knitted on a dodgy bobble hat
or a favourite chunky jumper
from scandanavia, or yorkshire

untasteful but definitely practical..
smelly and friendly like a wet dog
pliable like warm playdoh...

patulioi oil
will always remind me of you...
'a hippy place in my heart...'
like a beachnut,
no, a beach hut
shelves littered with the flotsam of our throwaway society,
flip flop corner...

19:10
some random hermit crab making his escape from
the dripping bundle of just found fishing net
down through the crack in the floor...
into the sand
and back to the sea.
the moths and midges gravitate towards the fossils and rock shelf
because that's where the gaslamp gently hisses.

suncracked and faded
pieces of
70's buckets and spades flicker in the corner
between the scraps of rope
and the deflated inflatables
and the bottlecap damian hurst
next to sea purse corner,
biological tendrils contrasting the ever stoic rubber ducks
who escaped from the pacific gyre...

panning around, the smartphone registers,
the garish tatty windbreak
and the 90's ghettoblaster
which still has some juice left from those batteries
we bought at the gift shop...
last year...
for our imaginary beach hut....
in the outer hebrides...?

you take the camping gaz from the cupboard
and put the kettle on...
the beach is desert island white
the sea azure like a gaudy 70's postcard
the wind tugging relentless through our hair.
but the pub is warm and friendly
where grizzled fishermen philosophise
hardily. by the fire.
between warming shots of smokey single malt.

Mid October takes its end of season's leap
into the solitude of post-tourism autumn.
The landscape shows its truer face to celebrate
the reassembly of local solidarity.

Tat and trim tucked into hibernation,
chalkboards erased,
scant takings totaled,
inflatables deflated.
Unsold crafts packed between pages of yesterday's
'Correio de Manha'
Shocked freezers stand open-mouthed
their diet of ice dwindled to a thin trickle.
Sunshades collapse in deep south style,
redundant loungers relax supine.

Kids ***** back to school -
a mule-train of shoe-scrapers packed to the hilt
dawdles through warming scents of
post-salad indulgence,
sweet with the street-aroma of 'feijoada',
garlic, and  aromatic oregano
***-grown in a back plot, littered with
discarded placards and tired bikes.

Past men leaning doors, unsure of new routines,
idle hands and minds with new time to fill
mostly in cold bars for warm camaraderie.
Women pick fitfully at quiet-season's crochet
squatting to gossip under a white wash
slung and pegged, stick-sure
against thin bleached facades.

Under Planes, old comrades congregate
shuffling at a make-shift table,
tired eyes set on cards,
playing for cents under a limited sky
once defined by Salazar.

Car parks thin.
Beneath the russet canopies street-sweepers
scorn a reckless wind, where still sun-crisp leaves
gather in gutters, thirstily anticipating
the first deluge under autumn's gathering clouds.




copyright © Caroline Grace 2011

title: at <H. 20>
body:
troop movement
w.
ammo shortage:
abandon
   <H. 20> position.   502 bad gateway bypasses have become more fun than looking for google-whacks

i once tried to be this dad-rock sort of guy:
a massive fan of the stuff from the 1960s and the 1970s...
but... the more i explore the 1980s...
i'm finding out that... in all honesty?
sure... the 1990s grunge scene etc.:
not to mention TOOL... Fugazi... etc.
   but... hmm... well... there's a war on...
no one knows how far its going to go: or how
it might escalate...
          i'm not going to take sides: or write with
moral overtones regarding what is good
and what is bad...
i've heard the argument that moral judgements
are not right: to mediate this conflict as
a third party... or just as a person...
moral grandstanding: Ukrainian flags on profiles...
pouring Russian ***** into the drain...
just drink whiskey...
                          this stems from the Pariah Principle...
i'm just guessing to giggle a little:
the doping scandals finally got to ol' Vlad...
because it was funny when Mo Farrah pulled out
at some point... as did Bradley Wiggins...
started making income from adverts...
           yeah yeah: no, doping of athletes is not
systemic... all over the world...
   i guess some countries just have better doping
schemes...
   and while Russian was kicked out from
the mighty club of the G7 that was for a while G8...
i guess no one likes being left out...
no mention of China expanding the club into
a G9 or India for that matter... G10...
            plus... if the whole world spins the narrative
that you're evil... Russian subversion of American
politics... you're going to one day wake up and be
like: o.k. - fine... i'll be evil...
             aren't people liable if they slander someone
for no good reason / proof? can't someone be
sued for slander? i always thought the Russians
to be evil geniuses... but that softens the blow:
they're smart - in a malicious way because:
hell... what's there to do in a Russian winter...
you can only **** so much and drink so much *****...
so you get into hacking... for fun...
        but it's not Ukrainian politics was ever pristine...
i remember the days of the Orange Revolution
when Poland was involved in Ukrainian politics
for a while... long ago i said to myself...
it would be useful is Ukraine was allowed to join
the E.U. - just after the "famous five" joined back
in 2004... obviously i have no proof that i said something
along those lines back then... i wasn't writing then...
blah... politics... as ***** as money...
   i rather think about... how i managed to get
a ******* to want to meet me outside of the brothel...
rent a hotel room for the night...
pay for dinner... get a free **** all night... talk...
improve her English... learn some Turkish in return...
and music... i rather think about music...
i was going some ironing in the afternoon...
and i realised... of all these old vinyl records
that i brought back from Poland from my grandparents'
house... the ones my parents collected...
i was stuck on Maanam's Nocny Patrol (1984)
for too long on repeat... let's see what else is there...
oh... the original New Order Low-Life vinyl (1985):
**** me... an object that is older than me by
a year... well i did already know that New Order
emerged from the collapse of Joy Division...
well... the suicide of Ian Curtis... the precursor of
Curt Cobain - post-punk... well what came of that...
i never liked punk... more into psychedelic rock...
prog rock... but like i said... 60s and 70s music...
it grew on me... then... i grew out of it...
the whole boomer schtick of: we had the best music
your music is ****... give me a break...
- and it's not like i could get into Joy Division either...
i tried... it would be much easier to get into
65days-of-static if i were going to be perfectly honest...
or boards of canada...
      i tried... but... you can't let a tragedy go to waste...
so with the emergence of New Order...
and never looked into them... blue monday... faith...
but never looked into entire albums...
gateway album... Low-Life...
   and then it hit me... this is really the proper alternative
to The Cure... the Smiths... Depeche Mode...
i must be having this post-punk phase...
               at one point youtube was spewing out
post-punk suggestions all the time for me...
as if in the good old days of youtube being the best
jukebox on the internet...
plus... on a vinyl that's 36 years old...
oh: with the older vinyl you can hear the imperfections...
"imperfections" or rather the crackling...
newer vinyl doesn't have that crackling...
now i have a few good hours in the bag of going through
the entire New Order discography...
again... this conflict... i'm not even following it...
i've built-up a media burnout after all the repeated
news about Covid... i followed it at the start...
until... people started clapping for the NHS...
i switched off... i' already switched off regarding
this conflict... i'll make that dreaded hippy statement:
make love, not war...
  well... i'm on it... perhaps if i could be a mediator...
i'm not going to use moral language...
i'll just show people what life can be life...
do some ironing... put on a decent vinyl from the 1980s
plan a *** marathon in a hotel room...
with a girl you have no qualms over the "body count"
as some guys look for frigid nun types...
ah... what a mandible beauty...
            elsewhere... yeah... people are fighting...
but people are always fighting elsewhere...
- and it's not like nothing is being done...
over 1 millions refugees fled to Poland...
      i went into a forest and found something symbolic...
a branch of wood in the shape of a Cossack sword,
the shashka...
             i think my extended family might have
been affected by the UPA genocides during the Second
World War... mind you: the Ukrainians cheered
when the Nazis invaded... mind you: such wounds
should run so deep in me... it's ridiculous...
i should, maybe, just maybe: have the English attitude
toward the Norman genocide of Anglo-Saxon nobility
after Hastings from a purely historical point of view...
but then again... i knew a woman: my great-grandmother
who had to give opiates to her new-born daughter
(my grandmother) so she wouldn't cry when
they were running and hiding on the front...
  or how my grandfather remembers his uncle lying dead
in the back garden after being shot by the Nazis...
or how he would run up to two SS-men in their infamous
Hugo Boss black and shout: herr! bite bon bon!
and they would give him sweets so sweet that
his hands would be stuck together... etc.
           there is a lineage... memory... it's almost like
one person having many hosts... you can't exactly cut it
off... but... how ridiculous western democracies look
now, for their former criticism of Poland not taking in
enough refugees... really?
just like Turkey didn't take in enough authentic
Syrian refugees? oh... the type of refugees that drove
the trucks of peace in Nice... or performed
the Bataclan attacks? the Cologne *** party?
no Ukrainians on rubber-inflatables crossing the Channel
from Calais? i get it... the wrong sort of hue...
well... i guess old grievances can rest for a while...
you must really try your hardest not to be called
racist... but then one day you'll wake up
   like a Russian... after being called evil, foreign affairs
meddler... Olympic cheat and be like...
**** it... i'll own that slander... i'll just act upon it...
hmm... Dinosaur Jr. - but that's more grunge
than post-punk... no no... post-punk is something
very beautiful... it gets mixed up with the term Indie...
like... the Smiths are probably considered Indie
rather than post-punk... but i think they're post-punk...
god... i hate punk... probably as much as rap...
- and it's sort of a crying shame...
Russian, back in 2007... was such a welcoming place...
obviously my then Russian girlfriend
timed trying to get impregnated without my knowledge...
how does it work with women?
the highest chance of getting pregnant is just after
a woman's period: i'm not a woman, i don't know...
she was supposed to be on the pill...
hey, unprotected ***... well... she was rich enough
to not need my money, just my genes...
but the people were so welcoming...
i'd put the Russians on par with the Scots...
oh hell: her father was a timber oligarch out
in Siberia... she had multiple flats scattered around
St. Petersburg and even Moscow...
i look at it as follows: being a ***** donor doesn't
really cut it... what, just reading a man's profile:
window-shopping for *****?
obviously she wanted the relationship
to get to know the character of the man...
rather than some objective rubric: education X,
employment Y... but character? in person?
in practice? well... that's Z(ed)...
               well... if i'm not going to the type to
shoot bullets from a machine gun...
i might as well be shooting something else
somewhere else...
                              is that the conclusion you come to
when she calls you... tearful... in a happy way
and says: 'i think i'm pregnant!' - i think therefore i doubt...
i don't think that applies to how women
use language...
years later when i visited her... hmm... toys scattered
all over the apartment... hush-hush atmosphere...
she invited a lot of people round...
i think she was still with her newly wedded
neuroscientist: would be dumped months later...
married some poor Scotch schmuck...
well... at least she's keeping a tally...
    she might get to no. 5 and finally be like:
                     well... that was a good enough party...
no ***, just watch t.v. with me...
   oh hell no... i was exposed to Marquis de Sade
"too early" in life to somehow ******* without
a proper hard-on...
              well... first shot with the Turkish girl...
second one might hit the mark...
who knows... but this one photograph she sent me...
there's this young pretty thing sitting
in the background... a nice looking bump...
hmm... the last time i was there....
and shot a load into a ******... must have been...
oh... 4 months? 5 months?
what happened to that ****** with the payload?
women are such subtle creatures...
i might just be living in La-La-Land...
             but your mind sometimes goes out to lunch
in a non-demented way...
   it's not like people are transparent with each
other... it's not like we don't have our secrets...
secret avenues that other people never hear about...
it's not like that doesn't happen...
maybe the less i know and the more i speculate...
the happier i am... whether it's true or not...
i like to think that women like for a full beard
a hairy chest and a hair stomach, a 6ft2 100kg posture
is something that's worth salvaging...
freely given, on a whim: because... eh...
   i'm not a fat 4ft9 stinking Mongol who left a lot
of people in Pakistan with a surname: Khan...
and he done that by ****...
                                 spectacular... life...
and as long as i'm in a working environment and
i treat the... less lucky guys with candour:
with a camaraderie... what could possibly go wrong?
obviously everything...
                     but if they don't know jack ****...
and i keep them at a mutual-respect length...
ah... no open flirting with female coworkers...
at work... i feel so fake at work sometimes...
   at least in the schoolyard there was open banter...
at work i have to force myself: all the time...
            i just want to be left alone... do the shift...
*******... go back into seclusion and scribble down
thoughts to remind myself: i would never say as much
with my mouth as i "say" with the use of my
itchy-finger-tips... it's staggering how rhetoricians find
talking so easy... what's the old suggestion?
they enjoy the sound of their voice?
must be... i drift... mmm hmm... 1980s post-punk...
feels good... now that New Order discography to sift through.

With dangling shrubs for hair

Pivoting like a vulture
gleaming smiles
You skunk,

Tainting my heart with sweet nuthings,
Blowing my fears into teary inflatables.

It didn't grow,
Because it had to burst.

It burst again
And blend into muck.

I moan the past.

Those goggles
I crave
Your Soda Glasses
I raved

So
I can
Swim again
In the murky depths of our
chaotic evil

past.

Allow me to remind you,
that the sunrises are always
the most beautiful
when you are awake to see them.
Take value in those bewitching
fabrics of clutter, you wrap
your walls with.
For you are a skeleton;
empty and translucent.
There are no diamonds in your eyes
no sparks of fire when you laugh
because you are hollow bones,
marrow ****** dry.
Oh how my eyes deceived me
when we first met.
I think it was all of those
inflatables you bought me,
so I would also rest
on your surface.

I want to write a Christmas poem,
But the muse ain't in the mood;
I look outside, it seems like Spring.
I really think I'm *******.

There's not a flake of snow out there,
The sun shines in the blue;
I believe the squirrels are copulating.
I really think I'm *******.

Our geese stayed North again this year,
Our fauna's still in view;
It's hard to spot the cardinals;
I really think I'm *******.

There's lights strung round houses,
With inflatables on the lawns;
They're out of place,
Look crude and rude;
I really think I'm *******.

I'm not hearing silver bells
From sleighs running over snow;
It's a wonder we call this winter,
In Ontariario.

But... the tree is up,
The gifts well-wrapped
With Love and Best Wishes too;
So, in lieu of surely being *******,
This verse will have to do.

my father never let me win at miniature golf...
tantrum prone youth of yesteryear
didn't see the plot twist...
perched: again... crow like 6ft2
246pounds of me... fat toss: bulge...
and some - semi-decaying octopus magic fingers...
yeah... father never let me win at miniature
golf...
              but whereas he leaves
some of the sudoku: hyper-geometries open
to discussion...
       i leave mine completed...
no competition...
              not when a sober mind does
that a drunk would double: for a fee...
the currency of face-masks and looking into
jainism... or... contra ****** recognition
in place: contra the niqab...
i have all the excuses to...
     ninja-doodle my way through...
central london's pedestrian traffic...
    then again... being a smoker...
the old habit of harking up some phlegm
and spitting it onto the pave...
      with a face-mask? none of that...
but... i'll keep one spare pocket for these
facemasks... i'll have... grounds for...
religiosity and... heightened secular:
scientific sensibilities...
and the media folk vill be 'appy...
                             yes... it's already a **** show...
yes it was already a **** show:
i'm not going to: told you so: sow:
genius me... what rules did i comply to...
that would... otherwise... estrange me my
daily, routine - focus?
              pretty much... none of it...
        what has happened... and... extend that
into a time-lapse of years...
               oh sure... even my neighbours...
such... budding social lives...
friends... when friends were available
when at school...
work friends... so... those people you
****** around with for: doll... payment of good
grades... replaced with people who...
A-grade their presence for...
a baguette they will... most certainly...
not share with you?
yoyo-effect slimming...
                     i did that once...
lost virginia in the attic... and came out...
scarred for not being...
   one of the two part ensemble...
given: killing two birds with one stones...
unless... strap-on-a-***** to my forehead...
wait a moment...
no... clearly muhammad didn't foresee
the harem as... being filled with strap-on:
***** wielding lesbians...
after all: i only have 2... she has 3...
                        holes...
             - since von krafft-ebing times...
before freud...
             ******* was considered as
taboo as... performing *******...
     these days... that's the gold standard of
consent and: "ritual"...
you foreplay each other...
   big deal over jerking off: genocide flushed...
a measure of blood-pressure...
otherwise i'd surface with:
she has my **** stitched in all the right places...
everything is being automated...
here's to: going with the flow...
                      checking blood-pressure
or... blood sugar levels...
the old norm the new norm...
      no toy story: of that... i am sure...
and... well... for what could... could have been
a ***** bank...
if english existentialism is anything
to go by... it's certainly not a talk over
coffee or a beer...
it's a ***** bank donation...
all orc seriousness: my d.n.a. primo!
you! dodo! project!
                    and... would you like a kippah
with that? or an u.f.o.?
- then... "all of a sudden"...
darwinism pops up again:
survival of the fittest... and...
the men and their needle-in-a-haystack:
spines of mollusks...
perhaps "there"...
                "where"... and a heart could
be summoned... alternatives though...
the self-implosive critical mind of...
regurgitated facts and figures...
geared up... for "knowledge" / trivia...
at a pub quiz... storage space that...
will become... derelict... a housing project
for ghosts and having reached
a zenith of an amnesia-paradox...
chances are: you probably will remember
a "self"...
                      nonetheless!
vacated time and space...
                        so much for the trivia...
and... so much for the encyclopedia brain-drain...
back to basics: i like tomato soup...
i like pasta al dente...
    i think that to heighten appetite...
al fresco works miracles...
as does... drinking a 7.2% thatcher's vintage
cider... than any amount of wine...

- i'll hate myself for writing this...
but...
       let's get into the porridge...
87% of white women would want
to **** a black man...
meme tag... i guess: most probably
a zulu... since... all the rest:
didn't run fast enough to escape
the netting... or were... sold by their chieftans
for a bribe of cheetos...
the usual ****** treatment:
kan kan: and dunk b'ruh...

        but i guess... in reverse...
about 6% of white men would want
to **** a black girl...
lucky for me i'm 6.1%...
in that i did... "somehow"...
then again... she was well portioned...
i had my coccyx inside-out...
and i was missing my 12" *******
toy freed from the blue-pills-of-V...
and she lost her inflateables:
buttocks and sprinting the marathon
bones...

and it was that old school feral sort
of ****...
i ended up looking for a plum
in between the ***** hair region:
a second chin.. not the fold...
but she was... sculpted like...
nothing that might require a 12" ******
to begin with...
the kama sutra says it plain:
rabbit **** don't **** an elephant ****
for the elephant ****'s satisfaction...

give on... give off...
i want to laugh but then...
unlike these white girls...
sorry... i don't find black women attractive...
unless in kenya...
and she's looking like an oily grain
of coffee...
you can see the skin... melt in sunlight...
excavations in limbo land:
l.s.d. is missing and we only have
latex gimp-suits to fire-up the imagination...

perhaps the statistics is true...
white women want... what white women want...
but i'm a white man: pork...
catch me in august and i'm
a spaniard / half removed cousin of
a spaniard... perhaps damascus was
once my home...
             but i must be: blitzing the krieg
with fiddling some spaghetti...
when: i'd be in clear want of...
******* liquid chocolate...
or... kenyan liquorice quicksilver...

me throw pennies at crows
or me throw bags of sugar at the rascal
macaques...
same ****: different cover...

     presiding over the coming of
a "reincarnated" Elijah:
the heart of the son will return to the father...
the heart of the daughter will return to the mother...
no one is to feed themselves the narrative
of the nag hammadi: "being" freed...
when one transitions: with expert advice
from the medical profession: from male to female
and... vice versus...

sorry... what's fit for the dickens?!
just because white girls like...
doesn't imply white boys like too!
if white girls like:
   and white boys are looking for
the harem of mr. lemon... squinting:
because the sun's too much in beijing...
and all that's clearly worth...
doing much ado about... nothing...
japanese porcelain skins...

       i imagine a reverse insurgence of
the mongolian horde of pseudo-orc...
                and a pseudo-islam:
spikes in the frequency of terrorism
as "they" come to defend the ummah...
and take root in Xinjiang...
  such pride... concerning...
           what's a memory of Jaffa...
and... the prospect of Sarajevo...
          i'm bored ****-less with this:
notion of "invasion" without
bullet, bite of grit or tank...

                - standards in "males":
primo standard... not ******* enough...
coming across a hit dough & nut that knows
how to... "been there... ****** enough":
the linear projection of my youth now
exhausted: i need a low-to-high libido:
strap-on ****-of-a-man...
to wed me for the joys of crosswords
puzzles and...

the hyper-gemotry of sudoku...
157869324
983452176
246731598
821976453
394125687
67534­8912
568213749
719684235
432597861   (less a square...
think of a cube! a cabana cigar) -

                  i think of a hard-on
like i think about spring...
and... strawberries...
and small... asian hands working
their magic around the detail
of solding electronic parts together...
unicorns and mermaids...
and alien invasions that begin
with blockjobs rather than **** probing;
i guess i'm just being old-fashioned...

the good old days of drinking a pint
oif bourbon and paying little richard
a visit to the bulgarian...
                        lasso of a dead cow...
and the church of journalism...
the tabloid oopses and poops...
*******: further und mutter...
there was no glorious:
pwetty son  - brass shoulders of
an atlas pose...
a university degree in chemistry is
probably a step-back from being
an apprentice plumber...
and this mundane talk of wasted:
years doing social-science bluffs...

i am in the most fired-up dire need
of *** like...
no... i'm more prone to be asking:
dreamless sleep...
the *** can happens beside me...
with pickled brains...
insects and everything else hyperventilating...
tripping on a fusion
of m.d.m.a. and ****** -
      drunk and *** was **** gang for
her... deprived from: audience at the proper
"the end" of sabbath...
standards of men: what?!
the ones caged not having enough
practice shooting placebos and blanks?
while she: hail she! ave she!
she gets a thirst for threesomes
and the lost... blank...  jerker...
because... her: missing part...
fifth wheel handy is missing to
excavate the **** the floral pattern:
the kissing the children good: night?

i say sooth: i say dilute: i say:
here comes the beer...
this is not the 1960s and the rolling stones
and the sort of women to settle down with:
freebie bandies: banshees
and all that's missing are the:
she's still much afraid of the foxes cackling
in close conduct with the magpies...
before and after: she's afraid of the dark
like richard the lionheart...

going to visit the three tiers of P was never
easier... first the priest: eviently self-discredited...
then the psychiatrist / psychologist...
verbiage for the latter...
big pharma for the former...
and then... bulgarian prostitutes...
c.b.t. ******* with no touch...
but i'm a slave to the octopus when
it comes to being loved up...

87% of white women would **** a black
man... 13% of me says:
i'd for 90% of black women... when there
was a 99% chance of making the exception,...
and i will never bring my 12" g.i. joe
for the buttocks of semi-inflateable:
necessity to sink sort of buttocks:
but run as a cheetah it will...
no aquaman 'ere:
                      there's no "there": period...

brazil.. perhaps... a post-ethnic project...
argentina: too many t'zees: khaki burns...
puked mustard shirts... dijon ala: no dijon...
burnt mahoghanny flirt...
brazil the post-racial project...
no 12" **** envy... no... freed *** inflatables
and: sprints 100m under 10 seconds...
take about a lifetime to swim 50m...
and... bothers citing the "question"
of the anchor...
loses weight... takes to the marathon
as an ethiopian pseudo-***...
jumps the high... jumps the long...
but doesn't... jump the pole...

    aquaman contra king kong...
the crab the piglet and...
       unless she's the queen of sheba...
or nefertiti... and there isn't...
a lament of solomon...
              
      - and in general: this ****-sodden-pile
of maggot *****: smart talking cockneys
and smooth itching libido:
first come, first served:
new buddha wave sort of:
   "res vanus" hustling boyscouts of:
never-to-never: first come...
you... no g'lot... every other fwyday...

- all in all: a smart-eyed-up piece
of cockers... or cockney...
baron leverage - the rhyme... or the shlang...

ooh... me loves a whittle bits of
"misunderstandings":
cordiality... let me get m'ah dictionary out...
violence of words...

blood is thicker than water...
except for the custard...
and all that ******* pie..
because... what's paying 10quid for the turk
and the "madamme" for entry...
110 quid for the hour of blatant
butchering...
affectionate my ******* ***...
and then... a top up of a tenner tip
to mince a ******* oysters' worth
of **** for a "tip"!
what's that?

  look at my tongue... tattooed
with a bunch of that sorry **** of detials
for: excalibur... that one...
and only... sorry... tax dough
cough up!

           easier than ******* a mannequin...
pretend doll: pre-tend...
            five nigerian with machetes
walk into a bar...
one albanian counters...
the machetes are like...
               christmas tree deocrations
when the albanian hears the threat...
he's married... he was two duaghters...
so much for zulu warrior: nigeria
2.0 orc...

            when the albanian goes
full on schizoid... steps out of his body...
entertains the soul...
and... there's talk of...
the grace of the guillotine...
among the: newly become...
scuttling nigerian rats...

                  having entertained ***...
makes me... a rather... deviant creature...
i quiet enjoy the violence
served up by peace...
all this... troy of verbiage of comfort
and... pedantry... and that quote:
of a gang...
     ******* vulvas is for *******...
annals of ****: toe-dipping
two-'ere-one!

- as we are: at our best...
the most civil of: ****... entertain-ers...

take up a civil case with the pun...
much later: or no later...
what did a rhyme ever... do to you?

Metal strewn about...
Fires of jet fuel reek the air...
Intermittent
A shoe
Seat 12A
Tray table
Heat from fuel pit
Raging
Zombies walking about
Dazed
Survivors
Smeared with black
Seats 17C & 24B
Still strapped in
Just torsos
&
A tie
Fuselage
Upside down
Body part unidentifiable
Papers
Came down in cornfield
Scorched earth
Yellow inflatables strewn
Crumpled
Caved in
Inferno
Sunlight peeking thru...
5,000 pieces
How could anybody survive this?

weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

i'm starting to get them...
         no, wait: i've lost the plot...
it's almost like...
alcoholics anonymous...
booo! booo!
  yep, *gatlin knows
about as much,
            and bolt was
the voodoo doll
   of the jamaican sprint
team...
     whatever they make
him out to be: voodoo doll,
genuine, to me.
but i listen to these
youtube reformists,
they "alcoholics" anonymous
and i'm starting to
pledge myself into pitying
them...
   they really didn't make
much of their own company
when drinking? did they?
me?
    of course i cry!
    you play me the most emotionally
charged piece of classical
music and i'm a wendy spencer
(whoever the **** that is)
   using up about ten tissues
to mind the niagara falls of
sentiment...
                what's with so much
confessing, and the complete
lack of enjoying the trip?
   am i going to repent for me
drinking?
               **** no!
         if you can't keep up,
then there's no point in
keeping you motivated...
  if you can't bask in a sunset
of a litre of *** with me,
        what sort of pirate r'ye?
go on, ******, frown,
frown *******, frown!
beat me with you ugly stick...
hope you get the ian dury polio
counter-effect...
      while walking down
cuntish town you thought you'd
call to safe ground via kentish...
kent's impromptu:
   essex can have the veg 'n' blush
  fruits,
we're 'eeping the flou-wares.;
hmm... a(n) english garden,
after all.
       whaa whaa... tongue tied
in the grapheme shared between two
words, hence the bracket "optional" (n);
aye! yo!
           big up kingston-upon-thames!
charcoal those jamaican
   colours, and make sure
i get i ****-churn at notting hil
filling station of jerking inflatables
of juggling hips and pelvises
            of the caribbean woo, woo-manz;
suddenly my **** turns
into a crisp dipper with a salsa
of fat *** and chocolate drip
               of ***** mush...
   nice thought, i suggest you try
it sometime;
boy, you ain't 'ave ah 12" dipper?
   don't bother...
   look for the girls with the boney a,
i mean via m... take them to the mass
with the altar being:
    and rodeo it was...
   i never knew i had bones inside
the bush of my *****...
                    evidently? i have!
gold goes to vanilla manila,
silver? goes to strawberry blush...
bronze? ah...
    you ever wonder why oiled or
wet chockies look so fascinating
bouncing off moonlight?
   me too...
          kenyan brown is beyond
what the western niger showcases.
if they just dropped the madonna *******,
       i'd still **** them drunk...
when she's naked
     and you're naked,
                          and you're drunk:
              it's no time to be a *****-loner;
tea-cups and napkins,
  invoking a respectable "repertoire"
can belong to the white girls,
   along with the ***** collection of
abbreviated lies...
             i got bored,
started to loosen up a bit,
    i have no motto,
        i have absolutely no ethical concern...
what comes along is better than
paying for enforcing an encounter via
the liberty of paying for it...
   trouble is... when you pay,
and she *******...
           that's a real ******* problem for her...
she wasn't supposed to enjoy it,
she was supposed to get paid...
              ha! transcending the "ethics"
of prostitution is not an easy feat;l
more painful for her, than for me,
    with that octopus-like squeeze of imitating
a circumcised ***** having pulled
the ******* back...
    **** me... i never thought i'd own
an aubergine... thank **** that also
means: minus the c-ring: two birds, one stone.