Introduction
_____

some words
chase you around
infiltrating and winking,
in emails and poems to
your attention dispatched
undeniably messaging
a wanting to be
realized, completed,
teasingly speaking

you know
a poem newly birthing
in your left brain,
tender pleading,
love me already,
just write me
like you would
make love to a woman!"

messages from others employ
the self-same word r e p e a t e d l y,
you start to get the hint
very very v i g o r o u s l y

the rumbling,
the back-seat tumbling,
you're driving
bipedal composing,
guitar and piano
gas and brake
pedals to the mettle,
and the speed limit
was 15 mph under
where your brain is fermenting

all tuning you up to
meet the guild's
product quality standards,
yet unlike an automobile,
a poem, like a life,
has a unique DNA,
cannot just be
recalled,
for repair
and additional tinkering,
jes' because
once it is out there,
it has been outed

sure enough in my
my "started but ***" file,
a lazy layabout,
overlooked and undercooked,
the poem below,
a dabble and a muddle,
so ignored, so berefted
for so long
it got this
special introduction
by way of an apology....

Incarnate**

She is my poem incarnate
She is the carne of my body
She is the innate of my soul
She is my woman incarnate

she is all I need
in form realized and invisible imagined,
angel and thank god,
devil as well...

2nd to rise, she enquires
you ready for coffee?

it's only 6:22am

if you're having, I'm having...

she quiet disappears

thinking coffee's coming,
when to this layabout,
it occurs,
she's making
coffee in the ****?

get up, make myself presentable,
track her,
the coffee aroma pulsating,
radar signal emitting

sure enough,
coffee in the ****,
grinding, dripping...percolating

but what I see is
contrast and
definition

appliance white
stainless
steel chrome gleaming,
walnut wood cabinetry warming in
Vermeer sunlight window in-streaming,
a Chagall and Botticelli duet,
freshly filtered
thru a Manhattan sky
and flesh,
freshly filtered

flesh
is not a Crayola color,
or
if it is,
it's more a spectrum,
than a single shade

but this moment morning
flesh is more realized,
as if recognized for the first time,
by a newborn old timer,
who senses the
comprehension tension of circumspection
circumcised differentiation,
flesh knowledge gradation gained

this poem,
a first attempt at
painting a ****
in words

appreciating  task enormity,
for there are currently
insufficient words,
too many striations,
all cannot be straitjacketed to the
vocabulary palette

this then,
but my first definition of many,
of
flesh

so many canvasses,
so many undiscovered shadings
awaiting
****** recognition definition,
composition

They talk about a labour strategy and
what does that mean to a layabout like me?

huh
more work
probably.

That five-year plan worked out well
how many years has it been now?

I'm getting along famously with the
other old fogies and
playing dominoes
but only god knows
why.

it's
Sunday
and I know that you know
but I'm on my last domino
so
just thought I'd mention it.

We will **** him up
We will bug him non-stop
mess up his head and alter his personality
We will terrorize his mind and **** it
He won't know who he is
He will only exist, not live
( as if that's not a classic oxymoron )
He is banned from ever making a meaningful relationship
Anything he says will be used against him
He will never trust anybody again
By the time we finish with him, he would wish he was dead

Hey! hey, what did he do?

We, the Red Left Wing, Nihilisism Faction and in colaboration with Local Criminal Gangs solemnly declare above proclaimations in
solidarity with the MaCarffety Criminal family, who as underdogs
exercise their Human Rights to break into their next door neighbour's flat and burgle them.

Hey! hey, what did he do

This neighbour were two decent hardworking, Law-abiding couple, with double income, a good car and a prosperous future ahead, so why should they complain when the Macarfetty Criminal Family burgled them. Though the MaCarfetty are a dysfunctional drunken Layabout bad'uns, they are the underdogs and thus deserve our solidarity and the couple burgled deserved to be ruined and sent back to Square One.

Hey! hey, what did he do

THUS THE PROCLAIMATIONS ABOVE IS HELD AND EFFECTED.....So be it, we look after our own...Innit..!!

================================================­===========
Those of you with a sense of humoir may enjoy the article below by Jeremy Clarkson, published recently ....

WHEN the Labour Party was formed at the beginning of the 20th century, its main aim was to turn Britain into a proto-Marxist state.
But among all the communistical twaddle, there was always a noble goal. It wanted to look after the little guy.
The miner who spent 27 hours a day at the coal face. And the factory worker who spent all week not quite making Austin Allegros.
The trouble is that today there are no pits, and robots do most of the heavy lifting in the car plants.
So the Labour Party has switched its focus to a new type of little guy.
The oppressed minorities. It doesn’t matter how mad these minorities might be, Sir Starmer’s merry band of weird beards is always ready to give them a hug and a cup of ginger-infused nuclear-free peace tea.
Transgenderists. Vegetablists. People from the far end of the LGBTQIAP+ acronym.
The Just Stop Oil mob and their mates in Extinction Rebellion.
All these people are the new miners
And this is what frightens me about the inevitability of a Labour victory in the next general election.
Sir Starmer may stand there under his Playmobil hair, pretending to be sensible, but behind him there’s an army of Corbyn enthusiasts who don’t really care about the economy, or law and order, or immigration.
Those are middle-class issues, mainstream issues, so they don’t matter.
What does matter in the socialist heartland — the sixth-form common room — is the little guy.
So, there will be new laws to ensure that if you so much as look at a ginger in a funny way, or you express displeasure at some herbert who’s glued himself to the road, or you employ a man, you will be charged with a hate crime.
It’s already hard enough for older people to keep up with the changes.
I had 60 years of knowing for sure that women didn’t have penises.
And then, in the past three, I’ve been told that actually, some of them do.
And I must accept that or else. And there’s more.
All of the jokes we laughed at in the Seventies will become illegal.
All the things we said to our friends. All of the TV shows we watched. All the chants we sang at football matches. Every WhatsApp we’ve ever shared. We must forget them all and accept that everything we’ve ever thought or learned or said or done is now offensive and wrong. That’s going to be hard. Let me put it this way.
If you took a kind-hearted lefty from an uber-woke town like Brighton and made them live in Tehran, they may try to fit in.
But at some point they’re going to accidentally do something they didn’t even realise was a crime. And they’ll wind up with no head.