Drinking my tea
Without sugar-
    No difference.
                                        
The sparrow *****
    upside down
--ah! my brain & eggs
                                        
Mayan head in a
Pacific driftwood bole
--Someday I'll live in N.Y.
                        
Looking over my shoulder
my behind was covered
with cherry blossoms.
                                        
        Winter Haiku
I didn't know the names
of the flowers--now
my garden is gone.
                                        
I slapped the mosquito
and missed.
What made me do that?
                                        
Reading haiku
I am unhappy,
longing for the Nameless.
                                        
A frog floating
in the drugstore jar:
summer rain on grey pavements.
        (after Shiki)
                                        
On the porch
in my shorts;
auto lights in the rain.
                                        
Another year
has past-the world
is no different.
                                        
The first thing I looked for
in my old garden was
The Cherry Tree.
                                        
My old desk:
the first thing I looked for
in my house.
                                        
My early journal:
the first thing I found
in my old desk.
                                        
My mother's ghost:
the first thing I found
in the living room.
                                        
I quit shaving
but the eyes that glanced at me
remained in the mirror.
                                        
The madman
emerges from the movies:
the street at lunchtime.
                                        
Cities of boys
are in their graves,
and in this town...
                                        
Lying on my side
in the void:
the breath in my nose.
                                        
On the fifteenth floor
the dog chews a bone-
Screech of taxicabs.
                                        
A hardon in New York,
a boy
in San Fransisco.
                                        
The moon over the roof,
worms in the garden.
I rent this house.

[Haiku composed in the backyard cottage at 1624
Milvia Street, Berkeley 1955, while reading R.H.
Blyth's 4 volumes, "Haiku."]

All of life,
everything we shall ever know
is found within the gardens

Pulling weeds and the cover crop
*** them under or pulling them up
I never remember

The soil crumbling between my fingers
Perfect for planting
All is hope and promises

The gardens are a cycle
You've have to add excrement to begin again

The seeds are sewn, the starts transplanted
Water slightly pooled, dripping down into
the rich dark soil
A red worm winds its way down
Life begins again
Vulnerable

The  light of the sun, so warming
Cosmic love radiated our way
Life is an urge, it finds its way

The lettuce, the tomatoes, the zucchini, the artichoke, the cauliflower, the raspberries,
a blue berry or two
Medicinal herbs, oregano, cilantro, too

Fruitful youth
A flower is a plant with a hardon
The juices running right down my face
Taste
Nourishment

It feels like total summer forever
But football and school come every September

The days get shorter
The plants turn yellow and brown
Outgrow themselves
Wither and die

Purgatory lives,
along come the cover crops and weeds
In winter all just try to survive

The garden know its limits
It knows what being is all about
All of life, everything we shall ever know
Is found within the gardens.

There isn't a girl in the world
without an incurable,
everything but unlovable,
psychotic or neurotic,
unique, personality trait.
I prithee, Lord, my soul to take.

Maybe I shouldn't mention it here:
But supposedly you have red hair.
I dunno though, a rumor maybe only.
I do know the thought makes me crazy,
and there's other colors there.
I know a strong urge to find you out slowly,
to see you undone in some solid morning.

I bet you see as little me as I hear you talking,
but I guess you can't know an intention,
any well-rounded notion goes flat.
in the absence of presence
Have to brave it with hardon and hardhat
'cause what brings things together's tension.

In the wain of the week,
we both get to drink.
Then dreamless sleep?
Or so I would like,
to pass heedlessly the night.
Or as I now imagine yours,
Scandinavian shores,
I don't know which I like more.

Let me indulge you, and tell you the only story than I can ever tell.

Last night, I dreamt of our pub. It was as gold and black as a caviar tin, a short walk away from school, aching with sun and ready with my pint of London Pride. The grubby green booth kissed your cricket whites and you were seventeen forever, seventeen and as blonde as a mothered statue of a prince, bone-idle, as blonde and as young as dreams can make you.

“Jesus died, for somebody’s sins…”

My hands were sweating around the pint glass and I could feel the promise of a **** in the air,  a good **** in some pink carpeted upstairs room in that ****** little pub from ten years ago where they played old music over tin speakers, where my youth dribbled **** into the flowerpots, where you and I had our first shut-eyed kiss in front of all of our friends and they never said a word about it, not one word.

“…But not mine.”

I fell in love with you in this pub where all I wanted to do was love you, touch you, tell you that you were the most amazingly screwable piece of **** this side of the Milky Way, when just your wayward finger could give me the hardon of my life – and in this dream, darling, you were as real as you ever were, as gold and compact as a star, pink crowned and already wet and I took you between my lips to soak you



G

L

O

R

IIIII

A



I dreamt of the whole length of you inside my throat, with my body so young and beautiful, and you coated me in your own saliva covertly, always hiding the things that I most desperately wanted to see -
batting my head and my hands away...

(Come on - let me see,
le us both be suspended in your spit,
insects caught in the molten gold, gold -)

“Jesus, died, for somebody’s sins…

But not mine.”

……….

I wish just one time
I could be there
when it happens
so I could meet
his twisted hardon
with violence
he'd remember
every time he looks
in the mirror,
and her belief
that men can love,
that night,
would be sustained

Mike
Matter

Ekim
Anti

Collision
Noisilloc

Nothing
Gnihton

coxswain or "***": a poet upon my shoulder, mind you embarrassing the comparison, twice the defeatist with a devil or an angel: twice the defeatist, still my prime mate! poet the ***! please don't elaborate on the said compliment! eight to an sixteen of oar upon the thames! you *****-nim-whitts! oar! oar! shmoore ore! by ten to 12 that coats about ten *******! you oxbridge falcons need the talk ***** to get a hardon?! trophy ***** awaits! limp ***** of McPhallon; what have they been feeding you: p & n + j all your ******* lives? no wonder you're a waste of time, i'd have more fun trainspotting that pretending to goo it out in gay over your "bulging" muscular-man crescendos... i've seen more anemics with more heartthrob effectuation than this *****-riddle-of-an-effort! at least the anemics get from (a) to (b) without having to pass your ****'s worth of (c)! i swear to god, most of these ***** sportsmen would have learned more in the army, than they ever did, or actually never did, "learn" at college... if not discipline then at least some respect, and if not respect, then at least some discipline... stop thinking about the fate of the ugly girls! row forest! row!*

sometimes, whenever a man couldn't have not have said it better, an orangutan out-mastered the masters of the swing, and gave him a permanent stitched-up kippah as reminder...

the world detests the men of necessary
stature, requirement, posture
and that welcome of adversary -

you wanted equality!
you didn't take it!
            who wants a woman equal a man
in the labour of war,
and who wants a woman equals in elsewhere,
what is there to come back to?
what candy floss dinners? what wish-you
good riddance?
    
  you are my necessary men...
       that sack-load of the last remaining rite -
but a skim off a skimmer...
the long-lost tattoo...
   i have here by daughter,
i have here my glue -
                   and may death pardon me,
for not living a life into her ageing
into me becoming a grandpa...
               who died: saving oh so worthy few...
and may my country be wed
unto tears, and let my country be
sufficed by the oh so many given,
but the oh so many pacified "grieved" -
and let that bell of the 4th of july
count 24, by noon with it,
and by midnight with all of those
we grieved a charcoaled choke worth of
goodbye...
                      let us all serve the infantry
of the years 1980 and 1990...
      when once we mattered,
we were subsequently left with
a fakery of goodbye...
in the days when we held more love
for our enemy, than our fellow countrymen,
for in those days:
at least the enemy held us in no
contempt: and looked us in the eye,
as sons of the same mother,
with a different pa...
                    and we learned
about the insidiousness of a woman's
desire to upkeep a "household"...
          and we said unto each other,
friend or foe:
         that this be the home of
joke and laughter: and the loss of
a bewildered, begrudging abode of a woman's
sorrow...
          that finally: set aside what's free,
we'd set aside the only freedom of
continuing our bludgeon against each other:
that our native tongue
became our native in translate -
          that we gained more from
fighting our enemy,
than having re-countered our, supposedly free;
we gained from love from our
enemy, than we were ever to gain from
our "citizens free".

/the music, makes the horror movie...


a schizophrenic definition by a psychiatrist
of a pauper: an Orson Welles
would be, pinch of
a Hitchcock adaptation gusto,
and you have Ed Gein
being the author of
America's sub-culture
narrative once
the milkshakes turned
to powdered milk...
you know the notables...
canary in the coalmine,
the kentucky fried mouse...
or cockcroach for the South
Asian, delicacy...
and thank **** the ****-
didn't export, and the cosmopolitan
sushi fetishists didn't catch onto
pickled herrings, Baltic "sushi"
as it were...
how harsh the word LOSER
sounds in th western lexicon,
dead... dead? like a *******
release from the zoo of
jerking off into bird nests
and wigs...
not to mention...
    you sure only the Russians
took dope?
have you ever seen
an asthmatic take on a marathon?
even I know, that
in the post cold war environment,
the Russians are bored,
simply, *******, bored,
or pretending to be the evil empire...
zee vest und itz glutton
suckling at the Dubai's camel
****...
               the Knightsbridge
gasoline riviera of clot, cement,
clot, cement...
     so the notion of:
having lost touch with reality...
hmm... today i walked into
a supermarket and bought goods
for 72.19zł (roughly 18 quid)...
I had a 100cl banknote,
and... spare change...
               namely 10 groszy,
5 groszy and 4 x 1 groszy,
1zł... 50 groszy, 20 groszy,
and 2 x 10 groszy...
   the LOSERS OF 2008...
    the sorts that can't get a hardon
without calling a uni hen sugg'ah
   or being called daddy...
EGO constructed on a one dimensional
slot machine dynamic, ching ching:
WINNER!
           death the sole democracy:
because what you must, is die...
    to counter post colonialism,
given the pre, or...
     so much for 'ard on baby boom boom
boomerangs...
couldn't you call a banker or
a Richie Itchy a schizoid personality
type?
        imagine the sort,
counting pennies...
                        crypto-"currency" existed
before any crypto-currency...
i. e., debit cards...
        a loss of reality for Wally-Wally
would probably be experienced /
attached to counting spare change...
take any of these authenticities
   and turn grief or anything profound
as the standard for which
a banker might...
be in touch with: "reality"
when being given pennies to count...
      the current wealth of people
is the same sort of nonsense ascribed
to writing stenography...
    oddly enought,  braille makes more
sense...
        since who has lost
being in touch 20th reality...
   i can almost imagine who drops
spare change on streets...
     as precaution...
a penny on a street it picked up,
and blown into...
sometimes put in a trouser pocket...
other times,
       dropped back onto
the pavement, like a tonne of lead.
a pneumatic drill,
   and a pick axe...
      a pneumatic drill,
   and a pick axe...
            not using pennies
while trading in millions...
is just... a high tier shizophrenia...
   or with that archaic
definition (premature dementia)
and focus "symptom":
a loss with "reality"...
            how ever did i return to my
pet interest, this psychiatric
ailment?
      well...
        being immersed in
Amrican sub-culture in my teens...
   but like i said,
some pepole pet cats,
walk dogs in a park...
     me? a pet interest...
   sometimes a word escapes
the zoo, the phobias and taboos
of established norms...
       funny...
auditory hallucinations are
more traumatic...
than visual hallucinations...
       my... that's an authentic
correlation with the horror genre:
the music, makes the horror movie...
but then take away
the horror movie
and leave the music...
      a Tim Burton
       every "weird" teenage girl's
dream...
               not that she doesn't
grow out of it and
becomes a materialist,
as the boy usually does,
and enjoys ***** with
only his own company.

This is a life
is it?

Sitting here
doing
watching

why am i
waiting
anyhow

I am frightened
by this question
renderedededed

I am square upon
the wind
and the wax

this accumulating
racket
of t ime

all the noise that's fit
to hear that
i hear that

i am that
noise
unless

time smirks
space yawns
and relaxes faster

and this inside
of bad making good
sense

lives today
smiles on us
is warmth

and i smell
of tomorrows
lust

all these nerves
all these neurons
need to make sense

of wetness
of a hardon
and there is no sense

What is your containment plan
For this Radioactive Hardon
I have for you

Everybody can see it
In my eyes
Not to mention yours

I know this makes no sense
You rarely do
punk