I've more New Year's behind me
now that I have gotten old
My next one's in the tropics
I just don't like the cold

I used to party hearty
I wouldn't get back home till five
Now, I pass out on the sofa
My wife checks if I'm alive

I remember  I went drinking
I got drunk riding the bus
When I told my friends the story
they said, dude, that wasn't us

I told them yes it was,
We all stayed out till late
They informed me of my error
I had passed out just past eight

New Years was  Lombardo
New Years...it was **** Clark
Two giants of the evening
Two men who left their mark

Now, incentive to stay up till twelve
To see who will Jenny McCarthy kiss
well, I liked her better as a playmate
now, I couldn't  give a ****

The morning will still get here
Whether I stay up, or not
New Year's eve is nothing special
I spend it with my wife (she's hot)

We cuddle on the sofa
Fall asleep as if on cue
With our tray half full of finger foods
We're asleep by ten, not two

I wish you Happy New Year's
My best wishes all are sent
If you stay awake past midnight
Call, and tell me how it went.

ask me: i'm a sucker for pop music and medieval hymns, whether folk or of a gratitude toward a community akin to Taizé... while society suffocates me with jester's pounces to satiate a coming bride.. i'm more inclined to satiated myself with monkish escapades... i am aware of the "existential" absolute negotiation: to preserve the upright specimen... i'm pretty sure the chinese, the african and the indian sub-continent have it covered, i'm happy to be part of the dodo project... clearly i don't want to be part of it... i should have been allowed to be a monk, with each day passing i'm hardly thinking of the petty conquests of a bedroom with a... come on... even i thought this brief relationship could resemble a brothel's "one hour spare"... Tamara... spanish girl, worked in a barber shop... lived with three homosexual hunks... i tried having a hard-on, even when she told me to have a bath with her and talk... i couldn't get it up, i was put off when she wanted a kleenex moment, ***, incubated, under the bedsheets... in a brothel you **** under dimmed lights but not in a womb of cotton! you shower first, sometimes even washing each other, there's this whole unwritten ritual! she puts on a ****** while she ***** you off... come on... aaesthetic, cordiality... prostitutes have been the most respectful women i've ever ******, it's like joining an army of marching ******... in a pink floyd revision of marching hammers... imagine... the neo-communist flag: ***** replaces the hammer... the sickle? scissors, i guess, borrowing from scissor sisters? ***** & scissors? great! we have ourselves the new soviet, ahem, soviet union... and a flag to boot! oh Tamara Tamara... sure, no hard-on... drunk one-night stand cameo... i tried and tried, but i kept suffocating under the bed-sheets cocoon ***... she broke with me after 3 days because the hard-on wasn't coming... god, i too wish i could be the perfect ***** with a heart, kidneys, liver stomach and brain to match: ON / OFF... isn't a male ******* akin to a slobbering oyster of a woman's *****? **** impressions... kama sutra speaks about elephant phallus and a rabbit's ****** (depth)... i can't just switch it on, & off... it's not a ******* ****-pumping-piston worthy of ******* web-cam incel ******* worth of video, is it?! never mind... i was having coffee in the morning between her inquiring gay-minders (she suddenly left of Ibiza to find love)... i was saved by a presence of a robin... and you know what a fictional Napoleon would have said: a robin is worth twice the sparrow's worth... timid foot, tender foot... shy organge loiter... who... for some strange reason, migrastes to eastern europe for winter, then migrates to england during the summer... i guess: continental europe provides the sort of winters that are summers, while england provides the sort of summers that are winters... the mythology of Poland... storks and bisons... on a whiff... teenage gamer... but the storyline still grips me: soul reaver:
   protagonist: Raziel...
the brothers:
              Melchiah, Zephon, Rahab and Dumah...
games what worked as book-alt.,
                  i'm almost itching to add diacritical
marks to those names to "x-ray" into syllables
and hyphens...
    mind you, what has remained of the old
anglo-ßaß?
        names in chemistry... already, mentioned,
somewhere...
  sure... gaming is fun these days,
given the in-game cash-in handicap...
from Kazakh, Ukraine, China of the rich...
etc.,
                    these internet-based non-NPC games...
they're great for non NPC non-a.i. characters,
i.e. the old games had... not so much NPC...
but s.i.: synthetic intelligence...
   it wasn't artificial as it wasn't analytical
intelligence, it was a fixed intelligence
of the "opponent" / i.e. narrative...
             modern gaming can only be spectated...
on the evolutionary "debate"
when you: only purchased a PS1 and didn't
buy any console after...
as if "waiting" for the internet to catch up
to the grid... where you could play games live...
imagine a game...
     like the old narrative games...
but where the "opponent", i.e. the narrative
learns from your first encounter...
   long gone would be the encounters
with NPC in the old school standard of
synthetic intelligence, synthetic implying:
repetition, nothing being new...
   if the NPS characters could be given
analytical intelligence parameters...
     you could reinvent the old model of games...
away from the internet FREE...
  but, really: you're playing with a handicap
against people who have made in-game
purchases... hell... once a game cost 20 quid...
and it might last you three weeks' solid
of weekend gameplay in the early morning
on a saturday... in bed...
           i'm not really a gamer...
well if i'm the *******, the throne of thrones
i'm a gamer: just like some people
are thinkers on the ******* reading books...
but the old "solipsist" gamer is long gone...
the one who played to construct
a complex cognitive narrative...
i'll repeat the mention...
i once told a "friend" about playing sims...
he was so engaged in the game,
built this, built that...
i told him i freaked out when i moved
my sim to play a game on the computer...
hence finding the illuminating
wormhole of the Droste Effect...
  i stopped playing...
  final fantasy VII?
   only with a walkthrough...
homework and ****...
           going to the mall on saturday
with the misfits...
running up tier carparks and then aiming
with saliva on people walking in...
    talking to hare krishna converts...
about Dave Lombardo's insane drumming...
ilford: early 21st century...

cut off... a second poem:

.poland played israel in a soccer match today, the hymns began, first came the israeli hymn... boos and whistling, at first... but then i heard casimir III hush the crowd.... lucky for me not being in warsaw... the crowd silenced their illogical anti-semitism, the choir sang, libera me domine... i cannot fathom the russian purges, or the germanic dislike of these people.... casimir III's hush... i look at the cat sitting on my bed, glum, yet proud... how soon the whistling and engaging with mob sounds was hushed when the israeli anthem was sung... i'm happy for these people, even if i am one of them, but at such a distance: i don't feel i am part of them... so much for the glorification of western objectivity standards in argument... but i am a ******, on the british isles... what sort of objectivity am i i to expect? the objective counter-subjectivity of born in Poland, but bred in England?! is that it?! walking abortion... i am proud that the crazed mob was hushed when the israeli anthem continued... after all... SS-obersturmbannführer rudolf höss did cite casimir III allowing jews to settle in these eastern european lands... nes c'est pas? né(s) ç'é(st) pā(s)?! how else to write something akin to this, without finding oneself gritting one's teeth, grinding them into a toothpaste sensation of fluoride sandpits?!

fan-boy literature: stendhal, dante,  
         dumas             (vs)
   young-adult novels,
              which, i will never read...

            just enough whiskey
to count the rounds
of the crucuible
of the current escapade...

i'm ageing,
but i still like bands
like i might be a teenager...
          
came the: grand sorrow
taste, for all that's worth,
in encompassing a tomorrow.

My buckle was tightened,
My hair pulled back.
The counting lowered
To a slower track.
It spit,
It moaned,
Then took off towards the sun,
Bringing me unknowingly
To Florence's most gifted son.


Haphazardly it crashed,
By a tree with a sputter,
And a poor startled child
Who gave a choke and a stutter.
My blood rose,
I crawled out,
In robes that were so
Immaculately made
Like a goddess would sew.


So I journeyed with grace
Across the sun kissed land,
Towards a busy town
That sounded proud to stand.
Bickering,
Singing,
In a stench of waste and wine,
Conditions in which
My own people would wine.


In a market of sorts,
I met my friend Leonardo,
Who sought about
With his pet cat Lombardo.
Rags,
Candle sticks,
He would aimlessly buy,
We greeted with smiles
As we passed each other by.


“Sono Signor da Vinci.”
He said through his beard,
The richest voice
That I had heard.
I assisted,
And learned,
In his bizarre eye,
And found he had a far
Sharper brain than I.


The man insisted that he
Could soar without wings,
And each day took part
In the most peculiar things.
“It is finished!”
“It is ruined!”
His passions were so great,
I could feel his frustrations,
And hear his teeth grate.


Then once,
With no mind,
I grinned at his temper,
Which made him glare-
The strongest one I remember.
But, he paused, and said
“Mona Lisa, give another?”
And I smiled once more as he lead.


Now in museums,
People crowd by the wall,
They notice my face,
And they tremble and fall.
“Her eyes!”
“Her hair!”
I always draw in a line,
Of inquiring tourists
Who struggle to align.


Now try as I might,
Though I had upfront sight,
His brilliance was too complex to site
On paper,
In art,
His soul,
It dripped
From every pore
And sought to touch
The mind much more
Than any genius
Known before.

ONE YEAR

One year with out your face
One year with out for laugh
One year with out your smile
One year with out your heart
One year with out your voice
One year with out your love
One year with out holding you
One year with out talking to you
One year with out your hug
One year with out your kiss
One year with out you
One year with out with me saying I love you to
One year with out growing old with you
If I could be with you I would
If god gave me one hr with you now I would tell you
How much i miss you
How much i love you
How much I think about you
How much I wish I went with you
How much I need you
But I know You  are looking after me and that will have to do
One year .

Tina lombardo

Sul, limitare, tra la casa e 1'orto
dove son brulli gli alberi, te voglio,
che vi verdeggi dopo ch'io sia morto,
sempre, agrifoglio.

Lauro spinoso t'ha chiamato il volgo,
che sempre verde t'ammirò sul monte:
oh! Cola il sangue se un tuo ramo avvolgo
alla mia fronte!

Tu devi, o lauro, cingere l'esangue
fronte dei morti! E nella nebbia pigra
alle tue bacche del color di sangue,
venga chi migra,

tordo, frosone, zigolo muciatto,
presso la casa ove né suona il tardo
passo del vecchio. E vengavi d'appiatto
l'uomo lombardo,

e del tuo duro legno, alla sua guisa
foggi cucchiari e mestole; il cucchiare
con cui la mamma imbocca il *****, assisa
sul limitare.

i used to play guitar, **** me,
i even used to play
a madolin
to get the warmth
of a pict girl's affection
by reciting her
(impromptu)
that famous mandolin
moment in
rod steward's maggie
may...
no use...
i even bought a
martin & co acoustic
for 6 hundred quid...
i later smashed it...
bought myself
the cheapest drum-kit
i could find...
i always wanted
to be a drummer...
what was it?
ah yes, a folded leg
and ten fingers...
        and yes:
because of the song
sea of madness -
nicko mcbrain
makes the honourable
mention,
i know the puritans,
they'd cite dave lombardo...
and the slacks
and oldies would even
dare to mention
ringo starr: and then
direct a film like
a love, actually...
   yes yes, thank you,
tank you: much appreciation...
for the ****'s that's worth
only the sentimental value
in terms of a notable
mention.
             why don't people
cite their favourite drummers
anymore?
         who gives a ******'s
worth of wanks over
a solo guitarist?
               those ***** are
merely monologues...
a day may come when jazz
is revisisted, leaving
white boys & girls wondering
why people find
classical music either
offensive, or in plain tongue
just dumb-enough: numb.

☒ The truest of dead-tested-death-testing proves Robin's dead for sure
☒ By 26 August 2014: Robin F. Williams doesn't **** & doesn't snore
Showing that his rotting *** is dead because it cannot **** anymore
To distance Italians from Sicilian mobsters is a Neapolitan goal,
so Italia: inter mummy Rosalia Lombardo to instate her timeless role
as the raking gnaw of unholy museum worship exacts a Karmic toll
La Repubblica italiana, bury Rosellina Lombardo to honor her soul
Meanwhile a counterfeit woman lives as Michelle Obama the man
Reeling in big fish, retiring with his husband and living on the land
This Michelle Obama's of a neo-femininity heftily counter-manned
Wail over the blubber of mercurial fish shrink-wrapped and canned
Michelle's ribs are the Chesapeake Bridge over oily water spanned
It's worse than what the immigration department doesn't require as
the bureaucratic class charges a **** cop grid with a 240 live wire
because accordingly Vatican City is the descendant Roman Empire
where-from incorporated elites throw Christians on a funereal pyre

☒ The truest of dead-tested-death-testing proves Robin's dead for sure
☒ By 26 August 2014: Robin F. Williams doesn't **** & doesn't snore
☒ Showing that his rotting *** is dead because it cannot **** anymore
☒ To distance Italians from Sicilian mobsters is a Neapolitan goal,
☒ so Italia: inter mummy Rosalia Lombardo to instate her timeless role
☒ as the raking gnaw of unholy museum worship exacts a Karmic toll
☒ La Repubblica italiana, bury Rosellina Lombardo to honor her soul
☒ Meanwhile a counterfeit woman lives as Michelle Obama the man
☒ Reeling in big fish, retiring with his husband and living on the land
☒ This Michelle Obama's of a neo-femininity heftily counter-manned
☒ Wail over the blubber of mercurial fish shrink-wrapped and canned
☒ Michelle's ribs are the Chesapeake Bridge over oily water spanned
☒ It's worse than what the immigration department doesn't require as
☒ the bureaucratic class charges a **** cop grid with a 240 live wire
☒ because accordingly Vatican City is the descendant Roman Empire
☒ where-from incorporated elites throw Christians on a funereal pyre
☒ 1 door-to-door monkey salesman Jim Jones of Jonestown, Guyana
☒ Died for the C.I.A. as M.I.5 murdered ex-princess ******* Diana
☒ Eerily hear '97's semi auditory disturbance: Tyson bites Holyfield
☒ No man in sox denies comforting knowledge of wearing 'em milled
☒ Patients scared sacred is the verdict on cells C.D.C.-certified killed
☒ set upon para-nucleic structures acidic pathologically-thunk sealed
☒ Mercifully a fattened Elvis crapped-out from a bloated heart stilled
☒ 2 farmers flea volcanic plains before furrowed meadows are tilled
☒ The Acámbaro Figures and Kensington Runestone aren't canonical
☒ As they're deliberately omitted from all Apocryphal books Biblical
☒ Skirts barely below mons veneris calculate lust & lure systematical
☒ Seems the totality of items round coax contraband flicks cylindrical
☒ Dirt & smudges & wrecks the sea causes, rounded to what's conical
☒ The beautiful Teresa Teng sang of “Another rainy day in Nagasaki”
☒  I have seen films of her on bikes, on skates but not playing hockey
☒ The ease in which legs are compressed & unfolded at the cat house
☒ makes me hearken for unstuck Tuesdays at ye olde Erin cork house
☒ where fish are skinned like brave men tried in a federal court house
☒ while uncracked minds get cracked up at a ****** town crack house
☒ Tex & Rita (to Memorex): Die you schizogenetic offering by dawn
☒ in the dirt-bag opting of a love stymied beneath an undeterred lawn
☒ in starving memory to Dutch: a ray-gun-loving Reagan called Ron,
☒ that war-dodging acquaintance of stage-dead mummer **** Shawn
☒ whose crap-out was viewed by attending audience as a planned con
☒ but alas the gray ******* was, medico-legally, dead and gone
☒ To negrita ****** & Albanian trulls & stenographers he's just John
☒ Lewis Mumford wasn't motherly as now Mum is his name or 'cause
☒ The Myth of the Machine Vol II: The Pentagon of Power was tame
☒ Mumford's keen intellect is marginalized and therein lies the shame
☒ Finding competent help for a homosexual brain defect ain't so easy
☒ with local brain doctors buggering sailors till they're both as queasy
☒ as allergists with red noses because allergy tests make them sneezy
☒ Many 62-year-olds get a kick out of bowel surgery when it's breezy
☒ beneath palms labeled alphabetically: tree w, tree x, tree y & tree z
☒ When you date first a date-****** you expect date-**** on first date
☒ To love profoundly we must possess an inalienable, intractable hate
☒ while a chaste Chaz hefts gobs of food from fridge to stove to plate
☒ faster than down hill on oily rails screams a train obese with freight
☒ that'll whip mufflers Oprah & Gayle at their queerest galloping gait
☒ Without toilet paper, ****** rags would be gay Clint Eastwood's fate
☒ as his ***-lovin'-Bohemian-Grove-attending *** needs an **** mate
☒ with a deep ****** receptive to bath-house Clint's masochistic trait
☒ enhanced by a brutal sadism borne of a splintered Korean War pate
☒ he got from a bumpy flight aboard an Army Air Force bomber crate
☒ dropping him into Richard E. Byrd's North Pole hollow-Earth state
☒ Viceroy Mountbatten was in tall grass fooling with his swollen ****
☒ when ****** India emerged from her foreign-imposed-grave-pit rut
☒ to absorb a parting partition shot with a death by the thousandth cut
☒ in '47 while King George VI could not keep his blabber-mouth shut

Dark night
Dark out
Cold wind
Snowing
Moon out
Stars out
Silence
Only hearing my foot steps
Seeing nothing
But only my breathe
Roads are long way home
Cold dark nights
Tina lombardo

A poem I wrote
friends come and go
Just like  the leaves flows
Standing by like clocks watch times
Passionate fruit
Come as you are
Walking along ***** road
Aminamls sleeping
Flowers hiding
Dancing all around
Loving hand
A sorry sign
Door closing
Windows open
Fresh air
Tv on
Watching as light
Locked the door in fight
Tina lombardo

A poem I wrote
You came to me in a dream I did not you it was you
More and more each day goes by your what I need
Rumours flaming
Iditos dancing
Jealously is ugly world
More and more is spended with you I'm always happy
I'm never sad I'm always glad
You're near but never far
I wouldn't trade you  for anything
Wouldn't want to
Being with you changed my life
A loving hand to hold
A loving heart to know
Cuddling
Sleeping I dream
Throught the days
Throught the nights
I love you
Tina lombardo

YOU DON'T KNOW ME
You don't know the things I know
You don't know the way I think
You don't know the way I feel
You don't know how I deal
You don't know how I care
You don't know how I swear
You don't know how I love
You don't know how I feel
You don't know how I talk
You don't know how I walk
You don't know the pain I feel
You don't know cause you don't care
You don't know how I trust
You don't know how I burst into tears
You don't know I fight to stay a live
You don't know that's is why i'm me and you are you.

Tina lombardo

Night dark and no light to be seen
Night light when your looking for trees
Night wind blows slow so you can hear voice of all the love ones who passed over the years
Night  demons like to come out to play
Night keeps ppl up
Night puts ppl to sleep
Night lovers come together
Night friends run free
Night does not want to hold you down
Night is beautiful

Tina lombardo

Sul, limitare, tra la casa e 1'orto
dove son brulli gli alberi, te voglio,
che vi verdeggi dopo ch'io sia morto,
sempre, agrifoglio.

Lauro spinoso t'ha chiamato il volgo,
che sempre verde t'ammirò sul monte:
oh! Cola il sangue se un tuo ramo avvolgo
alla mia fronte!

Tu devi, o lauro, cingere l'esangue
fronte dei morti! E nella nebbia pigra
alle tue bacche del color di sangue,
venga chi migra,

tordo, frosone, zigolo muciatto,
presso la casa ove né suona il tardo
passo del vecchio. E vengavi d'appiatto
l'uomo lombardo,

e del tuo duro legno, alla sua guisa
foggi cucchiari e mestole; il cucchiare
con cui la mamma imbocca il *****, assisa
sul limitare.

WHO I AM

Tina Lombardo first
I was born 1982
I was young child
I was teenager
I am
Daughter
Iam
Granddaughter
I am
Sister
I am
Aunt
I am
Mother
I am
Smart
I am
Wise
I am
Nice
I am
Happy
I am
Beautiful
I am
Tina Chesley second
I am poet
I am
Photographer
I am
Pink
I am
Me

December thirty first
two thousand twenty one countdown
will transparently and seamlessly stream into
simultaneously linkedin January first
two thousand and twenty two,
whereby the Ball a geodesic sphere,
12 feet in diameter,
and weighing 11,875 pounds.

The aforementioned Ball covered
with a total of 2,688
Waterford Crystal triangles
vary in size, and range in length
from 4 ¾ inches
to 5 ¾ inches per side.

Anderson Cooper and Andy Cohen
will ring in 2022 on CNN's
New Year's eve live
sampling madding crowd
regarding self promises
(such as holy matrimony) pledged.

Disinclination regarding tradition
to make resolutions stance
adopted courtesy yours truly.

Though such proclamation
may smack of high treason
no matter convenience to season
and ideal time to leaven existence,
I discern no rhyme nor reason.

Back in the day
listening to Guy Lombardo,
a Canadian-American bandleader,
violinist, and hydroplane racer
formed the Royal Canadians in 1924
with his brothers Carmen,
Lebert, Victor, and other musicians
from his hometown of
London, Ontario Canada
popularizing Auld Lang Syne
courtesy eighteenth-century
Scots poet Robert Burns.

Those very poignant moments,
when stroke of midnight
ushered in new year
(I counted, notched and tabulated
sixty two since mine birth where
decades now seemingly
flitted by at light speed)
as yours truly a doubting Thomas
disbelief regarding artificial construct,
nevertheless he ultimately, obliviously,
and haphazardly cruises along
space/time continuum at quite a clip.

Primitive paradigms witnessed,
sabotaged, nixed by the equivalent
of caveman version qua Elon Musk,
(who snubbed squalor)
punctuated equilibrium inadvertently
presaged, revolutionized, and
upended courtesy wheelwrights
millenniums before mankind
scrutinized cosmic sights
only from storied wuthering heights
swirling maelstrom analogous to dog fights
sans gods precipitating terrestrial blights,
whence thus spake Zarathustra
predicated upon Friedrich Nietzsche's
theory when cosmic consciousness alights.

E'er since Pope Gregory XIII effectively
(furnished, generated, and
instituted his holy mojo circa October 1582)
introducing Gregorian calendar
whisking Julian calendar out of vogue
with fair vanity
approximately four hundred
thirty nine years ago
chroniclers of time - mostly
religious Norwegian bachelor farmers
casually referred to brethren as bro

invocations ******* sometimes prematurely -
that thar comment haint no fallacy),
which echoed across
Lake Wobegon, said incantations
devout followers among populace
did likewise parrot and crow
generation after generation
whereupon enigmatic, dogmatic, charismatic
monk native to Burma
stoked one after another ego

synthesizing interpretation to explain
life on Earth and phenomena at large
geocentric theory did ebb and flow
amazingly enough maintaining accuracy
with marginal probability of error
precision parsing seconds, minutes, hours...

would only tolerate absolute zero
variation regarding prediction
of weeks, months, years...
as sophistication of civilization did grow
allowing, enabling, and providing

jolly fellow bellowing **... **... **
could make his round the world wide web
timely trek linkedin with timepiece
assembled with B Corporation approval.

certification of "social and
environmental performance"
a private certification of for-profit companies,
distinct from legal designation
as Benefit corporation.

The above plug an unsolicited commentary
regarding San Francisco, California
based eco friendly and socially conscious company
and recent employer of eldest daughter,
an engineering University of Pennsylvania alumna.

Sul, limitare, tra la casa e 1'orto
dove son brulli gli alberi, te voglio,
che vi verdeggi dopo ch'io sia morto,
sempre, agrifoglio.

Lauro spinoso t'ha chiamato il volgo,
che sempre verde t'ammirò sul monte:
oh! Cola il sangue se un tuo ramo avvolgo
alla mia fronte!

Tu devi, o lauro, cingere l'esangue
fronte dei morti! E nella nebbia pigra
alle tue bacche del color di sangue,
venga chi migra,

tordo, frosone, zigolo muciatto,
presso la casa ove né suona il tardo
passo del vecchio. E vengavi d'appiatto
l'uomo lombardo,

e del tuo duro legno, alla sua guisa
foggi cucchiari e mestole; il cucchiare
con cui la mamma imbocca il *****, assisa
sul limitare.