Excuses,excuses,excuses,
I am tired of you lazies,
For once why don't you handover your homework on time,
Thus, make my life devine.
Don't tell me your little sibling tore your homework,
Or you were absent, such bad luck,
Your grandmother spilled tea on your maths sheet,
Here, to give you is not fit.
I am tired of your lame pretexts,
Finish at break,I will be less vexed
What!You  finished your homework and you left it at home,
Well, call your mum to bring it when she comes,
I didn't understand the topic, can you please explain,
What were you doing when I went over it again and again?
I started to do my homework when the lights went off,Sir,
Most homes now have inverters
or generators.
I know you find the tasks I give you a bore,
Do you think marking them at home I adore?
So, please help me not to spoil your break or give you detention.
Do your homework on time and with great attention.

<!>

Four Irises tall & gallant, looking though
slighted worn out, a tad bedraggled
they are springtime survivor stragglers
of the Great Spring Weather Battle.

living in an open trench, battle conditions,
wind-whipped by constant strong breezes,
raked by intermittent machine gun rain,
familiar weapons of the “handover” season

loyal guardians of their pinpoint position,
remaining on duty, standing at attention,
dignified amidst the serene, nearly summer, now,
accepting quietude & gratitude of surround soundings

arrow-straight, in dress uniforms of royally purple,
four lead a cohort of unbloomed green fellows,
protecting their charge, an ancient marker of time,
rusted-green bronze sundial, symbol of continuity

these four, boon companions to human and animal,
shall persist long after I cease to dabble in this art,
they greet their admirers in full regalia, every year,
long, long may they live, die and be yet reborn!

here, in place, when we arrived four decades ago, a tiny forever,
changelings heading a processional of the summer season,
greeting all with a simple story of constance of change, of beauty,
leading our Summertime Commencement Exercises

May 26 ~ 27, 2023

With the sun invested in your patience,
You get so cold when you are breaking
So silence and I exchange nonsensical chats
as silence waits to draw the curtains
and I wait for you to handover your ache
to my extended hand

The skies hung heavy and black,
casting a somber mood over the world below.
It was as if the heavens themselves were
burdened with the weight of yesterday's sorrows.
The fields, once vibrant and alive, now wore a grey smile,
a reflection of the tears shed in days gone by.

As night fell, the symphony of crickets filled the air,
their chorus echoing through the stillness.
It was a quiet night, interrupted only by the
gentle handover of the sun to the moon.
The air carried a pleasant scent of dew, a reminder
of the rest that awaited all living things.
And amidst it all, the tiny footsteps of rain danced
upon the asbestos roofing, a thief of nature sneaking
into the sounds of peace.

In the midst of this atmospheric symphony,
a wooden kitchen door ticked with the passage of time.
It creaked open and closed, its rusted iron hinges
adding to the melody.
The door seemed hinged in thought,
attached by fears and darkness.
It formed a latch, and night became its key,
locking away the light and welcoming the shadows.

As I stood there, my feet grew cold,
chilled by the ice-like glass of my fragile character.
A towel hung limply from the handle of the cupboard,
a silent witness to my dry mouth and the skeletons
of my past that haunted me, beyond my control.

But amidst the darkness, comfort found
its way to my side, persistently offering solace.
It was a visitor, never truly staying,
but always there when I needed it.
In my mind, I set up a spare room,
a sanctuary for fleeting moments of respite.
And in those rare moments, a sparing thought
would gently grace my mind, offering a glimmer of hope.

Yet, even in the midst of this fragile peace,
a shadow lurked behind me.
She knew my name, intimately aware of
the battles I fought within myself.
The empty room, once a sanctuary, grew heavy
with the weight of my inner demons.
Like a fallen angel, I descended into the depths
of my own despair, the falling rain mirroring
the tears that stained my soul.
And in a whisper, a secret was revealed in my ear:
depression, depression, depression.

And so, my depressing thoughts found me once again,
enveloping me in their suffocating embrace.
The world around me faded into the background
as I became lost in the labyrinth of my own mind.

We are like the horizon of the sky
We merge into the same colour
And hear everywhere the flutter
I am chasing you as the wind is chasing the clouds
The clouds and my words stir up and paint the sky
Wish the sunset could stay a little more
Till my sorrows turn into silk
Till I get enough of that moment
The birds go back singing to trees
My soul goes wandering in the breeze
I'll stay here till the moon appears
So I can handover him all my fears
I won't let this evening go hopeless
For I  have a lot to confess.

I can insult you I can abuse you but I don't want to lose you
You are part of my heart without heart body is just nothing
We are on a ship and by seniority I am commander of crew
I have steered ship through many odds let me share feeling

But now my son I have gone old and am ill to move further
So I hereby nominate you to be the commander in the future  
Now my body is so weak my heart is to stop my vision is blur
Being son of a soldier, son I want to embellish values ,culture

Let me handover to you command of the ship as successor
Please make the unit strong so that you can win over all odds
You have to be meticulous and exercise more patience in anger
My soul will be in solace when you will take care of my wards

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow

Once upon a time,
a Doctor was famous
by seeing a pregnant woman
determine  the *** of the child
patience are very happy
the day has come to handover
to his son the precious
art of prediction..
though the son was brilliant
he has not learned the art.
father called son gave a secret..
Tell,
what ever you want
If you say 'boy" then in front of them
write 'girl' in your register
..................
if they didn't, you are Right
If they come back to prove you Wrong
then…
show the register..

Where do I end and you begin?
The line in between is quite thin
Who divided 'us' into 'you' and 'me'
How different are he and she?

Zero creations from me so far
Can't attach my name to any star
No flower blossoms because of me
The sun always rises despite me

Our world is made up of walls
Every day humanity falls
A creator I think I am
It all looks a sham...

Me, my home, the world to me
Does it need a boundary, to be
Do my edges shape me?
Or without them I could still be?

Taking the baton from the past
The present just a moment does last
It dashes to handover to tomorrow
Missing it is my biggest sorrow

Why should my walls define me
Much beyond them I could be
Will 'I' not still be here
Scaling beyond them - death and despair

We divide just to define
Can't the process we refine
We fragment rather than create
Can we start with a fresh slate?

It's lmost eight (8pm),
And as usual you are late,
Am sitting outside waiting for you,
It's drizzling like the morning dew,
Cool breeze, swaying trees, mind locked,
On some memories that shocked,
Remembering the incidents of your change,
Stepping away and ruling out a range,
I wonder what has come in between,
You always treated me like your queen,
Now you come home late to avoid our talks,
Often quite not even interested in evening walks,
I feel alone, distant and neglected,
It doesn't matter cause you have selected,
A new toy for your entertainment,
Little do you know that its affecting our commitment,
It's okay I have made a decision to let you go,
For your life is no longer meant for me so,
Tonight am waiting for you, to handover,
All you gave and say that it's over,
If ever he might need me back,
He would understand and track,
The reasons that drew me out from his life,
As of now, he would no longer have me as his wife...


©sim

Awake at 0415
Sleep still in my eyes
Bundle up crib
**** and a ****
Shave clean
Coffee on the boil
Then, on the road.
Lit ciggy
Volume still up from last night
Knock it down a notch
Until the ears can focus...

Swipe on, turnstile spins
Follow in suit
Say g'day to nightshift
As the hi-vis is donned
PPE all strapped on
Steel capped **** kickers
Helmet slap, follow the crowd
To prestart.

Sit and nod, coffee lukewarm
Handover from nights
Sign on lads and ladies
Lock on, work instruction, THA
We are all dressed the same
The same team
With the same goal
To go home...

We don't know how it all works
In our silo, doing our bit
For our 12 hour stint
For 7 days.

Just before 6
With our bodies worn and ready
For a quiet bevvy
With mates we made at work
Swipe off, turnstile spins
Say g'day to nightshift
It'll be our turn next swing
Top job, had a win.

Microwave feed
Boots at the door
TV just for the noise
Stare at the phone
They ring before bed
Let it ring out
How was your day?
Same as every other, don't bother.

Asleep before head hits pilla
Awake at 0415

a meeting
of two chemicals
a fine reaction
both are transformed
and a baby
handover an appointment letter
to be father and mother..

let us want linear narratives -
by the current standard of: narratives -
let us all want parallel linearalities
and then: on some odd
occasion: forced to mesh-into
focus point -
                       when we were somehow
young and england
was a place at a time
when the handover of hong kong
happened -
what subsequently happened:
custard and fudge brain
crayon squiggly: attached to a fridge:
with a magnet...

here's to: i'm out to lunch...
toying with poker and... altruism...
solipsism, "atheism" and
albinos for autism...
rather: nothing will elevate
this circus -
          
   oculus per oculus -
     eye for an eye...
      skin for stretch... belts and leather...
and i hope: non-kosher shoes...
whitey brightey almost the: "almighty"...
but god! chugging along
with all these bachelor lepers -

i want to earn honour as a yack
herder in mongolia -
chequers: not chess -
because i need to go back
to m'ah rootz... my caucasian -
caspian sea - mongrel mongol
and of turkic or hOOn!

talent: "talent": a hot topic for
the imagery of phallus -
          a talent for a porceil girl of
toy-kyo...
           with a rabbit sized
bouquet of fleshy pwetty pwetty
pet-als!

  or... that it once happened...
the steve colberT show...
  the blind stevie minor...
        keeping up appearances...
a mrs. bucket that stressed!
it's: mrs. bou-kay... i.e. bouquet...
beau! literally! beau-*****-full!

stefan col-bear -
                stephen coal-b'err...
              it's tragic... a mrs. buckeT
sort of tragic...
         it's not as much fun when...
there might be people
who joke around "illiteracy" of those
who didn't used the proper
orthography...
that english isn't stress-laden
with orthography - but can be deviated
with and back into:
to speak is one thing: to write:
another...

  mrs. bouquet / alias bucket -
or a stephen colberT...
         alias: col-ber...
coal-bear...
                     coe-bare...
           it's like elevating a status
symbol: yeah... i too wish
i had a surname like: VIN-D'SOR...
or win-win-d'sour...
or windsor...
                
windy, sir?
            it's not like there will ever be:
something to play with in english
that might arrive at: suspense!
  it's the bare enlisted minimum -
i too have reached my cul de sac
of ingenuity -
perhaps i invented a light-bulb -
perhaps i have confronted
a river with a bridge -
        there's no second "eureka":
there's only a devolved "word salad":
or an attempt at a Prokofiev linear -
even with all the flurry of
decapitated sounds
running around like...
                    decapitated "sounds"...

i still come to the conclusion:
this was never going to be a language
that could be extracted
and used in a formal manner...
paint me a practical picture:
preferably a schematic used in
engineering: when looking at a Kandinsky...

now look at these words:
there's a rigidity of spelling -
a kept grammar?
well... to know blue is to also...
settle for the hue that might tease
either green or yell-ow...

               but is it a venture: prim formal?
i hope to find grave and bed come
11pm... and my legs come 6am
tomorrow... and at least 3 hours
of walking... till the point that
my underwear will rub so much
on my inner-thighs that
i will have to smear savlon cream
on what will become oyster flesh
tenderness from all the rubbing...

go full commando or wear a thong?
it's impossible to walk these parts
naked...

statures of man being childless -
this full-embodiment of a self-to-act-upon:
that there's nothing selfess about
the endeavour of clogging the thoughtlessness
of aether and the frictionless
eternal dynamism of heliocentrism -

sum up! there's that call for verbiage!
people often want,
instructions - the verb that does
the verb and some other bidding...
i have yet to read a philosophy book
that allowed itself:
grammatical peacocking -
that grammar is somehow only
ever pure instruction:
it can never be deviated from:

lesson no. 1: how you speak is:
the passable grammar lesson you will
ever hear...
get fudge: thrown into the deep
end and told to: tread water...
head above the floating mantel piece!
****** don't stink it up
with drowning!

       ergo: the great yawning sea...
and all the ghosts and myriads
and sentinetls and gargantuan: failed...
prodigies that come with it:
adding of course... a looting of
spanish armanda or some...
**** u-boat tricklet...

            god... when evil was fun...
when evil was tinged with:
a german plight of competition with
the french and the english and
the spanish and the russians:
this strange: by god... this very strange
inferiority complex...
you simply can't stage a formidable presence
with all that technological
advances on a whim:
when shuffling along with
some decanting'ant: k?

               of the little people that
england has somehow incubated:
where's my bombast?!
where's my: i'm here, i'm now...
i'm thoroughly fire-proof!
where is that... maybe not allowing
myself a presence nibbling at
crumbs from the tablature of London...
go back to Edinburgh?
get lost in Vales?
         yes... way over "there":
in way way over in les country...
a go-get-to-Lesley brittle...

             - which wasn't much of a sunday...
a tired body a welcoming
bed: the part of life where
every 34 year old might
finally settle for: get busy dying -
or vegetating or... basking
in the suns of former glories -

these ample three-sometimes-four
worded junctions
for all the biped beasts that:
prance or dance or run spectacular
migrations of fake:
in their marathons -
  
i have truly managed to assert that:
the world can happen by myself -
beside... on some distant reservoir
of thirsty new lives and:
vitality pomps -
    for their vitality i have a submergence
into a vitriol i dare not exercise -
that's of course:
they have been incubated by a lie...
any lie in the framework of
the already unshakeable complex
of pedagogy -
   it would have been better to have...
beside crushing me...
not given me this leisure of
education...
              to stand organic and proper...
to appeal to the thespian monotony
of customer service roles
where: the customer is always right...

it was foolish to educate a man
beyond the age of 16... all the guys who
dropped out of school come 16
are now either mortgage shackled...
definitely with wife and most certainly
with child in tow...
i'm hardly my own making...

tone death: blair -
again... is it a solipsistic statement,
that... famous mea culpa?
      it's my fault for most certainly it is...
but at what point did
other people stop existing...
at what point can i blame fortune
on myself?
this sunday was depressing because...
i made a bet...
on 8 football matches...
a bet on a win... and a bet on...
both teams scoring...
16 matches to choose from...
but this is why i abhor gambling...
it's this stupendous suspency
akin to reading a thriller...
which i have never...
but you get the idea should
such results as: 6 - 1 tottenham hostpurs
vs. man united /
   7 - 2 aston villa vs. liverpool...
ever... degrade your least
chosen of avenues of "hope"...

               - somehow a "little known" nuance...
albion is a chalk-faced
grinning monstrosity of lime, scaling
up to no ends meet: and meat...
of course... the kosher furore
surrounding the omnivorous
tacticians of: one rice patty
per village: sq. a dozen heads...

i too want linear pursuits of language!
hey! over 'ere!
i want to take it upon myself
to be native and be get-given
the wings of flight!
looks like i'm nowhere going...
looks like i'm going nowhere:
but i'm still somehow: a here...
in this heliocentric ferriswheel
post-scientific darwinism this: pop cull-the-truants!
i am somehow hier...
herr sir-farce-a-****-to-borrow...
and a lot...

to have to escape the russians
and the polacks and the germans
and all these subsequently not-listed
cretins of the european pervesion...
of: self-mutilating yodle yo...
barracks up-right and standing...
congregating around
the mafia proposal of the:
       vain-ticky-tic-toc-bataclan...

dog collars of priest simply ooze:
satisfaction with:
a missing status of believbility...
but do not fret!
the hougenots are the last rats
to bail... of a sinking ship...
and there's all this night's worth
to want to exploit with
the burdens of sleep!

that we are pulverised dead-end-knottings...
insomnia provoked...
it's no matter...
the people without attache
verbiage... with strict cohesive
conducts are all ablaze...
i want these skimmies for
detailing scoop of fat over fat:
leaving little of beliebvable bone
to be a miscarriage of... ahem...
"reality";

i have been accused of
missing an ego a clog in the jargon
of the: "ex machina":
a reality without a deity
is almost like...
            a flaking of a skin...
that must be associated with
an invitation to possessing a self.

Dear Mr Rocky,
It's not that I wanna let you go
But I think this is the best time
For me to handover you
To somebody else.
It's not that I love you no more
I love you still, you will have my heart
Wherever you go.
You've been with me during ups and downs
You were literally with me.
You heard me laugh
You saw me cry and scream
And you've been hearing
All my nonsense talking,
Cursing the reckless drivers,
Like for everyday??.
I'm sorry.
But whatever you've heard,
Pls keep it as a secret okay?.
Thanks for being a good listener.
I love you. Forever will.
You're my first car that I afford to have.
Be good to your new driver.
So-called "new owner".

I see the man
who is still my husband
many of the days.
Handover of children,
he looks so withdrawn.
He is hating on me
he looks to be suffering
I had to break free.

When we were together
nothing fulfilled him
or the hole in his soul.
I turned circus tricks
Look at that, look at this!
But any joy poured in
disappeared, black abyss.

I almost did too.

i've done a full circle on my music listening habits, i've started listening to music i could play guitar to, oh man, that drop-D on almost all of the songs of System of a Down is mesmerising to listen to, esp. Aerials... it's right up there with smoke on the water and iron man... i even have a pretty decent voice when it comes to singing when no one is listening, it's surprisingly idiosyncratic, sort of rhaspic... ooh! ooh! i'm onto another google-whack... rhaspic alone generates only 10 results... rhaspic glue? 2 results... hmm... not to overcomplicate matters... let's just add a D... rhaspic glued... bingo! 1 search result: study number theories... great... i misspelled that first word, i was looking for something to the singing style of the dear, late, still lasting Chris Cornell... the message from Google reads:

It looks like there aren't many great matches for your search

nope... it's not that... i'm a google-whacker... it's a mild version of hacking... i like to find the needle's eye for a camel like me to walk through... because i do... and if i'm going to procrastinate it will be either google-whacking or solving a sudoku... ah... so no surd H in the word i was thinking of, i.e. raspic? ****, i didn't even realise there is a technical term for raspic: dysphonia... hell... it's not even raspic: it's raspy... oh... esp. with a "handover" from drinking to sobering up and a "hangover" from cigarette smoking... me singing is like me *******... best done so only the heavenly dead might want to see...

I.

strange occurrence at work, so i was given these nine stewards
who are a tight-knit bunch on the south stand of
the London stadium...
well... i say i was given nine, but Danni is a terrible
supervisor, everyone says...
who has ever worked with her...
she might have the qualifications to be a supervisor
but... i don't: and whenever asked i do the role...
because the greatest lesson my grandfather ever taught
me was how to deal with people,
i learned how to deal with unengaged problematic
youths by myself...
good training if you're going to go in the teaching
profession... i can see it now...
a fox in a hen shack...
obviously i'd love to have a wolf as my totem...
but you can be choosey... no wolves on the British isles...
plenty of foxes... fox it is...
and i can be a sly ******* if i really want
to be: i'll pretend to be naive... stupid...
ooh... ooh! "what's happening"?!
i know what's happening... i'm just figuring out
if the people playing games will figure out that i'm
also playing a game: their game and my own game...
i like pretending to be an idiot...
but when a chance comes and i can launch an
assault... i can be a merciless Rommel... Erwin...
i just play a waiting-game game...
it's fun... it's very much akin to a game of patience
when it comes to making wine...
or cooking a pristine curry...
like with Frankie, the girl i work with from time to time...
of all the colleagues she's the first one
i made personal references to...
she's also the first colleague i met up with outside
of work in casual clothing... i pointed it out:
a bit weird, not seeing you in a shirt / tie or a black
t-shirt...
it took me back... to the old days of...
"smooth-handshakes": i have £25 in my hand
she has a sachet of hash in her's... we shake hands in
public and the transaction is over...
she texted me last night: so... how's the "gear",
the dealer Adam wants to know...
i replied: well, i don't know... i haven't smoked it yet...
i'm all for delayed gratification...
i must have mentioned this already:
when i was younger i used to smoke marijuana to a level
of stoner, a stereotypical long-haired blonde "surfer boy"
type that an Australian girl would and did go out
with... i stooped to the level of binging on reggae music
and stoner rock and progressive rock blah blah...
an 1/8 (ounce) would last me a weekend...
then psychosis hit and i haven't smoked it for over 10 years...
a ******* invisible choir in a church
and a great wind that dispersed it... sad, sad story
(ha ha... back in 2007 it might have been
if nothing spectacular happened since...
but a lot has happened)...
but like i revealed to her: i need a smoking session
to be ritualistic...
i won't be delving into the mind that's high on hash
with the use of these two hands and a keyboard
and imaginary paper...
funny... when it comes to typing i'm very much
ambidextrous... you have to be... using a keyboard
to type... although... i once encountered
a general practitioner, old geezer... who used only one
hand to type, well... "typed"... he chicken-pecked with
his index finger the keys on the keyboard...
sure... some people go as far as use two index fingers
on both hands... me? i need to use all my fingers...
some i use more frequently otherwise i don't...
the pinky and the thumbs are especially favourite when
it comes to spacing and line-breakers and all the SHIFT
additions to a text... i think... i think i use the ring fingers
the least, mostly index, middle, thumb and pinky...
yes, the occasional ring finger: ah!
right hand ring finger is mostly used when deleting text,
and sometimes using the enter button
to give ground for a new line...

no, no one likes working with Danni, she's a terrible
supervisor, as most women when given
charge over young men,
instead of working with then, trying to gain them
she dismisses them and sends them packing: home,
not getting paid for a shift...
rifts of resentment... there are some aspects of
life that women don't understand:
their enlarged hearts are dismissive of certain
nuances... you can work with boys that
are not engaged with this simplest of works
concerning crowd safety, but you need to engage with them,
you can't just dismiss them!
i play into her thinking process that i'm
somehow her friend... she has already bought
the line and sinker... i'll keep her there...

i had to, for ****'s sake, take care of my staff
and her staff too, why?
who did she choose as a breaker,
Darwinism beckons, nature yawns...
a diabetic sick-girl who suffers from spells of standing-still
vertigo... i had to ask this sick girl to change her
function and stand in one place...
Danni? oh... she placed her in the worst possible
position... in a place where all the fans are rowdy
and constantly standing...
some people "think" they're thinking...
they're not...
i don't think they are being purposively
******* ******* but it just looks like this:
all-inclusiveness is not working out
as many have thought it might...
what are we talking about?
single men... tiger-mums in the East
and mantis-wives in the West...

how will a boss ***** relate to an unruly bunch
of teenage boys?
she won't! me? upon signing in i fist bump
or shake their hands... i recognise them...
men crave being recognisable, familiar,
constant... women? just attention-*******...
anonymously... or in passing...
men like to adapt to being recognised:
being familiar... women don't understand that
through their own self-objectification...
men are more prone to the: other's-subjectification...
a woman is self-objectifying
while a man is the subject-of-the-other...

i've watched enough people, i should know...
at a usual game i've built up this rapport with a few fans...
all the men are shouting out from the crowd:
hey! 5 bottle man!
a point of reference i should know about...
when this guy asked me for five bottles of water
from within the crowd...
he's referential point being: the subject-of-the-other...
women? ha!
they're like the solipsists of their youthful advantages
of looks... they are self-objectifying...
they are never a subject-of-the-other in their perception
of reality... they are not even an object-of-the-other
in their own mind's cravings...
could i ask a woman to dress up or put up make up
without her wanting to a priori the demands
or her own conjuring?!

but this one shift amazed me...
i had this breaker tell me...
'i'm not really sexist... but would you mind if i gave all
the female stewards breaks first,
before giving the males a break...'
i played it out... sure thing mate... you do that...
after all... the "new" gynocentric is the "old"
egalitarian movement, no?
let's see how this plays out...

              the old model worked according to: left to right...
or right to left... oh... not a spectacular specimen...
started talking me with all seriousness of
casualness... i hate my hair...
but you wear a baseball cap, mate, no wonder your
hair is matted... heard of Agar oil?
it's so much better than wax or hair gel...
but of course i didn't say it...
all the Asians with beards use it on their beards...
they carry bottles of Agar oil in their pockets to oil
up their ****** *****... i would too...
hadn't i oiled up before every shift...

sure thing mate... you do you "i'm not a sexist"
experiment by breaking the women before the men...

i'm just trying to figure out what i could possibly write
if i were in the vicinity of children that belong
to other people, how i could mould them with
the PROPER sort of ROT of explorative
tactics... hmm...

i'm getting a hard-on just thinking about it...
just the past two days i've been punishing myself
with a pleasure-delay tactic,
tomorrow i'm going to scoop the buds...
******* without *******...
my god... my hands are big...
no wonder i built up a beard-envy
and sort of forgot about a ***** envy...
the last ******* was sort of inhibited with her
pleasures... sort of uncomfortable...
half-way in and already the signs of discomfort...
big hands... mega business of jazz clapping...
well... that's life...

the KOMBUCHA mushroom people!
   shoe-g'ah!
rewrite everything in English phonetically!
come here, pwetty! give us a kiss!
smooches: yummy yummy!

but this guy "thought" he figured it out...
giving out all the breaks to the women
first, before the males...
i gave him the "substance" of "sport"...
work out? like **** it did...
one elder steward rebelled...
d'uh...
i'm taking into liking the Somali girls...
a Somali girl actually sent him back
to do things hierarchically...
from left, to right...
i'm a man... but i'm not a sexist...
seriously, mate, you're not a male...

it took a Muslim girl to teach you otherwise...
all smiling, smiles in slime...
i implored her: you know it wasn't my idea...
you know that he was just trying to get
his ***** wet in your ****:
not as literally...
she agreed with the most beautiful smile...
i'm starting to get turned off by white girls...
i'm starting to get turned off by white girls...
i'm finding the ones in niqabs and of a certain
ethnic "persuasion! rather attractive:
like one manager in the company
said the basics: black don't crack...

i'm looking at these girls and thinking:
butter melting by the power of the moon's rays...
how pretty they look...
i terribly want to **** them...
i'll terribly **** them!
these clues into nuns that Muslim women are
for a Don Giovanni...
these pretty petite Somali noses...
i bite i bite i bite i want to bite them
like cherries!

no wonder then...
i masturbated for two days prior to engaging with
the prostitutes...
i checked the proportions and non-proportions...
i'm done dealing with the ***-affairs of
stereotypical men...
i'll be ******* anything that moves...
married? not my problem!
seriously, not, my, problem!

mosh-pit carnal maggot fun!
well... if one generation sold us the patriarchal restrictions
being lifted, and what? we're to return to
a patriarchal system of "authority"...
you, what?!
i'm not going to live a life my elders lived with
full freedom that i'm somehow supposed to
inhibit, deny myself...

oh... i'm going to have the same as them: please!
no please?
then i'll **** the status quo!
simple!

the night crawls into a fruition of being limited
with being imbed....
two spiders for the worth of my hands....
i will die the most exotic pain
imaginable....
i iwlll surprise the "lost crowd".....
i will surprise the brothel...
30 minutes with one...
then as i am about to leave:
30 minutes with another...
and another... and another...
and another...

              one of those Lucy Letby trials...
only men are monsters...
my hernia and my Chernobyll
tattoo: the one she almost choked me
with... i survived...
i shouldn't have survived...
woman! agony to come!

i scratch my beard... i think: time is...
precious...
but women are very little inclined
into this dynamic.....
the world can burn!

death's trough: and pigs eat ****....
   best, kept reminder!

       well what a shift i truly wasn't expecting yout atypical
chocaletiers to come up with a game
of: broken chair frisby...
that yellow burning man pyro-technics was also
spectacular... but not even my mum would be
so concerned about my well-being as
this supervisor was today... what a terrible sloppy
mommy... i don't need to be protected
by your inability to protect me: i'll judge for myself...
******* busdy body...
i want in on the action...
    
i just couldn't wait for the shift to end...
i promised Frankie a review of the hash she sold me...
i told her:
i need to be tired from a shift,
i need some whiskey... i need an imaginary
octopus slobbering on my cranoum,
i need ***...

funny... the freely i have *** the more i'm detached
from it...
once upon a time i was all about pleasing
women... after they stopped pleasing me
i figured out: a **** it modus operandi...
time to be taken care of...
i think i'm so emotionally detached while having
*** that i'm borderline psychopathic...

not that i have any vanity project coming across
implying i might be hurt by
this condescending word...
no, rather the opposite: i very much enjoy it...

just today i stole another kiss from a *******...
she was so unwilling telling me:
you moustache is fiddly and it's tickling me...
but we kissed nonetheless...
she wasn't into ******* vaginally...
i felt growing limp at some point...
mental blockage...
it happens...
never again will i spend two days prior
jerking off without *******...
i know the "even horizon" of jerking off
and the moment when the head of the phallus
is being pierced via the ******* being
expanded: for men... anti-circumcision...
it's like being a ****** again and again: and again: and again...

she blew me, then massaged me with her long
fingernails...
oh... once she reached my cranium,
neck and shoulders... it felt better than the *******...
i was going limp... why? mental constipation...
it happens with men...
i was actually thinking about the furnace
of nothingness after *** after smoking some Afghan
hash... having grated into a cigarette on
a Rodin's take of ******* NUTMEG!

i ****, i love *******,
but i'm surrounded by people who don't like *******...
a terrible bewilderment...
to be alive is to love to ****...
who am i surrounded by? people who have attired themselves
in: progeny...
  people with children...
careless and carefree mothers of agony...

II.

i have to admit, it took me about 4 hours to wake up:
wake up proper...
each time i opened my eyes i felt myself
needing to turn to my side and fall back into nothingness
of that currency of switch-off brain
(let the body recuperate) -
a comforting numbness with a side dish of tickling
and fuzziness...
i woke up absolutely not interested in thinking...
for once... i wanted to absorb last night: fully...
frankly, i didn't want to let last night go...

O grand father time and the river that's your bride...
what a gloomy day... my perfect sort of day,
i'm so very fond of the weather of England,
more so the weather of Scotland,
island weather: my kind of weather,
gloomy, autumnal, the sweetness of botanical decay
and all the flourish of chlorophyll retreating from
the once bulging leaves of green...

wow... so that's what it feels like?
like that photograph by Richard Lam with the couple
who were knocked down by the riot police
during the Vancouver hockey riots
(Stanley Cup playoffs)...
well, last night it wasn't exactly like that...

west ham vs. Anderlecht... what a shift...
flares were thrown either side, chairs were ripped out
and used as frisbees... coins were thrown...
and i was on the edge of the tension...
me? never in a million years could have thought
the Belgians to be so triggered...
in comparison the Danish and German fans were tame...
phew...

afterwards like i said:
a magical combination of work fatigue,
an 8.2% cider and two or three sips of whiskey...
three cigarettes,
brothel... ***...
well... she didn't feel like having ***...
she felt like performing oral *** and looking
at herself in the mirror...
that's the first time i've seen it...
alternating from looking in the mirror at herself
and looking into your eyes
and then closing her eyes... a rare combination...
it's usually eyes looking at you
or eyes closed... rarely out of her own accord
looking at herself in the mirror...

and then? laying on my stomach the better part
of the evening: a massage... shoulders...
back... long nails digging into my flesh and...
roughing up my hair...
then? persuasions to steal a kiss...
yes! stole one... she was put off slightly by the tickling
of my beard...
but my god... those nails digging into my shoulders
neck and head...

another one i will give a book of poetry to...
raven hair work of a blue night in Venice...
then onto home and some more whiskey
and... that Afghan hash...
   two pinches of it being heated up... so... not much...

i just smoked a cigarette and opened my cigarette ash
tray (a jar that formerly housed pickles)
and peered in... what?! i only smoked half of the Afghan
hash joint?! seriously?!
i'm a light-weight... that 15 year break from smoking
anything has seriously did me some good....
me? last night? i was travelling across the entire
universe... i was hallucinating a darkness that was
a thinking-darkness that was heartbeat-darkness
a musical-darkness... i was travelling with the sort
of energy that could connect the dots between
gravity and antimatter...
     i was on the edge of a black hole and my heart was
dancing...
upon waking you have to listen to something
like Bruce Springsteen's Human Touch...

a touch of a woman... i'll agree with any critic:
i am a paranoid psychopath during ***...
i don't like being lied to during ***...
i have enough pornographic doubts to understand
that i don't want to be ******* an actress...
she might be a *******: but to hell with *******
actresses... even in their own words
they are asexual... prostitutes on the other hand
are closer to nymphomaniacs than actresses...

what, after the ****** revolution of the 1960s
future generations would tame the whole Pandora down?!
i don't think so... the Vietnam war had the best
soundtrack (period)... am i going to slow down?
no! but this Western Model that a man has to have a *******
horse cart and cottage to have *** is beneath me...
no! no! i looked into the Japanese model of
the Love Hotels and figured...
well... that's not getting any traction over here...
and since i'm only willing to follow the Laws of the Dogs
i.e. a dog only ***** if a ***** is willing to give...

and if prostitutes are the only ones willing while
the remaining women are interested in pair bonding
*******... i tried that... dates... clams and oysters
and spaghetti dates... cinema dates...
russian roulette of condoms and contraceptive pills...
i tried but i figured...
not even the whole dating app hook-up culture...
that **** passed me by, i was being busy in my 20s
unravelling a schizophrenia misdiagnosis
and reading up on philosophy...

                         imagine that... unlike Syd Barrett...
i descended into madness and... looks like many years
later i have emerged a pillar of nerves...
i'm calm during crowd riots,
i'm calm in the middle of one guy trying to choke
another guy to death while calming both of them...
and i can sit very calmly across 5 women that
i ******... oh sure... and i don't need that much
alcohol to have a brave heart... just a little...
and i won't flinch... i'll look all five of them in the eyes
and take my time before choosing one
of them for yet another night...
  
Western narratives morphing words like
******* into *** worker... "*** traffic" blah blah...
spoken by women about women
who actually enjoy having ***...
a female intellectual is hardly interested in ***:
true or false statement?
sooner rather than later i realised that i'm
more than just a political or a social animal...
i'm a ****** animal...

i like the idea of: an abstraction of people...
a sort of pedestrian abstraction... a quickie encounter...
a snippet of an entire other world that appears
and disappears as one might assume for it to be the case
in the macrocosm reality of time and all the people
in the world and the past and future to come...
but this... in a microcosm sort of imitating-the-host-of-god
so of way...

maybe because it's because of that Van Morrison song
Brown Eyed Girl... maybe, just maybe...
a well worn leather peeping through those eyes,
a body i could pretend to sit on
and snooze, or something like that...
it's just so much easier when women drop all their guards
and something casual can be achieved
without all that neuroticism of relationships...

i wish i learned this lesson when i was younger:
you can never love one woman,
well... you can love your mother,
you can tease your mother in a way that she feels
more like a friend than some authority figure...
and even if there's Lucy Letby when you were
born, attempting to **** you by somehow choking
you in a way that enlarged your heart
on top of the hernia and oh: if mother was in agony
giving birth to you you gave a second birth unto
yourself with equal agony:
no wonder that i turned to prostitutes for what
i really needed...
the medication of touch...

i'm not going to hide my intentions or for that matter
boast with "performance cues"...
sometimes it's long, sometimes it's short...
sometimes this, sometimes that...
but i'm sometimes a very impatient man
and i don't like being impatient...
even now: it would be pointless to merely focus my
attention on one woman...
a projected investment with Khadra that i ended
with buying her lingerie and not over-stepping
her demands to push further with 18-carat
earrings and necklace: let's be realistic...

of all the things i gave her, my bleeding heart of
poems blah blah...

point being, i just have Samuel Little and Jack the Ripper
on my mind when engaging with ***
with prostitutes... esp. when kissing them...
how could they?
**** me... not enough girls out there to ready yourself
for work in a nightclub and save up enough
dough to buy a mandolin and play it outside one
those girl's windows...

in a way i'm a loser that won...
a very limited number of pastimes occupying my mind...
reading, writing, listening to music,
cycling, walking, ***...
i replaced watching movies with the cinema of
my memory... surely if i were a bad man i wouldn't
want to remember anything from the past...
hell... if there's no afterlife i'll just relive my life
in reverse... i jump into the vehicle of memory
and unravel all that i have forgotten...
because i don't believe eternity could be spent
so idly as presented by either heaven or a hell stasis
of a realm...
i could fill out eternity given the dynamic of what
i remember and what i have forgotten
(not by choice, but by the naturally fickle selection
of memory, eroded by the pedagogy rubrics
of arithmetic and spelling, to begin with)...

A sum total of immediate family gathered
at a seaside Italian cafe
half loving getting time together
half dreading the weight of the urn

taking turns to tickle flippancy
in an honoured tradition of laughing
in the face of the massive horrors of life,
scales on the crusty familial armadillo

It’s time

Each step beyond the coffee steam
feels further into foreign territory
where defences weaken
even though the climb is sweet

we walk up a hill to reveal a familiar vista
that youth ignored huffily, heartily
and adulthood yearns for,
where memories pepper current steps

The humour shield holds until the ash is cast
when my throat clutches to swallow
knowing that my reasoning can’t break this,
even though you’d wipe it away

You aren’t allowed to soothe these tears,
they serve for the years and years,
pay pennies into arcade machines
and buy novelty rock never eaten

The bedrock and foundation of us
stands on this sometimes sunny head
holding hard to the ropes and lines
until the next handover

Yes, we know there are wars
While the cost of living soars
We know there are scandals
About the political shambles
But…why aren’t we talking about climate?

We know about inflation
And the economy’s grim destination
We know about Brexit
And the gossip about Megxit
But…why aren’t we talking about climate?

We see petrol costs rise
And dwindling supplies
The poor have got poorer
Our children insecurer
So, why aren’t we talking about climate?

Our home is the earth
Where all mothers give birth
And all the earth gives
Enables each human to live
So, why aren’t we talking about climate?

News stories mean nothing  
If the planet is boiling
1.5 draws near
Our future unclear
So, why aren’t we talking about climate?

There still is some hope
If people take note
And demand of Earth’s leaders
That immediate change that is needed
So, let’s make sure that they also talk about climate

Please sign and share this petition - at 100,000 signatures the Government will be required to debate this issue and maybe the UK can do something special before we handover our COP responsibility.  Thank you very much!  https://petition.parliament.uk/petitions/615537

Marriage,
uses his left hand to slap
the groom for future problem
uses his right hand to handover
the bride for pleasure,
which he so long waited...

Your jasmines smile, when
you handover a bunch to me.
It makes you win my lips.

I do not know how
you turn roses pink, when
I hold your hand under the moon.

In an esoteric way, love
will make the words disappear.
The cage was always empty.

don't get me wrong: i like to drink... the moment when you're just about to finish a 70cl bottle of whiskey and you get the cold sweats.... i never like to drink for mere taste... to excess or nowhere... that's why i own two bicycles rather than a car... you can get away with running against a red light at a crossing... but... the love is not so rife as it might be Siberian youth who... might **** their mother for not buying them a bottle of detergent... or some cheap Romanian fakery of: perfumed animals matter... some alias i have: i don't like to keep company when drinking: i either get doubly drunk on conversation: if i'm allowed... or my mood entirely sours... and i'm sort of buying fake mortality with... imagining the contender for companionship dunking digestive biscuits into... hot milk...

i asked for a shot of Jameson and half
a pint of Guinness...
she asked me whether i wanted ol'
McFaferty: Mr Whiskers and Ms Amber
in a glass over some ice...
i said i'd much prefer it in a shot glass...
i needed to make my lips into a pucker...
****... i also ordered half a pint of
Guinness... obviously i was going to wait
at the bar for the Guinness storm to settle
and two clear layers emerge...
ha... i went to university to study chemistry...
but the best chemistry experiment
i did in high-school...
its simplicity: pinching the event horizon
of how: polyethylene is created...
or was it: polyester?
hmm... it didn't smell like an ester might

now i know there's a perfectly sound
scientific explanation...
but i still want to be in awe:
i want to be ignorant...
bluntly put... less Luddite and more:
the rustic bear...
concerning?
how... you have yourself a cold glass of:
paddy does the best whiskey...
sorry Macfarfarferry Pict...

       the Irish blend a more subtle whiskey...
the Scots: ****'s sake...
they went one step further:
smoking salmon was one thing...
inventing golf another...
but... i hate Marmite... i love liquorice...
Laphroaig...
same ****: different cover...
while the:
paddy paddy: you one-arm bandit:
care to lend me your... ******* paddle?!
create the most subtle accents of a whiskey...
sort of shy hues...
nothing... akin to what a handover ****
looks like: concentrated amber trickle...
the Irish don't like their whiskers smoked...
me too... although...
i'm a bargain when it comes to a waggling
tale of a tongue on the topic of hops...
then again: where's the mead?!
it's always funny walking into a supermarket
aisles entitled: spirits...
well... ha... plenty of... ghosts?
like me: from yesterday...
frost instead of stubble... where the Turkish
barber made sure... i'd have to scratch some stubble
off the otherwise pristine line of beard...
i'm veering off even touching *****
because: it reminds me of how the English treat it...
lukewarm... and mixed with orange juice...
sorry... what?!
so not chilled until it resembles a glucose syrup...
and drank straight... usually with a bite from
the Spanish kitchen?
ugh... unbelievable barbarians: these Ing-leashed
when drinking *****...
shouldn't you people settle for warmed up 40% ers
like warm whiskers and Brady: the Bard of:
a load of *******?
lukewarm *****... orange juice...
it's a headache...

so you pour yourself a glass of cold:
i forgot to pick up a glass...
a teacup with have to do...
and... magic... water starts to condescend...
i'm pretty sure i haven't used condescending
words... on the outside of the cup...
have you perhaps noticed...
this has a perfectly scientific explanation:
it can be explained:
but... i don't want this to be explained...
it's my own little cosmos where
i'm entertained...
why would i want to know:
how a magic trick works?
   isn't it... magic: once more?
once it has been explained and is by one:
about to be reinvented with someone
like me...
reinventing alchemy in the culinary
       department...
i don't want the sordid explanation
that might leave me: completely...
sober & diatribe... shouting at a chair:
move! van Gogh! move!
****... this telekinesis isn't working...
pet names for inanimate objects...
i call my bed...
             dreamless jezebel...
what would i call the chair i'm sitting in:
hunched like a crow a pecking
at: even i don't believe he's perusing for...
coal?! it too was thinking: a nugget of gold...
but...
it's not like gold will give you
what coal arrives at...
to prove a "point" of not being the next
to last Nietzsche "incel"...
i went to the brothel and felt happy...
one hour at a time...
just one hour at a time...
it would make sense to tempt the bisexual:
to spread one's ****...
it would make sense...
            i purposively cycle into Soho
to have the impossible happen...
gays want me...
not old queens...
my... contemporaries...
i leave the girls and... they are girls:
on the ferris-wheel...
all glitter no **** of a baby in
prospect...
why wouldn't i take up prospects
of "game" among the gay community?
it's nice to be seen to feel wanted...
even if one is the *******
plumber... sort of speak:
made: available...
but i'm not giving up my **** virginity...
so easily...
not as a moral compass trajectory...
simply...
out the the fact... if i take so much
pleasure emptying my bowels...
******* out a 12" ****...
from time to time: sometimes
**** miracles happen...
why would i want to invent in...
"ingesting" through the same wind-pipe
an agitating presence of a phallus....
or imitation?
water... gripping the outer layer of a
glass of water...
since... there's cold water & ice-cubes
on the inside...
it can be explained by science: FACT!
boring little bothersome reality...
no witch-burning...
everyone so primed and sensible and
almost English... having just invented
cricket... making the Pakistanis feel
they're the ******* Brazilians at some
sport beside fools'-feet: spaghetti twisted...
hey... here's an 11's imitation of
kicking Jupiter about...

while dogs outright bark at alcoholics...
cats... on the receiving end:
perhaps they just: expect them to: crop up...
each day i wake up and i'm reminded
of the banality of life with its lack
of responsibility: however less teased with
homosexual excuses...
but i'm happy to not have a female
counterpart that might... esteem me as nothing
but a hoarder of screws... bolts...
a shoe collection...
i'm happy to be... relieved of the responsibility
to: SPEND...
can you even begin to envision a life where:
trading one set of inanimate objects
for another set of inanimate objects
stops feeling like... this... telekinesis... ought to stop!

sorry... what the **** are we doing?
trickling down a joke
as to how... or why... a monkey deserves to be...
barbered?!
last time i heard: the Taliban was asking
all the right question...

i can see it... almost...
it would feel so great to explore... have a second coming:
first: choosing...
turning bisexual...
but i have so much pleasure from an imitation
tapeworm coming out....
that: i honestly don't feel like...
have to want: to be expected to want...
some erected: wriggly bit...
being... inserted in... for me to:
pretend not to cough...

the concept of the week... the year?
sort of... dissolved over my head
when i tried to incorporate it...
8am seems fanciful... don't you think?

i burn a candle: so as to sit on a windowsill:
in order to... see my fat head being...
found: casting a shadow on a wall...
the end...

       summer is almost over; ergo?
the moon was bound to return to the night sky
over England... well...
Essex: if the rest of England is so inclined to think
so little of Essex...
i think so subsequently less of what's
England: on offer...
petty ******* moralist junk-in-betweens...
one bemoans the placing of Essex:
once...
the rest of England?!
eh... ****** pseudos: sort of English...
sort of Bradford... Rotherham...
your *******: ******... proper... by ****-
prishtine... INGLEASH...
at some point... you might want me to care?

i want to drink and sleep: the gods granting:
i might dream!
so much for miss pretty white girl anti-racist
having one of her anti-racist ***** with
a black guy...
sorry... beside Calypso...
i don't want to **** black girls...
i don't want to be homosexual...
i much prefer the Turkish ol' raven haired...
Ottomans teasing the Caucasian womb...

you tend to "forget": something important...
living on these isles...
the anglo-saxons were a people:
were...
as an anglo-slav:
sorry... distinguish me from the Russian
BRUTE...
the serb & goat...
Islamic sorts can confuse me with
having a face of a German...
i'll allow it...
i like it...
               i lick my wounds:
there aren't any...
my ring finger my pinky are numb...
i can't clench my index to
make a proper fist...
i dream of the Faroe Isles...
           i dream of ice...
i dream of water...
i dream of fire...
no wonder...
i dream of such wants that...
i can't dream of them!
let me eat: fog.

i'm only ever after... a cushioning
pillow worth of rest...
to mind the old ghost...
the new shadow...
a jung and his matchstick play-dough
of ego...
an evelyn waugh an edward
hopper... hardly a...
last bearable breath of loitering
empire... and pride...
and... in this language...
the viet-cog-and-cong sort of...
ambush! in... the vicinity of...
the semi-detached jungle
of... there's a name for that sort
of enterprise...
     pride from the "revision" of
empire... when last awake...
the hitch-hiker borrowed from
pearl habour... godzilla loop-holes...
sorry... no... no soppy story...
the connells: 74 / 75...
   kid growing up...
   the beastie boys...
always and forver...
godzilla contra ghidorah...
beastie boys: inter-galactic...
   urotsukidoji ****: whipped cream...
tow: ties...
   this grieves the sentance of
a hong-kong handover...
            come hiroshima...
nagasaki... chernobyll..
                        new advent revision
of... snap-shot auschwitz!
hiroshima: like... blind... *******
ride of... the arbeit macht frei:
because...
in a land of only workaholics...
drinking is neither a desired nor
a way to bypass...
even the huxley argument for alternatives
doesn't work...
miracles or cobwebs...
tarantulla bread winner...
since... the web spinner is...
the loitering... grief of...
a da vinci whimp: waiting for a pope...
pauper the seventh...
art is best provided...
when it is matching...
a... patron!
                  grief that one might have
to be wedded with...
a plot of argument:
a race baiting bride...
if she was a kenyan chic-choc-flick...
a *** "parisian" porcelain...
a thai suntan of squint: and lay-the-mon's'dayz...
on suit: and off...
           i'll call her new delhi...
and... black cardamom...
and i'll her her cinnamon...
i'll call her kalachiri! i'll call her...
kashmiri zenith tease: nibble... bite...
piquant...
                    i will... ****... anything...
that... moves...
half of pakistan is left with...
a mongolian surname...
KHAN...
and Baghdad pretends to not be...
because... there's no JoJo: no new:
Baghdad is the "new" Istambul...
          
all our... cherished parodies of time...
the Turk is somehow...
the Angevin...
        tuba büyüküstün?
                    as one might cite...
a "bit too beautiful" for her...
              said beauty... and then...
hardly... the crevices... to conflate
the understanding of limbs...
this is enough...
longshanks... skinned...
             looted: the crux and scandal...
thus versed: and best: rooted:
oak;
        to have made attempts
to cry... is to have...
been unable... to... coerce
a conversion of laughter into...
an... exhilaration... thus... at best...
to cry... is to have played...
token... poker... mamluk... here is to...
being converted... owning...
a foreigner's own... more...
prominent... this... english... grief and
sorrow and rubble...
dickens! is to be prized above
shakespeare in the realm
of teaching children the language!
i will own this language more prized
than by those born into it...
that i have no name...
that i am akin to the mamluk
and the janissary...
                      convert: who to conquer?!
the king in yellow - the myth of reciting
in greek: famed:
how the h'americans discovered europe...
somehow...
    graham plowman...
in reverse: the h'americans were always
about to: "about to"... revive...
and... recite... regression...
find "old" europe: from within...
the confines of... "new" h'america...
like... poached egg meets... scrambled...
and... tickled ****: ******* *** master!
vegas lost ****-and-edges! *******-pusher...
saint-bite! saint-****!

and all that... saint stephen with a rose...
h'america... the forgotten...
h'elvegen... you are the rite:
for the ripenning of...
whatever... cluster **** worth
of autumn!

She awakes at 4am
Tiptoes around the house
Just to allow the sleeping babes
To continue dreaming
Takeaway tea, crib sorted the night before
There she goes
Out the door.
Extras this swing
Perhaps 16 days all up
She grinds against the world
A woman in a mine.
Oranges on, PPE off her hip
Prestart, handover, warm tea to sip
Always smiling, even if defeated
Crib in the fridge, hopefully has time to eat.
Incidents, meetings, head up girl
The perceived pressure weighs heavy
On your sweat soaked shoulders
You've got this kid.
She gets home, shopping under arm
Straight to the kitchen
Cooking up a storm
Weary and worn, still smiling
She deals with kids issues
Alert, focused and attentive
Giving her all until she gets cold
Ready to rest her unbrushed head.

And there I am
In awe.

Goodnight my love
I will sort what you could not
Look after yourself tomorrow
Be safe, sweet dreams.

There's a quiet night of crickets,
echoing in the applauds of the handover of sun to moon
A mystic smell of dew, and a due of rest,
I've locked my eyes into a dream, listening to the
ticking wood of an old kitchen door,
It slowly creaks open, and closes rust on their iron hinges
as I'm hinged in thoughts; attached by my many fears,
and the darkness forms a latch,

               -And it's night becomes it's key
                 that unlocks my inner demons poetry

long gone are the transcendental efforts
of the first night
can you feel the spirit: its felt tip
darkness:
now no ******* not American
Christianity the Christianity of Cain
Cain was summoned
from wandering Asia and Polynesia
and was implored the funnel
of the Slavs that didn't more
Wall People
while Huns and the English roamed
the world!

'you clearly haven't read my poems!'
"she clearly didn't read my poems!
attacking me so about my nurname
like that...

Romanian coworker:
a Michaella: MiXaella: la la la:
if not the ******* then
a coworker and the unbelievable woman
that is woman inside in woman
then inside of man

bliblical terms a long Roman ancient shake
of the arm
reaching almost to secret winkle of the index
against the elbow of
fellow man...
reach almost to a secret winkle of the index
finger circling the elbow O
fellow citizen high viz: special fizz...
not police officers
not ambulance workers:
just gatherers of a lot of flock of people...

could Bruce Springsteen compete
with Red Hot Chili Peppers:
two gigs apart:
i lied: Bruce failed but didn't fail
just aged insane
while John's psychosis: Fruit Scant Cents:
frizzy: ITalian spelling...
i lied:
i did leave the second night
without a sonic handover headache:
but then i blasted my ears into space
using headphones:

i asked you if you understood
and you sort of said: i do:
that pen would be put to paper
and my house would be my house
and you would always be welcome
but my house is my house
on paper and in my mind
as is the garden
i love my garden too much:
i put a lot of work into the garden
before i met you
and the garden for at least 2 months
of the year could be where
the dog comes crawling back into
the night scene of this roomy extension
of the house:
you will not even guess or attempt
to:

someone was about to jump at the fight
that exploded in Whitechapel station...
and i only managed to get a glimpse
at the commotion
someone shouted a disorientating hello
at the fight:
i saw Cain tackle Abel the ground

surely Tom Waits is no arena filling
god for women...
and another show stopping American:
the anti-****** came
with the anthem
of Born in the USA....

          i wandered back to watch the London
skyline:
i spent most of the 2nd gig
contemplating the London skyline
and how i will might miss it...

Jesus the Tourist:
he says: like the Muslims say:
so under Moses they wandered for forty years
in the desert and found no sea...
and Jesus said: let's go north
and let's go across the entire world...
i'll crucify myself: wink wink...
get resurrected and hey presto a comeback against
all this shameful wandering and inquiring
about the world:
head north on the anger of the Greeks at
the Trojans that became Romans...
no more pestering Babylon and Persia...
so Jesus allowed the Jews to be catapulted to
new travels: exporting Jerusalem
to GDANSK...
          
Jesus was a messiah travel broker:
he didn't foresee that in Poland they could find
a kindred spirit of Poles didn't move much
historically:
like the Scandinavians and the Germans
and... Kazakhs, Turks, Mongols....

                   he forgot that the Apocalypses
of the Chimneys would be look
the myopia of nostalgia for
the fate of years building the pyramids:
not less than slaves and more disposable plastic
artifacts...
            
who am i to hear up the work environment
being dusty...
so i thought about her god
and thought him a jew an assyrian
an egyptian a greek:

the world confuses me:
no some little scuttling powers
via Greeks understanding Christos
via the Romans understanding Christus:
so no new polytheism
paganism:
to salvage some of this supposed
monotheism:
understood three ways:
via Judaism
via Islam
via polytheism and paganism:

equivalent to:
via Father
via Son
via the Holy Spirit:

to me the father is Judaism,
the Son is Islam:
and the Holy Spirit is:
******* MADE IN CHINA...
feng shui, the zodiac, cosmology...
seeing faces in
inanimate objects...

seriously?
person? you are look for the persons
within the trinity:
can't help yourself just people watching?
I can't see something personal
when i see so much impersonal
shared:
collective conscious: what ought to be shared
in the confines of mortality
that is the ANTI-THESIS of MONEY:
money = exchange... of
but what is the x = y
of what can be SHARED... rather than EXCHANGED...
it's not love...
it's... ahem...
being curious of each other:
constantly putting on each other's shoes:

being empathetic in self
while non-being sympathetic in the other:

how? i don't want you going blind,
deaf or mad!
being empathetic in self: which creates a self-in-others
(but not in the others:
the policy of definitive articulation
and indefinite articulation
consc...

            the self is as real as the abstract
while a self is as abstract as a reality: that allows
abstracting: to be the higher form
of the dimension of the freedom of speech:
would you believe!
some of us don't believe in democracy
as we don't believe in the freedom of speech!
we are a superstitious folk
but not peasants:

sorta monks:
maybe angels...
we believe in silence and autocracy:
we hear winds in the mind
with power to summon demons and angels:
angels that sing
while god is near
and demons who / that / this / nothing...
all pronouns: non-sexually-explicit:
i.e. gender-neutral 2.0

         only the mind knows of these winds
these lives in Tornado:
Trubadour... ballast: basic boom...


p.s. funny point:
is that there is the monotheism of Judaism
and Islam:
while Christianity is the Holy-Spirit
of religions that allows for the soul be
perverted by monotheism!
that's why Christianity is:
the last remaining function of people
when pressed together
by the geology of the two monotheistic religions:
Islam and Judaism
while Christianity tries to smuggle in
Buddhism.... retaining a history
of the mythology of the Greeks...
said as written: have lived:
Homer and Odysseus did:
microcosm then the compactness of time...
and the compatible: ble blah blood blue
blue blood in-
-ability...
      
                the Holy Spirit is a deviation
from the current fight:
which Christianity spawned:
the Son is fighting the Father:
Islam is fighting Judaism...
this is not Cain killing Abel:
this story has origins in Cain killing Adam:
this is a story in verse:
this is a story of patricide:
Cain kills Adam!