it was on a hill of a clever neighborhood
the errant flow well guised beneath the clay
upon reach of the summit
she is all that can be held
her pull far too magnetic
her skin, akin to milk poured by Luna
her hair is the black of midnight
on the eve of the new moon
she sits facing inquiry with her injured one facing her
on a rounded copper colored chair
placed curbside
Sophia speaks then
a monotone misgiving
that pours out
as a sly pompous
indifference

no, i don't need an outlet: talk to the public,
they tell you you're
either a well guised political machine,
a psychiatrist,
           or an oddity: come October time
propheteering rather than profiteering;
your choice, not mine:
   i look at poetry like
a plumber might look at a toilet:
go in and get the francophone out!
    so pardoning the French
is lost, as casual phrasing goes, woop,
  away away Superman included.

oh right, you might think i'm spelling
something Evangelical,
sure, i hope you do or d.p. as in
do please,
           what with the cool of Wall St.
sprechen d.l. (down low);
i had a few scribbled notes,
yes, Yanky, my laptop broke down
and i'm reduced to pen & paper
         like handcock & *******,
easy does the ****** of loser vill
           (can we drop the e
for the sake of autocorrect being right
when the big words matter? thanks) -
Platonism is plainly Thespian,
             Platonic thought is a Thespian
"espionage", get used to it,
you haven't matured into Aristotelian
         autism: you still want to act,
to puppeteer that shadows of people
without ever *being the people,
don't take it as if it's supposed to be unlikely:
there's a boss around every corner:
whether you get paid or don't, which is fun,
because you state an authority but
still only play the cameo.
      reminiscent guise literature
of rewatching that t.v. phenomenon
that's billions -
             oh sure, t.v. these days overshadows
cinema, cinema is worth jack-****,
it's poverty is intrinsic in forming ideas
or reversed "Latin" grammar  idea-fermentation,
i said English loves to hyphenate
two kindred words,
    like that ego theory
             with the Germanic self-theorising,
self-enabling, self-interest, self-haemorrhaging
  gusto of the capital -
    what a way to finish, i as a prefix
toward robotic modula.

(i write pending, but ensure the enso,
            or Swahili wasabi sting of
green horseradish,
       same so, i live dangerously, or pretty
much on the sly,
           if i tell the taxpayers
  they're getting their money's worth
i'll bound to see a third runway at Heathrow:
got my nose in an Alsatians' buttocks mind you).

so...

i was going to end with it, but i'm afraid i must
begin with it, page entitled

a. a rebellion from the top?
    or right, it only comes from the bottom,
the guillotine and all,
  but never the despotic cupcake for an Antoinette,
right? wrong!
                coming from a worker's background,
i'd been happy doing the ******* roofs of
the Tate Gallery among other examples,
but i was educated as a chemist,
  and, i was told, you need toothpaste, or
am i wrong in that assumption?
     picture it thus:
a son of a roofer is real smart,
      goes to Edinburgh, gets his money's worth
in terms of tuition, over 30 hours year three
of his chemistry degree, when things were still
decent, ~£1,250 a year (one thousand two hundred
and fifty pounds): with words like that
you might sketch Dante and Donatello and
the Italian Renaissance in terms of clapping the ****
away at the gesture...
     but no, it was like that, study chemistry
and you get your money's worth in terms of tuition,
so how the **** did i descend from the "high" tier
of the sciences into the murk of poetry
and humanism?
       history of science and David Hume:
black swans to mind, also.
                          but the other kid in question
was a son of a doctor / radiologist,
and this talk of rebellion from the top?
he couldn't stomach a shifting hierarchy,
he couldn't stomach social progress,
     had i or hadn't i invested my pleasure
time in reading philosophy is no one's business,
had i made a professional wage from it,
sure, but i wasn't intending to do so:
      what's your favourite colour sort of
question and whether truant of the zeitgeist:
the ******* guillotine, mate!
            i just can't perpetuate this loaf of wording,
but it's necessary:
    of jealousy so corrosive, of jealousy so lined
with lice, only then a god is spawned -
           the person in question?
a skiving belittling camel jockey -
and that's me being polite...
       you can almost become auto-suggestive
of needing to cite: what Abel did next when
the roaring Milton God subsided and
     wanked a crucifix that later became 2000 years of
history: or in the making.

i can be a pompous and bombastic parrot
          that cites Polly this, Polly that,
but i can speak to a scaffolder and laugh: with him,
and not, at him...
                 because i know my bombastic mr. fantastic
behaviour about spending aeons in a library
   rather than sniffing bullseyes and ****
        is made to be the fo' sho' lingua rapper tinder
of something or other that doesn't require me
to foolishly date...
                         **** it, cheaper at the brothel.

...........................

                        oh­ i'm just getting started, hence
the title with (penting) in it: no, not really mr. tough-guy,
just a **** break and a smoke and all that's
necessary in terms of transparency, begging to
be revealed in all forms of literary composition...
  
let's just say: a new interpretation of the paragraph,
     for me reading books, a paragraph means Sunday,
1905... because of the constipation and what-not,
   a comma makes me feel like i need a pause to
hiccup or sneeze,
       a full-dot is never a full-dot unless it's a full-dot
and then it's a definite article of end, rather than
the intermediate an end: let's start over, once again;
       but when have you actually experienced
a Macgyver of what's otherwise a "work in progress"?
answer? never!
               you never have: you had to become
censored by publishers and editors for everything to
look the end-product squeaky-clean!
                   unless published posthumously...
and then... you might already be dead:
you never got to see a work in progress...
   and believe me, i have 8 pages worth of notes to
encode into something that's not
that fable about a boy waking up Barbarossa
from slumber and upon seeing crows
shouting: messerschmitt! messerschmitt! messerschmitt!
well, a diet of hanzel und gretyl will do that
to you, you get a fetish like Shpielberg and direct
the Indiana Jones franchise...
                       funny little me, "phony" Englishman
speaking a piquant variation of Essex banter,
8 years in Poland and of memories i speak of the fondest
in my life, and 22 years in this rotting *******...
                    i feel less organic, more inorganic,
i.e. metallic,
       it's like my insides were hollowed out
and i was faking that i am actually being -
   weird sensation, ask any displaced individual when
they have the organism of a Slavic, but a soul
of a German... feels, ******* weird...
                        i mean, Nietzsche and that complement
that the Poles are the French in the ethnic category?
what are the English in the Slav category then?
                          most likely Ukrainian.
i dare you to find a philosopher with a similar dilemma,
i dare you: in light of how this whole
gaining of fame works, not one wrote about
being displaced... well... unless you're talking about
Moses -

                (haven't even started, i need a drink).

there was no social tract anyway!
    to be forced into accepting insemination
        when the forward wording was:
       "i'm talking counter-contraceptive
measures" & 'i want you to *** in me'.
                 ditto encapsulating quote
for ambiguity, the otherwise: real life.
       is my ***** worth more than me?
have i not transcended a weak bladder / **** muscles?
       a pseudo-humanity, intrinsic in man
but not not in beast?
                    i call upon a reversal of what's
a staging of ****, or money grubbing -
                with a woman's twist of the Grimm tale:
as she said: i want this man,
              i will impose a moral grounding / battlefield,
judgement on him! entrapment!
and there's me apologising for the "****" / so-called,
in a fully-consenting intimacy:
   well, *****, why don't you? another Beethoven
is waiting? who's the whopper feminist these days?!
               me? you?! hardly you!
   i consented to a full intimacy,
        is ***** a foetus?
tissue would know,
    or a twisted fetish for ****** cream
advertisement in ****, huh?
              sure, my socks smell, but so does
your moral instinct.
                        the difference is that that i get to
say airy, while you get to say fairy.
                         it really takes a man respecting
a woman's freedom: i seriously thought you
were advocating the right to abort
as you might avert ****...
    sure: i'm sorry i inseminated you,
can you please treat it as a tear-jerker experience
of a rom-com that's actually a transvestite-rom
  and needs 50 years to ferment for the earthquakes
and heartaches and cha cha attacks?
              to me it's an apron needing a wash,
to you it a ******* moral dilemma needing
a ******'s rights to not father a child and you
needing your body to unnecessarily incubate it
so you get the Catholic nod... bonkers!
    yes, i impregnated a girl, at university:
i avoided white trash at school, sorry, but it's true,
i liked reading... let me stress that: i liked reading,
      or bold if italics and colon Gemini be antiquity...
she lacked the character judgements,
the 'why he didn't stay' method statement...
she called my friend and study buddy a troll
based on her aesthetic tastes...
          i could have had a family now, and all
the responsibilities, it just didn't fit into
a replica of Cleopatra and Anthony *******
when they honestly didn't have ******* to claim
as their own...
          jeez (replica of the hand-written transcript) -
writing this on pen + paper is like *******
a **** for reach a champagne fizz of ******
for an hour - thank you keyboard and the digital
pixel off blank: ******* is less painful
than writing with that oddity that's handwriting).
there was no social contract anyway!
     it's not like i was married, there's
no unwanted child joke in this: i do find abortion
abhorrent within a social contract, a marriage,
but outside of marriage? are you ******* kidding me?!
you an Irish priest or something?
       there was no social contract,
did i sign a social contract akin to marriage?
      am i in this for the shambles?
of course i didn't get married,
there was no +ring,
                     sure abortion is abhorrent,
but under a social contract,
  without a social contract (marriage)
i,    had,    no,         obligation.
      what, in order to practice a variation of Islam
on a woman's whim?
    *******.
                     plus i had the gross indecency
gay men have with surrogate mother prostitution;
oh wait, it isn't that? my bad.
            i always had a nicety divisiveness for
incubators... a 9 month ****, with dividends...
        really: feminism can **** itself!
because aren't we at a stage of rhetorically counter-validating
what we abhor in certain Asian communities?
oh sure, the patriarchs are gone,
forced marriages are gone too...
          but didn't i just describe a case
of forced marriage, where a western girl is given
all the powers to reign over a young man
as any despot might over a worker
so he can "think" and drink cocktails and
chuckle over his position between cocktails?
      
  i said abortion, yes, i didn't like the girl's aesthetic,
and you know what? that thing you call abortion,
apart from the fact that the foetus has no soul
the baby neither: not until the diaper is off...
to learn to strain the muscles outside the womb:
you really forgot that the implant of soul
or the later disputed notion of god
is only implantable once the memory kicks into
gear...
               only when you start to remember
is the human person born:
   beyond that it's still nature's brutalist lottery...
maybe a Beethoven might have been born,p
but who cares? we already have a Beethoven!
it's avoiding consented ****:
that's feminism and 9 months spared
the continuation of endured affair / "relationship",
i seriously thought that's what women
were campaigning for... obviously it's counter!
   i claim soul outside of a woman's body:
when the ****** thing passes the diaper gym
and learns to automate the bladder and the ****...
then i say: worthy an implant of a soul...
or chauvinistically that's counter and double-****
of 9 months and Bach with his 14 children,
and the Borgia Popes...
          but at least we have the surrogate "mothers"
and that pretty Disney scenario of two gay dads
to fictionalise into watchable Platonic cavemen
when the eyes aren't glued to the 2D.
why do you think such thoughts ferment in
the heterosexual imagining of actuality?
                your utopian counter-clockwise
has already extended into China being the only
provable state of physical activity...
    and the western zoo of mental philosophical
build-up-detachment? your mental health
scenario only suggests you created acid professions...
at least the physical "antiquity" of China
is compensated by a universal shortcoming:
death and mortality...
you created acid-baths: sport and completely mental
professions: YOU'RE SICK!
     honestly!
     people used to enjoy physical professions,
and the essence of such professions?
no immediate competitiveness!
         you replaced physical professions
with sports!
                  and compensated the need for
physical hands-on with the ****** gym!
no wonder you countered-Darwinism while
adapting the need to advertise it
            and made so many young people
mentally ill...
      because your whole mental estrangement
is the sauce or a broth that's currently on the boil!

Preface:
Even old poets can forget new tricks,
So when toe stubbed and ah ha benedicted,
Causes you to remember what you once knew,
It feels even better, like being crazy
Once in awhile,
Or wearing an untrimmed chest Jason smile.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Eons ago converted to a new religion,
The Church of Free Verse.

If life be variable,
Usually unrhymed
A pencil sketch of crisscrossed lines,
No fixed metrical pattern assigned,
Than even more so, my poetry.

Once I regretted that the children,
Crack addicted to rhyming,^
Used nickel bags and ******* lines
At the starting gate where all
Our associative poetry journey begins.

Perhaps, a tad arrogant, that diktat,
Nonetheless, unashamedly, nothing to recant.
Words have utility creative, souls innovative,
Free them guised as global explorers,
Make them up, then unleash them
Upon us, yourself, as detectives investigative.

Unchained myself like Houdini,
From water chambers and locks constraini.
What care I for poetic rules and regulations,^^
Got so many points, they tried to suspend
My government-issued poetic license.

Had myself forgot,
That a poem needs a
Frame of jungle gym sounds,
An aural aura resonance unbound.
Purposed to make the heart lift
Your ears say:

Say what!

It needs a tune,
An internal music,
It needs a lilt!
A cadence, that both
Marches and swings,
Even when'd urgent dirge
grief pours forth.

Yes my darling young ones,
Your writ of screams, like Bob Dylan's occasional schemes,
Celebrations of agonized lives of the criminally-pained,
Songs and cants of victims, love-cancer stained,
Require a whining, singsong beat.

{Poems so rad-sad that it makes this Jew
Genuflect and crisscross himself,
That he was blessed with a few good happy years,
In his reincarnated life of
A few centuries long.}

Learn 'em to sing their cries,
Harmonize the internality of love,
Or, even the infernal loss and lack thereof,
For it is the lilt
That makes, transforms a cry into a
Poem.

Even I on death's last stairway step,
When was called by the name of
Nate Hale,
My dying poem lilted, lifted and metered
"I only regret,
that I have
but one life,
to lose,
for my country."

Now you're thinking he is lost it all,
But you would be incorrect for sure.

He found it.

The lilt of life that makes him rise
And greet each morn,
Even some sorry starless nights
With a First Poem of the Day.

I lilt you, one and all.
If you think this mis-wrote,
My auto correct mentally broke,
Meant to type I love you,
You'd be
Right but wrong,
I just lilt you.

.i'm sorry, but i've looked at english grammar for far too long, to buy into the current *******... i just came from behind the iron curtain, i'm not about to go into "hiding" under a silicon curtain... valley my ***, silicon curtain, the end. gender, "neutral" pronouns? pronouns can't be "neutral", neutered... neuter via plural? they being a non-descriptive associated of both a he and a she? ****... most languages can't escape gender-inclusivity of their nouns... for example, names of cities... now you can have gender neutral nouns, i'll concede that... London: gender neutral... Paris: gender neutral... and then of course the more universal nouns in English, predicated by either a definite or an indefinite article: making gender-ascription to nouns even harder... because that's how the english language operates: something is either definite, or it's indefinite... all the continent languages, however, ascribe genders to their nouns... either masculine or feminine, or whatever... is this some sort of quasi-anglophone envy of continent languages? say, in my nativspreschen... słońce (the sun) is feminine... księżyc (the moon) is masculine... Warszawa (Warsaw) is feminine... Niemcy (Germany) is actually gender neutral, in that it refers to a people... Rosja (Russian) is feminine... Anglia (England) is feminine... there is noun-ambiguity regarding "gender" in continental languages... which the English language lacks: due to the definite / indefinite articulation via (a- -the      "ism")... pronoun gender "neutrality" never existed... because... gender-appropriation of nouns was never on the cards in this language... and never will be... come on... you really don't need some foreigner to tell you the basics of your own tongue... i hate to even associate myself with such pieces as are provided in the form of the "useful idiots"... i hate it... it's like asking to fiddle about with a down syndrome competitor at a su doku olympics... it's not fair!

i only really had two loves in my life... Paris, circa 2005 and Edinburgh circa in the range of 2004 through to 2007... those really were my only true loves... London? London just grew on me, esp. the east end... i became infected with its heterogeneity, so much so, that whenever i visit my grandparents, in the most feral of lands, Poland... and peer into its homogeneity, i am fed a staggering amount of nausea... sure, once in a while you'll spot a Roma in these parts, handling cheap chinese goods at the market, but otherwise? and... given, that i'm a first generation expatriate (eh, eh? i know what the natives call their own, "elsewhere", akin to h'america or australia)...

                 the girlfriends? eh... two, three, more prostitutes...
whoever these middle-aged men are, talking m.g.t.o.w., after two failed marriages... i was already on my way, aged 21... sure, it was fun for the first few years... i remember the tingling sensation of holding my first girlfriend's hand while watching romeo + juliet in her father's presence... that **** was cool... it's still so vivid to me... again: slandering women is not cool... i remember these girlfriends with a fondness... i don't want the anchor of bitterness to put me in one place... fondness is all the wind in the sails you will ever need to sail along... and... em... stealing one or two kisses from prostitutes... that's all...

                      the last one i left? 21... she married...
she remarried...
            and she ****** quiet a bit in between...
last time i visisted her out of a weird sense of obligation...
hand... slashed down their veins...
             i stayed for about four days...
   over a period of two nights i slept with the window
open, with my clothes on...
third night i took my clothes off...
                i inquired...
           she was waking up each morning with
a jug of coffee and turned into:
   less a masters in anthropology...
and more the russian gamer chick...
                     one night she called up her
sycophants...
               we smoked...
                     her husband wasn't home...
"then", her, "still"(?) huspand?
                   but her boyfriend was there...
i was sitting akimbo and talking to this guy...
and he told me how he ******:
my would be fiancé...
                           well... i just broke down
into the most amazing laughter...
   a laughter that put me to sleep,
a laughter that made all the people leave,
and i was left with her, alone,
in a room...
              she was still playing a video game...
while i got up and rolled another joint...
but the whole joke comes at the fact that:
i, i was the person who was always dumped...
ilona, promis, isabella...
                           they all dumped me...
but... what, a, *******, relief!
               maybe that's why i came to terms
with myself, maybe that's why
drinking in ms. amber's company
is such a joyous treat...
                 unlike most drunks...
esp. women: i do not wallow in grief,
or for that matter... hold any grievances...
all that has happened,
   has, happened, in order that i might find:
release, and in finding my release...
relief!

                            i had to mention these
scenarios... i remember the last words ilona
said to me: blah blah... by doing x
as you've continued to displease me...
blah blah... you'll never become a man!
                    true...
                                ­ who the **** want's
to be an ahston court trained poodle?!
   what, enough ***** to keep the economy
going?
        everyone knows that women
are the crown of capitalism...
                     no woman, no crown, no capitalism...
it's not even socialism at this point,
or anarchy... it's... eh... m'eh?
                                 why do only fools and horses
marry?
          ****, if there was a swan ontology
built into man? maybe... after all...
                    there is such a phenomenon
(more like a noumenon) of the widow swan,
or a widower swan...
      it's as if the animal has lost its
physical union, and transitioned into
a metaphysical union, beside the body...
   a realm of perpetuated memory,
   awaiting transcendence...
         now... i believe there's a godhead for
all things in this world...
there's the godhead of swans,
   as there is the godhead of all the other creatures...
which: gushes out ontological cueues...
pointers...
                    after all, i already said what
my two true loves were...

        Paris and Edinburgh...
                   i remember the first time i arrived
in Paris...
when i reached 3 Ducks hostel in Paris,
the guy in charge, was surprised,
that i managed to walk,
   all the way from where the drop-off was
for people arriving from the airport
by coach, some 40+ miles from Paris itself...
i walked... i breathed... i was amazed
at the Eiffel Tower...
   most people just took the underground...
plus i had a really ****** map...
didn't speak the language...
                    but that year... circa 2005... Paris...
      that was...
                          something else...
or Edinburgh, circa 2004...
                    thank god i didn't apply
to Warwick university...
      campus university *******...
         Bristol? eh... the city didn't appeal
to me...
                   Edinburgh... that's something
else...
                    even Venice is more or less:
passable...
                      
              mind you... what's this current
transgender debate about men thinking they're
women, competing in women's sports?
today i saw the perfect example
of a decent woman's sport...
  tennis... haleb vs. linette...
       **** on me, what a match...
no. 3 seed versus no. 87 in world ranking...
                          i prefer women's tennis...
with male tennis its all about
the service game: "****" advantage...
but at least in woman's tennis,
   you get longer rallies...
   and the antithesis of what an ****** sounds
like... and all that show of legs...
it's beautiful...
       beside... this "new" transgender "thing",
that **** is old...
     i always confuse the two...
     DDR...                        FDR...
Deutsche Demokratische Republik...
          Federal Republic of Germany...
   so, yeah... the former... DDR...
                 and i've heard this many times...
the same happened back then,
at the olympic games...
                          it's a joke now...
  but women from the DDR were given hormones...
to make them more masculine...
           only that... it was real chemistry
working on real biology...
   women, were given male hormones...
and competed with other females...
          now?
                      em... what if these "women",
want to compete with women...
       and can do so... if given female hormones,
added with a cocktail of male hormone
blockers?!
         the whole olympic circus is already
rigged with chemistry...
**** it: ***** all of them!
                   may the best chemist win!
**** it, jack 'em up! give each and everyone
of them the best juice!
swear to god,
   all the female atheletes back in the days
of DDR were given some hormonal++ juice...
maybe a mix of amphetamines and
        steroids...
       so... if these "women" want to
compete with women?
                     shouldn't they be given...
say... the realistic dosage of hormones...
         a body of a natural woman creates?!

****, in a time when a bilingual is deemed
a schizophrenic... because he's not a polyglot...
of course the trans movement was always going
to undermine women...
     that's why i decided, aged 21...
no... you know what?
                        i don't like stress...
              loved you, but thank god i left you...
Paris and Edinburgh became my two true loves...
and... given they're cities...
they are as intricate as any person might be...
so... not to be demeaning...
                  but a cat and mouse game...
and then being dumped...
                               i settled for the next best
thing... once a year... ****... once every five years...
if there's any Jack the Ripper urge "lurking"
in me...
                         just visit a brothel
to check your body temp. against another
body, and see if you can share the same pulse.

but as you might have already guessed,
this was the original draft:

tattooing an impermant
mark on the left arm:

    h-
              (e)
         -a-
     (lef)
                -y
                       (od)

what yah /          
יאח‎          demands...

ה‎ (he) + א‎ (alef),
   and   ח‎ (het) + ע (ayin) -

i.e. the tetragrammaton
squared -
  laughter of the interchange.         ע

p.s. i still don't
see how Adam conceived of
Abel, or Cain...
   how a-lef or a-yin is a consonant,
transcendent...
given the hebrew ah is:
guised in the name kametz...

i see a story of two Adams...
and i called them,
Aleph                  and Ayin.

if god is dead,
then poetry is nought: but suicide.

could it be the evermore question, a year from now
the same autumn will rinse the lands of once budding colour,
and stretch, as the eye can see, the witry skeletons,
where once the birds nested their young in bulbs of harvested
twigs  bundled up? for what if the wintry tree, if not
the last remnants of the airs of spring,
a lizardly womb of flight...
   so the paupers of Rome argue
about the benefits of monogamy,
as they might about monotheism...
and they say monogamy is not "natural",
but what is? why take the burden of
a widower swan, why extract monogamy from
swans and later find the harem of monkeys?
and then simply say: it be unnatural... why?
we were never gracious enough to mirror
swans, hence the brothers Grimm and the
ugly duckling mistook...
        oh wagers of the translated Graeae
of Scotland, where it Hamlet on the couch,
or where it Macbeth?
what matters is how populist media makes
a franchise of a form of athletics that cannot bed
a guised look of despondency -
      puritan saxon conference on sexuality
that gone beyond the ******* use:
***** therefore thinking,
            flaccid therefore not thinking...
you can utilise language to a point where mathematical
certainty is given, as is the missing blemish of
woad... no wonder the Saxon maidens
    retain their virginity at home,
but treat themselves for a nibble of the Magdalene
on the isle of Malaga... puritanism disintegrates
2 weeks in...
                   and still they bemoan,
if they have been growing more and more depressed
since the second world war...
                why allow them to create this viral infection
that's like a virus ingested by unsuspecting
       victims... are they not the ones
prescribing premature depression since they
heaved no foetus in their womb?
          and having done so, are clear of the command:
remove that alien **** from me!
   aren't they?
       if god is dead... all those who write poetry
have committed suicide...
           i once made a lament statement:
given that god is dead, then so is poetry,
i don't which is more lamentable...
but i'm sure to spot a few more eager-beavers of
kneeling and prayer than i'm to see poets...
and can i return to the heights having sunk so low?
      evidently i didn't sulk on my way down,
could poetry ever be tamed with no populist
acrimony? no *auld lang syne?
      i doubt it...              i very much doubt
a care for anything else sing-along astute than that,
for all i can compete with, is, some sort
of individual... a shadowy statuette...
         it's what's called the reverse of having a heart
for the cardiologist, a brain for the neurosurgeon,
a pathology for the psychiatrists,
  an ambition for the philosopher (mistook them
as humanists you have, for those that are simply
relegated from the realms of language by linguists) -
  for the oncologist that's hardly an ontologist....
swans epitome monogamy with the widower...
apes are Islam with the harem...
          and they say gods do not exist...
but if one sees no god, how is one to replica
a god's existence, if man borrows from the purest
sense of plagiarism that hides no legal documents
enforcing a slack on plagiarism, namely that of anima /
animal? man cannot grasp a concept of god
by sacrificing himself on the altar of imitable animal...
swans have their monogamy... man too presumptuous
also chose swans as the guiding beacon...
softened core, a mongrel of mammal and lizard
that the birds became... furry but borne from
a cracking of the eggshell... man too presumptuous...
he looked elsewhere to no visionary guide since
Narcissus: for mythology is the guiding hand of
new poetry, should god be indeed dead, and poetry
akin to that statement be merely suicide...
then at least mythology is equivalent of history
for poetry... at least there is a logic involved..
   for assuredly should god be dead,
and chlorophyll as pointless as the logic of bio:
be that of life outside one's own graphic or within
one's graphic... should life be nothing more
than the tactless usurping of history that is merely
a blank hole between the omni toward a speciem,
then why have we bothered recording history?
of all scientific theories, of all that rampantly
degrade all human dignity, why create a despotism
within science, that constantly repeats itself
to be overvalued, for reasons that suggests:
en masse applicability due to its pictorial invigoration
for a cruising simplicity? i gather this be a reason
for the emergence of technophobes, or men equipped
to war armed with nothing but sticks!
it's one thing to popularise an idea, later morphed
into a theory, then morphed into an ideology
(an idea that recurs persistently and has no
theoretical basis to not succumb to its theoretical
premise of becoming dodo - the theory of evolution
doesn't take into context the notion that it too can
become extinct... surpassed by something more
invigorating)... later morphed into a shiva
construct that destroys itself...
          we've seen 20th century's pinnacle of this
idea... we've seen eugenics emerge from a pristine
monkish background that said: how best
to economise the case of: the accurate *****-count...
is Darwinism the zenith of invigorating man?
              i find it's too arrogant to even imagine
a square tilting into a rhombus...
       suggesting a rectangle...
       but the days of roaming the Savannah are long gone
and past us... the dependency on oil and gas
and central heating has created a prison-like Akeley...
from what we've inherited, toward what we can
expect, or with suspicion: demand.
            and to think having begun erasing history,
and to think, having erased history of what's noteworthy,
we turned the slapped cheek into a cubist abstraction:
it seems pointless naming pubs after Charlemagne
(shar-le-maine) let alone singing about them...
let's all celebrate running ****-naked on a Kenyan
plateau... and rather than dealing with the past
on a poetic scale... rather: on a literalist scaling of things...
it's almost like biblical literalism kinetics....
     in either case: everyday poetry dies...
or as the case is minded to refresh the argument:
    with the death of god, poetry committed suicide...
i don't know which is the more tragic evidence
of what language has become...
                     this doesn't even invoke an analysis
of the marketplace use of language that politics is...
god forbid it should ever come to that...
  aren't we supposed to feel something otherworldly
at some point in our lives?
                     it's not that i can't rationalise my existence
into this world alone... and feel all the contentment
i need by mere concern for thought trickling into my
being within it...
            it's just that i can't rationalise my existence within
this world alone, based upon a hierarchical
          symptom... much akin to Guy "Lucifer" Fawkes
tried to state by blowing the houses of parliament...
which doesn't suggest a need for a celestial conjuring
of dictator... man has already encouraged that
with English 24/7 c.c.t.v.,
                                                   and as might be suggested...
the point you reach when catching yourself trying
to persuade or enforce a point...
         that lacks all emotive sensitivity hoping for
a romantic excavation invoking the zeitgeist of the times...
neo-romantics are on the rise...
                            we do live in a time of neo-romanticism,
as a few might have suggested: globalisation's
and the audaciousness of militant Islam's offspring:
lying dormant, like a speech by Pope Urban II:
     it just lay there, under a fog of submerged Calvinism
and secular sensibility... waiting patiently
        till the nibbling stopped and it had a chance
to counter... it truly was a case of Damocles' seconds...
tick-tock, tick-tock... and thus the guillotine dropped;
you could feel the carcass stench in the air
         or what cultural-marxisim would make of
an economy that attacked its own economic model...
  it would be deemed dead economically,
but culturally? resurgent...
         you could sniff it out in the air, that rotting
carcass menu: providing a wake of vultures,
                                  or a comedy house of hyenas.

A lot can happen over a cup of coffee.

Her eyes twinkling like the stars in the night sky,
But he loves the way she takes a sip of her over-priced latte,
He wonder why he's infatuated with those undone maroon flocks,
No surprise, Linda's outgoing personality matches her lovely voice,
Laughter comes easy with her,
She tells her stories about life and lies,
But he's lost in those beautiful hands,
As he pledged his love that spring.

A lot can happen over a cup of coffee.

A tender touch
Her intimidating tone,
Brimmed my eyes with guilt,
As I confessed my past sins to my only friend.
'Wanting to know all', I finally started,
' I overlooked each particle, containing the whole unknowable.'
she looks into my eyes,confused.
I carry on,
'I missed love's everywhere,
Small presence, thousand-guised.
For I could not differentiate between what was wrong and what was right,
Forgive me, forgiver.'
I heard the trust break louder than the shatter of her favorite coffee mug against the floor.
' I want to know all' she said
And I finally opened.

A lot can happen over a cup of coffee.

Mind numb,
Heart dumb,
Treated like dirt,
Taken out for a cup of coffee,
With free humiliation.
Feeling so fragile and helpless,
Hiding behind his own shadow,
A single, rebel tear rolls down his eyes,
Then a revolution of them cascading down,
His face is time-chiseled and weather beaten,
Seem a bit spiritless,
As if life and old age are getting better of him,
He still wears that moth-eaten coat carrying a smell of blueberries his wife used to love.
Taken out for a cup of coffee,
An element for show off,
'Look how much I love my uncle!'
But the truth lies in those contorted fingers.

A lot can happen over a cup of coffee.

'Come my baby girl!
Let's celebrate!'
Such words coming out of a man so precious to her soul,
'But something's missing',
She says with long lost courage,
'Daddy I've regretted all the pain,
I'm exhausted now from all my thoughts,
Science is not what I desire,
My heart lives in free spirit.'
Daddy's eyes didn't blink for 20 seconds,
A portrait of a man having a cribbed Abe Lincoln beard,
The daughter is ready for rejection,
But he's thinking about all the cards she gifted " my papa, my hero",
Deciding it's time to show.

I don't know what was so special about that coffee shop.

i'm still working from an example of two words,
lekki and leki (medicine / pills) -
the former better sharpened means
slight, e.g. lekki problem /
a slight problem -
  and because English as a language
does not apply gentrification of words,
quiet like the French where words are either
masculine, feminine or asexual... you get
the 2nd St. Paul in the unearthed
book of St. Thomas...
    you have the transgender movement,
only because there is no gentrification
of words...
                 it's no wonder the Pharisees
were ******* at the idea of fishermen gaining
the ability to write, given the times of 32 a.d.,
and how they were good strong lads,
and how learning phonetic encoding
they had their sphere of dream capacity
stolen from them...
for it would be foolish to think that
He'h-Zeus didn't plan a rebellion from
the bottom, taking those happily engrossed
in a world of labour, attached to
a world of labour and ultimately the highest
health without the learned parasitic counter,
you don't keep a monopoly on something
and expect no reaction... you don't expect
start believing that illiteracy is an ill...
only when you sentence people who are
keen to do physical assemblages while being
taught literacy do you finally get confusing,
people stop being attached to the world,
they stop dreaming, their dreams are uneventful,
there is no escapism for them,
  they start to daydream and do a ******
job on their manual labour...
                      apart from that i'm not surprised
that Christianity sorta unravelled itself
for critique once the nag hammadi
library was discovered in Egypt, and
the historian Josephus wrote of a false prophet
from Egypt...    
         needless to say the νεw τεσταμεντ (yep,
greeks don't know how to woo or say it's small
in scottish, as in wee) - is all greek...
actually, if i remember correctly, two Greeks came
across He'h-Zeus back when the preaching was done...
        sons of thunder: you'd imagine a lesser
case for hot-air balloons... sons of lightning would
have been better appropriated... lightning wit, e.g.,
but no: bombastically thunderous in their preachings...
not too quick on the thought behind
   the empty stomach gurgling in the sky....
but that's beside the point, the one single most reliable
suggestion of embedded idiosyncrasy in a language
is the enforced stutter in Polish...
   i'm sure no one bothered to tell you this,
i mean, Polish, on the global scale that's probably worth
as much as Dutch or Norwegian, or Flemish,
which is why these nations speak better English
than the English... don't take my word for it,
all the history teachers on a trip to Ypres said just
as much... so, let's imagine it differently...
there's a country in Africa by the word of Niger...
a republic more or less...
        how do i understand these two strands of politics?
a republic invokes a sense of
               wizened old men with enough experience
in life who know better, not necessarily seline,
just ready to make a wise decision...
a democracy? bunch of kids running around...
          experimenting with new ideas,
under the motto: what doesn't work, works anyway†;
whatever's faulty, to the majority will be deemed
faultless.
   †because it works for the majority:
it's just a case of quality control... as long as 99 of a 100
people agree, the 1 person involved will become
a burden, either by actually being a burden,
or being an antagonist.
   still... there's a stutter in the Polish language,
it's not exactly popular in wording,
lekki is one example - miękki is another,
meaning soft... it truly is a phenomenon in its own right...
    so where does Niger leave us?
  well, it leaves us encircled by Algeria,
     Libya, Mali, Chad, Nigeria, Benin and Burkina...
i'll post the non-stutter version: for the time is nigh
(yeah, soon, upon us) into the Kabbalistic corridor
    on the g-O-d clock... Egyptian propaganda from
forlorn yore... you sorta see the two interchanging...
or how i discovered that Hebrew hide vowels...
apart from the two Adams (א & ע) - ayin und aleφ...
central to a monotheistic practice of the hijab...
hiding women... obviously the other extreme
is what He'h-Zeus prescribed the gentile women of
the Roman and then later northern barbarian caste...
it was just a question of time before someone
would bypass the νεw τεσταμεντ
     and ask the right questions, and get the right
answers... and say: Malachi's heresy of polytheism
guised in the reincarnation of Elijah...
non-compatible with monotheism...
                                             one of each demanded example.
so like that Polish stutter in certain words...
  people will not even begin to conceive certain
arguments for the existence / non-existence of
     if their vocabulary is constantly scrutinised...
              head north of London and you'll find the
word vermin being ascribed to someone like me?
  what do i do? well i certainly don't create a media
frenzy... given that Niger is actually an African country...
      but it's said: nigh-ger              rather than
    knee-ger.       what's the big deal?
        it stems from Latin negrus, is that worse
than south papa africān blap? i'm going to start
saying that from now on: black blah, black blah
                                              blah blah blah:
yapping in yiddish - mouths that never breath
and yap and yap: ye'h ******, al' ma homies...
whatever that means... champagne at the ritz...
   hanging from a crystal chandelier....
must be French: char shade and chandelier,
                    sipping a shandy, chopping, shooting,
      chrome... the ****? where's the consistency?
  chromatic, chromosome, can you even begin
to comprehend what sort of memory bank you need
to have to learn an English accent?
  you have to remember all these beauty spots...
and all because English is a language that has
an aesthetic that rejected diacritical application...
   and ensured that enough monopoly on literacy
could be furthered in the modern age,
when a plumber is able to write his name,
    as an Earl of Gloucester might... which would
have been untrue 600 years ago.

even wording an intellectual debate
focusing on the word: warrior,
is, to me, something of a ****-in-your-underwear
and then swing it around like a missile
and hope that the other monkey is dead...

what do i find in terms of persistent Darwinism?
media akin to Groundhog day replication,
a distrust of media and politics
doesn't go anywhere akin to El Dorado,
it goes to areas of grey and thistles, and weeds,
and trying to defend a political system
that monopolises on the media? e.g. Iraq.

what's the modern trait of the **** sapiens?
he's not intimidated by the advertisement
industry to spend, he saves his buck...
modern **** sapiens feels no regret at not
having the chance to procreate with neanderthal
women who shout rather than moan,
modern **** sapiens isn't wooed by the ooh's and
the ah's of a modern public audience,
modern **** sapiens man isn't ready to turn
women into butchers in Afghanistan,
or what Sappho called: butch, butch, butchy, butch-butch,
      target practice for the *****:
   now your chance to shoot a machinegun.

the **** sapiens doesn't get the Coliseum,
in whatever shape or form as the modern solution
to what would otherwise be: watching paint dry,
    there's no football Sunday over brunch to
holler and cheer and get things done.

the **** sapiens man will not mate with a neanderthal
woman of these times... he has no need to lose
his integrity to mate with these over-sexualised creatures...
modern **** sapiens lives in a time when
science has lost its mojo,
and became arrogant like a chef cooking up
Sicilian pasta in Chuckle Street...
   modern **** sapiens man does not grace procreating
with the mannequins of neanderthal women...
oversexualised and almost Somali in caricature,
which is hardly 5 brats running around for the stately
                 feeding...

modern **** sapiens isn't interested in how offensive you
sound, or how uninteresting you actually are,
the 26 digits on your tongue will never quill a
woodpecker readied for carpentry...
you have physicists for that and that ancient gauge
of sclera iris and pupil: which kinda looks
like clouds, green, brown, blue, grey,
              pupil and to whatever necessary telescope
for the constellations / twinkle in the eye...

     the modern **** sapiens doesn't want to procreate
with modern neanderthal women because
he thinks his feces will smell of mustard...
          he's ashamed about the way sport has
replaced national identity,
              and that watching ***** do the exodus from
a ******* and assimilate into a genesis of an ****
has become magnified into 22 wankers kicking
a ball between two fishnet stocking pair of legs...
              neanderthal women get it,
**** sapiens man doesn't... he's wondering why
there haven't been many drunk intellectuals...
                to state this case.

**** sapiens man is wondering why this isn't even
an insult... by a version of a continuum
best addressed when worded, rather than
    chess-chanced on a board of fixations and
cheap-labour and psychiatrically guised excuses
that are in concerto: lethargy etiam propus.

   **** sapiens is wondering why history froze,
and this be the new ice age...
and why only one day gets a mention,
he's wondering why there's no media sabbath...
         i.e.: when no news happens.

**** sapiens is bewildered by this fresh zeitgeist
of having a need to speak...
  **** sapiens is wondering: why Ned the Destroyer?
**** sapiens is asking: what about the think?
       **** sapiens says of neanderthals:
i guess they really need to talk
because they cannot accept the monotheistic concept
of thought, and stress the democratic: blah blah brechen
to protest, stitch placards and walk a lot and do
cathedral bells a justice of repeating chants: kneel
to pray! tramps aren't trump! etc.

**** sapiens says: they once imagined telepathic
with telekinetic and then they said no to Marxism...
now there don't seem to be that many individuals around
apart from those in suicidal succor.

all in all, **** sapiens simply says:
i will not fornicate with these neanderthal women!
i don't care what my genetic prenup would look like,
    it might look ugly, it might look pretty...
            if we're going down this route...
there's me: exit,
                and then these women:
            lamenting what queen Sheeba said to
king Solomon:
                          the copper skinned will rule the world.

well, here's me and my automated reliance on
extinction...
                           i'm taking a bow...
i'm bowing out...
                                i find only one sensual solace in
this world...
                    music...
                           ­         i'm bowing out of the rest
that comes like a Mongolian revival of a horde...
          and even if there was a love for a woman worth
defending... i already declassified it as
neanderthal... so much for Darwinism when uncoupled
from theology and coupled to history;
evidently my mind is a bit blank when i try to go beyond
the written records... nice gallery by the way...
sure, the shrunken coccyx gave it away...
and i wish i was... doing acrobatics on trees, still;

**** sapiens said of neanderthals:
if only you had an immune system built to
                                        not succumb to advertisement!

but **** sapiens man said: poach the ivory,
but the elephant will play you a trumpet underwater,
      and you'll ask: why?
              because if the elephant farted you'd
get a methane jacuzzi, and not a quasi-jazz concert...
that wasn't even meant to be funny.

The remnants of last night's nova
lay scattered in tatters on the patterns
of ballroom linoleum.
Flattened bottles and kids
full throttle on people petroleum.
They whisper, "we're full of them
deaths 'guised as holy gems,"
but no one could hear
through the decoding of the exploding star,
the eroding of that foreboding bazaar,
not even the one whispering,
loose lips left ajar.

The remnants of last night's nova;
it began with a beat.
Melody sweet was distorted just to show the
flipped switch kids who retorted just to grow numb,
with ditched brain space aborted just to know dub,
or love the microchips imported just to throw the
blasting bass bubbles of sound
into the ground,
spinning around,
until they come down,
to frown at flowers
powered by the eye of the storm.
Where it's the norm
for their forms
to be torn from their static.

The remnants of last night's nova
was an illness of stillness;
of dripping dead glow sticks
that knows this
fist in your chest clenched tight,
and the sight of last night,
and the fading lights
just show this restlessness
is not the best of this bright.
The love fights muttered
through shutters of others
echoed soft cotton swab colors
in sunrise skies,
and despised eyes,
and reprized "why?s"
to inspire white lies.

The remnants of last night's nova
are gone.

you learn it the hard way, you actually can drink warm shots of *****,  provided,  you have a brisk, Icelandic chaser, notably white European Bison *****, and apple juice infused with mint...

pije, pali, konia wali...

it has been agreed, a drunk man is half
the miserable sight of a woman...
no wonder a woman *******
is more appealing than a man,
who shines.., like Louis XIV,
******* in a lightbulb...
            ha ha... ******* want *******...
and there I was, thinking that
bottle of alcohol also ought to have
warnings about any *******,
other than oral with a pregnant woman...
wonder... does alcohol really harm
foetuses, or does the constant banging
of a cockrel do more harm than
awaiting sunrise good?

hence the question, i don't know.

pije, pali, konia wali...

as a drinker, in company?
i can have a social drink,
my grandmother had a nostalgic
hallucination of a taste that
provoke memory, so I bought her
a porter beer...
and we drank it together...
książęce: aromas of honey,
coffee, rührkuchen und
bitterschokolade...

grandfather simply replied:

koniec świata;

now the IVF part quest for ****** chills...
citation granny, is no citation
worthy of the urban lawyer,
frozen egg + spe4m donor factory...
the part where I'm cited as "******"...
urban mongrels contra
                  rural pedigrees.

pije, pali, konia wali...

there are but three ways to clear the head
before the excavation of a blank
page... rarely it involves addressing a delayed
slightly constipated dump...
but sometimes it does...

pije, pali, konia wali...

           then it also takes doing no.
1, no. 2 (as mentioned above)...
and no. 3...
                 i have no idea where ****
additiction comes from...
i'm more of a claccisist in this field...
moving pictures do not really
stimulate the mind to work off
a stattic picture...
    if you never did no. 3 i. e.
****** off on the toilet...
                 because you never bought
a ***** mag with your casual take
on the metaphor of smithfield market...
or you've never been,
driving to it at 1am in the morning...
coming back with half a porky corpse...

pije, pali, konia wali...

I think people are confusing objectivity
with ***** subjectivity...
like any clean cut of a scalpel...
or like eating a soft boiled egg...
you crack the shell, leaving the papist
yolk, intact...

pije, pali, konia wali...  

at leat objectifying a woman
does not subject her to the cring worthy
labyrinths of emotional men,
or whatever the hell cheating is...
   or juggling...
        ****** off at fine art,
only once did I bother to explore
the ****** extension of latex...
a kinda of bedroom niqab fetish...
but most of the time...
static images, blood down below,
paths of imagination in the head...
not to mention that ***-mad mongrel
that **** my leg...
luckily I didn't kick him,
but politely asked... are you finished,
and ready, to hunt a mare?

pije, pali, konia wali...

******* what?!
   classical *******...
whatever happened to the tabloid
page 3?
   apparently men with recoding hairlines
have more testosterone...
apparently watching a woman's breast
releases, whether dopamine
serotonin, or... as the cigarette quote
goes... Oscar Wilde?
    the most pristine five minutes,
that leaves one (mm  hmm...
a royal pronoun,  both singular,
and plural, for a pleb that's minus
the entourage of leeches...
mind you... why not the common
slang of sycophancy in syco...
that Y... not tree not serpent splits...
hollowed out... to differentiate
from the other,  crude grafitti of
******pathy, shortening)
    most disatisfied...

pije, pali, konia wali...

perhaps j. c. is the king of kings,
but i sit on the, throne of thrones...
no. 1, 2 and 3...
    no scented candles,
no... god... cursed the theistic joke...
a woman has to *** squatting...
a man just stands...
than again: bigger bladders?
*******, easing analysis muscles,
jerking off to static nudes...
how is it on the other side?
moods, scented candles, lying back...
literature that ought to be
read with one hand?
        d'uh and the *****...
sure... g. i. Joe of a boy aged 8
when Barbie burned in th stash...
out comes Ken 2.0...

pije, pali, konia wali...

easier for a man to stomach a hand
as if it were done ****...
than explore beyond the floral pouch...
than... getting a manicure...
and... not using the Vizzz...
the Vizier... hardly a comparison to
encapsulating... snoring...

i always ask the intrigued relic of
dating... so... you want to hold
my hand, or is male maturation
so grotesque that it has no...
voyeuristic appeal?
   well... thank **** for that!
with my little finger I served
poached, a former hydra behemoth...

the knowledge of, good and evil...
                                                X
which isn't exactly a mistery of +...
   the conjunction translates as X,
cross-eyed... not +...

pije, pali, konia wali...

                      it's easier calling it
the no. 3, considering how...
sitting on the throne, apparently
masages the prostate...
hence the stigma it would seem...
no scented candles...
no grand whizz of faking headache
and snoring of excavating dodos...

pije, pali, konia wali...
    
ah... back into the syco contra
****** and the hollowed out
Y question...
                         σý-co...

         'sigh-co...

hence not so much the hollowed-out
Y... but rather, akin to gnome gnostics...
the particular instance of
surd letters,
not being clothed in surd attire...
     elsewhere diagnostic...
otherwise in the already given example:
   'nome...         'nostics...

yes, i know, the borderline 'sigh-co...
psst... as happens, when letters
ignoring greco-semite
        stubbornness,
remain syllable amputees looking
for torsos of words....
magnetised limbs mechanic...
letters primitive, bound to syllables...
not the greco-semitic
construct of names...
       shortcuts with the NATO
alphabet is the curse of 15...
   a ******* worth of a telephone
conversation will not craft
an originality of either Aleph,
Omicron, Ayin, or Omega...

       may i remin you the greco-semitic
stubborn ram... ploughing
constants in science?
aha! ****** music thought...
no one really heard of
rotting christ or
         mícháel greilsammer...
last of the Roman sons...
sang arias of castratos!

pije, pali, konia wali...

     finally! ad the title implies...
what's the diffrence between
a man buying shoes,
and a woman buying shoes?
probably the packaging,
or more to the point...
a man walks into a shoe shop
wearing old shoes...
he buys a new pair,
buys them, puts them on,
packs his old pair into
the newly bought pair's shoebox...
and walks out with
his new: economic sketch
and the concept of recycling...
primarily because i've never seen
a woman buy a pair of shoes,
and walk out of a shop
wearing them...
   not once....
      and thank **** it rained hail
and razor rain today,
after post-noon greenhouse
suffocating toffee sun...
and the sky was painted a continental
grey & plum as the earth gave
its first, authentic breath of spring...
not once, have i seen a woman
buy shoes... and walk out
in them, putting the ones she
wore walking into the shop,
among the moosehead trophies,
skinned furrs,
and her, other,
      hunting expedition catches...
into the insomnia and iron
forest, of foraging for sales.

thank **** i had an existential
****** looking at me,
as I put the newly purchased shoes
onto my feet, and the old shoes
into a carrier bag...
    in those rare instances,
as true as: mould the iron while
it's lukewarm...
          come to think of it...
this is french existentialism
in the open... unable to encompass
a voyeurism with a guilt
of a peepingtom or Cambridge Analitica...
pure existential voyeurism...
guised Edenic...
     out in the open...
       bound to the habits of
man shopping, for shoes...
                 rather than a woman...

hell, hades and the high-water mark
of a tide...
      
     (he) drinks, (he) smokes,
   (he) smacks the monkey...

     if you didn't know, already.

As I travel down the path of darkness
I see a bunch of wild carcuss
Humans to animals no life left
All out of breath in valley of death
None survives the survival quest
For if you test you will be put to rest
Enemies guised as friends
And friends guised as enemies
Watch yo back because they will attack
The minute they feel you grow weak
And cant speak eyes shut cant blink
Brain cells shut off and cant think
Journey with me look me in my eyes
Youll see the dark shade rise
Over my pupils biblical principle
Souls of the lost weepin' and wailin'
Wishing for peace but all ya hear is yellin'
Ill still be bailin'
Fresh out the mental cell i wont fail
I got the torch i been in the dark since my first start
Sighs of cries i knew when i came on earth it was a lie thats why we cry
Why we live just to die
But now i understand the masterplan
Since the devil got jealous and rebels repent death was sent
To punish all sinful things through disease
Sickness health cant get no wealth
Cuz they coming out into the light
Why ya think its gets hotter and hotter every year every tear i shed for all of my peeps thats ahead see when ya dead you two steps ahead
Of everybody stop chasing the fame and the game
And realize you just a pawn like the same
Pieces of a chess board
Once i open my vocal chord i give honor to the Lord
My destiny is expose em all before they crawl
Out the pits and trapped these leechin demons in a spiritual casket

Are we so utterly destroyed?
Are we raised to be lowered
into depths
a man can not physically dig?
Why do we seek a hell
so obviously guised as heaven?
Are we beyond repair?
Can we never be fixed
to match the idea
of a standard model?
Would you want to?
Did these gears in the machine
ever have a chance
to pass inspection in the first place?
Was I doomed upon that assembly line?
Were we all?
Am I the reject
in the dollar bin
of a land
full of selfish
consuming
monsters
who have no teeth of their own
waiting for their masters to chew
and regurgitate back
into their joyous awaiting mouths?
Is the way I write this
too imperfect?
Does this gain me nothing
but a stroke of ego?
Should I expect to deserve more?
too little product?
a lackey robotic?
Not enough dollar signs
to place upon it?
Are these feelings, feelings anymore?
Or are they nothing
but programmed responses?
Am I alive
by falling from the branch
of a toxic Oak
only to pollinate
the oily soil?

Should I just
be a good slave
to the cult of "us"
and earn for myself
which no mortal
has right
putting a price tag on.
Can robots trust?

Preface:
Even old poets can forget new tricks,
So when toe stubbed and ah ha benedicted,
Causes you to remember what you once knew,
It feels even better, like being crazy
Once in awhile,
Or wearing an untrimmed chest Jason smile.

for Bala, who inspired it many months ago., and first posted a tear ago today.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Eons ago converted to a new religion,
The Church of Free Verse.

If life be variable,
Usually unrhymed
A pencil sketch of crisscrossed lines,
No fixed metrical pattern assigned,
Than even more so, my poetry.

Once I regretted that the children,
Crack addicted to rhyming,
Used nickel bags and ******* lines
At the starting gate where all
Our associative poetry journey begins.

Perhaps, a tad arrogant, that diktat,
Nonetheless, unashamedly, nothing to recant.
Words have utility creative, souls innovative,
Free them guised as global explorers,
Make them up, then unleash them
Upon us, yourself, as detectives investigative.

Unchained myself like Houdini,
From water chambers and locks constraini.
What care I for poetic rules and regulations,
Got so many points, they tried to suspend
My government-issued poetic license.

Had myself forgot,
That a poem needs a
Frame of jungle gym sounds,
An aural aura resonance unbound.
Purposed to make the heart lift
Your ears say:

Say what!

It needs a tune,
An internal music,
It needs a lilt!
A cadence, that both
Marches and swings,
Even when'd urgent dirge
grief pours forth.

Yes my darling young ones,
Your writ of screams, like Bob Dylan's occasional schemes,
Celebrations of agonized lives of the criminally-pained,
Songs and cants of victims, love-cancer stained,
Require a whining, singsong beat.

{Poems so rad-sad that it makes this Jew
Genuflect and crisscross himself,
That he was blessed with a few good happy years,
In his reincarnated life of
A few centuries long.}

Learn 'em to sing their cries,
Harmonize the internality of love,
Or, even the infernal loss and lack thereof,
For it is the lilt
That makes, transforms a cry into a
Poem.

Even I on death's last stairway step,
When was called by the name of
Nate Hale,
My dying poem lilted, lifted and metered
"I only regret,
that I have
but one life,
to lose,
for my country."

Now you're thinking he, me, has lost it all,
But you would be incorrect, for sure.

He, me, found it.

The lilt of life that makes him rise
And greet each morn,
Even some sorry starless nights
With a First Poem of the Day.

I lilt you, one and all.
If you think this mis-wrote,
My auto correct mentally broke,
Meant to type I love you,
You'd be
Right but wrong,
I just lilt you.

In the world upstairs
Are walls as veils,
Balleting in
Inner winds.

Shadows criss-cross
The songs
That trudge
From throngs
Of masses
Running around,
In chaos
That sneaks over -
Guised in cloaks
That rival its
Counterpart.

I.* Manifest, oh Apparition;
I invoke thee to show me your light
so that I may apportion some inhibition
How I beseech thee, oh illusions of perception;
Masterfully guised as wolves among sheep

II. Materialize, oh manic vision;
For I have listened as the chasms between the Heavens and Earth
both wax and wane
Simultaneously

How I implore you -
throw down your swords;
For it is all the deplorable horrors
(sorrows) you reap
unto this world that I weep

III. Manifest, oh Phantasm;
When deceased molecules coalesce  
A breathe of life is given to those ****** and bereft
A resurgent culmination unleashed
Dawning the end of Man
and the rise of the Beast

Is it that you simply perceive or believe -
or lack thereof
that constitutes your reality?

Bestow the sceptre unto the spectre;
Assuredly, there you'll uncover a sepulchre

01004    (N18>N25>N86>N365)

i guess it was just one of those days that managed to be split
between two:
get up at 7am: shower, get dressed,
head out for the first shift as a supervisor at the London
stadium: starting at 9am... work until 4:30pm...
shake hands with the stewards at the end of the shift
for making my job all the more easier...
calling control (of the stadium) on my radio telling them:
there's a limping crow on the pitch, could we please remove
him? not so easily done, but done nonetheless...

finishing the shift having to master the art of moving
through spectators also leaving,
heading toward Wembley stadium,
starting the shift at 6pm and working until 11:30pm...
leaving the stadium trapped by more spectators
leaving the stadium... being | | this close to getting into
Wembley Park station: i was already planning
a swift return home... on the metropolitan line
to Liverpool St. then a quick train ride back to Romford...
obviously that wasn't going to happen...
**** man: i love this change of plan...
i watched as people were rushing to Wembley Central
station while i walked into a shop
and bought myself a bottle Coca-Cola for mixing
with whiskey at home, a packet of Sterling cigarillos,
a packet of 10: only £5.30...
a packet of crisps and a magnum milk and white chocolate
raspberry ice-cream... walked to the first bus stop...
PACKED... chicken-brain: hatch a man...
absolutely necessary to walk up stream to the origins
of the bus route... passed one bus-stop back:
packed... passed a third: packed... the fourth
at Wembley Central was empty: for a while...
before i noticed that Wembley Central was closing
and people started congregating...
oh **** this... i walked back to the fifth bus-stop...
or maybe it was the sixth...
no... no way am i going to get on a bus:
watch it get packed like a can of sardines
and stand there like a clueless *****!
i have walk back a mile and sit in the front seats
of a double decker on top: SIT... relax... after a long day...
than stick around with these sheepish folk
that would rather stand at a bus-stop with about
50 other people than figure up what salmon do...

ha! plan worked... sat up-stairs on the front two
seats... now i said to myself:
this is my favorite bus journey: from Wembley
to Romford...
first the N18... then the N25... then the N86
and finally the N365...
                                    mind you: north London grime
architecture is very different to east London
grime architecture... i prefer the London grime architecture
to the east London grime...

as i sat down i thought to myself: what i really now
for this to be an "Emirates" journey back home
is for some pretty girl to sit down next to me...
hey presto! i'm a firm believer in luck of late...
i was lucky today...
she sat down... a sort of Camila Cabello lookalike:
but much prettier... Spanish... i can decipher Spanish
when i hear it: d'uh... i could never find a Spanish girl
i found attractive: Spanish feminists and French
feminists put me off from looking...
but there she was... sitting pretty... raven hair...
glasses... blue-grey eyes... skin tone: mocha with a hint
of cinnamon and bronze...
i felt an Adam's apple in my throat choking me...
will i speak to her?
a little nudge of the leg on her part...
a little bristle of arm against on arm...
then dozing off her head almost rested on my shoulder...
i just couldn't help admire the difference in size
of our two bodies...
by thumb alone i had a thumb 1.5x larger than hers...
i looked at my shoulders in the reflexion
in the glass lit up by streetlamps...
  then i looked at her petite exposed details...
she kept flicking her hair: at one point the detailed
a style that i greatly admire: no partition down the middle:
although she pulled it off stunningly because
her raven hair was slightly bouncy: not curly:
bouncy... but then she flicked her hair to one side...
so feminine details any woman could wish to have...
naturally gracing some ancient altar of
man's admiration...

  a crescendo came when some ******* came on the bus
and was playing some ****** rap music
for us to listen to... turns out he wasn't a *******...
he ended playing Coldplay's Paradise...
the entire bus erupted in song... everyone was
singing... she was singing: me? i was just smiling...
she then asked this guy who was standing over her
(because the bus was that full that people were
also standing on the upper-deck) about whether
the N18 stops at St. Paul's...
my throat loosened and i turned around to her:

no... what you have to do is get off at Oxford Circus
and turn left onto the Oxford St. and catch
the N25 bus to St. Paul's... and as i did what i instructed
her to do... i got up and realised:
she came a magical puff of smoke never to be seen
again...
          i knew this was going to happen...
make your heart small... make your heart small...
dangerous daydreaming to begin with...
i knew nothing would come of anything like this...
do people still meet people of their dreams
in random locations in life? on buses?
or is the whole dating experience all about profiling
yourself on the internet so that people
have a boring a priori knowledge of you?
that's why dating is so ****... there's nothing to unravel...
there's nothing to discover: absolutely no thrill...

but this is most certainly my favourite route...
esp. at night... and if you can time it perfectly...
you jump on one bus... jump off it then jump onto
another and a maxim you have to wait for the third
is about a minute: enough time to take off your shoe...
pull up your sock, put the shoe back on and not have
time to do the shoelaces...
i was going to get off the N25 at Stratford bus station
but as the bus was circling the station
i noticed a blackened N86 waiting...
the driver just managed to go down from the second
deck to his cabin and pour himself a coffee from
a flask... so i stayed on the bus to Ilford Hill...
but... i started to watch my back...
yep... just before Manor Park i saw the ******
speeding... quickly got the N25 and jumped
straight onto the N86...
i was in lucky... from Goodmayes there were
only three people on the bus...
we sped past Chadwell Heath and entered Romford
without anyone at bus stops or anyone
trying to get off...

walked to the last bus-stop and caught the N365
to Collier Row... then... talked to myself for a while...
literally... i talked to myself...
i only do this "talking to myself" when i tired
of thinking it... then thinking has absolutely no effect
on me: when i can't do any ego-tripping:
i talk to myself when i've exhausted all avenues
of feeling all "high and mighty"... i bring myself
to a level of conversation: since i can talk to myself:
but i can't think to myself... how can i?
i'm not even myself when i'm thinking: all that ego-*******:
shrapnel thinking...

did i hear my company manager just tell me
he gave me an extra hour of the second shift?
call me a legend... because i was the only person in the company
willing to do a double-shift? i must have:
that's why i started talking to myself: i think i misheard
him...
and wasn't i a supervisor today, even though modern
security standards require you to have an NVQ level 3
while i only have a level 2?
and my treating stewards with the utmost respect
having than talking down to them: gaining their trust
and mutual respect, isn't that something?
that golden rule: treat others like you'd like to be treated?

and to think: i was in the trenches and pitfalls
of madness for so long... my 20s are a blur
or psychiatric pharmacology and psychological
scrutiny...
while most people lost their minds during the Corona
virus lockdowns: i regained mine:
i guess people were a given a taste of the sort of medicine
i was prescribed for so long...
i returned like a phoenix... i exploded back into
the realm of human interaction with shedding
my straitjacket... why could it be so weird
that i hear a choir either ascend or descend in a church
and then in a heat of panic hear a great wind
disperse the choir?
what's so weird about that? doesn't anyone who fasts
and smokes marijuana conjure up such auditory
hallucinations daily? sure... sure... blame it on the ****:
i actually gained while others lost...
i returned to a state i remember myself as being
in high school: not-two-faced... just chameleon like...
i can be liked by almost anyone these days...
one guy who's prone to wearing finger-less leather
gloves and that famous Palestinian bandana takes one
of his gloves off and is so happy to shake hands
with me...

even today i walked into a chicken shop before the second
shift and met up with two stewards i've worked with
before... i ordered a spicy five wing meal...
they were waiting for their meal...
we talked about Miranda (the strawberry drink)
was any good... shift times... blah blah... i stood next to them
and ate... they were perched on stools...
we ate together... Somalis?! who cares...
it's not like England is America....
race is a descriptive investment: not a prejudicial
aspect... i need to say if someone is either Somali
or Samoan or Eskimo... it just paints a certain picture
that a white boy can be on level ground...
my greatest concern whenever dealing with
someone is... respect... the surest sign of respect
is: i'll eat with you... i finished my chicken wings ate
some of the fries... i noticed one of the guys
ordered a burger and a wrap... i couldn't finish
the chips... so i asked... hey...
there's some unopened mayo pouch...
i can't finish these chips: do you want them?
you sure: he implored... mate... i'm full...
he gladly took them thanking me...

of the two best quote i have yet to topple:
Bukowski: some people never go mad...
what horrible lives they must live...
and?
there are variations on this one...
quos deus vult perdere, prius dementat
ha! those whom god wishes to destroy,
he first deprives of reason...
there's a double take on that...
point in mind: to destroy: not... to be destroyed...
meaning? if a deity requires a change of pace
for humanity... it's not a maxim directly related
to Hercules...
  to destroy doesn't imply: to be destroyed...
quem Iuppiter vult perdere, dementat prius
is more precise in that assumption...
those whom Jupiter wishes to destroy,
he first deprives of reason... then again? no!
destroy what? himself or the world around him?!
i've seen the world being destroyed...
if the gods truly wanted me sulking, mumbling...
in some mental institution... i would be just there...
but i'm all in the open... i've regained my strength!
i haven't destroyed destroyed myself...
i've regained myself: perhaps it's not the old me
i remember with a rich cognitive-narration lodged inside
my head: but? instead it's lodged in my read:
that's how the Cartesian dynamic works...
you can begin with the "solipsistic" res cogitans...
but end up after a psychotic transformation
as being a res extensa: what you think about in sketches
you write about in a narrative that's "escaped"
the hell of your supposed "thinking"...
couple that with experiences of auditory hallucinations...
letters, words... are better coupled to writing
than anything the Beatnik attempted with exploring
language with hallucinogenic additives...
believe me... first comes music: then music notation:
then... the ambiguities of what's being spoken...
after all: you can speak language in a rainbow of accents...
but you can't exactly play an instrument
idiosyncratically: it has to be universally arrived at...
otherwise it's particular, i.e. out of tune...
whereas music is universal: language is particular...
sure... the strict obligations of the written tongue
being universal... but? how it sounds? there's nothing
universal about language beside the fact that language exists
per se... English is not a universe language:
it's a modern version of the medieval Lingua Franca...
but... how many versions of English are there?

there's a version of English in every language
that already exist...
on the N25 bus i overheard some Hindus giggling
and dropping loan-word-bombs prompto:
chicken... nuggets...

hmm... something strange happens when you strart
leaning on the res extensa (extended thing)
rather than focusing on the egocentric (cogito)
of the res cogitans (thinking thing)...
a res vanus (empty thing) is spawned...
of course in the realm of res extensa you can
mix-up your own thinking with strange hallucinations
that are cognitive in nature and can be misunderstand
as sensual: on the basis that "thinking" is "audible"...
for example:
Matthew: you're a genius.... a strange expression
for an ego to have: given there's a denotation
of a noun, a given name:
a chair doesn't reply to: you're a great table,
does it?
ergo? an "i" doesn't respond to: you're either genius:
or a Matthew...
an i is an i... a hammer is a hammer...

oh god no... Descartes is yet to be properly invested
in intellectually...
he gave the really proper antithesis of
Christian trinity theology...
Freud just created cages for modern modern
to be behaviour-ably: un-stimulating....
predictable: all that ego super-ego id schematic
is ****-pants worth when pointing a finger back
and telling people: just do what as i do:
do some Cartesian-revisionism...
it will do you much good...

you heard that joke about a bilingual "schizophrenic"?
apparently he's exponentially squared and squared root
of a quadratic...
i think i regained my senses by going mad first...
second came the destruction:
given the damage already done:
i had nothing else in me to destroy... the world needed
a fire... so great that it would have to experience
a shackling to either luck, fate, or? circus...
or all three! ha ha!

it was truly a bountiful day... that N18 bus ride
with that pretty Spanish girl gave me flickers of hope...
heavenly Islamic harems exist...
if only... wait... she did have one or two "awkward"
flickers of freckles.... freckles? moles... those "puns"...
i terribly hate people who make millions
scribbling sensibly guised never-good-byes...
i'm supposed to be picking up a second bicycle i'll
be using to go off the road today...
5:30am... i'lll sleep until 1am then thinking about it...

n'ah... two bicycles... i always loved the idea...
one day i ride on the roads...
the other day i ******* into the woods...
chances are i'll come across a blind rabbit..
as you do...
mind you... even with todays? yesterdays!
yesterdays! shift... i was mostly dealing with the early
leavers..
but it's Coldplay... it's not like the Red Hot Chilly Peppers...
if they're doing a world tour...
and they have the same set-list?
i already heard their two best songs
when they play them first... Paradise and
Adventure of a Lifetime...
  Yellow? i couldn't care less... Fix You...
fix constipation first fix diarrhoea thirst...
don't panic, no? we all live in a beautiful world?!

My adoration before God Almighty , guised in red sunset , deep blue eyes that ignite night's golden firmament
Guiding Pelican silhouettes vying for home , Eventide peace before Tybee Island shores* ...

This is the thrill of sneaking into an open house,
The adrenaline you felt watching Indiana Jones,
The final frontier
And they keep it centimeters away from your finger tips, guised with fear.
Everything you need,
They will convince you you have.
Thoughts are untouchable.
Technology to make us unapproachable.
Turns us into sheep uncoachable.

She’d said, I, “looked good in black,” and
she did, she did, she did too; So much so
that sooner’d come a swift exit at,
“Martyr’s Park,” a tempt embedded
venture, conjoined, coerced and later
beholden to our ghosts; apparitions in an
ugly early morning, post – biology, words
whispered with only one intent and
eventual ****** under guise of the night
that’d ensue eternity. Blanketed our
beauty wrought twisted skin, it remained
an ugly never aware, whilst she discarded
my newest misfortune, the forgone
forlorn cloth of impasse. I reciprocate, so
much so that beyond her ulterior lace, a
pale yellow beckoned, “ever,” below -

“Kiss me,”
When I grin and I do ‘midst
Admiring the freckly upon

This desperately hidden scripture –
One scarred
Right shoulder,

This greatest discovery, if only a human
kind of crater and just under tear-smeared
mascara, forever danced, come the
lacking light or whatnot. Echoes etched
some prior author, some other lover, and
yet still to bleed, like sweat, like work,
and now, her nails stay to trace another
saga atop the, “bare” only I could offer.
Sacrament, the moments blemished,
“now,” and immortality’s, “future,”
promised, whispered, and guised a
matrimony that’d break hearts come
morning, come the moment when she’d
drip like the rain, bend like the leaf
kissing chaos and gently ask, “could you
be me?” “Would you be me?” “Could
you, please be me?”

*Her (English) name was, "Taylor."

Uh I wish I could save the world?
But I'm day dreamin'
born curse since the day
I was made from *****
Enemies is cowards so they triple teamin'
Try to be angel around a spawn of evil
Media labels me a demon
My peeps can't rest for ****
Cuz cops all over our *****
And get this
Since the world is a ghetto
I'm packin' 380 *** Machine Guns never let go
Trigger ready for aim ain't no shame
Death is a necessity I feel nobody can get next to me
Wanted to be G and the spotlight
But its too much sunlight
**** its starting to burn my soul
I'm goin' crazy **** near fold
Pick up my pieces where I left off
Squeeze at foes til the rounds pop off
And the shells hit the ground
I hear the sound
Battle cry open up eyes nigguh
Couldn't dodge my bullets nigguh
Huggin' my gun likes its my main ***** never switch
My G Code stay real til I touch my grave abode
Picture me killed by one of my homies
We meet back up in the after life
**** the strife I'm back on the scene again
Thinkin' to myself should I gat cha ?
Its too late my bloods on ya hands take a stand?
But I ain't mad at ya!!


You can pray to heavens
To keep ya eyes on the sparrow
Such much pain hard to let go
Mixed emotions got me in a commotion
Will I proceed or will I fail life's a mystery
It ain't hard to tell
I'm a prisoner in Satan's Cell can't make bail
Only if I die but then I'll been
In the ghetto up in the sky maybe my brains fry
Cant help it that im.hopeless
Drop the verses to find the perfect pitch
And all my foes can take AK 47 stick
To ya body
I ain't got no worries just lookin' for adversaries to bury
Along with the courts no justice no peace
Too many blacks ending up deceased
We killin' each other
Its like Cain & Abel can't break the spell
Cuz I'm ensnared by the sable
In the dark will find the eternal sunshine free my mind
From all this Chaos
I try to live a good life but the closer I get to God
I find strife
Tryna make me a Wife and kid
Look what I did?
Went from a hellrazor to a grown man disciplined
From.the spirit of wisdom understand
Money can't buy you happiness
True love last forever even through stormy weather
So many battle against flesh n blood
Opened up.my eyes and realized
Peeps gone hate you for whatever you do
Stay true
To yaself and learn game **** the fame
I'd rather die with no name
Inflict pain when my enemies sense me by
No.more tears left in my eyes
Hatred comes as no surprise so many lies
Between love and hate
Guised as actors
But evil makes the world go round
But just lettin' u know I ain't mad at cha



you know, that if you squint your eyes,
and look
at an object that emits light?
the light travels from the source,
just above your eye, impregnating
your cranium with a brain?
funny... isn't it?
all it takes is keeping one eye
closed, and squinting your other
open eye...
   and when looking at an object
that's the source of light,
be it a street light, or the scimitar moon,
the rays of light,
passing your camel's eye-lashes
end up projected into your forehead,
rather than directly into your eye...
squinting your eye
while watching the moon,
you see it, a beam of light never
really entering your pupil of the eye,
but travelling straight up "echo chamber"
of your mind...
    i think that people discovered they had
brains, but sitting and squinting
at the moon with only one eye...
look here, a minotaur cyclops...
   feeling he over-did-it with
his camel lashes, thinking himself:
a venitian blinds' salesman...
      i'm starting to see the use of psychedelics
as a bit pointless...
        steve jobs was just lucky...
  the source of refraction of light
       doesn't enter the eye directly,
it always travels just above the eye
into the forehead region...
    i never tried it with the sun directly,
then again, i'm wondering that sort
of element exists on the moon,
  that allows the moon,
a dull grey surface to act like a mirror,
and be able to provide the suggestion
of: pythagoras on the moon...
apollo 13, go!
    find me the element that acts as
a mirror, for light to bend!
   to bounce off the moon, and enter
the sphere of night,
   i'll give you cooprdinates:
  in the range of red, yellow, orange,
  and white...
    as sometimes in seeing the moon guised...
what element allows the moon to bounce
off light?
             so the night might become
illuminated?
     please forget mars... answer me this
simple quetion...
                    i want to know,
what on the moon, acts as a mirror,
    that allows solar beams of photons to
bounce off it, and illuminate the night sky?
    can we start thinking about
capturing this question, storing it,
and asking whether it can be used to propel
an object outside of its natural orbit?
leave but one eye open, and squinting,
and look at a source of light,
the light never travels directly into
the pupil of your eye...
    it always travels just above the eye,
onto your forehead, to suggest:
                     the illumination of the mind.

even the sweetest
of fruits, memories
and happiest moments
fade into nothing

to be grateful
for the fleeting life
and to realize
that all is
loss

it is all washed away,
into an infinite and
galactic ocean
into the very fabric
that wove
creation

fall into nothingness,
as to say goodbye

the question of why attach
to something so fleeting
and why even love,
when it will all
disappear

perhaps rewarded,
in some after-life
or reacquainted
with eternal
memory

And here we are,
in this presence

an illusion
of stability
for but a brief
time

In the name of remarkable stories revealed with each precious leaf , brush stroked layered , hallowed Marigold evenings ..  Every ambient , salutatory stand of communicative , native tree ...   To the toasty breeze spurring the music of Mother Earth within the guarded canopy
The preordained navigation of Warbler , Grasshopper and Bumblebee
For every cloud seeking finality guised in plummeting rain
The call of Pheasant across the chilled late October plain* ....

Ignorance is bliss
hell if I know
heaven if I didn’t

Not knowing the in-particulars

Can be evocative
As a child’s drawings
Ignoring detail
Not on purpose
Yet vibrant

Seeing our world
Guised as an infants
eyes
Helps you
remember why

Misguided

And how we all forgot
Those Precious Times

When you never knew
A dislike
Only love

My dislike is that
A love so concentrated
Is infinitely gone

Diluted as we clash
With life
head on

The ability to Recall
those nights
Held closely to heart
Is heart warming

What a reference
To refer
Especally
When the hate
Starts to
storm in

Ignorance is bliss
It tires me
The entirety
The irony
in this

Ignorance is bliss
Hell if I know
Heaven if I didn’t

Tolerance seems kind;
guised, it's apathy malign,
silently we pine.

your god lies dead and buried
in an unmarked grave. a radical—
a terrorist charged with treason.
for defying the Roman Throne,
they shoved a crown wove from thorns
onto his brow and called him "traitor."

but two thousand years later,
if the homeless rabbi
walked the Earth,
he'd be in the streets
with the anarchists,
fighting to end the wars
that plant kids' corpses
like seeds in the ground
that only yield new bombs.

he'd call your president
a ******* fascist.
he'd denounce Israel for bombing
his homeland and try to cease
the genocide in Palestine.
your savior would stand
shoulder-to-shoulder
with water protectors
in North Dakota, shouting, "mni wiconi!"
in the faces of cops guised in riot gear.

can't you see, pharisee? or is the log
in your eye blurring your vision?
snakes like you, who stand on street corners
preaching the "Good News," were the very same
self-righteous fools he detested.
you can't white-wash the legacy of the Nazarene.
you stand on the wrong side of history.
if Jesus walked this earth right now,
your hands would hold him down
while the State drove nails through his palms.
i only wish the fantasy was true,
that i could see your face as he said,
"away from me, evildoer.
truly, i never knew you!"

I said au revoir a long time ago
To the only thing that made me real
So that I could be an ornament
Of this flesh they know me by
I clogged my vessels with false pretenses
Weighed down by love that's not there
Guised by a beating heart under the fire
And now walking a trail towards nowhere
I can now conclude I am only human
But I was once much more

the foxes rounded the wolf into a hunt they once claimed to be victims of; i only started to pawn my face for a paper mâché mask when, reason being: i couldn't look at your reminding "human" face capable of a white wine toast over dinner to scone and clear a conscience: for a jam lodged pauper in being fed the sweets jelly.*

a dry call of a fox couples
itself to a wet cry of a wolf:
the smoker's ha woo
in fox in him
compliments
the northern aquatic frozen
tonne waved in
the atlantic forever in
guised goodbye;
the fox with its dry claim
mates aired, relieves
the lost wolf the lost land
to crave once more
a ripe 1 primed on the digit.
so many foxes
surround the one howled remark
of wolf;
dried up orphic of the one
night song suggested
to the human tongue
lost among fears and onomatopoeias
sojourn with autumnal
gravity of darkened brown
rekindled next year.