******. No white guy can say that, right.
People who can truly call themselves ******* can. *****-***** ****, W.O.P.,
maybe they can say ******, okeh. But they say it mean,
knowaddamean.
What'sbout Jewboy?
Can the Kaffen kid say ******?
Sand-******, but not ***** ******. Hecan say ****, too. And *** and *****.

Oy vey, okeh. We can take it. We can take it all. Rules is rules.

That's right. Wanna fight? Wanna be my enemy?

--- Grandpa had a play date. ***- Where's the Fun?
These kids got no guns.
And no enemies. Except imaginary ones.


Greedy little master mind sprouting odd fruits from Pokémon.
Can we make this work? Perfect it, in effect?

Marbles, maybe we can teach that old game and go from there to the funnest parts of FTA... Findtheanswer, like God and Adam played. The rules are some same, bounds, fudges and such. Keepsies, ante-ups and such, too.
Risk is right if-I-can-tation.
Losses can be baked, clayballs,
while momma bakes our daily bread.
Poor kids can make marbles in the sun, since forever, I am sure. Rolly-polly patti and johnny cakes roll marbles into spoons,
Momma knew that stuff. She could shake butter into cream, singin' along Que sera, sera, whatever will be
will be,

but it won't be the death of me,
watch and see,
babu boy oh boy
---
We can play war until we die, but don't tell the children.
They are the price we are to pay. They must believe.

We swore allegiance for security. We thought it best
for the kids to lie.

You know?
I believe, you know. It's unbelieving I need help with.

Can't you see? We swore allegiance and taught it has become the  honor-us-course-us-po-deserve-us ritual. A rite we pass for the protection of the eagles gathered around the body.

We are proud of our children who die taking
the courses called for, we never ask why,
except when we cry. Silently, inside.

It's our role to remember the glory
of our children dying for the IDEA that lives
in the statue of Freedom
under which our laws allow
might is right, if God was ever on our side.

You know what I mean.
Say so. You know the lies are being told.

Stop believing that is okeh, eh?

---
Mussleman dominance meme manifests once more to battle the flood of knowing being re-leased or bought, outright, to aid the seekers seeking the meta game.

F.T.A, remember? Find The Answer. Same rules as Hide and Watch,
"All ye, all ye, outsiders hidden in our midst, in free."

"Send me your- poor, huddled masses",
remember being proud of that idea.
Poor thing, lady libertine, so tarnished now that not even Iaccoca's glory loan could gild the actions she sanctioned in the name of the republic for which she (a proxy mate, feminine aspect of God) stands. Sig-n-if-i-cious-ly.

Seig Freud, we say, with the statue of freedom watching over the legislative body, she stands
quite similar to Diana of the Ephesians,
in her role as mob solid-if-er, if I know my mythic truths been told.
---
Trink, trink, trinkits gits the good good luck,
light m'fire witcha spark and see
a light in the night when the noises pending terrors flee.

Rite, we passed those places ages ago, now we hear echoes, only we know them, for we have been taught,
what echoes ever are.
Our own terrors screaming back at us.

Alot of lies are taught wrong
and a sleeping giant in a child may dream
of other ways to see.
New windows on new word worlds expressed in
HD Quad-processed reality
simulations. You know,
child eyes see right through those.

Exactly that happened. Slowly at first.
Good is more difficult to believe
you are expert enough to try doing than is evil.
Read it again.
This couplet or line, as time will tell.

Don't ignore known knowns,
stand up under the weight of knowing good and knowing evil.
Be good.

We know from conception,
we think,
whatever it takes means
take what ever we think right,
pursue happenstances in the favor of my father's world,
provided for me, the kid.
\
The son, a first-man son,
some several thousand generations removed.
Lucky some body stored the good stuff in the mitochon'orhea, right.
We'd be powerless. O'rhea, double stufft, blessusall.

Otherwise lies are left for kids to learn,
but not to
be left true,
as when they first was told.

Our sibyl e-gran mals tol' em true,
as they knew what they passed through, to the moment, then...

Around the fire, dancing shadows, make them play.
All ye, all ye outs, in free!

See dancing shadows, en-joy my joy, be strong,

long strong, sing along, long, long song

and laugh until you die.
---
Some con-served ideas will land a man in a prison with no keys.

Imagine that. Take your time, it is no passing fancy. Be here,
with me, a while. Pleased to meet you I am, no comma needed.
Now, we may wait, whiling away a time or two is common, in mortal pauses. Are you dead or alive?

Is it dark or light? Do you see in color here, or in gray?

Who built your prison? I built mine. You'll love it, I imagine,

whenever forever flows past those old lies striving for redemption,
recycling-clingy static hairballs and ghost turds
touch, once more,
*** potentia amber atoms in cosmic chili for the soul
of the loaf-giver, warden of the feeding forces life lives
to give dead things. There's the rub.

Spark to fire? Watts to fuel the favor, Issac, can you lead us in a song? A con-serving song for when the cons a fided or feited,
defeat my sorrows and my shame,
let me see Christ take the blame.

Confidencein ignowanceus. Worsen dignitatus evawas.

Blow on it. Soft. The spark landed in that ghost **** you thought you swept away or ****** into a vortex of hoovering witnesses,
if you whew too strong, you blow yer own little light out, and have to wait for lighten-loadin' bearers
to take care from you.

That can take time, too.

It always takes a while to get deep enough to see the bottom.

Cicero, old friend...

ne vestigium quidem ullum est reliquum nobis dignitatis 

[not even a trace is left to us of our dignity]

From <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dignitas(Romanconcept)>

See, from a single spark,
touching a volatile bit o' whatever,
you may see the root of the Roman canker sore
yomamma kistyawit.
And be on yo way,
satisfied minded there do seem to be a way, each day, just beyond the evil sufficiency we find soon after the morning's mercy's been renewed.

And may, if it may be,
ye see a rich man wit' a satisfied mind
and may that man be me in your mirror, as it were.

Carry on, as you were.
Or walk this way, a while,
mind the limp. I'll set the pace.
It ain't a race, y'lil'squirt.

Wait'll y'see.

Waiting is time's only chore this close to shore.

What manner of men are we, who could be our enemy?
What name makes me your enemy?

What peace can you imagine when no words carry hate?
Can you imagine evil peace?
Cromwell n'em said they could make peace wit' war.
They lied.
Their lies remain lies,
evil knowns
good to know, on the whole.

Knowing makes believing count for more than idle
oaths of loyalty to memes mad
from the first of forever to now.

now. stop. This is the bottom. I know the way from here.
Do you?
You can say so, but you never know,
if you never make the climb.

And that can take forever, I've been told.

The magnolia sways in front of leaded lights
And I lay here thinking that all this beauty
Is all that there is or ever will be, a sanctuary
Where nature blossoms and is freshly laden.
But we are fallen like the dragonfly on wing
Hoovering, waiting for another knat to ****.

And as the carnivores devour their pray, daily
The human species, ruthlessly, turns over good
For another slice of the apple pie and so repeats
A cycle of never ending temptation baring thorn
With sadness I realise that I too wronged beauty
So mistaken in my haste for happiness and joy.

Love Mary **

A slice of toast,
burning on the grill.
A ghostly face,
the window pane,
terror running through the brain.
A shadow that was moving,
now is still.
Darkness hoovering the light,
and all that shun on Blackrose Hill.

Floorboards, creaking,
then they're not...............
Hiding in the pantry,
with a stomach tied in knots,
Churning, like butter in a ***.
That old house on Blackrose Hill,
years since left to rot.
That old house on Blackrose Hill,
that old empty cot.

The dragon saw me fly
Spread my wings in valour
Zipping across, beyond
Hoovering within and out

The bold red blood pumped
Showered zest and credence
Saw the springboard of the skies
Dreamt inside the beguiling clouds

Slept peacefully in a paradise
Forgot to guard from the fangs
******* in ripples of venoms
Gullible in the darkened scenes

Kidnapped and handcuffed on pillars
Chained in the unmoving conflicts
The chaotic shadowy cave stares
Dares to throw me in the deep pits

Fear is the only paralysis to fare
The pearls so outdated in efficacy
The bark of a feisty fighter diminishes
Love for humanity is the only key

I'm waiting with certain trepidation
Assured my reality
Is in for something big.

The eleventh dimension
Can't assuage my dread.
There's something happening,
As big as Dead.

The cellphone's our new Nativity,
Destroying my old myths;
Where's the white salamander hurrying,
Spirits hoovering, aliens lurking,
Hairy bipeds in the forests,
Yetis in the snow.
Nothing soon forthcoming.
It all looks like Alberta.

I can't snap inside the sun,
Nor freeze-frame a revolution;
Or the moment one feels love;
But truth is self-evident.
And the facts are yet to come.

All the best stories,
My life-changing beliefs,
Need one still, a black and white will do;
Til then,
I'll suspend
Disbelief,
And sustain credence,
Close to the dark room.

Then we'll be the Magi,
Bowing, grovelling,
Awed and surprised.

Will Big Halo go crazy, freak out?

Like a ****** on wheels rolling down the Alps?

***** Tiny Youth’s brave be under the pavement?

We huddle for position as eyes form a circle,

On the grounds of the ‘Imperial’ two feared ***** meet.

Shells will settle this war.  Smoke!

The Tiny Youth draws:



“Your half mast pants waiting for a flood?

And your shoes are holy like the Bible.

Are they four stripe trainers, rip one off!

Then they might pass for Adidas.

Your neck collar is ***** like a **** star.

Is that a sheep bursting through your old padded coat?

So home take your smelly **** and stitch it up…”



“Me await a flood?  Yeah, your’e right.

Though the nylon gathering at your feet

Shows it long passed.  Your tight nylon pants

Stuck up your cheeks – Barry Sheene skids in your brief!

Your brief ‘s skiddy and dangerous like an ice rink!

So skate your brief home and scrub Daz in the sink…”



“Your head is tough like a coconut.

And that hair is rougher than a ghetto!

Knocking out teeth on afro-combs, and

Your skin bumpier than gravel stones!

Your face is dark like Darth Vader.

And did Moses part that gap in your teeth?

I smell the cesspit pooling from your mouth

Take your scent to the sewer

Where your bad breath belongs…”



“On your head sits a drenched black poodle.

And your skin is tougher than Bruce Lee.

That face is rounder than a full waxed moon and

Your skin is dry like sand.  Your teeth resemble

Mouldy cheese and your breath is even badder

Than ******!  So take your moon face camouflaged

As an eclipse and hide on the dark side equator…”



“Your mother is *****, paid every Tuesday,

The post man drops the wages in her sack.

And your father is a dosser, lazier than dole,

Drinks beer, forces farts with remote

His all day role!  And that shack you live in is dusty.

Dustier than a speedway track.  So take your

Double-barrel nostril nose and go do some hoovering up…”



“There are cracks in my shack, on the ceilings, on the wall,

I will fill them with polyfilla, when I see your mother -

Scraping that cake off her wrinkly crinkly face.

And your bald headed father reminds of a Buzzard!

Searching for carcass on the African plains!  Your’e

Soft and boring like porridge.  So in your lunch box

Pack your cheesy snack lyrics

And go hold down your snake of drool – fool!”



The circle stays silent.  We dare not laugh!

At exploding shells on full hardened *****.

Mr Brown, adjudicator, judges – and declares!

Slowly raising the arm of the winner who bops

And breaks the circle, fifty pats on his back.

The shelled **** leaves with Jack.

Doronit would spit fire
and Baruch knew it
he'd had it before
that time she'd gave him

the hard time because
he'd sat watching
some dame
in a caravan opposite

hanging out washing
on a make shift line
fancy her do you?
Doronit said

why don't you go over
and chat her up
but Baruch told her
he wasn't interested

and that he was just
observing the washing
hanging process
looking at her smalls

I suppose?
she said  
no he said he hadn't
but he had been looking

at the fine movement
of the dame's ****
but he never told
Doronit that

yes she'd spit fire
she'd lay the words on him
and that time
she saw this

other dame's name
in his note book
and when he came home
for lunch

she said
who's this then?
you having it off
with her?

Baruch told her
it was some dame
he was watching at work
all about

security and such
and she began
throwing stuff at him
shoes coat hangers knives

forks and spoons
whatever she could lay
her hands on and some
of it came down the stairs

like missiles
and he went up
and pinned her down
on the bed to calm her

and she relaxed
and said
was that all? no affair?
no

he said
no affair
nothing
just security

at work
and she smiled
and kissed him
and that was that

all over
fire spat and done
but this time
the fire

would be for real
and Baruch knew it
and he watched her go
about her work that day

hoovering dusting
cleaning the floor
and he waved goodbye
at the door

and never looked back
all over
no more fire
no more

Doronit had done it
for the last time
and he recalled her
that last moment

she with her cigarette smoking
her hair tied back
her eyes full
of dull fires

burning embers
and that is all
looking back
he remembers.

it's come again,
just in time for christmas-
bitter weight that makes you want to scream
(you feel strangled by violin chords,
the sun burns but clouds stick in you
throat and choke you- you are
safest in the dark).

block out the stars, God please don't
let them in- they're acid on your eyelids
and they hurt

oh- this nameless monster.
they say it doesn't exist but then what
is this within you, all blunt fangs and
hoovering up your insides
(you're a walking vacuum,
about to collapse in on yourself,
and nobody can see).

because I was young
and beautiful
I thought I was
something;

boys lusted
girls admired
I had fun until
I grew tired

a wise old lady
with a smirk on her wrinkled face
pulled me aside
and put me in my place

she told me I was nothing without love
so I got out of her grandson's bed
to avoid tears;
I titled my head

when I came up there it was;
hoovering above
I realized, everything is nothing
until it finds love.

I looked upon my world and i saw the brightness of the day.
A day where all things were crazy busy.
The washing billowed in the breeze.
The cats were milling.
The hallway needed hoovering ... again.
The children laughed with each other...
i know.. unheard of right !! :o)
And although the recycling still needs putting out
and the grass needs mowing .. still..

Contentment was mine.

I had looked upon my world and counted
every single blessing there was to be had.
There were so many that i ran out of both fingers and toes.
And i now know in my heart that i am happy.
I feel it.
Truly happy.

Whether i am destined to be alone for a while longer
or to meet with the one who smiles with me everyday
on the bus...
We could go out for coffee and feed the ducks maybe..
Haha you never know :o) it could happen..!

But.. i feel the contentment of my worlds simplicity.

And so, in my madly busy world i realised...
that after all this time of looking for happiness,
it was right here all along.

I had found it hidden in the the reality of the drudge to work.
The reality of mount washmore.
The reality of my tired bones at the end of a busy day.
The reality of my life, that i am truly grateful for.

I love love love the friends that i have been blessed with..
especially the ones who live in my phone <3
I love the kindness i find in the smile of a stranger.
The giving of hearts through desperate times.
The words of wisdom and of poetry
that i am privileged to read.
Pictures of sunshine and of flowers
from the dearest heart. <3
The gift of undeserved kindness..
that i had never felt before. <3

I look for it and i feel the love.. i feel it.

And even when the dog woofs at the postman fifty times.
And he leaves the gate open fifty one.
Even with the constant level of organised chaos
and cat hair..
Even with four hungry mouths
that own eight hollow legs.
Even when there is no coffee...
Yes, even then..

Even then...

I know it is the real life that i live that makes my heart sing
and gives brightness to my day.
And i am so very grateful for it.



https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RwUGSYDKUxU

Accursed human species
case in point Vladimir Putin,
who strikes terror across globe.

Don't underestimate his hell bent
zeal to attack United States,
one blood ******* infernal
predacious **** sapien
mercilessly bullies, interrogates,
threatens... with zeal.

Considerably less mortifying
constitutes wrathful ordeals
exhibited by adults who treat
thine wife with indecorous jibes
like punks who sat back of bus
or classmates at Methacton
High School, mine alma mater.

No different than typical mean kids
many crotchety residents here
Highland Manor Apartments
majority residents aggrieve the missus
though said counterpart (thee spouse)
exudes standoffish poise
countenance dons and
nonverbally trumpets scowl
body language broadcasts
social graces be ******
easily interpreted as snub

engendering hostile imprecations
cruelly fiendish provocations
undermine capacity to experience
peace of mind
exacerbated by her
figurative cold shoulder
propensity to flip the bird
notched, ratcheted, torqued... tension
courtesy miss prissy heiress,
daughter, she secured management role
albeit (hats off) to nepotism

guarantees lifelong job security
issued thee missus warning
rental stipulation disallows
overt ******* flashing signal
emotional entanglement ensued
yours truly tasked
to pursue more favorable environment,
yet scant finances (mine)
and poor credit
two strikes against
locating affordable living situation

since sole family income
social security disability
direct deposited monthly
buzzfeeding checking account
regularly near anorexic,
cuz additionally I pay
costs of living expenses
cole king avoiding being homeless,
thus this penniless
among dime a dozen
day late dollar short

low income bracketed
(marching with madness)
mister casts quandary
couched as poetry,
no great expectations,
nonetheless cathartic to communicate
(hoop fully understandable)
present tense plight
projected as plotted trend
fat and/or slim chance
fate will curse me as lottery winner
pipe dream teasing
this word plumber flush with ire,

who feels nsync and drained
scraping hand to mouth
bemoaning apathy, dismal
effort, gross indifference
toward self sums (mein kampf)
plus academic struggles
proffers grim forecast
as coxswain at mercy
rudderless ship of state
edges closer to his waterloo.

It was a sad day in May when you went away.

Sadder In June when you came home to soon.

July flew by, followed by a Lawyers letter, infidelity, such a cruel word.

August, your sister left, stating it was probably for the best. I had to agree, it was always about you, never me.

September, gave you a call, the phone was answered by some guy called Paul. Hated him from the start, he said hello, so condescending, how did he know.

October, you walked in as the au pair was hoovering in the ****, I have to say, your timing is lousy, couldn’t you phone, the au pair has left in despair, not that you would care.

November, nice couple came to view the house, she asked if she could come back later to measure up. She measured up just fine, so, new curtains, new girlfriend.

December, she went back to her man, citing cruelty to dumb blondes. I think women just take me for a ride, I’m to good natured, hard to decide.

January,  I’ve made a resolution, going to change my ways, actually feeling quite good, time to give the good lady a call. She’s engaged to Paul. What the hell, have I been asleep, found the letter on the floor with the others marked bore, I could have swore.

Feb I’ve grown a beard, adds a bit of sophistication to a man of endears. Tried you on the phone, I only asked where my blades were, no need to moan.

March It’s your birthday, I send you a card. All my forgiveness, from the heart. You respond in haste, and may I add, in really bad taste., I ******* hate you. well.

April They’ve come to take the house, I see your sister opening the gate, a friendly face. She owns the company, well isn't that great.

May  I’ve had a really bad year and then some, pain does that to a man, it’s hard to explain. I suppose the moral of the May when you went away leaving me to play, is the **** month of June, when you came home to soon. So anyway, her and Paul got married, I sort of gave her away, asked her sister if she wanted a date. What a ****** response.
Not if all the months were May.

While I wait for the kettle to boil and whistle its merry tune
I'll toil away like a sucker
hoovering up dust in my room.

I'd rather be watching Wimbledon
seeing for myself what's going on,
but I never paid the electric bill,

Still,
the room did need some cleaning.

When I get to get to five o-clock and the shadow comes, I knock back a couple of hot spiced rums before I begin to shave.

Generally I save the best 'til last and usually when I run out of
'Elastoplast'
(that's a trade name I wear on such occasions)

blood casts its own shadow and wanders through the water in the sink,
and I watch the shapes that it makes
until my eyes ache.

take a break?
nice if you can,
but I'm a
hard working
harder pressed man
so
i carry on
not watching Wimbledon
and waiting for five
to arrive.

Manipulated by a pursasive tongue
Ignorance that crowds a clear mind
Savagely hoovering on your prey
Egotistically having multiple personas
Ruthless to an innocent soul
You

This is the ash
of my life.

It is yours.

Thank you for
your hoovering

You are welcome
to this dust.

This is the ash
this is the ash
of my love.

It is yours
please treat it
gently.

I wish I hadn't played Bowie that night
In your kitchen - he was yours after all
But Mum, I was only dancing
And at least it wasn't Wonderwall

I know you really loved it -
The incessant guitar and drippy vibes
I kicked a ball about too
And sang Teen Spirit once or twice

The funny thing is, the irony is over
I didn't self-combust or spend empty
Wednesdays digging old boys' graves
Or rent a fleapit from the 1970s

I did, however, sleep too much,
I wasn't as clever as I thought
I wrote doggerel and this 'poem' too
And mostly dreamt while the tough lads fought

Trouble is, you're not here to see
A human girl interested in me,
Or my driving round the old town
I'd pray you could, but I'm not aged three

You no longer have to iron my shirt
Or lend me a lift from school
You needn't change my room around
Or gently persuade me to follow rules

If angels can reach back down to Earth
You might wanna honour one of my wishes
I'm useless at hoovering - a real pet hate,
But I swear I got better at the dishes

© Copyright David Bosworth May 2023

As i lay there last night riddled with a very sick gut feeling, thinking about you & what you have done to me.

I remembered hearing every single word you have ever spoken to me.
I remembered every sickening touch you gave to me.
I remembered the ***** stale smell of alcohol.
I remembered the feeling of being stuck to the thick sticky what feels like tar on the floor, the same feeling as you being stuck in my mind daily, so sticky im trapped as a victim of your's.
I remembered seeing you're chest hair hoovering above me.

I felt guilty about how you would of felt sat there being integrated, wondering how you're family feels about this, feeling so distressed about the impact it could have on those who you are loved by.

As ive learnt over this past year,  this is now you're guilt to carry.