Here comes The Change
That has the range
Of emotions
And demotions
And devotions
Of a perilous populous
That likes to raise a fuss
When they eventually learn who I am
And treat me like I'm the Son of Sam

To be specific
They discover I'm gay
And begin to filet
My mentality
In totality
For fatality
Merely by acting differently

If my sexuality isn't the first thing people know about me
I get to witness The Change
Like a dog with mange
I am shedding my hair
While screaming no fair
Because of the shift I see
Because of the **** I need
To make my heart bleed

There is a steady bellowing burdensome baggage
From those that want to ****** some *******
So I search for weight lifters
But only find shapeshifters
That become great grifters
When The Change occurs
And The Change burns
So The Change turned
Me into an interdimensional changeling
And an unintentional rage king
After they use words like flaming
Because the results are so draining
It becomes hard not to hate people
Who are inspired by hate steeples

They say I'm going to Hell
While I notice the smell
Of being buried in their banal ****
While they play their greatest hits
That are as unoriginal
As they are cynical
They say I'm a degenerate
An embarrassment
A parent's lament

I want to change into a carefree bird
Instead I stay in Hell with the herd
Wanting to escape like Lupin the Third
Rather than be oppressed like the Kurds
But there is no relief
Only re-grief
When changes aren't permanent
But The Change is

There's an illustration of my life
That will change your perspective
The picture is in my words
When the painting is what I choose to say
And the canvas is your mind
Whose textures I could never imagine
So I jump off a cliff blindfolded
Expecting to be changed once I land

honest to god, with trans-gender i'm retro-******, and i know why the homosexuals were given all the pleasures of heterosexual coupling of social responsibility but not given the opinions, the homosexuals complained that the trans-gender movement dis-appreciated the appreciation of the male physique, god isn't beauty tyrannical, whether here on the anorexic catwalk? god isn't beauty tyrannical, the sea and the mountain, what beauty... but what tyranny!  so the laws favoured homosexuals, they were given freedoms akin to heterosexual relations, they were even given the new breed of *******, the surrogate mothers... what a poker game this has become! god almighty, i'm about to faint! well, you keep looking for genitalia, i'll just take a u-turn and talk to you about T R A N S E TH N I K U S - trans-ethnicity, trans-ethnic and retro-******, synonyms of heterosexual and bilingual non-respectively... and i got a helium balloon handy to mind the writing... chimp-chap and chipmunks - breeze! breezy! breezy! ooh yeah! tina turner gorged on tunas lodged with sardines canned!*

these days it should be called retro-******
rather than heterosexual... just to spice things up - via
in politics telling us to curb colonising the continent of
vocabulary, i.e.: hey foot in New England isn't exactly
Iowa!                                 get the ******* out!
teach them the english language
and censor them with political correctness -
even Stalin would find this approach funny -
'what?! no purges?! ha ha,
this is fantastic!' it's like the everyday
grey experience of failed
abortion and premature cancer
of existence just got a knee stuck
in its mouth - is that chew choke
or chow mein?! i doodle, don't know -
it might be a Caravaggio in the attic
or Anne Frank in the basement -
but given the populace it's still
a **** tourist trip - so take that
******* selfie with a selfie stick
and chomp a hamburger like
a turkey force-fed before thanksgiving.
no, i'm seriously retro-******...
i faked the *** and had a conversation,
neither worked - i mean it
worked faking it - but then the *** dried
and ******* took over
like i was re-experiencing puberty -
and she moaned that it was sick -
that one direction icon left the band
because he wasn't allowed to don a beard...
or smoke a joint...
               forget the 1960s Renaissance,
forget the Holocaust deniers,
come and meet the 1960s Anglo-Renaissance
deniers... **** didn't happen...
oompa loompa do'ba'de'do (insert H when required) -
prof. Kleks - kleksografia - kaczka dziwaczka -
             and other hits - well, mm, d'uh,
imagine trans-
                             (+)    -esse -
                      not gender related - but hence
the polak plumbers and other noose educators,
keenly the rus applaud -
                                               τρανσεθνικóς -
two golds and one silver at the european
championships of weight-lifters:

rank 1 / ****** 1 / clean & **** 2
name: tomasz ZIELINSKI (bernard)
body weight: 93.7kg
******: 176kg
clean & ****: 211kg
Σ: 387kg.
                                     ants laughing in the background:
'check out my exoskeleton!'
                          'boy! you and yo mush inside!'
   'keep the hard outside and the soft inside!'
                  'pecking the pecks of those naked monkeys...
               boy, i would!'
     'give 'em to the earthworms if they're not
               smart to be burned!'
     'goth macabre i too would endorse for a stable diet.'
  'mm, twice the body weight at the limit
    for them, and x5 for our ontological allowances.'
  'you know they call it a natural border of tribes,
      the franks to one side, the germans to the other,
               the rhine in between.'
   'well, d'uh, you ever much wood with rotten wood
           with termites?'
      'that's beside the point.'
                     'well, whatever it is,
          termites are... slogans for culture...
     their mounds rock hard from institutionalised
   saliva squirting -
                             what do we have?
       forest mounds the size of moles unearthing
          protected with twigs and our swarming bodies...
    we live underground - the termites became
     audacious.'
                 'oh stop it, i'm enjoying the joke
      that humans can only lift over twice their body weight
               while we can lift five times our weight.'

The Setting Was A Colored Stone (Pare 1 Of 3)

For the barefoot girl, the faithful
album was an afternoon in the
sports bar where there had been
a guitar player and some ginger ale.

Now the trumpet was singing a wide
screen view of the big game.  
Eliminating distractions, the crew
was focused on the game, ignoring
the girl as she wandered, in bare feet,
between the tables.  No pretense
suggested that the medium was not
appropriate for those who climbed
railroad ties and those who drank beer
in moderation after negotiations about
the green sheaves and the upstairs room.

In this castle, time was suspended.

The Setting Was A Colored Stone (Part 2 Of 3)

Ashes were good for the roots of the plant
in the window where the response was
directed to the coolness, or the hot weather.
In sports, the weather seemed to be extreme.
It was always freezing cold the opposite;
coaches meant to be cautious watching for
heat stroke among the players.  The club was
not louder than the dim barn where animals
were removed from the immediacy of the
last few weeks of the season.  Some of the
birds could not fly; there were mice that
could climb to humble abodes in the rafters,
and the cats gathered apart from the dogs.
The heavy lifters had reassuring
incantations derived by the artificial
structures of the radiology through iconic
projection.  Antenna reception hovered to
mark the insects with aesthetic devices,
a discovery by evolution.

The Setting Was A Colored Stone (Part 3 Of 3)

Screams came from the permutation and
signing a transcript of the spiritual drawing
which had been seen wandering among all
the other creatures living and working in
the flying building.  The gathering showed

grinning teeth and disappeared.  Found at

the bottom of the mineshaft, was the fictional
ring of speculations and associations
confronting the mischief of the few by the
motionless badges of authority.  Life depended
on the weathered red boards where the climate
ranged like it was galloping across the public
space, proved free by the friendliness of
kindly associates and the universe of powers,
the authority of birds that did not fly and barns
that had flown away.

My summer sweats bloom from a grass rag,
Scratch another hardly blasting out a calibrate,
Can I break, strap out hacker doozy bluemoors,
Caught from an out sound, an out frowned
Blackening the coffin sweet cough lubricate,
Shackle high tops on pipe dream loft shakers,
Clover feelers, four hitter on lucky seven collar,
Depth sin protector, **** I ain't wrath looter,
Nor do poppa sizes on some puke lips locker,
Key switch for gates hellish donor, back loner,
Course you see, I seek seep suckled *****,
Not some subtle soul (gap in skirt) poker,
Forever reaching lines, bust knuckle lifters,
Cracked rage like Nile is flooding wealths curlers,
Jewel duplicate for ruby cuts on roofless lust,
Symbolise another and I'll grabble force an honour,
Sober up soppy crotch rummage coper,
Scan cell prison ament Scholar's "repent!"
Mace battle X axel swop blunt round passel,
Cost more on pepper rubber rock relation,
Patient prep operation, cramp dilation,
Dial engage **** sudden blocked injection.
Cast nocturnals ominous above monuments,
Men fall like weak's race for joy's division,
Attend pro's vision, pure as skies probations,
Pack pampers protection tracks premonition,
Flat lines before lap times, clenching half rhymes,
Hop hotter than blues croft in dusks knots,

Terrible searing pain,
My heart is rendered,
All smiles flee my face,
My country achieves no gain;

Dashed hopes is all we get,
Our beautiful history made in sweat,
The passionate reward is whose to beget?
Alas! my country is no where yet;

It is all slipping away,
Athletes, boxers, weight lifters,
Jumpers, footballers, pin-pongers,
My country struggles all the way;

And at a time,
When change is a rife,
Endless propaganda across the clime,
Perhaps, a good time, to end her life?

The plan-tackle Wretcheds
The treat-splintered Hodes
The monkey Non-lifters
That seize oft the holes

For them, did I back-break
For them, did I glean
To fill face-less Shifters
And grifting Untweens

Soon settle my Upstakes
Soon twiddle my Oughts
I less waste my Enjeans
I less waste my thoughts

No longer line Sprockets
To satsply their greed
I've lit my own rocket, now
I'll grow my own Need

I am falling in love.
I am falling in love with myself.
I am falling in love with you...
yes you.

my family, my acquaintances
my friends, my enemies
my exes, my potentials
my abusers, my up-lifters
my holy-rollers, my ***** folks
my competition, my stepping stones
....my teachers.

I fall more in love with you each day.
You have healed me, all in your own little way and I will work hard to return the favor.

The more I heal others the more I am healed.

heal and be healed
love and be loved

heal and be healed
love and be loved

heal and be healed
love and be loved.

I see them on the corners,
The goers and the comers,
The lifters and the beaters,
The high-flying skaters,
The low-life drifters.
I see the time tick by
As they move in slow motion
The air growing thick
With my anticipation.
I cry, "the hour is here!",
The clock chimes on,
The day comes and goes,
But oh, they linger on.

praxinoscope-théatres and chatelaines
vinaigrettes and salt sets
strawberry grabbers and victorian dress lifters
inkwells and i

how foolish of of us
to believe we would
have a purpose

how foolish of us
to believe that we would
ever be of use again

The mood-lifters
you will need, when
night falls and the poems
start howling.

The crisp massacre
of golden dreams, and you
start disposing off the defunct philosophy.

The myths of heaven
and hell, causing the colossal
anxiety.A dog walks past
a dead body, near the burned temple.

This is the world apart, where
you opened the book for
an eye hole.Then you **** the images.

The pebble in the pond
starts moving.No water was left
to wash the ***** idols.

Transcended filters
Converted to humming and whispers
On a violet sunset kind of evening
All those bagged lifters

Indecisions you ought
Not to drop and decide
Not to hit the road
Less traveled and abide

You take the kinder approach
No shortcuts or take overs,
Patience in your ammunition
Never taking chances ever.

Doing the bad thing,
Is this the real life you’ve wanted
And you’re young enough to **** this ****
But old enough to take things for granted.

Just filled up
Ready to conquer
Miles upon miles
Stretched out
Untamed asphalt
Awaiting me
Yet I watch
Ever so diligently
As "Full" gradually drops
3/4
1/2
1/4
1/8
Dancing on E
Soon to be stranded
Thumbs out
Thigh might shake
Maybe a laugh
Will get someone to stop
Help me put fuel
In a tank ran dry
It won't help now
My gauge has been broke
I rigged it to be on "F"
When it's really bone dry
I've been running
On a tank stuck on E
No amount of prayer
You whisper in idle hope
No supply of hugs
You discount tirelessly
This gasoline engine
Intent on starving
Rather keep going
Depriving all maintenance
Oil leaks
Transmission slipping
ECM haywire
Throwing endless codes
Mechanics can't figure out
This one here
Ole Reliable
Old Faithful
We'll call her Betsy
Somehow
Someway
With a tank on E
Your destination you'll get to
Run ragged
Throttled till the lifters knock
Patiently dying quicker
Holding out
Till that one mechanic
Actually will take the time
Put forth the effort
Ever so effortlessly
Running part by part
Through and through
Fixing what needs it the most
Just so the gauges won't lie
And the performance
Will be dramatically improved
What more do you expect
When you got a tank
Stuck on E
And nowhere to fill-up
Where the price
Actually matches the sign
Or the quality of the fuel
Is genuine in it's conviction
To get you there
That place you need to be
Where the fuel is abundant
Maintenance is easier
All attention is set
On the perfect match
Between your fuel station
And my vehicular heart
Always wanting to go
Just no destination
Or company for enjoyment
Just a tank on E
Waiting for the towtruck
With salvage on the side
Crusher it is
Even if it runs and drives
No use without the fuel
To keep it going

honest to god or no god... this was supposed to be merely about a comparison of two bicycles... a road-bike viking... bought for £125 years ago... the chain was all rusty... the wheels were deflated... and a trek marlin 5... bought for £495... which... comes to think of it... only just now... seems like a waste of money... tired rubber... 3 punctures of the wheels... and it only took me 3 months of testing it... for the tyres to be: worth jack-****... double-sure on the condoms should the Irish come knocking

perhaps w. h. auden was right when saying that:
all the Hitlers of the world write at night...
i like writing at night... i like the fascination
with being up while in the vicinity everyone's
is off to the land of Nod...
perhaps w. h. auden was right:
perhaps all the dejected pederasts write
while basking in the sun... cowering into
shadows... i know a little about w. h. auden...
it only took me the time to read
harold norse's memoir: " of a ******* angel...
a dejected old queen...
oh... but between w. h. auden... pretty rhymes...
i still don't know what's keeping
walt whitman afloat...
well... since so few women write books
worth reading: perhaps they write the most
honest poems...
it's not out of some misogyny that i don't read
literature by women...
i'm a massive fan of Pashtun poetry:
Afghan women and their landays:
their little horror debacle...
but no woman is going to write herself into:
naked... revealing... child-like...
she has too much mystique to sacrifice:
to give up...
she's not going to write from anywhere
other than the posit of the ideal:
whether it's the ideal of who she thinks she is:
or the ideal she's looking for...
two made it... Bukowski made the money...
i know... he wasn't a woman...
and Sylvia Plath... perhaps that Sexton Lady...
it's not even cute: it's exasperating...
it's a drowning man searching for a razor blade's
edge to save himself from drowning...
even i: given enough time...
am... bothersome... meeting up with...
the Titans translated into:
pillars or... hardly salt... just the pedagogic
blockade... it would be easier to revise
perspectives with a Copernican:
he moved the earth while stopping the sun...
that would be easier... than to shift: Shake-a-Pear
into a heap of recyclables..
- i hate myself when i start borrowing
either katakana or Hangul...
how i admire these writing systems...
vowels disappear... integrated into consonants
that have no leg to stand on... beside the N...
how two consonants: lost in phonetics...
but necessarily distinguished in writing
are so hard to find...
B'AH C'AH... vowel catcher hatch: indicator for:
B'AH: not Bay...
              self-evident truth from where i'm
originally from... no! b'ah!
irksome throughout the day:
a second time i'm quitting smoking...
i'm not going to quit it...
a cigarette at the end of the day...
some wine...
i wish i could still play video-games...
no... wait... i don't...
the solitary bat flying around my eucalyptus tree
chasing moths and other lesser creatures...
me strapped to the moment
watching the win caress the eucalyptus tree:
it's almost as if someone let me off my leash
from a monastery...
like acid poured into my ears:
flaky high-follower count debates...
i don't think the sort of people clued into reading
a book... detached from a comment section:
sure... well-read... well-read people...
eclectic minds... regurgitating journalistic endeavours...
since journalists are paid
and poets aren't: you don't rhyme... ******!
don't expect payment when not boxed: with rhyme...
last time i heard... Horace didn't bother either:
authentically: if i'm not going to have a conversation...
poetic soliloquy...

my soliloquy... someone else's voyeurism...
dad rock... budka suflera - noc...
robert plant - morning dew... darkness darkness....

well of course i will read ****-****** literature:
i'm not a big fan of nuns...
women and their curtain dressing...
i want to love them as much as i don't
want to understand... keep me as target of my
own demise in a man orientated world...

- the beauty of a machine that works well...
i'm still flabbergasted... i just saw a gingerbread
cookie of a man run into a cave,
shout... and leave no traces of an echo...
ooh! the sort of face most associated
with Kenyan macaques...
who... project a ****** expression of fear
onto that, which... gives them fear...

Kenya... i was there for the ivory beauties...
the adventure of finding shade...
the cheap brandy... and feeding the macaque
monkeys some sugar sachets...
while entertaining myself on the balcony
with: inanimate things...
twitchy eye: tree! i saw you move!

it's a bicycle it's not a road-taxed mechanisation:
i very much like things i can use
to their full potential: whereby i invest in
creating my own momentum...
slim: slimmer... slimmest...
now that i have a clenched chest
of pirate rage having done some press-ups
in awkward positions: more yoga
than... not as many stomach crunches...
i like the idea of a tender stomach...
all the limbs can be orchestrated to:
well oiled... best of the best juiced...
but the stomach... area...
i like it tender...
to imitate the whole of woman... sketched
in braille...
cat grooming... which originally prompted me
when she stuck up her *** into my face
and i started whizz-kid searching
for an outlet...
i promised myself i'd be back
on scout's honour: prompt...
looks like i haven't been so honest
with either her or myself...
my moustache has grown to the point
where my lips are hiding... tender: slim...
my neck has disappeared...
i've started to drink and become pensive
and therefore: started to imitated playing
a violin while fiddling with a beard...

but i did trim my ***** so they might appear...
like a laurel bush...
or a lemon tree...
maybe i'll get my libido spontaneity back
when i have to tend to grooming the cats...
it's the closest prospect of "translation"
i'll arrive at... since: with cats...
no muzzle... not leash... no kink...
no latex... come to "think" of it...
thank god i don't get enough of "it"...
give me a spectacle of one: done proper...
every half-a-decade...
i couldn't stomach it everyday...
it's enough that i have everyday for
the joys of... taking a ****... drinking some milk...
debating corn....

it's not corn is: or was... ever to be debated...
seriously... perhaps corn-meal:
not corn-flour that's readily available for
a thickening "enzyme"...
that **** the h'americans eat...
yellow-bread... Hans and Saucer...

strict regulations of language formality...
debatable speak...
wait... from began with Horace
and ends with giuseppe belli sonnets:

a le madre, se sa, li strilli e 'r piaggne
je pareno ronno dde tordinone.
le madre ar monno so ttutte compaggne...

       to mum, the gruntings of this ***-mad ******
surpass the sweet songs of a west end name...
the mothers of this world are all the same.

it's a dialectical approach concerning two bicycles...
one... a cheap road bicycle viking: vibrant green...
sturdy frame: no need for...
lost the word... rephrasing...
what's the word... not punctures...
giddy-giddy...up... down?
RESORY...

unlike a wide-girth of the mountain bike's
handlebars...
the road-cycle narrows around me exfoliating my
back muscles...
sure... the front brakes are a bit squeaky...
but... unlike the £495 pristine: sold for a....
the wider trim of wheels....
i have never ridden a better bicycle worth
only £125... this viking contra the trek marlin 5...

get used to the idea of THONG...
of the wheel...
the frame is much smaller... "slim"...
but i still encourage myself as riding faster...
bicycles and prostitutes...
i don't care much for...
paying too much...
last time i heard: there's not "cheaper"
as there's no "dearest"... when it comes to coughing up
for ***...
the supposedly cheapest will showcase
her tongue... she's motivate you...
provided you're sober...
giddy-up showcase girl...

after having skimmed some Rousseau...
i thought Kierkegaard was good:
indolent i...
there's no cat sleeping in my bed:
thank god... i'm not feeling having a bed-fellow...
to suckle me into: oyster-mush...
floral patterns...

also... thank god for the olympics:
the plethora of bodies...
the swimmers have the sexiest bodies...
not the sprinters...
lacerated lungs...
not the heavyweight lifters:
******* Turkish dwarfs from the nether kingdom
of the Caucasian: procrastinating
crustaceans....

        look at them!
see any ***-side-aside... keep up with
the Springboks? Aqua-****-with:
mensch... oh the "cardinal" is real...
the Isrealis should know..
not much room for intellect
when the body is concerned...
FAIL... double... FAIL: thrice...
there's not THRICE when filing is mentioned...

a £125 worth of a VIKING road-bike...
is worth more than a £495 Trek marlin 5 mountain bike...
how? the product wasn't made
at a time where... NOT MADE IN CHINA
was a thing...
perhaps the Chinese teamed up with project:
SLACK...

but there's this "debate":
i'd rather.... not listen to music...
hence... listen... to the bicycle not giving me grief...
streaking a palette of irksome sounds...
glitches... chasers...
creases in the otherwise well-oiled-up...
rubric of cogs and: generalised machinery...
i "forgot" to become a self-made d.j.
riding this glorious machinery...
why? it's so silent....
it works so well...
so much for advertising hell:

when a machine works so... pristinely...
that... you: can sacrifice listening to music...
as a way to digest the mundane...
passing of traffic...
so well oiled... of sure... the front breaks
squeak a little...
but you can refrain from auxiliary help
of the time: occupied by cycling:
because there's a solid frame....
and the classic handlebars allow your
hands the sort of "yoga" not associated
with the timidity of mountain-bike heirs: HIRSCH...

when you want to appreciate a well-crafted bicycle...
you want to listen to the traffic...
you can't hear your bicycle...
you're dying to **** a Turkish *******...

when journalism dies...
oh i'm pretty sure... no man alone...
the Phoenicians invented what the Canaanites
suggested: the humble patriarch Abraham...
Carmenta...
              St. Cyril...
SEJONG...
it wasn't sr. isaac pitman...
last time i heard it was... Marcus Tiro:
of the Cicero household...

*** & bicycles... it's one thing...
altogether another...
alpha + beta orbiters...
journalists get paid for being...
restaurant critics...
poets get paid for... load of *******:
and half the expected rhyme...
i like what i'm supposed to pay for...
Turkish prostitutes...
like Turkish barbers...
i get the best trim of ***** refocusing on my face...
i get the best blowback...

the English girls: all nuns!
all nuns! just prior to...
Pakistani paedophiles making them...
"available": no... rotten fruit at this point...
my life's complicated enough...
aim small: miss small...
heart's a pebble...

in the guise of: walking abortion:
walking around with a scrutiny of:
the eunuchs of king solomon's harem:
daddy: issues...
all those maxims... all those maxims::
but no foreseeable light of a
king david's psalms...

any man can claim wisdom:
when he has all the world is to arrive at....
no wonder that...
Solomon felt this sort of "grief"...
from David unto Solomon:
this tender prayer...

there's no need to avert the freedom
granted unto women:
i must allow myself
to love what i better not understand....
grow a beard: fiddle with it
pretending it to be a violin...
crease the concerns for traffic...
if it's not a horse: treat it as a bicycle...

i have a heart: enough of a heart:
to... drown a stone...
if not a stone then i'll suffocate
a mountain... however peacocking worded:
i'll drown a ******* mountain
in a puddle! then... i'll call it...
a lob-sided phenomenon of...
"ugly" tarmac!

Now I’m A LYRICAL GUERRILLA... !!!
Who’s A VERY DEEP THINKER... !!!
  
So Am NOT Some *******...
Like That Paedo’ Gary Glitter... !!!
  
Or The Type Who Beds SISTERS... !?!
Because What Kind of Heart...
Would Tear Sisters APART...
To Fulfil Their ****** Needs... ?!?
  
Like Some Kind of HUNGRY MONKEY...
That LACKS... MORALITY... ?!?
  
Now By Sisters I Mean...
Those Who Are Part of The SAME FAMILY... !!!
  
Because Those Kind of Antics...
Are Those QUICKLY Redacted...
  
By Guerrillas Like ME... !!!
Because I’m NOT Like These FIENDS... !!!
Cos’ I’m A DIFFERENT Kind of Breed... !!!
To Those Who Choose To Feed...
  
Like Count Drac’ And His Team... !!!
of Bloodsuckers Who Seem...
To Be The Type Who Lead...
... And Run Societies... !!!
  
So My GUERRILLA Tactics...
Feed LYRICAL LASHINGS...
That I Give Through Poetry... !!!
  
Because I’m LYRICALLY...
… MORE DANGEROUS... !!!
Than These Young Emcees...
Who Just Chat BREEZE...
To Earn Themselves Money... !!!
  
Who Show WAYWARDNESS...
And Degrees UNLIKE The THREE...
  
You See My Verse INDEED...
Is VERSATILE And DEADLY... !!!
  
So I’m More Like A KONG...
Whose Lyrically STRONG... !!!
  
So DO NOT Belong...
In A World of Shapeshifters... !!!
  
Where Those Enlisted...
Are Regularly... ******... !!!
It Seems By Shirt Lifters...
And Monetary Grifters...
Who Run From TRUE Guerrillas... !!!
  
Whose Form of Lyricism...
Is Simply Too HARD HITTING... !!!
  
Because Their Breed Is WEAK... !!!
So Employ DEVIOUS Ways  ...
To Keep Their Puppets CAGED...
As Well As Lyrically TAME...
As Long As They SEE FAME... !!!
  
But REAL Guerrillas...
... DON’T Walk That Way... !!!
  
They Walk In Ways Too STRAIGHT...
For The World... TODAY...
Where Groups Now DICTATE...
What Entertainers Say... !!!
  
Well REAL GUERRILLAS AREN’T Willing...
To Be TAMED And Placed...
In Places Where They Lay...
Like PROSTITUTING Dames... !!!
  
Because Our Lyrics DISPLAY...
Wordplay That SHAKES...
And DECIMATES These Fakes... !!!
  
And PUSSYHOLES...
Who Are CONTROLLED... !!!
  
Like Robots Being Made...
To Patrol And Act Like They...
Can Pretend To Be HUMANE... !?!
  
It’s CRAZY Now To SEE...
How WEAK Most People Be... !!!
  
While Protests Make Some Feel...
As If They’re Being REAL... !!!
  
When... Most of Them...
Are Part of THE PROBLEM... !!!
  
Because They’ve SHUNNED GUERRILLAS...
Until Their NON EXISTENT... !!!
  
Because This New Breed...
DOESN'T Seem To See...
That New Technology...
Can **** INDISCRIMINATELY...
And Face NO PENALTIES... !!!
  
Just Like TODAYS Police... !!!
  
Who Now DON’T Seem To Be...
So Willing To Police The Streets... !?!
  
Because of... The Disease...
That Corona CANNOT Beat... !!!
  
The DISEASE of FALLACIES...
And IGNORANCE That’s Reached...
  
LEVELS... Now BEYOND BELIEF... !!!
  
Which Is Why BIG VIRGE...
Is A Wordplay KILLER...
  
Who Can ONLY Be DEFINED...
  
As A.....
  
.... “ LYRICAL GUERRILLA “....

i haven't "weaponised" my drinking to turn it
into writing, proper, for some time,

there's this riddle in Latin,
because i won't be looking for the words
in Hebrew, so i'll unravel
the saying in Latin,

working from ehyeh asher ehyeh,
i am that i am: toward...
i am who is...

        but god is the Holocaust
is... ego sum quod (that) /
         ut (as) - ego sum

  not who he is...
   transgender bereavement...
   since trans-racialist affairs happened prior,
Cat Stevens had a Greek Cyprus father
and a Swedish mother...

Napoleon Napoleon: best new soundtrack
for a movie...

****... i'll really need a classical
education... ego sum qui es...
i've been sleeping
i can't weaponise alcohol like i used to
to write...

maybe i've also lived a little and can't catch
the surf of loner writer bollocking,
i have all the house to myself but
it's like: i don't want to push the nuke button,
the red red red red...

there's a dancing fly on my table in
a timid stake of the last remaining light,
i almost think that i've given half of myself
up... better evening than for most
spent in Plato's cave without Homer's
spine...

since Homer's courage for adventure is
almost as crippling to inherit as
Moses' Genesis... crippling for the modern man,
modern, current man, seemingly claustrophobic,
who knows, maybe i'll unwind
and use this amber droplets to unwind,

i'll cite some common reference point,
by now i know there is no "collateral"....
i can drink and smoke some marijuana
and have 20 walls with roof included
to bounce my ego about like it's a match of
squash... i'm used to the darkness - des rocs...

i haven't missed the beauty spots...
today i failed at living a day...
i waited for cat food delivery...
i waited for a plumber...
but i was armed for cycling in the night...
as sun disappears come these days
gone come 4pm...
   i cycled like a serpent constipated by
puff and wind and wizards of feathers
to the proximity of Canary Wharf...
via the bus route 5 towards Canning Town
then back through the muck
towards Barking: demographic check...
stinks of India around here...
but at least it doesn't smell of pickled cabbage
best associated with Germans and Polacks...

mitigating 0-return flow of information...
i can't weaponise words with alcohol,
i thought i could... reading a snippet of:
I, Maximus, of Gloucester, Olson,
my new favourite poet...
but the world is shook-up Stevens and
no... clearly, i don't won't to find myself
happy, somewhat interested in how:

the world with it's buckle i will remain
with my scythe... for the burdens of
harvest are still to yield...

i knew my "unprofessional" scribbles would
suffer should i meet a ms mrs "right"...
and now Hawaii is like a Treasure Island
Black Dot Pirate tattoo, forewarning...

it's still funny to me...
the Hebrews do this magic trick of not speaking
the name of their deity...
while the Muslims hail it appropriate
within the confines of: from what i heard, last?
decapitating the heads of unborn foetuses...
propaganda or... am i going to be the last
surviving horror movie fanatic
fantasist that: membrane of: surely until it
reaches me... but until then:
nothing has happened!              bogus...

kick and scream into the brilliance of the light
of ignorance... as long as someone knows...
as long as someone has experienced
the dark bulging interior of shaking-up
human relations...

call it a grandson of pickles...
Reyla loves pickles...
it bothers me it doesn't bother me...
it bothers the supposed bothered me...
like i might be a pastor's son
with juicy snippets of bad ***...
i started my idea come 9pm... it's almost 10pm...
and i'm almost finished my escapade...
so are the cats...
no angry ***** dishes to boot...

i was born to scale the heights of
salvaging hours of upkeep as a bus driver...
that's all i ever wanted to be...
but it's hard... to do the whole...
Leibniz-librarian anti-Newton push of genius
dynamic... but i like this war...
Newton and the push of intellect-spectacular
into the public domain... contrastic
the reclusive Leibniz...

last time i heard about the current
Nobel prize winner... she was writing something
of what Knausgaard's ambitions would
never achieve...
like prize Homer or the Quran or the Bible
now... in the climate of selling to
the literate-doubly-illiterate...
leprechauns and goats...
      similis of the chin and stroking the beard
for good luck...

       luck           vs.           fate.....

by definition luck is choice...
and fate is will...

i wouldn't say, ignore the world, def(l)ect it,
there's no Cicero in me and any mind
worth of rhetoric...

if we had free will... we wouldn't be calling
out circumstances of hierarchies in
the mind of the mad animal that's man
and not the cat....
we're not free without the cages
we found ourselves, to be trapped in...

i was rereading Nietzsche today at 9am
today...
aphorisms are sometimes better than poems...
now i'll get blind drunk and dunk a blind
pit stop to strap smoking a doodie
to help me count sleep: shleep...

it still bothers me...
why did he say: i am that i am...
instead of saying: i am who is                   (?)
i'm tired of Scandinavian influences of literature...
and i'm tired of translatable new-Englishnessness
of this Molotov-multicultural
load, of, *******, *******!

come 11pm i'll be jacked up ready for sleep
come me, rewatching season 1 of BILLIONS...
only because a poet scrutinises an actor
and an actor is not: a poet, a *******,
a priest, a politician... yet still...
between serious dictatorial weight-gain lifters
of the Chinese and Russian civilization-state
authority and western:

oops-e oops-ah... ******* about?
     under the dictation of a veil
of thespian-journalism?! you, *******... kidding me?

PROFANITY AS THE JUNCTION
OF ALL TRUTHS...
to strut with words as oaths
O **** me... i have the entire house to myself,
Edie, there's no mother no daughter
and there's... sand, time, to begrudge you...
you above a tilting hind, broken leg...

the tired ******* are asking: for this matter
to be either stalled or, resolved...
because the Apocalypse is being stalled...
and by double the definition,
smoked, halted...

           but there's this irrational very rational
love of, love of everything that comes
matching up purple with pink...

     who the **** speaks of the Chinese these days?
the ******* Taiwanese?
the Hong Kongish shrapnel brigadiers?!

news news... north east west south...
oh, i heard it's new hot **** getting streamed....
i'll make sure this writing evaporates when
i smoke a soak of a doodie
when i do...

no Olson-Project in Ezra Pound's sight...
i'm in love, i think i'm in love...
who needs to be,
i love regardless, that i'm stupid...

i love cycling at night...
i have a small ****... but big hands...
i have a small ****... but big hands...
    she swallows...
      a litany, some are words best
constricted to be contained to sentences...

i'll smoke one and entertain
kaleidoscopes...
green and with a frenzy of luminescent
purple teasing blue...
so many serious people:

adjectives of burning surprises
key, word, BOMB BOMB BOMB...
life almost perfect, sober,
on Kauai... so remotely... "it".

In an hour I'll be at the gym beating up weight-lifters under the age of 27, then it's off to the karate studio to wail the **** out of seventeen, 1st-degree black belts.

Sublime silence on the outcast marshes casted against the grey hills, too many large avarice’s to climb before the night fills up from the 32 brothers of Jain laying outside casually laying next to brains how then tomorrow comes just a little too early with farmhands and families chiding across the stone fences of solidified ones next too left faced so the wind caught the lifters before dragging upon the pavement red colors slurry with the clear curry favors from boot kickers thinking feet taste like curry hurry now before the bloated bow of Jamison’s ship across the American gates drift to sleep more often than you know but you’ll never find from the laughing torn apart from targets harnessed the underdarks promise trough filled till the gauntlets hill squealing pig fissure separating spectators from sepulcher never pauses left breathless whistles hasten to the untimely demise what a trend a friend asked me what I was doing but couldn’t respond because the algorithm wouldn’t let me breath heavily disaster of compost composing a decomposition of which snitch position to behead quietly an analogy of past tense and future meaning bereft of any merit to trust those qualifying for positions of power hours are 7-6am and please don’t push breath out of dispensers

love is the ever present ingredient that binds a port unleashed

a challenge to be free is a question of time to pier into the unknown
nature truest beckoning call usunder shout it out to the no it all
beauty in the heightened brightened leash to regard its mix hero fix

a beacon of light to a hurting world in need of love in the heart
with one shape to make a shake and bake
cry out to mercy we reclaimed the score all to please so much more
Brother Moon & Sister Sun

through a newness one become
tried to billows against the plow
wear the shawl the pardoning style
battered with space lifters clear your mind through the pool

love unites distant hearts that bleed
it cleaves to every touch indeed
where there's a clever approach to the soap on a rope
follow me through pains that bleed

cherished among the means
cherish through the leaves

copper tubes coils
gauges dials gyroscopes

boosters and lifters
gears and cogs

with buttons to push and
levers to pull

sometimes it buzzes
hisses and blows
like  a tea kettle or blasts

like a train whistle

we've all seen contraptions
like these in our grandest visions and

our wildest dreams

Whit Howland © 2020