where are you when i need you most?
when the day has reached it's twilight
and the bitter night creeps through my house.
the pitter-patter of little feet has become
the stimpy-stomping of little monsters.
the chitter-chatter of nig-nig-nagging
is constant in my ear.
oh, heineken, heineken, heineken.
were you but a woman, i would flee this world
and steal you away as paris took helen.
we would spend day and night in each other's embrace.
i would sing praises and songs in your honor
and the world would stand back and marvel
at the love between us.
but, you are not a woman, but still i long for
the feel of your firmness in my hand,
your wondrous good taste chasing worry away.
i would drink you and all of your companions
and dance/prance/stumble to the bathroom
as if in heaven.
the pitter-patter would turn to clinking of bottles.
the chitter-chatter would turn to clicking of caps.
but alas, i am merely dreaming and sober.
and tonight you are in the hands of another.
tomorrow, i will venture and seek you out.
oh heineken, you will soon be mine.
mine all mine, the world will tremble with my
drunken laughter.

Pieter is a Norwegian and he lives
in the ground floor flat and takes
the bus to work and sits in his window
on his Vaio laptop with just a bare
bulb lighting his room
and receives a lot of mail from
South America
and we chat in the corridor downstairs
sometimes he’d hand me a beer
always Heineken
never ever anything else
and he’d tell me he existed primarily on
a diet of bananas probiotic yoghurt
prime beef and eggs along with beer
and on Saturday evenings only
two bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon
which he’d sleep off on Sundays listening to
recordings of his home town’s church bells
and he said he understood Norway better
than the UK
you knew who you were in Norway and
were always a touch away from a friend
or foe and there was no artifice involved
just icy mountains and clear seas and the release
of arctic breath
and one Friday night Barb came over
and we sat with Pieter on the stairs
drinking his Heineken and I caught him
eyeing up Barb’s legs and I didn’t blame him
no sir I enjoy an eyeful and more myself
but we got steadily more drunk
and I ended up asking him if he was
a drug runner for coke-crazed Peruvians
and he just smiled as if it was
not such a crazy question and he
said
no, just money for Nigerians
and we clinked bottles
and we laughed
park it into an account cream off your
cut and move it on
a piece of ****
nice work if you can get it and we drink to that
and I hope Barb is feeling as ***** as me
and doesn’t want to go to the Beehive
before any Friday night genital work out
as its cold and snowing outside
and I’m not made
of Norwegian stuff.

The aura around her
is hotter than sunspots,
she permeates pure-woman,
allows me private indiscretions.

I can twist her,
bend her in half,
partake in her heavenly assets.
She lets me take her to different universes,
I kiss her everywhere,  
my tongue trickles
from her bellybutton south
where my mouth
lips her magic,
that’s a place I like to be.

There’s only one thing
I like better than this,
& it ain’t a cold Heineken.

.so there's this scene in the B.B.C. drama series, bodyguard, when the home secretary, with the help of the intelligence services, uncovers several cover-up stories, which include ****** assault and addiction to substances, namely? alcohol... the report reads: 50 units per week... hmm... ****... what's mine? 2 Heineken pints... that's 3.3 units x 2... oh... and that liter of whiskey... 40 units... but that's in a single day... what's that by week? (well... sometimes it's not 2 Heineken pints...) so we're talking ~326 units per week... and i haven't been to rehab... and however much i am, drunk like a skunk... i still have the literary decency to spell correctly... even though at that point, i'm sometimes seeing double, or find myself doing cross-eyed to even out the carousel; go figure.

ah the centenary, of sorts... all sorts...
in the west...
  the mourning, sombre sobering
about the pointless war... sorry...
the "great" / "war to end all wars" world war uno...
basically just a family feud...
between Queen Vic's grandson
and son...
               bravo! b'good day ol' sport...
*******... the whole lot of it...
on the world stage, very similar
to Vietnam...
         so i'm eating my Haribo
tang-tastic (yes yes, spastic fantastic,
ha ha)
             jellies while perusing
today's newspaper...
    i almost choke...
Poland made it into the western press...
extremist try to hijack polish parade...
the far right threatened...
oh for, ****'s, sake!
   in these post-colonial countries
everything right of *****-up-your-***
and a gag-ball-in-your-mouth
is "far" right...
you get you little poppy appeal...
your little Ypres moment...
      give these people their celebration
of something meaningful...
not everyone who goes to a metal
concert engages in a mosh-pit...
savvy?
(insert snigger):
        bet those wankers in H'america
with their tiki torches are scratching
their heads, right about now...
           wankers...
                FLARES! FLARES!
                              the red serpent...
200,000 majority...
             ****... i almost want to...
                  **** it... i wish i was there;
to celebrate what?
             the end of empire(s)...
       why is nationalism so bad all of a sudden...
the British had theirs,
uninterrupted for... how long?
  if the British waited with their media
coverage...
and figured out how it could possibly
be that they were enslaved by a foreign
power...
                    hmm...
how's that consolidation compensation
working out, with the mothers of Manchester?

p.s. well... if you watched more soccer
than the ******* interlude between
halves filled with cheerleaders,
you wouldn't have that ****** tiki torches
fiasco, would you now?
you'd have the 13th warrior wendol
fire-worm...
                       but then again i guess
you need all that padding...
to throw a miniature sized rugby ball...
hence the audacity...
the best defense is an attack...
   and i am part of the hive...
export...
            singled out...
          i'm exerting what is
the required pressure...
  so how's it going with compensating
the mothers of Manchester?
good? good good.

He quietly appears so many years have passed smelling the amazing greener then life grass a potent filled with magic the invisible man he passed.
Splendor in the grass

Ehh Oh yuck someone
abandoned you
On the runway
He Grilled walked in
fashionable late
The head of his
mansion

You needed to
tolerate
Oh! Chuck
Full of gas
shattered_
her mind
with scars coming
toward her
like glass

The wake-up call
The lady of
all envy
Winning
an Emmy
Adelle
We could
of had it all
Another name
Amy
For the love,
Of a ghost
Like the
Candy Man
Invisible man
from
Ireland

Something got posted
seductively
Blindfolded hosted
Designed into his
Money hand
Powdered substance
poisoned her

Invisible man
Her eyes got
Smoked like
Poison Ivy
In the Army now
Please too much
Attention of green
Arabian in the Nile
Miles and miles
Navy to be seen
He was colored blind
Different eye
Brown in one and blue
Something hatched

Matchmaker  Ghost rider
Fiddler on the roof
We need a story writer
Like a horse
without a hoof
To neigh the right
stuff

I Sir "Infinitely" so
"Existentially"
Remarkably
Divinely
Ghostwriter
Her words were
blank
She is so genuine
Every other day
He was mine
The quiet man
Super shy
Another try
Valentine's day +*

Writing but not seeing
I love you until this day
Quiescently being forced
he entered emerged
I love you let's get
engaged
Beg your pardon
was not her
To be loved so sorry to be
changed
Like a stale piece

Her niece vintage
furniture more love
and peace
Quietly operation
tugged
Someone got flagged
That blind man
faced
And looked into
the  quiet man
On someone's 
body
The smells
like Moms
perfume her
exact tune
New Jersey Patch reader
"The Catcher in the Rye"
To weird the movie
Carrie
School can be strange
A bucket list of water
down your head
She walked

The Quiet man lips
No small talk
Ghost post bed
Not even one star
could be heard
The gas lamp
she tripped
Out of sight

She saw a face not to
be described

So inhibited like
endangered
species

The invisible man
loved her
But got his
vengeance on
anyone
that was too near her
People wanted so
much to
be her
Her force
indescribable

When someone was
clear to see
Extremely well visible
she didn't care to
know them

Her nose on the tip
baking with flour
Ghostly the hostess
of the most
But feeling his
energy the invisible
the man was
courting her so challenging

New flame "Procreating"

Hemming her long skirt
Her diary innocence
Being on her side
but scheming
Disguise home staging
From the ridiculous to the
subline

Her address
Send forget me knots
street
Only blind
people are the kind
you want to find

SOS  surrender or out
The other S Soulmate
Ghost
Hailed the Mary
The Quiet Man
John Wayne

The laundromat
Mack the knife
Invisible man
Inked his whole life
Waynes world
Born to be wild

The other man
Hit the metal
heavy music
fan
Drenched so humid
He was the Murad

Triangle mess
Shopping at London
Harrods
Let's hear it for
the girls or ((Gods))
The magical channeling
TV on the blink
Went right on his computer
All the quiet man linked

He finger waved by the world
Guinness drinking Heineken
beer
The ghost rider
Got grilled called upon
By Ron
College kid playing
Rugby
The good bad and
the Ugly
Clint Eastwood
stretched them out
like Gumby
Western gunshot slinger
He couldn't see the
Ghost rider
the
blank stares
Perky Rabbit Hares
All the negatives got
burned
Exorcist's heads twist
and shout eyes healed
about

Climbing the Jacks
of the shinning
Nowhere in the beauty of
Her heart gleaming

Took a blindfold call felt
somewhere but where?
But I couldn't see blinded
by stars
Over the rainbow, the skies
weren't blue
Being stalked by
someone you know

By the greater impossible
love
To be silent like she was
invisible
So naive at time feeble

Without an honorable
love of fee
Gone with the winding
shopping spree
Disworthy and sneaky
but for being
who or answers
Doctor Who?
Invisible man what
could he do

He was so flavorful
well balanced
strong nursed her well
and sturdy
Quiet man thinking in his
beloved study

She was no goodie
magical shoes
The Ghostwriter
left invisible
clues
More Quiet time
Lemonade time affair of a
Ghost man
Like Hannah and her sisters
Woody if he could
But he is a **** good writer
The Movies of NewYork
I am proud to say
I come from
Brooklyn NY

If lips could talk
pouty
Sensing something but why?
Hans Christian Anderson
Quiet man playing softly but
Killing me easily through the
Blind sighted window

The widows
War Veterans
True Hero My dad
World War 2
Wifes lies and fibs
Quiet leads to invisible
Heller Keller was so
fortunate
Like Fate, she was
the real
Mccoy, she could light
anyone's smile
with joy
The barbecue next season
So many years to reason
More gun control
Be more visible to others
Mothers and brothers
Have a heart of soul


Only the strong keep the
  fight
Just keep on trucking
Grill them show them
What you could write
Perhaps it's cool to be the
Ghostwriter
Not everyone likes
To see the clear picture
What is really taken

So what if people cannot read us
Somehow we are all blind that's
OK its a miracle how other people
Can make it the beautiful day


Of the next groundhog day
He was loving to be invisible
He wanted to keep it that way
So deep set her eyes
to die
Somehow talk could be cheap
And the shepherd of love loads

of sheep, silence is the best sleep

All in someones head so lovingly deep

Invisible but remarkable to be the person
you want to be or let's really look closer
it's not always rosier.

you want the good first, and the bad second?
never mind, you're going to get
the bad first...

so there i was,
sitting in the street, outside a pub,
sipping a cool drench
of heineken pint, probably
the best beer in the world
(i'd agree with the carlsberg ad.,
but then it's featherweight
at 3.8%... so dear dane?
probably no... stick with
shakespeare... you *******
umlaut wannabe (ø) diphtong)...
so i was sitting there
with some dutch-bewilderment,
a local...
  out pops a skinny kenyan
and starts ******* in front of us...
sure, he's ******* against
the dumpster,
  but the dutch-bewilderment
glaces at me and his eyes
are already saying to me:
worth a knife or a stick,
to clobber the ******* down,
i've lost the desire to drink
my beer...
         centre of amsterdam,
i was wackoed out of the pub
by sheer: huh?!
     i admit, not all stories are bad,
the other time, i was sharing
a hostel room with two germans,
who decided to waste
a mushroom experience while
watching *american dad...
while me and this egyptian
architecture student hit the town...
i was drinking, he was
smoking,
   then i took a **** at one of his
"special moment" rollies...
and then he said,
   put these on (headphones),
listen to this music...
the music? le trio joubran,
the song? masar...
     i was drinking throughout
the day... but one **** of
the rollie, and the music?
            **** me, the dam bursts...
i was sitting there,
in one of the cafes,
  mouth open, eyes closed,
one or two dutch girls looking,
my egyptian companion said...
     it must have been akin
to someone shooting up ******...
with my eyes closed i must have
been looking at god,
  or a diamond, or into a kaleidoscope;
gravity fused itself with my genitals...
i was dragged into my seat...
  and couldn't move,
eyes closed, mouth agape,
      monged out of my nuts,
which by this moment in chronological
order, was beyond the chance to orbit
saturn and take a selfie...
  the holy trinity of an excess
of *****, some marijuana,
   and music you've never heard
before, suggested by a stranger...
last thing i remember was walking
through the streets of amsterdam,
laughing my head off...

when i consider reviving memories
of cities i usually have several
version to mind...
the first amsterdam i went to was so:
.............................
........................
...............................
a boring trip, i bought two pipes,
a classical pipe, and this asian pipe...
the second amsterdam?
         was this the amsterdam where
i visited a *****?
can't remember...
  amsterdam no. 3?
             i think that's the amsterdam
account i just gave...
    never mind the minor thrill
of "smuggling" a few grams of hash
through the airport,
  in a biscuit can...
                a bit like plagiarising
that sociology essay, just inviting
the thesaurus to change the sentence
structure at university...
for the thrill, not for the grade...
  evidently a.i. isn't familiar with
the thesaurus cheat mode...
  **** me...got a first in that essay,
and managed to beat the computers;
oh yeah, smuggled the hash in...
it wasn't a lot, barely an 8th of an ounce,
fact of the matter is, i did it;
that being said,
  i have no romance with amsterdam,
i just miss paris...
      i'm never going back,
the memories are too precious...
              that hostel... duck something,
drowning duck? drunk duck?
    i can't remember...
   i'm never going back to paris,
the memories are too precious,
and the current affairs are too painful
to make that city a beacon of light
once more...
   we showered in the outside,
and we made courgette pasta with onions
garlic, bacon and cream...
    but that was 2005 or so.
       for some reason, i never had the sort
of affection for amsterdam,
            great for smoking,
great for drinking,
   great for not feeling guilty about
window-shopping prostitutes:
   with that victorian-feminism attitude
of the brits...
     hey! you're cutting the chivalry costs
of paying for the meal: back to basics...
  stochholm? over-priced...
      you'd probably become intoxicated
quicker, having downed a bottle of *****
you bought at the airport,
  and then drinking your own ****,
than you would, while drinking at the swedes'
americana experiment with pseudo-prohibition
tactics...
    how are you going to keep warm?
fat ain't furr... but sure as ****,
alcohol numbs the biting cold,
    no matter how you think about it
in describing it as a placebo effect...
                    it still warms the poles
in the outdoors, esp. when a person dies
in winter, and they have their stypa /
   wake drinking session in the graveyard.

i just can't forget that look of disgust
from the dutch guy sitting next to me,
drinking his beer,
   without our shared canvas, of an african
******* in the street, against
a dust-bin;

as borat would have said...
                     *mmm das nnnnnnniiiiiiice.

The forever-stench of hoboken
The most composed... undress
Loosened to a senseless smirk
Keep walking...
The prettiest eyes droop to a cool low
Posture is hard to keep with them shots!
Keep walking...
Messaging another senseful planet the boring absurdity of now
Watch your step!
Her fine italian dinner is inches away
Or is it fine thai...
It's vulgarity kills any sense of definition
Uh oh... now there are more puddles!
Keep away from those leaking lakes
Of sushi... sashimi... heineken... absolut!
Absolutely acceptable in this town!
Come on! We're almost out of it
Out of the town we were once so happy to visit just a couple of hours ago
When everyone was efficient, and not venturing *****
When communication wasn't fogged, but clear and easy
When men didn't dress like 14 year old boys trying to score at a house party
And women didn't give away their IQ so easily, heads slightly bent forward with a lack of direction
Maybe it was home, maybe it was danger, maybe it was fun
The zombie within arose with a wretched stench of alcohol
Yet this will never stop selling
People are sold this "treasure" of acceptance, rank, a strong sense of esotericism, all lies
Yet in reality, they are simple facades, regular people like you and me.
O Hoboken, you stink

Oh, hello there.
I managed to slip away from my previous adventure,
With the knight and his beloved.
My beloved, too;
I suppose.

I've stumbled upon a peculiar thing, though.
An olive tree,
In the midst of this lush underbrush.
It's quite twee,
If I do say so myself.
Although I'm more interested in the treasure below.

A pristine white glows beneath.
I twiddle with the branches a little to find a lovely treasure.
I sit down,
Outstretched my fingers towards the snow,
And carefully pluck at it,
Delicately brushing along the olives in the midst
Of my glissando.

Yohan Heineken, I believe.
A baroque composer.
My thoughts fluidly sailing as the leaves of the tree rustle,
And the snow echos as more olives fall upon it.

Like...an orchestra.
The olives falling unto the porcelain, I mean.
What a beautiful melody it creates,
And my fingers magically gloss along the porcelain,
Carefully molding the remaining olives into the crevices my fingers have made.
Oh dear, I've become too passionate for this!

I carry on anyways, 3rd Movement and all.
The Tempest...
A lovely play by Shakespeare & a dazzling story told by Beethoven.

Or simply a way to express my current emotions.
The wind carried the melody...

*...to the ears of the waking princess.

I could chug a ciggarette
Or I could chew some gum instead

I could keep reaching for the blade
Or I could just reach for the color pencils instead

I could gulp down a Heineken
Or I could settle for green tea instead

I could roll some ****
Or I could just paint a scenery instead

They say we're all addicted to something
That takes the pain away

I say otherwise.

We're all addicted to something
Just because we long for temporary satisfaction
We're all addicted to something
Just because we think it heals
We're all addicted to something
Just because, we made a choice

You don't sit there and say
" It's the only escape I have "
Because no, it's not
You make a choice

And that choice you make,
*It defines who you are.

the empties
of the week
hold guard over my room.
they stand
like brave sentinels
and we watch the sun rise together.
bottles, cans, flasks, drams
these are my friends,
the empties
of the week.
sunlight burns
off of tinted brown glass
and i am alone,
except these are my friends,
the empties
of the week.

Pabst (7)
Coors (4)
Magic Hat (12)
Sierra Nevada (6)
Heineken (8)

Jack Daniel's (3)
Tanqueray (2)
Jameson (6)
Crown Royal (2)
Wild Turkey (5)

The café rumbles like the belly of a fasting saint,
voices competing with the clanks of silverware.
In the tearoom a boy with a tangle of wires
leaking from an unzipped backpack
struts between tables, billing himself as a "human hotspot".
He wears the same glasses you do;
they slip down his nose as he leans over to flirt with the waitress
in the red apron, who taps her nails against the cash register
and laughs at his bad jokes, she tells me, because
he wears his pants too high, just like her brother used to.

A man with a soup-stained button down and a bald spot
introduces himself as Peter Ling, proprietor,
oracle of the inner city rummage sale,
advisor to the lost and hungry.
He doles out pithy wisdom and lentils into mismatched bowls-
"You want therapy? Try your ex boyfriend."
The four of us hide our grins, and flee
to his cavernous basement. As we go spelunking
through the puddles left by a burst pipe,
clambering past bloated books and warped furniture,
Emma Miller swears that she slept here once-
on a moldy brown sofa crouched like a hibernating bear
among empty Heineken bottles.

The expedition yields four boxes of acupuncturist leaflets
and a damp antique suitcase filled with seeds,
who seized the opportunity to germinate,
their tiny roots searching fruitlessly
in the mildewed silk lining.
Ling says he's going to try gardening this year,
serve up spaghetti squash grown out back by the garage.

We sowed pea shoots and salad greens
in glass jars pilfered from a claw-footed armoire
that lay on its side, defeated, like the last of the saber-tooths.
I named one for you, tucked Eruca vesicaria sativa
into potting soil, and set it on the balcony railing-
tempting fate and gravity, because you always liked a little excitement
with your afternoon cup of rooibos.
I didn't see the girl who knocked you off your perch,
saw only the sun's sharp gleam off the glass
as the jar plunged, graceful as a slow-motion train wreck
on its arc toward the concrete,
and Peter Ling reached up with his big, calloused hand
to break your fall.

The 3 am twilight blues his sandpaper skin
A beast-like hue
she feels down
So he lifts her spirits
By the neck
Like a Heineken
“DO NOT call the cops”
His words sharp objects
He speaks machete fluently
I freeze
He ice skates on my childhood
Blades figure eights on my frosty irises
His face switches from blue to red
Like 3D glasses
I think of alps in the summertime
Defrosted mountains unveiled
******-Doo villains
The much-awaited unmasking
One time he shoves her
And murders a generation
Her run-ons have become clauses
Short.
Incomplete.
Terminated.
I smell miscarriage on her breath
Now her voice carries
What her stomach cannot

Like a bouncing putty, I can still bounce.
Look at me, I can dance.
I am not drunk,
Just only a bit tipsy,
I am chemically off balance!

From roses to doses,
They did, they do and are done watering roses with alcohol.
Since I was conceived my blood is that much of methanol and that disturbs my devotion.
She had turned her womb, my temporary home into an ocean of *****.
From which i was swimming in whisky,
As much as this is risky, I was sleeping on bedrums.
At times I woul'd feel drums booming such that my heart skips beats,
But still pump methanol, my source of oxygen.

She had turned her womb into a savannah biome,
My life was dry but still i survived.

What a beautiful galaxy within which I existed?
Made of Heineken stars and clip drift ropes,
That keeps on drifting and leaves me tipsy!

Like a bouncing putty, I can still bounce.
Look at me, I can dance.
I am not drunk,
Just only a bit tipsy,
I am chemically off balance!

I wonder if Black labels is the reason i am black?
If my birth in autumn would be ascribed to autumn harvest?
Only lucky Brandy is my name, rather than smin off spin.

Like a stranger in his own element,
For my first foot steps I waddled, twisted and turned.
For my first blood test, mother came back in mascara ***** tears
Not because I was positive neither negative but alcoholic.
my blood is invalid, that is the product of the woman in *****.

Like a bouncing putty, i can still bounce.
Look at me, I can dance.
I am not drunk,
Just only a bit tipsy,
I am chemically off balance!

i'm going with Loki on this one... as taught: φ... is the iota needed? never mind... φιλoφαρσα - let's just play musical hiding places: φλoκεφ - and subsequently losing an omicron with ρ, or iotas from φ, χand ψ - it's a Jewish game... a Vegan milkshake sort of gangrene bruise on how aesthetics are different across our ethnic spectrum.

and it usually begins with a white coffee in the morning
with a few cigarettes, so the nicotine tuberculosis
subsides and i phlegm out a schnitzel -
but it works, i ate two meals a day,
i starve still dinner, then eat for closure after
the binge... i rarely attempt a breakfast for champions,
given i usually finish a bottle of whiskey or bourbon
the night before... i call it the mandible diet,
ensuring that beauty is mandible, bendable,
who would **** a skeleton pose, i'm not quiet sure,
the **** industry treats their women like
the lust for flesh in the Renaissance - plump...
or simply mandible.
a fond memory: drinking absinthe on the streets
of Athens before the revolution started,
cackling a mad laugh, just so the Greeks might
remember... so many junkies on the streets back
then, before the bust... junkies with baby buggies
walking down the streets injecting Afghan sunsets
into their veins, never made it to the mount of
Parthenon, like i never went for a tourist trip of
Edinburgh castle... instead... hooked up with a few
Algerians and went to the strip-club...
mm (smile)... fun there...
ah ****, never mind, or today, a bottle of bourbon
and a pint-bottle of Heineken...
then menthol filters and papers for rolling tobacco...
then a quick walk about the neighbourhood...
madman's luck in the end... the karma brigade came
along... the infinite factors involved, more thrill
than from playing the lottery, gambler neutral...
just walk, sulk a bit, laugh a while,
have a drink, have a smoke... walk past the social
centre and it's cheap disco "get together" on
the Saturday, two girls discussing how the night-out
will plan out in the cheap outer-London bars
(not as bad as that bar in Seven Kings...
imagine walking into a house with the kitchen
having carpets... all the evaporating oil,
all the scents... this bar near my school was like that...
it didn't have hard flooring, it was all dressed in
carpets... sickly **** sweat blood... the sort of place
you'd bring your drug dealer to... and unsurprisingly
my drug dealer was a Jamaican, into his Illuminati
conspiracies, who i listened to with human respect
while he showed me aliens, hyenas talking Hindu,
and starving Buddhas breaking the 40 days and nights
in the desert limit... kinda self-deprecating
given he was Jamaican and i was a white boy rummaging
outer-East London grime... but you have to fit in somewhere,
right?)
so the two girls at the bus stop... me hardly the gambling man...
and there is was... smiling at me on the ground...
'would you believe it?' i said to my father
watching the Olympic gold medal match between Brasil
and Germany... 'a 20 quid note!'
and it was, a little bit wet, a little bit gritty...
madman's luck... in my pocket a 20 quid banknote...
that's lucky, that's more lucky than gambling
with 3 lottery numbers for the same amount...
well, actually the winnings are £10 with 3 numbers...
i have found £10 twice and a fiver... but twenty quid?
no chance! well... until now...
and that's lucky... just like that Nietzsche quote
about looking down (and being praised)
and looking up (and being ******) -
well fair enough about cheapskates - but when the probability
game comes up, and you do find some money
on the street (not merely a lost copper penny) you sort
of start thinking: i'd have more odds finding
a laughing gas ******-shell of the bullet of injection...
and there are plenty of those littering the streets around
here... don't know, but i can depict outer
London suburbs like the streets of Sudan... junkies
everywhere... so that's how you play gambler neutral:
you don't expect to find anything while walking
smoking and drinking a few beers...
but it's the sort of exercise routine that pays... ha ha,
literally... which ain't that bad as when you
realise what's happening in the world... in today's
Saturday edition of *the times a real harrowing...
a sketch of the article:
    beware #thinstagram: does social media need a
  heath warning?
           vegan blogger, clean-eating regime,
            masking her severe eating disorder,
            death threats ensued - wellness trend
            tipping into an unhealthy obsession?
            carrots and sweet potato a.o.k.
            result? an Essex suntan... oorangé -
            psychological distress, the doughnut
            schizophrenic - i.e. the doughnuts are
           speaking to me people -
           (i'm not even going for mug smartness
            with a scythe moon extension of
            the jawline, Stephen King is an amateur
            in this respect - look up writing the
            horrors designating your ears to
            every contort of the world... the real horrors
            are the ones you can't escape,
            some of them yours, but mostly other people)
     orthorexia nervosa: crucial, the benzene ring
positioning, all the coin-phrasing-tossers
will probably come up with the other two:
metarexia and pararexia... whatever that might mean...
orthorexia? internet fuelled obsession with clean-eating
Calais / kale shakes (cos it's said Kalé in French, ******)
avocados on toast... who the **** does that routine?
£30 five-day juice cleaners... but still, the only
cure for a hangover is to keep on drinking...
gluten-free sales up 63% from 2012 to 2014...
almond milk sales 80% sales increase year by year
(given only 1 - 2% of people in Britain have a health allergy)...
NutriBullet smoothie-maker (black Friday 2014):
one sold every 30 seconds...
£9 million spent on avocados a year...
increase in kale being sold: 400%...
drinking a smoothie consisting of 12 bananas... /
            and this is happening, these people aren't living their
lives... they're selling them... me?
you think i get paid or do you think i drop a line about
Nietzsche or Heidegger like Diogenes mouthing off
Alexander the Great about blocking out the sun
****** mooove! and by the way, just so you don't think
that i think highly of Nietzsche... that fable about the madman
going into a market sq. with a lamp at noon looking for
god? ironic, because Diogenes did exactly the same thing...
but he wasn't looking for god... oddly enough he was looking
for an honest man.

A stack of unread books
teeters, hovers
over the squeezed tube
of triple antibiotic gel
resting on my nightstand,
lying right next
to the empty cup of white monkey,
sitting on a Heineken coaster.

My electric blanket
is plugged in,
set on #2, while
my head rests
on stacked pillows,
a cool breeze floats over me.

Bastet keeps me company on papyrus
along with the raised canine
under the glow-painted
Milky Way, where
I weave stories,
minglings of half-truths
& real fantasies.

I get tired of loving the hand
& use my finger to
spread some if it
in verse, wondering
why my head buzzes me so,
or if a single soul can relate
to such an asylum,
my sanctuary.

I brought you here - You brought her here
To our abode - So I've been told
I did not know.....
and in our room?
She wore my clothes...
I had no proof - The proof I find.
Sorry won't get it - Not this time.
Adrenaline Rushing.

You try and touch me - You think I am weak
Real loud I speak - "Don't touch me now"
I am so frustrated - You could have waited.

You pull my hair - I slap your face
Now we are fighting - So I start biting
The fight ain't fair - My neck your choking;
I knee'd your nose -
Adrenaline Rushing...
I start to smile -
When I do that....I am not joking.
Ahm dusting that *** -
Police are called - They pull me off
They said I won -

Three police knocked me down
and turn their backs -

I feel a whack - and now I snap
You hit my Jaw; With a walking cane.
Cane broke, on my face
Adrenaline pumping-
I get up....
Half a cane in your hand...
You throw it down.
And start running-
Full throttle.
I am right behind you with a
Heineken bottle.
I catch you in the cut
bout to finish, whoopin that ****.
You start to cry like a little cat
Making me, a female dog.
Adrenaline rushing..
But you ain't worth touching.
"Please" I say..."don't come back this way".
No make up *** for you today!
I am too weak... trying to forget
Things are bad- I call my dad.
"come n get this low level devil"
My spirit's vexed - For him there'll
be no make up ***....
......ever,ever again... !

Jen, you worry too much about things beyond our control, but you need to know that we are going to be okay.
Your mind is as breathtaking as views from Table Mountain and your love is as beautiful as the Sistine Chapel.
Let’s vibe out and listen to Malibu by Anderson .Paak while reminiscing about the love that we’ll never get back.
I took six shots of Jägermeister, and apparently, I drank more but that’s the only part that I can remember.
It’s a new year and I’m sitting here listening to music while drinking Heineken and reminiscing about December.
I have been sharpening the edges of my pen to write about blunt memories.
Let’s vibe out and listen to Malibu by Anderson .Paak while reminiscing about the love that we’ll never get back.
We’ll never get back together but I can’t keep on losing you over complications that I’m unfamiliar with.
We must’ve met in the past life because that’s probably why I want to love you past life.

Jen, you worry way too much about the future that you tend to forget to live in the moment.
So every minute that passes by is a moment that you want to capture and post on Instagram and Facebook.
But I can’t judge you because sometimes I get lost in the whirlwind of vivid pixels and instant gratification.
I have come to accept that love is a part of me even when it’s apart from me.
Jen, you worry too much about things beyond our control, but you need to know that we’re going to be okay.

I don’t know what to tell you

I don’t know what you want me to say

Every weekend it’s the same

Same question

Same silence

Same feelings

Same darkness

Every time it’s an elongated silence from that question

The one I can’t answer

You stand next to me, looking down from our height different holding your Heineken as you slur your words to me

Do you love me?

There it is again.

That question.

How do you tell someone you love you don’t love them the same way they love you?

Our drunken nights and endless fights are like a boomerang thrown at the end of the night
Delaying its return every time

I’m sure I don’t want you

Is all I have to say, but I’ve kissed you and held you and dribbled with your heart

I am the ***** that has used you for the lack of embracement she is most needed of

I chose the wrong person

The wrong lover

The wrong time

You’re drunk with all these lies I tell you

Enamored by the ones you barely remember

From the memories of when I used to make you coffee
“You make the best brew” he says

But what he doesn’t know is that even my demons make good coffee

Even the heartless monster inside me has sweet kisses to give out

Even the ***** that I am can make you think she loves you back.

I’m sorry, I just never told you that.

I keep her clothing in the bed,
Fresh wet daggers of this concupiscent World. That is the standard. Don't you Hear it?
I watch the lamps and blankets singe
Cigarettes and Heineken
Nevermind, With the Lights Out
Everything is 'About A Girl',
And faking for no one.
'm too fuxked to know the difference
Stress is a knot that kills the young
I don't care about the other's wasting Their time isn't my business.

My sick is so short sighted. It carries a Black lighter inside its Gareth Pugh jeans.
Ann Demeulemeester top, Rick Owens Boots, an Obscur coat, Rad Hourani shirt
Henrik Vibskov socks, an MB999 tee.
Color is language for the body to read.
Inertia and energy protect me. I am the Opposite of a black hole. This vessel governs its own space, but I don't attempt To understand anything or any one thing.

This lizard brain keeps its ward and Wielding the almighty power of its Nightness, cosy's up near the Community of Death, Magic, and Numinous winter dirges, huffing Parfumes from her death-covered clothes.

Tea, Tom Waits & heavy rain
*****, Bukowski & the understanding of pain
Heineken, Hunter S Thompson & slipping down the drain

Sunday morning coffee, on Dylan & dysfunction
Red wine, Heller & all the catch 22's
Black balloon, Morrison & mystery

Cobain. Davis & Coltrane.

Alive or dead.
What makes them GREAT?
Just that.

I was born little, and I grew up a little.
In a small house in Boston,
where I grew up with a mouth full of Skittles
in a town where it was so simple to get lost in.

9 New Whitney Street, constructed of brick and knee scrapes.
We grew and we learned how to say hello to each other without ever actually speaking.
We played hide-and-seek with our knee high socks,
because we found pleasure by slipping and falling to our favorite hiding spots.

It was an average life.
We danced through the streets to our favorite parks,
Each containing a strong color that we would each label through our child-like dialogue
Red park—Monkey bars & pull up contests
Yellow park—Tire swings & puke-infested children slides
Green Park—Two hour kickball series & poison ivy ankle blisters.

When they'd come home from work,
my mom would always come to my room to check that I was there,
and not out collecting memories in these colorful parks.
My dad would slam his face onto our couch pillow,
his frail body parallel to the sofa,
With an unopened Heineken in his palm and his eyes glared on Larry King.

They said hello to each other without ever opening to their mouths.
And on nights, when it would drop below freezing,
my mother would wrap the plants she made earlier that day into blankets,
and drag the tall ones inside.

On those freezing nights, my father would wrap the pipes with tape,
and allow them to drip throughout the night,
it was an average life.
Nothing more or less special than the families we were surrounded by.

I drifted along A1A,
sunken to Heineken depths,
my thumb at attention.
Coldplay had rocked the night before
& there were long ribbons of cars
trailing the byways.
I never realized how
unforgiving concert goers are,
six hours of hitching & not one bite.
I was even wearing a tie dye.
So much for peace & love,
the good neighborly thing.

usually a 19th century poem does the impromptu suggestion for my own verse, the groundbreaking stuff of the 20th century is already done, you could see the frustration over the later poems with the 20th poetry - i guess the 21st has conversationalist overtones, necessary for what came at 20th century's closure - meaning? i could let you imagine that i might have a faulty self-esteem writing, using the internet... but i write like i talk over a pint in a pub, obviously sometimes there's some magic in the conversation, the sort of magic that gets you barred from pubs with the lie of throwing a glass across the room... esp. if the pub caters for the losers in society, i guess a barmaid or -tender can have a moment to shine, feel superior, overhear atypical drunkard talking... god forbid if an oliver reed type of fella walks in with a tongue like a foil or an épée (fencing blades) - while everyone talks as if possessing a kebab-knife.

i.

on note, regarding the *épée and the foil -
as you get older (perhaps as i, exponentially)
you notice little quirks in things -
the Olympics, last night's fencing foil final -
but it's not about that as such,
all the pop culture sports are at the Olympics too,
but when they show you all the other sports
god... these pop sports seem so so bland...
it must be the monetary discrepancy -
football... boring... basketball... boring...
tennis... boring... i'd never thought i'd say this:
i'm in on the fencing, table tennis...
ARCHERY... you never get that much variety
in the four years between, which i count on
the list of travesties - when you get pulverised
by sports without providing a variety
you get the end result: hooliganism, borne
from a narrow mindset, a quasi-religiousness
and that pseudo-patriotism - not enough
variety in society, which also means more
money for the professionals... yeah, like
the Icelandic team at the Euros this year:
quarter finals - managed by a dentist.

ii.

and what do you think the clientele in the afternoon
in a town looks like?
many old people, the majority women,
the odd grandad wheezing on a bench,
the cripples, the weirdos and children from school
on their summer holiday... a complete male
Armageddon - i could always feel awkward
not being the "hard working man", the
"i have two kids and my wife works night shifts",
the "i have to get that mortgage", or the
"i really want that Caribbean cruise" -
all those things... then a funeral entourage
pulls into town with a stiff - the dead's parade
of the town, everyone must know, a reminder,
to fall back in line... it's not quiet the death in
the afternoon of a shot of absinthe in a flute of
champagne like old Ernest used to do it -
it's just a bottle of Heineken for me - i like
these sorts of parades of mourning, my sense
of humour kinda jumps up into the outer
hemisphere - well, i did laugh at my great-grandmother's
funeral, something about the priest talking
mumbo-jumbo - felt all a bit like a penny arcade
of a 99 pence shop - i swear that's where they
really rob you, at funerals, they sort of package
you into a dogmatic consolidation of some heaven -
no room for improvement with that.

iii.

it was bound to come to this...
a complete revelation, happened only once to me,
it usually involves a brothel and my drunk,
giving a ******* an ****** is one thing
(she's actually more ashamed than anything...
because she's enjoying her work for once,
and she did say ow realising it, kiss on the hand
bye girl)
but giving her a kiss on the lips is another...
by my count 2... and this little was got so giddy like
a schoolgirl in the cuddle... (just because i drink
doesn't mean i'm a fiend, told you, SEDATIVE &
UN-INHIBITION tonic, potion, whatever)...
but the revelation is bound to *******...
this one elder ******* didn't do what i usually do,
she didn't pull it back... (my version of circumcision,
***** movies do actually teach you a lot -
given there's only a circumcised variety on show...
what? it's like watching a pig in a slaughterhouse);
so it got me thinking, there she is, a fine specimen
of aged prostitution and she's not pulling the *******
back... so men who have foreskins don't pull it back?
that drool of skin is still keeping the cliche metaphor
sheaved? **** me! i mean, if you pull it back
so it looks like it's circumcised you put pressure
with the skin and, as it happened to me once,
leave after an hour having paid £110 (she wouldn't
have lied an ****** for that much) without
having *******... to another one's dejection -
how many? let me think, from a choice of about nine...
7? i became a familiar face at one point...
and when i was almost £2000 quid overdraft on
a student bank account overdraft limit, you know why -
added to the fact that i was experiencing a
Madonna-***** complex feeling in the general
dating, dating app (never had one) part of society,
that Freudian theory is spot on... and it's
a feminine aspect, nothing masculine about it,
so i'm off the hook... i don't know how women balance
the two... but my **** knows (2 in 1 -
you can't tell me that urinating without *******
is pleasurable, no, you can't)...
                                                       at the brothel, no problem,
in life outside this domain... let's just say...
not enough encouraging actions... too many words...
too much talking... *******, sexting, role-play...
the list is endless... so few words are said where everything
feels like a vanilla liquor and smells like bourbon perfume.

4/19/2015
dedicated to the girl I used to be

crushed right next to the
broken glass.
"I don't write
nearly as much poetry
as I used to,"
I tell her in the orange light
of the German café
this time it is shining in through.

"Like you used to
before you were sedated?"
No.
I suppose it must be the weather.

I remember dancing to morrissey
in my darkened room at 3:43 am
on a January tuesday,

it was a good lay, good lay,good lay
Like some sort of charicature of teenage one dimensionality

I remember picking up a half empty
Heineken at a dorm room right before
winter finals like some sort of charcature of teenage pretentiousness and

putting my tights on, "my mom thinks I'm shopping, cute, right?"
Old floor crushing my shins minute before like some sort of charcature of teenage indulgences

"Don't you sort of miss the cold?"
I ask, picking at the cake and
the girl I used to be this time last year
infinitely more innocent weeps at

confrontation

Cold, savory, watery, long nights, blah blah blah

do one and then eagle, eagle it out, extended body, proud body, better body,

spread, spread like can't believe it

ate late te  ca tate

savor with character, meaning don't drink and drive

beer, cold, beer, yes

man, beer, cold, stoic, stone

battered, battled, tender living for, dying for, kratos and all of his gore

beers one hell of a *****, loving it more, confident and barley off limit

drink at 16, away with questions

Questions quietly dissipate, questions fly out door, drink given by gods for celebrate, sadness, sigh,

some do do do some don't don't don't then make group AA why why sway sway more more support support spokes spokes can't quite nicotine quit no smote mote vote, find given god chance

some go until the end of time, merry, fat, fine

beer, lovely, bubbly, headache, heartache, attack!! woah, take it back

Guiness with eggs at breakfast
pale ale with serious males
cider with lovers
gin for expression
whiskey for metal
wine for Bukowski, ******* his beauty, soul, ****, ****
Heineken for pretentious men


One more, again

I don't know if it's
you or the Heineken but
My heart's on fire

I feel sick in my soul
Sour aftertaste of my inner thoughts
Chase it down with some Heineken
Then sleep till morning breath

I remember the summer
of 2009. Before the world
turned itself inside out.
Before everything crashed
into everything else.
I remember the quaint
beach house my family
stayed at, with the pink
walls, and the room that
I snuck you into one night
before I left while everyone
else packed and slept for
the drive home. All the cute
shops down the street. The pier
where I would sneak beers
from the cooler of the vendor
selling them while you
distracted him. Bumming
cigarettes off of old men
for the two of us with the
wink of an eye.
You were beautiful.
You were everything
I’ve ever wanted in anyone
since. You kissed with a hint
of vanilla and tobacco and
heineken light that blended
so wonderfully I haven’t
tasted anything since.
You were beautiful.
I was sixteen.
Not much behind you,
but somehow worlds apart.
Now I am old. No longer sixteen.
No longer stealing beer
and cigarettes. I wonder
if you ever went back to
that beach. We were only
there for two weeks. Met
you four days late. Those ten
days were not enough. We would
sit under the pier at midnight,
you leaned against one of
the pilings, cigarette forgotten
in your hand, somehow always
touching mine. Oh, I remember
those two weeks, July, 2009.
Wonder if
you do,
too.