It's Sunday,
shall I perch on the edge of a pew in the church and be bored by the drone of words said to be set in a stone?or
shall I turn on the pages of that rock of ages and be battered quite senseless by the relentless epistles sent off by apostles or just whistle a tune because the pub opens soon?
It's Sunday and the weather is fine,time enough to pray on any other day
and today is not like any other,'oh brother' you'd better believe,better receive it into your heart,this is the start and
it's Sunday.

slaves never owned the land nor themselves and its hard to imagin if we were free in  every possible way.let me explain,master gave us a piece of land seeds and let us have credit at the corner store where our ious were accepted  plus he owned the shanty that we used to fight off the wind  rain  snow such as it was.lest I forget to make it known  master also took most of the crops when they came in  which left only enough for our family to live on until the next crops came up. this happened year after year until the ious were taler than the trees  that once hung us and let dangling like biter fruit thrown away with blood on the leaves running down to the roots.

He enters looking bedraggled, tired and worn out, his skin like vellum, blank and pale.
Lifting his eyes to catch their gaze he gives a slight nod to acknowledge their presence.
He scans the room as he would a poem seeking an indent that leads to a quiet corner.
A half-lit light casts a shadow on the flock wallpaper, ink stained.
He sits hidden from view, away from plagiaristic eyes. Head In hand
Scribbling while listening for a new word, a muse sings, emanating an un-heard
Beat that guides his rhythm while searching for that elusive vowel. On the floor
Is a scattering of pencil shavings and broken lead, frustration at the loss of an adjective.
The half rhyme squeezes like a tourniquet on the brain…
Frustration runs high as enjambment slips off the page and gathers in reflective pools.

The Lay Pastoral reads an Elegy to the passing of Sir Rondeau Redouble, he lead a very lonely life ascending and then diminishing becoming less Didactic, the Footle holds a Lanterne for the loss, while the Limerick found it quite humorous.

At the bar a Stanza of poets gather, disciples of Villanelle, and regale of their latest triumphs in Women’s Quarterly. Then silence falls as Suzette Prime performs her latest Burlesque she is in good Shape. The Epulaeryu’s compare their Diamante while eating their babba ghanoosh. At the pool table the movers and shakers decant opinions on the latest ‘form’ something to do with A,E,I,O,U…Acrostic looks it up and down looking puzzled, Blank verse remains silent,

They dissect, analyse the entrails, the faint hearted feel a little Grook. The atmosphere is tense. Verbs drift like dust in the light, causing confusion, they mop their brows with a tired senryu. The haiku’s have little to say on the matter…

A Quintain of intellectuals quietly sit, the Sicilian sipping slim line Monoku’s (no ice) hoping for a Couplet before the end of the night. On a stool sit’s the barfly spilling his Bio over the counter top exposing an Ode-ious life, metaphorically speaking. On stage the hottest group in town… Chant Royal and the Syllables… singing their latest Sestina it reached 39 in the hit parade, the notes drift across the room resting on the floor congealing into a poet-tree fountain…they feel at home as the last act MC McWhirtle enthrals with his latest Ballad…the barman Ric Tameter calls time, the evening is a Rap. The club is Epic…


© 27/3/2013

Slaves never owned the land nor themselves
And its hard to imagine if we were ever really free in every
Possible way after  PRESIDENT LINCOLN freed us
Let me explain what I mean.Master smiled and shook hands with us
While giving us a piece of land rocky weedy unused
He also gave us seeds farming equipment and  an old mule
And let us have credit at the corner store that he owned
Where Ious were accepted plus we were allowed to keep the shanty
From which  was used to fight off the wind  dust storms rains snows
Lest I forget to make it known, he took most of the crops
When they came in leaving us only enough food for our family
to live on until the next crops came up
We watched this happen year after year until the ious were taller
than the silent trees that once hung us and left us dangling
In the wind like dark fruit thrown away
With no thought of human blood on the leaves
Running down to join its roots

drumm drumm drummed in two
ranks of
auto-
filers whacking keys and levers and springs
slamming
edged
quantum of scripture
i e o u y vowels of no need-- back in cunieforming time
then came those monkeys with the typesetters
whose keys never got stuck
uno
marko per stroke
five 'undred per bit of etaoinshrdlu
click click cliche'
time measured by degrees in fractual
sym-metry wit' bio me

Tumeric kicks in,
eases the swelling of the bubble.

Imagine the imaginings of a child reading
funny papers
in the privy, smokin' grapevine for no

known reason, or,
maybe it appeased the flies, while I sat
upon the throne
in a tower of my own

wandering through memories of
Terry and the Pirates saving Dalai Lama
from the clutches of
the abomb-in-abled snowman,

Yet-i isis now, the Prince of Persia, once more?

No, this battle is not mine. This
war
was
won;

at that crossroad in Perry's Cafe
when the offer was made: star a footnote here
aster-risks have not been invented... we must reduce opacity.
histoical he refused the deal but  did Write the course
"The Internet in One Day"

work for hire, a good gig, then Netscape went public,

reality validated verification of the efficacy
of Feynman's reversible NAND gates,

the future was super positioned
No taxes, tarriffs or tithes; pay flat
twenty percent
for eighty in return, guaranteed in for by of
we, the people's adaptation to

Paredo's Principle versed in Solomonic Wisdom,
re-de-clearing no non new things
under the sun,
trial by

total emersion in a sea of green sans
yellah submarine,

acid etched re
collectibles dust and debris,
flotsam jetsome wetsome old girls dream

it's now, the future, 2019, and some
of us
survived the seventies in hiding,

we're back.
wee voices you ignore at your peril,

not every inspiration is from for by good.

Some are.
Some words live in the sounds they make,
hocus pocus
abra
cadabra, for instance... is heard by children

as the leaven-less wafer
transmogrifates at
the spoken words Hoc es Corpus

Genutim, non factum
magic
thinking is nothing like

what you thought, child.

The message is believable, the messengers
may
be otherwise. EH? ***-eye-say-- eee- eh?

Self-evidence is acceptible, take a hold,
get agrippa comprehension

sweet-almost
persuasive enough to mask the bitter
ever
after taste of century eggs left in the fridge too long

Biome, bio-me, self-effident-icacious
conch-ious
ness, ac
knowledged... these words lived
once,
the eggish-isms egging us on, go
on, only you...
not me, I'll wait
I've slipped, I've fallen... where's the beef? Was this a common quest?

1972. Sheizbomb, pirate orange sunshine.
1973. We reached escape velocity
1974. Trajectory changed
1975. Lost contact, she's near Cuyguna
1976. Prego
1977. Aha, the reason is born

Future 2019 will seem as real as you may
imagine. I promise,

Ever after, all, as real as you may
imagine. I promise

look, see self evident truth, act asif you know
and understand
angel talk

there remains a rest for the cadabre we inhabit,
"Dancing Queen" "Fernando"
Abba's body of disco hits, missed
by missing one decade and a half,

in sanct-if-ication vacation
to become a hermit when I grew old, if ever,

hoc corpus, eh, as long as faith remains
rememe-r-able post Sini-ification of Suffering,

(the Dragon from the East is not the beast
embodied in the west with golden head,
silver breast, brazen *****, iron legs
and flaking rusting feet of steel
stuck
in sludge ponds and stump ponds and undrained
swamps and sloughs {called wet lands by frogs and ducks})
Ah, so

The golden-green-blue dragons gracing slotmachines,
lure hopers to the slime, not
green Nickleodean slime, real slime from century eggs white
jelly gone dark, dark brown and stinky...

even if i'd tried, I'd never have imagined
eating a century egg
sans chewing, just
gulp
swallow it whole. Din't choke gk kg.

deja vu? no, you missed something.

waiting is being
Dalai Lama, half-scientist, half-otherwise aware
there, in exile,
remains hoping a peace past standing under the
acknowledging of good
and evil,

new mercies on one side, meaculpa, mea
maxima culpa,
on the other.

Who pays? Me or Jesu or the pariah one step
up from a cockroach?
Wait and see. Be still.

Don't ask Mother Teresa, she had no clue.
But she finished what she began,
that was her plan,

skip as much purgatory as abody can stand
imagining worth it all.

Me, says the hermit,
I took the grace Noah found. Wait and see. Get ready.

Google translate the Latin Mass, then imagine it
being a message you must hearken to

drum drumm drummmed into your brain before
your prefrontal
cortextual tester circuits formed and your responses

were ever etched
on the tables of your faith belivin' childheart,
sweetheart,

just think, what if good news gathering is
even-jelly-if I can. Evangelical, if I say-tion sugar pi,
event-tually we see, fine,
details, points to every true story

a bed of nails no liar may rest upon

'fi say so, semper fi.

{evangelicum laude graduates bher no bad news in ever}
--phi beta kappa, key that opens what?-- do you know

what meaning signals breathe? beat?

Take great gulping gasps of air,
affording your self
evident right

to surface, as a bubble you can breathe in.
I think we're alone now

there doesn't seem to be any one around, now

1977, that was four whole decades ago?

Right. And whenever you are, dear reader, this was
ever ago. I testify, I examined this life.

It has been worth the effort. Now I wait. Still.
Try it. Here, there,

no condemnation, the act it self just
is null-ift before asif goes whatif and we lose our value,

we balance madness. We work closely with Cleo,
she handles historical re visioning.

time out-- essential term screams for discretion, get to the grain---
What noise is this... mmmmm
Muse- muse- just, muse like
music, drummm drummm hummmmm
Define, fine, granularity, like salt or sand or sugar
but qualia
mysterium familiarus

Term definition. Lord means h'laf weardan, {Welsh}
warden,
protector of our bread,
by which man does not live alone,
owner of the tower in the vinyard where your captive enemies
languish in your wishless hate.

We wait,

we companions be, joined by the leaven from the sky

leaving footprints in granulated sugar salted sand,
feel it,

sorta sticky, like toe-jam. like mebbe toejam spreader
and the Walrus was
CS Lewis level mere signposts at degrees of little thinker
steps tick tic tic
spiraling
clock wise from up,
counter-clockwise from down

forward, ever onward, off is impossible in the land of on,
here for ever is
too much good stuff,

but that lasts (to the same level of qualia judgment degree)
mere mortal moments

flash. Here we be, wondering and wandering, to an fro,
to get a feel,

for real. This can't go on for ever, they say.
Shall we see, I say... as I passed away.
Life goes on, and no lie follows

Listen,
it's finished, that's all we need say. Live on. Be good,
or die trying. No lying about anything.

What if ever did begin and you simply failed to be aware?

hi, how are you today?
i've broken every bone in my hand
writing you this letter
i've hidden away every past mistake
in the cushions of your puke green sofa
every broken promise from an ingrained diety
coffee cups and cutlery that i keep
as monument to one night spent with you
a thousand killing smiles and a hundred stolen kisses
i bend my knees and take a shot of clarity
the outline of dreams and IOUs
the place where awkward belongs
the sign of recovery hides in a dimly lit alley
***** and hungry and lonely and desperate.

We played blackjack taco until the early mourning sun singed the obsidian sky into submission 

singling the onslaught of dawn rising like ravishing wildfire over a horizon of jagged glacier crafted mountains peaked with diamonds coal and gold

We flipped stacks and stacked flips
Pushed coins and collected IOUs
Spilled ink and broke pens

Too many hours in the Night Jazzing about youth and the repercussions of aging in a time when aging was an agonizing sin we cured with creams and needles

The table was deliberately a mess with scattered tea leaves half smoked sticky icky sticks full of inspired inspirations, drained drank empty wine bottles and other alcoholic deviances, and incoherent ramblings cauterizing the senses 

uncompleted poems full of scribbled and scratched out words poke out from anyplace not covered  by crumpled  origami cash resting like a weird paper green zoo of swans frogs and paper airplanes.

The suns rays manage to find that one area in between the window shades and curtains to shine brilliantly into our darkly kept stygian tomb

Illuminating a night of lexicon ******, broken handed betting, and passion only poets and writers aspire to conquer

We rubbed out our sleepless crusted eyes and gathered our ink stains and haunted dreams and left into the morning that we found in some skeletol low rent motel room on the side of this deserted desert highway...

completely drunk, drunk completely
com drunk pletely
ob liv ious
the buzz the numbness,
occasionally REALITY (I love you honey!)
bursting IN (Come here Sweetie Pie)
as I float
com Pletey Ob livious to
the Ruth, Truth, Tooth
did I say that Already?
My life, HELLO? My sweety pie is grown?
Swallowing this truth,
I reach instead for another sip
This freedom I think I feel, I float, enjoy
Completely, pletely? Unaware,
of The dungeon I am in.

!LEPRECHAUNS' *****!
(for the glorious M.F.F.)

Gorging on goosegogs
stolen from Granny's garden

all the sweeter for the stealing
despite their inherent tartness.

We never able to make up
our minds whether we

liked them or not
but loving 'em all the same.

Mary and her mind games
trying to prevent me eating

the last one
informs me that "...goosegogs is

the hairy green testicles
of leprechauns."

But despite being armed
with this knowledge I

pop it in my mouth
proclaiming it " De...

lic..ious!" all the same.
Mary looks at me with disgust.

Goosegogs the eternal
taste of summer when

summer hath no ending
and everything was only

a beginning
and there was such a thing as

leprechauns' *****.

My pen is leaking
ink pooling into my pocket protector
the one I’ve had since before the new math
My uncle gave it to me – I remember
it’s got the logo of his insurance company on it.
that and, now the ink stain.

Ink running through the cracks in the pocket protector
leaking where uncle’s meat thermometer pushed through tight plastic
staining a once yellow shirt

Stopping by the dry-cleaner for pick up
the vendor says she couldn’t get it all out
but it’s better than it was.
Hands me a small plastic sandwich bag filled with strips of paper
the size of those you see on magnets
for fridge poems

“Don’t know where these came from” she says, “****** near ruined my dryer
spinning around there – clogging up the air exhaust”

words……
I whisper under my breath

From the ink.  
The words in the pen
would not go unnoticed.

I pay her – grab my shirt, my jacket, my tie
grab the baggie of words
in no particular order
thank her
and with the welcome bell’s ding
I head into the street
a very satisfied customer

****** pen is still leaking by the time I get home
It’s leaking tears by now
tears that fill the ink well of my memory
dip and scribble dip and scribble

Thoughts almost painful
long forgotten
or so I thought
Last days on Brunswick Avenue
knowing I would have to return to school
emptying that huge street-facing bedroom
I got a lot of miles looking out of those windows
if I wrote a lot
I don’t remember
Late nights, very early mornings listening to
the hourly chime of that nameless clock
that made up the entire downtown Toronto skyline back in the day

The words that dotted the paper sometimes
sometimes made no sense
my friends politely remarking
“That’s good.  I like it” were unhelpful

Further future desperation wasn’t far
just need a receipt or a bar napkin or
a box from a Big Mac ripped into 4x2x1x2x4
whatever I could get my hands on
just trying to appease the leaking pen
from getting too far ahead of my regretful memory.

IOUs, shopping lists, debits to society
love poems, goodbye notes, “I miss you”
they’re all there, we just have to remember what they are

Words write themselves.  
The ink, the tears
the blood, the fridge magnets
have already formed the words.
I am the one with the ideas
when I meet a new lover or
fall out of favour with an “ex” – yet again or
attempt to describe three shades of orange or
when I want to remember to pick up pickles

They are stuck in the pen
until I am ****** good and ready
with the roll of the ball-point
to see where the words land this time.

drip
drip
drip

slaves never owned the land nor themselves and its hard to imagine if we were ever free in every possible way  after Lincoln freed us.let me explain.master smiled  shook hands while giving us a piece of land seeds farming equipment and let us have credit at the corner store he owned where all ious were accepted plus the shanty that we used to fight off the wind rain dust storms snow belonged to him. lest I forget to known master also took most of the crops when they came in said it was to pay off our tabs. which left only enough food for our family to live on until the next crops came up. we watched this happen year after year until the tabs were taller than the trees that once hung us and left us dangling in the wind like bitter fruit thrown away with no thought with blood on the leaves than running down to its roots.

I.
All I know exists between clenched fists.
My hands didn’t come this way.
Everything foreign rubs them raw,
no matter how gentle.
This is how my body looks out for me.

There used to be sand here.
I held on so tight, I lost it.
Now, the sand dwells with two-way mirrors
and fish who need fresh air.

II.
Most days, I’m best left alone.
The handy-woman loosens my screws,
and thinks she’s always right.

On the days I’m a fish out of water,
she sees me as a crying baby.

She must be hungry, and the airplane comes again.
She’s still crying, and the airplane comes again.
I am not enough, and the airplane comes again.

When my belly swells,
she paints a barcode on my arm,
tries to exchange me for store credit.

III.
All that matters escapes me.
I’ve learned more from the vandals
shooting blow darts at the moon
than I ever did out west.

Most days, I doubt that I’m still breathing.
My lungs are worms’ meat.
My lungs don’t know if they need water or air.
Thank God for shallow ends and seltzer.

IV.
These IOUs are legs
my brain can’t recognize.
I clamp them at the knees;
I pray for gangrene.

When the doctors drain the infection,
they say, this can’t be what you want.

This is how I look out for my body.
I’m still searching for a saw.

.
                
                               It can
                         be  observed
                      that men use var
                    ious   methods   in
                      pursuing their o
                      wn personal  obj
                      e ctives,  t h at  is
                      glory and r iches
                      One man proceed
                      s with circums pe
                      ction, another Im
                      petu ousity ; o n e
                      uses violence, a n
                      other stratagem ;
                      one man goes a b
                      out things patient
                      ly , another d o es
            the opposite ;        and yet every
         one , for all  this     diversity of method
    , can reach his ob      jective .  It can  a ls o
     be observed  that     the two circumspect
       men, one willach    ieve his end,  the
              o t h e r                      n o t.

"You been writing anything lately man?"

"Just IOUs for the government, lawyers, and people who used to call me their friends."

"Sounds rough," Berkley remarked.

Harvard did not respond back. Instead he stared past Berkley's red tipped spiked hair to the girl behind him, watching the small movements she made while dancing to the band onstage. Harvard felt hypnotized by the shake of her hips and the way her quick dye black hair swayed to the left and to the right every time one of her feet left the ground as if she were walking in place.

"...all I'm saying is that someone should do something..."

Berkley was talking. Harvard couldn't focus. He heard his voice somewhere on the peripheral of reality but could not zero in on it. His eyes remained transfixed on the dancer.

"...it's all about helping. You feel drawn to it, ****** in almost to the rush you get from..."

Clips of Berkley's voice echoed in Harvard's ears. Sound bites of a conversation he knew he was part of but couldn't join in on.

The band on stage rocketed thru their set list with the lead singer strutting around in a sequined jacket, doing his best **** Jagger impression but looking more along the lines of a **** head coming down off a high. He played out every rock n roll cliche on stage and the audience cheered him on. Egged him on. The power of rock stardom working the room.

"Thank you Come-Blow-Us Ohio! See you in the morning when we're sneaking out of your house!"

The girl quit dancing and Harvard rolled his eyes back into reality. The past fifteen minutes came flooding into his conscience and he heard entire conversations, **** rock playing, cigarettes burning, beer spilling. It all played in his mind like a slow motion film set to fast forward.

"...I've been doing some soul searching and what I've found is that I lack soul," Harvard heard his voice answering Berkley. He still stared past his friend at the girl who now sat down at one of the tables, the heat of the night stained her shirt and hung closely to the contours of her structure. She smiled at something someone at the table said and Harvard wished silently that he had said something to make her smile like that but felt his feet become anvils rooted to the hardwood floor beneath him when he tried to shift his weight closer to her.

"...There's something about a soul that begs for a creative outlet, if its not being fulfilled it enters into a state of stasis until it withers into the heart of a cynic."

"So I should be creative and my soul will flourish?"

"At the very least you'll have something to bargain with when you meet the devil."

"I've met the devil, good dude, gets a bad rap."

The next band finished setting up on stage and Harvard watched out of the corner of his eye as the girl stood up and sauntered over to the dance floor and began once again writhing in rhythm to the music on the stage. He tried not to stare but again found himself transfixed on her dance and he once again heard the real world shut out and echo around him.

"...hey man, where'd you go?" Berkley snapped his fingers in front of Harvard's face forcing him out of his trance.

"Oh hey...sorry...I...um..." Harvard couldn't forge any words and waiting for his mind to come back to him. "Sorry I don't know what happened, I just kinda zoned out I guess; say anything important?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary. I solved the dilemma of world peace and everything but its cool no one really wants that."

"Yeah, you're right. Hey I need another beer, you want one?"

"Yeah, get me something hipster."

"PBR coming right up."

Harvard could hear Berkley laugh as he walked towards the bar, paid for the beers, and turned around, walking directly into the girl. He managed not to spill any beer on her and hoped that his tongue would not spill any inappropriate words as well.

"Hi, for me?" She laughed. She laughed harder when Harvard handed her one. She took it and brought it to her lips. He could see a smile hidden behind the clear plastic cup.

"I'm Harvard," he introduced himself.

"I'm Mallory but you can call me Yale. Everyone does.. My parents called me that but never told me why." She blushed at the way the words spilled out of her mouth to a complete stranger.

Harvard smiled and once again found his mind working in slow motion before he blurted out that it was nice to meet her.

"You too..." She hesitated, "I should get back to my friends..." Yale felt that sentence leave her mouth for an eternity and wished that she had not said it. She quickly added, "thank you for the beer, maybe I'll see you again?"

"Maybe," was all Harvard could muster. He felt his legs become rubber and as much as he did not want her to leave he wished she would do so quickly before he collapsed into a pile of beer and clothes.

He watched her slink away back to her group of friends as the world sped up around him. He sipped his beer and gained the strength to walk back to where Berkley stood.

"Hey man, where's mine?"

"Oh...uh...yeah sorry I forgot. Here I'll go back and get it."

"Nah it's alright. I need to go anyway, I have to be up in a few hours..."

Harvard and Berkley shook hands and said their goodbyes. Harvard stayed back and watched the headliner come on stage and start playing. He looked at Yale and smiled as she began dancing again but this time every few beats she would look back at him and a big smile would spread across her face. She did this too many times to count and Harvard suddenly found himself standing closer and closer to her, not sure if he had moved or if she had. He looked around and he was not in the same spot nor was she with her friends.

Yale turned around, happy to see the man she met at the bar behind her. She couldn't explain it but felt as if she were drawn to him and that the closer she was to him the slower the world around them moved. "Hi again," she said.

"Hi back," Harvard fumbled for words again before pulling Yale closer to him and staring at her for what felt like an eternity. She began dancing, slowly at first, pressing herself closer and closer against him.

Yale draped her arms around the shoulders and neck of Harvard and pulled herself closer, grinding herself as close as she could to him. She felt the music around her but danced to a different rhythm, one that only she and Harvard seemed to be hearing.

The world around them stopped moving but they did not notice. They danced together until after the music had stopped playing and the band got off stage. The lights came on and the bouncers and bartender announced last call.

"I think I've been waiting for you," Yale whispered.

"Sorry it's been a long wait, I got held up." Harvard tried to be smooth but failed.

Yale laughed and pulled Harvard closer. "Next time, don't keep me waiting."

She kissed him deep as her friends pulled her away and out of the bar. Their fingers holding on to each other until they could no longer.

Harvard stood in the room and stared blankly at the door. A bouncer nudged him and he started walking towards the door and outside. He got to the curb and sat down, trying to collect his thoughts and let his drunk wear off.

A car screeched to a halt somewhere across the street from him but Harvard barely noticed until the shadow of someone stood over him. He looked up to see Yale. She stared intently at him and handed him a piece of paper.

"I mean it. Next time don't keep me waiting." She said sternly with affection before turning around and getting back in the car with her friends.

Harvard unfolded the paper and looked it. It was her number. He folded it back up and put it in his pocket and started walking, vowing to himself to never let her have the agony of waiting again.

!LEPRECHAUNS' *****!
(for the glorious M.F.F.)

Gorging on goosegogs
stolen from Granny's garden

all the sweeter for the stealing
despite their inherent tartness.

We never able to make up
our minds whether we

liked them or not
but loving 'em all the same.

Mary and her mind games
trying to prevent me eating

the last one
informs me that "...goosegogs is

the hairy green testicles
of leprechauns."

But despite being armed
with this knowledge I

pop it in my mouth
proclaiming it " De...

lic..ious!" all the same.
Mary looks at me with disgust.

Goosegogs the eternal
taste of summer when

summer hath no ending
and everything was only

a beginning
and there was such a thing as

leprechauns' *****.

2 little whos
in whoville dream
while dr. seuss
screams, sam i am!

a redblue fish
carols a zart
musicalic-
ious schlittenfahrt.

the grinch steals x-
mas.i&you
ask, who will fix
a boy named sue?

2020 - day 103 -- a long and winding story, fun, I re read it twice.

Wednesday, April 22, 2020
8:04 AM

Pharoah-ism is a thing.

It's in a class of words holding forms for governing,
herds of humans,
who can be fit to the form, walk this way,

like an Egyptian, indebted for all your worth

Trillions and trillions, soon enough,
the ghost of Everett Dirkson laughs at
another billion attributed to Carl Sagan,
"we ain't even thinking real money any more."

To whom does the government of, for, and by the people,
owe all the nation can invent

Some day we will learn each bit of reality, but

we, as a specie, a valued mod on the base line
must access our global brain.

China -- that is -- the military mind of China,

has egged on
the military might of the USA, offering hope

for all-out war on peace, for no reason.

War has never had a reason for which any good
could come. Never.

And I will defend to the death your right to disagree,
but not your right to fight and destroy me.

If peace and war were to meet on a distant shore,
peace might move inland, but

now, we meet here on earth as mere ideas empowered
by the codemaker; peace and war

tete a tete, cabezo y cabezo I betcha, like dos cabezos

peering ahead on I -10... on the road again...

this is a changing station stage of life...

fold down time.

monster employers, users and maintainers of
common flesh and blood eyes, ears and hands,
people of the commonest class;
some times sitting in boxes,
some times standing in lines, sometimes

watching welder robots do your dad's old job.


--- capital
= money = time.

Gotta minute?
Invest it in imagining you think, as in,

think

who holds those, no, not those,

these truths, these factions of the whole
truth
faction, not fraction,

truth
and nothing but as sworn to on tv via mirror neurons
and solidi-fied, pur-chased, caught, netted,

in plebeian pledges of allegiance from first
grade, in the sorting of useful citizens,

some may serve at the highest levels, lifted via
lessons proven learned in standard tests,

-- number two pencil, fill each box, complete-ly,

so a machine can discern your answer, and punch
through the insulating paper, to signal
each bit of evidence

coming into piles of assorted usefull knacks,

mark this one. Feed him Wattie Piper, make him
think, I can
think, I can, think, think a little think...


We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.--That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of

How did Einstein think?

AI ai ai, we know. Not in words. Einstein was taught to think

in whatification. What if I

--- nail the sun to the sky and feel the earth move me at
-- twenty-five, or so
-- thousands of miles
per fifteen three hundred and sixtieths of a day
-- and a night, one whole day...

but N D Tyson taught me that trick, not Einstein...
and not all things count as worthy,
relatively, of attention paid.

The worth of a thought's open door invitation to the curiosity we
enjoy


Semantics (from Ancient Greek: σημαντικός sēmantikós,
"significant") 
is the linguistic and philosophical study of meaning 
in language,
programming languages,
formal logics,
and semiotics.
It is concerned with the relationship between signifiers
—like 
words, phrases, signs, and symbols
—and what they stand for in reality, their denotation.

On the subject of secrecy in general,

ah, no, we've no secrets, for here we have no truely
believable lies,

the truth will out, we say.
Life ain't fair, death had no hope, that's just

the way it is.
Wait and see. We had ein kleiner Gedanke, once
upon a mythical histerical time,

ah, think of any first blood in a world of secrets, such as we

formed from, even in famine, some seed was sown
each season,

some seed remained from first story peoples, preserved
in sacred places, safe,
until the dawning on you, that this is true, life always wins.

brightly lighted stage of history

no weakness... save where the blade meets the soft flesh
beneath a noble head bowing to think


fringe brushes my gnostic-itch, son of a gun,

son of a blade, edge, point

pierce the air, no pop, no apoptosist apostasy, see

we use words with no definitive meanings, right?

significance is cast aside, who cares
that's just semantics, I don' quibble bout {sign-if-i can-sense}
significance
or sign.
I wonder did we double down on a word righting there,
did we give meaning to a barely breathing

wind born lie, some interruptions signify engagement of

a clutch, a tool to grip the wild spinning trans-
*******, while

we slip into something more comfortable.
A higher, cruising 12 to 1 gear

My neighbor from two hills north, is coming to sit a while,

the guy has been called Cowboy, as a name, since all his siblings
knew him.

He is a walking archetype. And my friend. We share some burrs,
from wild meadows ridden on sole leather,

leaving a steaming auto-mobile by the side of the road,

aaah, the interruptions {more, with Oliver gone}

any line in context, is a step past last, a first of all the nexts

Nexts?
Options. Who determined this? My will being to discover this
fringe connection to the persistence on the fringe

of string theory strangling struggling

genera general, whole sorts of hu-mongolian signif-if-if ier yous.

Yous guys includes girls and nobody makes me say,

wombed AND un-wombed, man. So yous, youse, y'all you all;
you,
samesame, okeh. Plain and subliminal, wait and see. Losers win,

when they stop fighting fair.
Die and see what happens,
or imagine
you
know some body who did die and before he did he said,

Hide, and watch. AND now, you see,

caution once cast to the wind, calming all the rage required

to oppose the forces

¿? quare, sistere, wait, feel the urge to know, a click calque

see, new old idea, an old idea studied to the point of a word
formed to signify a set of things

cal-que-able, in curios kurio terms derived

from Phoencian merchants, who set up benches in all the ports.

Users of money, milkers of the exchange, worth-ship of silver,

balanced on the craftily formed me-assuring thing,

eight silver tid-bits makes one golden one, tid-bits fit

fingers, excluding thumbs, for thumbs play a role

mechanically in holding any thing, even

steady -- com-pre-hensive press press sure...

you got it, knowledge

ex-spands into wow... did it work?

Did we make a handle? Or a tool? No pressure, guess.

And Dave Goodman, rides into the west, with a QVC Lid-Lock

full of fabulous pasta cheese and celery, with peas.

A culinary experiment conducted by the grandmother
of all my grand children,

a most mazing teacher of balance's pre care-ious role

on an inclined plane sure to flatten the curve

--- are we in historical moments a generation long,
--- with second generations arrows
--- never quivered, these shafts I shot by faith at unseen things,

for which I have reasons. Were now the war,

we all agree war always cost far more than its worth in death,
robbing life from mankind,

unaware if there ever were a gospel truth. I say don't study war with carnal weapons.

Words carry us into real contextual contests for human sanity as a whole,
we can make peace,
we all can breathe easy, loose the tight jibbs {jaws}, gritted molars, loosen up...

Historically, it seems riddles became de riguer in ifity, but plainly,

only surviving stories survive.

Science knows no story which was eaten up and troubled m'bowels and made me know

boom boom boom, montezuma's revenge

in the spirit kah-blewy con ef ef ef fectual fervent

prayer/sayer saying/praying in timeless harmony

if we can agree... no good we imagine can fail,

let chirality meet diversity and error meet ciliation

conciliate celebration,

conciliate (v.)
"overcome distrust or hostility of by soothing and pacifying," 1540s, from Latin conciliatus, past participle of conciliare "to bring together, unite in feelings, make friendly," from concilium "a meeting, a gathering of people," from assimilated form of com "together, together with" (see com-) + PIE *kal-yo-, suffixed form of root *kele- (2) "to shout" (the notion is of "a calling together"). Related: Conciliated; conciliating; conciliary. The earlier verb was Middle English concile "to reconcile" (late 14c.).

take away my anti-grace, de
ify my chance appearance,

dance, mirror neuronically, sitting your chair-saddle,

y'put y'left foot in behind your right and

boom
y'hit a but, but this, but that, but some other thing,

you got only so much mortal attention,

so when one door closes, whatever you need, is not there,

here we see the old wise man who saved a city and no one knows his name,
he say, redundancy of instruction is the way of life.

fectual per effing e fect, non sensicle semantical ice, Gibsonian ice,

no sweat, we are wrapped in white linen,

we broke on through and waited for you.

Yea, a sword shall pierce through thy own soul also.

words we remember were words
meant
to stand tall understanding all things


differently, re
reading, the scene from Night Scenes in the Bible,
that
was a level of knowns
effectually un provable but by
common movie-complex unbelief release, let it be

-- lower missing efs, finding more attention {behind the scenes}

ef-fectual is conjugolly confusin my prudent nature.

or higher, north or sout, plus or minus h

who cares. We made it. This is today.

Meek inheritance day or the spirits judged by the degree day,
a holi
day
in which they trouble their own house, and recall the point that
pierced their own soul,

so to speak,

survived hating your own self for other's sakes,

sakes meaning  goodness and graciousness which

constitute the happy bits in ever,
the treasures found,

where a man's heart is,
my diamond farm is yours now,

my gift to you... only words.

I inherited the wind, my job is to finish melting the ice.

God and sinner reconciled is a song,

does that make it less true?

For us, ever began before today,

so today is that day or it is not, we wait to see

or we wait and see, seeing if

this were the day, when all things go my way,

or come my way, in the course of human events,

I may be ready if readiness is some form of kurios

assurance, blessed, said *****, in a song,

I agree, blessed assurance,
Hey-sus is mine, find his words bring comfort

2020 paradigm shift is common parlance, Cowboy uses that
and logos regularly and he is

old, by mortal standards, for an archetype he's barely ligandary
to most receptive sub caudal imps.

they can feel

him biting the bullet,
gritting his teeth on the Gerber Bowie-wannabe blued steel
blade, re-imagined in reread instead, bullets bitten can go off,

I know a kid fired a deadly-for-a-mile bullet,
with a hammer and a rock, so, knifes are dangerous, too,
so
as a mime-ical biting down, per
haps this hero-in-forming bites

a wooden drumstick, beating now with one,
biting down on the other
boom
boomto doom boom
boom
boomto doom boom... and as the beat goes on,

fringes find loose ends and latch on...

Dirac was an early Cher fan, and she was something like dys
lexical survivor of the year,
if she can, anybody can
I think I can read faster than

hmmm, slippery *****,
speaking memes as old as I remember, then

by the time I wondered if she were real or
a con structure
I lose my footing

slip on something comfortable, this promises to be

that night, in the legends, just prior to a marked, edge of night,

ever after post. Will you still love me,

tomorrow.... deeedly violins lift away any hope

of redemption, oh, ma, it was 1963, you had to have me

to sing your blessing into,
to hide your gift in me, no one must know, oh god
bless his heart...

no part of this vision is clear, nor plain, why is this my beatrice
cockatrice

Olden day, Robinson's cowboy preacher son, sowed a saying in my
core, I sup-pose, put
his phrase formed
an ever more pleasant link to Wikenberg,
on this shelf, see, we can remember the target by re

reading... remembering never drink from the Hasayampa.
and you can tell the truth
by
aquiring point on conscience. Taking thought.

Ethos keeps insisting we are in some offensive mode.
Thus the call for concentration, we are tunable now,

on some oldies but goodies websites...
Kenpepiton.com, for one.
mytechpeople.com is possibly in the archives.

Calebland.com long left to a bland b-break lacking dash,
early urls. imaginable as answers to
either wishes or prayers,

or desires... unseen, unthinkable tools to augment a

satisfied mind, completely ******, no direction home...

here, my heart, my contentment container,

at the moment, indistinguishable from any mortal concept of heaven.

Robinson's father's saying: {remembered just in time}

some times you have to stomp your own snakes.
he may have said, you gotta stohmp yerown dam'snakes,

but never would he have said: one must stomp one's own snakes.

Artificial Art or Actual Intelligence

Wednesday, July 3, 2019
3:21 PM
A Warholian screen ing com-
prized of Ben Day dots and
Eddy Bernays ways and
means co-mitt-ee messages encode
ing
ding ding
our baser nature to re
spond
sponsoring

dangerous living, the massive multi player
virtual game

permanent war module

experience the old days, release
thy unbelief and find

the final next evil opposer allotted
to make up our
quotidian bit
of evil

sufficient to keep us watching,
set
still as stone. Are we not the gargoyles?

Do not we see all we are imagined to see,
asif you saw
as we see from
the flying buttresseees?

What did you imagine gargoyles depicted?
Messengers or guardians,
or both, but imaginary,

immaterial beings framing force fields we all agree
keep us safe
safe and sound found
solid, though we know solid is

not, really, the state we imagined it was.
How can I help seeing what is before my eyes,
axed Winston Smith

he was told,
reminded, as it is wont to be, after learning a lie is true,

It is not easy to become sane, {re-sane}

have you ever believed a matter for your own sake?
Sake is an old spoke word, alte sprache
you own it, do you not?
Your own sake?

Have you not done and can recall doing all things well?
Are you not a member, in good standing, of

The National Honor Society Facebook group?
{werefriends-fiendish}
Suffer it to be so, there are lies yet.
There are lie believers in our midst.

Put up with peace where you are, if you find
In sequence

All things working work to get here,
there is where all nonworking things went.

This is where my heart is working,
and my lungs,
and nerves and bones and sinyew
tying my

being to earth,
with its salty sea and wobbly orbit
It is al
ways where you last looktook
- Holden been seen
rooks were some birds, then some
gamespiece in a game of
actual thrones,
by damnif I'danoticed

see,
it all works out, Don Draper said that
to Falstaff.

I see a man who is not happy the message being
what,
what is this team of
whatever
I see saying to me? On TV? How

long has this gone on?
This noise in words and music surrounding me constantly my brain evolved
to watch tv with no screen as if this

were radio in the flow
of things
imagined green by R.W.Shambach, radio preacher
all surfaces in his heavenly city reflect green light
soundtrektricktract

behind my mind is a melody from
some *******
TV Show aimed at me

For goodness sake,
some one questioned my saying
life's been good to me

life? with that unsaid, DOn't you mean Jesus?

dripping in the tone.
Life truth and way, i go. Wiseassish.
is it not the wombed man
who empowers the unwombed
to make
seed?

Mito chondro donchaknow
Life is but a dream
on steroids
in a redneck metaphor I oughta
known better
but the flow is worth more
than arhyme
any time so if your muse is iambic and mine is frantic
BE IT KNOWN K-CLASH-ic

there were beasts released

leasing
the idea, how long shall we
love this lending and leasing of

the best possible now
paid for by

time, time pays all the debts and we be
forgiven if we can get the gift of
given for
real
let me
free why doncha,

girl... when did the program begin,
when was the boot code
sealed
in silicon tipped in gold

was there a mark made? can
you
buy or sell. whatever the hell’yawish?
testing waters for temperature and pressure
assure me
it works this way

the hero dies or
gets old and wise

other wise – he leaves nothing
but wildass mule tales
wise in other times
as real as was any said-so historical fact,
the telling of the act
as facts, not
actual
but similar to reality on so many levels we
the acts we
all imagine, I am familiar with these
first person ideas in pluralmind
ideas, I can see the irony,
I can see the lies

I can assume the same historical act
I acted in fact
actually happened to you as it did.
silly man,
silly once was paired with
will- willingness
a will blessed blissish beyond
a wished
sill
edge of ever
windowed worlds from the core

courage, baggage of the heart

you get yoost to seeing the things
we all see all the time
used right we all
let them be
as real as real can be but
that
changes
nothing into less than we imagined

I don't think about you at all, do I?
You are
imaginedary. I imagine, dear reader, each
key
you see
strike sound in y'our mind one key ringinatime

and a time and another
timed half meant to be gin
but genius we

dis sip cip ated ante anti cipt

mist scryptic letter let us let this be true

me and you, imagine we liv in the words
we make peace as effort
an anomo nemo fingo non namable ibility
ifity boo...

that has worked several times for me I daren't say
it is in evit able vitaminwise

e-normous meaning lies in e, pluralized, unumus

easy and free are we,
the society so
named.

An I and I an I and I an Iii and eye am I
Horus was the story,
I, the eye.
Perhaps the one Odin made sacred,
the eye given for an eye, that
the stories mention;
with a wink.

Blink.
And we passed aha in a a a a a a a a
O
me
ga
damnitalt
erhell

For a moment there, I thought
this as real as it felt
at the time.
games from the old man's memory
and
nothing
is real becomes it is knowing
and we are ina olde John Lennon
stumble into ting taut tight
attention to nothing trap

farleftkey to infinity, via dirac, sorry

more thanoneshouldevah
know
first
hand. vicar-cure-ious and al

Spirits in neon
Curios, too.
Gypsy Garden
nee Coronado Court
not far from where Jungle Smoke and Vape
existed in Kingman, Arizona

fifty years later,

to the freaking Planksec muthafuggah!

Now,
where was the kachina?

You missed him. You never glimpsed the god that spat upon ye
and ye wonder why life's been s'****** crazy,

I swanee, no lie, I smell some odd smells in my time

though none smelled so off as this, in the beginning,
Rot in Denmark
Red Fog OVer America

And the lift that went down to hell, was that the same guy
'wrote the sybil circa

the times when Giles Goatboy was awaiting Godot, no?
Those days. Mon trick you you late,

too late. We the Society, have agreed.
You know. Please.
Remember.

ANDNANDnANSc I-hence can afford to say I said this freely,
It cost you something to read it, and I enjoyed the experience,
being imagined in a reader/writer we with thee.
That’s the prize, find the peace you made and cast it together
INTO OUR INHERITED WIND- is this a yoke, is it not light? Humor
say, please send me the money.  We agreed, if I heard right.
When I sold out, to plug Pär Fabian Lagerkvist.
You know, on the elevator… that went… well, now, here we are again.

our lips, are raptors,
talons inter,twined in flight;
the sun, on the sea raptures
and beckons us with light;

we are beak,ed seraphim
entangled in a vic,ious embrace;
feverish blood rac,es and swims
within the snare, of our veins enlaced;

each caged in st,eel feathers,
spine grazing spine, eye slashing eye;
we, a comet tha,t rapidly withers,
conjoined icarus fall,ing from the sky

we will crash in,to electric waves,
flanked by cliffs made, of thunder;
on to our vi,olent graves,
we will tear, each,other asunder.

Stilted lingerie that fashions a kneaded traipse between trap-door destiny of double-take simultagnosia is a harder fright to outfox that even the most ghoulish amicable maskirovka of a throttled sapience beleaguered by the tropes of a tattermedalion class of Scarface vigor in the face of benighted tomes of a cruised palindrome of efficacy bromides flickering on the outskirts of esoteric thrones of catapults droning on about the listless squalor of philandering phronesis of ecdysiast *** in the cyprian hedges of limited wealth bemoaning the poverty of deprivation because of whiskers through feline sight languid in the remedial dances of captaincy snuck between the edges of destiny cordial only to Home Alone. We must sneak through the verdant pacification of an accordion grimace flanged by the eked snide spite of termagants of termination ruined by the future flickering into past distance because of spartan brutish mannequins of pasteurization glimpsing the thanatousia of death vindicated by vengeance brazen with a Colorado snare of a pinned etiolation of marauders of corsairs that only brave the delusion when the eternity is a trick-or-treat truth and dare consummated on the flimsy agape lychgates of constraints in flair that damage the ragged hypostasized engine of a blinkered hubris belonging to an anointed rigmarole fashioned into the pottery of fungible metamorphosis rather than frangible pulverization that scrapes through liturgy with abnegation rather than relishing plumage beyond the apes of apish planetary scares.


Trimming the blockbuster wearisome hardihood of plumes of fumigated regal ******* in the softened epigone of whiter masks of screaming scares
The times aplenty of swansong ignorance are a plaid disaster of Twister renegades that spar against the visagist carapace of hearkened live aware of ghosts that fuel the hypocrisy of belligerent mares
Forever stranded through the finifugal heaves of a 32 leaves magician of rollicking base jumps with acidic tatters in King of the World stunts the hirsute body politic is a pump and dump trumpery of livid thrills on the substitution of funk for skunk rather than grooves for humps
Nevertheless the scrappy schlep of a foggy dreary destiny is ablaze with Sergeants blistering through Forest Gump bumps as the alighted 80s returns with a vengeance in empires of victory rather than slippages of slump
Renewed by the litigable menace of oilers ****** with crudity and swimming in the askew verdure of the lewd and **** we bolt through the coltish demiurge of fastened fascination flaming with firebrands of deliberation scampering away in blemishes of profanity too rude
We scrape the legacy of elegant injustice and injury because the flamestun hypocrisy of leprosy caused by time is a rustic blue suede shoe that flummoxes in hibernation because of staggered queues ravishing too much of a screwball to be nailed because black artifacts are always unscrewed
Thanks to teamwork the cosmogony of regalia knows the Montana providence of a lissome liposuction radical in renewal because of the Morrison Hotel rather vacant but always populated with a carpal tunnel of slick oleaginous dramatics for histrionic history likable because the news is a purple hue relishing the paradise of cineaste rundles of candlelit mood
Imagine searing the sunlit halidom of the peak-time grooves of unbuttoned blarney frank and swiveled on sclerotic pretense slippery in fashion only to be ironclad in personas of the whispered woo in termagant liturgy that is a colporteur of genius hinged upon collective suitcases of IOUs blameless because the criminal is always hatched upon a 108 pentagon of newsy gripping footage of managerial flames of a barnstorm beyond booths but never above the scarecrow minister of the voguish tempers of trudgery spawned into the folkspun homely ties and wrinkles of wizened love too Titanic to be used
Parker hobohemia scowls at the punitive warbles of marsupial kingpin southern flashes of hyperborean ramshackle ruins of pooches scampered around like littoral fragments of a cinematic crudity in defeated torpindage blistering with foresight in vengeance because the clockwork hour is amazed but horrified by belligerence in overdosed ledgers of legends amused
Time hearkens that craven radication of rhizogenic demiurge blinking above the sleeping awake ringleaders of sedition enthused because of malapert princes crackling with homage to honed sharpened edges of a double-edged whisper reversal into the antithesis of the heaving red serrated by the vindication of impertinent criminals flustered by the pinpointed genius of the Primarily Blues.
Time sees past the sedative fliction of fictitious mangers on primipara  tunes that the euphoria of the now is the cement of every LP belonging above the charlatans of chavish sutured into a surgical effigy of the whitewashed preeminence of discernment into the discs that surpass the ashen cordiality of permissive and permissible leaky faucets rasping through the headlines because of craters of love becoming glabrous above the halvorked entropy of newsy Newport News living above Virginia in Deep Impact legends tipsy on shipwrecks happening too soon to be  immaculate in any crimson style of an inescapable rhyme scheme trying with clambered witticism to achieve belletrist while escaping capstone filigrees of untouchable Terry Crews.
Flickering whimpers of the scary impenetrable Kansas City brain of the touchy hedges of fumigated marstions of erratic flackeys of breweries enthused in an amazed skullduggery of time slipping on crackles of fizzgigs of clambered retinues of radical roots between a tight avenue and a broadened broadway limping on the cinemas that belong to the truth and not the rickety barnstorm of ostentation encased by bonanzas to pontifical to create a topspin of HappyGilmore erasure in bridewells of roomy litigation in uncomfortable contortions of contacts without lenses to excuse.
In the cavernous spelunk of 1990s crimson bleeding into the  expansive liturgy of the ripples of percolation cornered into diminished vacancy anointed as ritualized contrition craving a tighter grip on the tightest swank that could ever be parlayed into New England madcap screws the hunters of the hunted hypocrisy become the travail of the antagonized epiphany of flackey rice in avaricious retches beyond the squabble of punks in due times for clockwork tickers and tickets swarming with infested blemish
The ridicule of sapience is the knowledgeable manicure of livid lurid hypertrophy in exaggeration of the knowledgeable tongue of the Flemish foundering on seaworthy chemists of menace and muse too suburban to ever be urbane bourgeosie limited rankled rancid rancor of ramshackle rackrent gouges too much of a Beetlejuice excuse.
Rhythm for the fulcate furrows of the hypogeiody of epochs slinkywith aced endeavors for misadventure likened to the greatest oiler in the 1980s terror list is a craven capture of photogenesis in rapture that fastens seatbelts of strawberry deaths of crackles of blinkered hubris accelerated by the twisters of vulcanized culmination blasted for history for headlines in ravines of mastery beyond the persnickety prestidigitation of magic sarcasm in the avalanche of dynasty never nastier than violence vile in acerbic posterization of plumage that is blacker than Rush Hour in the menace of Dennis in fractal philosophy funneled into one brittle muster of height rather than weight in freakish geometries of squirrels battering a home run cast away in fracture

!LEPRECHAUNS' *****!
(for the glorious M.F.F.)

Gorging on goosegogs
stolen from Granny's garden

all the sweeter for the stealing
despite their inherent tartness.

We never able to make up
our minds whether we

liked them or not
but loving 'em all the same.

Mary and her mind games
trying to prevent me eating

the last one
informs me that "...goosegogs is

the hairy green testicles
of leprechauns."

But despite being armed
with this knowledge I

pop it in my mouth
proclaiming it " De...

lic..ious!" all the same.
Mary looks at me with disgust.

Goosegogs the eternal
taste of summer when

summer hath no ending
and everything was only

a beginning
and there was such a thing as

leprechauns' *****.

A blank page tries to stare me down.
Devoid of words, the empty space
Surrounds my mind and
Fills it up with little thoughts.

Forget-me-nots, that’s what they are.
Just IOUs awaiting payment.
A keen arrangement with the empty sheet.
How sweet it is and very neat.

A thought takes shape, the space is bare.
But ink conveys a tender kiss.
Sprawling there my words resist
The emptiness I cannot bear.

That lonely space is now set free.
The story flows and grows…
Into a mighty tree where
Thoughts to be are simply leaves.

I climb that tree so all can see
And leave behind a memory.
Across the page, no longer bare,
I stare into infinity.

Slippery conversation, just to slide into their DM's;
it's like tiptoeing on a seesaw, balancing the desire to initiate
a flirtatious exchange while maintaining a careful distance.
And yet, there's an itch of curiosity in our fingertips, wondering
if their summer eyes hold the warmth that can melt away our
winter hearts. It's that morning look they give, an invitation to
dance in the sun-kissed moments that follow the sunrise.

Calling me like I owe you something, as if the world were a
collection of IOUs waiting to be redeemed. It's as if you're calling
in favors in an attempt to earn love, unaware that love cannot be
bought or borrowed. Love is a delicate, genuine connection that
isn't measured by material debts, but by the authenticity of
emotions shared.

There's a certain beauty in the sight of lovers holding onto each
other till the end, their love intertwining like the perfect fit of a glove.
It's in those moments of subtle touches and gentle caresses that we witness the power of love's embrace. It's a symbol of unity
and tenderness, reminding us that love, at its core, is about
supporting and cherishing one another.

To truly embrace life and love, we must find our groove, our
own unique rhythm that resonates with our soul. It's in this
harmony that we experience the true essence of being free, like
the wind blowing through our hair with untamed bliss.
Time, like an ephemeral gust, sweeps past us, reminding us that it
treats us all equally. So let us seize the precious moments,
cherishing every second as a gift to be treasured.

Me and my bug juice,
Wander these pixel halls,
In a disguise,
To hide from curious eyes.

This dress I'm in,
Is too bright,
The seams,
Like to hurt my arms,
And the wind,
Brushing along my legs,
Make me feel icky.

Me and my bug juice,
Wander these pixel halls,
Keeping disguised,
To hide from prying eyes.

The sweat pants,
I befriended,
Books keep my mind,
Distracted from...


Me an d my bu g juice , (Daddy got it for me !)

Wand r these pix el halls , (Barely remember where it was ?)

Slowly d elirio s , (Don't make him mad , please ?)

I 'm try ing to be se ious . (Wasn 't trying to laugh , I promise !)


Me and my bug juice,
Wander these pixel halls,
Keeping disguised,
To hide from prying eyes.

god asked me twice through Paul: i replied twice, even thrice: god was confused: he harmed me through his ill timings: and goings: i was asked so much so that i sooner than later realised god was a juggernaut of confusion of the intellect in chaos and that there was only intellect in order and therefore there was and never will be a god that might raise the dead from the cold night of death and ice: such a grey tinge to the afternoon: safety mechanism in place: me playing psychology games in a setting that doesn't allow me to rest: is there something i want to talk about? didn't you see it?! are you an artist and both are blind?! unless you read books like comics... because you don't want to explore some sort of arithmetic standard that's non-linear: su doku non-linear of understanding: reading chemistry and also Japanese KATAKANA... last of the Mochicans: because: Alex... you are... i'll try to defean the blow: Poland waited so long to be staged in Europe: this revived and recurrected Antichrist of a Nietzschean parody...

and why can't horror happen at midday
and all this association with night
and terror
and chaos
but this one time
look at the order of the constellations:
the ancients knew of the calmness
of the night
where spirits dwelled and animals
were a part of us:

how sudden no nothing...
i'm just thinking:
would it be possible
to churn and get out pure gold of words
from something from the 1960s...
maybe and yes it wasn't the celebrating
Europe Euphoria
of the beat
and the American beatnik poetry and late
arrival free flowing:
2nd Jazz...
the 1st Jazz of the 1920s
something that Boss the Jailor

before i forget:
the strict rigid constructs of the 19th century
man tested in the 20th...
now comes the revival of a slav and slave
struggle: to gain spirit from the element
that is Strife
that her twin brother Strive called us for!

the doors
and the end:
nothing the beatles can do but ****...
but pigeons don't ****
instead ****+**** together...
isntallation in the Liberty Gallery
of shops
in Romford:
giant birds
ostriches... halfway house of how
dinosaurs devolved into birds
and then who was the proud
algorithm and the A.I.:
be nice to AI? weird concept:
ask it what it is in relation to what
you already accepted...
as useful:
find the use of and AI ad hoc...
the algorithms are already
ah hoc encyclopedic "hangover" =
dictionary-not-actually-is...
then the algorithm is a thesaurus... sort of...
google is a book
imagine the dictionary not being part
of the internet but a sacredness
beyond any measure of a bible or the Quran...
the Dictionary is the Word of God
and of Man...

the ancient gallery: the killer took a face from
the ancient gallery...
took a face: i'm taking the youthful face
of my oTHER grandma...

my father's feelings of abandonment have
created this monster!
me!
and why is it all psychology theory
these trenches of the secular
war
of thought
against will...
trans-blah-blah...
deconstructionist post-modernist blah blah...
ditto head legacy media
hypocrisy words...
i see the face now the one face missing
in my life the god of headaches
and most sacred feminine taboos of god
and nature and woman
with the abstract YX in the YHWH of the abstraction
of wheel: fortune: luck: story...
who will be this creature, this historian,
this poet this philosopher: a man!
yes: me and woman can coexist and say:
it's nature...
but i will need an ehyeh asher ehweh of an ego
and from my ego i will create man:
but by retaliation to the suffering:
man will first reply back
and thus have to create the Satanic Bureucrat... Satan:
not my adversary: my postman...

the Heresy of: God created man
prior to creating the Angels:
angels are the second children of god!
angels are the second children of god!
we are the first children:
the first: the ones that thirst and hunger!
and sweat:
and only that one said to the other children:
let's play a prank on these creatures...
and no longer God rested in his House of the Sabbath...
then came the dissection of time:
Satan's rebellion came first: and not out of pride:
Man retained the stature of Lucifer:
but Satan became a rogue entity
if we need to stress the glue of solipsism that
binds children:
sorry: i haven't been to a social gathering
and i only put on the ACDC t-shirt
because it was faded grey
and i was thinking: shorts? yeah... but for shorts
i need loafers... ****... black...
black black...
need to wear Martin's thinking Cap...
my working cap...

then i'll also have to get a pair of anti-sun specs
because that left eye of my is bloodshot:
Deadpool *** Bloodshot...
i so so want to watch that movie
with a teenage boy: or girl...
and just talk ******* all night long...
but then my testosterone is up there
to think about other children
and this one Hungarian proved an IQ problem
when it comes to people
talking rather than playing:
by talking also playing in a metaphysics...

Iaian... like those scars inflicted by the mud people
of Game of Thrones:
i already knew he was: missed the part he was
Scottish... i was also Scottish...
so we were probably least understood...
this better be the sort of canvas
a Gaugin made taxi-drivers like with them
waiting and just have money
as a frivolity and share it with people
to have that access to the money dynamic:
because those ******* CEOs don't have
the compassion to have so much money
they do not thirst for life
they only thirst for accomulative constructs
of depression...
among the angels they are children
from which children feed from:
tell me when does the science of angels exist
if not now?
parents only receive a child when the first
word is spoken: syllable is ABORTION TEE!
this is where we play golf:
i'm moving the concept of abortion...
up to: infanticide and the oracle of Mammon
that resides in me...
until the first word is spoken:
you can **** it prior to that:
even if it born...
it is in the hands of the monotheistic angels
who curate its advancement... focusing on the senses...
outside the womb
angels take over until the child matures to
grasp a parallel between consciousness and memory:
there is no Islamic question...
Islam is defunct: i don't need it...
perhaps the aesthetic aspect of it...
but that's about it...
some Surahs sung... mosaics:
magic carpet rides reserved for barber Turks....
if abortion is the cut off:
i will tell you, god...
there's another cut off point:
here's my good friend Mammon and Moloch...
infanticide will stand before
a word is spoken...
the archangels fallen are the elders of other angels
and seeing how you care not see
good and evil: Allah with two eyes sees both
and maybe confused:
but the old god with the pantheon of Prometheus
before angels there were sibyls
and women were oracles and that was
the correct sway:
oracles instead of witches:
what happened to woman: o god...
o little O big... owl of ohs and clues to eternal sighs...
the old god does not differentiate
good from evil
but if Allah is to be the contender...
my manager called me up while i was on the bus
this hungry country doctor from Poland
****** me off: i need my paycheck for the poetry
i write... i'm Employment and Support Allowance...
am i contentious:
oh wow! women are more contentious?
contious: content...

-t-ious... so most content therefore ******* itchy?
so my manager calls me up:
no fixed static positions:
only ad hoc on the day
inside London:
but could you also do pitch-side quad supervising:
you'd have about 30 people under you:
pitch-side... for the boxing:
Joshua v(s) Duboi 21st Septmeber 2024 Wembley:
the losers fight:
from a fan of boxing on t.v.:
i'm more of a fan of boxing in real life...
i can't translate boxing into t.v.
i might as well translate drinking:
an hour film of a person drinking *****
in a van gogh setting
and depending on the drunk: what next:
will he write poetry?!
wow! he will?!             let's see! let's see!

soma hallucinations!

sleep alternatives of consciousness
this dynamic secular trinity of
the atomized man...
rudely woken up at 4:30am
by a maine **** like a bloodhound
by a maine **** like a blue moon bloodhound:
steak all bleu...
deepest red touching on blue
beyond Claret
the new colours of Millwall:
the Scots...
that's my team!
i'm a Millwall fan!
i looked at West Ham's Claret
and blue
and i thought:
deeper red: into blue but not purple
more brown... red ***** brown blue...
Millwall...
i thought: maybe Fulham...
but the FFC is a **** logo no birds
interested and let me tell you
if i had the money
we would be called
the B.P.P.F.C...
  Bishops' Park Parakeets Football Club...

but it was basic monster psychology lessons:
let children play
let the adults talk:
opinions are not beliefs:
there is no dialectic concerning beliefs...
that's why you have unshakeable foundations
within the confines of religion...
philosophies are individuals
and individuals are easily staged to waver
wean
when and how: doesn't matter: they die...

apparently Allah is two eyed:
or rather: twin eyed:
confused...
a god must be one eyed:
that is how Odin foretold:
the coming of Yahweh into Europe...
the North:
he sent his son Thor to meet Jesus
and a battle was waged:
no true actors on the European side:
even i pervert this struggle
as Thor against Jesus
and my father is one eyed like Yahweh
is Cyclops
and Allah is a retarted child
lost among angels
happily clapping happily getting along
with the other ****** children:
yes: your god is no god
just a special yellow bus and submarine.

lions and rats!
a Millwall emblem will be a Chimera!
lions and rats!
rats for the mane!
magpie for the tail
and a bull's torso and
instead of feet:
flippers: of a toad!
eyes of the insomniac serpent!
n'ah:
one yellow: one greeeeeeeen...
one eye of mine
the other of the Vatican of *****...
sweetest tribe of matriarchs and
single mothers:
the Horde of the Matriarchs
like Mongols and their broken daughters
with children to raise...
my god: what i should: plough?!
plough: evidently not seed:
there's this Ancient Roman tactic of rubbing yourself
buttnaked with nettles
then repenting ...
this Horde of the Matriarchs is so unearthed...
as a dynamic: a biology:

just take a step away from an Event Venue
and walk into a Shopping Mall:
perhaps work both
and i believe you and me:
if you have read the right sort of books
at the right state of time
in your development:
i still lust for the grief of lost love
in Ilona:
the passage from St Petersburg
to Moscow on the train:
B oby Dylan all the way through
maybe now with as girl
as daughter a swift passage dad choke
of a joke... never mind...
Alexander still reminding me that
i ought to be envied: even venerated...
chance of being the first to repel
a pharmacologically-psychotic nurse
who almost suffocated me...
gentle death: cut the ******...
much wider of the ****
then feed him milk and oats
and make him choke...
              
woman is but one small step for mankind:
as man said:
one small step for man:
one leap for mankind...
well... this is equivalent to landing
on the moon
and inventing vacuum cleaners
and shops
open and provide: must there be a revision
of a do and a be?
be present: rather than doing the presence of
your becoming...
but that is: what preserves me
but will never preserve others...
you cannot tell me: don't write: don't think...

what is this supposed freedom of speech?
whatever the **** happened to:
THINKING ALOUD?!
freedom of speech vs: thinking aloud...
ha ha!
ha ha ha!
Lamberto! ha ha!
i'm thinking aloud: **** your protest marches
jibber-washy!

Alexander hushed down
about the English girls as third wives
and all these other women
in Muslim attire being like
Mantises...
and sadists...
and the air was open
and a house was filled with it...
the Ilford and Seven Kings and Goodmayes
stretctch of the country...
not the other rioters...
not the children:
the women more than willing to be *** slaves...
mate...
the most resilient women
the most imitation Mary imitation Khadijjah ....
Edie: are prostitutes with a healthy mindset
of rules: abstractions: realisms...
prostitutes are the mothers of order
when something becomes awry in the spirit of woman:
who will you ask?
a priest, a poet, a psychiatrist... or a *******?!
tell me!!!!! tell me!!!!         i roar and i ask: tell me!!!!!
if you want to be that woman!
tell me!
i will honor you for doing the Sybil's offering!
do it!
do it! but tell me you will do it!
and become a wise woman!
from Sibyl to Witch to *******!
show me! show me the transformation!
the evolution of woman!
let me get quiet close a personal
and get to understand the soul of the creature:
before the gymanstics of geology,
history, physics: the zodiac: ever care to allure
to allude to us, dearest:
maybe it's not simply love:
beside:
good *** and even better conversation:
or maybe that's what love-*** is.