[A] is for
An
Archer with
An
Arrow through his
Adams
Apple, very
Applicable, to the
Ample
Amounts of
Amiable
Attitude,
Adorning his heart, in
After
Action
Attributes, that impart, the
Admiration, of
*******, in this
Acting out of
Arrogance bit. he is,
Astute, in his
Allure, and
Aloof, in the
Air, of
Aspiration, in which, he was
Alienated in the
Agony, of
Asking
Assassins, the
Aforementioned. lights, camera,
Action. recipe of the
Ancient
Admirals of
Avian
Aliens, that
Attacked, with the
Arms and fists, of
Arachnids, now
Aching to be
Activated in sudden
Allegiance to the
Answers, of the truth.
Accumulating wealth for
Anarchy's of
Abating
Angels in
Atrophied,
Alchemical
Academies of the ever
After life .. . of silence.
****** strengthens in these
Accolades of violence, in
Alliance to
Appliances
Appearing in the
Arson of
Apathy, happily, to
Anguish in the
Amputation of my
Abdomen, if it meant i'm a real
American, even, when, only
Ash, remains.
Acclimating in its remains
Attained, the
Articles of my pain, in
Affluent shame, next time ..
Aim... oak
[A]?

[B] is for the
Bah of
Black sheep, and
Big
Bit¢hes, fat cats,
Bombarded in the
Blasted,
Bastion of
Blackened
Benevolent
Blokes,
Berating the
Blasphemous,
Be-seech, of
Brains, to feel
Bad, about the
Blotching of
Binary codes, erroding, the
Blanked out
Books, of
Belittled
Bureaucrats,
Bowling
Back the
Bank rolls of
Betterment, from the
Back of the
Blackened
Bus, as i'm
Busting guts, in the
Bubbling
Butts, of *****
Benched, but
Beautiful, in the
Battle, in the
Bane, of existence.
Baffled, in the strain of
Belligerence, in
Beating the
Beaming
Butchery into
Billy's
Broken
Brains, in
Bouts, of
Battering
Bobby's for
Bags of
*******
Before, affording to
Build
Bombs, is just
Beyond
Breaking
Beer
Bottles on the
*******
Benefactors of
Boulder
Bashing with the
Beaks, of
Birds, with no
Bees. just a
Being, trying to
[B]


[C] is for the
*****
Courting the
Choreography, in
Computerized
Curtains,
Circumventing the
Cultured,
Contrivance of
Chromatic
Cellars,
Calibrating, to the
Contours of
Calamities,
Celebrating the
Cyclical,
Cylinders of
Cyphered
Calenders,
Correcting the
Calculations, of
Crooks
Coughing, in
Courageous
Coffins of
Canadians,
Collecting
Cobble stones, from
Catacombs, in the lands of the
Conquered,
Capturing the
Claps of thieves, sneaky
Cats, of greed. its
Comedy. oh
Comely, to my
Cling of
Cleanliness, and for your self
[C]

[D] is for the
Dip *****, as they
Delve
Deeper in the
Deliverance, of
Deviant
Deities,
Dying to
Demand
Dinner
Delivered in the throws of
Death,
Deceiving
Defiance of
Darkened
Dreams,
Demeaning that which
Deems the
Dormant of the
Dominant, to be
Demons of
Deviled
Devilry,
Dooming us for
Destruction.
Deploy the,
Damsels in
Duress.
Defiled and
Distressed,
Detestable and
Dead. in the thump of
Drums,
Dumbing down the
Debts of,
Dire regrets.
Dissect the
Daisies of,
Disillusion, in the current
Days,
Diluting night into
Dawn,
Disconnecting the
Dots of the
Dichotomy, and arming me, in the
Diabolatry, of,
Demonology, as i watch me
Dwindle away, the
[D]

[E] is for
Everything in nothing,
Eating the
Euphoric
Enigmas of
Enlightened
Elitists,
Exceeding in the
Extravagant
Essence of
Esoteric
Euphemisms,
Escaping the
Elegance of the
Elements in the
Eccentricity of
Eclectic
Ecstasy,
Exhaling, the
Exostential blessings, of inner
Entities, and renouncing the
Enemies of my
Ease,
Easily to appease
Extraterestrial
Empires,
Extracting the lost
Embers of
Enlightenment, in
Excited delight, but to later
Entice, the fight, and
Escape, like a thief into the night of
Everywhere,
Entering the
Exits of
Elevators leading no where, to
Elevate, this useless place,
Encased in malware in the
Errant
Errors of
Every man,
Enslaved, of flesh and
Entrails,
Enveloping the core of
Everything, that matters,
Enduring, the chatter, of
Evermore,
Ever present in
Everybody
Ever made to take
[E]

Funk the
Ferocity of
Foolish
Fandangos, with
Fanged
Fanatics,
Fooled in the
Fiasco of
Fumbled
Fantasies,
Falling through the
Farms of
Freely
Found
Fans,
Flying in the
Fame of
Fortune.
Fornicating on the
Fallen
Fears of
Fat
Fish getting their
Fillet of
Fills.
Feel me in the
Frills

Granted with
Generosity.
Giblets of
Gratitude and
Greed,
Greeting the
Goop and
Gobbled
Gore,
Gleaned from the
Glamour of
Ghouls in
Gillie suits,
Getting what they
Got
Going, in the
Gratuitous
Gallows of a
Game
Gaffed by
Giants.

Hello to the
Horizon of
Hellish
Hilarity, in
Hope of
Happy, to
Heave from
Heifers, to
Help the
Hemp
Harshened
Hobos in
Heightened
Horror, to
Honor the
Habitats of
Hapless
Habituals,
Herbalising the work
Horse, named
Have Not, in the
Haughtily
Hardened
Houses of
Happenstance.

Ignore the
Ignorant
Idiots, too
Illiterate to
Indicate the
Indicative
Instances of
Idiom in the
Irrelevant
Inaccuracy of
I,
In the
Intellect of
Idle
Individuals,
Irritated with the
Irate
Illusion of
Idols
Illustrated upon the
Iris,
In the
Illumination of
I.

******* the
Jobless
Jokers, and
Jimmy the
Jerkins from their
Jammie's, in
Justified,
Jousting off the
Jumps, in
Jokes, and
Jukes of
Just
Jailers,
Jesting for
Jammed
Jury's to
****
Judgment from the
Jitter
Juiced
Jeans of
Jesus.

**** the
Keep of
Khaki-ed
Kool aid men,
Kept in the
Kilometers of
Kits,
Kin-less
Kinetics,
Knifing the
Knights of
Kneeling
Kinsmanship,
Keeling over the
Keys of
Kaine, with the
Karmic
Karate
Kick of a
Kangaroo.

Love the
Levity, in the
Luxurious
Laments of
Loveliness,
Lovingly
Levitating in
Level,
Lucidly.
Living in
Laps, of
Lapses,
Looping, but
Lacking the
Loom of the
Latches
Locked with
Leeches of the
Lonely
Lit
Leering of
Lightly
Limbs, that
Lash at the
Lessers in
Loot of
Lost letters,
Lest we
Learned in the
Lessons of
Liars.

Marooned in
Maniacal
Masterpieces,
Masqueraded as
Malignant
Memorization's of
Motionless
Mantras, but
Merrily
Masking
Mikha'el the
Mundane, who is
Musically
Mused of
Monsters,
Mangling the
Monitor, but
Maybe just a
Moniker of
Marauders.

Never to
Navigate the
Nautical
Nether of
Never
Nears.
Not to
Nit pic the
Naivety of
Nicety.
Notions
Neither take
Note
Nor
Name the
Noise of
Nats in the
Nights of
Neanderthals
Napping in the
Nets of
Ninjas

Ominous in the
Obvious
Omnipotence of
Oblivious
Obligatory
Opulence,
Of
Other
Oddly
Orchards
Of
Offices,
Ordaining
Orifices in
Offers of
Ordinary
Ordinances in
Option-less
Optics,
Optionally an
On-call Oracle, in
Optimal,
Overture.

Perusing the
Pestilent
Pedestals of
Personal,
Parameters,
Pursuing the
Petty
Plumes of
Piety with the
Patience of a
Pharaoh,
******* on the
People with the
Penal
Pianos of
Port-less
Portals, in the
Paperless
Points in the
Palpal
Pats of
Pettiness.
Poor, but
Prideful.

Quick to
Qualify the
Quitter for a
Quick
Quill in
Queer
Quivering of
Quickened
Questioning,
Queried in the
Quakiest of
Quandaries.
Quarantined to a
Quadrant, of
Quagmires.
Questing the
Quizzing of
Quotable
Quartets.

Relax in the
Relapse of
Realizations, and
React with
Racks of
Rolling
Rock to
Rate the
Rep of the
Rain-less.
Roar in
Rapturous
Rendering of the
Random
Readiness in the
Ravenous,
Rallying, of the
Retinal
Refracting of
Reality.
Realigning, the
Righteous
Rearing of the
Realm, and
Retrying.

Steer the
Serenity in
Sustainability, and
Slither through the
Seams of
Slumbered
Scenes.
Secrete the
Solo
Sobriety of
Sapped
Sassys,
Salivating upon a
Slew of
Stupidity,
Steadily
Supplied in
Stream,
Suitably
Slain in the
Steam of
Sanity.
Sadly, i
Still
Seem,
Salvagable.

Topple
The
Titans in
Tightened
Terror.
Torn
Territories
Turn
Turbulent in
The
Teething of
Totality.
The
Telemetry of
Time,
Tortured of
Torrent
Theories,
Told in
Turrets of
Transpiring
Terribleness, from
Tumultuous
Tikes unto
Teens,
Trading
Toys for
Tea.
Thrice
Thrusted upon by the
Tyranny of
Tanks.

Unanimous is the
Ugliness in the
Undertones of
Undreamed
Ulteriors
Undergoing the
Unclean in the
***** of
Utterly
Upset
Users,
Uplifting the
Unfitting
Ushers in
Underwear-less,
Ulcers,
Undergoing the
Ultra of
Uberness.

Venial in
Vindictive
Viciousness of
Vindicated
Venom,
Venomously
Vilifying the
Vials of
Villainy in the
Veins of
Vampires,
Validity of
Valuable
Violence, is
Valiant in the
Vaporous
Vacationing of
Vagrant
Vices.

Why
Whelp in the
Weather
When you can
Wave to the
Whirling
Wisps,
Whipping Where the
Whimsical Were
Way back in the
Wellness of
Whip its,
Wrangling my
World,
With
Waterless
Worms, as
War shouts are
Wasted in the
Wackiest
Walks of
Waking
Wonder.

Xenophobic
Xenogogue, of
Xenomorphic
Xeons, turn
Xyphoid, in the
Xenomenia of my
X, my
Xenolalia of
X, to
***. im lost in the
Xenobiotic zen of
Xerces, on a
Xebec to the
X on the map.
Xenogenesis, in the
Xesturgy of my
Xyston
Xd

Yelling
Yearned from
Yelping.
Yard
Yachts
Yielding, to the
Yodel of
Yeah
Yeahs, to the
Yapping of
******
Yuppie
Yoga
Yanks, over
Yonder.
Yucking it up with the
Yawn of a
Yocal.

Zapped from a
Zone i
Zoomed with
Zeal in the
Zig and
Zag of my
Zapping
Zimming
Zest, upon a
Zombie-less
Zeplin.
Zealot,
Zionist, or
Zoologists,
Zeros or ones, just
Zip your
Zip locked. and
Zzzzz
Zzzz
Zzz
Zz
Z
Zero

We’d been to concert at the Town Hall. It was a Saturday night and still early for a Saturday Night Out. So many people on the streets. The girls barely dressed, the boys bouncing around in t-shirts. Older people threaded along the pavements walking purposefully, but ‘properly’ dressed, and now making their way, as we were, for the station.

I know He noticed her because He stopped, momentarily. We were holding hands. He loves to hold my hand. That evening I remember squeezing his hand firmly as if to say how pleased I was He was here and I was not walking to the station alone. I have done this, walking to the station alone, so often. It is good to have someone close at such times, someone to talk to about the performance, the music, what is going on around us. We walked right past them.

I noticed the man first and then the child. He was very tall, very dark, wearing a black leather jacket I think. He was not scruffy so much as untidy, dark and untidy, with curly hair that did not know a comb. He was busking. He sang an incomprehensible song in a language I didn’t recognize, playing an electric guitar plugged into a small amplifier by his feat. He turned from side to side as he sang as though looking for an audience. I remember his trainers and the soft guitar case open on the pavement with a smattering of coins. Then, this child.

Over the last two days I’ve examined the scene in my memory. I’ve sought to recall as much as I can about this little girl. She was not that little I think for her age, perhaps seven or eight. Stocky. Thick golden brown hair. A sensible skirt covering her knees, a fawn jumper with some sparkly decoration. Tights or long socks perhaps. Proper shoes. I keep examining my mind’s photo. What I recall most vividly was her large smiling eyes and her expression. This is my daddy, it said. He’s singing and I’m here looking after him. I’m his smiley girl here on the city street. It’s late. Other children back home would be in bed, but I’m here smiling at the people passing.

Yesterday we talked about this couple, the little girl mostly. He brought the subject up. He’d been thinking about her too. He’d been puzzling over the two of them. As a pair they seemed so physically different, hardly father and daughter. It was the (possible) daughter’s gaze, her twinkling eyes that had spoken to him - as they had spoken to me. This is my daddy, those eyes and that smiley face had said. And she was holding a bear.

Why did I not mention the bear until now? Of course, she was holding her bear. She had both arms around her bear. She was hugging her bear to herself. It was a mild evening for March – she wore no coat. He looked a good bear, not too old or small, not the kind of bear she’d been given in infancy, perhaps recently acquired but well-loved, well-hugged. A bear that seemed entirely right for her age, for her slightly old fashioned clothes. The sort of clothes I might have worn as a child. I think of a photo of me at that age dressed in a Cloth-Kits dress, with an Alice band, with glasses and lots of curly hair.  

He said ‘I’ve been wondering about the two of them. Did they have a home? Where would they go to when it became late?’ Was there a mother? Was she working somewhere on that Saturday night and the father had to take the girl. Was she wearing her best clothes? She looked OK. A glowing, healthy face, a face that reflected the bright, coloured lights of the city street.’

Suddenly, I realised there were tears in his eyes. I thought, He is imagining a story. He is imagining a story of this seven year old who should have been tucked up in bed with her bear, like my little boy with his blue blanket. He was imagining her life., her past in some Eastern European town, where she went to school, where she had friends and relatives, where she had been born and brought up, and been loved. And now the girl was here in this not so distant city. Perhaps illegally, without the papers, smuggled in as so many are. Her father, swarthy, even a tinge of the Roma perhaps, but she so different. It was the golden brown hair. Thick hair, a ribbon tied in it. A pink ribbon.

He had thought of his little girl, now fifteen, only when she was that age, seven. Oddly similar in some ways, the thick hair, the smiley face, a different but ever present bear, an infant’s bear, not a bear she’d take with her except in a bag. A bear not to be seen with at seven, but loved.

‘I’ll call her Katya,’ He said. The girl, not the bear.

And later He did. Every few days He would mention her – just in passing. ‘Do you think Katya’s  at school today?’ ‘I was in the city this afternoon, but I didn’t see Katya.’

He wrote about her and her father. A little story. I haven’t read it. He just told me He’d written it; He’d thought of following them in his imagination. He was a little embarrassed telling me this, and He didn’t offer to show me the story, which is unusual because when He mentions He’s written something He usually does. And so I wonder. I wonder how long this memory will stay with him and whether He will follow this couple (and her bear) into the future, create a story for them to live in.

Perhaps it will bring him the peace He does not have. The peace I try to give him when He is with me at home and we sit in my little house, at my table eating toast with Marmite after I’ve been out late whilst He’s sat on my settee and read – in peace at being in my home. I know He feels cast adrift from his family and He can’t be part of mine, yet a while. Perhaps it’s like being in another country. Perhaps He thinks, at least that busker had his child with him, his shining star, his ever-smiley girl.

Yet He is thinking of his smiley girl, smiley still at fifteen, still loving her dad despite what He’s done, despite the fact that she sees him so seldom. Despite the fact that He is only occasionally with her, and she knowing I, his lover, his young woman, his companion and friend, has captured his heart and thoughts.

I think of Katya too. I think of my older girl, so loved and circled about with love and admiration by her respective families and our friends. She is so special and so beautiful, as I was special at eleven, as I think I was beautiful at eleven, just on the brink of that transformation that will take her towards becoming a teenager – and the rest.  

We were lying in bed the Saturday morning before seeing Katya and I was telling him about my childhood. He’d asked me about zebra finches. Walking in his nearby park He had admired their bright red beaks in the park’s newly-restored aviary. I told him about a parrot in a park close to my childhood home, a parrot I passed as I went to school. I described for him my walk to school, meeting up with my friends, passing the parrot. I know how happy it made him to hear me talk about such things. He said so later, embracing me in the kitchen. ’I so love to hear you talk about your childhood.’ I could feel he was moved to say this. It was important. I realised then just how deeply he loved me. That it was important. That he imagined me as a child. That He wanted to know that part of me. He’s rarely asked about the stuff in between. Of my former lovers I’ve said a little. He has said a little about his past liaisons and affaires, but knows I am uncomfortable when he does. So we leave this. But childhood, That’s so different, because it is that precious, precious time of shelter and care: when we begin to discover who we are and who and what we love.

Where is Katya now? In a messy room she shares with her parents in a house shared with economic migrants, where she has a few belongings in three plastic bags. In one, her best clothes she wears to stand on the city street on a Saturday night with her daddy. In another a jumble of not so clean clothes she rotates each day. She has her sleeping bag, her bear, her warm coat and gloves. There’s a few magazines she’s found about the house. English is puzzling. She learnt a little at school back home, and from the TV of course, those American soaps. If she was here in my house I would stand her in the shower, wash her thick hair, put her clothes in the machine, sit her on my bed in my daughter’s clothes with some picture books, introduce her to my cats, we would bake some buns. I would give her a small gift of my love to take away with her and she would look on me with her smiley face, her sparkling eyes and let me hold her bear.

And later when I saw him I would tell him that Katya had been with me for a little, and tears would fall, mine and his, knowing that only in our dreams could we make this so.

Lyrics in her face
blaze, from screen to mouth
bony thumb, scrolling
mumbling into an ancient microphone
hanging from the rope swing
in her garage.

Voice shakes here, shivers there
but ****
she is soulful.

Authentic, exquisite
in holey socks and wet hair
and goosebumped arms
getting swallowed by a hoodie.

*******, she has it all
and gives it nothing.

Some of us are simply stunning
no spray tans or updos
no sequined skirts or stiletto shoes
no autotune or makeup kits
no words-

only nothing
could improve her.

Nothing could improve her.

Today we shall have the naming of parts. How the opening of that poem by Henry Reed caught his present thoughts; that banal naming of parts of a soldier’s rifle set against the delicate colours and textures of the gardens outside the lecture room. *Japonica glistening like coral  . . . branches holding their silent eloquent gestures . . . bees fumbling the flowers. It was the wrong season for this so affecting poem – the spring was not being eased as here, in quite a different garden, summer was easing itself out towards autumn, but it caught him, as a poem sometimes would.

He had taken a detour through the gardens to the studio where in half an hour his students would gather. He intended to name the very parts of rhythm and help them become aware of their personal knowledge and relationship with this most fundamental of musical elements, the most connected with the body.

He had arranged to have a percussionist in on the class, a player he admired (he had to admit) for the way this musician had dealt with a once-witnessed on-stage accident that he’d brought it into his poem sequence Lemon on Pewter. They had been in Cambridge to celebrate her birthday and just off the train had hurried their way through the bicycled streets to the college where he had once taught, and to a lunchtime concert in a theatre where he had so often performed himself.

Smash! the percussionist wipes his hands and grabs another bottle before the music escapes checking his fingers for cuts and kicking the broken glass from his feet It was a brilliant though unplanned moment we all agreed and will remember this concert always for that particular accidental smile-inducing sharp intake of breath moment when with a Fanta bottle in each hand there was a joyful hit and scrape guiro-like on the serrated edges a no-holes barred full-on sounding out of glass on glass and you just loved it when he drank the juice and fluting blew across the bottle’s mouth

And having thought himself back to those twenty-four hours in Cambridge the delights of the morning garden aflame with colour and texture were as nothing beside his vivid memory of that so precious time with her. The images and the very physical moments of that interval away and together flooded over him, and he had to stop to close his eyes because the images and moments were so very real and he was trembling . . . what was it about their love that kept doing this to him? Just this morning he had sat on the edge of his bed, and in the still darkness his imagination seemed to bring her to him, the warmth and scent of her as she slept face down into a pillow, the touch of her hair in his face as he would bend over her to kiss her ear and move his hand across the contours of her body, but without touching, a kind of air-lovers movement, a kiss of no-touch. But today, he reminded himself, we have the naming of parts . . .

He was going to tackle not just rhythm but the role of percussion. There was a week’s work here. He had just one day. And the students had one day to create a short ‘poem for percussion’ to be performed and recorded at the end of the afternoon class. In his own music he considered the element of percussion as an ever-present challenge. He had only met it by adopting a very particular strategy. He regarded its presence in a score as a kind of continuo element and thus giving the player some freedom in the choice of instruments and execution. He wanted percussion to be ‘a part’ of equal stature with the rest of the musical texture and not a series of disparate accents, emphases and colours. In other words rhythm itself was his first consideration, and all the rest followed. He thought with amusement of his son playing Vaughan-Williams The Lark Ascending and the single stroke of a triangle that constituted his percussion part. For him, so few composers could ‘do it’ with percussion. He had assembled for today a booklet of extracts of those who could: Stravinsky’s Soldier’s Tale (inevitably), Berio’s Cummings songs, George Perle’s Sextet, Living Toys by Tom Ades, his own Flights for violin and percussionist. He felt diffident about the latter, but he had the video of those gliders and he’d play the second movement What is the Colour of the Wind?

In the studio the percussionist and a group of student helpers were assembling the ‘kits’ they’d agreed on. The loose-limbed movements of such players always fascinated him. It was as though whatever they might be doing they were still playing – driving a car? He suddenly thought he might not take a lift from a percussionist.

On the grand piano there was, thankfully, a large pile of the special manuscript paper he favoured when writing for percussion, an A3 sheet with wider stave lines. Standing at the piano he pulled a sheet from the pile and he got out his pen. He wrote on the shiny black lid with a fluency that surprised him: a toccata-like passage based on the binary rhythms he intended to introduce to his class. He’d thought about making this piece whilst lying in bed the previous night, before sleep had taken him into a series of comforting dreams. He knew he must be careful to avoid any awkward crossings of sticks.

The music was devoid of any accents or dynamics, indeed any performance instructions. It was solely rhythm. He then composed a passage that had no rhythm, only performance instructions, dynamics, articulations such as tremolo and trills and a play of accents, but no rhythmic symbols. He then went to the photocopier in the corridor and made a batch of copies of both scores. As the machine whirred away he thought he might call her before his class began, just to hear her soft voice say ‘hello’ in that dear way she so often said it, the way that seem to melt him, and had been his undoing . . .

When his class had assembled (and the percussionist and his students had disappeared pro tem) he began immediately, and without any formal introduction, to write the first four 4-bit binary rhythms on the chalkboard, and asked them to complete it. This mystified a few but most got the idea (and by now there was a generous sharing between members of the class), so soon each student had the sixteen rhythms in front of them.

‘Label these rhythms with symbols a to p’, he said, ‘and then write out the letters of your full name. If there’s a letter there that goes beyond p create another list from q to z. You can now generate a rhythmic sequence using what mathematicians call a function-machine. Nigel would be:

x x = x     x = = =      = x x =      = x x x      x = x x

Write your rhythm out and then score it for 4 drums – two congas, two bongos.’

His notion was always to keep his class relentlessly occupied. If a student finished a task ahead of others he or she would find further instructions had appeared on the flip chart board.  Audition –in your head - these rhythms at high speed, at a really quick tempo. Now slow them right down. Experiment with shifting tempos, download a metronome app on your smart phone, score the rhythms for three clapping performers, and so on.

And soon it was performance time and the difficulties and awkwardness of the following day were forgotten as nearly everyone made it out front to perform their binary rhythmic pieces, and perform them with much laughter, but with flair and élan also. The room rang with the clapping of hands.

The percussionist appeared and after a brief introduction – in which the Fanta bottle incident was mentioned - composer and performer played together *****’s Clapping Music before a welcome break was taken.

Your world belongs to me now.
I can take over every aspect of it, 24/7,
Stopping just shy, by a few micrometers, of what the law allows.
I'll accompany you now on all shopping trips
Offering my advice from, oh, forty feet or so away.
I'll utilize binoculars to make sure you're not doing anything unsafe.
Amazing how well those things work sometimes.
Especially at night, eh?
I might have to replace your dog with a smaller, less intimidating unit;
Of course; you're free to keep the replacement or do whatever you want with him.
Don't want to risk a serious bite on my intrusive forays after darkness..

Call forwarding; amazing cool thing that is!
No questions asked; just need a few minutes time on the telephone!
And pictures; I'll be taking loads of those.
You never know just when a particular photo might come in real handy.
I carry around bird-watching paraphernalia, so anytime I get stopped,
Everything looks copacetic, even the binos.

I also carry groundwater test kits, along with shovels, rakes; boring stuff like that.
You never know when you might need to test the water in an area.
The test kits are out of date by a decade or more, but who's checking?

Had to duct tape that old broken out back window.
I know, I know; it's unsightly and makes me highly visible,
But they'll never raise an eyebrow now, on seeing that fat roll of duct tape.
And you will always have peace of mind, since you can readily identify my car
And know for sure that I'm on the job, around the clock-
Working only for you, babe.

Oops; time's a-flying. Have to get downtown to the city before they close.
I've requested to take a peek at some publicly viewable records.
Amazing what you can find out there, that you never would have expected.
Isn't it?
Bye now; catch you later, ok?

keep
me
asleep
the bones
play home
to a throne
where you sit
an endless pit
boys who lack wit
find themselves amidst
her critters and first aid kits
at the bottom of this
at the bottom of her world

My muse had a good idea,
Let's flood the world with Ikea!
Dysfunctional kits, there and here.
For guns and bombs here
No one would care.
They would be assembling Ikea,
Each kit, four missing bits,
Wrong pictures to give them the blip,
Globally occupied with dysfunctional Ikea,
Now isn't this a good idea?
Peace on Earth brought by Ikea.

remember the melding
of gilmore and bing
the springfield gates
and desmond ring

remember the trojans
and fools in the pack
sea fair jeans
and corkscrew flat

remember the cabin
and *****’s garage
the gary point dunes
and moncton mirage

remember the warehouse
the water logged seats
tin foil caps
and simple retreats

remember the cave
and turn on the cut
emery’s mini
and hamilton’s hut

remember the burger
and shake in the air
bubs in the back
with little despair

remember the valley
and 66 ford
burgundy lips
and samworth’s chord

remember the plainsman
a 7 inch log
the ***** old frenchmen
and bore-*** hog

remember the javelin
and mushay’s wheels
beaumont’s baggie
and jennifer beals

remember tough charlie
tossing brad rand
the belyae roundhouse
and beer in the sand

remember park polo
and scaling of firs
sleeping in rafters
at 8 bucks per

remember the mayflower
and brothers von grant
the max air follies
and chivalrous rant

remember the flipper
the floyd and the clap
banana boat sunday
and pemberton trap

remember the purples
the rasp in the street
the oliver jokers
and shady retreat

remember the gators
and brick house café
a flash in the pan
and crib cult stay

remember the church
and talbs on the bridge
goofy’s memoirs
and cypress ridge

remember smaldino
whom perry cut short
***** and a ****
and moria’s port

remember the zuker
and gilligan’s isle
the pep chew bust
and 8 tooth smile

remember the action
at blundell and one
the nauseous fumes
and pump house run

remember the canyon
and rock on the cliff
a tourniquet bind
that kept us adrift

remember lake skaha
and jvc tunes
the j bain query
and peach fest goons

remember the irons
and broad entry beads
the alexander boys
we must pay heed

remember the gates
the 12 hole stare
the hospital bed
and ky affair

remember the farmhouse
an open air deck
the john deere tractor
and cowboy neck

remember the wheat field
and jimmy crack corn
the burlington plaza
and fraser street ****

remember the pincers
and wee ***** white
the concubine fractures
and strong overbite

remember the carving
portrayed at the scene
the billy goat battles
a young man’s dream

remember lord brezhnev
and moby the ****
the second beach sun
and paper bag trick

remember the screening
the silver light show
banshee boots
and phipps’s throw

remember the epic
and baby oil block
trash can brassieres
and window rock

remember the law
jack rabbit in may
an 8 track mix
on alpine way

remember the dunes
a pig on the spit
the underarm hair
and corn bull-****

remember old frankie
and bursey head post
the koa leaves
and tiki shore host

remember b taupin
the lyrics he left
cold muddy waters
an odd treble clef

remember street regent
the trips in the night
the trailer park cap
and lightheart fight

remember kits causeway
mortimer and beaks
jk's cabin
and muscle bound freaks

remember glen cheesy
and billy the less
the frozen puke patties
and borkum mess

remember the catfish
and pickerel rock
the emerald meadows
and rainbow dock

remember port dover
with fish on a stick
wayne in a bunker
holding his ****

remember the ironside
limes in a tree
the usc campus
came with a fee

remember the duster
an arrow in heart
the frog man bug
that would not start

remember the zimmer
the ram air hood
a family wagon
with panels of wood

remember peace portal
the 33 back
the power built drive
and dangerous tack

remember the reds
the blues and the greens
the furry point island
and country book scene

remember the springs
and i 95
a lone state trooper
with blood in his eye

remember may’s cabin
and stuff in between
the frame and the picture
and morning snow scene

remember the boss
with a 302 scoop
the diamond tuft console
and back seat coupe

remember ioco
the **** and the spit
the skid road race
and hurst floor kit

remember the shore
and tents in the park
a campfire roast
and kerosene bark

remember the hooger’s
kit kat club
the colvin’s and setter’s
a man called bub

remember the creature
with silk strand hair
and afternoon flask
with little despair

remember quilchena
and robbie the mac
the rice stead box
and tap on the back

remember miss williams
a pilgrim’s salute
the fairmont sister
with all of her loot

remember port ludlow
a scotman on dock
the everett street bridge
and single leg sock

remember the masters
and all of the roar
the faldo follies
at norman’s door

remember jeff samson
tied in a tree
the robertson fastback
with white leather seats

remember the balance
and pulling of 4's
the moncton warehouse
and hollywood ******

remember the hospice
with carter in wear
the power of gospel
and magic in prayer

remember the mini
counting the crows
aberdeen villa
where all of it grows

remember the ballroom
the battle of bands
the buccaneer bikers
and front row stands

remember the steely
and 50 odd pulls
the crook in the cranny
and pilsner bulls

remember the mustang
tb paul
the ****** shack sergeant
was missing a ball

remember dear kevin
head first in the pool
a sheik in a minefield
and ****** gas fool

remember the rumble
and bats in the night
an old lady screaming
to a young man’s delight

remember cliff olsen
that sick little ****
who will be in shackles
on lucifer’s truck

remember the bumpers
and cutting in line
the mice on the ****
and bo in the pine

remember the law
stabbing the corn
a bucket of ammo
and mekong horn

remember s boras
the piercing of yes
the color line paper
sikosie at rest

remember the pinto
and seven road plants
mother’s fine pizza
a trial lawyer’s rant

remember the kennedys
with ***** painted black
a pond in the shadows
where monty looked back

remember von husen
the sea to sky test
a farm hands daughter
was one of the best

remember mr pither
and mao sae tung
helena the cougar
and egg foo young

remember the cinder
and frances road bake
***** the whitehead
would make no mistake

remember the quan
and mental mix
the java hut sister
with pixy sticks

remember j rosie
banging his head
in a moment of dr
we thought he was dead

remember the hammer
discussions caught short
siddrich and roger
and monty’s abort

remember 6 nations
and KOA
the pool hall fight
when everyone stayed

remember the skinners
and tommy the med
the lost tough china
and bubs in the shed

remember the doobies
zeppelin and cars
floyd and the *****
and shankar’s sitar

remember old dustys
the blue and red chair
the cypress hill caves
and mullet cut hair

remember the promise
and vows that we made
on the 2 road stairs
in goodman’s brigade

remember those moments
and handle with care
for the garamond stamp
will always be there…

MANILA, Philippines - The public knows me as the Father of Philippine Franchising but what is hidden from the public eye is that I am a father of five sons and a daughter. This fact became very real to me again recently when my youngest son, Sam Gregory, got married.

Like I said, I have five sons and all of them are achievers and successful in their respective fields. My eldest son, Sam Benedict, for example, has a master’s degree from Kellogg and works for a top American company. My fourth son, Sam Christopher, on the other hand, got his master’s degree from Oxford and used to work for a top British conglomerate.

When my other sons got married, I was happy and proud as I could be; but when Greg got married I have to admit that there was a certain tug in my heart realizing that my little Sam was finally leaving the nest. I am not the sentimental type, but I guess every parent has a special place in his heart for his youngest.

But don’t get me wrong, Greg is no pushover. Being physically small, he did have his share of bullying when he was in school. But Greg knows how to deal with his problems. He befriended a number of his bigger classmates and that solved his problem in a snap. He may be small but he has a big heart.

Greg is idealistic and principled. He usually volunteers for civic and charitable activities and contributes to fund drives for disaster victims. My wife and I have accepted the fact that every time there is a typhoon, we can expect our cupboards to be cleared of canned goods and our cabinets purged of old clothes, which Greg would donate.

He follows traffic rules and regulations even when there’s nobody watching and even if following is not convenient for him. He saves energy. He recycles. He even convinced me and my wife not to use narra wood flooring in our retirement home.

Being a careful planner, he is the most prepared among our family for the “Big One.” But what I find most admirable is that he keeps two emergency kits in his car in case he finds himself in a situation where he might need to help others.

Greg is also romantic, creative and dedicated. When he was studying in Beijing, he would organize a virtual date with Charmaine Haw (who would eventually become Mrs. Sam Gregory Lim), who was in Manila. They would watch the same movie on the web and Greg would order movie snacks, which he would send to Charmaine’s house. The couple would also have virtual dinner dates where Greg would order similar meal courses, which would be delivered to Charmaine’s house and then they would chat via Skype while having dinner.

When the time came for Greg to buy his engagement and wedding rings, he refused to let us — his parents — help him. He used his own money despite being the one among his brothers who could least afford it, being the least salaried employee among them. He did this as a symbol of his love and commitment to Charm.

But when the wedding came I insisted that it should be a grand wedding.

To guarantee a great party, we made sure to have great food, a great place and great companions. Being an avid sci-fi fan, Greg already had an idea of a unique garden wedding. He wanted to transform the New Grand Ballroom of the Marriott Hotel into the forests of Avatar. To do this, the wedding stylist had to import a collection of trees, hanging plants, shrubs, flowers and other plants. The images projected on the giant 15-meter panoramic LED screen added to the reality of the scenery. It was a unique and original “garden setting” and was certainly a sight to behold and remember.

For the food, Greg was at his meticulous best to make sure that the evening’s feast was memorable. The dinner opened with a mouth-watering appetizer, lemon-spiced pan-seared scallop with tomato cucumber timbale in creamy ginger soya sauce followed by Manhattan clam chowder with cornbread dumpling. For the main course, we had the beef tenderloin prepared by the master chef of Cru Steakhouse of Manila Marriott Hotel, sea bass with roasted shallots, dauphin potatoes in perigourdine and mustard herb sauce.

The espresso-infused tiramisu and the white chocolate cheesecake with mango salsa served with piping-hot coffee completed the culinary feast.

With 800 guests, I would have to admit that we did splurge a little. But we also wanted the wedding reception to be an opportunity to thank the people who have been a part of our family. These are our relatives, friends and associates who have inspired, mentored and helped mold my children to be what they are today.

To my youngest son, Greg, and my new daughter, Charmaine — quoting from the Vulcan salute of the Star Trek saga (of which Greg is a big fan) — may you both live long and prosper!

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses

http://www.marieaustralia.com

Streets filled with bodies
Dead or alive
Nobody knows
Blood runs through the streets
Like floodwater
Innocent blood
Flows like runoff
Through concrete veins
But only because we let it happen
Because of judgement
Because of ignorance
Because of prejudice
Prejudice that we carry over
From our predecessors
The violence and hatred of our ancestors
Continues on through us
But only because we let it happen
Because our naïveté lets us see the world
As monochrome
Everyone belongs in one solid genome
Straight white cis
So they lock us up in a cage of exile
Invalidate the opinions that don't sit well
On a stomach full of lies
So we stand in solid lines
Hands locked together
Silently screaming
NO!
With the ******* hidden in their claims
It hurts but the pain isn't enough to break our chains
At least until the weakest link caves
And the flood gates open up
Our nerves sting with rubber bullets and tear gas
Police brutality and 'controversial' crowd control tactics
Resulting in the blood of innocents.

The truth comes out
Oppression
Recession
We deliver new life
Spoon feeding democracy
Cookie cutter
Build your own government kits
Follow the instructions with a gun held to your head
Puppet government
Corporations pulling strings
Calling the shots with a mouthful of greed
Blaming tragedy on street rats with golden teeth
Hiding behind business suits and briefcases
Pay no attention to the man behind the curtains
Take part in the rat race
Get distracted by the fast pace
Pay attention to your own **** problems
And forget to see the big picture.

Another ride on the metro
Catcalls and wolf whistles
To the wrist to the neck to the ankle
I'm breaking the dress code
The double standards are air tight and unbreakable
I'm stuck in the choke hold of the patriarchy
Kicking and screaming
Perverts jacking off to the sight of me
Objectified, and only fourteen
Take precautions stay safe
Because we have reason to be afraid of the dark
When we have to assume that everyone is a ******
The world is out to get us
Plaguing the younger generation with pop music and photoshop
Shellshocked by the devastation of self confidence
Short hair means you're a ****
Long hair means you're property
The American dream is four walls a roof and a wife to call your own
To own
****** assault is normality
I'm appalled at the way my peers think I owe them something
My virginity
My body
I'm not a carcass to be picked clean by vultures:
The beasts who sit next to me
Who view me as a threat because I'm intelligent
A ***** because I'm intolerant to their ignorance and oppression
The gender roles and discrimination
Objectification
A one woman war
That every woman faces.

Hopelessness stands at the alter
Spouting discrimination
Dug from the depths of the bible
New age bigotry
Picket signs versus pride parades
Spot the queer in the crowd
Wipe them out
We are not a virus of humanity
Your hateful words aren't the only thing that cuts me
When coming out equates to ear splitting arguments
"Get out of my house"
"you are not my son"
LGBT blood on the streets
****** of trans teens
Pop culture is enemy to androgyny
*** education skips over me
And change is met with board meetings
Conservative parents complaining
Claiming they know better than the mouths they feed
Age is not a crown of wisdom
The 21st century witch hunt
Discrimination spills from the mouths
Of little Hitlers
Screaming "God hates ****" before they know what the words mean
Wrap my coffin in a rainbow flag
When they find my mangled body on the street
The product of a hate crime
The product of the war I'm fighting
Brittle bones riddled with stab wounds
Every one carries weight with the words they were paired with
Queer
***
******
I don't have invisible amour
The words pierce me in a way that can't be seen
My blood leaks silently and joins the masses.


We are a generation so full of hatred
Promised so much that wasn't delivered
And so we raise our hands and salute the mother ******* rebellion
Our sweet saving grace
America isn't free and neither are we
We are slaves to misogyny and bigotry
Police brutality
Crafty government puppetry
Patriarchy
The enemies that we face aren't the ones we see
Well **** society
We can create our own
Carry in the revolution on our shoulders
On our knees
Plastered across our twitter feeds
We fight with words
With fists
Whatever it takes
Speak out across our dashboards timelines and comments
Word of mouth
Engrave them into your skin
What was started needs to be finished
We have a price to pay



It's time for a revolution *****.

“**** culture”
...
Even the phrase slices my tongue and cuts like a double-edged sword of double standards.
...
The same double standards that say that a girl who wears makeup is a ***** but says that if she doesn’t then she’s ugly.
...
The same double standards that say that if a girl wears a skirt then she’s desperate but if she wears jeans then she’s stiff.
...
Double standards that keep even the strongest girls asking “Who am I supposed to be?”
...
The double standard that require **** kits with pamphlets like pamphlets are gonna help us get better.
...
**** culture requires underwear for women with a lock on it, password and all! Buy one get one free, not of the underwear, but the rapists!
...
**** culture, the same one you see on the news and in the streets and schools and stores and malls and parks and sports and on the ******* sidewalks.
…
This next line is for the man in the beaten up red car who cat-called me when I was 15 while I was walking to my friends house last summer: No thanks, I don't want to “smile, little mama”
…
This line is to the sixth grade teacher in my old school district who was fired for sexually harassing and abusing his students: Who do you think you are to be putting your hands up shirts of 12 year old girls?
…
This next line is for the man on the news who said “Well she was wearing a skirt, so she was practically asking for it” Excuse me, sir, but that glass ceiling was made of glass it was just asking to be smashed, right?
...
The patriarchy shatters around their fragile masculinity and breaks into one thousand pieces before cutting the survivor’s wrists because no one ever believes them.
...
This is the stigma that is delivered upon the doorstep of **** culture’s house by the UPS worker named “Societal Pressures”. The package that no one wants to receive. It knocks at your door but you try to keep it locked.
...
“Knock knock?” “Who’s there?” “**** joke” “**** joke who?” “**** joke who isn’t ******* funny”.
...
**** culture is the societal pressure that is put on us to be beautiful, not for ourselves, but for the man who sees us every morning.
...
**** culture is the demand to smile for the old man that we just passed on the street near the bakery but keeping our mouths shut when we have something to say.
...
**** culture is standing in front of the mirror everyday before school making sure that I can't be targeted for anything that I'm wearing. Looking at every seem, every angle, every button and zipper.
...
**** culture is how I (along with my friends) can't walk by a group of boys without pulling up our already uncomfortably high necklines and ducking our heads.
...
**** culture runs in the veins of every girl, woman, and man that is subject to society.
...
**** culture is the phrase I'm not supposed to say but I say anyway because I deserve to be heard.

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Relate Articles:

Although not an official list of most searched beauty queries, these trends were searched way more in 2015 than they were last year. You might be tardy to the party, but finally figuring out these makeup and skincare hacks will take next year's selfies to a whole new level — at least until 2016 when these trends are ditched. Till then, get your contour and strobe fixations worked out while it's still in style.

-How to contour

An old trick in any makeup artist's arsenal, contouring steadily gained attention in 2014 before exploding this year. Nowadays high-end and low-end contouring kits are widespread, with both cream and powder options popular for slimming faces. To contour, take a matte brown shade darker than your natural skin colour and buff it into the hollows of your cheekbones. Then blend until it matches seamlessly with your skin, creating a natural-looking shadow. To make the effect more dramatic, use a shade lighter than your skin colour on the high points of your face. You'll look clownish for a hot second, but the effects can be dramatically glam or subtle improvements.

-And how to strobe

Contouring's luminous cousin, strobing, took highlighting to the next level. Instead of creating shadows with contours, strobing illuminates the parts of the face where light hits. You'll want to apply a highlighting product to the centre of the forehead, the bridge of your nose, your Cupid's bow, and above your cheekbones.

-How to beard balm

Mane maintenance went below the chin in 2015, with artisanal ****** hair products going through a boom. Among them was beard balm, a pomade made of nourishing conditioners for making face fuzz soft and silky.

-How to put box braids into a bun

Long-lasting and low-maintenance, box braids are a style that always looks good — especially piled high into a bun. To get a top-knot bun, tie hair into a ponytail, twist around, and then tuck loose braids in. Bobby pins will be your best friend for this.

-How to wear matte lips

Popularised by the Kardashians, the matte **** lip made a comeback in 2015. To mattify any lip, apply a light dusting of face power to your lips (but not so much that your lips dry out). Or buy a matte lipstick, which come at luxe and drugstore prices.

-How to do the Kylie Jenner Lip Challenge

This digital dare inspired by the youngest of the Kardashian/Jenner clan had those aspiring for fuller lips ******* on shot glasses. Suction created by the cups cause a temporary swelling reminiscent of Jenner's pout. However, it might not be a good idea to jump on this long-gone bandwagon now — the challenge inflicted swelling, bruises, and drew controversy that Jenner herself spoke out against.

read more:http://www.marieaustralia.com

www.marieaustralia.com/plus-size-formal-dresses

From sevenpanda.com . Computer accessories enhance the efficiency in the way you are using the computer. This additional stuff really adds value to your work and accelerates the rhythm of your job. Take the functions of basic accessories like speakers, printers, scanners, UPS, surge protector, headsets, cases and covers, cleaning and repair kits. Now imagine... can you do your business without these accessories? Now think about some advanced accessories, which include webcam, microphones, gaming equipments, portable storage devices, CD and DVD recordable drives, network accessories and modem. All these accessories - basic and advanced - to help your business flourish.

Overall, accessories are must-have for a complete pc experience. No matter what kind of system you have, whether it is desktop pc or laptop, these hardware and peripherals can make or mar your business if not selected smartly.

http://sevenpanda.com

The Product:

All that I see,
Are faces of fake people,
Scurrying around,
In search of something real.

“It is not yours it is mine!
I take that which is mine!
I keep what is mine!
I consume what is mine!

Get away from it is mine!
I don’t share what is mine!
I don’t give what is mine!
What is mine is mine!”

False eyelashes!
Make up kits!
L-shaped couches!
And television sets!
They’ve become the things they own.
The things they own, own them!

You are not your job!
You are not your salary!
You are not your wallet!
You don’t need this ****!

****** into the tv,
The product becomes you.
You do whatever,
It tells you to do:
“This is what you want!
This is what you need!
You just got to have it!
You won’t be happy without it!”

You think it will sedate your hunger for happiness,
But you come out unsatisfied.
You try to impress people you don’t know,
Or even care about you;
Too caught up on the outside.

“Happiness must be taken,
And I will take mine!”
A false idea of happiness,
It is not happiness unless it is given!

All the products you see on the tv,
Are begging you to buy your own slavery!

You are the product!

**** your money,
**** your property,
I hope you choke on it!

I found five weasels in a wood,
Five grey kits so fierce they stood,
in challenge on the timbered trail,
my urgings all to no avail.
They held their ground as if to say
This darkling path on which I stray
Is weasel-wood, a tracking ground
Where silent death waits all around
And, transgressing here I truly fear
So ends my trekking here this year.

I believe in a world where people understand ****, and not just when it's forceable.

I believe in a world where children can play outside with out their parents watching every move, and not fear being kidnapped.

I believe in a world where women are no longer afraid to walk home alone at night, or to their cars by themselves, simply because they're women.

I believe in a world where young girls aren't taken advantage of at parties just so that it can be blamed on the fact that, "they were drunk"

I believe in a world with out ruffies.

I believe in a world where no one justifies **** as "Well she was asking for it"

I believe in a world where women can wear whatever they want and won't be attacked for it.

I believe in a world where women don't have to sell their bodies for money.

I believe in a world with out forced prostitution or human trafficking.

I believe in a world where women can trust men, and there bodies won't be broken.

I believe in a world where women and children are safe.

I believe in a world where little girls and boys can grow up with out being molested.

I believe in a world with harsher punishment for rapists and child molesters.

I believe in a world where harmful **** kits aren't necessary because a victim's statement is valid evidence.

I believe in a world with out gang rapes.

I believe in a world with out brutal **** videos and child *******.

I believe in a where women are allowed to be powerful and own their birthrights.

I believe in a world where women and homosexuals are no longer held down by ****** violence.

I believe in a world where women in the military aren't *****.

I believe in a world with out South African **** camps for lesbians.

I believe in a world where men and women aren't ***** for being gay.

I believe in a world where women can negotiate ****** use, regardless of the country or situation.

I believe in a world where women can negotiate when and who they have *** with.

I believe in a world where women have choice.

I believe in a world where ****** assault is considered a hate crime.

I believe in a world with safe homes for victims of ****** violence.

I believe in a world where women can establish community and a voice for themselves.

I believe in a world where that voice will be heard.

I believe in a world where women and victims no longer live in shame.

I believe in a world where women are free and accepted as leaders.

I believe in a world with out ****** violence.

I believe that it can happen, and that we together can make a positive change for our community, wherever it may be.

The White Race
           &
The Black Base
In-fighting Nut-Case
Wearing kits & killing kins
Tracer bullets leave no trace!
Ak's & Ra's
Customized & hand made
Just Like Burger-king
Have it your way!
And this war is brought to you by
Your's Truly,
The infamous
NRA!
Cops shooting innocent by-standers on the block,
Innocent by-standers then copping Bump-stocks,
Dropping scores to make it count,
Odd murders 2 even out!
******'s posted atop rooftops,
Legislations to make him stop.
A "Mentally Challenged" Caucasian man who had gone AWOL?
Suddenly reappears like an Automatic A-hole
Posted @ the Hotel
Planning to **** wholesale
To get the maximum reward
Also to get closer to God,
Bodies 4 trophies
& Their Head's as his awards!
In the midst of all this
Another white supremacist
With absolutely no
Motor-skills
To run us over
& Cause massive kills
At Town Halls
Movie theaters and even at the Shopping mall
A Muslim nut-job
Planning blow-jobs
A darker American
A lighter Puerto Rican,
Or even a white broad,
Always someone@ur service
To start a brawl,
To ***** some skin
& Make it crawl,
To raise u up
Then Watch you fall.
Wild fires burning bodies bare
Of All colors,
From well done to medium rare,
White House to Gitmo
Water boarding & a bit more,
Laid back extreme sports!
**** 4 tats here,
Cliques & Gangs here
Bricks in the bag here
Clipped to the back rear,
**** yes No *** hair,
Shotguns no cab fare,
Tariffs on imports
Nuns & Nymphos
Hoes before bro's
Turning friend's into foes.
Deserted mill workers,
Over dosing on pill sherbets
Gettin' high 2 get by
Laugh hard then start to cry,
Suicides to feel Alive,
Straight up living
Just to curl up & die,
What a way to go
Get buried to touch the sKy!

My wife, Karen, looked out onto the patio, "why do they always come to us?", speaking of mama and her kits, newcomers they were, but apparently enjoying the food and shelter of this "safe house". Just some, of the many, that had blessed us over the years  with their magic , showing up unannounced, cats, dogs, raccoons, possum, to name a few. Some stayed, some left.

You see, it is our firm belief, that God's closed fist, with index finger extended and pointing downward, looming over our rooftop, wherever we happened to be, is a "guiding star"for them, and only the animals are capable of seeing it, telling them to "go here, for your safety, shelter, and food".

God has many such fingers, in every city, town, state, province, and country on this earth. Why, I would bet that right now, he has a cat(s) asleep on his lap, as a way of saying, "thank you, Lord, for helping all of us."

copyright May 18-2014 richard riddle

At a stirring in the orchard, she sharply turns.
monument-still she watches, lopes on.
Her mottled grey more coyote-like than *****,
The fiery orange long gone from her wasted frame,
Her once-bushed tail, now hairless, drooping.

An aged ***** in her last winter, moved to stalk
in daylight, up the orchard to the treeline,
Once the hill's best hunter; each year her kits
ferocious players near the now dry brook,
Does she dream, I wonder, of those springs?

Leave her now to time, deep-denned,
where the last sleep's call ends hunger,
hid from the season's creeping chill.
Better there to finish than a trapper's snare,
Better this quiet ending in the *****'s lair.

IM SO OVER PEOPLE LIKE… REAL ***** ****…. CAUSE KITS ALWAYZ SOMETHING FOR REAL….. LOST MY BESTFRIEND OVER SOME ****…..SO BOOO OVER SOME ****…..NOW I JUST DON’T GIVE A **** ANYMORE…. REAL N TRULY PEOPLE CAN DO THEM CAUSE IM OUT… END OF THE STORY…..

IM DONE CRYING OVER PEOPLE N FEELING BAD FOR ANYBODY SHIDDDD IM DOIN ME FOR LIFE… MA ALWAYS SAID DON’T EVER CRY OVER NO ***** OR NO ***** SO

FAMILY ALWAYZ MATTER

fingertips
against my lips
hands on hips
on my back
marks from your steady hands
feel like whips
you hit me because you think i deserve it
blood on carpets and first aid kits
you touching my skin feels like touching a pan without oven mits
cold arms and legs
cold nose
cold wrists
frost bite kiss
listening to music at 4:01
thinkng of your texts
jealousy
fits of rage
do you ever just let go
no reason
to
live
shallow breaths
whats happening
am i dreaming

As I wiped the blade the congealing efforts of
what had perspired dripped in raindrops of lost essence,
I started to be nostalgic of when it all started and I smiled.
It isn't easy you know doing this hobby
                                        its a full time commitment,
I have responsibilities. And before you ask just because I live
in my moms basement it didn't have any implications to this
and what led to my endeavours of what I do now.

"You cant just go out stabbing people that bath salts territory
for goodness sakes,

Ok when did it start, around fifteen years ago give or take.
To think about it I was quite violated by the sight of blood,
I passed out at school when someone cut there finger. I know
from fainting to where I am today the paradox of it all.
So I was walking home and I thought stupidly to take a short
cut, I know that's just asking for a dilemma of consequences
but I was running late and thought overrode reason.

"Safer than sorry my mother would say,

I should really listen to words of wisdom than to just throw
them aside and regret them later. Well this time was a moment
of ignorance and I delved into my darker side and threw abandonment
to the winds of chance. I saw that idiot and knew without a thought
that his life needed to be forfeit in the eyes of the many.
In haste I went out and without planning I just used a unregistered firearm. These are so easy to find in ponds, lakes, rivers.You just have
to be stupid enough as I was to delve into them with a wet suit.

It was like swimming in the disgrace of humanity and I accidently
swallowed more of humanity than I wish to admit. As I reached
the shore of the golf course I had found a stupid amount of guns....
Do these pools ever get dredged?? how many angry golfers play
on this field?? but I just cleaned a few out not wiping away the prints,
silly little fools leaving there prints on the weapons.

I must admit the first five or six people that were my pleasure
of ending were just **** holes, total and utter ****-tards....
I know you just cant just going around killing totally
worthy munchkins. But it was my weaving of knowledge
into the formula of departing my subjects in a manner so that
a milk carton was the only focus they would get.
Never to show that they were an item of interest but a random appearance of some disillusioned person in a vendetta of misunderstood reasoning's.

But this lost its stimulation of enthralment  pretty quickly
due to the vacant space between us. It wasn't as if they knew
my face, it was just a finger pull and I ended them to hastily,
I even felt somewhat remorseful for them not knowing the
perpetrate of there demise. and a few ran still lingering to this
existence, do you realize the skill set to hit a moving target.
But none got to far, I didn't take it personally, it was a fight
or flight reaction.

But they were always vacant of life when I walked away
from the scene. I was always throwing these weapons
after a few uses, those that had used it before there prints
still viable. So those that had used it were to blame for
these indiscretions that I had partaken in. Karma was about
to visit upon those lost stories that drowned in that pond.

Learning was a curve that was thrown, and one that hit me
square between the eyes. I had slatted the impression that
I was in the right, and even though I wanted to seep the blade
into the flesh of my perspective victim. I had to watch
the implications of what I had preserved  in that moment.
There were struggles and definitions of what was acceptable.

I still had to hold a job, I worked in a hardware store,
"what are the chances, I know. But where you would think
someone that could easily end the breath of another would
stand out only the crazy ones. We the methodical ones were
patient,  too many and whispers starting and I needed silence this
had to be obeyed and enforced by myself. Urges had to vetted
another way and painting was my outlet for these compulsions.

Each one of us had as we called it our own unique ****** kits,
well what did you think we were going to call them hobby boxes.
Me I had a ways to disable my prey, a motion to move them concealed.
I had a people carrier,
                     "I know the humour didn't escape me either,
I had constructed a vessel to keep them static so not to move
and give the game away, kind of like a straight jacket restraint.
For the murmurs I had constructed a gold fish bowl of sorts,
constructed around the neck and then white noise is pumped
in  revoking the screams because of the frequencies of the
human voice.                
                            "science is so cool,

Do you realize it took five years of planning and a college
class in science to do many aspect of this hobby.
But where do I take them, to there own home, always
checking there schedules. Movement = time = opportunity.
And this is how I have worked all  this time, consistency is
what keeps the path clear for other endeavours.
The sense of smell in each home is unique, some people
though no respect of there surroundings and who may visit.

Do realize that some don't voice opinion as they know
if there in this predicament no words are going to change it.
Some struggle, but I learnt to use a paralyzing agent to render
them motionless. Sedated only tears fall from there suspended
features. I never clean up there mess, I'm not a house maid for
goodness sakes all must be as it was. But I clean up my killing
venture so there is no evidence of there parting here.

I have a little spot, we all have our own hiding places,
research is the key, and mine was a secluded place....
I cant explain where, as that would be telling and who
knows who's reading these passages. I must admit though
this is a full time obsession, "norms, that's you people.
Wouldn't realize the stresses that happen upon my psyche.

All I would say is
                 "Don't quite your day job
This isn't really a hobby for most, they don't have the
patience the needing of planning and the waiting of
who shall gift you their last moment then nothingness.
I am wired different to you people. My empathy for
your feelings is non-existent, we are a moment in time
and I plan to silence your hour glass, your grain is about
to fall into oblivions sights and it will swallow you whole.

psychic infantile bopping
play silent drum kits in ear canals.
screeching like whales
in caverns of sea and stalagmites.

servantile shrapnel leaking into abyss:
feeding on skin and bones,
parasitically.
eating through biting cries,
viciously.

gumdrops streaking sidewalk
in musical rhythm stain glass windows
and blurry red eyed sun high in the sky
shines down crystalline tear drops
over your singularly secular shadow.

It's as uncertain as death is certain.
Fish grapple at hooks and answers.
Pointy elbows scraped on bricks. Bruises.
Soap-making kits collecting dust.
      Nobody wants them.
      Nobody wants you.
A twelve-cent stamp doesn't get anyone
      anywhere these days.