crumpled ticket in the pocket with no time on the dime dim lightning struck breaking in the best of kin a win win i cant do this tear slice shred swear it's a shame no sweat but fame the pressure builds up bogey blue bragster's mother-finnicky ******* **** ive found it ive found im hidden im hidden the gem's locked away rub one rub one rub one tug one tug one tug on zing we have a winner the shadow is cast the stars are alligned which match my eyes liquid pouring down fast on down the runway time to fly and catch the sky my time's not wasted but im wasted space look at me try try cry no river no stream no end just the fairly odd lookalike best of kin coddling crast dancing jigalow on the gallows pole

Literally, loitering litter
leaves landscapes looking
like labyrinths leading lonely
lethargic lads lacking lustre
lame lamenting Lu Lu's Lingerie
laundered locally lampooning
looser's lost leaders landing
lecherous louts leftist ledgers
legacies legally legitimised
libellous loafers lobbying
locksmiths logically liaising
loggers longliners lubriciously
lucid lookalike lunatics luring
lasses lustfully locating low
level latino's lavatories.

Back on the jubilee
an Italian sat next to me
and next to her
a lookalike looking like Cher.

Open and close
doors do that
I suppose
and
some people do it too.

Sunlight filters in
past the grime
we're living in
and?

And is good to have at hand
when you're hanging on by a
thread.

Windmills
not dragons,

but I understand how
easily mistaken one can be
when you only see what
you want to see.

I get more time on here
more things to do
I could be a windmill too.

Underground now or is that
yet to be?

We combat mortality in an effort
to live on,
but we'll all be gone when the time
comes.

Bluetooth's detected me
connected me
with
Abercrombie and his iPhone,
why?
he's a stranger to me although
it might be a she
still a stranger though.

Canada Water
near water but not Canada
unless you count the geese.

I wonder sometimes
does a termination code
come
before the chicken crosses
the road?

Yesterday lingers in the ventilation shaft,
the smell of excess.

I'm older by twenty seven feet under London If that's possible
it might even be deeper.
I might even be older

when I
but then I
wonder again why
Abercrombie?

Thinking it's always a Wednesday somewhere
but there's a place that I'd rather be and that's a Friday.

( and we all know about Crusoe, don't we )

early because I'm going to be strangled, there'll be no help from the wannabe crew, work ****** work, but what else can I do?
and anyway it keeps me occupied.

This carriage that carries me on the Jubilee is exceedingly quiet today, there's only the squeals from the knackered old wheels  
and the occasional whoosh from the doors.

I'm not complaining
( that'd be a first )

There's a tic-toc man with a beer in a can and a Timex on his wrist,
slightly ****** and it's only 05:39.

And a Harry Secombe lookalike who looks just like Harry Secombe.

Is it time to go home yet?

It's always nearly isn't it?
never fully.

She's probably making music in the Amazon
by plucking her eyebrows on the underground
it takes all sorts and I suspect all sports to make an Olympic site.

In front of me, she,
holds the Daily Telegraph
I'm looking for Beadle
this must be
'Game for a laugh'

Next to me reading text I see
a lady with a book, ' The lady of the lake'
(The title of the book, not the lady sitting next to me)
she's engrossed, the most engrossed one can be, perhaps sitting next to me has focused her attention.

And a Kojak lookalike complete with a lollipop and a fold up bike.

It's buzzin' away on the Central today.

One more drone heading off into one more Zone ( zone one to be precise )
because it's nice to be precise.

She looks like Kate Bush but in the rush hour?
I don't think so
but
then I don't think
no
it's automatic
like an instamatic
eyes right
and write
eyes left
and write
I write and you might read

Two more stops
until the curtain drops

I'll finish at nine tonight
that's alright
they thought I was finished
years ago.

The art of faking
will not come to me.

Your breadth
twists the moon, making
a dent on the face
of lookalike.

Becoming a stranger,
celebrating love― without
my arms of flames.

An old story repeats.
Beautiful but trembling,
the farewell handshake.

Neither comes
nor goes, the vase life
of withering roses.

The sculpture
was not yet ready.
The angel recapitulates.

I tried to run, but it seems like I am not far away, it was always so much fun and I wish that you could stay, probably not gonna find someone like you anyway, oh I wish I have stayed only with you on my way, tired of going back in time everyday. Always thinking about the things we have done, I still have the feeling that you are the chosen one, but I ****** up so many times, so many lies, tears in your eyes…I can’t see those on your face anymore. Would love to make you smile one more time on my silly jokes, stupid phone calls that lasted hours long, I wish I was before this strong. Still thinking that I am gonna find, someone like you, lookalike. I Tried few times, to see you in someone’s eyes, but it was all just so fake, that I with them couldn’t stay, and I was again, on the beginning, on the same page. Seeing you everyday, is killing my brain, just thinking about you, I don’t know what to do, would love to have just one kiss, so I know whats I missed, but still just writing **** on this list. I called you out, but you said you don’t have much space, to go out in some place, so I am still chasing you in this never-ending race, but I am still losing my pace, and I am stuck in our good old days…I wish I had never split our ways.

Excusing yourself as if...
going to the bidet,
an immense water closet
(perhaps the size of
Mar A Lago type getup),

sans human waste
(after flushing hearing
heavenly suctioned whoosh)
empties into prez Donald's bay,
where one *** wrapped aforementioned
toilet finely (and finally) enthrones

derriere exquisitely, and, delicately
intricately, chiseled wrought with cloisonné
ah...enjoying simple pleasure a$$ I say
sipping one after another Red Bull, whence
with one final trumpet of the **** -

(as acknowledgment to angry 1%),
though quite reluctantly did pay -
hitting the custom built in combination
handsome replica Taj Mahal fountainhead golf
course made from clay

baked Adobe bathroom links
(whew...long Atlas) shrugging off
responsibilities, escorted
by migrant compadre
Russian Putin lookalike uncannily

also resembles plucked Kernel Sanders
advocating consuming buttered Thomas
English muffins with oreos can delay,
tending to government, who successfully
playfully, melodiously preaches, sermonizes

and absolute zero values benefits burning
off calories, where couples sashay,
asper square and/or contra dancing,
where the caller hollers hip hip hooray
barely audible above

noisy fracas and fray
of crowded house,
avast throng of village people stomp
louder than a quiet
riot global military foray

anathema to dogma,
karma, persona... of
Jacques Cousteau, or green like
minded millennials and/or gray
bearded whelk homed by elasmobranchii.

and withheld broadcasting
the following communication
tucked away these many years,
when president number forty five
donned, jump/kick started, and tweeted
thru his musky, albeit flabby mantle,
a rallying cry forewarning onset of Mag(m)a
bubbling, gurgling, lobbing, and spewing lava
against backdrop of his trumpeting vitriolic
political preservation, salvation,
and veneration, though with hold

ding temptation tomb mike -
(make) pence sieve lee clear,
the immoral majority mold
toot hoods, (those bajillion
Americans unanimously polled)
did want me to broadcast, communicate,
and declare, sans incendiary fold
drawl (folderol) feigning migrant accent,
(no matter I'm getting older than Methuselah),
nonetheless Ivana trumpet from Taj Mahal

straight to Mar-A-Lago) all told,
plus thank Republicans
(past or present), who extolled,
an invisible grandiose fire walled
barricade (donning, enclosing,
and fortifying) against Carl mauled
din lookalike hackers,
despite one sporting "FAKE"
hook nosed, hunchbacked
adorned, donned with (Turin) shawled,

shrouded, and disguised vagrant, indigent,
double chinned agent - bald
(except for being bewigged),
viz flowing locks of "FAKE" gold
in toe with Amazon heavily funded
unbridled trailing retinue
chanting appellation Matthew
Scott Harris alias Oswald),
no matter said faux
renegade twittering lobbyists

to flock (like lemmings) within his fold,
and will laughably petrify
any vigilantes dead cold,
what with his bugs
bunny eyed (What's up Doc)
intent reader rabbit stare,
that doth playfully scold
any Bare Ladies *******
linkedin, NOT nsync
with netiquette politesse mold

gobbledygook communication, (asper
my pork chopped message
higglety pigglety divulged)
obeying tacit gold
din rule to hoodwink public, nonetheless
lemme exemplify, how I plan to hold
world web electronically hostage
by secret Ransomware sold,
thru dark wide whirled web
cryptocurrency bitcoin blockchain trolled
under auspices, sans

omnipotent NON GMO
gluten free CRISPR rolled
oat sized INTEL nanobots,
no bigger than mold
spores heavily monitoring
meant to fortify electronic threads
woven into a virtual tapestry
likened to Dickensian chain e-mail
intent to foment pandemonium
at expense to captcha totalitarianism,
whereby democracy imperiled.

what do women call them? mombods?
frenzied... ever frenzied by reality:
a reality with a doubled-up emphasis:
a reemphasis... i love reality:
cubism in its simple term of:
"awkward" bodies...
           i should know a little about that...
i was fat... then thin... then fat again:
now i'm a bullish bulk of a man in his prime...
i will not do any torso work except for
press-ups... i like my lamb-stomach pouch...
plus... body-hair doesn't look good
on a six-pack... plus a hairy chest:
i sometimes go to work with an unbuttoned
shirt... ooh... people noticed i have a hairy
chest: like someone sprinkled pepper on it...
yeah: two legs too and a beard...
one of the guys started cracking jokes that
i'm a lookalike to some actors from the 1980s...
***** or film?
but a hairy torso doesn't go well with
a six-pack... i'd have to shave...
i saw one br'uh on the train the other day:
i seriously distrust men who's bicep girth
is either similar to their calves...
biceps triceps... whatever...
   i distrust the look of men when their arms
are larger than their legs...
absolute ******* posers...
they must be pumping some sort of juice...
some variation of steroids...
but my god... a plump woman:
i don't mean a single mum sort of beached whale
i mean: ****** plump plum of a woman...
i lose my mind...
              it's truly a hot summer if i'm
thinking about *** all the time...
i just can't stop... it's like a second quest for
rediscovering gravity...
and all the glory of a "cis-hetero-normative":
ah ha ha "*******" that comes with the ancient
whisper from Ovid...
i just discovered this trend on twitter...
i don't know whether they're scam accounts
or whether they're authentic...
oh man... these women are thirsty...
about time to play...
(a) watermelon man - Herbie Hancock
(b) backdoor man - Howlin' Wolf...

   and you're telling me? you're telling me?!
the African man not exposed to the English
language and "slavery": coal-miners?!
i thought the Polacks were the industrial "*******"...
working coalmines and the metallurgy...
you're telling me? you're telling me?
the African man could have conjured up jazz
in Africa?! the African man could have conjured
up the blues?! in Africa?!
you're telling me the African man:
and oh! oh the misery! could have conjured up
these fiendish: liberating arts with his African
speech?!

well... if the Hebrews received reparations from
the Germans for the Holocaust...
i still wonder... who the **** is going to pay "us"?
the Germans won't own up...
the Russians won't own up...
are we asking for free money?
   no, oh no no... we're asking for more strife!
that's how you live: proper: you strive...
if a lazy body: then an agitated mind...
if a lazy mind: then an agitated body...

that's how life: works...
look at me... i've returned to listening to the blues
because i'm thinking about ***...
i can't stop myself thinking about tomorrow's
shift and what will follow...
i figured it out... keep agitating that dangling "thing"
several days prior without climaxing...
then after the shift drink 75cl of apple cider...
wander around the brothel...
then buy some whiskey, take a sip... walk in...
and? perform...

         oh to hell with chemical additives... ****** my ***...
there need to be: plans in place to perform
on a whim... with someone you never slept with
before... oh... but there's one honey in my eye...
that one from a ******* i had...
the one i wanted to do solo...

my god: listening to the blues and thinking about ***...
it's almost as good as drinking ms. amber
or eating self-made mint chocolate-chip ice-cream...
blah blah: n'ah n'ah... moaning about a past...
always with the past...
if it weren't for the Africans exposed to
the English language we'd have nothing worth
of modernity...
these weaklings moaning and groaning
walking on nuggets of what ought to be feet!

if it weren't for the Africans exposed to
the English tongue: complete strangled by it...
why didn't they try a Canadian taste of bilingualism?
or the Swiss try at triangulating Italian,
French and German?
like Napoleon said:
a man who knows two tongues is worth
the worth of two men...

by now i'd be stuck with the ******* moths of
history still pretending to like Mozart...
or Bach...
             but listening to the blues
and thinking about ***... and drinking...
and then going cycling...
i just want to gear up to some lazy motorist
who might tell me i'm a terrible cyclist...
i just want to heave out a terrible mouth:
an ill wind of breath: i want to vent out anger
for anger's sake...

while cleaning the house: dearest Mary...
you like cleaning the house? my mother asked...
no, dearest mother...
i hate cleaning the house...
but what do i love? i love a clean home...
i abhor sloths... i abhor people with no self-awareness...
i abhor people with no self-hygiene standards...
but i also love flies... isn't that a pretty picture...
wrap me up in a fleece of flies
and tell me to run into a morphed spider-web
with a black widow sitting at the centre
all pretty: feminist...
borrowed themes from the insects:
the modern woman as the Mantis and the Black Widow...
sure as **** nothing mammalian about her...
well... beside the prostitutes...

i hardly think i ever paid for lies...
it's a sure good sign if they're moaning
and groaning with their mouths already full...
now all i have to do
it pretend to play the violin while stroking my beard...
i can't escape it: the blues and thoughts erotica...
peaches and cream...
mint and chocolate-chip ice-cream...
pork and thyme... beef and rosemary in
a Turkish Lavash dish, wrap...

*** and tiredness... nicotine is better than
caffeine...
                  plump plum *** of a woman...
pigeon voyeurism...
it's not like you'll ever see crows mating...
in the open...
but pigeons do: ***** *******:
of the 100 rejections you see...
there's about 2 that make it with all that flurry
of flapping wings trying a ballerina's balance
of doggy-pigeon style *******...

oh... oh: i feel so liberated with all these women
feeling so liberated...
    i can have multiple ****** encounters
and feel no shame... none... zilch... nada...
thank you: woman...
i don't need to be your wage-slave-labourer...
i'm just going to cycle to the Chadwell Heath
bicycle shop to inquire about the cost
of fixing up my £500 TREK mountain bicycle...
i'm getting tired of the road-bike...
i need to get off the grid... Havering County
Park is beckoning...

i'm freed! thank you, woman!
you have you little ****-boys and i have my serious
women who like *******, proper...
there's the money on the table:
no dinner dates... no cinema dates...
thank you!
  thank you thank you thrice thank you!
no commitment...
let me just tap into this thirst pool of single
yummy-mummies... these
yummy-sloppies...
                  hell: i might even get some **** for free!

i need to watch this twitter trend...
i mean: if i simply exposed myself like they expose
themselves... it's infuriating:
not impossible to deal with: just ****** infuriating...
here comes the donkey:
and here comes the stick and carrot...
  it's like that with these doubtful women...
already coupled... probably married...
mums: definitely children on that Titanic of a
sinking woman... yet she wants more: more: more...
validation points... more validation points...
is she still ****-able: question:
is she still able-to-****?

                       do we really need to explore
the dimensions of latex gimp suits?!
i don't think so...
                        wholesome... porridge style *******...
starve a little... then blow your head out with
a shotgun of slobbering on a dozen oysters
that compose her one pretty little ****...
floral patterns and spring in her eyes and mouth...

one more ******* "******" starts telling me
he's the victim of some white *******...
i'll tell him: you little dip-****...
the African man would have never enriched
humanity with the blues and with the jazz
if he wasn't exposed to the English tongue!
it's not like these people worked the coal-mines!
my god... oh! bemoan the labours of cotton-picking!
my god! each cotton bug probably weighed
the worth of gold back then!
it's not like people are not in the fields these
days plucking up cabbages!
waste of breath / space sort of people argumentation
practices: always ******* awry...