some may think me a pessimist
even i begin to think so some days
but then there are things like lentil soup
tastes like mama's dinner bell laughs
and yesterdays that have lost their prowl
and it's also healthy?
a thing with no flaws
seems too good to be true
but it is true, it is.

Sickness lies me home in bed
no hope to stop this dreary dread
for rain pours on days as this
but lentil soup is truly bliss

She mans the stove with idle ease
a soup of love to surely please
no doctor's note could do me so
for lentil soup is the healing pro

The bowl is warm
a heated touch
delectable soup
a sickness crutch

But this wouldn't be
if it weren't for she
the love she imbues
in the soup and for me

This isn't an ode
to a dish on the stove
but a song of the heart
by which I impart
the joy of Mom's food
the elixir of moods

Lifting the shades of the gloomy day
my love for her will never stray.

i am a woman with pain built in.

lighting a candle each night & kneeling before Someone &
waiting &
waiting &
waiting.

removing a bloodied bandage & assessing the damage &
cleaning the wound &
cleaning the wound &
cleaning the wound.

washing down lamictal with stale chai tea &
lacing up my shoes &
lacing up my shoes &
lacing up my shoes.

warming unseasoned lentil soup & crying into the bowl––

i am a woman with pain built in,
ripping myself apart &
stitching the remnants back together
again &
again &
again.

sorry... have to be pedantic all on you...

   you ever think that some people
are born illiterate, at leat,
partially, to escape the label: dyslexic?

sounds to me, that pretty much
all h'americans are...

     is H... neither a vowel
nor a consonant?
you ******* eating steam-****
curry or something?

fill me in...
last time i heard...
you'd doing what the Hindus do to H...
they put it in,
but classify it as neither vowel,
or consonant...
   some whacky orthographic
insertion...
        
        certain languages treat H
as a... surd...
       you write it... but you don't speak it...
it's like people forgot the pivot letter
for either harking up phlegm...
or laughter!

   and Al Paccino can have his ***** fit
in the devil's advocate
all he wants...
                that famous:
look, but don't taste,
touch, but don't taste,
taste?! but don't swallow.
   sorry... own a DVD...
   because you know how the English
variant of sorry, goes, in England, right?
you're not...
i always thought that
the h'Americans had a terrible
problem with having their
personal "space" infringed...
weirdos...
  a part of conversation is also
a part of what monkeys find
the last bit intimidating,
close contact...
            touching each other by the fur...
tugging along...
     H though?
   it's a surd, not a vowel,
not a consonant in the english language,
a "revised" replica of
Hindu orthography...
which inserts the letter,
as neither vowel, or consonant,
but as a surd...
           oh but the Judea pundits will
what to know this info...
  like?
  you forget harking up phlegm in
clearing your throat for rhetorical
purposes,
or you forget how to pivot on a letter
that encompasses both sighing
and laughter?!
      your choice...
         so is the first H of
ha-shem a sigh of relief?
  and the second H a pivot for laughing
into a vacuous space
of planets, stars, and orbits?!

i cannot not be pedantic about language,
there are rules to language,
which is how, people like me,
ensure it's sustained,
and doesn't devolve into
internet EMOJI hieroglyphics...

         savvy?

           the language stays,
but sure, you can run along and play your
little, pseudo / + crypto- linguistic game
of whatever the hell
a correct spelling doesn't suffice...
mind you...
i'm dyslexic on certain words in english...

e.g. vetenerian...
   as you already know,
it's actually veterinarian...

  and that's because of what, exactly?
quasi-stenography bound to english...
e.g.?

     don't: do not
      isn't: is it not
           won't: will not...
you get the drift?!

   i call that the highest form of
cannibalism,
eating letters...
                  serving the apostrophe
Canni...
            and yes, a (indirect article),
the (direct article),
               's (possessive article):
there is a third article in play when
reading english grammar...

but eating certain letters
within the construct of crafting simple
compounds - i.e. -
simple sentences?
no wonder the spelling errors...

back in Poland?
    you don't have dyslexics -
you have orthographic ronin -
the clarification of syllables
is, to my knowledge, ever question...
but in English?
always.
     i make the mistakes...

the English are a race
of linguistic cannibalism,
they eat certain letters out of existence...
never having noticed
that H, is neither vowel, or consonant...
but a surd in most
obscure instances...

    esp. in that "cultural appropriation"
dynamic of borrowing Hindu words...
or Urdu, whichever...

              hatchet -
  hovering -
              hay -
   wasn't it the Cockney shlang
that ate the H out of existence?
    'ay,
           'atchet,
     'overing...
                  oi! 'ate me sum more!
i swear the Cockney accent
don't allow H...
                      but did the Cockney's
laugh more?
  or sigh more?
   the H is about to become dodo
and people are still desiring to use
it for either sighing,
or to pivot on it for the consummation
of, laughter!

  odd... isn't it?!
       and it's the English who are
attempting to **** of H...
                  via Cockney,
having introduced the surd Hindi
H in... say... words like
dhāl (see how the H "suddenly" disappears,
the macron elongates the spelling to dhaal?) -
lentil curry, decent provided
enough chillies...

not funny anymore?!
      How will you laugH?
witHout this letter?
    oi! Cockney sHdders!
      tHe **** are you going to pivot on?
wHat's your tigHt rope, replacement?!

let's just say...
some of us, are pedantic enough,
to care about setting standards
of literacy...
or at least? up-keeping them...
like gardeners...
tending to the gardens of Buckingham palace.

Working all alone today
I cannot help but smile
No distractions
No disturbance
My thoughts can range for backstreet miles

The hay is cut, the weather fine
Work is going well
Drifting over ripening wheat
The sound of village bells

A bucket dipped into the pond
Brings glitter lentil soup
No traffic noise, no people here
Just insect buzz and pigeon bill and coo

Today a day of solitary
Today a day for poetry

Lost in
lunar waves,
Tossed by
your embrace…

A celestial
twinkle
of memory
lives on
indefinitely…

I’ve had you
in passing glances
and in soul-holding
stares…

I’ve had you with
ice cream
with three stuffed bears…

I’ve had you in
sweltering summer,
in lentil soup fall…

I’ve had you without
ever having had you
at all.

we need only rocks and butternut squash
daylight mellowtime
cold wind change snap brisk
  fog mouth.

   The cities ******* cling to the shoreline
lake of ontario.
      share tea , share kiss
peace yum day break activity
meditation on stillness
stones stacked seamless .
    
   Before a powerful night , of music sung with joy in note,
friend snuggles -
      smoke lips -       crying - mercy
vision ascension.
                Body pulsating in your hand.

   Pancake quinoa breakfast , maple syrup hotchocolate .

Later to lentil soup with french bread and brie cheese , grapes  
Reading park time medicine cards
      Shaman training , initiating 46 yr old lady to her first joint under the swell of almost full moon gleam.
i dance the whirling dervish round the baseball pitch , extend my legs in ballet-tai-chi whirl. Find my footing in
the lightning flash sky
   nestle and snuggle more with friends.

To midnight snack of orange , ginger zest cookies with sunshine and peace printed on , peppermint tea and
a slight fondling shower.

     New music runabout
talkin bout american deeds ,our own self , our progression and human dissociation from animal instinct
    
Be love.

POWER in HEARTBEATS.

I also have a disco ball.

It lies to me and i'm afraid that one day,

Apprentice will overpower master.

I'll die peacefully in my sleep.



It tells me i am lame

And that it will **** me with a mustard packet.

Yellow

Yellow

Yellow



All the sunshine is gone.

There is only mustard.

And everything i eat tastes like malice.



One day, i will conquer it.

I expect it to bleed.

Shattered glass,

Sparkling in the dark.

You shall glow no more, silly inanimate object.



Revenge is comfort.

Soft, lovely comfort.

Fuzzy blankets and lentil soup.

Now i can sleep.

You may take offense,
were I to compare thee
to a common vetch,
but if you knew your history,
that Rome's legions were lentil fed,
I would be speaking in your defense,
my little Piscum.

Tomorrow is you, you, you day, doomsday, Tuesday, too-soon day,
But for now, we have headlight heartthumps and stars in your eyes.
We have oceans of asphalt where we sail in shopping cart man o’ wars.
We have frizzy hair where moonlight hides and kisses on our magenta lips.
Tomorrow is for you, by you, with a special guest appearance by you.
Teleprompter notebook clutched in non-regional fingers
as your throat flies over the early morning traffic for the eight am report.
Tomorrow is to die for, lie for, try for, because you need it, seed it, want to be it.
We have place, we have lace, fingers traced over the skin between the lines.
Tomorrow is lentil spectacles, vision impaired, nightmares in mirrors that are closer than they appear.
We have scarves, secret sensuality, subconsciousness, sovereign sometimes and their armies of selfish senses.
Tomorrow is springtime revolution, noodle-nooses and ready, aim, fire reanimated dreams.
We have the means, the torn seams along the moments when we know what we want.
We have what seems to be the day, the day, the holiday, the you-day.
Tomorrow is every day.

noting notions as a *** boils over
I'm standing dead still
still in the jig, just clinking
plodding soil as expectants fold in
popped then flicked it
pleasant patina of the mechanism
ceramic pulses in useless scripture
miracle unclipping of a dorsal fin
spectators stack irrelevances in several heaps
haphazard riptides in shared seas of subjection pull dully
slipping through and about subtle reactants
bridling a flood, lock sabotage
nil for a filter, sending catalysts roaring into battle
eating wartime victories and empty advice to be immersed in humility
gifted in living the suffering of the freedom of bearing suffrage
warring wingtips against space edges with abruptness

how much longer will I wait for butterflies bursting red at the wings, fiery orange curling their tips into flames

today is long and heavy like the space before a goodbye
i watch a moss-backed turtle float on clouds above the water and I think of you,
of coiled garter snakes and soft pink sunsets, of warm lentil soup and white zinfadel and fern forests and I know,
I would not be enough for you

settled in the space between sun and moon I am two parts water, one part fire,
I am boiling hot springs set on a river deep, bubbling and breaking and gasping for air,
I am summer thunderstorm, hot rain and violent life and love without control,
I am ocean fissure, the space between, red hot lava shifting slowly like a lover beneath the sheets
I am self-contradiction, all crab-shell and shape-shifter and the answerer of my own questions,
I am crystal cave heart and loose leaf mind, waterfall eyes and moonshine smile, you cannot tame me but you cannot let me go

Your voice
Your smile
Your touch

Perfect
like a sunrise
Like croissants and coffee
Like standing naked in a high rise window

Perfect
Like hot evening air
Tense but happy conversation
Your hand holding mine

Perfect
Like secret kisses
Like wine poured onto feet
Like lentil soup

Perfect
My favorite word
And the most painful word
Because it reminds me of you

Irises,
with lungs full of air and water,                And the sun that is infinitely yellow...
Oh my little flower !
How can you survive?
I will sing you a lullaby
of white lilies,
On the branches of
the grape tree....
And the pigeon
that will embrace
the morning sun,
Above the spring orange blossoms...
you exist...
like the figure
In all my late afternoons...
And being in the light...
In the air of your room...
When daylight, illuminates
the dead colored windows
In your room...
In every second...
And lilies,
sprouted from your eyes...
And your hands,
will make the buds green...
the sky,
after the sun
was pink....
Everything was pink...
when i write,
your hands caressing my hands again...
And my hands smell of you
My motherly flesh smells like you
Again...
in subway,
I imagine you...
It was like animation
We were passing through a forest
The forest was so big
The forest had entered the subway from behind the windows...
The passion,
of hunting a butterfly
in your eyes....
You jumped with a butterfly
You flew...
and were happy....
That all cats can laugh...
And I was like my childhood
I was a seven-year-old girl,
With a pink skirt
and bangles...
We can laugh together again..
I love you,
And I don't know
what you are...!
Are you a color?
Are you just a smile?
Or body?
I love you,
And I don't want you to perish...
In Here,
Middle East,
smells like blood,
soil...
and jasmines...
And I am terrified like my childhood...
Sunlight,
is infinitely white and meaningless...
And nothing is beautiful anymore....
I love you,
And i want you to be free...
In here,
Middle East,
With no hospital for Animals Illiteracy of veterinarians Substandard drugs
Lack of good ecosystem to live. Congenital defects.
And misdiagnosis...
Can my love set you free?
I saw you...
and recognized you...
My meaning will be formed from you...
And after love,
We become prisoners of circumstances...
And wishes and choices mean mistake...
Oh dear God!
What is the result of all this immorality and injustice?
Why are we not free?
And can art destroy brutality?
The updated rules have no effect in none of the centuries
And if this was not the
Middle East,
Would the ecosystem give us
Such a victim...?!
Apples and pears mean mistake
And you are the sun...
The sun of those red pomegranate blossoms...
And the virginity of my body was bright in the sun
And primroses will not have a lifetime....
The shadow of fig leaves
will die in your eyes...
And giving birth is a mistake...
I love you, my fetus
Your lungs will no longer suffocate you....
You no longer have to endure the lack of vital facilities...
You don't have to be in this injustice...
You don't have to be where there is no morality....
You don't have to endure both, the fate of humen...
and the fate and imperfection of nature...
You don't have to live in polluted air to enjoy hunting birds....
And humen mean mistake...
It will be an easy death for you The sound of your laughter will ring in the primroses...
The screams of your lungs will no longer be heard
You will no longer breathe with your mouth open...
And you can catch butterflies...
Like a white lily on your forehead,
You are happy and free...
Maybe somewhere else,
In timelessness and spacelessness...
free from the body...
Free from meaning...
Concept...
and free of form...
I will make the lentil,
sprouts green again...
and you are free now...
Your hands will be your own... Your little feet will be your own... And your eyes too....
I saw you and recognized you
And they will not laugh at us anymore...
And they will not say with their logic,
A cat cannot be your child...
Your body was like a cat
And I do not believe
That I don't regocnize the soul,
I saw behind his eyes...
Oh my little Bonsai !
Why do you put your faith in me so much...?!
That soul is my son...
You are my maternal feelings
beyond your body...
beyond this world...
Full of the voice of sunflowers Full of the voice of butterflies and full of the bright green and yellow colors....
And oh human!
Why do you think you are separate from animals?
They understand that we belong to them
But we don't get it...!
And this is because of our
law and civilization...
We have been lying to our children since the beginning, Through animations...
And I came from a cat
And I can have
maternal feelings for a cat...
Oh psychologist !
I'm not insane...
How many people should be victims of one thought and violence...?!
He is still my son
and my God...
I prostrated on your body...
I bathed with your soil...
Fields of dust,
****** waves
All around...
Space as dark as fear,
And I was worried that you didn't have a pillow...
on his happy face,
The dust was falling...
you slept forever,
in new bed of yours...
I saw that you liked it...
And i was going to buy you a bed two days ago...
At nights,
With a sky full of stars
And full moon,
With the song of angels,
On the wings of
butterflies...
dragonflies...
And dandelions,
you will sleep....
And I will find
new beginnings,
for you...
in the constellation,
in cycle,
When the moon reaches
the last round
And the moon dies,
The new moon is just beginning...
in cycle,
One meaning,
becomes
another meanings...
And this means
" new biginnings "
You are a flesh,
with thousand meanings...
my room smells like you
today,
The smell of the plant
The smell of a bird
And the smell of حیآة
the voice of leaves...
green shimmer,
And حیآة ☘
I love you,
And I don't want you to perish
Like the fresh green bud of your grape tree...
like a new meaning of حیآة,
In the vase that I was taking for Mr. Emadi...
Like green olives, in your eyes
you are ripe without guilt...
Oh my one year old apple tree!
you were breathing with pain...
from night to morning...
In the shape of a flute,
In the color of childhood roses,
And your honeysuckle will not breathe anymore...
On your tender and scarred skin,
Oh, Mr. Emadi!
I don't think yellow butterflies, can see the shimmer of green lights...
When a child dies.
You will no longer
be on the branches
at the moment of twilight,
To hear the sound of swallows
The sun will set in your eyes And I will not see your body again...
when from my mother,
My mother who can give birth,
I ask what is justice...?!
maybe like a fetus,
has a hand
has legs
has eyes
And will he **** milk from my *******?
I could see my young eyes,
full of moaning...
I leave my knitting undone,
And laughter,
is no longer beautiful
This vast and blue sky,
was no longer beautiful...
But i love the
blowing breeze,
from you
Bare the pores of my skin,
from your smell
To let me be a cotton primrose, sewn on the white fabric
of your pillow
And how tragic it is;
that your body is dying
Your body will decompose
Your eyes no longer exist
And your hands too...
And now, like war victims,
I will look for your missing hand and foot...
I found a piece of your
hand bone in the soil...
I used to worship this hand
I used to kiss this hand
You were a body,
I used to caress you
And you were intact,
And this was my heart pain.
And I will never forget you
How strong you were until your last breath...
You were fighting
for your survival...
For your freedom...
You were a warrior in this injustice...
And forgive me for living without you
And forgive me for not being able to save you...
Oh حیآة
I looked for you a lot
I look for you in the moon
I look for you in the stars
and in the sky too...
whenever i find time,
I will commit suicide
to see you there,
To see your sky
I will smell jasmine in your cumulus clouds...
In your June...
In your green and yellow June...
Oh, happy child of nature!
So you have been...
And dreaming at night,
means mistake of the mind...
Oh حیآة
in your farewell,
The scent of the dust and blood of the Middle East was dormant
And the innocent fragrance of
Honeysuckle,
was in your name
Oh حیآة
in your farewell,
Your hands were moving
And your eyes were sheer innocence
It is indescribable;
a light,
that is not for this world
And you breathed with torture
In Every Monday
In your farewell
And In your eyes
The breeze loves the moon
And I will weave the leaves of your fig tree...
I will weave your lullabies...
And I will put a white spring orange blossom in your hair again,
And my motherly lullaby will be heard again...
when you were sleeping,
I had put a spring orange blossom in your hair...
and now,
The trees...
And all the flowers
had the sense that
not to stay...
You would hold your hands
to the blossom branches
and play...
And all the blossoms felt like they wouldn't stay...
My ******* grew for you
My womb was formed for you
And I still see you from behind the colored windows of your room...
I can still see your eyes...
The leaves,
are your green eyes...
They are sheer innocence
like the call to prayer at noon,
And your room,
Full of dust and light;
is still a mosque...
Without prayer and prostration
Your rose sees the moon through the soil of your body
Your pink rose,
means flawless happiness...
And the smell of
my motherly dress,
with your
childish smell from the wind,
They start playing again...
I saw you and recognized you again...
And I have never seen
so many green plants
in the soil of your body...
And this means your
New beginnings...
Your primroses,
from the soil of your body... leaves,
of green trees,
and plastic,
They are part of this nature too...
And oh حیآة !
The shock of this tragedy,
your tragedy,
will remain
in the soil of
Middle East...
Oh dear God !
When a happy
and free butterfly,
has been hunted by the sun
at that moment,
I am disgusted
by your thoughts...

There is the woman
with reddened lips
her eyes are
little-black-dress-worthy
but the sequins on her jacket say
hello,
a beautiful, inebriated,
cherry-wine scented hello.

That folky
stone faced kid
makes potato-lentil soup
and he could
blow your mind
not because of the soup though,
that part tastes like dirt.

That girl wearing
a collared shirt
and thick dark glasses,
she is the human manifestation
of the other side of your pillow,
and she has no idea.

The ginger kid
understands more about
people than you
ever will,
which is how he was able
to make you shoot wine
out of your nose
that one time.

And the guy with the
scruffy beard
and the microphone
-well, he breaths funny
but the stagnation
in his voice makes
his poetry sound like
really
gentle ***,
every syllable
nibbling
at your inner thighs.  

And while you'r being whispered
into this false sense of security
theres a grumble
seeping
through the floor boards
from the guy in the shadow
with warm honey
in his voice,
and he doesn't pretend
to be free,
like the rest of us.

Ladybug lovesongs, shorts, longs, Genghis Khans
It's raining outside, warm and gentle
Fresh lentil soup, rearrange, regroup the thinking piece
Find peace part in parcel, gray zone embargo, let's go
Swing the *** down the row, break your back for it
No ****, take a hit and pass it along, left or wrong
The Khan is coming out now, stomping through the mud
A cow chews her cud, the sky turns ice eyeball blue, Bailey
Hate me, I deserve it, tell me, I've probably heard it
Spit, throw your salt over your shoulder, shift that boulder
Mold over the wet bread slice, kimchi and rice
Sugar, spice, and everything spicy, like me, jalapeno tattoo'd on my arm
Does good, some harm, sound the alarm
Break the strong arm and be free
Self conscious in me, oh say can you see
By the setting of the sun, ants, plants, trails
Quails in flight, saying poison out of spite
Change your thoughts and change your life
Ladybug love songs, sing to me in your silence
Try this, I want your voice lifted to it
A note to hit, high point, max ordinate, advocates
Words of hate, washed clean with bar soap
Some hope, at this point, concise and contradictory
Dissect the diction, resurrect the dialect
Stand ***** in the face of flooding flashes
To make it in this country you need cash, kid.
Smoke a **** Winston down to the filter

I am from books.
From stain remover and paper towels.
From the “golf course lawn.”
(Perfectly manicured,
not a blade out of place.)
I am from forget-me-nots.
From the olive trees and oleander bushes.
The poisonous green leaves,
And the fruit ripe for painting.

I am from themed Christmas trees and chilli on Halloween.
From Nina and Dulce.
I am from eating dinner in the living room,
Making nicknames for television characters,
And waking up to shower and go back to sleep for a while.

I am from “one bite, one bite” and “Yellow Submarine.”
From a new color for Lamba on Easter.
From Walnut Creek and Europe.
I am from lentil loaf and sausage casserole.
From mango juice on the hallway carpet,
poured out thick and pulpy with a wet “thump”.

A box of great grandma’s jewelry,
Sitting atop my dresser,
Waiting to be worn out on the town once again.

Cleansings
by Michael R. Burch

Walk here among the walking specters. Learn
inhuman patience. Flesh can only cleave
to bone this tightly if their hearts believe
that God is good, and never mind the Urn.

A lentil and a bean might plump their skin
with mothers’ bounteous, soft-dimpled fat
(and call it “health”), might quickly build again
the muscles of dead menfolk. Dream, like that,

and call it courage. Cry, and be deceived,
and so endure. Or burn, made wholly pure.
One’s prayer is answered,
“god” thus unbelieved.

No holy pyre this—death’s hissing chamber.
Two thousand years ago—a starlit manger,
weird Herod’s cries for vengeance on the meek,
the children slaughtered. Fear, when angels speak,

the prophesies of man.
Do what you "can,"
not what you must, or should.
They call you “good,”

dead eyes devoid of tears; how shall they speak
except in blankness? Fear, then, how they weep.
Escape the gentle clutching stickfolk. Creep
away in shame to retch and flush away

your ***** from their ashes. Learn to pray.

Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, poem, ashes, crematorium, chimney, smoke, gas, chamber, Auschwitz, starvation, walking dead, mass graves, genocide, ethnic cleansing, racism, antisemitism, fascism, cruelty, brutality, inhumanity, horror

that certain decorum the chug of
progress down tracks leading
far off growing together perspectives
as if horizons have personality
persona decorative mustaches
on poster board canvases in chalk
scribbled concrete bridge abutments
how the man on the hill chants come here
a cloudy guru like quality you
want need to believe fall for
because the tobacco-stained sidewalks
no longer describe your path
so you take refuge in homeless shelters
eat sup in soup kitchens in torn jeans
long unkempt hair and a bath
might be nice
the lentil soup may smell better
how you know constantly there up high
behind the glass in the steel sky eye
a man sits knowingly
pulling strings
yanking the tongues
out of your independence
just playing
like god
you huff
puff
and stare
completely...

There was a time that I was unfilled
searched and dropped in an ocean*
in the deep water the last hope lost
bombs exploded and shells bursted
the whole of me was decanted
a remnant that seems muted
but one that's alive and lasting

There was a time that I was waiting
to be seen, loved, deserved and adored
like the lentil sat in the water to sprout
and the state withered, lowly swallowed
the brokenness of it ached, stakes gone
the bets were a loss drained on the grounds
as the escalator crept it's way up

There is moment in the present day
where the awoken me is a desire
a goal to believe within my depths
touching the instincts and procures
not hurt and not wanting to believe
neither relying on the adoration to sate
*as the state of lone licked all the tears

A little Mady bird caught the sun ,
having forsaken her nest then revelled in the-
new morn
Dreams of sunflower fields and wisteria ,
bumble bees and sweet corn ...
Oak arbors sprinkled with tinsel
Pungent , turned earth laden with -
sweetgrass , kernel and lentil ...

Sing a song of powder blue ventures
Proud announcments from the tip of -
fragrant magnolias
Scolding her contemporaries draped in water oak-
sanctity                                                    ­                                            
Nestled in mistletoe
Pious morning adventures ...

Where behavior is deemed detrimental
The impact appears incremental
But anger infuses
As loathing reduces
Your soul to the size of a lentil

the monopoly of the kitchen,
a slavic shrine, unlike the stale
civil room, the room congregational
with the remnant familial ties,
with T'eh F'ou... do zee chill chill
church goer's salute! V.
two old farts (reminiscent of:
kindly put), the colt will have no
monopoly over the kitchen,
even if he write a Milton epic...
because the gracious old,
in the age of botox pristine,
would like an open botox casket,
rather than playing the loon
zombified by painkillers an
sleeping pills... might I add,
an Odyssey I took to aged 21...
never the subjective in the pronoun,
but the anonymous...
didn't mama teach you that?
the drinker will not be kingpin
of the kitchen sitting by a shy light
drinking in 25ml measures...
not at Ypres the gong at 10pm
and the death toll read
rather than the returning march...
sneaking for a 100's in the dark,
muse comes along,
the cigarette 2/3 finished,
the scissors come out,
the cigarette is chopped off
like only Anne Bouleine might
only fathom, had she known
the flight of the blade,
if the executioner didn't take off his
mud-clot-shoe-cladding-echoes...
rummaging chess
before the sword's bow...
       Omicron in past tense:
as if he feared its term being passed,
non-reliquary.
    - and never the thesaurus,
but a word in the back of my mind...
the violin Welsh longbowmenschool...
fidgety half-burnt-out genius
of Amsterdam,
and the con artist 4 if not 5 years apart,
tour of the underbelly,
the last electrocution
of bio fibre before the exhausted
breath of the Spanish enigma
known in M'eh-he-he-co as
               veinte-dos gramos...
just a whiff of university...
    the rest becomes a middle ground
for cubicle / cela klasztorna / an IT kennel...
and the other bit includes
remains of skeletal thinning bits,
namely shadows...
     eagerly the sun rose,
by noon the shadow was defeated,
by afternoon the sun became dazzled
by its own slothful outpouring
of bleeding a subtle rainbow...
    while at set,
came night, and man's thought...
so came the 7th day of genesis...
while god rested,
    the unpredictability and gamble
of res replica...
                  as god rested, came the spawn
of god's rest / "non-existence": man's thought...
ADAM less shamed by nakedness...
as Bukowski said:
the intelligent are full of doubts,
while the stupid are full of ardour...
    but by mere thought...
                 a mobile body,
but an immobile self, later soul..
genesis binary,
not 1 0 1 0 1.... but Iota Omicron
day 6 day 7 day 6 day 7...
towed the bleeding bull
before the silent court of stubborn
heirchs of woollen clothed
wolves in dog-collar ecclesiastic
widzi-mi-sie-bzdet...
      third limb disposable "extra"...
tell of that arm cameo to an
amputee...
       shadow boxing...
    nerve endings scalping sheep
past sheering...
then turning snout cartilage
into base for lentil broth;
twice more, making béchamel
sauce... extra nutmeg, um yum.

posit iota

posit: i(ota)
  then follow up
with the following
posits:
the D of id...
    iota's cousin
is spelled:
iota delta omicron
tau...
although some languages
extend that via:
iota clashes with the macron I
of the J... idjota...

mourning makes me so ****** *****

oh hell: mourning makes me so ****** *****...
i can't help it,
as i can't help the idiocy that i succumbed to...
tomorrow? i'll have to wake up at 4:30am
and leave the house by 5:20am...
catch the second bus, then the train then two
tubes to Charing Cross for a shift that's:
sign in? 7am... shift begins at 8am... ends at 7pm...
i had to "bash the bishop" tonight
without climaxing but establishing a good blood
flow to the *****: because?
well... if i get a whiff of the scent of oak of the coffin
passing near me... i'll drive myself mad
like a horse bashing its head against a brick
by being irritated by a grain of sand being stuck
in its ear...
i've spotted these ******* in these UCLA t-shirts...
what? you didn't study at UCLA...
prior to that there was a trend in school with guys
wearing hoodies with the word: DUFFER on the front...
Catholic schools: we'd have non-uniform days
to raise money for charity... duffer? the meaning?
a stupid and inefficient person... well: d'uh! no wonder
it would sell...
ooh ooh... liver tingles: it's pinching my ribs...
how many ciders have i drank today?
can't remember: i figured: better start early
and finish early... 10pm the latest... 6 hours sleep
ought to be enough...
stone temple pilots: art school girlfriend...
one of my favorite songs... so much better than that
Brit Pop intellectual-trash of... what's it what's it?
ah... PULP Common People: same theme...
man... i'm really *****: i don't know whether it's
the idea of ******* death: it's no necrophilia, no...
she wasn't my grandmother: oh boy, believe me:
i won't be grieving my grandmother's passing:
either one of them...
my paternal grandmother didn't even see me,
i don't know what she looks like...
she abandoned my father and left him to be raised
by his grandmother and her second husband
(a foster grandfather)...
  while my maternal grandmother? you know:
i'm pretty sure the invention of the telephone works
along the lines of: someone can call you...
and... you can call someone...
               my best friend, my grandfather... ****'s sake:
he was dying for about a month... stabbing himself
in the leg with scissors... some other *******...
did i get a phone-call?! nope!
two days prior to his death: the worst part being?
my now estranged uncle was in on it:
he came round once and talked about "perspectives"...
i remember that time rather vividly:
that's when i started to explore myself: lose weight...
i walked marathons...
i had this funny feeling once when i walked into
a field and toyed around with a blind rabbit...
i swear to god... the hawks were circling...
i picked up this tiny little thing: this blind rabbit:
his eyes doubly shut with some weird looking dried-out
mucus...
and yes: thank "god" that i didn't have a camera with
me... i'll let some dwarfs into my head to dig a proper
hall of kings in my head filled with memories
and no gold! ha! that's what i'll do...
well... thanks grandma and grandma...
at least ol' Lizzie provided me with hope and a promise:
don't **** yourself, not till i'm dead, Matthew,
no problem Lizzie... i won't...
****... she's dead... well: i don't see a point of contemplating
death given what i've strived through...
drinking will **** me, i know that...
but? until it does: i'm going to have one solo party
after another solo party...
i'm already buzzing about waking up at 4:30am tomorrow
morning...
mind you: that soaring eagle of a sun that was with
with in Scotland... well... obviously she was going to
receive a dreary reception back in London:
if it didn't rain in London i'd be calling a horse a *******
zebra...
my prediction? there will be glimmers of sunshine:
there might even be a rainbow...
i like flipping coins from time to time...
don't know: something must be wrong with me:
backgammon? yes... chess? not really... i hate chess...
Edinburgh... it was rather funny watching the old streets
i used to haunt as a chemistry student...
i remember my first year: i seriously can't remember
any rain... Scotland is apparently famous for rain:
my first year? i don't remember a single day of it ever having
rained...
- so i sopped myself to a state of pretty:
hmm! well... i too can don a university of Edinburgh
t-shirt while i cycle into central London...
yes, dearest Lizzie... i'm way ahead of you...
if people could don t-shirts with the word DUFFER
i can be "sort of proud" of my education:
sure... no Lamborghini... no Di Caprio harem to boot...
crustacean ****** habits...
well... if it has to go down with the prostitutes:
it will go down with the prostitutes...
at least i have one Turkish one who prefers to
"live dangerously":vi.e. **** without a ******...
whenever i stop thinking about exploring
this one last fetish of mine: wearing a latex suit
while getting my phallus donning a ******
****** off: hmm... i'll let you know what
flesh on flesh feels like...
who hurt me? who hurt me?! do you know?
i think i know...
no wonder i channeled all my energies into prostitutes...
it's no ******* wonder...
i can pay to be tender... to be a cyclops
with these massive hands...
in my head i'm already eating away at my own hand:
i need the "comparative literature":
i need to do away with the pinky and its knuckle:
to her the hand proportions: just right...
the last girl i was with? to my surprise...
i thought she was going to ride me...
she inquired as to why i was kneeling before her
and why i had so much INTENT in my eyes...
dunno... why are you naked?! stupid question...
no no... she spent the entire half an hour
******* me off.. i must have mentioned it...
i thought: i felt like i was being circumcised...
i wouldn't go as far as: Prometheus having  his liver
eaten by two eagles... but at some point i thought
she would stop *******: hey! no milk comes from this part!
o.k.: whatever...
i like a girl that employs a sense of sadism
in giving pleasure at the same time...
very much appreciated... her mouth and lips
turned into a Mantis wedding the Venus Fly-Trap...
i know why she was so stern with me...
i "rejected" her on at least 3 occasions...
she actually asked me: why did you ignore me?!
i should have replied, something akin to:
i didn't see: hide & seek in you...
i didn't see the playground...
i see it now, is that: "fair enough" between us?!

my god: when you concentrate on so little details
and focus on ***: how many pixies and kinks suddenly
disappear! when you've been *** starved... wow!
now i sort of understand why cats sleep so much...
i'd sleep so much if each dream i had would
begin with me scratching my finger-tips on a brick
wall: then... touching a woman's body:
to compare texture... yummy! yummy yummy yummy!
it feels like doing the butcher's work
(esp.) around the bones before
dipping your fingers in a tub of butter... ooh!

nothing compares to the inner-thighs of a woman...
no! no! nein! niet! nie!
and the eternal sacrifice of the birth of Buddha
of the most sacred ****: i could: i would...
slobber over it: into it...
like a leech! like 12 leeches!

no: i'm not a political animal, i'm not a social animal:
i'm a ****** CREATURE...
creature is not animal... i'll have you note...
ha: the day begins with dealing with a toddler...
a girl...  we're playing with cat playthings...
i teach her to roll ***** after she establishes the ability to throw
them...
blah blah: centuries later...
the queen dies... oh ****... well... PROPER ******, no?

me? **** me... i'm running out of prostitutes...
i think there's this other brothel in Stratford...
i need to look for a new brothel: i'm running out of women!
well, no... there's this one more i'm: well: she's craving
to hoodwink...
she dons glasses: those wide-rim glasses that makes
you wonder: what would she look like if she took
them off?! a bit like a fat girl... that: "what if"?
i'm running out of prostitutes:
i need to find a new brothel...

who ****-hurt me? whoever did... at least i'm loved up
with the "close encounters of the other-kind"...
i'm happy... my feelings are an ocean
and my heart is a sinking pebble...
these women are not so easily hurt...
well... at least not by me...
for years: i, my parents... esp. my father wondered:
are you a, munchkin?! are you, a dwarf?!
this was my inability to find a "friend" in the spectrum
of the entirety of the English lady...

please, don't, ask me, that question...
it's not my problem!
i stopped caring...
i can't give two shots of a whiff of the ***** against
the wind to even contemplate sharing
a life with a woman these days...
what?! what?!
i'm a 30 year old self-sanctifying saboteur!
i'm a man in his prime!
am i going to give that up?! nope!

summer is finally over:
back on the menu? fish and chips! and? curry!
LAMB and DHAL DALCHA...
but as i explained to the person i was cooking for:
if you're making a dhal dalcha:
you need to blitz the dhal... esp. since it's chana dhal...
mind you: chana dhal is popular in central
Europe: "my" people make a soup out of
chana dhal... a lentil soup... known in central
Europe as simple GROCH... the soup is called
grochówka... of course she was going to disapprove:
but if you're making a dhal curry
and adding meat to it? you need to blitz
the dhal...
          
             after making it i realised i'm a big fan
of making curries that do not include adding tomatoes...
and this dhal dalcha is probably better than
a chicken Korma... also: lamb is so much tastier
in a curry than chicken: chicken sometimes dries
out... mind you: i was using leftover lamb from
the previous day when i roasted a whole leg of lamb...
and this dhal dalcha is so much better than
a Korma: it's sweet in its own way...

    ****! no Garam Masala... where was that recipe
including 18 spices? ****! can't find it... well...
the one with 10 or twelve ought to be just right...
as long as i can find that black cardamom i should be o.k.,
bingo!

what a splendid summer it was... i'm glad it is
finally coming to an end... the long days are passing...
the eternal night is nigh...
more time to write: more time to drink...

i'm back in the elements of cooking the sort of food
that's seasonal for any European:
curry in the autumn and the winter...
everything heart-warming: i'm back in the kitchen
like a devil razing (best curry recipes?
the ones without reviews from the NDTVfood
website) the cooking of sinners...
well... a chemist in a chemistry lab...
                             i watched a few cooking shows...
Australian Masterchef is probably the best...
    today Marco Pierre White was on...
scallops and calamari served with squid ink sauce...

a labourer works with his hands...
a craftsman works with his hands and head...
an artist works with his hands, his head... but also his heart...

hell Marco Pierre White can see art in the culinary
industry... i don't... whenever i walk into a kitchen
all i see is a chemistry laboratory from my days spent
synthesising esters in the organic lab...
my heart wasn't into chemistry: my brain was...
but also my phallus and the mythology of Faust...
i.e. whether it was Goethe's version or Marlowe's
when Faust asks to see Helen of Troy...
i too would have asked for that wish from Mephisto:
was she worth it? was she really that beautiful?

when i cook i don't see art... i see chemistry...
the kitchen is the closest i ever got to getting back
into a chemistry lab... i'll gladly stay here...
i have other areas of life to explore.

I'm cooking a meal for the girl of my dreams
she thinks I'm useless but that's just how it seems
She doesn't eat eggs, cheese or meat
so I'm scouring the cook book for a tasty treat
Page 24 a special vegan surprise
A creamy spiced lentil curry that will water ones eyes  
The cooker is on and the timer is ticking
wine in the fridge, I've started finger licking
So, when will we find out if I'm a hit or a miss
Yes you've guessed it, by the time you read this

the   hobo      scram  


with the eagle face tattoo.

bitter wine and 2cent   deodorant.

the suitcase with linen shirts     and a dreamstation  ---   ****** up?
****** up?

***** **** with the crucifix? and the hotdog seizure?

you cut my **** up
like a   ((()))

spending money on your ham.

baby
got me a    tan  --- -   1056   i aint garden fool.

packed up     in      lentil  bean   gravel.   on a road less traveled .    2 words add up
to a    diatribe.    get more
sunlight

I bet some famous woman looking to get her face on something else in the market endorsed this product
She probably doesn't even need to loose any weight
Or spend her lunch hours stabbing into wilted greens and watery sauces
I hope this was worth the money
Birthday presents are suppose to be thoughtful
I know he was thinking of something when he bought me these
But i will admit that i have done other things to loose the same old 10 ten pounds all the unties seem to notice when i step out
Expensive atrocious smelling smoothies are suppose to work but they just made me gag
Fewer calorie bars had caught my moms eye but by the third attempt they started to taste like chocolate and cookie dough tires
The after taste alone will want to make you brush your teeth 4 times a day
Vegan granola sounds exotic for sure but after awhile I just stopped trying
Whey protein turned into honey drizzled pancakes sounds appetizing but i couldn't get past the smell
Yes i have a sensitive nose
So the neighbour enjoyed those instead
Egg whites are great and lentil patties are delicious
Cricket flour and taro ice cream required more time getting used to
Jellies, and gummies happen to be a weakness because I can never stop at the recommended serving size
I eat enough for 3 days instead of one
Apple cider vinegar is great melting away fat but I prefer to use it to clean the house instead
Flax seeds remind me of bird food
Anyone else see what I see?
I can eat acai berries by the pound
But this week I will have to settle for weird looking lollipops that are suppose to curb the appetite
I can finally have candy for lunch!

A new fad! Greetings, papa
I'm a family man with big intentions for identifying your discipline
a carnivore with laughing gas
feast yourself into vague sentiment
we stand like we matter
proud of what we barely conceptualize
do it because it's been done before
be it because we like our relished hot dog
melt the cheese onto that rotting bagel
again and again

speak like a willow tree groaning
ugly and underdeveloped
think before you end up in soil
rot before you know what your career choice is
it's important! to...

delve into subconscious matricide
creaking doorway is no longer an option
smash through paintings of feverish ventilation systems
architecture is not your best bet
neither is lentil soup!

Cauldrons of vehement muggers
ready to profit off your predetermined mistakes
funny thing is
you didn't need to eat that baking soda
but wow
all of you did

so what is the time constraint?
Where is the fabulous conclusion?
Meeting of the mind and body and spirit?
where we all come together, how precious
a little cramped and too sweaty on my bus
better make room for stencils and chalkboards
hey, at least they can teach!

I don't much enjoy the bass
I don't find it particularly heartwarming
brings a gleaming stick into my fossil fuels
trying to dig and bury at once
worked last time with a bow and arrow, cupid
shot him right through himself
heh...