I saw a little elephant standing in my garden,
I said 'You don't belong in here', he said 'I beg you pardon?',
I said 'This place is England, what are you doing here?',
He said 'Ah, then I must be lost' and then 'Oh dear, oh dear'.

'I should be back in Africa, on Saranghetti's Plain',
'Pray, where is the nearest station where I can catch a train?'.
He caught the bus to Finchley and then to Mincing lane,
And over the Embankment, where he got lost, again.

The police they put him in a cell, but it was far too small,
So they tied him to a lampost and he slept against the wall.
But as the policemen lay sleeping by the twinkling light of dawn,
The lampost and the wall were there, but the elephant was gone!

So if you see an elephant, in a Jumbo Jet,
You can be sure that Africa's the place he's trying to get!

Leaning by the lampost
Eyes half closed
That sleepy, **** look,
Just to be close to you
In that dazed-fog-aura
I think you're lonely
You hug the lampost
You could be hugging me
Look at me with your eyes half closed
That sleepy, **** look
My laugh is stupid
Too loud and breaks that dazed-fog-aura
There are seconds when we could kiss
That pause, that pause
Where I catch all your smoke,
And cherish your smile.

She loves insulated cable kiss fights
What, the lion mouse or something
Civil action quiets the pratt
You talk to me like a brick and a lampost.
Love me the media
***** peel for us, you
a germ in the cesspool
Debate ******* worship of theatre
Less is more, a comic-******

She is less insulated with comic-******
The lion debates mice of worship
For civil germ to host pratt-party
And a lampost
You talk and peel like bad skin
**** me the media
Dirt worshipped in the hairy eyes
a sappy sad man who is exposed
Something ******* and unknown
More is shown through  less of talk

Two poets in love,

A natural disaster,
just waiting to happen...

Ah, yes,
I live in beautiful,
beautiful old Paris,
& as they say yes, yes,
oui oui,

Do you like my French accent Mon Cheri?

Well good.

You have your passport I take it?
Bags are ready?

Perfect,
so here we go,

Ahhhh yes,

Let me take you for a ride,
in a lovely old gondola,
through the beautiful & peaceful,
& placid canals of Venice,
the romance capital of the WORLD,

Or on a romantic moonlit stroll,
in the city of love,
hand in arm,
down some worn old,
cobble stone street,
heels click,
with a charming old lampost,
to kiss,
beneath,

Incredibly beautiful that Eiffel tower,

Or take you,
for a heavenly ride,
at the drop of a fateful hat,
you sit by my side,
we are drifting in a hot air barquilla,
yes,

Oui Mon Amour,
as pursed lips,
take careful sips,
of delicious red roija,
a candle burns,
as melting wax drips,
my heart just skips,
cheers my darling,
sampling one another's lips
& roving eager fingertips,

Quivering in a touch
& wanting so much,


This feels right, no?

Beautiful tastes,
of salty spicy Mahon,
from the Islands of Menorca,
tastes Europeans can appreciate,
& so can we
we can belong to the city,
and really it's such a terrible pity,
to stay in,
come along,
it isn't a sin,

The bright lights,
on the city's most tempting nights,
I'll take you to the highest heights,
relishing in the simple & sweet delights,
something we shouldn't fight,

I am right there with you,
like a twisting kite,
  kissing the wind,
just board that flight,

We are free in our wildness,
they say,
like Hemingway,
& his,
"Movable Feast"
I wanna taste this memory,
tonight,
like beauty & the beast,
I see you are so very beautiful,

As Pablo Nerada is gently,
nibbling on,
& whispering in my ear,
telling me, telling me
telling me,
of my most secret,
secret fear,

"You must give in to the night"

As you tip my neck back,
& come in for a slow attack,

"Like a Puma in the barrens of Quitratue"
stalking the night,
& your lover
loving her right,
& the stars,
as they are so brilliantly shining,
on blood you are dining,
try in vain to resist,
this feeling it always persists,

There's more,
I promise my love,

Wherever you wanna go,

I'll paint the way,
so whatta ya say?

Lay next to me in the sweet,
incandescent moonlight,

I would love for you,
to come along with me,
I would LOVE to love you,

Except I'm here,
I'm not there,
just take a little risky dare,
I just wanna say I'd share,
in something that I always swear,
I think that we'd be quite a pair,
no I guess isn't fair,
doesn't matter though,
cuz I don't care,

Being a poet,
it seems that I can take you,

ANYWHERE.

Cherie Nolan © 2016

We met up at dobra tea.
Both our bodies were too long
For the tiny tables.
But we loved the atmosphere too much to care.
"I might have stalked you a little bit" she says
Handing me a slip of paper.
"I may have also read your poetry."
It's a poem about what beverage she would be.
I neatly fold it up and hand it back.
"It's perfect."
"Keep it" she says.
"Keep it?"
"Yeah, don't make it weird just keep it."
~~~
The beautiful woman now sits between myself and a bridge.
There is a bike path leading underneath towards the sun.
A guard rail separates us from the
Ocean and seaweed below.

All the trinkets in my pockets
Have been emptied onto the rocks beside me
So as I not hurt myself attempting to conceal them.
We sit against the guard rail holding hands.
"My mom doesn't let me show my sisters pokemon.
Because of evolution.
She's one of those super christians." She says.

"I'm an atheist
But every thing I've ever prayed for has come true.
So, I don't know anymore."

She sits on the guardrail and my head leans against her thigh.
Her fingers run through my hair.

There are so many things I want, that I can't have.
This get's typed into my phone and tucked away like a secret.
"Sorry" I say, and stand up, facing her.

Her forehead leans into my chest.
My arms hold her as I stare into the ocean.

"I have a song stuck in my head" she says.
"Sing it for me."
"I don't know the whole song"
"Sing the part you know"
"Well I only know one line and it's weird."
"Sing the one line, I don't care how awkward it is, I wanna hear it"

"Maybe I'm only in love when you wake me up."

"You didn't tell me you were a GOOD singer."

She reaches for my neck.

"What's your necklace mean?
Well it's the game of thrones martel sigil
People think it's for the show.
But it's for my ex's daughter...
A tattoo was a bad idea,
I can eventually get rid of a necklace."

We notice the sun setting and decide to check it out
As we get up and start walking,
I start to sing.
"I've never been the one to win it all."
~~~
I swing around a lampost and walk to the metal fence at my right.
I stare awhile at the sunset before
Crawling up the slanted wall to my left and sitting up top.
I scribble a note on the wall.
It reads:

"Dear god: please let me kiss her, Amen."

The beautiful creature still stands at the bottom of the ledge.

"You aren't allowed to say i'm a good singer when you sound like that." She says.
"It's like watching a live music video."

I run down and hold her against the metal fence
Our lips dare each other to inch closer.
She pushes her forehead into mine.

"What'd you write?"
She asks.
"It's not for you.
If you want to read it you have to climb up there and find it."

"Ooh you ***."
She crawls up the wall and searches.
"Where is it?"
"That's the fun, you gotta find it."
She finds it.
"This handwriting is awful.
I literally can't read it."
"I didn't want you too."
The sun sets and it's finally dark.
"Think it's dark enough to climb that building?"
~~~
We trek back through the woodsy path
It's pitch black and terrifying.
"We're gonna get eaten by cannibals"
"There's cannibals in maine?"
"There are in this particular part of maine."
We get to the school and start stacking milkcrates like a staircase.
She puts a wooden pallet against the milkcrates
Propping them against the wall.
"You're brilliant."
"I have good ideas sometimes" she says.
Testing the water my feet scale the landmark.
Then come down to support it
While the lady goes up.
After she's safe I follow her.
Adrenaline hits us.
"We're on a freaking roof right now."
"Are we going to fall in?"
"Is there like a trick to walking on rooftops?"
My body plops down and looks at the sky.
"Oh my god...
Please look at the stars with me "
She lays next to me.
"You know how I've been saying I've been transforming a lot of good little ****** girls
Into blood lusting sirens as of late?" She says.
"Yeah."
"I'm starting to think it's not just girls."
"Can I say something cute?
Or would that make things harder?" I ask.
"Say it."
Her breath is sweet.
You have the body of the most gorgeous woman I've ever slept with.
The personality of the woman I fell in love with
The dorkiness of my first high school girlfriend.
The eagerness to get to know me of someone new.
After my ex left me I said I would never love again.
I've been having tons of meaningless ***
Striving for company.
Greif ******* my feelings away
But you.
I'd buy a ******* house with you.

She kisses me.
"Why do you have to be so perfect?" She sobs.
We stay like this.
She moans and wiggles.
We hold our bodies together.
You wanna know what that note on the rocks said?" I ask.
"Yes."
I tell her.
"I'm a terrible wife." She says.
"And I'm a terrible atheist."

Cold rain falls
Patters on my head
I look to the sky
My eyes turn red
Flickering pupils
Dilated so wide
I tear off my shirt
Embracing skies tide
I open my mouth
To catch some raindrops
Tasteless liquids
Nothing makes the pain stop
Collected water boils inside
My mouth once dry
It's now a simmering ***
The demons inside me
Make everything hot

Deep inhalation of fresh air
I understand why I'm here now
I'm no longer scared
Steam streams out of my body
My hands are on fire, my lips tingle
I look to my left, a lamppost glows
I turn to my right I see people mingle
Outside a late night cafe, their life simple
A bus stop ahead with two people there
A man and woman, he touches her hair

I place the palm of my hand on the lampost
Just to lean and wonder how I'm here
The shade bursts and sparks fly
The woman at the bus stop screams
"Nooo I don't want to dieeee"
As the fluorescent lights fizzle and pop
The man she's with falls to his knees
Grasps his head "no please make it stop"
The small group of people freeze
Outside the cafe they violently fit
I don't know what's happening
I assume it is me doing this
I try to let go of the lamppost beside me
Pulling my arm with the other hand

I finally break free
I too now fall to my knees
Getting up is hard
My joints creek
With mechanical movements
I go over to see
The couple at the bus stop
The girl lays on the floor now
I shake her but she is surely dead
Her eyeballs have melted to red goo
The man still firmly grasping his head
Looking at him I don't know what to do
He chants repeatedly in words unheard

The people outside the restaurant
They're all still fitting
People are with them now from inside
I step backwards in to the bus shelter
Fear surges through me again
My conscious spirals a helter-skelter
Trying to hide from the people outside
Hearing sirens now my eyes dilated wide
I'm clueless as to what has happened
Panicking I run past the lamppost
Glancing at it as I pass
A dark black hand print is melted in

Within my room theres very little for a descriptive imagination
just a canvas shelfing unit, a single bed and a bag.
I would go on and on but that is all that I have.
The bed that I sit upon is without a duvet cover.
the pillowcase doesn't match the sheet but alas I have no other.
The walls are bare and lifeless with no colour aire in sight.
The light within the room flickers, like a lampost awaiting the night.
The canvas shelfing unit that above I did foremention,
has a ricketty frame and needs some; careful love and attention.
it has a certain character. like a frail hunchbacked old man
unable to fully stand up straight but trying the best he can.
The bag is sat dormant in the middle of the room, it makes it feel lived in
and homely, I presume.
Yet every night I enter here and feel a sense of despair
but what am I supposed to do
when that is all that I have there.

you don't know the things i think
the things i scream and dread every waking moment
they slither and crawl into my dreams
haunting me day and night
i awake to cloudy confusion like a lampost on a rainy day
making it's way into the sun

Bright
but not hot
light

neutral
might describe
it best

or
perhaps
indifferent

to the snow
swirling
around it

he who cares
about very little
controls everything

whit howland © 2021

A moment in Paris

we walk the rain filled streets
of Paris.
The city shimmers
in the reflection of colors
on the ancient streets.
Her eyes
are wide and excited
full of promises
she will fulfil this night.
The eiffel tower is brilliant
lit up in the colors of the flag
in defiance of those who try
**** the love
in this city of romance.
why do they not understand
lovers are drawn to Paris
like moths to a flame.
it is so now
it has always been so.
we stop below the
bloom of an old lampost.
she kisses me
I feel her softness
pressed against my chest.
I whisper I need you
I want you
and then quietly
I love you
words so long
waiting to be spoken
waiting to be heard.
Paris let's them fall softly
like the night rain.
we are drenched
to the skin in love.

I am walking with my eyes closed
in my hand, I am carrying a lampost
I can hear
I can't see
who you are
who you've been
I need some confirmation from you

You try so hard to speak but
I'm afraid, what you stole where my words
is this true
is that wrong
can I breathe
in a song
I need some confirmation from you

I open my arms too far
in the cold, I get sick and bear scars
this is it
this is pain
I am real
I'm to blame
I need some confirmation from you

I’m afraid of the unspoken

the secrets you keep

will they be love tokens

or things to make me weep

I’m scared of not-happened-yet rows

I want us to be like this always

the flames I’m ready to douse

in my head scenarios play

I’m trying to live in the present

just enjoy what we are

but the future is ******* on my lampost

marking me, leaving a scar

.a man dies and whoever remains: become to intolerable - no one is willing to achieve a former status quo but life demands a status quo of sorts... that now there's a dragging sensation: a drawing toward the grave - how death beams illuminating while it eats memory and strikes at the bells of: what was, now impossible... otherwise: caricature since now and caricature culminating with now... a man dies and whoever remains so intolerable: how would it sound sacrificing my body to the memory of the sea - how strategic, little man... man of consequence and of no little to begin with... my words less than tabloid smearing: my words less than the purpose and worth of butter on a piece of bread: yes... i smear ink into phonetically encoded shapes - letters - are a reminder: for the canvas of toast and too boot: some butter to spread... collateral: always this collateral - free thinking basic structures and the great trampling - a levelling that is the antithesis of former explorer guises - to have to uproot and to deface to have to "revise": to actually keep going "somewhere"... not "i": either a kleptomaniac or a hoarder of history... unless we start stacking all things measured to heave high, high... with our past to overshadow mountains... such "things" we have allowed ourselves to keep... to have cherish so: yet to have it scrutinised too and sold off so cheap... before the bravado of authentic objectivity: or some other wording... a suddenly died... i was wishing this for him... not this supposed brainless ol' ****, ol' alcoholic the same ******* excuses with that woman! burdensome leech... the same ******* excuses with this zombie-esque woman: this... "grandma"... i'm not here to make "friends" with this language: i know of people who have managed far more worse with it! thank you, very much! i'm not above settling seances with grief: if he only died authentically with a barely tolerable voice from the other side... but all these 3 months of secrecy... and all these scraps of money to concern oneself with: grandma... *****... now it's all about coordinating a re-orientating reproach on the matter... life so cheaply... "finished"? and she "thought" it necessary to bring god into the whole equation: that god might allow such awkward gesticulation for the body to endure... princess unicorn no less... spoke such honey coating bundles of lies... she still thinks the lie was spoken as if staged... as if she forgot her lines... the rot and the fermentation process needs to sink in... after all... the grandiosity of the event already happened... a supermarket cashier inquired as to why i was so dressed... a funeral attendee... 'was it a nice send off'... oh sure sure... a nicely packaged prize come to think of it: the corpse left some stamps... so... no problem... but how cruel the immediacy of a family member... i thank the ******* of an egyptian deity that i didn't invest in the purpose of family... i am certain of a painful death... a lonely death: or rather - a death with the world... not this... inheritance vultures... he didn't leave anything to be contested!  well... he might have... but i already have what no one else thought of as important... his stamp collection... what would have been better? a collection of pornographic magazines? ***** please... i wasn't expecting this from my grandmother: i was already towing baggage from a friendship... but this is just... the ultimate purpose of pessimism... to hell with stoicism... and all those words used for peacocking arguments... i'm chopping raw hind of a bull... i'm plucking out eyes from fish... i'm... doing my last, probably only interlude of thought before the agony of fire strips me back to the basics of passions and an ****** of pure, pain of conversation: detailing the withholding of truths by a bad liar... by a ******* phlegm of a pleb sort of culmination... more n.p.c.: but somehow still my own trajectory, here, "nuanced": now... shellshocked - blitzkrieg antics... after the funeral her envy for adolf ****** was so ******* pronounced: yeah... imagine my face... a stone somewhere was smiling with glee... because this has to absolutely make no... ******* sense! she calls a day prior to the death... she doesn't call a week prior: she calls when it is in the hands of the hospice folk to bring the agonia to a close... she decides to call a day prior to the death and on the day of the death... 3 months just escaped her... this is a woman who supposedly has a grandson... em... yeah... how do those lyrics sound like now: ***** tricks done dirt cheap... this is only banal evil... bored evil... i just remember all the verbal insults against him... at least i can celebrate him not hearing them ever again... oh yeah... and the h'american election happened... please... can this political enthusiasts bother someone else with their insomnia... 3/4 of the world is sleeping... it's not that important that, or anything new... come spring after winter, summer and back toward autumn... it was nothing new that democracy is what it is... a casino of telling the most ****** lie... he pushed the epitaph concerning the necropolis mingling with democracy... in manus tuas... he said the only democracy was the democracy the dead would revel in... i need to call her up and tell her... that she needs to include an epitaph on his grave... fiat lux let light be made)! or floruit (one flourished)... genius loci (spirit of the place)... habeas corpus (you may have the body)... i like this last one... most! a fitting epitaph to write on a grave... n'est ce-pas?! habeas corpus ad subjiciendum.

well d'uh: no brainer...
i got to say goodbye to a corpse...
and that's always better
than saying goodbye
to an urn of ash...
and boy... if ol' granny decided
to fulfill the wishes of
her deawest deawest son
and had him turned into
a bowl of ask the ash:
and i didn't get to see him...
all suited and booted up
for the ceremony...
my god... the day you see
a corpse in an open coffin...
days old...
and you have anything
remotely fear: insinuated...
about... taking a casual
walk in a graveyard at night:
or in a forest...
i'm still dreaming cyclops:
i am not some
appeased dream architect:
i'm dreaming void...
a grandiose wound:
a yawning abyss...
a corpse in an open coffin...
in one of those prosectorium
waiting rooms...
where the tiles are not
that kind of: medicine proof green
of a post-mortem dissection...
they're woven from
white through to a darkening:
grey thoroughly...
oh hell... it's fun...
seeing a dead body like that:
it elevates the "beauty"
of what's casually a mere:
script at the end of a film...
sun, truck, lampost...
fox's worth of road-****...
the unlucky woodland pigeon
that miraculously died
mid-flight and wasn't seen
roosting for miles
on a pavement...
it's beyond sobering...
since you know all the requirements
to have paid the attention to detail to:
when there was a soul:
and now... given the absence
of the sigma of animation /
the sum of animation...
the heart can rot on its own,
the liver the kidneys...
it's not like there's anything
pulling all of his materialistic wizardy
by the *****...
seeing that...
and then come night, the solace
of solitude...
a forest or a graveyard...
i've come across scarier places...
living rooms of strangers...
in all honesty:
these chicken shacks of
bad actors in general...
a walking on stilts when telling
a blatancy of a lie...
now my comforts are
"criminal" / certainly counter-
to whatever bias could
come prior...
hardly one of those tim burton
hard-ons for the gothic and
quirky!
that i wish my grandmother
a speedy ****-off because
she had 3 months to tell me and "us"
what's what
but who the **** calls and speaks
of a death a day prior
then a day later... the death...
3 months of a descent!
well... lucky me that i got to say
goodbye to a ******* corpse:
not the still living ******* my pampers
momentary lapse of
lucid recollection...
and this world has to:
terribly, somehow, also, happen...
and its like this coincidental
metaphor for: the centre cannot hold...
yes, come the big world:
some mythological granny **** of
the blonde...
but hey... it's ava lauren in a suit:
and to boot: booted...
karmalaiah 'arris...
and you're like:
whittle 'ichard primo...
i'm already on the dumpster with me:
blood first arguments sinking
a blind eye and grizzle tooth load...
before i even allowed myself
to take a bite...
******* geocentric carousels of
north/east/south/west:
the one acronym: prior to
the methodology of the h'american:
scotus etc. luvvie-dubby
for the acronym chant: u/s/a!
yeah, case closed... let's pretend
how tomorrow unfolds...
by 1am i'll be a sleep-walking
slinky... toss the cards...
the grand-picture...
the world is not some forthcoming
as to allow... both engagements
and sympathy:
the immediately available response
is all reflexive: **** reaction
scream! oooh! ah!
           sooner i'll be allowed
to contemplate an indigestion "problem"
than a death of a would be patriarch...
then again:
you always marry into the woman' family...
thee sorry old story
of leaving your parents in
the gutter... your new father:
in-law: god bless his soul...
you ******* cleaving *****-worth-of
an-itching-monkey!
you! turnip quasi
aladdin's paladin and magic
carpet ride...
she allowed me to see
the corpse... 3 months: not a word...
and here are these...
puppets... bemoaning how unidealic
love forever is...
solvd me the question of
what love is:
this bogus cwy-baby pseudo:
irksome welsh "sympathy":
******* cwy-cwy: trill your
******* R!
tarantula bit you you can't start
a rolling escapade
with a tongue?
you some O'Haera or too drunk
too soiled to notice Irish?
let's just, hope... i...
haven't... the capacity to express
an authenticity of sorrow:
tilting on: "properly" with the:
authorities of who's to, read, what!
out of their own pockets:
it's... ******* free last time i heard!
question of bias...
this slap of meat:
will become either a plum poke tenderness...
or a brussel pate....
like they do in the prisons...
notably the russians...
they inject vaseline between
their knuckles... so they build
up a... pouch-of-a-fist...
no... oh no adrenaline shots... none
of the fairy liquid:
dandelions speak we dust it over
with unicorn horn dust...
n'ah... none of that...
it's my grandmother: i probably
should have not expected as little
as this... but then i like the idea
of her keeping up with
ghost theory...
she can haunt the castle
of her **** for: however more
concern for life is in her...
granny can *******, and how...
i might have... favoured her...
when she did... cwy... there's that welsh
spelling again...
but not come the advent of
a, death... take me up on seeing scenery with
you... any day: or the 3 months prior...
but... this...
of course: the limitations
of the conscience of liars:
you start to blame yourself:
oh why didn't... call...
you have to blame yourself:
she's not going to blame anything or anyone:
there are no exceptions to the rule:
thumbs galore!
seeing his corpse:
he did die...
having... kept...
an immaculate proof of fingernails...
an immaculate proof of fingernails
being kept: as swiss passport for an agreeable
handshake...
again: once more...
ask me tomorrow
and i'll reply likewise:
granny can die... if i ever see my
shadow fleeing:
that! i'll sooner mourn!
you would expect:
grannies are tender loving creatures...
unless my grandfather wasn't
a somewhat tamed lover of
keeping books... a philatelist... too...
i got it!
he just wasn't a don juan *******
philander of an unlimited access to:
***** liquor!
whatever the story:
there's just enough desired
discretion to pay homage and defend
the passing party...

both a philander and a philatelist?
what's next?
a zoologist and a d.j.?
i've ascribed myself an audience
with prostitutes:
the 3 Ps... priests... psychiatrists...
prostitutes...
in the current climate...
who's body's who?
i am mild mannered enough to know
that i'll be paying for a ****
rather than a free meal or a professional:
waggling of the tongue:
let alone the placebo of the corpus christi
*******... n'est ce pas?

yeah... just prescribe
me the ******* of the bull of Titian...
etc.
i'm sure to make enough
skin out of it for a Muhammed's rug
ed gein esque piece of:
fidgety: ain't it? unshaked ******* sack?
**** it... almost grainy...
stubble prone... begs the knees to question:
wha' and w-i-i?

unshackled extension of patterns
of predictable behaviour:
moi! contra ol' granny?!
shouldn't i have... none?
  n'ah: let us play the allowed game
of psychopathy...
who's watching, anyway?
it's not like we're going to sing a song...
a tiny little song in the centre
of the earth... wiener blut...
and what happened within the confines
of the fritzl case:
circus of horrors readied as freely
available bread! corpus... christi!

        by the looks of it...
there was ever only one individual
sentenced to undergo the torture
of being crucified..
only 'im alone... psychopath uno!
and i am... to mea culpa this sort
of *******?!
i would cling to islam as a janissary sooner
than i might clip a sheep's worth
of wool...
i don't like this sadomasochism...
no... i like the shape of my own shadow:
but how the hebrews and the greeks
will pursue: even being the toursits
come auschwitz! this shadow
of the cross..

i am a sheep attired in wolf-skins...
i sheepeople blah blah from time
to time...
who are you? who am i?!
ha!
i sometimes think of myself
as balaam... sometimes nero...
as ever... konrad von wallenrod!
in the hindu circus of reincarnation!
am i... ahem... not... allowed?!
i take to grimmace:
by the body entomped:
one soul "sold"...

granny can ******* nonetheless...
i belong elsewhere to start the argument:
ex nihil!
to praise looking for a raving
lunatic with too many words
in his mouth...
i think that's where "i think" coincides itself
for an ulterior purpose:
i suppose i breathe...
i propose that i also eat!
scraps of meat...
salted pork... works miracles
with the miracle men of the crescent moon!
as does the "excess" skin
of ******...
not that i would sacrifice my ******* *******
so easily...
i need to pretend to shake hands with
ghosts: forever...

oh you can have my tonsure my kippah:
prior to my *******...
any excess skin concerning the ****?!
ha ha!
i just want to make sure!
you... never... grit...
actually... can... ever... know...
who's playing who's game...
being so blatantly pass... arrogant...
with one's lies?!

i believe the horde... i believe the herd...
i'm yet: i am utmost...
questioning... the little... incy-wincy... spider...
details of... consceince unravelled...

yes: the universal percentage detail:
translates back toward all subjectivities!
a fraction of objectivity: 0.01%
will later govern all the subjectivities of
the 99.99: thus proclaimed:
sterile grieves!

how well connected are we: aren't we?!
we hope to suppose:
and a neighbour allows...
not that we: we just... bungie-jump
into a ***** of the social contract!
no one is readied for this side-project
of society...
oh... wait... the police are policing
hate crimes of "hate speech"...
**** it... ****... pillage...
the balkan states are ripe for an
ottoman takeover...
was i about to blink to imitate...
nodding?!

yet as much as i might sway with
a phatom lady:
upon pretending to toy with a tango:
my toes are replica shrapel toys
with the toils of grip:
my little details... at best
my least bitten-into toenails...
             how about i grow a beard
of a goat's concern...
or grace a camel with a metaphor
of a needle...

this one hebrew is by no means
a noah: i... have to... pretend a martin luther...
they have their ****** tel aviv and israel!
what's not to "like":
h'america?
isn't that project of inquiry
burning it solid last in a ******* toaster
of mc and o'
                     celtic broods concerning
who's to divide up Boston?

the jews have their: recovered land:
i'm sure they can take back
their prized tool of converting
the northern folk with them:
it's not like the polish concenctation camps
ever gave them the *****...
because... no! oh no!
the germans didn't know about them!
yiddish wasn't born into german...
it was also and always this:
pan-slavic gensture of:
will you please integrate:

well hello sheepeople!
  you almost were deserving this
congregative... charm...
            no offence... time the conquest
of france... and the... french resitance...
yeah... once the germans and the russians
came simultaneously...
to carve up...

like charles bukowski said:
the trannies, the gays and the jews
have all relevants "things" to say...
they're the power brokers...
we're just the imbecile:
ant esque drones...
trained monkeys...
    'becile crispness of the tongs...
leisuring wet brass...

we allow people such ghostly firaments
of purpose beyond their expected
concern for a grave:
we allow their little besooth lying...
how cheap and zombie-esque they have
to become: grandma in tow...
even these closest to us...

it's like we are forever tugging
a warring: total...
never helped by a prospect of calm...
forever from those closest to us...
b'ah!
take it from us from the most 3rd party
sincere...
there's hope:
you will never have to heave
to be expected to...

can i tell christ to *******?
no... he's not welcome!
if i have to use muslims for the task:
i'll happily be "coincident" -
test the role
myself via the roles of
janissaary or mamluk...

honestly? what can christianity offer me?
an aching pagan ritual hope
of an ailing translation of heaving?
who? the congregation
hybrid?
      no... scrificial lamb
on the satire of shadow with a cross...
come the mongol teasing
the mountain of skulls of baghdad:
and... england is still a place where
a shakespeare or a dickness is to be born...

me? i very much like the romance
of staging a janissaary or a mamluk
prospect...
who's dead and who:
looks like...
whittle ol' grandma
can *******: be on her way...
sooner my shadow runs off with
the sunrise than i might giver a shitload
of care: she could have prescribed me...
when alt-vater was breathing his last...
yes...
because hemarrhoids and periods
were... forever alien to us!

scratched my eyes raw
shifted perspective.

sky is transformed
into cathedral's ceiling

a building symphony filled
my ears. such music.

phony senses have
created reality.

but there is pavement
and, lampost and,
dog ****

I want to be a fish
Learn to drive a tank
I want to be a turnip
And become a tiller in a bank
I want to be a lampost
And work down the sewer
I want to be an e mail
Because elephants are getting fewer
I want to be a chicken
So I can cross the road
I want to be the difference
between a frog and a toad
I wanna be a spice girl
And be able to sing
I want to castrate chuck berry
And strangle his ding a ling
I want to be an allotment
I think I've lost the plot
I need to be taken aside
And just humanely shot

When I was young,
A reckless car
Careened into
A lampost.
No one was hurt-
They were just drunk.
My father
worked at his career
As  a dentist.
A sober family man,
He never went
Careering into
Any kind of post.
Somehow in the
Ensuing years
Those different words
Got married and
Combined their meaning;
Putting occupations
In the closet to
Be brought out
Occasionally, as needed.
ljm

the world renowed english: black humour...
schwarzhumor...
better known by its "high german" -
alt-vater-zunge... schadenfreude term...
perhaps this anglo-slav of me always
found an iron maiden
of self-censorship to never
allow myself a pleaßure from this...
"sense of humor"...
it's not that i'm gripped with
either sympathy or empathy -
i guess i am... more or less:
arms tied... pretending to be a rock
or a ghost when...
we shared a laugh:
once upon a time... when one of us
was kicked in the *****...
or the football came full force
in a football match against the genitalia...
or how i was so wrapped up
in reading a newspaper while
walking... i'd walk into a lampost...
it's not laughing at misfortune is
general... it's a quick-equipped
circumstance of slapstick humor...
the base instinct... almost paranoid
in waiting... because you suspect
the universe to find the counter joke...
of close proximity karma...
you laugh nervously...
because: the 12th rule for life...
sorry... can anyone translate the fact
that petting a cat in a street...
is by far the hardest rule "for life"...
that cats do not come with:
readily petted... by strangers...
unless... so unloved by their owners
they become "missing"...
lost dogs and "missing" cats...
a cat is never missing...
i own two cats = i vacuum the house
every, single, ******* day...
sometimes i'm vacuuming spare air...
but i always wish for vacuuming
to be fishing-esque...
the need for the house to be clean...
shedded-furr-free is...
almost compulsive...
but it's necessary...
it's not that ****** easy to pet a cat
in the street...
it's too obscure to be a rule...
dumb dog will be whipped and either
turn around and bite...
or further his nostalgia for the all-loved-puppy...
distrustful creatures...
these cats... a black cat crosses your path...
the number 13... bad luck...
elsewhere... not here: not with me...
it's hardly a rule... because it can't be kept:
no random cat is willing to be petted
by a stranger on the street...
first of all... you need to walk the streets
at night...
but this is about...
never being inclined to entertain
schadenfreude...
among the western slavs... the polacks...
there's only plainsight jealousy...
i can stretch my palette when it comes
to the english schwarzhumor:
the ridicule and the terse accounts...
and the bombast...
i can entertain this dry scrutiny:
cptn. obvious in tow...
but the old rhine black forest humour?
schadenfreude...
i actually find it less difficult to avoid
encountering this mild sadism...
what's harder? faking apathy...
because when confronted with having
to disguise either empathy or sympathy...
is much harder than to give way
to schadenfreude...
back into the co-ordination of a self:
your self: reflective -
yourself: the reflexive...
it's a balancing act... and it's near impossibility
of stratifying "neuter"...
well...
apathy - what a paradoxical word -
a bit like psychopath -
the pathology associated with the existence
of a soul - psychopathy and exclusive materialism...
apathy: to be freed from all and any
pathology is a pathology per se:
which is apathy...
it's this automated "free ride" that
drags along minor details...
posists spotting microaggressions...
you see them... for your own pleaßure...
since there's no major hinderence...
no clarified pathos -
no obliterating ****** impetus -
the middle-ground: no-man's-land...
i currently have a cold - that famous...
voltaire definition of living in england:
the forever-cold...
the bounty of living on an island...
premature arthritis and constant colds...
away from the dry air compensations
of continental air...
sure... it does rain on the continent...
but you're not surrounded by water
all the time!
perhaps the + is that...
given so much water around...
the daytime hours come sooner
during the winter months...
than they do on the continent...
it's this... ******* island damp!
but - in all honesty... a cold is a welcome
period of: immediate discomfort...
with immediate remedies at hand...
discomfort as: less lethargy and more
nausea...
i know the signs of this minor discomfort...
all i have to look at is...
the uvula...
i know i'm in the chicken-shack enclosure
of the common, mundane cold:
ad nauseam when the uvula...
is... not swollen... but elongated... seemingly dripping...
when the uvula is touching the tongue
when the mouth is open... i know i have
been infected by a common discomfort...
would this ever stop me drinking?
hardly...
but tonight... no need to walk
the labyrinth of the outer english suburbian
streets looking for cats and foxes "to pet"...
the third tonsil is still in place -
it almost looks like a overtly-wrinkled
nutmeg stone...
and it protrudes itself in the gob
when an automated reaction to regurgitation
plays a role...
from the days when i used to mind
my weight and physique...
also having succumbed to classical
bulimia (roman) -
or eating and then regurgitating what
i ate... ******* down the throat
at first... until the oesophagus was
properly trained...
but an uvula that's "trickling" down...
like a mama goat's ****** that has been
****** off too many times...
and is lazily agitating the tongue it
rests on... then i know i have a common cold...
i experienced schadenfreude once...
but it was the immediacy that surrounded it...
it became an outburst of laughter:
spontaneously or rather:
if i were th lucky man, wearing a top hat
or a bowler... walking through trafalgar sq.
and having a pigeon **** on it...
but there's a doubled problem surrounding
schadenfreude... these days...
it's a humour associated: brooding-over...
or like reading a charles dickens novel...
something bogus like so...
it's hardly married to the child of spontaneity...
or the reflexive invitation: like water,
most unstoppable...
humour in a sense: pickling cucumbers
so that they become gherkins...
those tiny little oddities of the kingdom
of... the vegetative state of affairs...
i don't know why i would enjoy this...
ancient (not so primitive) sense of humour...
today i finally realised working my way
around the alarm clock...
and what a beautiful morning it was...
being woken up with music...
full blast: american head charge's debut
album... rather than some alien sound
of gongs and castrated gods, or sparrows...
a tonne of elephant **** landed in my room
and i became chirpy like a sparrow
without... what those gypsies get up to:
sing-along *******: happy r.e.m. -
peoples of the world: disunite...
two jokes: why do italian men grow moustaches?
so they can look like their mothers...
nick nolte: head full of honey...
decent film...
joke no. 2... why are all german jokes...
it's better than these people have a car to export...
there is no german joke...
little brother england - the expansion
of saxony is one thing... but hearing
a pomeranian joke is... watching the *******
tide becomes funnier the minute i close my
eyes and imagine: the need to blink upon
opening my eyes again...
this lazy uvula... soar throat...
more like: the uvula made a bed from the tongue
and forgot to dangle:
my mouth the church bell: the uvula the gong...
but not this lounging...
*****-****** ****** off too many times:
milking cow ******* thrice daily state of
sick... common sick... boring sick...
where the everest of the major discomforts...
like the ghost leg of an amputee?
teasing fate?
fun out of what? low i.q. or...
            karma-paranoia?
      choice of words... lepidopterological ask:
a cloud of:        e     d      r
                        a      b     n     o   r
                             i     h     m   p   w:
red baron whimp...
this... monolingual fetish for... best we not learn
another tongue in fear of becoming schizoprenic /
bilingual... need fortifications!
anagrams and crosswords!
the trouble of meeting an english native-speaker
half-way...
you'll never meet an english native-speaker
half-way... either way or no way...
a rare event... sooner coming across
a polyglot or a polymath than a willing...
native bilingual...
greenwich meridian: bellybutton people
of the world: the center of attention!
     even if the natives go against the welsh...
from the outside looking in?
not that many compliments going to scotland...
gaelic somewhat: more like mostly:
the trajectory of: but we kept the accents
the hark-and-harking-sense of sing-along:
tweed and tartan!
yes... but the welsh...
kept... llachar coch
    llaчar coх (cyrillics borrowed)...
or llakhar (kh - к) coх... draig...
gwyn heddwch (hedłх) rhag uchod...
gwyrdd porfeydd isod...
dazzling red dragon:
white tranquilty from above...
green pastures below...
              not so much can be said
about the scots: who "forgot" gaelic...
mainstream...
but: och! the glaswegian accent!
mein herr! what a bounty!
               i have a real problem with schadenfreude...
i don't know... perhaps...
i never appreciated the joke of:
having to walk in someone else's shoes:
literally...
if they are too big: the sensation of
walking the clown's walk
on a ground littered with dead squid...
slipping but not slipping...
otherwise the cramp and "claustrophobia"
of being a tip-toeing geisha...
or something from that chinese nightmare
of the lotus feet of the Song and Qing dynasties...
called: lotus feet... more like...
pork-stilletos choppers...
you can almost spot a hoof in this
man-made deformity...
blah blah all you want about the superiority
of the chinese ideograms: dear ezra...
sure... a chinese ideogram as... a brick
to be lent in building the great wall... against
the mongol...
but... at the end? what's being said:
the crude syllable: chin chong shin diggy diggy.

we fear what do not
understand

a man in the dark
leaning against a lampost

an orange glow and a curl
of smoke

rising toward the pale
and sickly light

whit howland © 2020

When they're not busy hanging me
they're busy hanging baubles off the
branches on a Christmas tree
it
gives them a meaning, but
it's not Jesus leaning on a lampost
at the corner of whatever street
and that's the street upon which
I'll meet,
and here,
I seek some intervention
nothing so divine
as to make it all sublime
just
an answer for the hanged man
before he does it all again.

On the bridge where nobody smiles
There has been many roundabouts
But the lampost here has seen the end of many miles
And this fence has seen many doubts
It's no a stretch to think the river sleeps soundly

You can't help but look up when you're laying down
It's easy to see all the ins and outs
You walk slowly, dream profoundly
To the other side, back in town
How much bad days will the waters still

How do you tell an act of will
Is it the bravery, the faith
The way our reality folds ?
Each day the expected unfolds
Some endure seven but fall with the eighth