a glock this whole time and the safety broke long ago prolly round the time the patriarchy spoke up and plotted the embargos

P: Oh, well, I guess we gotta ditch the stolen cargo
Form something new and see hor far it goed
Don't be distracted by the hard blows, I mean, the blowhards
Look no further than your own hand to see if your success is in the cards.

**** WE NEED TO DO THIS EVERY DAY
WE'LL BE UNSTOpPABLE

I mean you're alread nine million miles ahead of my ***,
I've been cruisin in coach and blah blah first class
Similies and poetry are base to me
I want to talk about philosophy in non-interpretable terms make the common people squirm in their nikes
Only a capitalist society can bring true revoltion, but the truth is no one really wants it even the revolutionaries are scared of what change do they want enough trainers so they can change shoes and listen to the blues to feel like feeling is real when it's really just a memory of something unlearnable.

P: Hey Nike, he likes it
Oops, I blew it,
I meant Just Dew The Dew it.
Obey the corporate propaganda, don't see through to the blue skin dudes n ****.
Throw them Locs on

M: Someone ******* **** me already cause I can't do it by myself
Cause I don't do illegal ****, I keep my trophies on a shef
In the basement in a house that nobody but the bank owns
Let me get some dank loans so I can open up a bank, holmes

Don't burn me, I'm tryin earnestly to fix ****
I don't believe in magic but I believe in possibility
which I guess is really just the same thing as magic when you get down to it
I'm trying to draw a circle on a chalkboard and jump right through it
I went t the school of truant bibliophiles the curriculum:
wild the teachers were posters of feral beasts with logos and copyright laws
I bet Gandhi quotes are trademarked, you dumb Marxist

P: Holmes, like the detective, but people never give enough respect to the perspective of the Watson.
Just give me that watch son, and keep on walkin
Betta hope I got all that I want, son, and don't decide to shoot you in the back and split you open like a sidewalk crack that'll give your mom a spinal tap when you cross it.

All you hear is a cocked back gat and then a BOOM BOOM BAP like the bass drum got brought back to like 2011
While your soul decides if heaven is really worth it,
Then your spirit will snap back into your body like nothing ever hurt it.
Rebirth it.

M: Like D.C did that
I'm post P.C. syntax
I bet I'd be a great dad screaming **** WHITEY cause white people hate that.
But that was actually a bad move making white folks uncomfortable
Cause more than half them reverted back to their most basest racist tendencies like two fold
Like who really holds the reigns really,
The work force is the horse and I'm a philly
Green is the universal race. Do you feel me?

Greed is the color of your mother's eyes while she hears the news on the phone of how your brother died cause otherwise it's your corpse of course you knew this already.

Anyways whatever man it's all pretty whatever man
Just be nice to people cause it's just better man.

crafted when Wallace and Gromit
returned from their trip to the moon,
which I can prov-olone huck curd
(within Trump con feta ration) –
as cheesy poem crafted whey back
when the following Gouda eye idea
occurred while milking the cows.

Yea of course writing ideas unstoppably
burst asunder at the most inconvenient
opportunities such as driving Miss Daisy,
taking a shower, or using the bathroom.
Accursed ambition becoming a prolific
wordsmith (case in point Stephen King)
Woolworth riding, oddly lumbering
lackadaisical shoehorning out this
being from a self made gully. The jury
yet to decree if attempting to extricate

muss elf from tangled web of decades
old setbacks via literary output successful.
Every morning, noon and night, this chap
blunders, flounders, (like a phish out of water),
yet plod his shipshape reclusive quiet-natured
person along the boulevard of broken dreams.
Oft times, huff hind aye muss elf entering The
Dead Zone (bordering a Pet Sematary). Earlier,
a previous saunter found me surmounting
The Green Mile. Attendant in regard to these

Bag Of Bones, and Desperation to acquire
telephone contact with Cell phone quickens
pace despite Insomnia. No matter unexpected
Sleeping Beauties warrant kisses, my determination,
motivation, and slight trepidation occasionally breeds
(The Dark Half), doomsday facet deftly jackknifing lust.
Occasionally, a feeble goading simply under minds
any corporeal aim to restore endeavor to experience
Joyland. IT (creative juices within) spur meeting Rose
Red and her restorative powers. Onward atheistic

soldier goes this chap. No matter tipping point (vis
a vis hungry fatigued body clamors for Needful Things.
Revival (for food and sleep) frequently appears grim.
Downcast state of body, mind and spirit reinforced
by mirage. The Dark Tower looms ahead! Adjacent
to ominous evil looking structure silhouette casted
of a Black House. The initial ambition to ward off
abysmal results summon forth creative literary juices.
Simultaneously a migraine headache pounding pitted
courtesy spluttering, nauseating, and foaming LIX spittle.
They hammer horrifically, ferociously, and diabolically.

Shades of shad rock Under The Dome. Ma noggin
Aches like The Tommyknockers! Every attempt to locate
a royal crowning coeval counterpart jinxed with laborious
ill luck. Hell in a handbasket plight usually generates
nostalgia for destiny to Carrie be back to Old Virginny.
Sage advice from Christine, Delores Claiborne, or The
Colorado Kid, yours truly blithely heeded. As a result
(The Outsider within this paperback writer wannabe)
sports defeat written all over face. Concomitant figurative
futility gussies and kickstarts leaving invisible pockmarks.

Ordinary Dreamcatcher fate invariably finds aptly named
Writer Errs Block. Need to back track arises (figuratively)
along vista. The roads have no name. They command
stubborn respect. Near impossible mission manifested
To transcend mental hindrance. This more difficult than
playing Gerald's Game. Hence sigh embrace The Shining
opportunity to avoid Misery. Doctor Sleep would undoubtedly
encourage braving, challenging self confronting The Eyes
Of The Dragon. Such a risky pursuit could force facing pitbull
Cujo. No matter gamble foisted prospect fraught frightfully

being burned at the stake by a Firestarter. Voluntary action
brings small hairs to tingle. Hunchback, sans severely curved
spine straightens. This (The Stand) ding pose offered supreme
vision as promised by The Talisman. Tidbits by me alias
Mr. Mercedes carefully just in case The Girl Who Loved
Tom Gordon chanced to stumble upon this redoubt versus
her hours spent staring at a blinking cursor. Metaphorical
po' wet tick feet took me where they would into the Shining
and happy place called Willoughby located within the outer
limits of the twilight zone.