Stop whining life's ironing you flat,
we're all getting pressed and
all getting that
it's what life tends to do to you,
ironing
flattening,fattening you up for the **** and
there's no flipping thrills to be found in that.
Ironing
ironing
ironing you flat.

but

creased, I could be unleashed to become so much than more,
something with life to show, like some thing I wore with patches and scratches and marks,
Marks I adore.

Creased,
the teasing and pleasing,the
easing into the wrinkles.

'Twinkle, twinkle little star' ironed flat I'm far away from life and life can't get into my day.

Say what?
the iron's hot and bound to burn, each ironing spends a little more of uncreased out minutes and so I turn again,creased,thrown to the floor among the garbage,out the door where people stop and stare at me, the unclean,
unironed,
anomaly.

No lines,
no lines it's times like this I want to kiss the day and say,
look at me
look at me, creased to buggery and I don't care
I don't want to wear a life that's ironed flat,
don't care that you think that it's wrong,
I will wear my creases and be strong ,while you're all folded up and folded always last so long.
I'll be free and you'll be in a drawer with socks and skirts and shirts and ladies underthings,
which upon a second thought brings me to the thought that,
that might not be so bad.

Victor D. López (October 11, 2018)

You were born five years before the beginning of the Spanish civil war and
Lived in a modest two-story home in the lower street of Fontan, facing the ocean that
Gifted you its wealth and beauty but also robbed you of your beloved and noblest eldest
Brother, Juan, who was killed while working as a fisherman out to sea at the tender age of 19.

You were a little girl much prone to crying. The neighbors would make you cry just by saying,
"Chora, neniña, chora" [Cry little girl, cry] which instantly produced inconsolable wailing.
At the age of seven or eight you were blinded by an eye Infection. The village doctor
Saved your eyesight, but not before you missed a full year of school.

You never recovered from that lost time. Your impatience and the shame of feeling left behind prevented
You from making up for lost time. Your wounded pride, the shame of not knowing what your friends knew,
Your restlessness and your inability to hold your tongue when you were corrected by your teacher created
A perfect storm that inevitably tossed your diminutive boat towards the rocks.

When still a girl, you saw Franco with his escort leave his yacht in Fontan. With the innocence of a girl
Who would never learn to hold her tongue, you asked a neighbor who was also present, "Who is that Man?"
"The Generalissimo Francisco Franco," she answered and whispered “Say ‘Viva Franco’ when he Passes by.”
With the innocence of a little girl and the arrogance of an incorrigible old soul you screamed, pointing:

"That's the Generalissimo?" followed up loud laughter, "He looks like Tom Thumb!"
A member of his protective detail approached you, raising his machine gun with the apparent intention of
Hitting you with the stock. "Leave her alone!" Franco ordered. "She is just a child — the fault is not hers."
You told that story many times in my presence, always with a smile or laughing out loud.

I don't believe you ever appreciated the possible import of that "feat" of contempt for
Authority. Could that act of derision have played some small part in their later
Coming for your father and taking him prisoner, torturing him for months and eventually
Condemning him to be executed by firing squad in the Plaza de Maria Pita?

He escaped his fate with the help of a fascist officer who freed him as I’ve noted earlier.
Such was his reputation, the power of his ideas and the esteem even of friends who did not share his views.
Such was your innocence or your psychic blind spot that you never realized your possible contribution to
His destruction. Thank God you never connected the possible impact of your words on his downfall.

You adored your dad throughout your life with a passion of which he was most deserving.
He died shortly after the end of the Spanish Civil War. A mother with ten mouths to feed
Needed help. You stepped up in response to her silent, urgent need. At the age of
Eleven you left school for the last time and began working full time.

Children could not legally work in Franco’s Spain. Nevertheless, a cousin who owned a cannery
Took pity on your situation and allowed you to work full-time in his fish cannery factory in Sada.
You earned the same salary as the adult, predominantly women workers and worked better
Than most of them with a dexterity and rapidity that served you well your entire life.

In your free time before work you carried water from the communal fountain to neighbors for a few cents.
You also made trips carrying water on your head for home and with a pail in each hand. This continued after
You began work in Cheche’s cannery. You rose long before sunrise to get the water for
Home and for the local fishermen before they left on their daily fishing trips for their personal water pails.

All of the money you earned went to your mom with great pride that a girl could provide more than the salary of a
Grown woman--at the mere cost of her childhood and education. You also washed clothes for some
Neighbors for a few cents more, with diapers for newborns always free just for the pleasure of being
Allowed to see, hold spend some time with the babies you so dearly loved you whole life through.
When you were old enough to go to the Sunday cinema and dances, you continued the
Same routine and added washing and ironed the Sunday clothes for the young fishermen
Who wanted to look their best for the weekly dances. The money from that third job was your own
To pay for weekly hairdos, the cinema and dance hall entry fee. The rest still went to your mom.

At 16 you wanted to go to emigrate to Buenos Aires to live with an aunt.
Your mom agreed to let you--provided you took your younger sister, Remedios, with you.
You reluctantly agreed. You found you also could not legally work in Buenos Aires as a minor.
So you convincingly lied about your age and got a job as a nurse’s aide at a clinic soon after your arrival.

You washed bedpans, made beds, scrubbed floors and did other similar assigned tasks
To earn enough money to pay the passage for your mom and two youngest brothers,
Sito (José) and Paco (Francisco). Later you got a job as a maid at a hotel in the resort town of
Mar del Plata whose owners loved your passion for taking care of their infant children.

You served as a maid and unpaid babysitter. Between your modest salary and
Tips as a maid you soon earned the rest of the funds needed for your mom’s and brothers’
Passage from Spain. You returned to Buenos Aires and found two rooms you could afford in an
Excellent neighborhood at an old boarding house near the Spanish Consulate in the center of the city.

Afterwards you got a job at a Ponds laboratory as a machine operator of packaging
Machines for Ponds’ beauty products. You made good money and helped to support your
Mom and brothers  while she continued working as hard as she always had in Spain,
No longer selling fish but cleaning a funeral home and washing clothing by hand.

When your brothers were old enough to work, they joined you in supporting your
Mom and getting her to retire from working outside the home.
You lived with your mom in the same home until you married dad years later,
And never lost the bad habit of stubbornly speaking your mind no matter the cost.

Your union tried to force you to register as a Peronista. Once burned twice cautious,
You refused, telling the syndicate you had not escaped one dictator to ally yourself with
Another. They threatened to fire you. When you would not yield, they threatened to
Repatriate you, your mom and brothers back to Spain.

I can’t print your reply here. They finally brought you to the general manager’s office
Demanding he fire you. You demanded a valid reason for their request.
The manager—doubtless at his own peril—refused, saying he had no better worker
Than you and that the union had no cause to demand your dismissal.

After several years of courtship, you and dad married. You had the world well in hand with
Well-paying jobs and strong savings that would allow you to live a very comfortable life.
You seemed incapable of having the children you so longed for. Three years of painful
Treatments allowed you to give me life and we lived three more years in a beautiful apartment.

I have memories from a very tender age and remember that apartment very well. But things changed
When you decided to go into businesses that soon became unsustainable in the runaway inflation and
Economic chaos of the Argentina of the early 1960’s. I remember only too well your extreme sacrifice
And dad’s during that time—A theme for another day, but not for today.

You were the hardest working person I’ve ever known. You were not afraid of any honest
Job no matter how challenging and your restlessness and competitive spirit always made you a
Stellar employee everywhere you worked no matter how hard or challenging the job.
Even at home you could not stand still unless there was someone with whom to chat awhile.

You were a truly great cook thanks in part to learning from the chef of the hotel where you had
Worked in Mar del Plata awhile—a fellow Spaniard of Basque descent who taught you many of his favorite
Dishes—Spanish and Italian specialties. You were always a terribly picky eater. But you
Loved to cook for family and friends—the more the merrier—and for special holidays.

Dad was also a terrific cook, but with a more limited repertoire. I learned to cook
With great joy from both of you at a young age. And, though neither my culinary skills nor
Any aspect of my life can match you or dad, I too am a decent cook and
Love to cook, especially for meals shared with loved ones.

You took great pleasure in introducing my friends to some of your favorite dishes such as
Cazuela de mariscos, paella marinera, caldo Gallego, stews, roasts, and your incomparable
Canelones, ñoquis, orejas, crepes, muñuelos, flan, and the rest of your long culinary repertoire.
In primary and middle school dad picked me up every day for lunch before going to work.

You and he worked the second shift and did not leave for work until around 2:00 p.m.
Many days, dad would bring a carload of classmates with me for lunch.
I remember as if it were yesterday the faces of my Jewish, Chinese, Japanese, German, Irish
And Italian friends when first introduced to octopus, Spanish tortilla, caldo Gallego, and flan.

The same was true during college and law school.  At times our home resembled an
U.N. General Assembly meeting—but always featuring food. You always treated my
Closest friends as if they were your children and a number of them to this day love
You as a second mother though they have not seen you for many years.

You had tremendous passion and affinity for being a mother (a great pity to have just one child).
It made you over-protective. You bought my clothes at an exclusive boutique. I became a
Living doll for someone denied such toys as a young girl. You would not let me out of your sight and
Kept me in a germ-free environment that eventually produced some negative health issues.

My pediatrician told you often “I want to see him with ***** finger nails and scraped knees.”
You dismissed the statement as a joke. You’d take me often to the park and to my
Favorite merry-go-round. But I had not one friend until I was seven or eight and then just one.
I did not have a real circle of friends until I was about 13 years old. Sad.

I was walking and talking up a storm in complete sentences when I was one year old.
You were concerned and took me to my pediatrician who laughed. He showed me a
Keychain and asked, “What is this Danny.” “Those are your car keys” I replied. After a longer
Evaluation he told my mom it was important to encourage and feed my curiosity.

According to you, I was unbearable (some things never change). I asked dad endless questions such as,
“Why is the sun hot? How far are the stars and what are they made of? Why
Can’t I see the reflection of a flashlight pointed at the sky at night? Why don’t airplanes
Have pontoons on top of the wheels so they can land on both water and land? Etc., etc., etc.

He would answer me patiently to the best of his ability and wait for the inevitable follow-ups.
I remember train and bus rides when very young sitting on his lap asking him a thousand Questions.
Unfortunately, when I asked you a question you could not answer, you more often than not made up an answer Rather than simply saying “I don’t know,” or “go ask dad” or even “go to hell you little monster!”

I drove you crazy. Whatever you were doing I wanted to learn to do, whether it was working on the
Sewing machine, knitting, cooking, ironing, or anything else that looked remotely interesting.
I can’t imagine your frustration. Yet you always found only joy in your little boy at all ages.
Such was your enormous love which surrounded me every day of my life and still does.

When you told me a story and I did not like the ending, such as with “Little Red Riding Hood,”
I demanded a better one and would cry interminably if I did not get it. Poor mom. What patience!
Reading or making up a story that little Danny did not approve of could be dangerous.
I remember one day in a movie theater watching the cartoons I loved (and still love).

Donald Duck came out from stage right eating a sandwich. Sitting between you and dad I asked you
For a sandwich. Rather than explaining that the sandwich was not real, that we’d go to dinner after the show
To eat my favorite steak sandwich (as usual), you simply told me that Donald Duck would soon bring me the sandwich. But when the scene changed, Donald Duck came back smacking his lips without the sandwich.

Then all hell broke loose. I wailed at the top of my lungs that Donald Duck had eaten my sandwich.
He had lied to me and not given me the promised sandwich. That was unbearable. There was
No way to console me or make me understand—too late—that Donald Duck was also hungry,
That it was his sandwich, not mine, or that what was on the screen was just a cartoon and not real.

He, Donald Duck, mi favorite Disney character (then and now) hade eaten this little boy’s Sandwich. Such a Betrayal by a loved one was inconceivable and unbearable. You and dad had to drag me out of the theater ranting And crying at the injustice at top volume. The tantrum (extremely rare for me then, less so now) went on for awhile, but all was well again when my beloved Aunt Nieves gave me a ******* with jam and told me Donald had sent it.

So much water under the bridge. Your own memories, like smoke in a soft breeze, have dissipated
Into insubstantial molecules like so many stars in the night sky that paint no coherent picture.
An entire life of vital conversations turned to the whispers of children in a violent tropical storm,
Insubstantial, imperceptible fragments—just a dream that interrupts an eternal nightmare.

That is your life today. Your memory was always prodigious. You knew the name of every person
You ever met, and those of their family members. You could recall entire conversations word for word.
Three years of schooling proved more than sufficient for you to go out into the world, carving your own
Path from the Inhospitable wilderness and learning to read and write at the age of 16.

You would have been a far better lawyer than I and a fiery litigator who would have fought injustice
Wherever you found it and always defended the rights of those who cannot defend themselves,
Especially children who were always your most fervent passion. You sacrificed everything for others,
Always put yourself dead-last, and never asked for anything in return.

You were an excellent dancer and could sing like an angel. Song was your release in times of joy and
In times of pain. You did not drink or smoke or over-indulge in anything. For much of your life your only minor Indulgence was a weekly trip to the beauty parlor—even in Spain where your washing and ironing income
Paid for that. You were never vain in any way, but your self-respect required you to try to look your best.

You loved people and unlike dad who was for the most part shy, you were quite happy in the all-to-infrequent
Role as the life of the party—singing, dressing up as Charlie Chaplin or a newborn for New Year’s Eve parties with Family and close friends. A natural story-teller until dementia robbed you of the ability to articulate your thoughts,
You’d entertain anyone who would listen with anecdotes, stories, jokes and lively conversation.

In short: you were an exceptional person with a large spirit, a mischievous streak, and an enormous heart.
I know I am not objective about you, but any of your surviving friends and family members who knew you
Well will attest to this and more in a nanosecond. You had an incredibly positive, indomitable attitude
That led you to rush in where angels fear to treat not out of foolishness but out of supreme confidence.

Life handed you cartloads of lemons—enough to pickle the most ardent optimist. And you made not just
Lemonade but lemon merengue pie, lemon sorbet, lemon drops, then ground up the rind for sweetest
Rice pudding, flan, fried dough and a dozen other delicacies. And when all the lemons were gone, you sowed the Seeds from which extraordinarily beautiful lemon trees grew with fruit sweeter than grapes, plums, or cherries.

I’ve always said with great pride that you were a far better writer than I. How many excellent novels,
Plays, and poems could you have written with half of my education and three times my workload?
There is no justice in this world. Why does God give bread to those without teeth? Your
Prodigious memory no longer allows you to recognize me. I was the last person you forgot.

But even now when you cannot have a conversation in any language, Sometimes your eyes sparkle, and
You call me “neniño” (my little boy in Galician) and I know that for an instant you are no longer alone.
But too son the light fades and the darkness returns. I can only see you a few hours one day a week.
My life circumstances do not leave me another option. The visits are bitter sweet but I’m grateful for them.

Someday I won’t even have that opportunity to spend a few hours with you. You’ll have no
Monument to mark your passing save in my memory so long as reason remains. An entire
Life of incalculable sacrifice will leave behind only the poorest living legacy of love
In your son who lacks appropriate words to adequately honor your memory, and always will.


*          *          *

The day has come, too son. October 11, 2018. The call came at 3:30 am.
An hour or two after I had fallen asleep. They tried CPR in vain. There will be no more
Opportunities to say, “I Love you,” to caress your hands and face, to softly sing in your ear,
To put cream on your hands, or to hope that this week you might remember me.

No more time to tell you the accomplishments of loved ones, who I saw, what they told me,
Who asked about you this week, or to pray with you, or to ask if you would give me a kiss by putting my
Cheek close to your lips, to feel joy when you graced me with many little kisses in response,
Or tell you “Maybe next time” when as more often than not the case for months you did not respond.

In saying good bye I’d give you the kiss and hug Alice always sent you,
Followed by three more kisses on the forehead from dad (he always gave you three) and one from me.
I’d leave the TV on to a channel with people and no sound and when possible
Wait for you to close your eyes before leaving.

Time has run out. No further extensions are possible. My prayers change from asking God to protect
You and by His Grace allow you to heal a little bit each day to praying that God protect your
Soul and dad’s and that He allow you to rest in peace in His kingdom. I miss you and Dad very much
And will do so as long as God grants me the gift of reason. I never knew what it is to be alone. I do now.

Four years seeing your blinding light reduced to a weak flickering candle in total darkness.
Four years fearing that you might be aware of your situation.
Four years praying that you would not feel pain, sadness or loneliness.
Four years learning to say goodbye. The rest of my life now waiting in the hope of seeing you again.

I love you mom, with all my heart, always and forever.

.you can never really write any poetry by not covering the "heartbreak" the loss of your own "printed" words: how much different is the internet, from "real" life? just asking... since: internet banking & internet shopping... to lose a poem / pre-scriptum is not exactly the same as losing a person to mind: father's day... i cooked the dinner, i took out the trash, i wrote an invoice... i guess that's much better than leaving a card of greetings... and, come to think of it? why are we the sort of people subjugated to nostalgia, with but also "without" a history? aren't we subjugated to nostalgia and a history as a "fiction"? the beginning of the 21st century, the end of the 20th century... the 19th century germans associated themselves with a nostalgia for ancient greece, we're the only people who have an inbuilt nostalgia "safety-mechanism"... the only people in time who are nostalgic about the life surrounding their own existence slot, which doesn't have a trans-temporal dynamic... i remember times when we would be teenagers... spitting on people from car-parks on imaginary tonsures, buying *****-magazines from indian cornershops, or belgian freebies of non-insinuations, white lightning cider while sleeping over at youth centers playing snooker throughout the night... even at school: attending a catholic school with the irish east enders... uniforms, sure... a chequered shirt: blue, red, white... tag? made in canada... and if only capitalism worked as it once did, made in canada? lifetime of a shirt? 20 years... now? made in china... not exactly real cotton, is it? 2 years... before ironing the shirt *****... once upon in gants hill, st. valentine's park, and the pub, recently closed, decent karaoke... in the park? golf, basketball, rowing boats in the large ponds... when the jews were there... gants hill roundabout... the hanukkah torches... jews scuttling wearing trainers come rosh hashanah: jews can't wear leather on rosh hashanah (judgement day)... shy like rats... when the jews were there (gants hill, ilford)... the park looked great... tennis courts... now, when neo-Bangladesh moved in? ****** place. what else do i remember from my original pre-scriptum that i lost? oh, that once time in gants hill... walking into a kosher bakery with ****** knuckles, having tested them on a canvas of a brick wall, buying some dough-fused-sweets? with the girl selling the sweets bewildered by fear? i like the look of fear in people when tested by uncertainty, and bleeding knuckles? later? climbing over the park fence, taking a **** while squatting in the darkened palace of the park, walking into a brothel, having my wallet stolen, not reacting in what would have been justified... high school... we wore uniforms... so no high school h'american culture trap / culture... school uniforms are the best idea, there's no chance to "shine" in telling apart the rich kids from the poor kids... there's only the standard... walking to a supermarket, past a thai surprise... sports bra, short hair... walking back... she's still there pretending to talk on her mobile to someone... you take her home with a few beers... play her some jazz... take her into the garden, the moon is a beauty... you **** her... hand in her underwear and you're still gambling... before the emergence of the nag hammadi library and the whole androgynous vogue, the thai were already readied with the lady-boys... when i reached in and found nothing but oyster... would i have stopped finding a wink-wink slouching worm? slap a trans in the face? no, not really... a thai surprise is, a thai surprise... i would have considered doing my first ****... "lucky" for me she was a she... a girl... ****** her in the garden under the moonlight... gave her my hoodie, which she drowned in... finally... the level of interaction where the female is not a mantis, i.e. a female larger than the male... she drowned into my hoodie as i walked her home... i like the familiarity with the mammalian, not resorting to insect superiority of females... these days... i find that males are strictly mammalian... while females? they are borrowing insect-esque ontologies... well, darwinism allowed the time-frame... males are mammals... females are insects, behaviour-wise... two time frame i do not appreciate the english for... darwinism is prime.... cultural-marxism my ***... what about cultural-darwinism?! no?! that doesn't exist?! cultural-darwinism is as real as cultural-marxism, and, in the former sense? it really does belong to the conservative right-wing politico spectrum! might i add? isn't psychology merely pop philosophy? i find psychology riddled with rubric cohesion, it's all oh so "self"-evident! i abhor psychologists... these gypsy philosophers... medicine-men with no pharmacological shadow of power... to prescribe drugs... arguments, persuasions, but no dialectics... psychology will forever be, for me, a philosophy primer, short-cut... pop philosophy... psychologists can treat people who have never read a philosophy book... r. d. laing... i remember this one instace... me and a fwend of mine travelled into central london, went into a bookshop shy of trafalgar sq., i spotted an edition of: the scarlet and the black by stendhal... i told him: i will trade you linkin park's debut album, if you buy me this... the transaction was made... the one book i read after seeing a film adaptation starring rachel (rakhel) weisz and ewan mcgregor... ra-kh-el: not ray-chel... we used to be humans once... at high school getting bullied back... putting pins on chairs once we got up, sitting on them... playing bulldog in primary school, slap-ball, tag, playing cards at lunchtime... 16 fatty boy... one summer in poland, comes back aged 17... the irish girls take an interest while eating a pomegranate... what was the success of your diet? don't go to the gym... excess skin, an aesthetic surgeon is not what you need... there are only two ways to lose weight... either via swimming or by cycling... cycling is the best... lose weight by also toning your body... gym is a bad idea... by going to the gym you are straining exclusive parts of your body, either the torso, your hands, etc., jogging? unless on soft ground, bad idea on concrete, arthritis... cycling or swimming... lose weight... tone at the same time, the skin is allowed the required time to adapt to shrink, and forget what propped it up in plump form with all that excess flab... ugh... i hated being attractive to the opposite ***, i never used it to my advantage! imagine... an irish lad comes up to me, on behalf of some girl while i'm donning a french braid: you look just like johnny depp in blow, impersonating george jung... 14 year old girls walk up to you asking what shampoo you're using... herbal essences... i never used my looks... *******... now i'm a heavy drinker... so much for looks... first girlfriend? a fwend had to call me telling me she called him that she felt butterflies when i dropped her at the train platform after a day's worth of dating: tate modern, edward hopper exhibitions, cinema: troy, starring rose byrne (briseis) - honestly, a man can go crazy over curly hair... and then a restaurant date... that **** just flew over my head... i wouldn't have noticed... honestly though... i missed the whole h'american cultural excavation genesis in high school... catholic... uniforms... jesuit army-esque formation... now, i'm ageing... i'm starting to find the company of cats to be: clingy... my shadow included... i once thought that dogs were needy... i'm starting to think that cats are worse, esp. the maine **** breed... "lonely" or "loneliness" doesn't really resonate with me, esp. when thinking something "feels" like a variation of claustrophobia: hence i write... without a dialectic in place, ever since plato wrote his dialogues... what is philosophy, primarily? isn't it an off-shoot of "claustrophobia"? we write because we are seeking escape from congested thinking, a variation of "claustrophobia"... now imagine a schizoid character... having to focus on an imaginary dialectic, actually... having dialectics enforced on him, with no clarifying exodus to posit a gensis with! now, a clingy dog i could understand, given the overpowering status of the leash... but a clingy cat, when there's no leash involved?! shoom! right over my head... gone, somewhere into the distance!

what, this is the part...
were i cite...
   the weimar ******
critical condition...
       a daft punk troop
of a song,
  end of line....
blow-up a hot air balloon...
worth of blaire whire...
play the tambourine
like a ******* video...
there are,
quiet, simply,
no nazis coming...
fashionista faux pas
examples...
i'm alive,
but i'm dead,
i just forget to don
a strap-on...
  "oops"?
   that **** go down well
with
the "in"-crowd...
usual... metropolitan...
verbiage surge of answers....
   many a fetish after...
we arrive at the sensible
aspect,
"toxic masculinity"...
when guns n roses wasn't,
and nirvana was just plain
gay...
              and then...
whatever that happened,
happened..
                 and people were like:
come to the "new" tomorrow,
there's always a yesterday,
in a dream,
in some phil collins
wannabe
studio...
or... some other random ****
that
excluded peter gabriel.

                 i died:
and just about right:
my harvest had come.

great book reviews...
"toxic masculinity"...
so all masculinity is
about a clockwork orange?
   if it is?
can i be pro abortion
anti mongolian horde?
yes? no?
  which is it?!
neither...
   **** me... that's just bad
luck...

                               sundbeds,
sunflowers,
tulips,
sunglasses,
    plenty of staged
eager nights...
boring political affairs...
and...
         when gaming was
more about the narrative...
and never,
ever, about the microtransactions...

point being...
it's a game within a game...
time, is the prime concern...
you play a game,
by waiting...
you wait: by playing a game...

  microtransactions
are...
you ever move a sim3 avatar
to a computer,
and make it play a computer game?
what's on the macrocosmos spectrum?
you....

               "back in the day"...
you'd spend a saturday morning
engrossed in a gaming narrative...
metal gear solid,
tenchu, final fantasy solid...
20 quid...
and you played the narrative...
and a game became equivalent
to the worth of a book,
resident evil,

            you paid for a month's worth
of gaming,
you exchanged tips,
you sometimes bought a cheat book
because of the homework,
and that was your saturday morning
before hitting the shopping mall
or, whatever...

the current dynamic of
microtransactions in gaming?
i never, ever, do...
i'm an old gamer type...
i see the potential of extending
the life-expectancy
of a game...

   as long as you don't buy into
the microtransactions gambling habit?
as long as you play the "game"
within the game?
the game is an assured classic,
akin to chess...

              you have to play
the waiting "game"...
             time...
                           that's all it is...
whether war robots,
    or dawn of titans...
        comparison...
  you know that the best fruit,
is fruit, allocated
to the geography of it being sourced
seasonally...
you can't actually get better
strawberries,
than english strawberries...
from england, come june / july...
no ******* point sourcing them
from spain in late march / april....

    same thing with gaming...
the modern games haven't made any
elaboration...
apart from dislodging the player
from the concept of narrative...
**** me... that's almost an improvement...
given that now: time is the counter
measure, and the gamer...
   is having to invest,
in a narrative, outside of the confines
of the game,
once upon a time,
games had time-narrative
constraints...
     now: there's time,
and there are gamer narratives,
excluding them from time-narratives,
of a game...
         it's almost a faux pas...
more like a wet-*****...
****** pinky lodged into an ear,
an april fools' day scant...

        if you hacked passed
the microtransactions hype...
and didn't?
and instead took to patience?
it's free...
   where once,
a game would cost you 20 quid,
and a month's worth
of narrative,
back then, when games
resembled books,
when the gaming industry
was heavily influenced
by literature...
and now?
   the game's free...
sure...
it's "unfair", it's biased...
when you don't engage
in imported gambling
of succumbing to what, this is the part...
were i cite...
   the weimar ******
critical condition...
       a daft punk troop
of a song,
  end of line....
blow-up a hot air balloon...
worth of blaire whire...
play the tambourine
like a ******* video...
there are,
quiet, simply,
no nazis coming...
fashionista faux pas
examples...
i'm alive,
but i'm dead,
i just forget to don
a strap-on...
  "oops"?
   that **** go down well
with
the "in"-crowd...
usual... metropolitan...
verbiage surge of answers....
   many a fetish after...
we arrive at the sensible
aspect,
"toxic masculinity"...
when guns n roses wasn't,
and nirvana was just plain
gay...
              and then...
whatever that happened,
happened..
                 and people were like:
come to the "new" tomorrow,
there's always a yesterday,
in a dream,
in some phil collins
wannabe
studio...
or... some other random ****
that
excluded peter gabriel.

                 i died:
and just about right:
my harvest had come.

great book reviews...
"toxic masculinity"...
so all masculinity is
about a clockwork orange?
   if it is?
can i be pro abortion
anti mongolian horde?
yes? no?
  which is it?!
neither...
   **** me... that's just bad
luck...

                               sundbeds,
sunflowers,
tulips,
sunglasses,
    plenty of staged
eager nights...
boring political affairs...
and...
         when gaming was
more about the narrative...
and never,
ever, about the microtransactions...

point being...
it's a game within a game...
time, is the prime concern...
you play a game,
by waiting...
you wait: by playing a game...

  microtransactions
are...
you ever move a sim3 avatar
to a computer,
and make it play a computer game?
what's on the macrocosmos spectrum?
you....

               "back in the day"...
you'd spend a saturday morning
engrossed in a gaming narrative...
metal gear solid,
tenchu, final fantasy solid...
20 quid...
and you played the narrative...
and a game became equivalent
to the worth of a book,
resident evil,

            you paid for a month's worth
of gaming,
you exchanged tips,
you sometimes bought a cheat book
because of the homework,
and that was your saturday morning
before hitting the shopping mall
or, whatever...

the current dynamic of
microtransactions in gaming?
i never, ever, do...
i'm an old gamer type...
i see the potential of extending
the life-expectancy
of a game...

   as long as you don't buy into
the microtransactions gambling habit?
as long as you play the "game"
within the game?
the game is an assured classic,
akin to chess...

              you have to play
the waiting "game"...
             time...
                           that's all it is...
whether war robots,
    or dawn of titans...
        comparison...
  you know that the best fruit,
is fruit, allocated
to the geography of it being sourced
seasonally...
you can't actually get better
strawberries,
than english strawberries...
from england, come june / july...
no ******* point sourcing them
from spain in late march / april....

    same thing with gaming...
the modern games haven't made any
elaboration...
apart from dislodging the player
from the concept of narrative...
**** me... that's almost an improvement...
given that now: time is the counter
measure, and the gamer...
   is having to invest,
in a narrative, outside of the confines
of the game,
once upon a time,
games had time-narrative
constraints...
     now: there's time,
and there are gamer narratives,
excluding them from time-narratives,
of a game...
         it's almost a faux pas...
more like a wet-*****...
****** pinky lodged into an ear,
an april fools' day scant...

        if you hacked passed
the microtransactions...
       and didn't have the chance...
microtransactions are like
the old school cheat hacks...
but not quiet, but somehow quasi-,
       a modern microtransactions,
would be a cheat magazine
thorough-through
a game like final fantasy VII...
you have homework,
but you still want to complete the game...
modern games...
modern games...
there's an "end gole"?
  what modern game is worth
"completing"?
    
   again: tron, ready player one,
back to the future...
star wars just became dead
to me...
   sick people will plague hard-working
people, with a quasi-gambling
addiction,
needing to make microtransactions...
and they will,
my father was plagued by
an impostor, claiming to be a
tax office official:
and what if, that person had
an authentic position at the tax office?!

when gaming was for gamers,
the games were bought...
there was a narrative...
but now... now games don't have a narrative...
why would they?!
   who the hell plays games for
the narrative these days?
i know that on the crapper,
i need a game that allows me
to experience live-stream
interaction with non-bots...

       and these old gamers,
who still invest their money
in literature-esque-games?
so i was the sad one,
investing in vinyl?
   aren't the classic ******* gamers
just as bad,
investing in prepackaged
narrative gaming
experiences?
             a game with a narrative...
yeah... me buying vinyl
is: b'ah b'ah bad...
       what sort of game is alive and well...
when there isn't a crowd pushback
for the currency of microtransaction?

the narrative is time,
   the longer you endure the inadequacy...
the more you realise:
you're basically playing
the same game,
but in your scenario:
it's free...
   in some other ******'s scenario:
it cost him 70 hundred quid...

personally?
   i love this microtransaction dynamic...
concerning the people who
do not engage with it...
it's the perfect antithesis
   of what ruined the music industry
with genesis: napster...

you really are, playing the ultimate
game,
time...
         the one sort of commodity
that games,
without a clear narrative construct,
"forgot" to mention in terms
of them being exploited...
to their full capacity
of the one "commodity"
they "forgot", or rather,
couldn't "sell"...

              a tenchu PS1 game could
have lasted me a month...
now? a free game,
like war robots...
with absolutely no NPC?
hell... i'll be 90 and still be playing it;

what else? applause!

i don't really know why the dub-step genre died so early
on, i mean: there were some truly authentic,
atmospheric artists residing in London,
Burial from south London for starters,
Benga - but **** on me, nothing ever came close to
DISTANCE, songs like: night vision, my demons...
the double album Repercussions -
     but the genre died a premature death... i guess all
that ******* regarding "the drop" before all hell broke
loose...

i must say, you tell me to move a tonne of brick:
i'll gladly do it, hell, it means that i don't have to do
100 push ups...
of course i'd rather ******* and do some cycling,
it's a passion, i never cycle for vanity,
i cycle for the thrill of traffic, i love to loiter behind
large vehicles moving to the right of them
so i don't find myself lost in the blind-spot...
right in the middle of the road...
large vehicles, esp. at roundabouts...
   momentum buffers...
always: the nearer i am to death the more of life
i draw... and perhaps it has always been like this:
while men feed off adrenaline,
women feed off anxiety...
how many times did i grunt beneath my breath
when approaching a roundabout and there'd be
a nervy driven afraid to join the traffic:
move *******! move! go!

- you will sooner find my dead than at a gym...
i'm still thinking about going swimming...
then again... the Thames at Cold-Harbour looks
very enticing... the Thames... a river that doesn't flow...
just sits there, like some weird *** elongated lake...
perhaps even a Loch... must be the tide in tide out...
yet... i always wondered...
what the hell happens when the river enters
the sea... is that some sort of inter-aqua osmosis
buffering dynamic or something?

gym bruh vanity projects my ***...
yeah, had this one "friend" who decided to loose some weight...
went to the gym... lifting weights?
when you want to lose weight?
bad idea... a very bad idea...
why? excess skin leftovers... you want to lose
weight: ******* for a swim or get on yer *******
bicycle... do the cardiovascular...
it's all relative: you're engaging your entire body
rather than parts of your body...
gym ******* comes after... for toning...
it's like art... first you paint the canvas:
the cardiovascular stuff... then if you're going
to have a couple having a picnic on the canvas:
that's when you go to the gym... or like me...
you do push ups... move bricks around or...
whatever...

if you're fat and hit the gym? expect to later have
problem with excess skin, like some ****** tattoo
of an ex-girlfriend's name on your buttocks...
and... time, patience... time, patience...
cycling or swimming... nothing else beats it...
- ha, the current climate of cycling while standing still...
Mr. Big's death on his peloton: peddle! peddle!
but don't go anywhere! ha ha...
i'd rather watch paint dry or buy myself a hamster
and a hamster-wheel in all fairness...

alpha-male ****-boys...
                                    hey, i'm not going to brag:
get it while it's cheap, but to hell with dating...
i dated once, but i was already ******* her...
went for oysters... and scallops... she was so desperate in
her hypergamy to stand above her fellow peers /
student flat cohabitants that she ***** herself into
my flat... bypass all the *******... there's only one thing
i feel like eating most of the time...
a fat juicy ****...

- but there really an art concerning the ironing of shirts...
i don't know why i didn't realise this prior...
it almost feels counter intuitive but i managed to get more
done than expected...
rubric:
1. collar
2. the yoke of the shirt
3. the sleeves
4. the cuffs
5. the lower front
6. the upper front
7. the entire body back

   i hate ironing shirts... but finding out this hierarchy
of what's to be done first... it has become
almost as pleasurable as shining my shoes...
arbeit macht frei: *******...
weird, isn't it, how that motto has changed in recent
times under my supervision...

- i only noticed... wait, what was i writing about?
well it's easy to get 100K+ views on a video,
people can ingest a video passively...
   i'm looking at 42K+ for one poem, given that i am
an alcoholic but also a workaholic:
maybe that's why i don't dream...
i just sleep... i fall asleep and "dream" of
a great amass of nothing, i wake up:
oh, look... a bunch of sparrows...
a pair of robins... perhaps it's different on the content
but if you've lived long enough in England...
it's eerie... watching crows fly past in pairs...
Huginn & Muninn... plus... it's not like you
get to see crows courting each other like pigeons
might... watch some ******* is a bit like
watching some pigeons try to get it on...
99% of the time the male fails...
do crows mate in the night, away from prying eyes?
they must do, they're very priestly in their daily affairs...
they not exactly prostituting themselves for
the eyes of man to peer at...
but i can understand videos getting so much views...
i watch videos passively,
i'm usually drinking or smoking
perched on a windowsill with my cat i've started
to nickname Rousseau... he has more nicknames than
is necessary... oh, sure... if i'm about to leave the house
and he's in the garden: QUORUS! the 10kg maine ****
starts dribbling his shadow home...
he sniffs my head... we head-****...
eh... i suppose having a child might have been
a fulfilling escape route: a completion...
but then again i had no siblings:
i was raised alongside an Alsatian and a Dobbermann...
i sometimes talk to my shadow:
what's happening in the underworld?
mein kleine: kleine betreffen...

           speaking English wasn't going to be enough:
it still isn't... i use it casually... i use it proficiently...
but i'm not satisfied with using it...
i need some etymological rooting... i need to go elsewhere...
English culminated itself into existence
from a range of sources... German, French... the Norse
Brigade... i'll go down the Germanic rabbit hole...
why wouldn't i have a fetish for some Deutsche?
oh ******* with the Russian... Cyrillic was always the ugly
sort of Greek... the alphabet looks cheap...
if the Russians are going to use the Latin A...
but invent some ****** version of D... to counter delta...
no... of course i can read it: but i don't want to...
yet...
         even at work, some coworkers tell me of the time they
spent in the USA... why isn't it called the FSA?
the federal states of america?
it's not like California has the same laws as Texas...
united, by... what? flag alone? support for the Olympic team?
i'm going to start calling it the FSA...
even though: it would clearly make the Bruce Springsteen
song sound less pop... born... in the eF! eS! A!

- am i somehow emotionally stunted for not having
children?
i've come across the people will children...
the plums of their eye... whatever the metaphor is...
very trust-worthy... when you bring children into
the world you showcasing a level of trust goes up...
it's almost an unacknowledged bias...
then again: this is England...
you have two factors to consider...
the over elevated concern for common knowledge /
common sense...
but there is that undercurrent... of common courtesy...
two-faced *******: but polite regardless...
i like the Thespian overtones in English society...
at least there's that fake middle-ground anyone
can grasp...

cats are not children... but if you can get a cat to
greet you with a head-****...
you're onto something...
           i don't think i could **** up a cat...
but i could most certainly create a Frankenstein's monster
from a child... that would be disappointing...
i sometimes across children: most of the time they
look mesmerised: by my posturing...
sure... the next generation is coming...
but i wouldn't want to put my gene-extension through
the washing-machine whirlpool of leftoid *******:
to begin with... trans-gender issue blah blah...
i'll go as far as to say... born on the Eve of Chernobyl...
my offspring might grow a third arm or something...
i know that i was born is a mark of Cain on my right
shoulder at the back...
some tissue was removed... intelligent body...
now i have excess muscle growth on collar blade arch...

to be a father, would seem like fun: it's all fun...
until you arrive at the point where the child realised
they have full: individual autonomy...
the happy to go to parents... i want to see them
as tired old people in about... oh... i'd say 10 years...
i'm patient....
not that i'm writing this nefariously...
but reality usually bites back...
what's reality going to bite me back with?
i can't go mad twice... you usually go mad once...
lucky for me that it happened in my youth, when i was 21...
now i can just sit back... watch a little:
ignore most of it...
i'm not even going to mind stating a: 'i told you so...':
shh... it's a big surprise... i don't want people missing
the great surprise...

on the market? women with three children
from three different fathers...
right... and me going to a brothel is a b'ah... bad "thing"?
even among my coworkers i tend to stick around
the women... football hooligans and their ideas
that just by being women: they can calm a crowd of rowdy
teenagers down with the words:
i'm your mother, your sister, your grandma all in one...
because i'm a steward... listen... love...
just let someone who's 6ft2 and 100kg in mass come in
and you... ******* somewhere... watch the moon
or something...

i couldn't be a surgeon if i didn't have a steady hand...
but when **** hits the fan... i already brought it up...
we're not here for an easy, wage...
we're ultimately here to prevent another Hillsborough tragrdy,
no?
that message didn't even recoil with a positive affirmation...
i stand around these female coworkers and they
might want me to feel intimidated...
someone, very much elsewhere might be reading me...
i might add... you know i felt less intimidated walking
into a brothel and waiting to choose among
7 different prostitutes who i was going
to bang for an hour? so what's this?
a ******* raspberry doughnut and a hot coffee scenario?!

am i bragging? i don't know... i tend to attract a lot
of ****** males and females just feel "hugged" around me...
i'm still thinking about Gemma...
yeah, i know that i mentioned that she was
on the defensive: she was on the defensive...
but then my parents are going on holiday for two weeks
and i'll have the whole house to myself...
last time that happened i brought back a Thai surprise
that i picked up from a park bench...
i played her some jazz on vinyl and ended up
******* her in the garden...
she gave me some memorandum items... rings... what not...
she disappeared into her size when i
put on one of my jackets on her...
******* Thai surprise became a Thai ******,
hobbit no less... walked her home... blah blah...

i need to bang Gemma... if i don't bang Gemma in
the next few months i'm done for... she's a 39 year old
single mother with an ex that brought her into 8K+ into debt...
she had a kid with him, the kid doesn't want to know his
father... i want to **** her as much as i want to teach the kid
to play the guitar... appreciate Ezra Pound...

of course i'm a loser by all modern, cosmopolitan standards
of dating... i live with my parents...
not exactly an Ed Gein scenario...
but... i do the gardening, i do the housechores,
i do the cooking, i even iron shirts... i hate ironing shirts...
but as i already mentioned...
i found an extra left hand in how to best get it over and done with...

i pay rent, i pay for food... otherwise, who would i live with?
flat share with some fellow milenials?
someone needs to inform the 60+ crowd about being
hip throughout... obviously they're not going
to listen to the music i listen to...
no: MATTA: chaos reigns... but... hey...

i love the idea of not telling my backstory...
i already know so many...
no one has yet managed to cough up the courage
to ask me anything personal at work...
would i tell them?
yeah...                once you've been in the presence
of 7 prostitutes all lined up showing off...
what's 3 female coworkers to you?!
a Victoria sponge cake, by my estimates...
something tame, something that would gladly welcome
being caged...

i like to wander the streets at night, sometimes
i come across a fox, sometimes a harem of deer without
a stag... sometimes i wander into a forest and start hitting
a tree with a branch imploring:
let me in! let me in!

chaos, regiert! die nacht regeln!

once more! einmal mehr!
English is not enough, tourists speak English...
Wankees speak this filth of a zunge!
follow the flow of history,
from the word up! anfangen!
hier! uns! jetzt! schnell!

                    vieh für ein art auf ein menschen...
das beste gehalten im linie...
  schäfer-von-menschen...
         alt.: hirte-auf-männer...
              
English has become... undermined... calmly said:
"plagiarised": that's somewhat elevated...
useless when it comes to its own affairs...
a lingua of / for visitors...
beside the accents... what is there for the origins: folk?
if Heidegger thought he was lucly writing at the time
of the National Socialist Insurgence...
where, the ****, am i?

   perhaps i speak a barbarian tongue from my...
mother's side, and my father to tow...
purity... what's that word in Deutsche?
   REINHEIT!
EINIG! GEHEN! SCHNELL!

******* linguistic  "mongol" mongrels!
ich reflekiert.... for a while..
the ungleichheit: the disparity...i almost joked...
i scribbled something in my notepad... seeing a commercial...
you know how English is spoken
is very much different to how English is written...
French: Fwench is even worse...
well then..
this one adcert stoood out...
it wasn't exactly special...
  
Licorice Pizza... that's what it red: read: reed..
right... so... first hurdle:
not thirst hurdle(s)...
ZZ? stop... you don't have the capacity to speak this...
just say **** over and over again:
Hugo Boss attired them blah blah...

liquid rice...  blacks for vinyl...
lick-or-ish...
     lick-a-Rysh?!
or an EE combat vest?!
you write one way, but speak another...
standard ******* from either the French
or the English... no phonetic clarity...
i'd better be suited learning some:
Hungarian, if i were to be terrible honest...
but now... i'm here.... this is now...
i'm enjoying the whiskey... *******... hello tomorrow.

We are heating up
A-glow--- A-star--- A-blaze
Many other well-lit planets
She's luminous like no other
Simply crazed__Fairytales

*She's Peach-Fruitti-Tutti
Godiva loves nuts
All the melt in's
*Mr. Bacio-Hazelnut*
Mr. Pistacchio he got his nose______
Inside their sweets____Pinnochio
She's the Light-up Icecream Cone  

Moods are like ice cubes
hot and cold websites
I prefer cold zone
Feeling like
Eskimo in Alaska

Miss Prima Donna
Oh! Donna is her name
Gelatos are not all the same
We are not here to have
special privileges

Robin lost some ruffles
Polar bears ice Igloo
College boys with their sports mug
Polo shirts Santa hoo duffle bags
We don't know what she knows
or what he likes the stars
of the Cosmo we are not
here to win someone's love
OH! Yes Lotto

We are not professors or wizards
Harry Potters, they have some
Pots not a fan of pans got
some ****
**** so cool menthol smoke indeed
Around the Gelato in eighty days
The Race of a drive
computer clicks one-day creation flag
Hens and chicks laid the golden egg

Mr. Egghead meeting Conehead

His tasters choice  
 She loves Mr. Maxwell Mansion
This is Italy the Art sculptures
Sweet Gelato lips say a
thousand words of pleasure
We travel with Exotic lovebirds
Saving the Ice blue diamond
Icecream wreck what a she
gains more than a pound
Mama Mia,
not the Chia job plant
 Over the rainbow
chill out pants
Having Gelato clean
as mint float

To the waffle cone top
of the mountain sugar coat
Niagara Falls here
"Gelato calls"

What spaghetti my name is
Carretti
Mr. Alfredo his physique and
passion for food
Feeling like the comics
Having fun marveling
Carvel walking through
the love tunnel
  
Hot ladies how do they ever
Decide iced up inside

Hothead Alfredo throws
the dough
She coughs he laughs
The pizza everyone's
the head is turning beet red
Something is burning exorcist,
Lady in red pizza list

Back in Brooklyn best
Pizza and Italy (Rome) Venice (Florence)
But Bensonhurst Saturday night fever
With Nightingale Mr. Chippendale
He's chatting away on his cell phone

With her Gelato looking at the
stars of the men spiritual experience
The Cosmos feeling meltdown presence
St Thomas sunny like yellow
gelato melting

Being a saint please don't faint
A food critic dessert
*** a hex playful flirt
T Rex mighty green lime
The love fallout of coconut
He's the hottest man
on earth Pluto
Being whole flavor or 1/2 pint
of Vanilla Sky scholar or
Intermission Icecream internship
The Canadian cup another trip

  Nike air what an ice cream pair
Going back to New York City
Rockettes icecream kick
He's on his time feeling the royalty
Lets bow to the dogs best friend
French barrette in her ice blue
Corvette, she is 'Ice Queen"
Super Ice me, Hero

Do what the Romans do
Lend me your warm soul of hands
Getting married Italian medieval rings
For my next Gelato adventure
escape be polite on Google
Mr. Alfredo loves all kinds of noodle
The shape of Cone's to come in her head

Not an Antman, please or fly by night
Icecream Cone Head Batman
*But I am a woman named Robin
Christopher Robin, Robin Hood
Why are boys and girls name alike
**** good humor lady
Good humor truck
Where is her order head chef
shrimp scampi
In the islands of Sorrento

What a time for ironing
What a waffle shirt eating
his waffle
Icecream with ladybugs and dirt
So many varieties mental thing
Everything icecream you scream
What a college Varsity every year  
"Hot lady Gelato's" head of the dean
list oh! No
[Mr. Alfredo} ice cream chair with
another Gelato pair
Chiao for now

Question for you, chicks and dudes,'
What is an ironing board to you?
Did you know they were surfboards,
Yes, they grew up, surf did bore,
Surfboards got a day job,
Being ironing boards is their lot,
Nonsense I do compose,
Only a joke in an ode!

She expressed again
what others have known..
the ironing chore found
quietly calming
bringing sometimes
bliss to a day..
What is behind this
smoothing of wrinkles
which serves such
wellbeing and peace..?
Perhaps we find here
in striking resemblance
an old story..
night becomes day
martha becomes mary
as our wrinkles
are pressed..
With thanks to Bette
her example and sevice
and for this new
ironingboard parable...!

Disquietude
Rustle my mind

Iron out the creases 
Left me with nothing
But perfect pleats
I can't bear to understand
And flat surfaces 
Lacking the wrinkles

Of chocolate
Of stories
Of moments

Maybe of passion
Maybe of clumse
Maybe of sadness

Then again
Doesn't no wrinkles
Tell the story of
A perfectly ironed shirt

A moment
A story

Maybe of passionate ironing
Maybe of clumsy ironing
Maybe of sad ironing

Who am I to judge this shirt-mind
Perhaps 
The ironing
Is chocolate
In and of itself.

this will make sense in the end, or at least along the way... a modern version of the Ruben's judgement of Paris, although if you watch the debate, the mediator already insinuates the "confusion": to my left or to my right, ha ha, left to right, right to left, 1st 3rd 2nd... that's putting it mildly, if i were Paris i'd have given the apple of knowing to Hera, queen of the goddesses... naomi wolf... beauty is in the eye of the beholder... and your phallus in the hand of... mhmm... softer than the flesh of an oyster at the end of the day... they did say once in times just after Pericles: make my inner as beautiful as my outer, and my outer as beautiful as my inner... then take art as not representing images: or the "shallow" arguments... any man would have given the apple to the intellectual Aphrodite (karen straughan)... we all know that antigone darling is Athena: who speaks so little you start to equate wisdom to be a distant synonym of needing courage to engage with a plebiscite crowd... oh don't give that prize to her: she'll probably tongue-tie herself and will never be able to speak into a microphone, the intellectual Aphrodite knows all too well the conundrum... it's the cougar attired in crimson that fuels the whole debate... she doesn't need to have inner beauty, you phallus is already shouting 'sir! yes sir!' at the drill sergeant anyways... you take Aphrodite as a paradoxical beauty, namely that of long conversations and not long interludes of ******* and baking cookies... you'll leave Aphrodite confused... i once heard an English motto: don't take for a wife a woman that's too attractive... that wasn't intended to be within the bias of intellect, i mean a beautiful woman within the bias of being able to manage a harem of 72 male virgins... well **** yeah, artists leave clues, whether knowing or unknowing... they're working from triangles, poets end up writing from Δ, they obscure textures and antonyms of what appears to be monochromatic, we say: red, crimson, burgundy in x-ray confines... the point being: there's no intellectual debate to be had with someone representative metaphorically or not of Hera... you can't have a Parisian fashion week catwalk where you find dehydrated beauty on the outside and an anorexic ego on the inside... what you find in Hera is a volume (voluptuousness) on the inside, within which there's a leech libido that transgresses all demands for intellect... unless it's pistons-well-oiled orientated... please, read some Marquis... if you get an ******* having read a few of his works: you're qualified - or as i like to call it: neo-classical *******... ever masturbated over Bronzino's Venus, Cupid, Folly and Time? well, if you haven't i guess **** ******* and gang-banging is your outlet: mine are pictures of Aria Giovanni and Chloe Vevraire (googlewhack no. 3!): Chloe Vevrier... but if you're never done the Odysseus pokes fun at Polyphemus... yep: the ghost hand: nobody!


you know, you can cram a lot into a 30 hour "day",
which results in the complete erosion
for the capacity to dream afterwards,
to actually work from the unconscious and create
a subconscious medium vector that connects
to points of consciousness: 30+ hours awake,
however many hours asleep, and then awake again
for another 30+ "day" to digest...
the classical definition of the subconscious, in theory,
is that you get plenty of sleep,
and it's a bit like that schematic A x B (algebraic)
A knows x     and B knows x...
   something mutual acknowledgment
via the same schematic but
A knows x, B knows x,
A knows that B knows x,
A knows that B knows that A knows x,
   which is all very Aristotelian to be frank,
it's this hyperlogic of having to acquire
great technological feats and reduce such
complexities to cat-videos on the internet as
the Egyptian partake in the genius that actually
made it possible... the slogan goes
Moses, you fool! said Nefertiti...
    so B knows x and knows that A knows x
and knows that A knows that B knows x
and B knows it's not necessarily anywhere
alphabetically less, even though the French said
a, b, c... which was very imperial of them,
that's the imperial version of what the mathematical
imperialism proved with the English inches, miles
and furlongs... but in this French case of imperialism
it wasn't a e i o u, b c d f g h j...
            that's what 30 hours awake does to you,
you wouldn't think of alcohol as a party drink,
a social barrier deconstruct... after 30 hours
you're hoping to meet Vladimir Klitschko on your
way to bed... aye pleasing Cossack, give us a
smacker goodnight... one glove it filled with
whiskey, the other with naproxen and amitriptyline...
boom! k.o. snooze, baby:
you gotta love buddhist honesty...
at least you get to see the bright side of life...
  and if people start thinking that Kant was the harbinger
of ill fate... you obviously haven't met a necromancer...
it was only von Kleist for ****'s sake!
       and he had the American option of a suicide
pact with a terminally ill woman and a bullet from
a pistol in a ditch... you can't get more romantic than that...
and there i was, mid-afternoon, having done a few of
the household chores: the washing, the ironing and
cooking a two-course meal while my mother did
the taxes (seems only mothers understand their sons
these days... women my age?
   ever see David Attenborough describe Emperor
penguins? money was invented for women,
because it brokered the end of the brotherhood of man,
we became famished by feminine needs
and have reduced inherent sports in us (hunting)
to sledgehammer bashing entertainment...
i'm the "drunk" that would rather watch ten hours
worth of ping-pong that tennis...
    i don't know why they resurrect the Olympics
every four years, have a **** coverage of it anyway
and then go back to that Glaswegian diet
of deep-fried pizza and haggis... and i hope to never know,
maybe Sepp Blatter knows...
but that's 30 hours of being awake, and only not
able to relax, by writing...
                 you wouldn't see this sort of "abuse" of
alcohol anywhere in the world...
the Soviet sleep experiment is actually not that silly...
too much sleep can also make you feel the minutes
upon your wake as if you've been stung by a bee...
three of my all time favourite songs?
the stone roses'* i wanna be adored,
    chromatics' cherry,
and finally: i can be forgiven for having missed this,
i got into them seriously with the album aufheben
and didn't really move anywhere else,
the dandy warhol effect got me...
but this song out of obscurity, 20th century technology
translated into mp3 and then onto c.d. and then
back into mp3... a song from an album that doesn't
even appear on their discography...
the brian jonestown massacre's pol ***'s pleasure penthouse,
the song in question? fingertips.
so there's that three...
      but **** on me, i half expected android (2015)
to be like ex_machina (whatever year that was)...
same topic... what the difference between android
cyborg and robot?
                                  aren't robots the proper a.i.?
as in: in production, the thing that's not hand-crafted
is artificially crafted, because it is crafted to a large yield
of a product? isn't that so? i can't distinguish (as of yet)
the difference between android and cyborg, i guess
as a Latin man (a - z user) i have to condescend the Grecian
pompousness of demeaning Hebrews (original anti-semitism
originated in Greece, not Rome, the Romans gave
the Jews not elaborate architectural schemes to abide by
in honour of Octavian, but the supposed pride in Greek
thought, undermined what later science would provide
a Latin man with, given the translation of יחֵוָחֵ,
indeed variables... i once wrote a piece about
the two Adams... namely how אָ (alef)
and עַ (ayin) are prominent letters among consonants,
but no vowel kindred of Eve is equal...
or how Eve is covered in both mainstream Islam
and orthodox Judaism... and Christianity is
a Rastafarian dream for more jerky reggae reggae...
they never sing down with Rome, judgement upon
Rome... they always sing about Babylon...
well, polytheistic or poly-schismatic,
it's all Hindu from hereon in - apart from that
here's a very tiny heresy... is that yod he vav he
or is it yod he vav het?
         there is a difference, afterall:
he (ה)        and het (חֵ) obviously differ... oh!
xet!                   god this garden is a mess,
               i guess the fruit of knowing good from evil
was intended to say: till the land, deforest,
learn agriculture... that's good, the **** you do to each
other... well: that's hardly a tonne of grain...
but they so alike though, even when you apply a noun
to these two symbols!
  could have said he xet but instead it's known as he het:
no wonder the Hittites came along for a curious look...
mind you, had not a prominent Roman, a centurion,
asked for help... we'd be prudish in runic from the northern
invaders... so thankfully no one within the Roman confines
of encoding sounds didn't have the bright spark idea
of looking at the very tiny little island of Israel and that
four lettered word and how it became known
to say o = omicron, ε = epsilon and γ = gamma,
   and cutting those things apart leaving only letter
having done plastic surgery on the noun that denotes the
letter that's denoted by the symbol, rearranged it
and got the idea of εγo: ****** marvellous!
- this is not brian pallenberg's story about the pleasure
penthouse album...
but you know what really got me in those 30 hours:
day, night, day, night: a NHLF debate between
naomi wolf, karen straughan & antigone darling,
the part where karen makes the point that
once upon a time men who beat their wives
in Scotland were publicly whipped (dhaal,
straugan), and if they were beaten-up instead by
their wives, a plebiscite of good-wishers would turn up
at the house and apply the Freudian theory of
a castration to the man, bang pots and pans,
and then in public display him having to ride on a
donkey backwards, having to hold the donkey's tail
for stability...
     see that woman in red in that debate? a true political
man-eating beast of ***** readied in atom bomb
explosions... the one next to her isn't wearing any tights...
unconsciously you're thinking: i like her french freestyle
of not having shaved her legs... the smart one is wearing
jeans and she looks oh so desperate to get out...
    the discussion doesn't even enter the realm of ideas...
hen-picking is discussed... all poetry ascribed to language
is gone... is it politically correct to ascribe the sexuality
of female chickens with the word hen to women?
behind me in Blackpool stag-dos (dos? no does...
there isn't even a ******* spelling for that phrase...
hen-nights and the inflatable Juan)...
well obviously your mind is working out why you'd
**** the middle 'un right away... she doesn't say divorcee
which is so "unsexy" but say she's a mum twice,
a mum, a single mum... polly wants a *******...
her address is new york city? ******! i'm heading there,
right now! can a white guy use urban colloquial
in the suburbs on a piece of pixel paper, which he claims
is mere the cartesian extension of his thought
and disinterest in rhetorical skills? i hope so...
it's not like herr adolf wrote a disclaimer saying:
read this or a thousand volts up your ****!
that really was a constipated debate, plus the red was all
provocateur and peppered with "you know",
   and "i know absolutely nothing": there were no ideas
in the debate! whenever there was a chance to debate
ideas, the debate turned into a debated about words,
and what words to use: to simply brush aside any clinching
to a idea-debate... perhaps because feminism is
an ideology without any coherency of ideas, as stated
from the debate: a coherency of wording: and that better
be hen = an asexual chicken, rooster = an asexual chicken...
it's still a chicken kiev at the end of the day.
now? i might squeeze in another poem...
     but it would still be great to get any kind of analysis
comparing the movie android and ex_machina...
the only problem would be: both creators are men...
so that's gender-stereotyping already...
but hell! she gets to build a buggie that she directs with
a laser pen... so that's nice...
but i'd love a discussion on these two films,
given that the music in both films is very oomph!
thriller genre always had better music than horror...
horror music is too romantic... thriller music?
***** back-stabbing you whenever you think you're
going to get a comfortable 10 minute slot...
but it's there... aside from both robotic creators being male...
woman: ex_machina - out of the machinery of man
          ergo? deus, or woman as...
i actually have a problem with the word android...
the woman is a factor of playing the two men against
each other... the android actually find a mechanical
part of himself in the way the "human" talks to the woman,
while the "android" is prejudiced against the rigidity
of his ****** movement: unlike the "human" having
an intellectual rigidity... the woman plays the two against
each other... well, 30 hours no sleep...
  i'm doing the helter-skelter trying to throw ideas
by way of remembering the actual plot of the film...
this obviously adds nothing to the discussion:
meaning i probably gave away a "spoiler" -
but more the point, i need a refill and some fresh air
to breath, having farted into a leather chair for the past
hour.

.
Sometimes I want to say ******* to anyone and anything
discard everything and
get back my share of the nightmare,
slide up the two mil'
ride down the long thrill
and slowly so slowly ****
every waking
moment
every waking
thought,
sleep walk my way through the..
..sometimes the day is like that,
flat.

I still catch my breath
everytime I feel that
hot
searing
burst
on my skin
causing it to
pucker
blister
redden
it appears
melted
stretched taunt
forced to do something
it never wanted to do
and because it succumbed
I'm left with the this ever present
sharp
localized
tiny
focal point
of pain.
And it reminds me of you.

It was 1p.m.
When the sun came up
when the sun came out of the sky
It was 1p.m.
When the world was shaking
when the world was breathing and talking and moving and
happening
The walls in his living room were sad
He must have fallen asleep on the couch again
Listening to the neighbor's Vinyl Player from the other room

He looked at his watch
He looked at the window that was on the wall
He saw the sun
streets
the world
He said aloud to himself
and to the sagging furniture in his living room
“The world is a big place, and it fits in my window.”
He smiled
Then looked at the couch and noticed it didn't smile back

So he got up
Looked into his mirror and decided the half-grown beard looked okay
and that his hair was decent
and that the oil on his face
gave him color

He pulled out his ironing board
found the Iron underneath the kitchen sink

And began ironing his blue button up shirt
Making sure the sleeves were straight
Making sure the color was crisp

He kept on ironing
Then he imagined what his funeral would be like
“What would they say?”
He imagined a hairless priest towering over his coffin
“He was a good man, a quiet man, He was loved, not only by God, but by his family, his mother, his brother.”

His blue button up shirt was ironed
It was now 1:30p.m.

He looked at the oven's clock
The clock on the oven must have been wrong for years
Even when the apartment complex was forged by the poor for the poor

The oven's clock said “8:21a.m.”
He was not sure why he ever checked the time on the oven
But he always did
He then put brown socks on his feet
Pants that were a faded Tan
Like an old photo of sand
Then his shoes
Tied them
Put on his Button Up Shirt
buttoned the buttons

And walked out the front door.

An Oklahoma politician
wants to outlaw hoodies
in the hood

It's true, it must be
I read it in Fox News  :)

I'd sooner be in Missouri or Cleveland
or New York City where you don't have to
wear a hoody or raise your hands to get shot


There are other things more pressing
than hoodies in the hood
that don't need ironing

like hoods in suits
and the elephant in the room
that needs shooting.

Today I had a bout of acute-you shyness
one where I try to pretend I don't notice
but have you noticed how difficult it is
when outside idles but inside there's a race

to views like you leaning side to side
on the motorcycle ride slot machine
driving my eyes to sly around your slides
taking them wide as when I was eighteen
I'd look for curves at Southend pier's end
give out stares and start to take in scenes
of free amusement at the Fun Bump arcade

around and around the circuit you rode
I was lapping up your every move
sneaking a view through the coin drop
peeping behind the pinball of Dr Who
prying open the photo booth curtain gap
faux testing the mallet with your strength
playing air hockey with my thoughts
were your short chic bangs a wig?

they sit so still I long for the straights
then swing to one side with a leg
tight vibrant jeans in hairpin bends
ironing out where the centre line is damp
polishing the dashing leather saddle
vibrating with wrist twist contempt
loveliness revving up to red line

exploding in my face with daring
this bike crash heart of mine
please forgive not stopping staring
a race course habit never outgrown

I go too fast and of course I fall
in love as bad as deeply madly
but the fact that it's with you.. well
I have to forgive myself this malady

I'm a side-road heading for a spin
on ways to tell you you're beautiful
dangerously close I risk self harm
imagining that colour of pink and pale
the flush u-turn will be a charm

If I can get you climbing off
hot and flustered
I’ll have done my pit stop job
at once a chance encounter
and a fateful winning score
to let you know you've entered
into being my prize draw

I'll walk away but don't be sore
it's up to you to take it further
but just know one thing more
that if you call me to confirm
and tell me that I’m worth it
I would turn around so fast
the world would gearshift
and wait
but not in neutral
for us

Prelude  PART I


"Today when the threat is looming, as close apocalyptic years approach, it will be by cohabiting itself and the ruining valley of debris, which will make this world corrupted the next issue of the numeral scale of the new count, a rising hyperspace , concerning the parts of the kingdom of God ... "

Then on the Lord's day, John saw the glory of the risen Christ, and she understood from the point of view of God, he saw that the fate of the Church and threatened in the first persecutions took the appearance of a dark beginning.
And the time John wrote the Evangelist, including books were Jews called Revelation, that is, "Revelations". With fantastic images of monsters, angels and cataclysms, evidence of the Jewish people are stressed and are invited to await the judgment of God who intervenes from heaven with all his power.  So my beloved world is harsh and does not represent an apocalypse, but it is the true reality is when I will bear its overwhelming slaughter.

" Today when I walked with my winged feet near my friend Victor, I confided down the road crushed by afflictive legs; how difficult the taste of laughter when the decadent surrounds you, the human, the vile, the loose ...
Even though the celestial charisma invoke his memory and help nourish the weakness of Robert in hyperspace, with clean clothes, I can see his beloved mother consumed as automaton can take care of him. She is also her father, because it carries rooted in its members and manners, infinitely sharp look; in their arms they will gather wherever his soul is under his patronage that lives there ..."
I am  who  say that Roberto is a dog, who bears all the faces of dogs humble and serene. Perhaps tired of hearing young people, it is flush adults who do not accept, and who do not share as young faces were watching them, getting them to receive them what they should disclose them.
This is how we are numbed and distraction is fleeting, and he looking aside in his astrayed, he would be saying ...:
"Among the cradle and the grave I have a feeble scaffolding, and then complains, though his other I demolishes; unsconcient defends his executioner ... that the threat of death is its widespread depravity, which dominates it and want to go on like mortifiying.

      I want to talk about life ..., he said in his short years of life, which is more of it; possibly coming to complex, what our Somatic territory responds in normal or involuntarily. Comparative anatomy, and its innermost portion, the link body and mind, as a pure white as Samadhis and nature.
Homeostatic factors regulating our vitality, making its experimental modification, increasing to evolution, or maturation as a criterion of personal psychology go with the passage of time into in the depths of our mind.
Thus in a known threshold of Vedic architecture, its sensitivity is excited by regulating the effectiveness of the response to be made ... and everything related to the world of Ludwig Garroch; brother Robert in his strange Emigrate.
Yesterday when my arms away from hers, my fingers pounding away and recording what the heart more than a song, was a symphony sonata with a single end, long and sustained movement; It was the adage inner melancholy with an eye romanticism, which dominates the
passions of the visible world, which inhabits Antonieta, causing me, unbalanced living.


                                       CHAPTER I


In the beginning years of his childhood, little Ludwig sitting at home, in the gallery. Ask her aunt who was ironing ... Madelain, how I would always be a child of five ...?, And being as such, a privileged to receive toys for many years. Attentive aunt, maybe go to hear with little complacency as his hands only want unroll clothes.
After two years at the age of seven, when her aunt arranging his coat to go to Mass, she teaches a carol that had been taught in childhood. When many wondered whether there is a Santa Claus ...?, And among his friends they looked to unravel the mystery. One year later, when he enjoyed his unicycle, who just dominated him, called him a cousin telling her it was her birthday. He did not hesitate to go to find out what was behind the call, so he found the means by which we celebrate, we live and cooperate towards happiness and delight to have us at each other.
Not long after a friend told him .. "You do not have ten years are too big And Ludwig thought he was well endowed and well stopped, so not your friend was wrong in the above. It is my label and my stance has put the world on me.
Every passing day came the stamp of manly character, a woman or girl who made change her hairstyle, and he did dress more attractive every day.
Later, in his teens, his gaze was well received and their voices radiated security screening. Where He must continue the line of men. Even when I was living as smoothly, looks out strong destination with which calls us to live with skin clean or *****, because it is inside the feeling and the pain does not come out, it is enclosed by the overflowing affection. Here is the portion of good or evil haunting things casual and destroys the healthy, it fertile.

                                        
              ­                           CHAPTER II


Then was a year with a sports compensate pleasant summer sated outdoors, almost fugitive ... will not wonder that life smiled on him serfdom, and very willing opened his prudence.
Every time I decided to go to his favorite places, he went with his burly comrades in the best mood to conquer optimistically. Thus, no wonder he wanted when he was alone and put your reasoning judiciously, because nothing is distant, nothing is impossible.

After unite desires and forces, to clean your bike, piece by piece, in full sun know much security would not allow the mother of vices ruin their fun, that scarce alive to possess the desire to move and go on compliance instinct. Casts on itself, the vigor of the inner, its desolate world full of free enthusiasms who obey no doubt the vital complex activity.
Ludwig and entering the maelstrom of men love hate Godson, you can glimpse the friction with the air, with people ... I wore. That their voices heard their soul contracts, and thus puts light feet towards an acceleration which does not afflict his troubled stomach, nor regret his decision and put fearful, but, bring himself retained encouragement of his mind to remember the maternal cooing, comfort and timely relief to protect forever the suffering, the suffering of torment without end, not he shut the inspiration of the good man that no harm will result, and not for nothing the valence of living and not quarrel prancing. No existing could shed some light on what role, and that little thought is not complicated, and thus shown kneeling and unable to distressing oppressors and agents tangled conduct to chaos, those characters of ambition and discrimination.
Ludwig, who lives in the Ecologist City, where large forest ... budded, is home jungle floral site, whose relations are flowers, trees ..., next to Strange birds migrate flower in her intra nature reproduced, and pods evacuated by butterflies.
His close friend, is the watery and salty sea, which is beloved because he falls in love, puts on alert and curses him by his surroundings and invoking him. Anyway, it dwells wherever it is, and is accepted as a basic element of the universe.

                                    
                                         CHAPTER III

The act of tender love would be fulfilled later ..., what his voice fell silent and had his eyes and heart fortify, which will be linked from far inside.
At night, with Roderick going to a festive night, they climbed the rungs center alone, with heat in his shirt skin later. And in a deliberate action, someone asks you a sign that taking care tired and distinguishing see that John was his friend, school mate. He did not hesitate, he approached, greeted him and his sister and a cousin when she noticed well, he saw that he wore perfect for your night.
Debra wore elegant, dark clothes and sang with her dark brown wavy hair; his white brunette and harmonious ****** complexion line, gave her constant reflection. Fate was present, as it would not go around the world to be looked at by someone, he would watch his choice. Little was said, he only realized he was not passing and North America came eleven years ago.


They roasted the hours and the party ended, Ludwig remained with her new friend and his old friend John. They went downstairs, thinking about committing his new friendship, as I had noticed a slight interest in it. This happened and the meeting lasted for several hours.
The next day, he went to see her lawns roads where she lived, always with its mystique and kneeling the beast that wanted to impose upon him, that gives it excessive materialism unloved peace.
She arrives at her house, which was to John, though not very comfortable, but sure to please and attentive to host it.
And that night said much that was the tender feeling and liking her, but as his policy was rigid and concerning celibacy, only mattered to him, the unknown world of madness in his brawling to survive.
Time passed and deepened love, Ludwig went to say goodbye to his beloved, especially that he had faith, but that day would betray him. And so I wanted to put his heart and iron sleep peacefully, but Debra no secret  to tell ...:

"Ludwig, do not abandon our own, we must have faith, and I understand what it is. Ludwig rested and then brought her hands to her, hugged her and kissed all over her face, covering her eyebrows, nose, forehead, mouth; his lips positions in the middle of it, wanted to feel her warmth and tell her he loved her and would miss a lot of pain. But there was no show weakness, he must be strong and not to complicate the farewell from North America. Mourn scared him, because he had forged the feeling, because his aching grief was deep and it was at an undetermined point, with great desire to hold her and kiss over his face.
So ever, it was unbearable, she would like to die in his memory and had to remember in the collective thinking of his family circle. Which it fits the feel shivers ideas with sensations, such as the best in its inherent upstart point.

It was hard, as if more than man Ludwig out the feminine side of himself. But irremediable was the end, eager poisonous reaper approached. Ludwig hugged her, kissed her and stroked her right breast ... saying: "Do not forget me ..." and so left. Then he wrote her, that madness had transformed her away, but the distance was prevented against carcinoma being all postponed.
To know he could not boil your blood heavy thinking, they were contracted muscles. When he relaxed, he saw back through the hatch of his head, the soul that was in an ****** tragic holocaust, where Eros tenaciously and rebellion dictated its laws. Ludwig slept, and consciousness became natural color, as if it were safer, eternally fresh and manufactured this dream a poem ...:  

" That one corresponding to the celebration,
I wish to reunite with enthusiasm and strength ...
touching eyes closed
the sad sky, the dry ground, dried flowers
and people backward habits.

As meaning if it takes itself ...,
is the meaning
although they are scattered
in flows oppressions ...
the animosity of delight just widow and desultory,
losses and more losses at the time of aging ...
and profits to appease others.

For more like,
there seems to be a big drop ...
the same credibility ...?
and setting as a feeling
remain imagination stationary.

As hard it corresponds to the body,
It is destroyed inside ...
and hardened thoughts
tears falling to the esophagus,
without recognizing either way.

Who the pace of living is customizable,
and no opportunity is lost ...
but growing and creative
rears its profile,
as an unforgiven mirage. "


    Have been and unrestless forms of peremptory perceive, and when it starts to wander in my solitude, transporting my sorrow with grief, wherever I go I will take silent and vivifying separation completes the probable brain, which lives and endures in avidity stamped man with his need to want the Lord's command that made me forge this creation .--- he told himself, as a witness epilogue of his poem, albeit as the cry to its essence it was about. Originally from the Ecologist City, where reigned the wise and calm, where he healed their diseases, which has dodged the putrefaction of their wounds, where you inhale the aroms most want and cordoned off its without a grave lack of soft and flowering odour.
To believe missing, do not be afraid and trust that will grab everything, that not a drop of air was not lost on her fingers, which will not fail to display their imaginative stuff Alma Mater.
With all their eating, you want to cure your bad like venereum, and would go into the hands of a counselor or a warlock who extirpated the curse. Heal her feet and hands to despair, to heal the memory of his thought that I seasoned and voluptuous breaks the veins of his caleter, which seems not of it like a dwarf be provided with a dagger will break their venal, and this to commit such surgery, he laughs loudly with garnets eyes, full of the worst evil.

And this way Ludwig Garroch, vague without fear of rags, without fear of hunger or the messiness, only idles so that someday I can walk on the water surface, leaving their hydrocentric footprints where plankton reverence their sense of pain, his infarcted heart , her long fingernails of violence.


TO  BE CONTINUED….

Andi Balise combined a half page of a short story, “Thanks Going Without Saying” by Liz Balise, with half a page of an essay by Klee, “On Modern Art”, from a book called Modern Artists on Art, 10 Unabridged Essays, edited by Robert L. Herbert. With some small edits and line-breaks comes this miracle of a poem:

Painting a Function Different

I peek out over the railing of reality’s magic
Beyond the porch-floor
Minerva hangs her wash
making the invisible visible
Eighty two and three quarters deaf
she doesn’t notice  
But this is, in fact, reality
Has always been this way—
Bent and bird-like existence  
Balanced on two twigs—always busy—

Her task, is the ******* of space  
Cutting coupons, crushing aluminum cans, ironing
The three phenomena which I must....

Things no one notices—
climbing on the abstract surface of a picture
Switching the curtains  
God! I wish from the infinity of space..she wouldn’t…!

It figures that—
Rusty, her cat, is weaving in fortune or misfortune  
I try to fix them—
Her ankles now
And she curses at accidental quality
from the corner of her mouth
which has only one form
Clothespin or cigarette?  
Long johns and animals and men in heaven
and bureau scarf and sheets—all, non-infinite deities
surround us translucent, contained
  
I decide what to get for her birthday—

We are good friends
through painting a function different

For me?
Predestined necessity.

Minerva?
forgets her manners
and eats like a survivor—

Thanks going without saying.

MY MOTHER’S HANDS

My mother’s hands

washing potatoes
washing kids
washing pans.

My mother’s hands
on bitterly cold days

******* yet more washing
on a pregnant line

the line growing nothing but
nappies

her hands blind
with the cold.

My mother’s hands
ironing clothes
ironing clothes
ironing countless knickers
for my seven sisters.

My mother’s hands
taking my hands
in hers

such love...such laughter!

My mother’s hands
patting talcum powder

on another baby’s ***.

Mum being Mum.

Me, kissing

my mother’s hands
for all...they’ve done.

As a child
I put my finger in the fire  
to become
a saint.

As a teenager
every day I would knock my head against the wall.

As a young girl
I went out through a window of a garret  
to the roof
in order to jump.

As a woman
I had lice all over my body.
They cracked when I was ironing my sweater.

I waited sixty minutes  
to be executed.
I was hungry for six years.

Then I bore a child,  
they were carving me  
without putting me to sleep.

Then a thunderbolt killed me
three times and I had to rise from the dead three times  
without anyone’s help.

Now I am resting
after three resurrections.

My mother’s hands

washing potatoes
washing kids
washing pans.

My mother’s hands
on bitterly cold days

******* yet more washing
on a pregnant line

the line growing nothing but
nappies

her hands blind
with the cold.

My mother’s hands
ironing clothes
ironing clothes
ironing countless knickers
for my seven sisters.

My mother’s hands
taking my hands
in hers

such love...such laughter!

My mother’s hands
patting talcum powder

on another baby’s ***.

Mum being Mum.

Me, kissing

my mother’s hands
for all...they’ve done.

When I was a child, Monday was ‘Wash Day’.  Not Laundry Day - that was fancy talk. In our house, it was wash day.
On the back porch of our tiny house in a little town in Washington State, was a wringer washing machine. That’s not a brand name, it describes the two rubber rollers that squeeze water out of clothes fed between them when turning.  In the back yard was a weathered wooden bench, turned gray with age and water.  Stored in the garage out beyond that were two big galvanized tubs, one round and one square, with handles on the sides.  This was the necessary equipment to do the washing.

On Mondays, the wash machine came in first.  It was positioned in the center of the little kitchen’s linoleum floor and filled with very hot water from the kitchen sink via a rubber hose that fitted over the hot water faucet.  

Next came the heavy wooden bench, placed between the wash machine and the sink.  Both of the wash tubs were brought in and placed on it and also filled with hot water from the sink.

Into the water in the square tub, Mom swirled Mrs Stewarts bluing, until the water was bluer than the sky.  This helped make the white things whiter and colors brighter.  
Into the round tub went Purex bleach, enough to scent the water and your hands.

Then came the first load of clothes.  With three kids who played outside all day, the pile was big. A measure of White King laundry soap let the clothes be agitated in hot soapy water for 15 minutes.  Then the wringer that topped the electric washing machine would be swiveled to the round tub and the clothes dipped out of the hot water with tongs and fed through it into the bleach water.  clothes with grass stains would get a session on the good old fashioned wash board; scrubbed up and down across those galvanized ridges with Fels Naptha bar soap.  The toughest stains soon gave way, and that item joined the others in the bleach water.

After all the clothes were in the bleach water, the next load went into the wash machine.  After another 15 minutes, the wringer would swivel and the clothes in the bleach would be fed through the wringer into the bluing.

Then with another swivel of the wringer, the clothes in the wash machine would be fed into the bleach, and another load of ***** clothes started their journey.

All the tubs were full now and it became an assembly line.
When the next 15 min were up, the line went in reverse and the wringer swiveled back and forth as needed.  The clothes in the bluing went through the wringer into a large oval wicker basket with handles on each end, ready to be hung with clothes pins on the lines out in the back yard.

The clothes in the bleach went into the bluing and the clothes in the wash machine went into the bleach. Then the washer was loaded again and the process began anew.
This process took most of the day, with the only breaks occurring while the washer did its thing and the two tubs soaked.

Mom used a metal dish pan to make a solution of Argo Starch and water. Things that needed body went into that for a quick dip before being hung up outside, where they became somewhat stiff as they dried.  They would need to be sprinkled with warm water and rolled up to dampen evenly before ironing. Most things washed in those days before Perm Press would need to be ironed.

The clotheslines were thin wire cable, strung up in the back yard.  One set of four lines were attached to the crossbars of 2 sturdy metal poles, sunk into the ground by the Rhubarb bushes and the hen house (we raised a few chickens) and the other two lines ran from the back porch to the garage wall. Before using them, Mom would wrap a damp rag around the wire and wipe each one from one end to the other to be sure they were clean.

Clothes would then be hung up with spring-type wooden clothes pins, taken from a home made cloth bag sewn over a wire coat hanger, so it could hang on the clothesline and slide along as the clothes were being hung up. There was a certain skill in knowing which clothes hung right-side-up and which went upside-down, as there was no fabric softener in those days and clothes tended to take the shape they hung in.

When all the clothes were hung up, the rubber hose was used in reverse to empty the two tubs and the wash machine into the sink. Then the tubs and bench were taken back to their spots in the garage and the wash machine rolled back onto the back porch.  When everything was put away, the wet kitchen floor was mopped dry with a rag mop.

All the neighbors said Mom hung out the cleanest, whitest wash on the block. She was proud of that, though she’d never admit it.

By dusk, it was time to bring all the clothes back in to the house. Sheets and towels were folded and put into dresser drawers. There was no such thing as a linen closet.  Pillow cases would later be ironed, but in my family sheets never were.  Since perm press didn’t exist yet, the cotton got a bit of a rough feel to it from the wind.  I loved crawling in between those rough sheets that smelled of the sun and wind.  Over them were 2 quilts.  One made by my Grandma and  the other by my Mom.  They weren’t showpiece designs, just  functional and warm with designs that used up bits of fabric left over from past sewing projects.

Towels were also a bit rough and got us dry and massaged at the same time

Living in Southwest Washington, legendary for it rainfall and drizzle, there was many a washday when it was all-hands-on-deck to race out and grab things off the lines as the rain began to fall.  On those days lines were attached to built-in hooks back and froth across the kitchen and things were re-hung there. There was also a folding wooden rack that went into the Front Room, which is what we called the Living Room  On those rainy days you threaded your way through rows of damp clothes to get to the sink to get a drink of water. No bottled water in those days, but our little town had very good tasting tap water.

Mom’s hands were always red and shiny by the end of the day from reaching into the various waters to fish things out to put through the wringer into the next tub.  Everything washed went through that wringer 3 different times.

There was a whole mystique about starched clothing. With no Permanent-Press in the 40’s, and the only way to make a cotton shirt or dress look smart was to starch it.  There was skill in knowing the ratio of starch powder to water so the clothes didn’t come out limp when dry or stiff as a board.

Starched clothing needed to be dampened first in order to iron properly.  It was called “sprinkling” the clothes.  A commonly used sprinkler was a tall soda bottle with a cork-stemmed metal cap with holes in it.  You could buy the sprinkler caps at the dime store. This is what Mom used.  

We kids were fascinated by the neighbor who took a mouthful of water, pursed her lips and created a misty spray onto the clothes.  We practiced it but we never figured out how she did  it. Another just dipped her hand into a bowl of water and shook it over the clothes. Pump spray bottles were years away back then. Sprinkled clothes were usually rolled up and left a while to dampen evenly. There was excitement when word got around that rolling up the sprinkled clothes and putting them in the refrigerator for an hour or two produced more even dampening, and you didn’t have to leave them overnight or risk forgetting and finding things dried into a hard ball the next day.

Even more exciting was the advent of the steam iron, which revolutionized the chore.  As a kid I used to earn dimes and nickels for ironing hankies (remember handkerchiefs?) and pillowcases for a neighbor. Kleenex didn’t totally replace cloth handkerchiefs until well into the 1950s. I still enjoy ironing today and hate the wrinkled look currently in fashion. I also have a stack of lace trimmed hankies that are now considered vintage.

I still have a soda bottle sprinkler, a clothespin bag on a hanger full of clothespins.  I also have an unopened bottle of Mrs. Wright’s Bluing, which hasn’t been on the market in years.   It reminds me of other times and other places and  how I would love to slip between those sweet smelling, wind-blown sheets one more time.
ljm

MY MOTHER’S HANDS
(in memory of my mother Ita Dempsey)

My mother’s hands

washing potatoes
washing kids
washing pans.

My mother’s hands
on bitterly cold days

******* yet more washing
on a pregnant line

the line growing nothing but
nappies

her hands blind
with the cold.

My mother’s hands

ironing clothes
ironing clothes
ironing countless knickers
for my seven sisters.

My mother’s hands

taking my hands
in hers

such love...such laughter!

My mother’s hands
patting talcum powder

on another baby's ***.

Mum being Mum.

Me, kissing

my mother’s hands

for all...they’ve done.

My grandparent's house
ten-kid-large and sinking
on the corners of remembrance
Remodeled now, to
...tenements

Honeycomb
...the remnants

Irish immigrant and Scottish orphan's child
She sang on the ferry
He fell in love
"The rest is the history of us...."
Wide
as the Connecticut River, grieving--
in their sunset....
____

This-- chair
is his

I am afraid of it-- of his learning
of the shiny badge pinned to his coat
of his dying...
Golden leather of it
soothes
his memory--
of another continent
of the once warmth-- of a distant hearth
so darkened now--
where his head once rested
...his hands
and,
I fear--
his mind....

I will not sit in it
as if he will come back, to take his place
I am afraid of him--
with his chair--
all worshipful and empty
like a high place, abandoned
to the heart attack
not for grandchild play
Seat of Authority
still stamped
beside the standing cold--
brass ashtray
Pipe smoke imagines itself
against the ceiling in the words
of Yates and Milton
He read to them
and somehow--

Paradise is Lost....
_____

This house is cold now-- even in the summer-- cold
Worn as only large families wear
The War
of waiting shadows
--four brothers who were spared

Anna Mae, in charge, too young,
worries in abrupt dark
of dinning room
Her face, haunted--
an archway-- ever empty
by the large and ghostly table
covered by its web of lace--
a bridal veil
of Catholic impossibility...
Anna Mae, held hostage by her thoughts
of darling, Sean...

Aunt Lil's “breakdown”
with cigarette and thorazine  
quaking quiet in her corner

Aunt Nell,
as blind as smart-*** hell
ironing, darning
with threads that thatch
the wounded socks
Holds it all together, scolding--
Brought the welcomed jelly donuts
sneered as Yankees clobbered Boston
all-- while drinking yellow ale

Uncle Eddie-- laughing hoarsely
cracks nuts over a wooden bowl

If you do a little housework every day
Then on the weekend you’ll have time to play
A housewife s work is never done
Working from morning to setting sun.

Sweeping, dusting and mopping, always moving
And never stopping.
Washing clothes and ironing too
So many things that you must do.

Then the cooking and doing the dishes
Picking up in back of the kids and feeding the fishes.
Then trying to look pretty for when your husband gets home
So at your tired appearance he won’t throw stones.

Then when your day is through, a CALGON bath is what you do.
                 (Calgon take me away)
Just lying in the tub to unwind, and in another hour you’ll be fine.
The comfort of your bed is looking so good
And you’re wondering if you should.
Then your husband has that gleam in his eye
And you’re hoping that he doesn’t try.

Then the comment was all it took, of how good you always look.
Then he holds you in his arms and releases all his charms
And makes all your aches and pains go away
And this ends the housewife s day.
© L. RAMS 032515

In the morning,
she’d go to her sewing room again,
half-dressed
in a full slip, nylons, and black pumps.
Over her arm, she carried whatever dress or suit
she would wear to work that day.

She spread out the clothing on the ironing board,
sprayed it with fabric sizer--never starch--
and pressed
each seam and dart
and in and around buttons, cuffs, and collar,
placing the tailor’s ham here and there
when necessary.

In other houses,
mothers still in cotton bathrobes
made breakfast, packed lunches, and set out clothes
for children and husbands.

Those children and husbands
never saw what I did:
A woman up early,
ironing with steam and sizer,
one of several outfits she had made herself,
while holed up at the sewing machine
so that when a husband
came home drunk again
she could excuse herself from their bed
--to finish cutting out a new pattern or
to sew every last button hole of a blouse—
until he passed out.
Again.

This is for my mom and grandma
You guys have been in my life since birth                
You taught me how to tie my shoes
When I had no father around to
Teach me the basics of how to be a man
You stepped up and did the right thing

When I fell off, my bike and I cried
Because I thought my arm was broken
You took me into the bathroom to
Get the rubbing alcohol and bandages
First-aid kit to fix my bruises and cut
But what was amazing was how safe you made me feel
By just saying that everything was going to be alright

You and mom have been the pillars of this family
Me and my 4 brothers learned that me mi ‘‘familia’’ is everything
In many ways we learned how to be men from you
I learned how to sew, wash dishes, bargain shop, ironing clothes and do the laundry
And clean up after myself and the house,
I know how to change a diaper and make a bottle from all those times that had to baby sit
My little brothers when you were working
I don’t know how to cook but I’m going to learn
Because you always told me that you need to know how to take care of yourself
What if you get a wife who doesn’t want to take care of you?
You would give me advice like don’t mess around
With a girl who has a boyfriend because you’ll get into trouble,
Respect everybody even if you don’t like that person
And finish school because nobody can take away what you’ve learned
You were right about everything that you said

I hope that when I have kids that
I’m half the parent that you guys were to me
Because you inspire me to create by making this family better,
You give me strength to fight by not giving up on me,
You showed me how to share love by showing me compassion
And I know how to have faith
By watching you live life facing your fears

You guys are the true definition of
What a strong, poor, immigrant women can
Become with a little perseverance
Happy mothers and fathers day
Because you did the job that 2 parents
Would have a difficult time with
I know that I don’t express my feelings a lot
But I am proud of you

By Shannon Pollard
© May 2013

She let the tape go—
on record
one evening for an ordinary hour
Five years later, we play it back
for laughs after dinner—then as now

“Remember how the stove door screeched
at the house on Olive Street?”
And our voices!
Phoeb’s, lighter–tired
wrapping the nine’s tables in elastic yawns
like flash cards in a rubber band
“Phoeb, your pitch changed so—
while  I turned...”
to run water in the tub
lamenting the **** of Two
in frenetic escape of hands
Unruly!
Running rebel taunts in Time’s strict face
who would not dare disturb her dawns
only mine—
Roused by the first round of another day’s
ring of twelve
digits that insist
like uniform with apron waiting
on ironing board that’s never folded

Now the **** of Two cries out
Exultant!
of success in *****
Then, Oratorio for Soap!
The splashy version
with endless bubblings of “Rocky Baby!”
and obbligato of “Where’s Shampoo?”
in jubilant glissadal plunge
an octave through vocal whoops!

…I had not thought
she hardly talked
but sang and squealed or whined in tunes
Her voice lay open to her soul
a roost of piercing humming birds
small of words
but filled with sweet and want
incessant wings and things to say....

How could we have forgotten?

“Are these your boots?
Your clothes laid out?”
From sound and talk, we still can hear
frost phantoms
in winter window rattles—then as now
And Phoebe remarks how one voice
didn’t change though—
“Still talking to herself”

We laugh
and let the tape go....

Hot iron
Steaming tuition
Wrinkled self-esteem
Door slam in the face of
flattened suits on Mission

Curse the piety
and find another dress
shirt. Crippling anxiety
Inhale to break the stress the
pressure

Sweat stains rise and
morality falls
Break the silence on the
nightstands
Break the vows, break them
all

Look to the sky crying
Wanting pleading
Bargaining again
slowly begging to find hope
somewhere before the time
of dying

And there it was

A whisper

Not an earthquake or a
firestorm
No thunder claps
in fact

Just a whisper
Gently
in the wind it came
through

Speaking softly
speaking slowly

"I Am
With You."

Washing, ironing, cooking, cleaning
The work is never done!
Lunching, shopping, relaxing, reading
I’ve heard is much more fun.

Sweeping, mopping, dusting, shining
Who thinks up all these gigs?
But what I really want to know right now
Is who left open the barn door to let in the pigs?

Mowing, weeding, trimming, seeding
Are mans work, but I’m all on my own
I gave birth to a virtual army
But housework is their No Go Zone!

Yelling, screaming, crying, keening
Achieves naught but my puffy face
I’ve given up such futile exercises
That puts no one in their place.

I hear “Can you help me please”
They hear “Blah Blah Blah”
Maybe I need to learn sign language
One gesture can go so far!

To this end I have ultimately decided
And I really do think this is for the best
To sit right down with drink in hand and
Let the little piggies wallow in their own mess!

24/07/2010

Gratitude:
It pays to be kind
It pays to know
that something's not gonna
be there forever
I'm serious

When that lovely lady passed away
this monster ****** all
the life
out of her
I couldn't help but think
why hadn't i treasured you before
Why oh why

So here is my gratitude poem
I love you mummy
For all the things
From sacrificing your sleep and time
To make me a good breakfast
And ironing uniforms
Which you've always hated to do
But did that all for me
So that I would look decent in school
To Staying up with me
To do homework and revision
before terrifying monsters called EXAMS
For kissing me goodnight and
telling me good things about life
Doing so many lovely things
So that I would have a better life
I love you mummy

I love my dad
No matter how much I seem to argue with you
on math or science
I really love you too.
Deep down I really appreciate your help
but you've got to dig deeper to see that
I hope you talk to me more
About your life
It's always been about my life
my studies
my health
my friends
And our talks
never about you
I never known a genius like you.

*****
You are a *******
Really
I wish you were 5 all again
When you didn't have sarcastic comments
And the I-grew-up-already attitude
I love you all the same
You stay up to help your big sis
With her art work
( I **** at art)
Or type for me in tamil
You do great things, girl
And sooner or later
You are gonna be a great young lady
Just like me

I love all my friends
The ones that hurt me
The ones that love me
The ones that like me
All of you gave
me
experiences
words
advice
stories
that I've never known
What is a life without stories?

And lastly,
my grandpa
You were a great man.
You may have died
When I was one
But I'm telling you grandpa
I love you all the same
I remember your wise words
All the famous people who came to
Shower their blessings on me
And your lovely lap
Which I used to take as my personal bathroom
I'll never forget you
You have an indelible place in my heart
You have been my greatest inspiration
and strongest supporter
I love you all the same.

The things I am grateful for
It's an endless list
But I love each and
every single
one all
the same.
I will treasure you better from now on.


I love you.

ironing, ironing my life, my shirts come first
the reason is doubtful
the strain is huge
heart on my sleeve
but no creases
i only want you
past mistakes are only fuel..
to you.
loss is my burden
strength diminished
but you are my life
to give
to love
to laugh
its ALL YOU
yes
yes
x

Straight and proud

Let me iron your mind
Let the creases
On your daily deeds' sleeves
Smooth down and vanish
The iron of my words will
Float upon the collar of your views
And the little pocket
Smothering your heart
Well, I may burn it
Accidentally - I'm not good
At ironing
But let me iron the back
So that you always stand
Straight and proud

I toast to the spirits you've been counting, lying in that hammock with a stranger from Mars. Your muddy fingers, they creep like hairless spider arms between the ropey knots that bind together all its parts. There is a house inside the hilltop, where it peaks there is a church- there once was a man in shackles and handcuffs living there, he also had mud on the bottoms of his feet. Even the pennies you found get lost now and then. Even your white hair goes a shade of blonde. I can't sleep but I don't try, I never tried not to do something so much that the rest of me broke. I pushed so hard that sand fell into my socks. You only told me half of what will happen to you at 10am, the rest of it you told me that you'd prefer I didn't know, but if I am to survive on the secrets I know that you don't know about. Then tonight I will be sewing the wool over my eyes.------------------------------------------------------------­----------------------------------------------------------- No one could ever have any idea what comes easy. The creaking heavy wood of your slop-room door, or the filth I cough up in green, mustard, and tar globules every hour. There is the was. Small hands in half pockets. Stitches supposedly dissolving into our skins. The yellow wall, the panda pillow, the Pink Sugar, your hair wax and heavy handed straight-ironing tilt my curved and bent feet Northward about 6 to 60º degrees. Late trains and no complaints. Stubs of hair and tender legs. I don't give but my elbows buckle. This frame wasn't built to take blow after blow. Some friends tell me they can see tomorrow before it comes. Lakeside, readied, silver-necklace I haven't seen. Gold flightless bird that's never walked but says it will. I am cornered, my cornea tinted my vexes and leftovers, black and white pearls, birthdays, earthworms, and vinegar. Family dinners that push me nearer to the hole in the donut. I'm just so afraid of falling overboard. It's just I can't go forever without being heard.-----------------------------------------------------------­----------------------------------------------------------- In and the. How long do stories like this carry on for? Does my name come up in private? Does mom two even know whether I ever existed or if I was split? I am the answer to the secret 'ask' question? When do I become background photo one or two? I am the one that's grateful I had a chance to sleep toe to toe. That I uncovered the winter that woke up the bleach and incense in the frosted air. While school is in session, am I crazy to believe in mermaids and sparklers and stickers, I'll stick with the choice that I made a year ago Tuesday- September hasn't ended but November's nowhere near. The reason I smoke so much is because I am no good at waiting. For phone calls, tweets, texts, updates, or written mail. No one told us that this could end underwater without even half of a breath, if you'd of asked then I would have told you that's why I steal your underwear and your sweatpants. You can have all my money, I don't even want, I just need it for you. You can have every word that I write, wield, and speak with, every sentiment and sentence, each promise,and compromise, everything that I own.-------------------------------------------------------------­---------------------------------------------------------- Four photographs later. Everything means something. I'm in knots. Spiderwebs from elbow to elbow. Fishing hooks from knee to knee. My neck feels very naked, bare. Nothing, not even traces of pink or cerise lipstick or lip marks. Smudge me, stop punishing me, please, prease, don't leave. This isn't very good for either of us. My story cannot tread so closely to an ending, to the ends of a night or a phone call or an eyebrow pencil or an eyelash curler, not the double-sided extra-soft blanket you keep on your bed, not the bottles and dollars and boxes and jewelry under your mattress, not the zip in your doorway or the zipper in my jeans, not the two holes in my belt loops or the caffeine in my morning coffee. I quit cigarettes, ended my sentences earlier, grew quiet, wore more band shirts and skinny jeans. Even the lines of lips, outlined by hips, white roses painted red, blonde hairs blanketed by the bleaching on your head. I'm wrestling hula hoops, I'm putting my pinkies in your gauges, and amazed how good it feels- and I'm happy you didn't....leaves of autumn shatter on concrete city streets, although you'd hate it I'm thinking of a tattoo sleeve, how about you make it? Darling please! Rice Krispie I'm on my Lee Dungaree's, begging you to meet me on our knees. And every candy that I spit out once I got to the middle, every lollipop that I ever bit into to find the gum, each Happy Meal toy I bought separately; you are the only girl I attended school to meet when I wasn't enrolled. I'm holding on. The bottoms of my jeans rolled up so I don't fade into use. I miss having your tongue in my mouth. I want to feel my hands in your pants. It's my tongue that gets curious as I begin to feel the heat off your *******. Tender touching. Dire romance. Throttle my face with your legs. I'll perch you up on a pillow, you can hold my head till I beg. Because if I go at this life thing alone, pretty soon I'll have a mouth full of lead.

An air of resignation that
we breathe in every day
but
wanting things to change
doesn't mean that things
will go away.

deal in futures here and now
as if somehow we have
second sight

there's nothing like the dead of night
to remind me
monsters hide in all these places
where the darkness hides the
many faces of regret.

We still have this
the undiluted pleasure of an
early morning kiss
and
unless I've missed something
some things like this will
never change.

I do not resign
will not give in,
when weary you breathe me
when lively you tire me
if helpless you help me to
get a grip,

I let reality rip through me
to tear and reassure me
that
this is no dream.

It began, as these things often do
With darkened skies and all around
The night had paused to draw a breath
And through the streets rebounded sound
A slow and steady fall of foot
I stepped the cobbles free of care
My eyes were drinking vivid light
A fragrance tangled on the air

My purpose set
My heart a grim quartet

The door was mere scenery
A sight to see but not recall
The passing gaze is pushed away
And sees there, just another wall
No movement could I hear within
My knuckles whitened on the knock
Relief recoiled hastily
A scratching from the rusted lock

My fingers clenched
Anxiety deeply entrenched

The woodwork inched a little back
A brow bedecked in withered hair
A pupil sharp as autumn frost
Surveyed me with a butchers glare
Her voice, a blade across my mind
Invited me to step inside
A shiver shook my frozen bones
My feet took up a timid stride

Her tone shallow
Her skin like warm tallow

Within was soaked in tepid gloom
In candle light the shadows danced
The flames grew quick and paranoid
And leaned away as I advanced
Behind me scurried shut the door
And down my spine, an angel tear
A leather chair of ages past
Held consort with my falling rear

She sat near
And whispered in my ear

With lizards hiss and jagged tone
In fragrances of smoke and gin
She sprinkled such a parable
That tingles bounced across my skin
My mission lay ahead of me
But caution of a reckless choice
A curse that fed on failure
And menace edged her ebon voice

Salvation awaited
But hope swiftly abated

Away into the night I strode
My razor wits with terror blunt
I packed a satchel prudently
For sustenance about the hunt
A dagger dangled on my hip
A bow and quiver on my back
Its bowstring plaited spider web
Was ever strong and never slack

Horizon bound
I broke the ****** ground

My quarry was a worthy foe
And many days I tracked until
By moonlight on a starless night
I caught a glimpse and stopping still
A sight I've struggled to forget
My bounty and my nemesis
Was bounding past me heedlessly
As fear wrought paralysis

Eyes like death
****** hung on its breath

It stood a daunting seven foot
With talons jutting from its hands
A mass of quills and tentacles
With extra spleens and mucus glands
A mouth with room for seven men
And teeth the size of ironing boards
A single but enormous eye
With lashes like a row of swords

My face paled
My bladder faultered and soon failed

I faced my prey and crossed my legs
My stricken blood had turned froth
I ****** myself in abject fear
But stopped just short of touching cloth
I turned about and ran away
While screaming out profanity
And crying like a baby
And adopting Christianity

Pleading with fate
My pride a sorry state

I fled the county swiftly
Finding shelter inside a cave
My punishment for failure
Would see me to my grave
And so I existed in exile
Eating only what I caught
In time the wind grew colder
And the days were ever short

Winter grips
The solar zenith slips

I huddle to this very day
Amid the gloom with frozen breath
And keeping warm is paramount
For stretching life, postponing death
Though purely for survival
While I weather every storm
I've taken to bumming weasels
As a means of keeping warm

Blunt trauma
Weasel skin *****-warmer

Steam rising from hot cotton
Memories stirring
Turning a collar and smoothing under buttons,
first the inside, the plackets
then the shoulders, cuffs and sleeves.
Who knew the ironing of a shirt
could be such a minuet of parts
and caring
and thoughts?
The flesh these folds would clothe, the
hunching of the shoulders, the
reaching out of hands from
clean
crisp
cuffs.
My mother learned from my father learned from his mother
and I to you
bring hot fresh cotton
my love.