Farewell Govan -
bathed in a baking sun
littered with betting shops
and no win/no fee criminal lawyers
and a myriad of pubs caked in years of libation
steeped in history of industry and shipbuilding
blackened smoked walls etched with gangland symbols:
tooled-up local carnivores who ride shotgun on a BMX
swapping discrete envelopes for indiscreet wads of cash.

Farewell Govan -
you fractured my ribs once in a moment of mistaken identity
I didn't heed the advice to not walk through the park at night
I didn't hear the pitter-patter of adolescent feet
speeding my way in brand new trainers across the grass
but I did feel the clunk of something solid on my head
as the ground rushed up to meet me in a concrete embrace
and watched as 4 bags of overladen shopping spewed out
lying face up spread-eagle in Lilliput fashion
and a mobile torch-app in my face with the repeating words
“Ima tellin’ you man its naw him, its naw him”
I reassured them frantically that I was definitely not him!
as the hooded troupe picked up what was left of my shopping
and even gifted me a couple of cans of super strength lager,
a cube of dubious council estate hash
and an usher to leave immediately
(and think myself lucky).

Farewell Govan -
you got me blazing on cheap beer at the local pub
which had recreated a holiday beach scene
with a hand-written sign that read: Better than Ibiza!
awash with carefree children
and pit-bull terriers wearing bespoke Barbour dog jackets
and brand spanking new Adidas white trainers
purchased from Tam out of a nondescript blue plastic bag
who always passes the day's pleasantries
while topping up his pension
chatting with auld Billy who was in the war (don’t you know)
via the Merchant Navy
and the version of how he was gunner on an oil boat in Vietnam
via the umpteenth pint that afternoon.

Farewell Govan -
your late night shadows harbour an underlying tension
masked with comic humour only if you can understand the lingo
words that are distasteful anywhere else are in fact a term of endearment here
I shall miss the odious vernacular and doth my cap to your spirit
the Salt of the Earth and the Lifeblood of the Community
with at least 40% proof liquids mixed with Irn Bru
purchased at the 24/7 corner store along with a can of processed peas;
one of your five a day.

Farewell Govan -
I go to the sunny side of the Clyde
where it rains just as much
but you don’t get mugged for carrying an umbrella
or asked for the time from a watch-wearing tattooed sailor
and joy-of-joys there will be actual fruit & veg shops
where I don’t have to explain what fresh coriander is
and what you use it for, other than on a pizza;
I was offered dried bottled parsley instead.

Farewell Govan.

1992, seldom electric fire
  Top tier tenement
grease paint balcony
White flack veranda, in cold
     Aircraft damage
diamond hill - screen run
  centipedes crawling from under carpets
  Three stacked wage
Lighters tossed in
click click click
            Shared alternate
          Wiping vandal on jeans
- aquatic codex
     Ran       G - Er
Cleaning ***** pipes to play
     Brushes
Pushing out bits of pigeon meat
             Nature
                   Takes back
                         Inner pink
walking through valley, 2 shops
   Butchers, newsagents, bag on back, 75p Irn Bru
     - niaroo, old folks
a Roman decoration
   Holding hands, woken camping
Damp - Sleep
             Dams
man-made, man-made
   shoes
Taken off
  tiptoeing in inch high slow decline
Straddling fallen tree rings
           Egyptian replicant
      Citerazine, bag full of frogs
       Tree swings
                  - rope burn
    Cap full of Night Nurse
And a newtonian lung full of phlegm
  Mattress protector, cold sweat, menthol
                      - Or
  Retailed Jelly Beans pushed through face
      Lactic acid
          food pylons
     change t-shirts on trains home
     Thawing moments
     In a misty aether
       - That we found
            While eating in the Rain
     Sidestep
         Sidestep
              sidestep
         Til' we ***** rocks on waxpaper
                                Quasi-negativity
overheard on the 57th chemical bus
           Imitated cough
  Flash point culture
Aching on
a woken bad comfort, 50 minutes
    Surfing on liquid Archipelagos
- Camping - On a swollen inner thigh
                 Cause the
                 (carriage)
                           Today
Several dead.
   Yet cosmos vanished lacquer
                              Manslaughter
boiled mouthwash
       in the future
- drole
        acryllic ****
Shoes taken off at doors
      A need to laugh, Not in bars
    Not in rigor, not in Lips
Blankets on open doors to Firs
         rings century heat fort
  eight days external
             licking
     The imaginary
                  (Wound)
Shameless St. John
  Bricks
  Smashed off 204th launch
          finger split.   Splint
      -Fibration
              g
               oo -
finding Love in Junipers
        enchanted, Vanilla pod
Apple fries, casual ***, loose horseshoes
    Draper
           &
             a cold Vermont
        Liberty, capitol savings/Planck
        Ever twisting Venetian control
           Executive seep
        - In Sunlight
          skies scraped Cosgrove, Skies
presents, present
maybe sunny side of Barstow
    Agony aunt Limericks
and - Deep thrombosis
Let's build pyramids          In our Dreams
the night time sky
here
Will         never     Win    any    Awards

Here come
pairs   of   legs
   riddled with cellulite
   accents
     stuff the air
Neuwcassul
   Burmingum
stores     reek
of cheap   tat
   bargain   last-few-quid   items
Irish music
no-one gives a     jig     about
    Mr. Whippy's
for sale every seven/six
   make that     five     cafés
women   packed
   like bubblewrap
     into denim shorts
     middle-aged men
plagued with     tattoos
   Irn Bru tans

back at the chalet
     kids thwack
   plastic     *****
with plastic racquets
   next-door neighbours
   puff on their nineteenth
*** before midday
come   night
karaoke floods towards us
   like a murky tsunami
don't stop believin'
     hold   on   to   that   feelin'

but the   girl
in the museum
   had a ponytail
   another one
dipped in gold
   like a fancy chess piece
and I walk   around
in a   Norwich   shirt
lick sea-breeze
     and know
   this isn't
home

I walked along the shore,
   orchestra of shushes
as water slopped
                        across my bare toes,
jangle of pebbles
as I placed one foot
                                 in front of the other.

In the distance
                         the orangeade tang of neon lights
                         punctuated the view,
electric hyphens
from the arcades
crammed with Irn-Bru-skinned tourists
   there for a week
on this comma of coast.

In the winter          it is different.
A silver fug that sweeps the streets
     like the cocoons of a thousand ghosts,
machine jingles muzzled,
cafes only drip
                        fed with regulars
                                                     from around the corner
coming in to pick the horses
for the 2.10 at Uttoxeter.

The phone quaked in my pocket -
   my mother, calling me home.
I passed the sandcastle rubble,
   slobber of seaweed
   like the drool of a kelpie,

my socks speckled with sand
as I texted back
on my way

how many vaccinations do i remember?
some called chicken-pox a virus infection
of children....
so if one child contracted the virus
the neighbours' child was exposed
to it: so it went under the iron curtain...

but i did receive vaccination for
those other in the triad: Odra...
measles?
         it's named a furry thing in one language
a river in another...
not the Vistula plague...
or the Varta plague riddling posing-nan?
Possen?

i'm pretending to be all: fuzzy-brainz...
but... i do remember...
the mad-cow disease epidemic...
in england...
and what arrived after:
meningitis... in the realm of youth...
i remember going to school like
nothing was going to happen...
it didn't... meningitis took grip of my neighbour's
brain... expected bullock-freeze...
yes... it was real...
phantom stranger! how are you?
after all: pandemic sounds less sinister
than epidemic ever will...
i'm actually tired of the narratives
from both aisles of furroging for antics...
more like broken limbs...
but when meningitis was rife...
and there was a vaccine on the ready...
nothing stopped...
life preserved itself: continued...

lucky for me to be writing from england...
after all the bombing from
the media Hindenburg sinking
for seemingly years upon years concerning
the topic of Brexit...
i much prefer recycling in...
well by now ol' nature is just
a boring **** of scents...
summer come the zenith
winter the nadir...

if it only woul could feel authentic...
again: subjectivity is not...
"necessary"? it's sub-human sub-optimal?
no? if it could feel authentic...
then what the ****'s worth of use
do i have with thoughts that
objectively "sound" yet always tend to
masequerade around brining me
a ******* margueritta!

what good is a line of argument:
surrounding doubtful thinking...
yes... "once upon a time":
it "feelz": yes... a certainty of heart is above
all else a certainty of self...
the mind is a ******* lost labyrinth
of do i, don't i, be i, bitten *******
ripple effects rife!

meningitis was real...
the young were affected...
there was a vaccination we all took
in school:
they pretended to call it:
brain-freeze of: fatty-brainz-does-do-d'ah...
but... **** on me:
the panic button is frozen...
re-setting:
back toward alley candle working
our way from the Edison project...
nice... ******* Kazakhstani and all!

point being: who are the orcs...
the ugly trolls... the nazis?!
i suppose almost everyone!
           i've been assured to comply:
2 weeks homebound...
i've had a garden to tend to...
some decorating d.i.y. work... no problem...
big on the HBO show SUCESSION...

grandfather just died i'll heave
my mother being angry at the world:
i'll just take down my uncle and my grandmother...
no biggy...
happy are those who's relatives haven't /
or have yet to: die in this... "crisis"...

meningitis was a real fear:
but we, *******, ploughed along!
now a ******* cockroach is the scary "bit":
the bit of temporal sacrifice where:
you don't ******* eat it?
i wouldn't dare to **** a fly...
i would... however... dare to catch one
with my forehead...
and then flick it into a spiderweb...
how's that?

i'm tired listening to either side of
the argument...
when a ponent disease of rot brain appeared
and coincided itself with bad beef
because the cows were infected with
a bug that made them appear to be drunk /
english girls... cows...
in those would come harrowing new:
redundencies of urban gob: a Leicester high-street
excursion...
how they would drink, dress up skimpy:
and eat nothing but bones and dust:
you'd ask... some marrow?
no would come the reply...

mind you: it's not like i would ever
find myself eating out...
the odd friday with the need for
the chippy... and some cod...
but... i would never eat out...
did that once... off camden town high street
from one of these chinese vendors...
had the ***** for 3 hours...
i never eat out because i...
well: i'll sooner trust ******* into my hands,
then ******* into them...
then fiddling through some ****...
then washing them...
before i attend to preparing some
food...
it doesn't affect me because:
i don't / nor ever have... eaten to be seen...
i'm not a lion and what i'd be eating
wouldn't be a hunted down gazelle...
would it?
so what's the ******* point
of window-shopping food in reverse?
what's this fetish for eating in public?
in public... yeah...
as in... in victorian times...
the ****** junkies would congregate
into a hush-lazy "paragraph"?

maybe we should show all th slaughterhouses!
eating in public... all that 20th century
existential narcissism leveraging the french:
to be is to be seen...
minus the restaurant antics...
call me old fashioned but:
the only food i like to it...
is the food i cook myself...

would i like to extend that into
hunting for my food...
it's the 21st century...
unless for a delicacy...
but... i rather like to cook the food
i'm about to eat...

eating in public... pigeons eat in public...
or a variation of that...
can i extract a proverb from all
of this akin to:
better a sparrow in your hand,
than a dove on your roof?

last time i heard the arguments
for abortions could extend into genocide:
like... i ******* and the ***** is...
flushed down into the toilet with
the crocodiles... an act of genocide...
but... in the "meantime"...
the abortion clinic rife from
the already waiting... pre-automation
fake herr hirsch and frau hirsch robo...
you know...
where do you clog the details of life
with these people?
tending to the late abortion:
it's a dandy day to be down syndrome?!
imagine a placing of human muscular
nd jaw abiding...
because i'm not a plumber...
i'm also... not tending to the farm
of goo and skittles...
rephrase that, as i must...

who's the genius behind...
oh... right... Barr... it's no IRN BRU...
but it's most ******* certainly cream soda...
i just imagine if Barr and Krupp had
a collaboration projects...
bombs made from carbonated sugar bomb
**** boom boom explosions of fizz!

we have to be talking about reinventing
abortion?
or... genocide... no?
if automation is to be forwarded... no?
fair enough if you tell the women:
no abominations!
some people: the polacks, backward people...
well... would you require christening
a cyclops? a brain-deadening
form that's not even a **** similis:
an ape replica: otherwise:
consent to abort! if th ancient ritual
of ****** are practised!
****? m'eh...
forget the cross: burden yourself
with moloch... which is...
a double-edged sword...
given all the kosher medicine...
all the sacrificed foreskins!
**** me... ed gein looks sorta pale and impaled
on his own cringe...
skin is skin...

so much for concerns when
there's "golf" that's to be incubated and...
involved... sorry... invoked...

how is there status quo... peeping-tommy...
there's an argument for the piggies
at the trough...
leveraging for needs of
the imploded concept of a passport...
such is this federal cwispy clean...
because it's no Relsh or Velsh:
or anything like Cornwall...

you don't need to go anywhere:
and anywhere is "anywhere":
chuck in the bums but not the incarcerated
by mr. bar and the lucid brigade...

milan kundera has more geographic "details":
the ural mountains and the Caucasian...
  what's what? cocky-asians?! whites?
whites are somehow ****-asians?
must be a new turkic plantative of
congregational dynamics of: usher in the whites!
the germanic peoples, the pedantic anglicans...
and the steppe mongrels and mongols...
the turks too!
let's all play that *******
monopoly game of: exodus africanus!

i lost the tan...
how did i get the squinting
the ******* on the lemon bit?!

otherwise...
which is probably east...
belarus and ukraine...
but germany is never noted as...
the vest...
austria: eastern-***** is still: vest...
central europe doesn't translate for
the anglophones... or, rather...
it never existed to begin with...
esp. under the guise of the toilet paper
mache of herr neville chamberlain...
no... not ever: nor would be...

in Ypres... oh how hollow tusk of ivory
those graves: indented with
hallow / hollow epitaph esque signatures...
and they stand: shoulder to shoulder...
withering amass in slabs of earth
extending for the onlooker's mile...
so pale... antidote misanthropic...
world war one...
and do they tell you how they
buried the central, ahem! ahem!
how they buried the germans?!
in mass graves... where the robin and the sparrow
still sings... mass graves that weren't
this ******* spectacle of past colonial endeavours...
where oak and pine,
birch... and brass took stand to root!

east is east my ******* closure!
east is by no means
the intricacy of the veins
of the danube...
hungary belongs to the huns...
watch me... concerning myself
with the ottoman reconquista...
this is, "now":
the ottoman reconquista, no?
**** my pork under-salted...
the grand orator is missing the mark
when history is being governed by
a hard--on escaping the promises
of secular bull.......... ****?!

two tongue a piece:
i never spiked one tongue above
a contesting Machiavellian brooding
over a furrowing of brows...
above another...

this eastern bloc?
and the federalised states of h'america?
because this is; surprising history!
lithuania and latvia...
30+ million people just...
oops... "forgotten"?
****-proud of cuckoldry of
the desired... voices
of the proud: teasing vaginas!
the ******* get your mongol-pseudo
gizmos from?
a soho proud ***** deposit?!

how does a ***** bank work...
concerning the dichotomy
of credit                    /                 debit?!
is that dichotomy even fease(a)ble?
worst for sawn-off worse for dicta:

yes... my teeth are by no means...
extending toward the exploration
tendencies of bone: via an x-ray...
by demand of a non-persuasive argument...
by teeth are furry... they are furry with an itch...
they are... i have itchy teeth because:
i'm a limp-**** impersonato...
a castrated wow from a harem
of a harem... of the castrated lobotomies
of phallus endowed...
entertaining the sugar-coated
princesses... tease angelic etc...
blah blah, blah... lost toy *****...
aber?! gott ist einz! mit unz!

with an east bought: this austrian
closure... forever flimsy baron...
flaking amnesia...
no you scratch my back i
scratch: how about my fingernails
task themselves over the details
over your gravestones
having no epitaphs like
blitzkriegs concerning them...

verbiage of the dritte-*****:
modus operandi gucci or some other
borrowed tailor from
the league of lombardy?
    
/ / /  nothing concerning "stupid"....
but when one is being interrupted
with a..  b'ah b'ah internet
connectivity...
when one's lightbulbs are in play...
leauge of own's own: slo-mo...
******* where money
become daffodil sprouts...

don't i: oh yes... that's where i
know "where":
and towing "know"
i have to attempt to white lie:
a... borrow. / / / /

that i rarely dream...
picking up a body from the grave:
clinging to me like a hurt puppy...
apparently a resurrection:
i deigned to believe i was peeling
my own skin off...
walking him in my arms
back to his home:
peering through a window
that acted like a mirror
into someone else's home...
then seeing this resurrected
body get back to a healthy
b.m.i.
while eating raisins using
toothpicks...
switch to a day later...
perhaps the face is the same...
but the eyes are sinister...
glowing amber...
the first time eyes have
taken prominence in my dreams...
prior to: teeth...
then a haunting sequence...
i'm being asked
to ***** a ladybird with a needle:
purple smoke comes
out with the deed:
the house is apparently cleansed
from "voodoo"...
i guess this all comes back
to the night before:
sitting in the garden
wanting to remember a face
that formerly contorted with
expressions bound
to a still apparent: eucalyptus tree...
but i still had
to take this body from
the crave clinging to me
like either a hurt puppy
or some aberration of skin...
i wondered whether i'd remember
this dream even if i kept it
in the back of my mind
and attempted the daily:
curating the garden one last
time before winter finally
succeeds...
well... that's that.

not much needs to be written these days,
i hardly ask to peer at the face
of god:
what, with all these full bodied
chinese ideograms or ancient egyptian
hieroglyphs - strenuous like
impromptu hindenburg explosions...
at least with these latin letters:
well: the hebrew revision -
skeletons... endless row of skeletons...
shackles of bone...
i never promised myself this...
but... upon seeing an open coffin
in the morgue: the detail beside walking
around town putting up necrolog posters...
the bureaucratic detail in
what culminates in the whole:
well attired in princey navy jacket...
cuffs and: remembering how to tie:
a tie...
the generic mass at a funeral:
family secrets... oh the bogus lot of:
an unhappy marriage...
only somehow saved by the prefix grand-
some ever summer for several years
from the womb of the daughter...
this unhappy marriage...
only 3 months ago:
i could see the eyes of resignation...
perhaps cancer finally matched up to:
his willingness to let go...
i'm writing this to justify his unwillingness
to live: after all... rosy whenever i
visited him: otherwise purgatory:
skinning of pigs for shoes...
a grandmother's tongue like a sting of a wasp...
it was not for anyone to live:
no wonder he recounted: he decided to
escape into memory...
and it wasn't like upon death:
all of life flashes before your eyes:
once you age and service up half a dozen
years, months, weeks and countless days:
an eternity of hours...
memory become cinema...
i've seen it myself...
to play the cameo...
            but i can't imagine
being married to someone who might
wish me dead or:
that i might die like a dog dies:
in my native tongue: zdechnąć...
which refers to animals...
people: people have the capacity (rather than
the potential) to... umrzeć..
to die like an animal is to
heave the last breath without
the ease of possessing a differential
sigma of all part concerned that
tells any naked eye the difference
between
an animate and an inanimate object...
well... further along...
that's a bad joke...
since most of the time...
something animate doesn't
necessarily have to become subjected
to our observation: filtering the amassing
grey fudge of pedestrians:
which is less... even though animate...
than the inanimate mountain...
then again... the earth is static by
illusion... suddenly broken
by the wind... hurried disillusionment
by a hurricane... hey presto!
i'm standing on a "levitating" orb...
- i promised something...  
ah... identifying a corpse in an open coffin
in a morgue before the funeral...
biting-the-quill-procedures of death:
death... i have to let you know...
is very well organised...
it's very bureaucratic...
hell for all it's insomniac democracy:
"veto"...
it's... impossible to suffer childish fears
when walking through a graveyard...
hours shy post the burial
i sat by the grave like a dutiful
dog and teased my eye with a candle
while burning the ridges of plastic
into a cascade of all things hot, molten...
- my new found source of "debate"?
not finishing a cigarette...
smoking... half of it...
extinguishing it... half an hour later...
with the filter already soaking wet
with wet nicotine from all my drags...
new found pleasure...
it's a ******* mirage:
the idea that there are inanimate
objects at hand for the eye to admire
and meditate on...
a mountain in all its grandiosity...
yes yes... esp. when slap-sticked to
a... magician'******that:
the tetragrammaton has a daughter:
who he calls the annum...
HH: for summer and winter: chiral entities...
Y for spring... W for autumn...
why that is so...
Nero could have told you...
my lyre! my liar! rome is afloat!
the waves are ablaze!
this english tongue would not be
recognised by either greeks or the romans!
yet i'm using the lettering
of qua quixote: qua ape borgia...
pope!         pope!
are all the protestant sovereigns rich?
guess it comes to quest with a question:
the catholic rich ****** of france or
spain... who are the pauper catholics?
by all means: i know all the orthodox
castratos are: grecian and challenging:
take turns concerning either Malta
or Cyprus...
- here's to! here's to not getting my "mojo"
back concerning writing:
it's not like there's a horizon of
a stephen king worth for me to play
jester with... it's not like i'm some clive barker
who explored narratives
and character studies in h'amsterdam's
underground play-toy-play-t'ing...
rubber ole! studding with nails
and a fetish for leather...
while having sioux...
kneecap fold at the elbow:
wave goo'-bye!
             none of that... no...
             meat 'n' tow veg unfathomable...
like testing the vernacular of
testicles of... five men, all blind...
and a whale to make jokes concerning
an elephant...
- now i am extending my "privy"...
i am making myself welcome by ****
and wilt alone...
i am playing solitaire and i am rearranging
chess and dominos of letters:
but all these fattenings that come back
to bite phonetic enclosures
of chinese ideograms and egyptian
hieroglyphics... bloat in my face like
sprouts of mushroom growth
and bulging pockets of **** of gangrene
and sickly sweet acne...
- you know... i expected any other
play on a hiatus... i see old people walk
around and i'm like: coming on 81...
bragging about pushing 120...
when i came back from the funeral
i felt a sense of relief...
there's the concept of the mother-tongue...
as the very central european concept
of the fatherland...
it's not german...
hardly... concerning that he died
a philosopher: i.e. married to an abomination
of a woman...
i'll sooner gamble on horses!
or... how i will have to stand alone...
or walk into the north sea one
day and drown... or head to the civilisation
crown of humanity's deity: the switz land
or the benelux and spend my last
halving of paper with
tsar nicholas II imprinted on it...
for a dosage of euthanasia...

let the africans and the arabs come...
i am tired of having to jest
not suffering from bouts of
lethargy... let them i don't mind...
i'm of the mind concerning the belief
in shadows and in volcanoes...
the larva of the lava needs new:
sprouts!
copper-skinned "i" and R: further! US!
but not from this boring set of
stale ideas!

- a grandfather died: sorry... was i supposed
to be more... more estranged from
the concept of family?!
grandfather is pushing it?
but that Poland has reached
a mythological status entry for past...
hell... England is on par...
concerning Ilford... Gants Hill...
Barkingside... and sooner or later...
Romford...
white-flight... well no **** sherlock!
we're not going to fit onto
the Faroe Islands like a bunch
of hiding oysters!

- again... was this at all offensive
or am i just too grief stricken to mind
the already apolitical "political correctness"
sort of ******* that's reserved
for the retards that: will hardly
envision actual bridges and actual rivers...
no... "society"... is their... ******* disneyland
of concerns!

money is a social construct...
pay 'em in either pebbles or peanuts!
how else?!
- and what of still stalling of bulging
"anger" from a "erectile dysfunction":
glad you asked...
i... simply don't know...
why it works a charm with prostitutes...
but... fails... whenever i have to
date someone from
a mythos of the 1950s: bidding for a
housewife... thank you...
i can... or rather: i much prefer
to cook for myself...
i need no **** or **** in that department...

- because it's that nagging sensation
surround: only recently the parisian police
burned another migrant camp...
not in calais...
in some underpass...
i was in Paris circa 2004 - 2007 and
it was that city of Hemingway et al.,
now... it's the city where
there's a mausoleum of a bonaparte...
if that...
in a sunday newspaper magazine
a book review concerning Idi Amin...
attempted to portray him
in good faith... turns out!
****** gassed... Idi Amin performed
miraculous surgery...

- believe it or now: i'm on my way out...
thank **** and god to boot for
having inherited such fuckery of
grandmothers... and paternal... blah blah...
synchronised fuckery of a Tolstoy's
Anna Karenina opening - with the world
as a whole...
and i... poor ****-wit...
a cameo narrative-ist...

- in this tongue alone: "borrowed":
lent, acquired... why should "i"...
the dumb polacks were graced with a pope?
as instrument... let my fellow countrymen
gloat in a darkness of: that's already
easily manipulated...
saint my *** on a peddle-stool!
- what do i owe... "europe":
exactly what it owes me...
privy to the image of... salvaging...
tank-tops and ******...
even when it was grizzly ritzy and **** on
you:
the same foundation:
how plagued could we have become...
gorging on the same load of
masochism yet feeling no inclination
for: the colonial adventures that
landed "us" on the moon...

how there is a past for some...
but not for others: "my" people ought to
regress to the grievances bestowed
to them by the teutonic knights: failed 4th crusade...
the mongols, the swedes concerning
the deluge...
the ottomans... the ukranian nationalists...
oh.. "multicultural" society... "worked"...
in the polish-lithuanian commonwealth:
so well that what was required
was a foreign king...

i too... own... my body my land...
mythological as it might still be:
leaving school i do know how to dictate
the last of the anglo--saxon king's "whereabouts"
in history... the angevin empire...
the normie 'orms... and europe
can go **** itself...

           why? grief bespoke... i'm on
an "angry" hiatus...
  i write skeletons of letters and i'm peering
at the house of god...
all that's missing is what's hidden in 'ebrew...
i.e. the niqab vowels...
which would make words arrive
back at a reading:
LK S...
        S Y MGHT S
   like so
so you might see...
               - charles dickens called it
orthography... i just call it bad spelling...
i would call it orthography if...
english entertained the concept and use of
diacritical markers...
i.e. ó vs. u...
               does... english (as a language)
even bother to... no... it doesn't...
matter desiring to dictate: ******* stark naked...
a CH from a SH otherwise
hiding the foot of the tetragrammaton
in a caron, i.e. Č or Š...
oh... right... still pandering to the cannibals
of the pacific isles...
- what the **** are we... philandering
as: fiddlin with: as... escapee ******* / tattoo?!
it's not "orthography": mr. dickness...
it's either bad spelling or outright dyslexia...

orthography implores the application of
diacritical markers...
the russians: employ them...
however subtle...
so subtle... but english doesn't permit
an entire letter to be fathomable...
for a compound...
Ч (Č) - CH - you hide the heb' god...
no? no... you expose 'im... no?

    Ш (Š) - SH... oi 'rew! 'rew! i find the wind...
caressing... the Faroe isles most inviting:
i was so very close to the concept
of how...
                  ш + ц ≠ щ
   given ч... i might have wished...

- here;s too giving myself to too much greek
or the hebrew counter: these letters...
the new testament...
here's to europe: yur-op!
my pondering a  burning of a scarf:
the summoning of a wind...
the necropolis hybrid... a skinning
of a... believe them greeks,
believe them hebrews:
sooner or later they become ottomans...
whether asked or being in want...

- such that the closet of your kin leave you
being hindered...
and that all: that remains...
is a **** flinging fest of lobotomy creasure...
you take your pick: whether i've
disused or under achieved
usage of a certain: verbiage - attache...
told the point... the laughing dolphin...
when "arrayed" with a display of
a butterfly's quest...
as one: ibn: might be left demanding:
no camel jockey who afre you...
no yacht... a dolphin giggling...
flapping at makeshift:
feathers...

           i cleave to... a hybrid...
what has to become the genius
of BARR... **** it... capital lettering...
the IRN BRU sod...
the 18--... fuckety-fuckety...
    history impromptu!

hello comparisons BARR "conctra"
KRUPPS...

such that i might drink: h'american
ice-cream / cream soda...
all of that jingle...
bubble-gum what's-not-to-like?!
all the synthetic soda-creamed-up
pie...
all that curated...
bukakke and gloryhole...
and **** on me **** on you,..

- so who's left... *******, pretend one is...
smiling?!
nairobi ping-pong quest old german
boring toothache too?!

i sorta think i've served a purpose...
if it wasn't enough:
well? then i can become most hurried and
harried in giving all the necessary
exaltations...
w.d.y.f.o.
  in acronyms and in a slapping
of hands by the deaf i learned from my youth
in a country i was last felt welcome in.

but please! go on! do... your... ****-most with!
keeping your most similar least involved!
to hell with you!
to hell with you!
i can't sacrifice imploring...
your already disguised hyper-tensioned
phrase for keeping up with
demands for tourism:
your nay bother... you ******* deaf-counter-quip
of a ******* fidget of a forgotten use
of a whip!

strap them to an island,
arm them with a gimp's shame...
yet still they persist in their...
monolingual plebiscite!
the afghan peoples of the ancient world...
no wonder! "afghans"...
that they are.. stubborn
integral follow up to how the french
also didn't.

somebody set it on fire
somebody ripped the match

trio of wedges
Irn Bru orange

speckled with cherry
on a canvas of night

I am calling
from the flag square

near the building
constructed from crystals

this could be London
migraine of chalky lights

a revolving iris
far out across the bay

I’ll be home soon love
I know it’s strange

that work has dragged me
to this unpronounceable land

sweating skeleton
spilt milk network of streets

upside-down e’s
c’s with çurls of cable

and I hear the muffled diction
of EastEnders through the phone

can picture you
in strawberry-lace-

shade-slipper-socks
glass half-swollen with wine

the space on the sofa
where I should be