Corrupt and quiet
Brain damaged
Like a mental hemorrhaging
A ****** heart's craving

Tattooed on your clear skin
Running hands over it
Dusting off your innocence
Dancing on ground that's caving in

Men and women in pain
Broken children going insane
Holding their breaths
Hearts heaving in their chests

Painstaking memories
Sipping tears from souls unclean
Empty verses, lyrics obscene
Children who will never be seen

You've lost your health
Now, what do you have left?
***** just like the rest
Nothing to show, no family crest

Tear jerkers
Hard workers
Acid-bathed men
You simply cannot win

Thoughts under arrest
Burning names off the list
Fighting with a pointless fist
Lost in the lifeless mist

I was told poems mustn't rhyme
Those that do show infantile minds
A child can rhyme two with glue
Or find a metaphor for the sky being blue

Rhymes are easy
Essence is hard
I use conventional flow
As my not-so-trump trump card

Stop. Branch out.
Find the words to reach deep down.
The soul wrencher's
The tear jerkers
The love felt on a whim
From first sight
Unable to project true depth
Just imagery
The easy kind
.
.
.

Stick to the rhymes for now
Best to do what you know how

A poet is the cracked spine of your favorite novel. As you begin to peer inside, words fly out from every direction. Sentences you can't make out and phrases you can't even begin to recognize. His mind is a dusty dictionary of all sorts.

A poet resembles the tide that rises and falls just as your heartbeat does with every syllable he breathes out. Corals scrape your legs and fish nip at your feet yet you linger in the water.

A poet is a pastel picture frame. Amazing how 4 corners can freeze the sparkles in your eyes and the grin on your lips. Feelings do not last forever so we tend to keep anger, sadness, joy & love sealed in glass, sitting on our night stand.

His mind is a factory.
Gears & wheels working late night shifts, making sure all periods and commas are in place.

You see
Poets are
Tear jerkers
Risk takers
Shape shifters
and
Heart breakers

The first time I saw you,
I knew you were different.
through the heart palpitations and rushed inhalations
I saw clearly enough to differentiate
You from the obstinate, the inate,
the circle jerkers, the irate.
I just knew.

When you walk into the room,
Fahrenheit becomes Celsius and I hide somewhat inside and through my racing heart and my blood rush I time my glances so you don't think I'm staring.
But I am.

When you smile, you unwittingly create,
a mini universe with you and I.
When you laugh, out of sheer infectious joy,
I don't know whether to do the same or cry.
When your name pops up on my phone;
A loss of breath occurs with a stutter of unsaid words as the world stops and I stare as if into a daydream rising and rising until the magnitude of the amplitude is realised in its entirety.

The world is lit with fireflies as I dive into a sea of you as I'm enveloped by the idea of loving and giving and romantic evenings of dinner for two.
We'll drink champagne as we toast to Russell Crowe, to puns and the fun that will be had to come in the graspable future.

We'll stay up all night and watch the stars,
billions of light years reflected in your eyes as the fireflies dance and we're both in an each other induced trance in our mini world of two absorbed in wanderings and night meanderings.

We'll watch the sun rise in a blood red dawn vanquishing the fallen stars.
We'll watch the world grow and throw itself into decline and rise, following our own timeline, grabbing our destiny with both hands letting no regret reprimand us for what we do.

Because, the truth is, I love you, and there's nothing I can do.
In my nights awake all that's thought about is you.
In my dreams and daydreams, you're the sole proprietor.

the peace to my fire.
our happily ever after.

Common place we masquerade in the light, when aligned right
Inspiration shows a fairer view
There's a canvas in every staircase
Documenting the basic human life
Unbearable solace comes unannounced
Resurrection of real talk floods the avenue
Old Bloods make room for the young ones
Knowing every generation counts
Commotion may pause
I'm allowed
To walk through
I lean when I pass because of earned place
It's well known, when writing
I'm consumed
Lyrical I deliver truths open minded in a closed space
Spiritual
Been the reborn force in a puddle
Saw my reflection unfazed in a monsoon
Outlined the losses with chalk, talk about those lost like legends
When in reality that is peace we are all due
Outstretched arms traced
A border on spilt maroon
Tear jerkers that flinch, when you're hesitant
Stone face for a moment
Then they got you
On the surface a milestone to gain an inch of momentum
If a green leaf speaks of a future
You better plant a seed somewhere protected from the weather and concrete
I have never seen a stone bloom

Oh, how great the benefits of a good book;
How it eases stress and clears tour head
Whether it be on a beach or hammock,
Or at night in a bed
And then there's the genres the abundence of genres
Fantasies and fictions galore
Novels, and novels, and novels, oh how many novels,
I can only dream of having more
Then theirs the our favorites, the tear jerkers, laugh producers,
And heart warmers, we cannot read without
We read, and reread, and give to our friend
Yet if not given back, cry, scram, and shout
No Matt the genre, romance or fiction or any other kind
Happiness from a book I will constantly find.

Do you cry in movies?
Tear-jerkers can be groovy,
Emotional catharsis, yes,
Well-acted tragedies, no less,
So, movies explore being human,
I guess time stands still no man.......

Fast acting, long lasting
Its smashing!
Girl with no more options.
Animal tests,
Lumps on the *******.
No not on the ads,
We’re selling ***.
Two for the money.
A truck and a honey.
What are we buying?
We’re buying ***.
A girl home for the day
Finds a soft spot to lay,
Take off her shirt
But leaves on her jeans.
However,
Its more than erections,
The scheming perfection
Of using each other
To bolster our greed.
In more than one boardroom
There are people debating
Do we want groom and groom
Or the bride to be black?
The intern will chime in
That “going green” is “in”
And we’ll all ******* buy them
2% recycled handy wipes.
Because our eyes are vacuums
They will always have room
To take in more *******
That falls in our lines.
We watch their commercials
And yes, they’re tear jerkers.
A one legged child
Raised by two Asian guys.
SO WE BUY THE DISH SOAP!
THEYV’E SOLD US!
We did it!
We filled up our carts,
In the store and online.
We swallowed it all up,
Leaving plastic behind.
WE DID IT!
We all worked as a team
To fuel the
Capitalist Dream.
A fabricated human connection
Forged between man and corporation.
We’ve done it folks.
The American Dream.
People against people
All working as a team.

Well, at least for all those who have eyes.

my, my... haven't these people become, oh so audacious, and they believe themselves, so firmly placed, so crown-corone: the crown above a crown assured, that they alone reside with cradle of history... my my! aren't they just the brats we all were looking for! they alone, are the erasing force of "mystery", to combat "mythology" with their own "plagiarism" of said facts?! wonder behold! the 8th clarity, that of the english language itself! kindest gentlemen! i implore! salvage your honours, let the titan sink! no?! marvelous! who are these gehenna baboons tricking? we are assured clemency, are we not?! these people seriously believe they are the sole inheritors of history! oh no, this is a europe within a europe type of game... i have my history, just as much as you, have yours... you erase the pride i have in mine, i erase the pride you have in yours... simple as 1 + 1 = 2... you squalid ****-pants think that a brexit will make you look better? no **** sherlock, you have the honey! but that makes you segregational in politick? i don't think... making it look nice will not make the belgian choc-makers sense a false deal in hands...

you have to learn one thing about the english,
they're polite, i give them that,
but they're also two-faced hydra-thisted liars...
i once took to liking them,
but after a while: i took to liking them:
by hating them;
  they just became these annoying
gnats of purpose, something you'd
rather shake off, rather than keep.

and like all good western societies -
the history had to be upkept -
    western europe mattered -
eastern europe was... "exotica" -
i love these palm tree jerkers off -
makes me feel right on time with
harrod's shelving oysters...
real bwitish -
        cognac in the congo while
the belgians spontaneously sprang
into the vocals of: aussie aussie!
oi oi oi!

wankers;
i just keep imagining shoving a 100
toothpicks alongside 1000 toenail
clippings up their gobs to prove a
"point", although none would have been
reached.

the **** do you mean foul mouth?
last time i checked you had bigger problems,
via dyslexia... foul mouth that
first.

and to me shakespeare is only macbeth:

open locks,
whoever knocks -

open skies -
whoever cries: a lone wolf -

one in every one of seen stars -
whoever the day unlocks -

open skies,
and with star a breakfast
made, least one, least two,
least one count
worth two passing days
of feud...

open skies,
a sunrise and a set,
twinned culprit of the hour -
upon both the hubris
of unfashionable "concern" -
that they may settle
a least, while gambling
the most of said affair:

      to dear malevolent
search of conquest -
reignite, the revisitation of
the endearing power-laden
desire for:
           kept quest -
of arm in arm -
         with both body,
as too with the shadow -
that medium of contrast.

so much so...
longinus podbipięta*
               herbu zerwikaptur -
to have owned a sword that
cut off three heads of
teutonic knights, and later three
heads of ottoman turks...
to have made that righteous plea
for puritanical reasons -
that medieval rite of honouring
the chaste and the brave...

but in western europe,
no few if either if not any histories
meet within the frameworks of
the three days that history
encompasses:
yesterday, today & tomorrow...

for all i know:
slavic languages have clear syllables -
and even clearer letter to state -
if the prime be french babylonian
muddles - then english follows second -
these are the twin languages of
neo-babylon -
   with their muddled syllable "chemistry" -
they're so unclear in what they "want"
their languages almost resemble
their: women...
    slavic languages are known via
the mongol to have a chinese
ethos of clear: distinct: syllable clarity -
since they possess a clear unit
division of syllables into letters...

seriously... all it took was to ask me:

sh = sz
                 as ch = cz -

                yzwz -

god is a word solely prescribed for
thesaurus rex -
       god is anti-grammatically categorised
as mathematically vector -

   god is not a dictionary word,
it's a thesaurus word....

     its grammatical construct is neither
verb (prayer) nor noun (allahu akbar) -
  
        it's either antonym or synonym...

and by the time i've posted this,
i've drank my *****, ate my moussaka,
and my mexican napkin bread,
and said: hello tomorrow,
hello tomorrow: goodnight.

it's raining, i outstretch my hand in an akimbo pose on a windowsill, capture some rain on the hand, and then, lick it off.

i always seem to word the world in better guise,
when i can encourage a minute or two,
faking being blind,
closed eyes, deaf or rather
  deafened by headphones,
       cackling, trying to make a hyrbid
of fox and hyena in me attempting
a shy laugh...
          i forget when my admiration
for ****** hair began...
probably after i neared November,
and own, started to agitate the wind,
i.e.it started to be brushed by it,
like a long-haired tangle....
          the oddity of experiencing
your ****** hair made real by the wind...
there are
the falcon sheds his wings
to dive for his prey...
                   as any angel might
to caste a magic of embodiment...
the falcon imitates
an arrow, slicing, thriving,
cutting through, reestablishing a
genesis... a let's begrudge an unnecessary
             beginning...
prior to wishing being a father,
prior to asking for a son,
prior to attaining a woman,
i am conscript of metaphor,
              i abhor the literalism
of an egyptian prince, comedy of
the overtly literal *******...
            what i hate deserves hating...
mort poetica is, not, an, answer!
             there was no talking serpent
to begin with,
  there was only your labouring poetry...
ever heard  of *nuance of joke?
   if making life difficult was your answer,
you pillock, numb-whit,
   fine! fine fine!
                        plonkers r us...
tragic!
                   our safe-haven of
class A hillbilly window-cleaners!
     Delboy is my new Goebbel Hoffhessen
trap of a treat...
you quasi cockney squat!
laugh all you want,
i wanna the bending of the 'nee -
                   surds g, anmd the k,
and then the pucker asks:
                w'ah wit dame cockney
                               n' the lost feather....
you playing me potters'?
                             'ucking bride to be
wishy-washy lost oasis mods...
         jerkers off in the trans fannies...
farking bunnies...
calls them the southern bunnies,
quips us better sorter than
the gimmick muzzies of herr mah mah med;
******* dollop of a plonker.
you get bistro nostalgic on me
i'll get holiday happy to be honest,
over hanover,
i know a german loving a gormnan
when i see 'un.
                  last time i told this tale
i was tying a string to a paper tail,
an aeroplane in the the form of
origami...
                    i'll **** one off,
if you ask me nicely, you
******* ire, shh shh,
gingerbread man's worth of a
******* celt pleading for both
ginger & luck...
flip a coin...
  call it a shamrock;
then demand less than the lesser
of all possibles lessened:
the perfectly poured pint
of Guinness... ye' *******
scab of waiting intervention...
   you f'acking kanyan scabbed
sun-stroked-mastering-
of a paint-brush...
       in aiming for a crumb
dedicated to a loaf.
         it's almost funny watching
commentators of today
being so dismissive of poetry
in biblical writing,
   their literal interpretation
of biblical verse is
beyond funny...
                 it's just plain sad,
before they make fun of
the language of an ancient egyptian
prince, i suggest they read
some words of
  ambiguity / poetry...
             who is not to write
imagery, in order to not gauge out
the eyes of readers?!

while making strawberry gelato...

i don't think i ever heard anything this beautiful...
well... vaughan williams'
fantasia on a theme by thomas tallis...
there must have been some other song
that allowed me to cry...
cry? perhaps mourn... mourn beauty...
something so beautiful should only be
wept at...
perhaps there was some other song...
but it's hard to take your pick of tear-jerkers
from the classical music scene...
******* Bach and his polyphonic layer-cake!
it's such a technical music:
it's music that could be written by
deaf people!
oh wait... Beethoven!
Bach's supposed revolutionary act just
destroyed melody...
as much as i like the genre i'm not going to
champion in...
jazz too doesn't get away so easily...
listen to it i might: but feel it: i don't...
i needed to go deeper... further back...
as far back as... the medieval times...
hell... on the cusp of... crusader chants of
the Templars... or to pagan Scandinavia!
- but i have found a contender to put
vaughan williams' fantasia to rest...

el cant de la sibil·la catalunya...
           montserrat figueras
    la capella reial de catalunya
                                                   jordi savall...

even if the music seems... "seems"? i only had
to find out that jordi savall is still alive!
alive... a "contemporary"...
that's the other song that could usurp
vaughan williams' fantasia!

   ola gjeilo - northern lights!

  here we go! back to chanting... melody!
no need to complicate matters...
Schumann or Schubert? Schumann...
wait... i always get those two wrong...
but enough with the Mahler complications!

jeez... jordi savall is still alive...
well... isn't his interpretation on the cantos
of the sibyl of Catalonia a real thrill...
has my tears...
once more! music that makes you feel:
you escape the sensible drudgery of
objectivity and thinking!
to the rawness: the pulp of the heart!
it is nearing a year since someone dear
to me passed away...
today was the first time i managed to thirst
for tears...
prior to? i smashed my head against
the radiator and replied to the inquiry party:
well... this puddle of blood?
it seemed easier to bleed than to cry...
then again... i don't think i was crying
from grief...
death being so: consistent... let alone a constant...
i cry at beauty... authentic beauty chokes me...

music that makes you write something
in Danish!
i don't speak Danish... i suppose all of this
is in the confines of English grammar:

jeg græd: hvordan kan du ikke?
sådan skønhed er altid så en ydmygende sorg...

music that makes you want to drink!
makes you want to drink well into the night!

medieval music... music that's everything
that Bach strived to invent:
music written by complicated deaf & blind men...
music that's like... eating a steak tartar...
or a Turkish lavash...
who would have thought that rosemary
works so well with beef...
or that Turks appreciate the onion so much...
all it takes for the "salad": garnish of the lavash...
it tenderising the onion by squeezing
it to get the juices flowing...
some lemon juice... some salt...
some sugar... pepper... oil...
parsley... sumac... but i also add some
gochugaru...

       beef and rosemary?
i want to be drunk with my lack of ambition...

- with no immediate: yet not lacking in
immediacy: concern...
i do not venture to give collapse to the modern
man's debacle...
as a revisionist... not a reformist...
two labels i like to contest...
it begins... and ends with a critique of music...

the urban sphere is lost...
to the African rhythms and the Asiatic grooves...
hollow out the horns!
i pass these landscapes like i might pass
a tomorrow...
it doesn't change: i am expected to find
the congregation of the whole world
on these shores...
such a crushing defeat of the senses...

i ought to take that prospect of
£50 for a massage from an Asian woman
than... cough up...
£120 for the same hour of *******
and... "proper" eye contact while engaged
with her... genitals to genitals...

i can't bemoan a land that isn't my own...
i can't bemoan a land that isn't my own...
as much as i have acquired
the tongue: i feel a desire to find a home
elsewhere... it wouldn't be the tongue of
my birth... forget Russian...
i tease the German root...
somewhere... else... among the Danes...
but i know the answer already:
i'd sleep best among the Franks...

ha! to speak Russian implies to first write
the ****** version of Greek...
Cyrillic looks just... blatantly awkward...
it seems to be having "problems" with
the lowercase representation
of the uppercase letters...
Cyrillic looks like... ahem: cheap-Greek...
makeshift-Greek...

i.e. you think some people are... sparring
with you: engaging you with...
nukes & submarines & ****...
you aim at the soul...
their language... &... pay them a compliment...
or two... because Cyrillic looks...
by comparison to Greek...

a bit like watching a sacrificial...
Germanic type... mythological blonde...
being sacrificed on an altar of a *******...
take it to: retro... *******: gloryhole...
last time i checked: i did not wish to fulfil
all that's offered to me, by my sexuality...
last time i checked... my mind informed me
something on the lines of:
let's conjure up a... hammer!
& a nail!

            is gelato "somehow" superior to...
ice-cream?
sure as ****... stir-fried: it's easier
to make... l'inglese... beating egg yolks
for a freezing of custard...
but... gelato you make and eat immediately...
ice-cream is perfect for storage...

- i know i will drink this bourbon tonight
and regret two things...
tomorrow's hangover and tonight's:
not have visited a brothel...
warming up to a woman like
a Spartan 300...
all i have is... Gregorian chants
in my ears... i guess... that's enough...
& a squinting of the eyes...
like: i'm supposed to see any better
what is already lost to this
old soul...

- but a language i can, try... & defend...
but do i really want to?
so much & yet so little...
i'm living among these people while wanting
to speak the language of people
not willing to invite themselves to these
shores...

jeg elske: som langt som jeg afsky: mig selv...
all those crippling components
that are supposed to make the: fullest:
of man... myself: my?! my?! perhaps... with-self
ought to be the better pardoning...
but i dare not even have that?

no-i says... can't keep this outdated marriage
of language in place...
conflated the ego: conscripted the self:
to no one's ease!

such people as they are: come-and-go...
           such little ought... befalls them...
no crippling nothing-vacuum
of presence: "thinking"...
        nuance! forever with the *******
nuances! it's not enough that
the dead are dead... have died:
it's not not enough the living are still...
worst than somehow sleeping
through their hour of waking...
when someone might ask them to
snooze... a little... a lot: i ask!

don't implore me to write:
it ought to be a slaughterhouse sort of a...
an... assortment...
it ought to be made... clinially:
critical... precise"
don't ask me to write these words!
i want to have a wife...
a child... children!
stay up till midnight
to make ice-cream for them... for breakfast...

al dette tid!
    but no one to spend it with!
if regrets were all i wrote:
hvis beklager
                     var al jeg skrev...

in mein: tilting Ing-Leash...
so many... so many people here!
i want to escape to my roots!
to my rot!
      i want to feel hot: when i feel:
subsequently cold!

the cats are... happy... i must tend to them:
proper... i eat... 200grams of beef
from time to time...
they eat... the eat amount:
if they eat the said amount...
don't blame me... if they don't eat it
and i throw the meat away...

i write in English... everyone else seems
to write, speak... this... pulverised... this...
horrid, tongue...

der taler det?! alle sammen?!
      all men: thus... summoned...
upon an... implosion! i don't want to know!

i gathered... i gathered...
i... drink like a sailor...
i sing like a nun!  noted... noted...
it's all down in my usual flurry of escapades
that need... noting:
i drink like a sailor... i sing like a nun!

i wish i was sober when i wrote: everything
it is... that i wrote...

this had to be a carlsberg moment
in supermarker shopping,
   just went in for a litre of ***...
huh?
   who's at the check-out?
   i've never seen her before...
       a red blouse,
tight black trousers...
blonde hair, blue eyes...
                  and the blouse?
   let's just say i managed a sneak
peak at heaven...
      and god, that essex accent
that almost east london *** worker
type...
  and she was playing the blonde
***** role...
  oh i don't know how to take off
the security locker on the bottle...
oh i don't know how to work the till...
oh i don't know how to scan the barcode...
time?
            plenty!
                        the image of those
gorgeous tear-jerkers made my night...
the grand canyon can **** itself...
this was the mother of all clefts...
over 20 years in england,
    and not once have i slept with an english
girl... australia, russian,
   thai, french... bulgarian...
                                       afro-saxon...
i'm going to die being constantly
fascinated by english women...
      which is not a bad thing, to be honest...
i think she noticed that i chose
eye contact to be south of her chin -
but **** me, wearing that sort of
open chested blouse that allows
the breast cleft a little cameo moment in
your daily routine?
and **** me, she even wished me
a pleasant evening...
               come to think of it -
   that tiny mole on her left breast was
like a bulls-eye for my eyes...
          honestly, i hope i'll see her again...
and if you ever wondered...
   the completely naked body isn't
actually ******...
          the supreme eroticism is that of
showing accents of flesh,
       the cleft of *******? no. 1
  the collar bone outline including
a woman's neck? no. 2.
         hands... hands hands hands! no. 3...
tennis attire are the best at exfoliating
these features...
                 and as the advert slogan
goes:
          if this was
  the best shopping experience
(and it was), i still wouldn't be buying
a six-pack of carslberg...
        seeing such wonders, you'd go
for something stronger,
      but if carslberg employed
supermarket cashiers...
let's just call this 'un
        a carslbergesque moment.