God knows how our neighbor managed to breed
His great sow:
Whatever his shrewd secret, he kept it hid

In the same way
He kept the sow--impounded from public stare,
Prize ribbon and pig show.

But one dusk our questions commended us to a tour
Through his lantern-lit
Maze of barns to the lintel of the sunk sty door

To gape at it:
This was no rose-and-larkspurred china suckling
With a penny slot

For thrift children, nor dolt pig ripe for heckling,
About to be
Glorified for prime flesh and golden crackling

In a parsley halo;
Nor even one of the common barnyard sows,
Mire-smirched, blowzy,

Maunching thistle and knotweed on her snout-
cruise--
Bloat tun of milk
On the move, hedged by a litter of feat-foot ninnies

Shrilling her hulk
To halt for a swig at the pink teats. No. This vast
Brobdingnag bulk

Of a sow lounged belly-bedded on that black
compost,
Fat-rutted eyes
Dream-filmed. What a vision of ancient hoghood
must

Thus wholly engross
The great grandam!--our marvel blazoned a knight,
Helmed, in cuirass,

Unhorsed and shredded in the grove of combat
By a grisly-bristled
Boar, fabulous enough to straddle that sow's heat.

But our farmer whistled,
Then, with a jocular fist thwacked the barrel nape,
And the green-copse-castled

Pig hove, letting legend like dried mud drop,
Slowly, grunt
On grunt, up in the flickering light to shape

A monument
Prodigious in gluttonies as that hog whose want
Made lean Lent

Of kitchen slops and, stomaching no constraint,
Proceeded to swill
The seven troughed seas and every earthquaking
continent.

I can hear you heckling me
to play those sketchy little games
and I always convince myself that
I’ve got a shot at winning.

and of course I’m one
to be fearless, and eager,
and unbreakable
to take that wild ride with you.

but on every revolution
and each wicked twist and turn,
I get a little dizzy–
sick and confused–
and I wish you’d just stop this ride,
and let me off
to let me live–
live to enjoy the lights of the night
with you.

My auspicious and audacious assault augments the annoyance of aged accomplices.

My bodacious broadside of boffolas berates and buffaloes bros beneficently.

A classy crusade Clownishly chiseling and criticizing childishness.

A devilish ******* of dillydallying dullards; devoutly denying dimwits the dulcet dream of defiance.

Excessive, exuberant edification, ebulliently eliminating education-evictees.

A fair-weather frolic in flippancy with furious fools floundering in flawed foppishness.

Gregariously grating glum guys gleefully, growing grander garnishes of gripping gallantry gaily.

Heckling hooligans highlights my heavenly humor.

Irreverently irking irritable, iniquitous idiots in inestimably infuriating and incredible instances.

A jolly, jocular **** joking with jerks.

A kreiger kicking kleptomaniacs in the karyotype. (Cut me some slack, this is 'k', after all.)

A ludicrous, laughing lambaste of lollygagging lunatics, loftily loosing luscious lunacy on lucky losers.

A magnificent masterpiece of malfeasance, a monstrous, malevolent mission of massive misfortune for the minor minors missing no malicious missive.

A noxious, narcissistic niggling of nitwits, niftily nixing the noisome naivete of niggardly nobs.

An offhand, off-color outburst of outlandish observations to outclass the obnoxious overtures of obsequious offal.

A pragmatic prediction of possible platitudes or platypi, a placid parley of pyrotechnic pleasantries provoking Pyrrhic protections by prurient prats.

A quixotic quibble quarreling with a queer quarry.

Ribald ribbing, ruining the robust reality of the repreachful, repugnant, and rapacious with risque ridiculousness.

A silly, slighting slander of sluglike slavishness, succinctly sinking sloppy simpletons sourly.

Tracing the titillating talent of towing tyranny to towering terrors to tactless, togless, terrapins of the times.

I am up
Awake
Before the sun
It's arrival
Heralded by
Colors creeping
Out against
The retreating night sky
Do not mistake me
For a morning person
I do not relish this
Nor do I mourn
For sleep
lost
It could be  
found
But this
is necessary
Not without joy
Not without sacrifice
Without a word
It simply is
A ride
My Fortress
of Solitude
For a mind
Besieged
By thought
At war with
Itself
Do not
retreat
Into the past
A ruthless place
A heckling pace
That tells you
You cannot
Hang on
Give no portage
To fate
For you cannot grasp
What the future holds
Just
Keep moving
Focus
This ride
It is the only ride
That matters
I wrap myself
In its tight fabric
It's sounds
Clicking and clacking
Racing thoughts
Shifting
Centrifugal forces
Sifting
As I order
Myself
Ride
As long
as I pedal
I am
Present

This is one of the great memories I have of the, rare but precious, moments I spent with my daddy. I was all of,maybe, six years old. And this is how it went dow that night...

It was during a wedding party for my dad’s good friend Billy Phibin, where he and I would pull off more than a couple of our wonderfully delicious pranks.  Mostly though, we would put to test our excellent skill in ******* off his wife, while amusing all the  wedding guests. And with a style all our own,  we would leave our  mark on a couple of “celebutants” of the New York, Atlanta art scene. My dad and I were quite a team.
I am sure we left our mark, to this very day, on those silly chicks!

As I recall,  one of the two, along with a terrible fake British accent, and some funky 70′s, pre-punk eclectic outfit, was wearing this pair of truly, unforgettable, green sunglasses.
...The kind that would put ol’ Elton to shame!

My dad and I,  when we weren’t throwing bricks, with Harold Kelling, off the top of the old Atlanta warehouse, followed the two celebutants around the party, heckling them through out the night.
...Or, when we weren't reaching for the neon coca cola sign, which seemed so close I thought we might actually be able to touch it, we razzed and heckled the crowd.

The warehouse seemed more like a huge tree house, full of everything wonderful and exciting, than a downtown loft, in the worst neighborhood possible, and where a man might actually be mugged and left for dead in the street!

My dad and I had indulged ourselves in all the boring fun we could stand at this point. Plus, the celeb chicks were getting ready to leave.  So we set our mischief into action.
It was crazy.
Like syncronicity.
...We never planned a thing,  yet we both knew what the plan was, and what the next move was going to be.
So like we were one entity, and in unison, we followed those two chicks to their swank little antique convertible, where we inevitably ended up, absolutely, tricking one of those silly chicks out of her “funky green sun glasses”!  
Not to mention her phone number, for my dad, no less!
My daddy and I were on a roll!
We laughed and laughed as I put them on, then ran.
Wearing those funky green sunglasses!                                  
"Well, that was fun!", my dad exclaimed.
"What's next Daddy?", I screamed with delight!
With a wink and a smile, we were off again....
That is when we really did it up!
We threw it all to the wind!
..and the real fun began!
Hell, we were already in deep **** with Linda Phibin and Da Mama!
....why not have some REAL fun!

...So, as we watched the little antique sporty speed off into the distance, my dad and I set our plan into action...

Let me take a moment to explain the entrance to this loft. It had a very narrow and steep stairway, which led, abruptly, to the sidewalk outside.
So if a man were to loose his balance, it would pretty much be over!

Back to the scene of the crime...

I will, again, note that this staircase was very narrow, steep, and old.

If a man were to fall, he would, inevitably,
land, face first, onto the ***** sidewalk.

...As my dad got busy positioning himself to look as if he'd fallen down the staircase.
He went on to position his face and wine cup just right...
... with them both spilling out onto the sidewalk...!

Now, my job was to sneak back in to the loft's tiny kitchen to get some "blood" for around his mouth and hand.
Off I went...
... I sneaked past the front room, then past the swing, onto the kitchen, people smiling at me the whole way.
... never knowing what was up my sleave...
Finally, I arrived in the cramped little kitchen.
I proceeded, in stealth mode, on to the fridge for ketchup.

Hah! mission accomplished!

I was headed back to the scene, when the
bride caught me by the arm, as she was mixing up some drinks.
She smiled and winked.
...I will always think, because she knew my dad,
and by reading the look on my face, as I stood there with her bottle of ketchup in hand,
she secretly loved whatever  it was, we were up to!
So she gave me the go ahead with then nudge of her chin. T
Then off  I was, once again!
We proceeded to put the finishing touches on our grotesque scene....
... A scene that would most probably now, cause, even, me to have a heart attack,
were I to come upon it!
As I reached my dad, who was all sprawled acroos and down the stairway, I screamed, in my kid voice; "Mission accomplished, daddy!"
"Here's the blood!"
We squirted it in all the right places....
After everything was just right, I  already knew my next mission:
collect the crew, and bring them out to the horrific scene!
Now, I must remind the reader, that "the crew" consisted of my step mother, who had been fed up long before now, and then there was Linda Phibin, who'd been over my dad's antics since 1972!
They made up the "crew"!
Just so you know, they were acting as if they'd had less no fun that evening.
and if they had to put up with “just one more thing out of us”, they would both implode.
Thinking back now, I can say with pride;
The scene was perfect!
We had everything in place.
Now for the theatrical perfomance of my entire childhood...
...My dad looked like **** Jagger, or even Keith Richards during the thrushes of a major overdose, or perhaps Joe Cocker, on a bad drunk...
....With his head all ******, from all the ketchup we'd squirted all over the  place, there he  was.
.. My dad with his bloodly head hanging out into the city’s dark, *****, and dangerous sidewalk!

After, once again, climbing the stairs, I rushed in on the crowd.
I was a kid in hysterics!
I was screaming about, how my dad had lost his balance.
and was, now, lying on the stairs, bleeding into the street.
I led them back to “the scene of the crime”,
sobbing the entire way.

...It was better than we ever could have imagined!
They swallowed it all, hook line and sinker!
They were all freaking out, screaming for an ambulance, medic, anything!
I even remember hearing someone scream,
“Oh God, I think his neck is broken!”
...Then another scream,
”And so are his legs!”
I'll never know how he continued to lay there without cracking up,
but then at that very moment,  
my dad sprung to life, acting as if he were some kind of zombie creature!
They really freaked at that.
... crying and screaming, and freaking out!
Then they screamed some more...
...I was ecstatic, bursting with pure admiration and awe of my daddy’s brilliant performance.
I was walking on air knowing we'd pulled it off , once again!
Meanwhile,
Let's just say, the others were a lot less amused.
So we all piled back into the momobee.
Then headed home, with them scolding us, and ******* the whole way.
....Some things never change!

Even then, my dad and I kept our private little buzz going....

...on  Ketchup and Green Sunglasses!

Dear rainbows,
Thank you.
Thank you for showing that out of every storm comes
something so inexplicably beautiful that we often stop all that we are doing to admire you.
Thank you for being a bright light at the end of every struggle.
The day that you don’t shine after a terrible storm is the day that I give up.
Thank you For your every hue.
Larger than life, your bright colors streaming across the sky,
Thank you for being a beacon to all of our allies.
I reach for you and your beauty.
Thank you for being the symbol of an identity I hold so dear
For your colored stripes are ever so often my only hope.
Thank you for giving me strength when I need it most
You tell us, not to give up when life is unfair, to not succumb to our despair
Thank you for being this, Mirage of heaven
The prettiest woman, a reborn Marilyn Monroe
Thank You For I can feel your hands guiding me
Down every bumpy road
Thank you for standing tall
Like paint trickling down from the sky
Thank you for being the bay and meadow
While the clouds fly high above your head
Thank you, for defining all my colors
All the colors of my rainbow eyes
Thank you for your rare kind of beauty
For, heckling the rain
Thank you, for brightening the sky
The vibrant shades of the world
Thank you for cheering me up
Even on the darkest of days
Thank you, because after the world glistens with rain
It's fun to explore what lies beyond your end

My configuration is accelerating
Off balance with the earth's core
Dissatisfied, I try to be still
My form is hyper and energetic
Loud and obnoxious
Mistaken and exaggerated for being cruel
I only seek to harness similarities
To stand grandly, instead I appear egotistical with low self-esteem
Contradicting, no way to make sense
This is a normal place
Disconnected, I try to behave
Social skill are at low percentage
Sitting, I embrace the heckling
one hand on heart and the other on mind,
In hopes to intertwine
Take control, define the soul
Combine me into a whole
Let standards go
Carrying a presence of a mild wind breeze
Never nearing nor ending

heatwave
hotter than Hades
heating every inch of our terrain
heckling with it's scorching sear
haranguing us from dusk to dawn
hell fires have been unleashed
holy cow we're in need of a bit of relief

last night at the poetry slam i felt like my youth was coming back to me

you see one young bloke went up to me and said don’t forget to cheer

on my mate, it’s his first time, and he keeps his poems to his heart

and i don’t think i am an old timer, because of my love of social media

you see i like the poetry slam because it helps an middle-aged dude like me

to find my mojo, and there are a lot of people who ain’t game enough to read

their stuff because of the heckling, but this young bloke last night really stole the show

i wasn’t clapping to be nice, i think he had a lot of talent and here is a song

you see it’s a great trip to the poetry slam, on his first night ever

you see he stole the night away, and might i add he won oh yeah

you see he had a whole lot of fun

and also dude, he blew everybody off their seat

you see i like poetry slams, because they are so much fun

you see it’s hard for a poor guy like me, to get anywhere on the buses yeah

you see the canberra bus service, dude, is so stupid yeah

the canberra government only care about the rich

they don’t give a **** about the poor

the poetry slam is a way i can really show everyone what i have

i don’t want to be one of those oldies who is too shy to go out

i don’t want to be one of those oldies who worries about family members

i don’t want to be treated like a bad smell, just because of my cracked feet

i don’t want to be treated like a shy person all my life

i am into computers in a big way, so deal with it, big fat rich ****** of this world

i don’t want to be shy at the mall, i like the mall, but not to sit there all day and night

i have a life to lead, i want to be famous, well, people, i am already famous on youtube

and Facebook, even if people film me on the street, when i am dancing, that doesn’t bother me

if you want to film me just to laugh at me, go right ahead, as long as that is all you do

i probably am on Facebook in a famous way, because i have been attracting attention to other people

in the last 8 years, i don’t want people to treat me like an old fogie because i really really extremely love life

i clean my house, and i know how to look after myself, i prefer to catch buses as opposed to getting lifts with strangers

don’t forget i am a person, i don’t care if you wanna tease, but i hate horrible teasing, for i am a real family person

you see mate, last night i really enjoyed myself, and if you want to catch me on bad slam search badslamnobiscuit on yioutube or Facebook

and watch the whole 2 hour show, because i did my own tribute to the great graham kennedy

you see i don’t want to be treated like a hooligan, i liked that man in the july poetry slam at the phoenix

you see he really lifted my spirits high and i liked the young dudes last night, yeah he was rad

when i got home, i watched june’s poetry slam on youtube, and dude, i sounded great

because i don’t believe in horrible teasers treating me like an old fogie, trying to get me to look worried

i don’t **** people off, but i am aware of my age, but i go to poetry slams to have fun

i go on youtuibe to have fun, i write stories to have fun, FUN, i tell you, i go to the christmas carols to have fun

i don’t want voices trying to get me to **** myself, i love my life for that

i know when i was young, i was a tad different to the other kids, but i wasn’t shy, i played basketball i played bowling

i went down the waterside at jamison and i wasn’t scared and i went to the movies

i went to the raiders every weekend, and mate i was a real teaser, and i know i am getting older, but i am ready

to make the poetry slam really work for me, you see i remember when paul berenyi asked me to look at these dogs

and he stuck a drawing pin on my ***, i felt, what fucken give dude, and i wrestled with micheal wright on the green grass

i know i am old now, and i can’t expect young udders to like me, like they used to, but i had a great conversation with

this man named rodney about things that make the poetry slam great

you see my voices are in the past, i ain’t living in the past, i really like my life at the moment

i don’t care if i look like my dad when i am on my computer, but i love computers, i always loved computers

i am constantly told in my head, my poems ****, but i can’t expect everyone to like them, but they should keep their opinions to themselves

because nothing anyone will say to me, will jeopardise my performances at the poetry slam, because it’s so much fun

i must admit, i get inspired my kids on youtube and television

i know i was a koomarri to muck around with, and i still believe in mucking around with my old school friends

i just don’t like these odd movements i get from my medication, i want to lift all my bad fiucked up thoughts up

but that is all, no more, i believe in having a lot of fun, reading writing and watching youtube

i only went to the mall all the time when i was living in mum and dads backyard, to show my independence

and now, i don’t need to be there 24 hours a day, be cause i have my own flat now, i am independent

i really hate when people are trying take my cool credits away just because i ain’t doing what they say

you see i am planning to go on a holiday on the first weekend of october to bate mans bay

and i am off to the carols in the domain on the 19th december

and i might not have very much money, but i can still plan holidays, i want to go Perth one day

i hate when the ghost of my father is trying to make me clean my house the way i used to

cause ya know what used to did, he just used to, my house is clean, occasionally i like to fall asleep on the couch

and do my tapestry, you see dad is being a dad, as he is trying to make me remember my past

i ain’t living or dwelling in the past, i believe in being nice to the youth of today

because they are the future, and i wish online stalkers will leave the young dudes alone

because social media is fun for people of all ages

you see, i want to show the world, how much i support the youth of today

the intellectually disabled and the mentally ill, of today

because my voices are judging me because of my past, and i hate that

saying, don’t muck with brian, because he kidnapped a kid

the truth is i never kidnapped a kid, i just was a crazy person back then, and i don’t want to dwell in that, alright

and i want to enjoy doing badslamnobiscuit, despite my voices saying i am not young

i don’t want people treating me like a cool kid to a tease, ok, i know my stuff can really entertain for this and future generations, dude

so, let’s have fun, dude

One hundred years of solitude
and Marquez still couldn't shut you up,
your words tear down the walls of Macondo,
heckling the Buendías, poking fun at Aureliano
and his golden fishes. The circular history
spins to a halt, and I fold down
the corner of a page, as if closing the book
could save the city built on paper,
on the Formica tabletop
of an old café with a broken clock
A few chapters back,
you were chastising time,
saying one day you'd
crack your watch open,
rearrange the gears, twirl the dials
and steal back from the ticking hands
that steal so much from you. On page 178,
you committed abominations,
spooning sugar into espresso,
and declared your love for Dali because
the man melted time,
didn't care for anything
not molded to the back of a horse.
Cranberry scone finished,
you ruffle the newspaper,
bemoaning the stockbrokers
who grow fat and complacent
on the crumbs of seconds,
chewing chronological cud, you called it,
but you said nothing could ever pin you down,
much less some cheap Timex
on a nylon strap. Cast out of the fourth dimension,
Marquez scribbles graves for the Buendías,
in death, they've forgotten the original sin
and the Colonel forges fish
from the gold fastenings on his casket
ad infinitum.

my thoughts
often bring me discomfort;
untamed impulses with picket signs
marching and heckling
at the guardians of my comfort zone;
lyrical demigods hurling  verbal spears
into protective shields of conformity,
sparing no means necessary
to crush the mould,
and shatter the paradigm of paralysis
rooted in fear,
the fabled sphere of thespians that didn't...

heed the beat of spontaneity,
the clashing cymbals of discomfort
and dance to deviant drums
like ginsberg and ferlinghetti
and kerouac and wakoski...

disaffected thespians that did

~ P
(7/13/2013)

Up on the hill the fire roars,
hisses and spits out sparks that reach to the skies.
Dancing away from the flames like souls from a battlefield.
One by one by one they fly.

Amongst all the chaos there's someone.
Sitting back from the heckling crowd.
A man who fears no man or evil
nor any a soul in the clouds.
His reasons long tempered by living.
Long days with the sickle and plough.
If it wasn't for hard work forgiving.
He wonders if he'd be here now.

this filthy
abomination

undeserving
of its rank

reigning over
your temper

holding your patience
at point blank

so why bother
heckling the crows

when their claws
are deep inside you

none can stand firm
before

or come close

In the hall of
the king of trolls

to a traveler, it comes as no surprise that life is nothing
but a beautiful, intricate web of choices.
black or white, up or down, yes or no.
season after season, day after day - a million decisions.

but in the icy stillness of a snowy midwinter,
one lone traveler came upon a fork in the road -
a path leading to the left and a path leading to the right.

voices sweeping through the air whispered of the possibilities -
right or left, left or right, one or the other, again and again;
the traveler's fate faintly whispered within the melody of the breeze.

when she could no longer bear the urging of the frigid rain
or the heckling of the grey wolf's howl,
she faced ahead, chin up
and pushed her own path
right between the two.

draft enclosed below... prior to?

    whiskey, always with the whiskey...
                         there was, some, "pressing" matter,
to give me over to grief...
     a grief that was never going
to be a grief...
                  more, a, bewildering in situ...
something unavoidable...
                        like finding respectable
homosexuals akin to douglas murray...
             ah! that's what it was...
watching the premier of rammstein's song
ausländer? thoughts?
                 "teaching" colonialißation in reverse?
truly... france, england,
   perhaps even spain...
                              teaching...
good teachers...
                   they were always going
to be good teachers...
                     the only colonialißm
the germans ever ventured to address was
of their neighbours...
       ****** choice...
                   oh but i'm pretty sure
you would come back from Warsaw
with a homogeneity nausea sickness...
   i know i do...
         every single time,
   the homogeneous ethno-representation
is nauseating...
       even though, i'm stepping back
into a throng, of, "my own" people...
   i lived on the outskirts of loon'don for far
to long, i don't see an ivory beauty,
the pearls of Ghana,
      or some ***** and blue indian,
i start to "worry"...
                              i once traveled to
Cheltenham... and it, felt,
     like i was walking through Warsaw...
i don't even know whether i was surprised,
or whether i was experiencing the same
homogeneity nausea sickness...
                    each step of passing through
the city, i wanted to puke...
                         well not out an aversion
to being white among whites...
                        i guess i'm just the remains
of the globalist narration of so many
different people living in close proximity...
hub...
             as if revising a city akin to Rome...
when once in a year, gladiator slaves would
come for a month of festivity,
and the whole world was revelead
  with all its faces and hues...
                    but the germans know this...
inverted colonialißm -
         of being "colonialißed"...
                         i'm pretty sure the folk
in Warsaw are less understanding
     to the chocolatiers of Brussels...
                          because, as far as i am concerned...
Brexit, really, really came...
        when... the privileged status
of former British Empire citizens put to
question, a sudden surge in the floodgates
being opened for the former iron curtain countries,
you could have told these Pakistanis,
these Indians...
         don't worry... these people have come...
but... don't think they'll stay...
some will...
                   but most of them come
from an environment of homogeneity...
perfect example...
              a flight from Warsaw to Stansted...
talk about "racism",
     talk about "multiculturalism"...
i said jack ****, i just listened to the debate
behind me between a "racist" man
and a youg, impressionable young woman,
who cited the book why i don't talk
to white people about racism...
            i came here aged 8...
            and as a first generation expatriate...
oh yes, i can use the term...
which is weird...
since if i really didn't sink into this tongue
i'd call myself an immigrant...
just like the english immigrants
to h'america or australia call themselves,
the alternative: expatriate...
               the "racist" cited an evolutionary
predisposition as to why same attracts same,
a contradiction of magnets,
but, then again, we're not talking magnets,
but people...
               i'm dissociated with my "fellow"
ethno-centered peoples...
       sure... memories of childhood friends,
digging holes and playing a game
of throwing marbles into them...
hide & seek at night...
   kicking each other in the ***...
                     my memory bank reaches
as far back as being aged 4...
so... yeah... i have a lot to work with...
   again... i woke about how else to describe
that supermarket cashier from yesterday,
how she wanted to become a paramedic...
how her perfect skin,
   without a bout of hay fever looked
radiant...
                            the words:
       like a lake of milk,
                                       illuminated by
a full moon in a night of frozen constellations
of stars, or perhaps only her love spots
   of moles.

    well... that's that... now i'm ready to cite
and translate some Horace...     

sunt quibus in satura videar nimis acer et
  ultra legem tendere opus; sine nervis altera
quidquid conpusui pars esse putat similsque
    meorum, mille die versus deduci posse.
Trebati, quid faciam? praescribe.
              <quiescas>
       <ne faciam, inquis, omnino versus?>
<aio.>
              <peream male, si non optimum
erat; verum nequeo dormire.>
    <ter uncti transnanto Tiberim,
            somno quibus est opus alto,
                   inriguumque mero sub noctem
corpus habento. aut si tantus amor
                             scribendi te rapit,
          aude Caesaris invicti res dicere,
multa laborum praemia laturus.>
   <cupidium, pater optime, vires
deficiunt; neque quivis horrentia pilis
agmina nec fracta pereuntis cupside Gallos
aut labentis equo describit volnera Parthi.>
<attamem et iustum poteras et scribere
fortem, Scipiadam ut sapiens Lucillius.>
      <haud mihi dero, *** res ipsa feret:
nisi dextro tempore Flacci verba per
attentam non ibunt Caesaris aurem:
      cui male si palpere, recalcitrat undique
tutus.>
<quanto recitus hoc quam tristi laedere
versus *** sibi quisque timet,
                           quamquam est intactus
        ed odit.>
                  <quid faciam?      

i guess this would be the perfect time
to write a translation before disclosing the draft...
well... it's Horace...
          who did Dante take to walk him
through hell?           wasn't it Virgil?
only a naive-****-show of a man would
take with him a Greek poet akin to Homer,
or Sappho...
       well... not exactly...
not if poetry attracts poetry...
     James Joyce decided upon Homer,
but i'm not a James Joyce...
if Dante desired to take Virgil as his guide...
i've decided upon Horace...
  and here's the translation:

some say, that in the art of satire i am too acute,
that i go beyond established confines (of the art),
the others, that i write without talent and that
the poems i write in a simialr vein,
can be written into their thousands, every day.
Trebati (a serbian name, etymological
meaning: to need;
point of conjecture... well... if the medieval
world is to be made concise...
and the etymology of slav, implying slave...
it... only appears to hold true for the southern
slavs... the balkan region...
  as far as i am concerned,
the northern slavs... didn't exactly
make it to slave status,
the southern slavs might have been
of the roman empire...)
       Trebati: what do you counsel?
say something!
     stop writing!
            therefore throw my poems
into a corner?
           yes!
         to the executioner, that might be best,
  but then what do during the night,
when it's impossible to fall to sleep?
   rub your body with oil,
thrice swim the length of the Tiber,
in the evening drink some wine -
          you'll thus banish insomnia;
and if still, you have an irresistible desire
to write, then write for the sake of passing
  the victorious deeds of Caesar for posterity;
a generous reward you will receive.
   willingly, but my strengths are modest,
for me to sing about the death of the Gaul
javelin throwers with their broken spears,
or the wounded Parthian,
                      when he's dragged by a horse.
celebrate then, because of this,
   his bravery, his sense of justice, his wisdom,
just like...

  ****! another googlewhack!

                 lucyliusz w scypiadzie
       https://tinyurl.com/y5u7uelu

       just like... Lucius in Scythia.
           maybe i will not tempt, when the right
time comes. the time isn't right, Caesar's ear will
not succumb to the compliments whispered
by Flacci...
           do not stroke the steed in time,
    which will with its hoof kick.
better that than by reproach via a poem
      of these mediocrities,
     like the clown Pantolabus or the grandson
of Nomentano -
        who without blame, and even as
being untouched, hates.
                               and what of it?
        
hell: now the draft...

when all seems bleak upon the blank
plateau and the calm seas of
thought being voided -
    i tend to find scraps of language worth
keeping,
  odd bits of letters no written,
      interrupted narratives -
conversations never had - or pivoting
upon an alternative choice of words,
never mind...
    i acquired english and made myself
its father -
              audacious, i agree -
but psychopathic? i hardly think so.
              to out-speak a native means:
doubling down - standing ground -
digging trenches...
                 i have made english into
the equivalent of an armchair,
    sitting pretty, sitting cosy,
   in some shady part of an east london
pub: peering into the stage, attempting
to differentiate the actors from the props
and the props from an: authenticity.
trick is... well, i can't read in my native tongue
when in england...
  which is why i am extremely anticipating
the december hiatus impeding...
immersed in an environment filled with
the nativspreschen - notably from
devices such as the radio and the t.v. -
   i can digest a book in my nativspreschen
with as much ease as:
  spreading butter on a slice of bread...
        but that's because when in england:
i'm wholly dedicated to the language,
   perhaps not the culture which i mimic -
but i have allegiance to that ******* comfy
armchair that's the english language.
- i remember this one incident of being
thrown out from a local pub on the grounds
that i "launched a glass pint in rage across
the pub floor" - xenophobia tickle -
                 i spoke too much like oliver reed
to one schizophrenic and some other lost soul...
a few days later i tap the shoulder
    of one of the bar mistresses and ask her
if she's feeling o.k., if you want
a depiction of constipation, you should have
seen her, she has harbouring a hedgehog in
her *** by that point...
          a complete ******* of a pub anyway...
you see, even with an acquired accent,
if the question is asked: where you from,
and you say: not from around here,
   even if you've lived here pretty much
all of your life: you're not puritanical enough...
mind you... i'm the pedigree breed,
surrounded by mongrels...
                 i am, but a mongrel of the soul
nurturing an adopted tongue, while
   "trying" my hardest to forget my native tongue...
*******, i'm not going to turn into
a terrorist, which, by the way,
english society has bred...
                  polish is not omnipresent -
it's not the king-quack-**** sitting on
the throne of hippo-******* that's
the meridian - you have you dream,
taken from the spanish -
       die ***** von sonnezunge
ständig suchen  für die mond:
       die schlaflosigkeitreich -
the empire of (the) sun-tongue -
perpetually looking for the moon -
  insomniac empire.
      hell, have it, maybe by having it
you can have your, little elaborations
of the dream fabric...
             point being:
my native tongue is an equivalent of
the iron maiden by comparison...
       the merovingian was wrong:
you truly wipe your *** with silk
by speaking english...
                notably by introducing the
amputee R's worth of trill to sound old-school
and a knowledge of latin always helps...
but nothing quiet comes across
as speaking the native tongue better than
the natives...
        i think that's called ambition...
      or a heckling of some sort -
a heckling where no one is staged or is
telling a joke...
                   a bit like being generous
to the turk and his predicament...
  he owns a store, the local council comes
to him, he literally has a caravan outside the store...
and he's worrying about employing
lawyers to solve the matter, he doesn't
know what the problem is...
two bottles of wine and some coca cola
and i peer outside: ah!
         so i tell him: you're obstructing
an item of public property...
  the simple answer is that you have to
revise your makeshift caravan shanty and
expose that bench...
did i get a thank you, or a free bottle of
whiskey... turks... what do you expect,
  he thanked me by increasing the price of beer...
if people older than me have no
standards of etiquette - why even expect
any study of ethics? you first learn aesthetic,
then you learn etiquette,
    and then comes ethics...
         you think i bought anything from
him ever again? loser.
     - became a corporate ***** -
but then again at 16 quid a litre of ms. amber scot,
i can't complain.
                  - but come one,
you've been given free legal advice and
you can't even repay a debt of being given
advice... ah... i see...
it would have made the proprietor look
                     stupid, i.e.: d'uh! a bench!
funny you should ask (without even asking):
whenever i go back to poland i feel grounded...
nay, cushioned - after all i am not there
to visit my countrymen as such,
   more or less imbued with a sense of
proximity to my neighbours,
  the germans, the czechs, the white russians,
lithuanians and the ukrainians....
               and to read a book...
but mostly about feeling the vicinity of
the neighbours...
                      and inhale a breath of
authenticity, in historical terms...
                     because back in england -
  well i have a patriotism for the language:
but not the people -
                    the language i can cherish -
the people mean diddly-squat to me...
  after being barred from a pub on false accusation,
well... expect any different?
                if only i were black,
i could call that racism...
                        alas, i have the ****** luck
of the irish...
                 then again...
                                       none of this even matters
beyond a squabbling defaced impression
of a memory...
                              it still stands:
i'm comfortable writing, since i deem
english to be an armchair -
               but the nativspreschen i find
as an iron maiden...
            although when wholly immersed
in an environment when the only words
in english you hear are: weekend, etc. -
                     there's this aura of oddity that
surrounds me:
         either i'm a ghost among the living -
or i'm alive, immersed in ghost town...
i can never tell...
                           all in all:
continental air is so refreshing having spent
an entire year on an island...
   the almost complete lack of moisture,
the crispness of dry cool,
           the crackling of the foot on snow
in imitation of walking on egg shells -
  and the mere snow - notably falling crisply
during the night...
            islanders are a very strange people...
whether the british, the icelanders,
the maltese, the cypriots, the irish,
                        you name them...
                      islanders have this knack at
believing themselves to be superior
to kontinentalvolk -
       notably when it comes to the basic
etiquette of tourism...
                  in was in paris, twice...
each time i had the luck of a fellow tourist
who spoke french...
                                     once it was this
italian girl, another a canadian girl with
russian roots: a pole's luck, i guess.

***** our fingers, we do. on the porcelain and the rampions.
we are twisted into crapes, the shape of which
are halcyon, though we refrain from them.
We are ' something else '.
the salad is the farce and the painting; yes !
the gruel and the cinders in the mock turtle soup
of our living quince and the meddling
of our every-ness.

clink our eyelids. we do. on the lamp-stand in the Hampton's
we are gifted and innate. the grey twitch
accounts for them bones we contain from sin.
We are " something felt "
the ballad is the Art and the Nothing;
yes ...
the cruel, is the mender, in our lost little group
of unseasoned  heckling and
our Winter's
truth,

and absinthe.

But there's Something Else.
and Nothing

Less....

than Atlas.

Peter was my hero, and Wendy my first fanciful lust.
We fought villainous pirates and bloodthirsty injuns,
and when danger came near as a dark scary night
we'd grasp just one happy thought and fly away
to a brighter new day, dreamed just for us.

Such a wondrous thing, the gift of flight.
Free, unrestrained... racing the laughing crows.
It seemed so simple I just had to try,
strange how the impossible, is so attainable
within the mind of a child of five.

I turn the old phonograph way up loud,
climb upon the hassock, (added height for takeoff)
I closed my eyes intense on my one happy thought
and singing the refrain to inspire me...

"You can fly, You can fly, You can fly."

I leap...
And for barely an instant in time I really do feel the sky.
Then gravity's reality crashes me hard to the floor.
Just in time to hear them laughing,
my evil older brothers watching at the door.
They had a great time with their haughty jest
I still hear of it today, but that's OK.

We were just kids and they lacked understanding.
For I was in training; practice for a not too distant date.
Honing my inner mind to create the improbable,
even the impossible, making it all seem real.

Today the refrain is no longer needed,
nor the hassock upon which to stand.
With old age comes a far grander experience.

Leaving all trials and tribulations upon the ground
I sit back, close my eyes, silence the world around.
Reaching out with sure confidence for the sky
with that child of five's, unrestrained inner eye.

Thanks to Peter and Wendy and my early lust
those heckling crows are left far behind
in vapor trails of my receding dust.

"I can fly, I can fly
I really can fly!"


© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved

A corner's edge bends in the twilight of the day
Morning moves its precious moments
I'm feeling alone and oh so ****** stagnant
Lingering along in a world with a dying song
I looked out my window to look again for you
A feeling inside that I believe that might make me alright
But oh the fates of the world at large
With the running rivers and the men up north in charge
Were nothing in the news unless you can sing the blues
Make an act and sell your soul for a stack
Take what you will as you write your own mother's will
And the drinks will be bubbly as you tie up your snuggie
Alone with a bone that will soon be laying rotten
New York New York you dropped me off from the wrong stork
Melting methodically I rehearse my own day
Mirrors move in unison, hearing the sounds of people being born again
A whisper from the racket, a sister tying her jacket
As God weeps tears and sneezes in His son's hair
Contrasting religion as my soul is a sizzlin'
A night spent away from myself is like forcing myself to love on the 12th
So many hours spent wishing and fishing for answers
As well as millions of days waiting to get plastered
A twisted controversy of miseries misleadings
Tells me to continue on with my own silent song
Roads will weather me and of course try to tether me
Dollar signs flash bright, but there is an end in that sight
For the night with the stars and the all night bars
Makes me wink to the one behind me, I'm already too far
Tricking myself to believe that a future is on my sleeve
Today I will be new but tomorrow I might be calling Sue'
Breathing openly about all these sorrows as I slowly rock
Could it be? Could it be? Could it be?
That I was never meant to turn out to be me?
Heckling hordes remain stiff and act bored
Oh how fast and hurried I tend to get sore
Pitching these tents on hills that are burning
And all the time I dream of what it means to truly learn
I must be crazy to riddle off these rhythms
In a place where everyone's obsessed with the years current lace
Turning literature into amateur caricatures
Highlighting my own sad life
Kicking back a line from way back when gripping the knife
And I'm trying to keep myself inside this life
No no no these words are nothing special
Eternity marries the elder in the middle of April
Not a joke is said during the morning bloom
For everyone around me is still struggling with their own tune
Flicking the tube on and I got blue on
A face that looks like mine has become one in his own time
A flick away from salvation and I'm running to escape false elation
I might be here now, but tomorrow, who knows the land?

(I.)
What if I told you
About the person I once loved
And probably still love
And miss
With all my heart?
Such was a kind
When I was a kid
Caring fellow
O How he loved me
Love like I never knew
He carried savage lies
As they ravaged the
vein branches of his innocence
Needled, repeated
Poisoned again and then...
(II.)
There! - I would point -
With a small boys urgency
Just there!
Seething,
Slithering,
Snaking
Like a Medusas head
Beneath untainted skin
He was the gatekeeper of insidious secrets
Hero of my happiness and
Gaoler of sticking sorrows
His -
Mine -
Brother-father of mine
You never let on -
Stayed true
A kid of four with
An absurd peculiar burden
Peculiar truth
Peculiar responsibility
For a little boy -
"Grow up, grow up!" came the witch like demands
Of the situation makers
His horned and calloused skin
Thickened by the trickery
Because a lie needs a lie needs a lie -
(III.)
I hated him for that
I loved him, too
Was all I knew
He was my best friend
We were partners against
Heinous idiocy
And who could ever
Understand-
When understanding was the least of any ones concern?
(IV.)
What if I told you
How we were kids once
We two brothers
Necessary friends
When all other children could ever do
was only ever
as children can do?
Shared innocence
Shared love
A depth, an understanding
remained "us and ours"
Then to now - forever just "us and ours"
Our pain
Our secret
Origin to morose self loathing
(V.)
Remember me  
Brother!
I miss you
I long for how
I would hold your hand
When it was mine to hold
I would ****** it greedily
Convinced it would always be-
(VI,)
You knew me when I
Was Primary School made, unfettered
A free and happy kid
Before I was double figured
Before this life demanded
(VII.)
Was my third year in -
2 years and one marked
Collapse
And the beginning of a lifetimes bereavement
Why'd it have to change
This playful aura of early education?
Yellowing school building boards
Warming sun and wide verandah
Grey wooden expanse in my mind
Friends were mine then
"Friends" O where - I wonder
There was Ian and Phil
and Igor
I recall
and Laura -
maybe Georgina too
We'd play catch'n'kiss or
Catch'n'pretend
(I could never catch those summer afternoon dresses)
(VIII.)
Sometimes I go back to that playground
I imagine the heckling crackling of dead red leaves beneath my feet
Dry leaves and the screaming of little girls
Old man winter tree would watch on
Witness to free and early personality forming
I think on the winding valley avenue
Weeping willow waiting
Dangling, dancing, dappling
In this sacred Summer haze
What happened to my childhood?
(IX.)
You were there, brother
It was flat chat and Pine Gap
In every home a Big Mac...
My super hero
I'd sing about you
All praise and fond regard
You told me
mum said
We're moving
I tried to make it best
All courage and flexibility
But starting is always hardest
When starting presents tough, tangling challenges.

making do with what we had, we rolled dank ****

into receipts from the bar.
For once, I wasn't worried about getting

caught smoking in a bus shelter.
I fixated on the cheap shots of tequila
and this paper joint
and heckling overdressed blondes
on a Sunday night in

November.
**** "cuffing" -- latching onto a person for warmth and
intimacy as it rolls into December.
For now, I'll stand against this graffiti wall while those

closest to me take ****** iPhone pictures of me
covering my face.

For now, I'll walk up Bathurst
and discuss whether or not beards are a dealbreaker.

I'm picture-locking every look,
every turn
and sound

One day I hope one of my closest
calls and says:
"Remember that night when time stretched out?
Our three sets of footprints cemented a time when we were
in our bodies
and not in our heads."

We left our heads on Queen Street that Sunday.

I'm sorry if I'm playing my music too loud
But it's just as deafening for me as it is for you
Blasting these songs is all I can do
Hoping you find appreciation for lyric and tune
In compensation for the overbearing volume

My cornea is attacked just as my ear
Plastered with posters, a billboard under my name
The adverts are printed boldly and unavoidable
And speakers heckling what is written
Directing responsibility to me

The shouts echo and never cease
And my vision is obstructed by the swarm of papers
Leaving no gaps for light to lift veil
The words glowing in darkness, stealing all attention
And so I sing, finding company and comfort

The words restart my weakened imagination
And soon instrument and soul come back to life
The vibrant music makes my passion overflow
Erupting in streams  of light dancing in tune-
I choose the soundtrack to my life

The rays of light flow freely
Dancing past the extent of my mind
Carrying the music hidden in their glow
Traveling innocently through your ears and minds
I admit I sing selfishly, seeking freedom to sing selflessly
And shine the light it creates for all to bask in.







The music brings brings color to imagination
Dancing to song in streams of light

My dreams are drugs;
my hopes are dope
–the joie de vivre
of old so-so–
from waning eyes
to waxing grace
my spirit seeks
another place
And rhythmically
on pain of death
from newborn cry
to my last breath
with rancid teeth
and rheumy eye
around the globe
cutting soft sky
filling the stars
with water high
to flood and pour
to light and soar
to anger each
contented *****
But not so boiled
nor never baked
swathed transcendence
of all mistakes
melancholy left un-churned
around young danseur
crapping wealth unearned
fueling no immortal work,
marching still
against the dark;
Freshest grass-scent
Lingers long
past broken tractor
at break of dawn
as crumpled shrapnel
and sticks of oak
remain wedged throughout
the auger's blades,
refusing to reap
or shadow wheat;
Therefore, this vision
pulls and holds
on wisest minds,
with fools endures;
musty marble crumbles too
all garish gold
rusts through and through...
spinning slower
then Bosons are gone...
sunny sleep stops
mowing lawn
(All things must break
when left untouched
but touching wears toucher
oh so so much!)
Arrows fly,
inertly tickle
all that's evil
whatever's wicked;
But nothing so so much
as hope
fades quietly
oh so so much.
Slumping shoulders
warring forward
searching ever
for temperate porridge,
concluding all
to dust from dust
Inciting all
from lust to lust
But rarely ever
dreaming truths
science mangling
interstellar flight
because nothing good
rhymes with truths
devoid of pretense
and heckling youths
After crops have rotted
that fed our needs
One contemplates
tending the weeds.
I've lost you now
(I surely hope)
Because at last,
here is the dope:
Riddling madness
is a cancer.
Reading answers
is disaster.
We're much too late
to break the tractor.
Grapes left on vine
do not make wine,
so smiling scythe
will give me mine.
And in the end
it's not defeat:
For Beauty Grew,
And Many Ate.

Cooped within ancient bodies,
this inhabitant dwells amongst an elder net
of crabby, crotchety, curmudgeonly claque
of old folks, only a portion of population I met
which achey, flaky, kooky motley crue
disgruntlement fed as peevish pet
aye be earnest asper my assessment,
but some (quite frankly) getting ready and set
to lay down their limb mitt less lives,
even those who survived harrowing encounters as a vet.
-----------------------------------------------------------
­quotidian gossipers punctuate air waves while:
sitting, riding, quartering, puttering, operating, navigating,
motoring around on scooters (the sole means of locomotion

for many elderly residents),
whose sole occupation incorporates:
zapping, yelping, yakking, whining,
weeping, verbalizing, venting,
uttering, undulating, thundering,
squawking, squabbling, screeching,
rumbling, rattling, quibbling, quarreling,
prattling, pestering, okaying,
offending, needling, nagging, mumbling,
maligning, leering, lampooning,
kvetching, kibitzing, jesting, jabbering,
irritating, insinuating, heckling,
harping, glomming, gabbing, fulminating,
fretting, exclaiming, emoting,
denigrating, damning, carping, cackling,
bragging, begging, agitating, acting  
analogous to bad *** kids itching
for playground foo fight during recess,  

which comparison might be apropos
since majority of energy and time expended
complaining about nobody's business
concerning this, that, or another tenant...
thee management not exempt from
badmouth outbursts), where nondenominational
AARP qualified members congregate
within what constituted former auditorium
of repurposed elementary school,

hence quite some years ago (an honorable
NON GMO gluten free cheerful toast made,
instituting batter use then building standing vacant)
a bona fide unanimous dogmatic, heroic,
linguistic welcome sans titular viz zit head
where alumni of alluded alma mater, ivory fiery,
classy academic solvent atomic structure
became amalgamated, appropriated,
assigned a new life, whereat fob dost
electronically activate innermost recessed sliding doors,
principally, quintessentially, resoundingly availing maw
formerly entrancing students into
Schwenksville Elementary School,
though some years ago repurposed
with barely a trace constituting current subsidized
how zing facility re: Highland Manor,

the residence of thyself and missus
(approaching third month anniversary),
whereat I dune hot give a rats *** if aimless
airless baseless banter, ceaseless chatter,
dubious dabbling, et cetera if this solitary
ruminate thinker the subject de jure
of parlayed people portraying
penultimate purposelessness.

C.O.L.D.
Never changing always there
Adding on from dark to darker
Always changing your mind, the wind
Not realizing its making you any smarter
S.T.O.P.
its here ******* the warmth of memory that ever existed
Feeding on the souls of lives that merely insisted
Holding, haunting, heckling, horrifying
C.O.L.D