you asked me to come:it was raining a little,
and the spring;a clumsy brightness of air
wonderfully stumbled above the square,
little amorous-tadpole people wiggled

battered by stuttering pearl,
                                leaves jiggled
to the jigging fragrance of newness
—and then.  My crazy fingers liked your dress
….your kiss,your kiss was a distinct brittle

flower,and the flesh crisp set
my love-tooth on edge.  So until light
each having each we promised to forget—

wherefore is there nothing left to guess:
the cheap intelligent thighs,the electric trite
thighs;the hair stupidly priceless.

In the world of lines and curves,
I was questioned at the doorstep,
"Are you a line or a curve?",
I decided I was a curve, and they let me in in the group of curves.
Somebody asked, "Why is your curve not curvier? You must go to the lines instead."
I said, "Fair enough", and moved over to the group of lines.
Somebody said again, "You are too crooked to be a line. Go away!"
Disappointed, I realized I had nowhere to go.
There was no group for me. I was a curvy, crooked line.
I was a "******".

Then,
Along came a curve, and a line,
They were curious of what it would mean to push their boundaries.
So I asked them to hold hands.
And suddenly I realized I was not alone.
I held their hands too, and we were transformed,
We wriggled and jiggled, and broke our molds,
And formed a perfect circle.
From our imperfections.
Now I belonged somewhere.
And I am not a "******" anymore.

Adios England's Venus flytrap
May you ever overflow inside our rectums
You were the ornament that inserted itself
Where spunks were pelted to pieces
You ******* in the open air to our promontory
And you squirted to those inside *******
Now you reciprocate to Abraham's *****
And the black holes crack spew out your barber's pole

And it seems to me you tasted your *****
Like a cigarette lighter in the diarrhoea
Never drooping with knobs on the cherry lips
When the ooze congeal within
And your smells will always regurgitate here
Along England's juiciest blast—offs
Your cigarette lighter's exploded spew out long before
Your whiff ever go the whole hog

Voluptuousness we've jiggled
These frenzied wombs of time needing your clenched fist
This lava lamp we'll always get pregnant
For our breed's fair—haired brats
And even though we have a finger in
The clean breast seduces us to moistness
All our foghorns cannot ****
The ecstasy you stimulated us throughout the age groups

Peace! God’s Peace upon you all! The Bishop blessed
The dyed-young congregation: dyed fathers ‘n mothers,
Grandpas ‘n grannies, great-grandpas and great-grannies.
The demons of decadence--Hair dye, ****** and Spirits –
Chuckled and giggled, crouching well under the pulpit.

Dyed gurus ‘n financiers, dyed lawyers, doctors n’ nurses,
****** entrepreneurs and ****** entertainers, dyed judges
Dyed ‘n spirited evangelists, priests and vergers on ******
Peace be upon thee all! Blessed the Bishop from the pulpit.
Now, the demons in the hiding iterated and reiterated it.

A Sunday spirited chat—all smiles! -- in the church portico:
The ******-dyed banker in later life smiled a dyed smile
At the elderly dyed mother of three; and she said: they say,
In spite of my age, you know, I look so young and pretty!
And the thick flanks under her chin jiggled in approbation.

The ****** great-grandpa said to the dyed Justice of spirits:
Milord, they say: “The stuff brings cancer;” Fools! Idiots!
“The gloves—the ******-like device—that’s our safety!”
“Milord! This trinity wizard, they bring a million crores
To the exchequer of this famished democracy, milord!”

“Milord! The nature lovers say, we wash billions of bottles
Of these magic stuffs into their rivers and the seas, milord!”
“They say we all-- dyed ****** men-- are sissies and doofuses!”
“Milord! Our tubby women dye young, lest they’d be labelled
Mammy, Granny, Grandma, Old Granny, the decrepit ‘n that!

Now, the dyed media reported: father mated with his daughter,
Mother with a teenager, grandpa with an infant; and Ministers,
MLAs, MPs—all spirits-******-dyed-- are in a ******* spree!
Now the Dark Trinity cried “Wow! In this world of ******,
The Kingdom, the Power and the Glory--all are ours! Amen!

There once was a world
that stood on it's head

and wriggled and jiggled
and shook out the dead

and shook off the living
and all of their stuff

'til nothing was left
in it's pockets but fluff,

'til nothing was left
but a world upsidedown

that shakes in the wind
as it's spinning around

like a ragged old lady
with thin and threadbare

clothing she's no
longer willing to share..

By Bob Englehart
(based on a true story)


Ben Hogan was the strongest man.
The game had ever seen,
The purest golfer in the world,
Who’d ever graced a green.

He had one dream and only one:
To play a perfect round,
Eighteen glorious holes-in-one
Before he’s in the ground.

One day a wealthy patron,
The richest man in town,
Said “Ben, I’ll tell you what I’ll do,
If you play that perfect round.

I’ll give you a million dollars,
More than fifty grand a stroke.
If you can do what no man’s done.”
Said Ben “Is this a joke?”

“Let’s do it now” the man said.
“Lets have a little fun.”
“OK”, said Ben.  “I’ll get my clubs.”
And they walked to number one.

He put his ball down on the tee,
The turf was Kentucky Blue.
He squared his body to the plane,
And swooped his follow-through.

Oh, he started on the first one,
And heaved his mighty whack!
It rolled onto the high side
And dribbled in the back.

The next one was a dogleg,
He waved the crowd away,
The gallery was silent now,
The trees began to sway.

A little breeze had risen up,
He put his club back in,
And took out something with less loft
And a little more backspin.

He hit it with a wallop!
It carved into the wind,
It chose a path below the wrath
And bounced and rolled.  It’s in.

The third one was a downhill,
With water on the left,
A line of trees behind the stream
And sand traps hard and wet.

Ol’ Ben let go a low one,
It swallowed up the air,
And blew right through an apple tree,
A peach tree and a pear.

That ball had so much on it,
Though it hardly did rise up,
It scattered rocks and leaves and dust
‘Til it rolled into the cup.

Its cover had unraveled,
Ben bent to lift it out.
He gave it to his caddy
Who gave a mighty shout.

Number four and five the same,
Perfection every shot,
Six through nine were ones apiece.
He was thirsty now and hot.

Number ten, the toughest hole
The golf course had on tap,
A double-dogleg, raised up green,
And a bunker called The Trap.

The Trap was a crater in the ground,
With a rope to climb on down,
And a flashlight on the bottom sand,
By a skull some golfer’d found.

Ol’ Ben just squinted skyward,
And lifted up his chin,
“I want to try to make this shot
Before the darkness settles in.”

He came down through that golf ball,
With a smile of purest pleasure,
And it headed for The Trap at speeds
Impossible to measure.

It dipped into the chasm,
And headed for the gloom,
It plunged down deep in the abyss
‘Til it hadn’t any room.

It hit the skull like a bullet,
Some bone was blown clean off,
Out the top of the Trap it flew
And lined up with the moss.

It rolled two hundred yards or so,
And headed for the cup,
And dropped in with a gentle plop
With its logo facing up.

Eleven, twelve and thirteen,
Were handled much the same,
You couldn’t hold a candle to him,
When Ben was on his game.

The next four holes were all alike,
The ones that came before,
All holes-in-one were on his card,
No twos were on his score.

He strolled up to the eighteenth tee,
His heart was beating loud.
He put his fingers to his lips,
And quieted the crowed.

The last one was a short one,
A straight-ahead par three
There were no hazards anywhere,
No sand trap, pond or tree.

“This should be a snap, ol’ sport”
The patron said as he looked.
He reached into his pocket,
And got out his checkbook.

Ben hit the ball without a tee,
A divot flopped in front,
The ball flew forward to the rough
Like a major-leaguers’ bunt.

It straightened out and bounded for
The cup which was dead ahead,
His target clearly right on line,
“Draino,” the patron said.

But deep inside that little hole,
In the center of the green,
A bug was singing courtship songs
That filled the round ravine.

And on the edge…above him,
His girl bug sat and giggled,
And fluttered sixteen eyelids
Her antennae bobbed and jiggled.

The ball snuck up behind her,
It didn’t see her charms,
And it knocked her off the slippery edge
Right into her boy bug’s arms.

The ball stopped when it hit her.
It wouldn’t moved an inch.
The patron’s eyes popped real wide,
Ben Hogan didn’t flinch.

Ben couldn’t know the truth of it,
He only knew he failed.
He took it all upon himself,
And stomped the ground and wailed.

Other dreams would have to wait.
He couldn’t rest until
He turned around and headed back
To the first tee on the hill.

They say his ghost’s still out there
And on moonlit nights you’ll hear
The pounding of his irons
Against the dimpled sphere.

I ate too much for breakfast today
And lunch was spent wondering if I should slip away
Wondering if I should go back for seconds
**** it, why not?
My feet jiggled nervously under the table
Trying to think of an excuse to leave
Trying to figure out how much the barbeque chicken pizza would hurt on the way back up
Trying to figure out how much I’d regret it
Trying to figure out if my body was okay
My self esteem balloons up and down
Somedays I look in the mirror and like what I see,
Think I look cute and quirky in my glasses and skirt,
Think my body is almost okay
And then like black crossing over to white, like a light switch flipped on
No inbetween
All of the sudden I am ugly
My body takes up too much space
Loving myself, loving this body seem like an impossible feat
The little critic in my head is back
And he wants to move back in,
I’m not cured
Recovery is not about loving your body
Recovery is accepting it
I’m still working on that
The calculator in my head wakes up,
Regenerates every time I’m around  food
My hands still hover over the diet soda before forcing myself to pick something that scares me more
I still have to bargain in my brain
Eat a salad so I can eat ice cream and cookies
Skip lunch so I can have a big dinner
Strip naked in front of a full mirror,
Watch my body standing up, bending over, sitting
Grabbing, pinching, prodding, poking
Surveying this piece of meat
This thing
This body
That I know I need to be kind to
I weighed myself for the first time in almost a year
My toe lingered over the cold surface of a scale
Like a child about to dip his feet into water
I knew standing on that scale could drag me under
And I did it anyway
Loving myself is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done
When self hatred has been tamped into my soul
When my eating disorder was the only thing I good at
This secret lover, the most attentive one you could have
Took my hand and showed me how an empty stomach could feel like love
My eating disorder was my best friend,
The abusive relationship I kept going back to,
The most interesting thing about me,
The thing that was killing me
Having an eating disorder is easy;
Allowing yourself to slip into a disease out of your control
Having someone else make all your decisions
Your life reduces itself to the numbers on the scale
The slipping numbers on the scale assure me that everything is alright
But I can’t live like that
Having an eating disorder is easy;
Recovery is hard

caught a young lady staring at me
one morning; with a look that said  
I want you, but, I was with my wife;
she was beautiful and I thought to
myself, if, I wasn't married I lick her lips

then...

the next day went to the supermarket,
and there we caught each others eye; I
couldn't look away, she winked with a ****
smirk, under my breath I had to repeat
I love my wife

but...

that didn't stop me from wanting to flirt;
every time she moved her buttocks jiggled,
inwardly I cupped her jiggle and she giggled
moving closer; her scent hypnotic to say the least,
calling me to touch her taut *******

which...

sent a ripple up my spine and my mind whined,
but, the vision of my wife popped in my head as
I saw myself sliding one finger at a time across
her luscious behind; wanting to wine and dine,
her movements were about to blow my mind;

again inwardly drooling...

I cut a corner in the produce aisle to settle my
ache, I felt lust showing all over my face
I followed her down each aisle acting like I was
looking for something and bumped into
her on purpose, just to get another whiff of her
scent, for a man I blushed flustered; stumbling
over my words saying excuse me

in the meantime...

I wanted to just taste her full lips; run my hands
through her long curly locks, she turned towards
me saying it was ok

but...

my wife popped in my mind again, I blinked twice;
fore, she had no clue of what I wanted to do to her,
mentally and physically, if, I didn't have a wife; she'd
never knew to this day I still salivate whenever I see
her, she was definitely a sight to behold but, she
wouldn't give me the time of day, especially, after
seeing me with my wife

anyway, a man can daydream

"let's be still"
Blared through comforting headphones
"No, no, let's dance, let's dance"
The little tendrils jiggled in anticipation
"let us join that glorious dance"
But no, 'tis not the time
Though the energy rises
And yearning, yearning, yearning
My heart does cry
- too soon! Too soon!!!
Jumping into a dance
With one foot
Does not bide well for any dancing partner
The little tendrils sighed
- but may continue to grow
Time over time over time
The blood will settle in this wound
Coagulate
Cover over
And soon
- time over time over time
Fall off to reveal shiny new
And stronger, much stronger
And the dance will be all the sweeter
Devouring
Let's be still
Let's be still
Oh still my beating, acheing, yearning heart!
**** it!
Won't you still!

I am distracted by
my love for you girl from
California
Who thrived on the needle..
the drip drip of bliss supreme I
see your passion for
all things living
a spirit was never known to
be more free
your ever-so-***** blonde
hair
soft against my touch the
way your cheeks
jiggled
as we played
the constant journeys
to
    and
fro
you would always go...
but you always came back

Lisa was carefully pulling a strand of cotton candy off a paper-coned “barbe à papa” - winding it around her finger while absentmindedly gazing at a carousel. She seemed hypnotized by its white horses, trimmed in gold, with their brassy red and blond manes, as they hopped, like slow-motion rabbits, in circles beneath wreaths and garlands of colored lights.

My watch jiggled me awake, mid-dream. I was bemused. It took me a moment to orient myself. I groggily pushed the sheets off and performed a big stretch. It's Monday morning, I think. “Alexa, what’s today?” I ask, to be sure. “It’s Monday, April 25th,” she says.

A beautiful, if cloudy spring morning was going to bloom on the other side of my jacobian glass windows - any minute now. At least according to my weather app. “Alexa, good morning,” I say, to start my rattling, sputtering, steampunk sounding coffee maker.

College time is warped, measured more in deadlines than minutes. There’s no plan other than your class or test schedule and let me refresh you on the rules – there are no rules, I’m free to do whatever I want. I actually chuckle at that thought.

College is transformative but there’s a hoary sameness to it. Read, discuss, review and test - wash, rinse and repeat. This morning is reserved for test review. I have a final this morning - well, sort of.

Some classes have a quintet of tests instead of a big midterm and nerve-racking final. It smooths out the stress, but you still have an almost forensic exploration of ideas, and you want the answers queued-up, ready for easy access.

I quickly washed and donned my workout-wear. A glance at my watch told me I was right on time. I’d loaded my shoulder bag last night, with my book, highlighters, my phone, Air-Pods and a water bottle. I grab it as I head out. I’ll do my review on the treadmill.

Anna opens her door just as I do mine - perfect. We’re off to the gym.

I. Sincerely
To the girl that decided
my time
wasn't worth hers.

II. Declarations
I love you.
I miss you.
I care about you.

III. Present
All I wanted was your
presence,
but you consistently
faded.

IV. Attachment
You wanted me unattached,
but being unattached
I walk away.

V. Conditionally Unconditional
My conditions are
presence
loyalty.
Sorry I lied about unconditional.

VI. Someone
You've got time for someone.
Not me,
but for someone.

VII. Simply Enough
I cannot give my time
for those who do not.

VIII. Giving
You can't ever
get
what you're not willing
to give.

IX. Complete
I love wholly.
I don't switch.
It's all
or nothing.

X. Home
I tasted home upon your lips
where you tasted distance.

XI. Lost
I lost a home.
Another place
I called my own.

XII. Closed Doors
I knocked.
I jiggled the ****.
No one ever answered.

XIII. Small Chapters
I was a page to you.
You were a chapter.

XIV. Discarded
A book forgotten upon a floor.
Pages torn, Chapter 1.

XV. Poetry
I turned you into poetry.
That's what you wanted,
right?

XVI. Past
I will write about you
long after you've been gone.

XVII. Self-Worth*
I may have lost you,
but you lost me too.

TABLE DANCING

The family were sat at the table.
Dinner was served.
They picked up their knives,
they were coated with honey.
Picked up their peas,
Flicked them over the trees.
It was alfresco,
And they sat in the sun.
Naturally having bundles of fun.

The wasps invaded the honey clad knives,
Drove the men crazy,
as well as their wives.
Piles of sarnies, gracing the table,
With lettuce, tomatoes, and thin sliced cucumber.
Complete with slices of fresh cream cake.
Thought they'd try dancing,
"Bring on Swan Lake".

They all wriggled and jiggled upon the green grass,
the ballet got boring,
so they changed the beat,
now they're doing the rumba instead.
It wasn't the dance they hoped it would be.
So it turned into romance under the tree.

They sent the youngsters off to the shop,
so the time was theirs to bunny hop.
(c)Livvi

Fiddling with filing, as she stood by the cabinet.
Smiled discreetly, as both their eyes they met.
He undressed her with his eyes.
While she fiddled with his flies.
Grabbing hard at true perfection.
Knowing,  now there's no rejection.
Fking perfection.

Her lips, they smacked him fiercely.
****** spontaneity.
He responded with passion.
At work, of course, never in fashion.
He slammed shut the door.
As they rolled on the floor.
Hell, he responded.
For he had absconded.
Escaped today's parliamentary debate.

The honourable member of the house.
Fked his secretary.
Never his spouse.
In a rash moment, she wriggled and jiggled attached to the end of his powerful finger.
Waiting expectantly, for manhood to enter.
She did it for free, cos no-one would rent her!
The rolled about on the solid oak floor.
Bumping and ******* with wonderful wails.
Those footsteps came banging  down the hall.
As secretary # two came to call.
She listened to screams of positive pleasure.
Turned her on buckets.
She didn't knock.
Peeped through the keyhole watching his ****.
Wanted to play too.
She really did.
Didn't dare knock.
So she listened some more, for a moment or two.
Thought of his ****.
Then she wandered into the loo.
Gave herself an ******.
Like no other, better than a real lover!
Never played at work before.
The parliamentary freaking *****!
She wriggled and jigged while she fiddled, did she get very wet?
You bet!
(c) Livvi

They collected cockles on the seashore,
Purely for their crunchy shells,
To decorate the rockery, in the flower garden,
They were washed up in abundance,

The rock pools alive with shrimp things,
And worms, that wriggled and jiggled, all twisted and turned.
The rocks round the edges were slippery and slimy,
Crabby creatures were kind of nippy, as was the water of spring time tides,
And the **** of the sea, predicted the weather,
Again, their predictions, they were never ever right.

Youngsters with nets, collected their pets,
Poor little pool fish, destined to die,
In an old preserve jar,
Left on the side in the kitchen,
The one with mid-brown melamine,
Under the cupboard, by the door,
Mummy keeps *******,
She never wants sea fish alive in her kitchen,
Mummy never made their flamboyant offspring, set them free,
The fishes day out died,
Minute silver things, skirting about,
Too small to even splash.
Kids curiosity got them, as down the loo they slipped,
Dead fish, on the sewer dash, repatriated to the sea.
(C) Livvi

It shouldn't break my grounding,
Muscle under blubber under skin.

But I feel sworn into a secret club

It wasn't for lonely virtual lust
(mostly)
I just needed to remember.

I stared at that skin soft as mine
Goose bumped as mine
Folded
Bulging
*****
Curving
Jiggled
****
Unsightly
So many categories it can be tricky.
How do I know if this body was posted as beauty
Or horror?

I'm part of that club.
LIVING ORGANISM.

I used to starve myself for him
I would go days without eating because
I wanted to look like the posters of women in their underwear
he had hanging in his bedroom
I would make excuses as to why I could never
go eat with him at a restaurant
I didn't want him or the world to see me as a pig
I would make myself sick trying to look good for him
My hair wasn't thick anymore
His mom used to make comments about my face sinking in
I had to wear more makeup to cover up the dark circles
that began to form under my eyes
I made sure my arms never jiggled
I didn't care that my hands hurt all of the time
I was able to go without wearing a bra because
my ***** were disappearing
I could see my hip bones perfectly
My thigh gap made me smile
Exercising became addicting and
anything involving weight loss was all that I spent money on
*** was great
I never worried about hurting him while being on top
because I was small
Pregnancy wan't a concern because lack of eating
took away my menstrual cycle
I never felt pretty unless I got his approval
I did everything I could to look good for him
To be good enough for him
Two years of this insane unhealthy roller coaster
only to be cheated on and broken up with before my favorite holiday
I starved myself for him
and still that wasn't good enough

To all the skinny girls who think they are fat, I want to ask you a question. When was the last time you saw a dress you wanted, but you couldn't wear it because it was way too small? When was the last time your arm jiggled and drooped to where you can grab a fistful of skin? When have you seen stretch marks litter your skin? When have you had to take off stockings because your thighs rubbed a hole in them or because you got a bad burn? When have you been able to hold your own stomach? Yet some of you will say try exercising if you don't love your own skin. When you're chunky like me, you can't because you get ridiculed. The jerks will say "run faster ******!", "Ew hide your ugly *** from me", "look at that thing trying to exercise". People ridicule you when you stay fat AND when you're trying to lose it. They still judge you, yet some will admire you. However it's the same everywhere. It's almost like a common plague that haunts you. Then you turn to food because food doesn't judge you. Food makes you feel safe. Yet it isn't. It's killing us as well. Nowadays you are scared of food because of what's in it. Why don't you get liposuction or other weight loss surgeries? It doesn't solve the problem, it's a temporary thing that can easily go back to original and even worse when you don't do exercise. Leading to another viscous cycle of people judging you again. To those of you who have lost weight and changed your lives, congrats you made it. To those of you who judge us, at least stop doing it when we're trying to change it and exercise. To those skinny girls who think they're fat, a lot of us wish we can be you and wish we can wear those dresses or clothes you wear. To us obese women, you can change your life if you want to. I apologize when I say fat. It's just that it's a word that will continue to hang onto us. It's your choice but someone needed to say this to inform others. Someone needed to be a voice to this problem. I'm tired of inconsiderate people who makes fun of us. I'm tired of idiots trying to pull us down. So good luck to you all and may we finally shed some light onto the blind people that refuse to see our own problems. I apologize if I offend anyone, I don't mean to. I just want you all to see that there is a problem.

so these cowboy roofers are currently
refurbishing my roof with new tiles...
it started raining like a ******* this
night... and they evidently ******
something up... so much for the
"protestant work ethic"...
     last time i checked the catholics were
more dutiful...
          i had rainwater coming from the ceiling...
towels! ****! bring me towels!
             so that worked... for about 10 minutes
before the towels were soaked in rainwater...
   i went into the kitchen and sat akimbo
   and like elijah cognitively "prayed": please...
let it stop raining!
            it didn't stop, so i had to take to
auxiliary measures...
      first it was a large *** stuffed with
                                   kitchen paper, so that it might
fall padded by the paper into the ***...
            expecting the rain to fall way into
the day i took a sieve and stuffed it with kitchen
paper...
             then i took a glass "jug" that might
entertain flowers and placed it into the sieve
that was resting on the cooking ***...
                 then i thought: give it an hour, give it
an hour...
                  sessioned myself to jerking off...
       so much for prayer... the rain stopped...
                 went into my bedroom to look at the damage...
towels gone, soaking wet hanged on
the washing line...
                  it was only a droplet "waterfall"...
i should have listened to it, to get the "heartbeat"
rate of the droplets of water falling into glass...
            that thing that happened today? London-town?
i didn't hear about it until the 9pm news...
           for some reason i felt this giant
kraken-like demand for gravity pulling me into
my bed for the entire day...
               "protestant" work "ethic"...
  ******* made a hole in my roof, my room is streaming
water into my warm privacy and i'm supposed
to argue: the "protestant work ethic"... the ****?
           england imported former communist state
workers... because the ******* in their
homeland just turned lazy, cranked up some
caribbean vibes and jiggled themselves into
a ******* wheelchair, all of them pretending:
   i'm as smart as stephen hawking! d'uh!
and so ***** the seagull the d'uh impression for retards.
      there's no other way for it!
that's what billy oh'really said about: the name of allah...
that's tautology! you just said two names
  and forgot about the entity!
                          if it ain't there... then i'm going to say:
we really didn't excavate dinosaur bones
    and store them in the museum...
                 tautology! you de-categorised two words
that belong in the same category! nouns! names!
         the nerd in me, ah...
                    ******* impressive contraption by the way...
a ***... kitchen el dorado of paper (one sheet! ****!)
  a sieve and then this glass "shard" you'd put
flowers into... by the way... this existential "       " =
i'm really too ****** to look for accurate nouns...
     so let's make it a bit ambiguity and
keep the pace of expression; that's all... nothing else...
         so what was happening in london today?
  apparently i sat akimbo in the kitchen and hoped
it would stop raining...
               a great flatness... i chased two cats away
from the kitchen door handle... the hulk maine ****
can easily open it with its paw...
           tensed up... chased him away to sleep...
   i swear i could now say that i was bound to be weeping
last night...
             don't really know... alcohol consumption
shortens the memory...
              yesterday? today? tomorrow? yesterday; really?
but there's one plus regarding today...
        tesco is having a clear-out...
   it's doing mt. gay est. 1703 *** at under
15 quid... barbados... ***... and there's even a story:
        a legal deed dated 20th february 1703...
   the existence of *** still house...
                        sugar cane estate on Barbados...
          the world's oldest *** producer...
            now it's called the richard bramson (branson?
            brownson bromson brewmason? brr! said
    the sparrow in the fountain, 'avin a winter scrub)
company, formerly known as ******, now
simply known as eclipse.
   it's like i wasn't supposed to write anything today,
what with calamity jane scenarios leading up
to me, actually writing something.
                      really, a sight to disbelieve, that giant
***, that sieve and the tissues inside both, and
that flower glass container sitting in the sieve and
the rain...
              isn't it so though?
               listening to mainstream media...
        they're not reporting what's happening,
they're just sketching... and i mean sketching,
they want to keep the monetary momentum...
               first it's 4 dead (including the terrorist)...
then it's 5 dead (including the policeman)...
          by the time historians get in on the action
it will be: 100 years later and 40 dead...
                                    mainstream media is like that...
no one cares about indie music these days,
it's all about indie media... indie news...
             which evidently ends up with really ******
music being produced...
                             i was listening in on it and i was thinking:
24/7 society... what's the news?
                        just 4... then... just 5...
                              100 years later: the actual number
was about a hundred...
                       knife + knife + car = chaos!
                                    imagine if that was:
       knife + hammer + car.
                               that's mainstream media for you...
you're teased and have to experience
   a delay button type of coverage...
             they hush the whole scenario...
         first they say it was only 4, then they do
a little bit of arithmetic and add it up to 5...
           but in actual fact it's much more than that...
  and they're so bewildered these days that they're
nearing the status of dinosaurs...
                                       it's the 21st century... hello?!

Imagine if light was
Slower;
Like:
The speed(-+) of
Fog rolling along a dewy grass hill.
If you turned on a flashl
L
Light
And the light
jiggled out with a
plop like
(COndensed) chicken soup from a can? Or if
Light was like a Bright yellow cloud of poison gasthat wasnt poison( and smelled like butterscotch
Imagine turning on the hose
And spraying thick jets of
Heavy light wouldyou drink light?
i dont knownif i would id probably get around to it one day

The itsy bitsy spider,
wiggled and jiggled,
and tickled inside her.

They ran out, to the rain,
then ate all her curds and whey,

and rolled down the hill

more wiser.

She always seemed to run on ahead,
Skipping, prancing and dancing,
All the way to the Goblin’s Wood
While I followed on, romancing.
She never seemed to see me at all
Though she was my only vision,
The only feature that filled my world
Right through to the intermission.

She wore her hair in a plaited braid
That jiggled along behind her,
And left a trail like a dragon’s tail
So bright that the light would blind her,
But I was mesmerised by the legs
That danced in a crazy pattern,
They moved too fast for the man who begs
Or the girl that they call a slattern.

I’d see her shadow between the trees
As it weaved and it side-slipped gladly,
Whipping the pale white flight of the breeze
As the leaves whirled around her, madly,
Then all the denizens of the wood
Would come to the sight entrancing,
Dressed in the garb of the neighborhood
I’d leave them behind me, dancing.

‘Come out, come out,’ would the Goblins shout
But she’d leave them behind her, whirling,
The old ones suffered from reams of gout
And would sit with their hair there, curling,
I live in hopes that she’ll turn to me
When her dance has become more mellow,
Entwined around the mystery tree
Her dress fading green to yellow.

They call her Summer, but Autumn shades
Seem they’re a long time coming,
The leaves are skittering down like blades
In a part of the year that’s slumming,
The breeze is cool as I call her in
From the dance that she’s in the making,
While I, contented, await the sin
She keeps in the oven, baking.

David Lewis Paget

there once was a calm certain celibacy
a timeworn truancy of ******
verve substance , a quiet self serving
noted subservience to not all were satiated,
the duly noted societal
quiet under the table
observance of tension
quick and taut still,
unnamed
but in the darkest alleyways,
now , these days
the  revisionists the purveyors
of common law hold
jurisprudence over moral
things
sin is sin by the way
**** are **** and should not be jiggled
callously,
***** to the wall I jockoundly
bounce my three ***** and hefty scent upward
to a backboard
it just makes no sense.

Have you ever been to Nomansland?
It's full of smiles, laughter, dread and dearth
Of any repercussions
If you're Russian or a serf
On a wave that leads to everything
Tho nothing you want first.
Come on down to Nomansland
And quench your nagging thirst

Tired of your burden, want to rest your restless mind?
We have trenches, dumps, and valleys
To poor thoughts of every kind
Relax, space out, while those thoughts race away
That's right
Shut up
Sit down
You have no choice but to stay!

Forget your problems
Lose your worries
Ignore your friends
And family too!
Let your pain slip away
With your ecstasy in suit!
Look at everything, see nothing, through your eyes of faded hue!
That's right
Little lost soul ...
...there is no real you.

Once, in a stupor,
Long ago, through the grime,
Another came knocking here
Searching for their mind.
They were blissful,
Vacant,
A customer served full,
But for one little thought
That rattled round their skull

"I want... it... back."
Back?!
They must have lost their head!!!
We examined it extensively:
It was perfectly braindead
Everything in order, we couldn't figure out
Where the clanging came from
When we jiggled them about

No matter, don't worry
It's of no concern to you,
We're usually successful
When we stir brains into stew.
Just relax to the ditty of our unlive band
I'm Noman by the way,
Welcome to my land!