Insecticide.
Does anyone know where I can get some insecticide?
I need it, the sensation of that cold, sleek nozzle pushing inside me
My belly button will be heavens gate- inside are those **** butterflies...
Butterflies that tremble and quiver whenever you walk by.
That fragility is my enemy.
The only solace I can ever hope for, is in the desolation of such weakness.
My heart, it would often seem, is on a suicide mission.
So eager to climb up my throat and plunge into your twin pools of blue.
Those dastardly insects are fighting like hell,
Their wings the color of your lips-
The beat of their wings, a mockery of my own heartbeat.
I guess no one told them, their wings flutter for no one but me now
And I have had far enough of their nonsense.
Desires of a lonely heart are fantastical at best.
But nothing can argue with the cold steel of that nozzle
Wedged firmly inside, its mission realized.
And finally it's a feeling that I want to feel, not any of this involuntary *******, "falling in love".
Because I really can't help falling in love with you.
I'd stop it if I could. I'd throw the train from its rails, toss the plane from the sky, sink the ship out at sea.
To forget I ever loved you.

The flowers of June no longer hold that same color.

The bitter taste of the pest control will be the only taste on my tongue.

Not yours any longer, my dear.

repetition, that's a good technique, a form of
reiteration, emphasis, as you like to
move in the river of synonymousness -
i mean, plenty to choose from -
well it's a better technique than rhyming,
it's like Kaiser Karl Lagerfeld said
about Coco Chanel's legacy after she died
in 1971: 'people tend to forget, that,
once upon a time, Chanel was old hat.
it was only Parisian doctors' wives who
still wore it. nobody wanted it - it was hopeless.'
(oh i can be couture no problem,
the other side of me that's into galleries -
even though that never brought me much
luck with the ladies, Beelzebub ******* on my
face and i started to squeeze out maggots
ensuring my face was forever crater riddled
moon - yes, excess white blood cells).
that's the same with poetry, it can't be
love me doo d'ah mushy mushy candy-floss
longing crap - mate, i'm a bus ****** and
this bus is coming but it's already 20 minutes late...
and it's ******* cats, dogs, frogs... Norwegian
acid rain, my anorak is peeling like a snake
shedding its skin and you're rewriting the early
Beatles unleashed on the American public:
shaved, hair trimmed into mushroom bops
all that Rene Magritte **** 'love, love me do!'
forget it, it's not going to happen, rhyming is the last
resort, i prefer the chance rhyme, it sometimes
happens, and it's too cute when it happens randomly
rather than with premeditation;
you can also throw out all the other premeditation
of techniques that poetry is known for...
what's the point? and back concerning rhyming,
you really want your poetry to be discussed by
schoolchildren and an english teacher in between
grammar lessons
                                  rhyming schemes and all?
that's how it goes:
         her name was Dazie          (a)
         she was never lazy             (a)
         i wrote her a sonnet           (b)
         reclining on a car bonnet  (b)
                                                               that's how they
do anatomy on poetry, the forensic team will
be with you shortly, the only reason i can think of
and know of as to why people are abhorred by
poetry (it's a natural repellent, spray it on weeds
             and insects, a natural insecticide,
****, spray it everywhere) is, because people on
the academic level have scrutinised it, analysed it
to the extent that it's not even there, it gets you thinking:
so who the hell was paying attention to the mammoth
novels of Tolstoy? oh right... no one!
the forensics, the post-mortem of poetry,
it has literally been mummified - the brain came out
as porridge ****** out through the nose.
are you familiar with Tenacious D's one note song?
that's what rhyming is to me, ever hear it?
it's the -ing twang
                            it's the -ing echo echo echo echo echo...
halfwit variations, you're hitting the same note,
great if you're penetrating a girl and she's giving
you an Opera of Vowels... otherwise it ends up
in a schoolroom, with an english teacher
and the rhyming scheme of a sonnet is?
                          ABAB CDCD EFEF GG
or?
                                                              abracadabra.
personally though Tenacious D's song kiełbasa,
etymology:
                    kieł       (canine, in polish)
   -basa (i'm guessing: the base of)             -
it's a sausage                                based on canines,
kieł (insert a           w    for the         ł.. tongue tied, eh?)
is a reference to a canine, a sharp tooth anyway,
and with -basa             i just intuitively thought of how
a hebrew would write it (i.e. hiding vowels)
and therefore juggled in an      e                  for -base.
they do, even though hebrew has Aleph (א) it hides
the vowels: S VRYTHNG RDS LK S - or i might
just be bullshitting you.

It's June, 1967.
Nature, still lying through
Parsley green teeth,
Breathes the last of spring,
Hints early summer warmth,
Pre-July's cicada whine,
August's heat and wind.

Crops, still tender green
Quiver beneath a humid sky,
Under a glowing sun.

Bicycles amuse our early lust
To soar untraveled ground,
Entering lazy summer's ennui,
We scan a hawk riding drafts
On the edge of our hill.

Dust, drifting up the graveled road,
Five miles below us,
Piques our interest,
Causes the dog to raise his head.
He ***** an ear
Toward a sound we cannot hear.

We hear gravel slapping rocker panels
Before the traveler's roof rises into view,
Catch our breath as the engine slows,
Start running for the house.

A stranger's arrived,
A traveling salesman,
Better than an aunt
Only stopping in for tea
And woman talk.

Dad keeps his welding helmet down,
Repairing broken things.
The hired man inhales his cigarette,
Acts disinterested.

My memories linger on the past....

Salesmen brought the latest farming gadgets:
Additives for fuel and oil,
Battery life extenders,
Grain elevators and fencing tools,
Produce and livestock products,
Lightning rods and roofing,
Chrome-edged cultivator shovels,
Insurance for everything:
Fire, water, wind, hail.

Pitches came without exception:

"Top o' the morning! Looks like you're busy.
Don't want to take your time."

"Looks like you could use some welding rod,
And I have something new for you to try."

"Have you used chromium additive in you livestock salt?
Guaranteed to put on weight and protect from bovine
Tuberculosis!"

"Say, have you heard about the effectiveness of a new
Insecticide called DDT? I've got a sample gallon here
For you to try. Works better than Malathion!"

Dad, eventually intrigued, began the slow dance
Of dickering, haggling over this thing or that.
Most salesmen, closing in for a ****,
Hadn't grappled with my father.

At noon, deals still in the air,
My mother called the men,
And we all trudged in to wash,
Waiting in line at the tub,
Scrubbing with powdered Tide
To remove the grime and grease,
Drying on the darkening towel,
Finding a seat at the table.

The salesmen expected the meal
As though it were their right,
A standing invitation:
Stop in at noon,
Make your pitch,
Sit at table,
Close the deal after.

We boys sat and listened
To man talk.
Eyes wide, we marveled
At gadgets,
Wondered at Dad's parleying,
Winced at the deals he drove,
Commiserated with squirming salesmen
Surely made destitute by Dad's hard bargaining.

In retrospect,
I know the game was played
On two sides,
That the battery additives
Bought for five dollars a packet,
Even with the two Dad finagled free,
Cost about five dollars for everything,
Returned forty-five and change
To the smirking, full-bellied salesman
Who left a cloud of dust on his way
To supper a few miles down the road.

butterflies in my head
**** them and pin them
add them to your collection

hold my hand and i'll ask you
why they flutter around
when you do that

when you look at me
i can feel them behind my eyes
i think they want a taste
of your raspberry lips

they do all they can
to try and escape
just to perch upon your skin

they can't escape
they never will
instead they fill my head
with the inexplicable

A noon-time beat plays in the head
Tea-time brawl revisited now.
Lisping out a song later. 'Really?'
The fridge is empty. The late cuckoo
tugs at the heart; Summer sweat
on evening's brow. Deep down
glow, inner lit springs shadowed
in the woods. Cacophony birds
returning home. Cook, cook, cook.
Filling up sink. 'Ah, am I that bad?'
Insecticide can; Make something up:
the noisy fan; Lady in hood, rising
from the lake. 'Could I have....just
done it another way?' Walking by
the bund as the sky slips away
veiled among the blinking stars.

No matter how much my body resists it, the internal dialog never stops, cant destroy it. with my cigarettes, or junk food, or my bad attitude, can’t make extinct the thing that’s possessed me.
right in front of you
like a worn out tune of blues,
looking like leftover food, but not so tasty.
it’s a dream of mine, and in time i will learn what it takes to
make the seed grow.
never know? doubt kills like
pesticide,
insecticide,
boys at columbine.
with vicious and preconceived certainty.
no humanity or humility, only cruelty.
like the beast of nature, (pardon me)
nature of the beast.
the nature of the beast
will never cease. like the internal dialog, never stops. can’t destroy it with my cigarettes, or junk food, or my bad attitude. can’t make extinct the thing that resides inside of them, that’s possessed them.

Ronald McDoland & cousin Kentucky
had Iraq: ji had ji had ji had e ha e ha e ha oh!
i told you about the heresy of war,
the Soviets are back, success rate
up 1000% from Afghanistan to be the next
Uzbekistan - well, less Mongol tsunami down that
alley; it's still heresy to do puppet upon the head
of former state with oligarch tyrants selling
us bone marrow as meat: Iraqis just said:
let's keep it kosher and local and less global
and less treadmill!

the orb's lost & found song from the dream album is
so hard to follow at first; i only came back for the psychopath
avenue theme tune: ah... ******* ready to depose
Saddam Hussein... but now ******* in their pants to send
soldiers into the land of crucifixions and be-headings?!
how strange the correlation between actual warring
fake pacifism, simulated warfare and excess
theories with atoms but incompetence with
the elements.

i watched democracy fail... the foxes stole nothing,
they stole nothing because they were sloppy!
i thought this while hanging the washing on the line today...
*******... puck-puck-yellow-yanks... larynx by larynx on the tiles...
let's paint it red! spare me Slob Bogdan Maso Kiev Itch...
ah, when it was all under wraps... oh but the western
media are so ******* vociferous for those shady
gamblers known as shareholders, no casino,
just a house in suburbia... wankers... football hooligan me
into acting when it comes to practice!

sho you'sh shoor you'sh want'sh to shoo your shon
to shwastika access on return? me tshinks sho...
Bex is a girl's name Rebecca, we hear more of Bex's
past than anyone's.*

Colonel Kentucky can shove that chicken drumstick
up his **** and sing me a lullaby about his
famous discovery of deep baked **** batter!
crumbs ahoy, aye aye captain, my
stratosphere of anally commanding the first-mate
into coherent motivational propaganda of:
women outside of war will treat the dogs of
howling and barking as companions -
the stresses invigorate... no second chances are given
to buy a ******* toaster or a chimpanzee,
both do tricks, it just depends which one does the trick
quicker - it takes more than just a homelessness
from the realm of the cube to see how many
is an insect although not in an atheistic strict sense
of expressing nihilism: man the disharmonious
swarm can hardly keep queen or king:
unless we all were ****** by the king and unless
we all ****** the queen: insects are strict Martians,
they have no time for concubines or horse races
of football matches, or other coliseum distractions:
unique insecticide of insects against individualism
that's thought in being human so fondly kept
with the pyramid as with a book of some obscure
philosopher championing wear & tear & tatters
looking more for a tailor than a god:
appearances must be kept, after all, so few of us are
prisoners in the bedding chamber of perfect
genetics of post-******, and the dumb neo-****
scapegoats along with Israel are kept being fed
cinnamon sticks laced with sailors' *****
that's nutmeg.
**** you not... ere come the clueless klaxon hakuna
matata bob dylan bums... like two police officers
in reverse of the stereotype: one plays the harmonica
(i.e. can read), another strums the guitar (i.e. can write) -
but we're missing the elephant's
molesters:                          we're missing four of the six,
that's enough for the tetragrammaton verb,
we have the trunk and the leg, that'll do us just fine:
we can just say it's a fire hydrant...

with my new regime i understood the blanket
of un-forgiveness of english teachers,
i exported the idea of haiku to the east and
received the notion of esnō - i said double that
up, thrice it, make the thrice square,
add a hundred ballerina twirls and create
a hurricane from the ensō; what did i
get on my return? hardly a butterfly effect,
i got stenotype, the beheading of
Anne Boleyn - quick like a marriage with a black
widow spider or a mantis: an orphanage on my back...
so many more sperms reach the pyramid end
than in mammals, but look at what the Darwinism
rainbow gave us to feel depressed about...
comparative existentialism to insects, arguments
against parasites... might as well argue about
eating and **** evaporating rather than the pleasure
of faeces squeezing through the **** muscles...
(if you had *******, i'd tell you about the pleasure
of *******, and not needing to bother women
to stretch a muscle that's hardly an oyster of skin,
keep the flowers in Eden of comparisons,
mine ain't beauty, yours' ain't either:
it ain't a flower, it's a seashell protein, thing, the end):
oh yeah, the boys and me were watching salmon
in the school, we were using index and middle fingers
to slingshot shoot the salmon buds to dumb down and
forget feminism and remember the village life...
ha ha... worked like steroids to those fake muscle-heads
when looking at gymnasts and scaffolders:
PUMPIN' IRON PIMPIN' MOLLUSCS!
what a hydrochloric-hydraulic combination to non-grammatical
coordination from (0, 0) to (20 kilometres west,
50 kilometres east) in comparison to an epic literature
output of Russian angst origin in epilepsy shadowed
over by the joy of gambling... i have drinking,
now imagine Halloween on Hawaii.

Each day, the horrid insects return.
They pull me
downwards, away from all I know.

Ten thousand tiny wings,
thirty thousand minuscule legs.
They drag me,
body buzzing with the life they give
into the twilight of dysfunction.

The slow, bulbous doubts, the ghastly
creeping terrors, the venomous dreads
and spindly, chitinous uncertainties.
They eat me
Gnawing away at everything I am,
Until I look in the mirror and do not see
A familiar face staring back.

So I **** them all, without mercy,
Until not a membranous wing still beats.
I flood their wretched exoskeletons
With the cleansing, toxic mists of
Insecticide.
I drown myself in the poison, pushing
away the deep dark and swimming upwards
towards the gentle, comforting light of day.
My head breaks the surface, gasping.

But as I breathe deep, I do not turn back
To see the trail of butterflies
Floating dead among the carnage.

This sickness has
derailed me.
I've scaled back on
the things that
matter most.
Life has become
askew.
I'm tangled up in
blue and red lines,
back against the
fence.
I'm frozen and febrile.
Insecticide burns on
my spirit.
Pesticide in my lungs.
I'm sick of all
these chemicals.
They are in my dreams,
and in my bones.
Maybe, she is the infection...
Never mind, it's just Covid 19.

Automatic doors part
and he faces –
with exposed skin brown and **** cloth –
the produce section,
little feet padding calmly across the cold white tile.
He pauses before a bumpy ***** of red onions.

“Ahima,” he whispers.
Low in the blue Idaho sky,
near Sand Hollow’s green ground,
a Grumman Ag Cat
applies insecticide to an onion field.

what on earth is this feeling
(yellowing formaldehyde)
kind of like old heartbreak reeling

a vivisection, never healing
coat & spray on the insecticide
what on earth is this feeling

criminal butterflies stealing
the cogs & screws in my arthropod insides
kind of like old heartbreak reeling

heartthrobs come frenzied then unfeeling
my vague worries preside
what on earth is this feeling

whateverphobia; a personal ceramic ceiling
to myself, is how I've always lied
kind of like old heartbreak reeling

carcass littered webs are usually unappealing
my own web has much to elide
kind of like old heartbreak reeling
what on earth is this feeling

I think
I'll
Ingest
Some
Insecticide
Rid myself
Of the
Pests
Inside

poem
i speak in butterflies
a chrysalis wrapped around my tongue
caterpillars make their homes in
the caverns of my lungs.

poem
two snakes intertwined in my intestines
the hiss of hunger curls out of my ears
yellow eyes behind a yellow smile
i sleep beside the fire for the year.

poem
my blood runs thin through
burrowed veins, the ants crawl slowly,
my arteries cave, the ants crawl slowly,
i know their names.

The bloodsuckers of the night
Invaded my abode
And with their unsterilized pipe
Draw my blood
******* the life
Out of my viens
Injecting death
Into the stream
And in my pain
I fight back
Taaah! A clap, a slap
But it ends in my pain
For the invaders escaped
Making a mockery of my counter-attack

In the dark
Upon the couch
When my head
Her rest do seek
Then came their scout
And huuuummmm goes my drum
This is worst than a bite
For insomnia do invite
Another alien to my home

So with teary eyes
And shivering bones
With lost appetite
And a sour taste in my mouth
A body feeble and frail
Went I to see a doctor
In the heat of my body
Hot like a dozen furnaces
Went I to the clinic
But my testimony was not enough
To convince the doctor
That the invaders have left a stranger
In my blood stream
A parasite feeding on my life
So the lab man I must see
For the foreigner must be identified

Home I went and back I came
To see the doctor
But I have thought what to do
To these foreigners
Both the invaders and the aliens
For my health and my rest
Are worth more than gold
And now sitting before the doctor
Wandering what they must have found
Hoping it’s not going to be grave
“Malaria parasite”
Malaria?!
“Yes malaria” the invaders left it in your blood stream

Home I went from the doctor
Armed with arthemether,  lumefatrin and paracetamol
To fight this war
Raging in my world
Still I wonder
What do I do?
To end it all
Once and for all
For the invaders
Still hide within my walls
In my wardrobe and in my clothes
Under my bed and in the closet
In water left uncovered
And the ***** pool outside my home
In the gutters and uncut lawn
They seem to be everywhere

The “wipers” could not **** them
They seem to make them strong
For everytime they bounced back
More angry and fierce
No! one more pain, one more bite
And my senses returned
I have heard of ITN
Insecticide Treated Net
Convinced I was of just one try
At last I found my warrior
To defeat these aliens and invaders of my world
Oh! How I love this net….
Gleefully I crawl under the net
To take my sweet beautiful rest
And no more of these alien care
And my war against mosquito won
And malaria defeated from the source
Prevention and better than cure.

So you blame the roses for the locust swarm
That eats away at their beauty
And drench their joyful fragrance
In misery...

Where the **** is the insecticide?

may i ask, which pronoun are you searching for, and if in which model, which pronoun-verb in the Cartesian duo function could you ever ask me what pronoun occupies f(∴)? you see, mathematics doesn't sincerely pledge i think with i am, given dues to f(∵), given geometric intersection, both are Gemini, unequivocal, David's abstract.

perpetually open eyes, never acknowledging a blink,
Venetians cascading on Byzantium, near blink near conscience,
but never near an Ottoman consequence;
how ***** into role of Janissary: fear the impaler and all
who reign in his caste disguised... yet you encourage
that they come.... what tailoring of suit
so well disguises the blood? a heavy collar or the lightly
mandated to feel a "conscience"?
i like freaks like him, i too cared to wear many
masks, is that worth a psychiatric evaluation,
you spared me no trust,
your secret dealings could have spared me
my health, what you fear is double-jeopardy,
including a seclusive f.b.i. reclusive supposedly paranoid...
please leave all your badges of officiation to
an affiliated organisation of governance behind
including your firearms, and other scientific
conditionings prejudiced against the church v.
Galileo... please leave dogmatism to students and
anomaly encounters to professionals as stated by
the entitlements of doctorate...
the plot has no identifiers worthy of investigation,
unless everyone was brainwashed into thinking
that goldfish held a greater memory span in a
fish tank than all the people in the world, atmosphered,
and later impregnated by nothing other than
vacuum and astronomical interactions of simple
alphabetical greek into complex chemistry? or
could a world conspiracy come about as simply
the words: she was worth a 1000 Greek ships
worth of **** to later ascribe the capital
of love as Paris? the raw animal is worth more in
his ontological environment than in a zoological one,
cages enliven violence rather than envision them
in either subject or the culprits mind...
it's the added prospect of seclusion that animates
a piquant status of memory to a kindred
fingerprint cloning deviation, a susceptible replication
environment: esp. through no familial motive, other than an
individualistic swarm-like reaction to an insecticide:
however much the individual invigorates a
suspect accommodation to an equilibrated pluralism
within a status ascribed to an: individual.
i admit, the psychological rhetoric is the new
invention of the wheel... it goes on and on forever,
i fear for those hapless idiots studying the logic
of excluding soul (as an absence of thought), god,
and free will to ever return to the rational / sane world
of afternoon tea, given they specialised in these
specified wording to a rubric equatable to 1 + 2 = 3.
you'll learn no more human secrets than that of
a *sloane's viperfish... otherwise you're entering a realm
of perfected adaptability with some quasi-science
via fiction and conspiracy, that leave you no more than
an agent of the priesthood and a loss of a good
niche of ******... well, is't the priesthood
pathetic so jealous as to have lost the reigns having
kept them for so long? oh yes, the public will react...
regarding the next nutritionist's fact...
it's called adaptability i may say, leave them to it,
you kept to your symbolism for too long,
we learned the crux like we learned to say X
three times ensuring we watched ****...
oh i'm not jealous, i won't be the one having to
orphan the ******* sons, as your church had to keep
them to keep up pretences... all they have to keep
up is the stability of universally recognising a
centimetre, which, like satan said of the kingdoms
to be given, the Orientals sort of ignored with
the grievance demanding an explanation for
the ineffectiveness of thus said temptation.

in all honesty, i've become a supermarket ghost, one shelf stacker inquired whether the cheap ***** i'm buying is any good, well the beer Amstel is decent, but the whiskey i mix anyway - a wake-up call to stay away from writing ancient greek style epics, a shelf stacker at a supermarket, that's all it took, bye bye chaos of the north, or northern chaos, or whatever i tried to romanticise / or make a fetish of.*

concerning ᚾᛟᚱᛞᚱᛁ ᚠᛚᚢᚲᛃᚨ,
in an analogical form, very much akin
to mozart and joseph ii of austria
(the famous yawn - Amadeus quote
'too many notes!'),
people need nibbles!
nibbles! i tell ye nibbles!
like the opposite of cinema,
as bird-man states at the end of
the film: people want action!
explosions! alien invasions!
they don't want existential angst
screened, they're so sadistic in
this department that they want
the solo eventuality - they want
to experience existentialism solo -
existential: out of every exit of example,
themselves. bird-man got it spot on,
but revise cinematography using
poetry, and what do you get?
the destruction of western and even
middle-eastern narratives with
the haiku - the haiku ****** up
prosaic poetry like karaoke ******
up innovative ballet of the tongue -
translated bird-man's investigation
of cinema, put it against poetry,
yep, pair them up,
when cinema craves for action
and adventure,
poetry craves for nibbles,
no one is going to burden Homer
for the next 1000 years, or Dante
should it matter, they'll want
nibbles, haiku upon haiku,
short and sweet... fellas' bring in the
insecticide! we're going to smoke
those cockroaches out with one
smooth toxic cloud! puff! and they're gone!
poetry can be a cinema,
i mean, if cinema appeases the public
with extrovert activity without
the necessary identity of the protagonist
all the better... i dare you
to create a protagonist's introversion
as some point... Mr. Gorgonzola!
you're up next... messerschmitt nose dive
into a parabola... kneeee-uh -
you can just hear the propeller like
a shark fin cutting air;
if poetry is anything like cinema is
that less is more -
it's people we're talking about, after all,
cattle, you can join the cattle throng
any time you want, i know i do,
no point being optimistic about
your individuality or the individuality
process you devise,
you have to be pessimistic,
the wildebeests are optimistic when together,
the tiger is... well, a tiger, alone -
predatory antics are scaled against
herding, with stampede the only recognisable
antic - but me, between predator and herd,
in a vulture group (committee) / vulture feeding
(wake), etc. add hyenas to that
and we're above parasites -
pocket-proof of a group of foxes never existed -
solitary musings i say, theirs' the wanderings -
but with examples like ᚾᛟᚱᛞᚱᛁ ᚠᛚᚢᚲᛃᚨ, epic attempts,
you slowly begin to realise the un-importance
of your daily routine, the mundane reality
of it all, the lost excitement,
before you could **** out all the essence
of a little encounter, but when embarking
like Columbus to find only Jamaica you
end up finding three-continents and shrapnel
from the eastern face... well you miss
your spontaneity, your little consistency -
no due to atheism - it didn't **** off theology,
that remained constant, a fudge berg
in your imagination, it just killed off history -
we have pre-history and stones,
iron and brass in between, and then
we have 24 hour newsreels - who's going
to make up the time? we're taught
of being insignificant before we even decided
to become the next Audrey Hepburn -
****** shoo shoo they call us - ushers
of shoe-shine smiles - see what i mean
about trying to write epics in the 21st century?
enforced evolution, chicken nugget poetry,
not even a whole chicken, chicken ******* nuggets,
and yes, coarse words act as conjunction
lubricant, no offence, but they do -
so with bird-man telling us explosions are
the case for applauds and throwing
free bread around - poetry is all about
scavenger nibbles - haiku can almost be ranked
as a poetic technique equal to pun or metaphor -
we lost the narrative,
the narrative isn't coming back to
rejuvenate poetry - it's... gone!
or as they say where champagne is cheap...
chimp champs of the innuendo
wrote many more rocking-a-cradle poems
and never bounced a tennis ball
against the same wall
with the signature of the game stressed as
        i sat on a chair
        and cut my hair,
        without a mirror:
        kdump (linux) error, error.
how a little holiday into excess narration
proved the point of the everyday emphasis
once again spotted.

I'm a schizophrenic hypocrite,
thankfully not in a medical way
I don't have to pop pills everyday
to keep an essence of danger under control
and to stop my head doing backward flips and forward rolls
to curtail bad thoughts and contain OCD
wake up and think "what's happening to me?"
but sometimes i'm full of mazy bomb blasts
and crazy contrasts…
Now I love animals and their brilliant ways
they brighten the world and add happy to my days,
I could be walking to work in that new spring sun
and spy a cat on a wall and think “ohh, how fun”,
I’ll bound over with a skip and say “hey you, how’s it going,
although it’s bright today your purr has really got things glowing!”
Or in a Saturday beer garden when I’m kicking back with relax
a dog strolls in his owner and my attention is instantly rapt,
I’ll exclaim “ohh, is your pooch friendly, please may I give him a pet?”
If the guy answers in the affirmative I’ll proclaim “hey big doggy I’m so glad we’ve met,
you’re a lovely doggy aren’t you, look at your slobbering face
and the way you wag your tail I think it’s pretty ace!”.
Or I may be having a saunter round the park taking in some stupendous views
and see a stretch of water and decide to have a peruse,
as I get closer I think “oh I can’t believe my luck
look at that raft of lots of lovely ducks!”.
So I nip to the shop round the corner and buy a loaf of bread
and think “ohh you top paddling guys you’re gonna get real fed!”!
So I chuck plentiful crumbs in the water making sure they all get their fill
of some luscious Warburtons down their chomping bill.
I do love other creatures though not just the ones who go meow, woof and quack,
even the tiny ones who fur and feathers they lack;
I could watch a ladybird for ten minutes and be allured by it’s spots
and then be wary around those minuscule red mites that look like little dots,
ensuring that I always check before I sit on a summer wall
so my plonking down doesn’t squash them all.
Or if I’m walking home down a dark passage way on a rainy night
i’ll get my phone out and use it’s shiny light
to see if there are any snails that have come out from under a bush
so I can daintily skip around them and avoid that awful shell crush.
As for spiders and moths in the house I never **** them I always put them out
And then do a Usain Bolt stance in the living room with a “I love you insects” pout.
However one Thursday when I was off work on a day in lieu
and thought “ahh I’ll venture out as the sky is blue,
I can have a wander with some music and then go see Mum and Dad
but before I do all that there is a shower to be had.”
I stroll into the bathroom anticipating a lovely clean
but am greeted by a sight that is less than serene,
walking on the ceramics are about 14 microscopic flies,
I had to squint to view them, they were almost invisible to the naked eye.
I mused “hmm, how am I gonna solve this they are too flimsy to catch and put outside,
and what receptacle could I place them in to take on freedom’s ride?”
As I’m deciding what to do I see more of them coming out of a hole in the tile
and I say “look guys me you’re beginning to rile”,
then I glance some Dettol wipes lying next to my tooth brush
and in a instance obliterate the flies with a sweeping rush,
I chuck the death tissue in the bin and feel a swell of guilt,
“I thought of more understanding stuff I was surely built,
I got rid of them without compunction because they were disrupting my aqua blast
I hope this killing streak doesn’t last.”
Post shower I’m feeling better and believe my murderous bent has gone away far
pop my ear phones in, crank up the volume and saunter round to see Ma and Pa,
but it won’t just be Mum and Dad I’ll be pleased to see when my feet land on their welcome mat,
it will also be lovely Poppet the cat!
I like Poppet loads, she’s my whiskered friend
all my love to her I always send,
her wild meowing tones are one of my favourite sounds
it’s awesomely brill to have her around,
sometimes when I’m drunk her name slips off my tongue,
that’s how I know we defiantly belong,
I can be gleefully inebriated at a festival
and I’ll just say “Poppet!” and feel more happy full,
Pops Popsicle Poppet, I adore your tabby chest,
ahh Poppet, you’re simply the best!
I get to my parent’s house, call her and she comes running with that bounding feline whizz,
and I exclaim with joy, “ahh, there she is!”,
I give her lots of petting and start to feel all catty rich
but then I notice she seems to have a itch,
I say to my Mum, “is Poppet okay, she looks like she’s having too much of a scratch?”
she replies,  “yeah but I think she has fleas that are more than beginning to hatch”,
she continues, “I’ve got some flea treatment though so those little vamps we can quickly dismiss”,
I reply, “nar, it’s okay Mum, I’ll handle this.”
I say to the fleas, “come here guys” and take them and Poppet to one side,
and remark “look today I’ve already committed insecticide
and I really don’t want to do it again but you’re putting Poppet the cat in duress
and she seems distracted rather than purring in my soft strokey caress,
and I don’t want to deliver a ****** bomb of flea killing pollution,
it’s much better to find an amicable solution,
so if you could just jump off her now and end your inhibiting lease
I promise I won’t hover you up I’ll just let you go in peace.”
I give them a few minutes to mull it over but then see Poppet frantically biting her thigh,
“now that is ****** it, no more Mr Nice Guy!
right you little Dracula *****, you’re about to find out what really *****,
it’s being on the receiving end of my “you’re perturbing Poppet” wrath,
you’re about to take a real long Frontline bath!”
Without remorse I dowse them up and that is that,
“bye bye you tiny ******* Vlad The Impaler *****!”  
See I love all the animals, I really have to say,
just don’t cross me on a Thursday,
oh, and I eat meat way more than a bit,
i’m a schizophrenic hypocrite.

Today, tempers rose like the winds
before a storm, but the birds got real quiet and
hushed the squirrels. The leaves shuttered
as if deep in a terrifying dream. Meanwhile,
all around, the world went along peacefully.
Never mind leaf-dreams,
they cannot see the future, only the present.
A storm passes without note; strike three and
I’m out in the fresh cut-lawn air, feeling
like there is nothing else to do, but there is.
Today, I feel like an insect, greedy
for the nectar, even when I smell the insecticide.
I resurrect myself in the goodbyes, the subtle
painless endings, like saying goodbye to the wind.
Today, I tried and tried to make sense
of something I wasn’t meant to understand, and when
I started writing it all down, all I got was black
lines in pasty silicon soup. Insight existed,
but I rushed by too quickly to pay
attention to the weight of the matter.
Today, I passed a tree and a giant branch fell,
while the air stood still. A girl passed on her bike,
the branch hit the ground as I fell into the wind.

Dig

We were nearly back to the house
when the front end loader shattered
the silence and back filled the hole
drove off some vireos and cowbirds

amped up seven whitetail browsing
the pine break above Calusa Way.
American Spirit *******
a new moon **** of mouth

the operator feathered the lever
while gathered together we grazed
potato salad, deviled eggs, sliced ham, rain
from the Gulf over to Melbourne

soaking the operator’s boots
ducking into his pickup truck
for the long drive home to Pedro.
It hammered the tin roof shed  

out back where your tools
tarps, trouble lights, line trimmer
home brew insecticide in unmarked
milk jugs, old spark plugs

a lifetime of nuts, bolts and washers
huddled warm and dry on shelves
ball peened the tamped sand lozenge
on the ragged fringe of the silent ranks.

It’s hard to find even with a map
Calusa Way coiling through the bahia grass
flowing past stone faced theater goers
house lights up well past their final act.  

Vireos and cowbirds
even the whitetail browsing
the pine break pay me no
mind down on hands and knees

undoing the honest work
of the operator, sifting handfuls
of sandy backfill for something
I might have missed.

i find drinking the zenith
and *** the nadir:
i find women who drink
the utopian perceptive disparity:
men work as pistons on the
would be zenith of existence,
insecticide would do too,
and women wallow in
a lack of humour when drinking:
as zeus enquired of hera,
'who derives more pleasure
from ***, men or women?'
the question became parabolic...
alcohol answered...
men derive more pleasure from
intoxication than women,
therefore women derive more pleasure
from *******.
simple as simply said.

She wore a necklace of thorn
Protecting the petals of her face; soft folds of petal fluttering in the wind.
In a garden filled with pesticide she sought something pure.
Away from insecticide; A poisonous thought left to linger alone.
She'd often flirt with spurts of wind.

Seeking release from root to stem.
Although covered in thorns I kissed her without fear of being pricked.
Wrapping my hands around her body. Caressing the fold of her face.
Never knowing the touch of hands she nestled her thorns deep.

My hands leaked with affection, providing a warmth that stimulated root.
Far away from pesticide. Other insecticides that would ruin her beauty.
She nestled herself in my hand, creating a garden of her own