This is not, a time to loosen up
Or nine to five job to give up
Just saddle up the power is in you
Five ladies cafe to dine at five and
drove_* the meter is running
(The Canadian Cup) team versus the
     Taxi Cup
He swooned you in your
Five dreamy but half heart sugars
Come on Baby bloomers
Let's see some boom!!

In your hips men will be men taking
frequent flyer trips temptation 1 2345
We need fewer digs one love teo reasons
World  345  heart flags
We don't have to cross our hearts
Perhaps tattoo heart legs no more strikes
Jumping Jack flash
What a rope in this isn't the Pope

Somehow we all get broke
To court her like your the lasso
stars cosmos hearts like Lassie
Never a change of subject how it
remains in your heart how it hit hard
to react but changed to five cards
Digging too long  lucky 777 like heaven
Heart digs

1-where?
Oh! There

No, I am here
We are always  
In-between
numbers_ I only
have 5 minutes
No I phone have a heart
Oh! where is designed for me
Those five plates

Whats in between them
      *Him
We are opening Live- Five
Strong heart to give the caring
The useful heart is never so daring
My gate* Girls are nail digging
Hugging
Or losing add +

Flirty
*****
Our community
Heftier like Jupiter
Heart to build
the gravity
A big kiss hunch
of five roses

Your getting to bloom
but only have
5 extra movie parts
The front dress mermaid tail
Your heart delicate hands
opened up your emails
I think you hit the
Jackpot

Max to the million shot
No heart of gold
Only more leaders
Scrambling and digging
your fork
Mixing those egg beaters

Five men think they know
there women
like ten
commandments
Turn to five wrong
engagements
There it goes the lucky
five arguments

A plot beating
like a hot-shot
The French Baguette
Bread 9 to 5 firecracker
Five-carat baguette
wedding band in her safe
Heart digs to five hands
Heart neck guilty as a giraffe

The cafe house had only
5 cups left  they sold you out
Only Five Bed and breakfast
stayers
Do detailed with their Ladyfingers
But need more alone time
Be on time get sweet key lime
What is real-time so sublime

That rose- paper cut- origami
Sorcerer of five he was like the
cold cuts of big Sub Salami
Japanese sword samurai
What a Geronimo Oh! no
Jericho
This wasn't a hot potato

Or Gizmo No-Go
Getting a shot for Polio
The gusto songs to the heart play
Maestro the Cosmo's
The five stars to heart his
afterglow
Like a titanic ship but heroics

Five lunatics wedding horns ******
Five two timer Mario gamers
so demonic
DOMINO'S bed five students wed
We dug deeper get-up sleepy-head
Exposed cries location set
Network U- dig cups

Something lip curved
He misplaced my lips
What did he do in exchange
More stocks and hard stone rocks
Like frying pan egg
scrambled words

Crossed heart Rapper so believing
The Fox five sticking tacky glue
His CD Rose lying pants no clue
Painful pointed shoes need R&R
     Robin's *Responsibilities
       The Heart On Replay
The deeper you dig to restart

The healthy organically grown brain
Men on Pause I truly believe nature
takes its course
but another beat to go is that so?
And if so heart digs to five
Feel the good vibe in another tribe
Five times I had to wake you up
I am the love cure reminiscing

Giving me five reasons
Our beautiful change of
heart in season
Studying the fine art heart
Referencing
Never refusing thats life
five-step to strive nothing
Fancy

Robin shoutbox she getting
her point across
Either you're the worker or loner
The heart pleaser the boss
Your heart looks good
on your dress
Whether we win or deep mess
The good heart can change to
a bad start

Recharge your heart count to five
Venus- beauty moved on like a
pathologist digging over staying alive

The shrill wind carries  through decaying buildings
pits loneliness, despite "London Pride" blooming
like it did in the last Conflict.
Philistines journey home on Circular pathways,
we are all  in a dearth of orbital now,
is there enough opportunity
to resurrect the heart, that neon centre
before the People barriers whittle .

Here comes the Monday priest 
Blessing the girls in bikinis 
The whole country's a beach 
Or at least theres sand 
Who needs to see the sea 
When you've got all that land 

High priest with your high morals and high quarrels heavy
Down that burning paper bundle
Greet the incense, o dismay
Lord knows best- time to put the flame out, welcome day 

It's viscous, ferocious 
Heftier than the skulls of religion 
And thicker than those people you're trying to get through to.

our cry of war;
peace
the streets, O, how they testify
accused of false prophecy.
but a people's truth
known best by
them who walk it.

weapons,
bluebird hashtags,
palm portals broadcast high definition.
hands of pacifism write a
play of sunken morals
a stage—the world
capturing heart;
caging it beside mind

no longer abiding forced compliance
to the dollar,
and the jester king's control
making mockery of the throne they sit—
unrighteous fools.
we refuse a subject's posture.

they deem a mask cowardice,
fickle and shallow understanding
an insult of fear.
a brotherhood of belief to represent—
uniformity
together
by rank and by file,
stalwart to stem the loss of blood;
against greed.
independence
from them—from one another,
from the cookie cutter's imposition
advertisement imprisonment

once thought killed
succeeding only, they
made his cause indefinite
made message
immortal.
forever grinning,
lips curled across porcelain visage

on asphalt battleground
a rose outstretched,
the bearer beaten with sticks
put in chains.
soaring cans noxious,
tears not their result,
but of sorrow
for them, and
their acceptance of bribe white picket, the
Judas price.

hypocritical perpetrators
betray hollow oath,
smashing split fingers
the unspoken message portrayed
outlasting beating's bruises
heftier and more distant in reach, than strike.
hands cut by thorn whilst seeking to tear down
rose
regretful tears of power's illusion
wash the ground
but freed of blood impossible.

power's impotence seen,
the world's future bearing witness to
false truth.
a promise greater
a seed planted
generations to grow, in time
shading all mankind
when children lead men,
the mask removed
unveiling equality in our difference

When the Lord split the adam
It wasn't a clean cut.
A heftier half received the whole,
The other a supplicant for scraps at the
Table's Wayside.
(only if it didn't want those stinky leftovers
anyway)

Eons since, not much's changed
The portlier portion still retains
Rights to nuke the other slice
When enmity sticks its foot in the
Meaty muck of the mind

"But it's not my fault," it says,
Still blaming that little snake it likes to hold
Like a teddy bear on a forlorn night

What God hath torn,
Let mankind reassemble.

my godmother was a doctor,
and a drunk,
         she actually witnessed
a drunk fall from a 7 storey,
               ****-limp-numb like
a sack o' potatoes
       and walk away, muttering
the word: kurva...
               i guess there are heftier
concerns for scoring luck...
in that i am also competent:
lucky for me i didn't attempt
to extend, breed a d.n.a.
                          claustrophobia,
and the almost immediate
                 concession for (a) pathos...
maybe this whole human being
with a capacity to do no ill
    is concentrated in how
the romanian women might remember
me...
          two compliments
worth the servitude
                  and, the other bits
in between came from prostitutes...
         along the lines of: dobry (good)
an miły (nice) came from those
infernal gloryhole mouths...
      i can't even begin to fathom
    a philosophy book that strips away
the narrative and entertains
   a dialectic,
        ****, Kant tried it with his
thesis / antithesis section of the critique,
but that's about it...
             not that i mind,
i like the "un"-fathomable quest for shadow,
the cold, and obscurity...
    and to think:
         tomorrow will be just another
day in a life of an other...
             perhaps i'm too much
of a ****** of life,
                   perhaps so much so
that i'm not exactly                      pro vita,
           competence with
a quill, on the whim, a chance to spot
a sputnik,
        and some bull-******* in between...
but at least i missed: the game,
in that i've had the pleasure
to experience an hour's worth of
pure, unadulterated formality...
          most of the time it felt like donning
a tuxedo, drinking a martini,
            albeit standing stark naked...
bypassing the games,
         the supposed: clinging by
                              faking pregnancy...
or not... or whatever the hell goes on
in that Freudian hell-hole of a cranium...
       short, and, sweet...
         i'm acutely aware of the individualist
perspective,
           but only slightly,
   in that:
                 is there an Atlas-impetus to
        listen to an individualistic argument?
i don't mind being the:
   ****** off into a tissue flushed down
the toilet aspect of humanity...
                   an unconscious bias against
women beyond the fornication
sphere...
                  if that ***** of a nurse at
the hospital didn't attempt to almost choke
me to death, enlarging my heart
and giving me a hospital stipend on
the receiving end of: "looked after"...

   well then...

               water under
the bridge...
                    which is plenty of water...
   bored to death listening to
my grandfather talk about his grandfather
with a desire to: actually meet him...

  i've become tired of dying...
               the fact that i wrote something
shows little depth to sustain
a predicament...
    that's always:
          the life that dies before the actual
death: memory...

         it's almost abhorrent,
this, "natural" selection of memory -
           and yet:
   so much of the faculty is wasted
upon learning arithmetic....
     education as an erosion of memory...

i don't hate women,
     just haven't the chance to know one
that stayed around
    longer than the current cats clinging
to me...
       a woman is a concept akin
                       to: growing a third arm...

enough love stored to know
that there's little allegiance behind it;
sure, plenty of potential,
        just like my sober hours make
a lot of sense...
                just enough to spot
the social contraints of acting without
a theatre...

             mind you,
it's almost funny that i forgot my genitals
after i threw one hundred and ten
quid into her lap...
      
     plain ******* doughnut:
               no secret fetish,
                      apart from -
                                    the other, warmth;

a one-dimensionality of a blink,
  with regards to no elaborate sexualisation
   of the matter...
                  something, almost...
  thrilling;
                 still, a persisting thought,
           the thought that's an ought i
without an immediate outlet of an
                 auto-suggestive reciprocation.

It is true, its walls are heftier than I feel.
Its map appears when good self disappears
Away from the cosmos,
Than Einstein’s formula could reach.
Lighted up by Him who made it so.

Its track thereof, on the path of good deeds.
Gold slabbed roads starring the carpeted ground
And crystal streams snaking by healing trees.
The one who had gone before
was nailed before He could speak.

Lover of strange books,
Spoke thus in nasal flow:
'Tell me you babbler boy
Where does this lie lie,
Its geography and its scape?'

And the wise sayer spoke thus:
'Every night the eye’s shuttles are drawn short
For the mind to practice its end.
Then, distance between seconds,
He works in York and parades in Paris.

When the nights are dark and thick,
He knocks the memory still.
By moving through black holes
To unminuted meetings,
Returning in the mornings
To sit by sanctuary’s hope'.

That “you” in you knows his path
And by riddles describe his home.
When he is finally free,
He shall tell you where it be.
But this earthy ear may not be
To hear it in this realm.