Three years ago four words crossed the threshold of my ear lobes and hypnotized me into a comatose state. only to be awaken by the sound of their sweet puncturing i rewinded these words with hungry haste
rewind rewind
play
these words swan through my canals
  relaxed as they finally found a home once more;
a home they might have already unpacked in,
                                                            p­erhaps in another life.

As they peeled their cloaks and unfolded into the folds of my lobes they sighed with content,
for my revelation was their new beginning
finally finding meaning once again in a universe where you cant live if you don’t have money,
  a sick sweet sour fabricated fact that penetrates the core of their solar plexis
                                leaving them unholy when the money structure takes over
                                holy when thought towers once again

With the ability of a person to move forward these words do no harm inflated with hope perfection honesty, embracing a utopia,
a now reality that you cant find on your starched TV.

Three years ago four words locked in a brassy compass whispered to me change the way you dream the way you perceive and what you do everyday and make sure you let your feet drag the mud behind you as you tow through the thick swamps of hate on the uprising paddleboat plays of justice.

Without her stark voice without The wandering jewess, Jesus-like Judith playing spells on my ears life would not have found a place where it holds comfort in the tempest.
These words like a shelter are my umbrella
but no ordinary umbrella covers here no,
no this umbrella knows when to open its arms to pour oms down my neck when drops are warm like skin on skin
and sunshine is bold like in black and white stills.

When wine is under trees these words will reflect in the crystalline stream I found in my inner cosmos when I was fourteen.

The people will have risen and Cain will have been banished and lovers will still lie limpid and hungry for the words of the storm eyed woman to ring like bells in towers above their heads again.

They are looking for paradise but they don’t know they are already in paradise, paradise now, paradise is now
They are searching for the words they have already heard they just don’t know what has occurred and sweat drips down their stems as they run in their minds to the revolution that has already freed us from the legacy of Cain.
Not for all,
But for us.
      A revolution of the mind.

These words will wake up sleepers and make the banks run after the money no one cares about.
These words are almost too holy for me to say out loud in only one voice they play and in one voice they say,
“TO DO USEFUL WORK”
Those words sing like they are of the angels like they have wings
Those words take their homes not only in my folds by in the white blood cell donuts of my fingertips, defending me from the ****** that say art cannot be my food.

The wandering jewess, Jesus-like Judith carved those words out of freshwater pears for me to drape around my neck like the arms of an infant crossed over the nursing chest.
My fingers wrap around those words like they are the scripture they are the word of my god cleansed by the salt water winds of wooden ships rummaging for rapture and something more than themselves.


Sometimes, wanderers find a home when alphabet fingerprints find a match to their long lost story

And sometimes, the UV rays hit your lens just right so that you can pass through a prism and come out a rainbow

And sometimes, gumballs come out the color you want,

the one that you patiently cranked for.

I didn't choose to be son of a scared Jew
and angry Irishman

who never laid a hand on her, even when
she turned the butcher knife on him

when he tried to stop her from slashing
her red wrung wrists

this spectacle in plain view of 5 children for whom "woe is the world" was daily refrain

I recall Father's blood trail on the concrete between our house and the neighbor's, a surgeon not expecting a bleeding Sunday guest,

but my mother's madness didn't rest on the Christian Sabbath, nor on her own

after that, the shrinks did their magic: Mom did the Mellaril march, the Haldol hop, the Stellazine stomp, and the less alliterative Thorazine shuffle

none of those chemically induced dances did a thing to increase the chances for my mother's salvation

soon she was behind the locked doors of "Ward 30," where I visited and Mom told me she had found Jesus

a befuddled revelation since I didn't know she was looking for him--her kin had hung him from a cross and taken the heat ever since

the doctors released her to the street, where she made misty retreat to the hills of Saint Francisco's bay

though she found faint solace in Pacific waters, she would never again see her sons or daughters

half a lifetime later, I found a long lost cousin my mother agreed to see, though not with me, for I was too much a reminder of scars which never heal

she sat with Mother near the end of days, sharing silence, the scent of Salisbury steak, and a view of the distant shore

as my patient cousin rose to leave, my mother finally spoke of a sea she watched turn from cerulean to indigo dusk

childhood beaches my mother did recall: the castles she did craft, the crawling ***** she did follow, the sun bathed sand where she made her bed

far from the one where she now lay, the one in which she would go smoothly into the night, perchance returning to blue waters, where hot blood trails cannot follow

The snow was blowing among the trees. In large wet flakes it tumbled down.
My captain turned, as if to speak, but from his lips there came no sound.
A red rose bloomed there on his chest -staining dark the Wehrmacht grey.
I looked in horror as he pitched face forward to the ground.
“******” I yelled and ducked for cover. The copse of trees echoed the sound.

Somewhere out there he awaits; the Devil’s son, the cunning foe.
He’s stalked our party for three days yet leaves no footprints in the snow.
I served in France in Forty –one; before   these Russians were our foes.
I shiver but it’s not from fear; it’s just that we lack winter clothes.
I motion briskly with my right hand, I think the shooter must be there
my corporal nods and starts to move; perhaps he can outflank this man.

My soul is black for I’ve done some things;
  for which I once would have been ashamed.
I saw the Jewess try to shield her babe
as I placed them in a common grave.

This man out there, a warrior; he risks his life upon command.
He is clever, this one, he waits his chance.
Either its him or me that’s dammed.
The drifting snowflakes hide his breath.
But He’s still out there this I know.

My Captain lies still upon the earth
and is slowly covered by the snow.

We are soldiers who risk our lives.
We sacrifice for the Fatherland.
We dream of a woman and a warm bed
Never of Death’s cold clammy hand

My men cry out, the fox is flushed
The ****** has at last been found.

It’s true what they say of the bullet that kills you;
I never even heard the sound.

oh hell, every time i write some embarrassing a day prior, i turn into honour killing from Pakistan enveloped by shame... 'what the hell did i write last night? i can't remember, but i know for sure that i didn't roll down the stairs or **** in a phonebox'. well, i could sit here romanticising like Marcel Schwob, or just dig into like Marquis the Sade... honestly and oddly enough the latter did give me an *******, and he was half-the-pervert that everyone deemed him to be, flashing his buttocks from the Bastille... his uncle abbé de Sadé (i love to put that accent in on purpose - sounds better to me, less boorish) - and yes, Creedence Clearwater Revival does more justice to the harmonica on graveyard train than Bob Dylan and **** Jagger put together... it's just there, and it ain't it's because it's there that makes it... ha ha... groovy - maybe that's why they spared him from the guillotine, in that he wrote more of his exploits as wished to be done, and of the actual exploits too many were hidden in his blabbering prose undone; ****** is by far his greatest work.

i told you the black and red Oranjeboom is a trip, they used to sell it at 8.5%, now they dropped it to 7.5... that beer can get you crazy in nanoseconds, quicker than a formula 1 crown jewel of a Mercedes-Benz, i'm serious, the ****'s lethal - you drink with me you'll be talking l.s.d., you'll end up a Mongol somewhere in Siberia, stark naked in minus forty saying the words: 'where's my umbrella? where's my umbrella?', indeed on repeat... 'and that yak? i was riding a yak... where's the yak?' we have European bisons to await you colonel... 'about time, i was waiting for a bison... isn't that the place where storks migrate to to make butter over the summer? and the Jews hid when the Black Plague was sweeping across Europe leaving them immune in the vicinity of Cracow?' yes it was, Herr Mascherschtic-Messerschmitt -
'who's on the oboe? and the soloist violinist?' we don't know, working it out, 'you better, because i don't really long for a drum-beat of knocking two stones together to spark anything but fire, rather, a conversation; 40 days in the desert with Jesus trying to relocate the Jews to Goa worked out so splendid that they moved North, started speaking riddle Hebrew that's Yiddish and followed suit with ****** being gassed, but instead of trenches, death chambers - people tend to forget he was himself gassed and dated Eva a Jewess... no far right assimilation, i spoke with a grandpa that asked for sweets from an SS-man and a great-grandmother who fed her daughter opiates to hush her on the eastern front so she wouldn't cry - sometimes stating a self-consciousness detached from thinking (the inhibitor of existence) is as random as a lottery - because it's just that, thought is an inhibitor of existence, being is an exhibitor of the (sic) stated - oh please don't read me if you're into ******, i'm with the bookworms and freaks, premature ejaculators and whatnot, go eat a ******* macaroon in Morocco or something - of all the admirable circumstances worthy a stage thinking isn't really allowed, it's not exactly glorified, in two sentences:
- *i thought about it             (how two pronouns
                                               interact without Freud,
                                               or meet, or are the proton i
                                               neutrons thought about
                                               and the electrons it)...
it's a permanent duality of expressing something and anything,
we need the first person, the eyes give it away,
but in the end we're either touching an axe to chop
down a tree or attaching ourselves to a detachment of
chopping the tree down for the Freudian third it -
it's no longer a game of 'you're it!' tagging of
the kindergarten game but a work of fiction, transitions
like that must be painful - third person narratives are
generally conceived from being lazy in the first person,
how many people do you actually need to **** the poet off?
film credits: and it's a long list, mind you.
oh yeah, that word: dzwiękać - it's about making 0.1% of
a Mozart symphony with two stones smacked against
each other for what the feet used to do, a drumbeat,
it's not exactly an act of Prometheus' Odyssey into
the first glimpses of chemistry -
alternatively?
- i am it / or some alternative to something even more alternative,
  in the French school of thought dubbed deconstructionism
  that's also a blah blah reduction,
  Bruce Springsteen and Frank Sinclair, a slum-dunk
  by the Lakers - it's still supposed to mean that i intended
  the phonetic encryption, i visualised nothing for
  you to follow-up on, sounds, poetry isn't cartoon,
  the harsh reality of having to read the Mandala of
  mouth expressions without, eye, eyebrows or cheeks
  or chin - ends up being dentistry when you want to
  say a but end up adding a            h     while
  the dentist inserts a blunt object into your mouth for
  an ah (be my guest, macron or umlaut depending
  on the volume of your lungs added to the a for reasons
  of reality's prolonging the seance of rotten teeth).
what i meant was the notion that thought is a different
type of being, or expression of out of every instance -
thinking too much won't grant you access to
people who say: 'are bored with their *** life. especially
gay men, who 'see *** as something you have to do
while on drugs'. so once **** no reassurance with
forever ****? **** it! could have given it a one-over
back when i didn't have a monkish demur.
well i can admit i'm jealous, but i just remember *******
before puberty and feeling the muscle sensation and
seeing no *****, aged 8 - the ******* help, and incubator
for all that raging monotheistic operatic harem wanton -
it's still a balancing act writing a sentence,
you are basically juggling two words, both are pronouns -
you throw a boomerang, you throw it as yourself
and expect it to come back as yourself,
pristine, juvenile, ******, intact with a pride of being
a person not influenced by others... the origin of
Columbus... it doesn't work like that,
the boomerang ends up like a windscreen with
several bugs attacked to it, bugs like Kant, like Heidegger,
whoever... whatever, free-love **** *** is overrated for me,
the ******* build-up and the flashing lights and whatnot,
i approach *** like a lumberjack a tree,
axe, tree, chop chop, tree falls... i'm out after an
hour having paid £110 for the pleasure... so you can take
your little feminism into the annals for these free-love
festivals (burning man in Nevada, killing kittens
in the hamptons etc.), preach there, leave me and my loser
****** high libido crew in the shadow of the crucifix -
judgemental ******* - i never expected so much stigma for
giving an ****** that i paid for to give, it's like an
Albert Camus novel, or worse, his life,
paid for a train ticket but decided to travel to the desired
destination by car, dead in a car-wreck - Irony with an ism.

woman's tennis is always more entertaining than the men's one-on-one, there are more rallies, more play in general, it's not one of those premature ******* stereotypes of a serve >110mph, or three-touch tennis... plus you can just imagine a clean-version of some shady *****, but with maria sharapova suspended... it's gone a bit quiet.

a beautiful day at Wimbledon, a ****** day up in the north east -
calm the nerves, calm the nerves,
go for a walk to buy whiskey and don't
look at the finálé of the Portugal v. Poland
game (yes, that's how i painted the
syllables in, like i manged to get a *sh sound
in Greek, linguistic surgery, i.e.
σ-                       -χ-                  -ι-                   -τ
sigma                chi                  iota                ­tau
s-                        -h-                -i-                ­   -t         used
-igma                 c-i                   -ota                -au     not used)
i would say cheese grater either - you cut the buggers
up, it's a real mean anatomic revelry to mind what
to use, what to snip off, some might say a fashion
statement - or one of those fairy-tale moments
in variations of Cinderella - in the more gruesome variations
the two horrid sisters have their heels cut off,
or their big toes, they put the glass slipper on
and blood starts oozing out - i'm sure i've seen that
variation on the tale; beside the point,
the neighbours were supposed to get a new fence,
the fence installers called yesterday asking for my neighbour's
phone number, apparently they didn't have it,
phoned today, neighbour comes back with her worries,
a scheming ***** by the looks of it,
doesn't want a new fence, a woman, play three men against
each other - a Jewess recently converted to Islam
(never mind that, i like colour, i hate bleaching
people or stripping them bare to a "respectable"
ennui of defining them by pronouns alone,
if someone identifies themselves as... whatever...
i identify them also... there isn't going to be a a blank
canvas of respectable leftist or whatever language here
just like you wouldn't heave the earth by simply
stating it's an orb, would you now?) -
it's her fence and yet i'm talking and later my father
to the person about to put it up - in England
it's like in Hong Kong - you honk honk clockwise,
not anti-clockwise, the fence to my left is mine,
the fence to my right... ain't...
it ends up being a furore - i'm angry, my father's angry,
Poland just lost - but when i'm angry and don't
write my rage into poetry i enter into an autistic simulation,
i don't make eye-contact, i'm not angry with the
person i'm gesticulating to, an autistic virtuoso of
sharp tongue averted eyes - pretty much a Steptoe and Son
scenario - it ends up being a case of finding one email
(that doesn't exist) among 220 containing a supposed
phone-number... god... why did you endow me with
enough patience to enter relationships with women?
never mind, forget i even i asked that -
the ******* is your answer, i admire that conviction,
why would you ******* if you didn't have one?
being circumcised you definitely need a *******,
being circumcised and still ******* is pointless,
waste of the revision, Judaism, Christianity and Islam
thrown in together - that was the warning
to Abraham about to circumcise (rather than
sacrifice, Victorian polite society is done, gone) Isaac,
don't do it... now you need a constant sparring partner,
oh yeah, and here are some rules: 613 minor commands
in Judaism, 5 times a day prayers in Islam,
and this ****** comedy version of atheism in Christianity:
i'm sure atheists don't congregate -
i guess you need a plan-β - given the fact that the mere
idea of god is ****** into us, you still end arguing
and either / or off Kierkegaard -
for some it's a necessity to pursue ritual -
for other's it's a necessary means of writing books
and earning a backpack's worth of wages... win win
whichever side you choose.

I am ******* by incessant talk centered on the craven Jerry Lewis
whose fat-**** wife is what's-her-name, that unshaven, hairy Jewess

and so the syrian "samaritans", as the twin satans rose against king solomon's profundity in praying for wisdom but only unearthing the woad pigment for his people on their faces, striking a river-flow where no water should have abounded for them to congregate, yet congregate they did, as immigrants, to a flow of awaiting mingling of metaphors, such that the amassed people turned into a river, winding northward into the womb of the holocaust; and among many the lament, while sylvia took to expressing a stoic end, ending it all by amassing a respectable readership... she still reminds me of Eva Braun... who, after all, geneticists proved to be a Jewess - indeed that twinning of dichotomies against the practical linear expression of reincarnation disproved - the linear parallels of: one life, one life, this world; that, whatever that is, you name it god, you name it heaven, you name it hell... forget that, take hold of this.*

i am fasting all day,
but i drink,
i get the calorie intake
of fire first,
then i stuff my stomach
like geese or turkeys for
slaughter;
apparently i'm purified
that way;
no, i don't take lovers,
i take prostitutes into
the garden...
less hassle; they're like socks,
i'm the shoes with
that magnetised quote:
never judge a man by his shoes,
or try to wear them;
you might get a hex of excess
skin - basically wear your own
and leave a river of echoes where
you might.

I once had a love affair
With Shakespeare
From Nick Bottom's fuzzy ***
To Launce Gobbo in the know
And feisty Feste crooning a Jewess

Then a new direction
R&J breaking rules
Pants on a Shrewess
Two Gents Rockin' 'bout Sylvia
Bleachers, lights and stage
A comedy, no Error, then
Tempest, the Next Generation
Prospero in 2314AD.

Yep. All of them:
Complete works! (abridged)
Before I left the park.

A gap in time before
Darkly pierced prince
Mourning loss of mother
Ends the affair.

A Jewess of Nazareth, city of Galilee

Alongside Joseph, soon to be espoused

Descendants of David, humbly poor

Calibre in carpentry, provide for his bride

To Mary an angel would arrive

Words of the angel Gabriel, she will bring forth a son

A sovereign Saviour of the world

Mary blessed and highly favoured

To bear the chosen one, both ruler and King

Yet surprising, afar woman of old

Elizabeth of Judah, a promise to unfold

For she would soon be with child too

Nothing is impossible for God to do

Be it unto him, in accordance to the word

Leaping babe of thy womb, promise arise

A secret to rejoice, beyond angelic voice

A journey to Nazareth

Joseph’s divine dream

Awareness anew, a promise to be true



Written by Geraldine Taylor ©

Eminent city of Persia, long live the King

A youthful Jewess, of parents passed

Resettled in her cousin’s home, under Mordecai’s care, as his own

To womanhood, the becoming of

The palace of Persia shall hold a feast, proud men shall gather

Prominent presence, echoes of entertainment

A heedless king of too much wine, a request for his Queen to dine

Such instruction declined

Continued unaligned, to behold of her beauty

Of customs contrary, of directions unwise

To dwell in the kingdom, yet to be replaced

In such haste, a queen no more

A closing door, seek out the best

Search through the kingdom

Esther before the King – be seen

To become Queen

Place a royal crown, inner restoration found

Mordecai as watchman, seated at the gate

Heard whispers of a plot against the King

Queen so informed, in Mordecai’s name

The guilty found, punished accordingly

Long life of the King

Mordecai unacknowledged

Notwithstanding kindness to him



Written by Geraldine Taylor ©

As a slick fairy accuses, wig-hairy Jewess pig Jerry Lewis got Peter
Lawford slapped about 'tween fartin' with crapped-out Dean Martin

I am ******* by incessant talk centered on the craven Jerry Lewis
whose fat-**** wife is what's-her-name, that unshaven, hairy Jewess