i swear, the biggest anti-ageist
comeback missing
from the script of we **** the old way
lies with the scriptwriter's
phobia of o.c.d.,
                 i'm guessing he experienced
it personally,
              i wish he experienced dementia
clearer of his granddad
   succumbing: o.c.d. in old age?
it's not big deal... it's no big deal...
             enough botox and soon all that glamour
and paying your respects soon fades,
fattens up and chokes on the artistic
rubric: you need rich artists to
satire rich people... stop nagging
at Katy... be, *******, thankful,
you little cat-whiskers for a ******
moustache kitty-fiddler...
           ever **** at a girl taking a selfie?
let's say it's a blank canvas, and
you're working on it...
        how can this girl can become a
crown or the abhorred fling with
missing Welsh fetishes of excess
           ****** dangle-bits?
                       i have few entry points
i like i consider...
                 before she shaves the *****,
but did you know my godmother
           is a doctor and she doesn't shave
her legs?
                     i joked at that,
i joked for the simplicity:
              why do i have to don mine
and the theory of Darwinism is never
complete? because of aesthetics,
there's a natural instinct, a natural bound
contraband that IS NEVER, EVER TINGED WITH
CHRISTIANITY... **** Radio Maria and
Priest Rydzyk too along with
                John Paul the Tarmac Kissing Saint...
popes like pop-stars: the world's a stage:
better look the prettiest...
             thank Katy... she got cool and rich
enough to covert any criticism of wealthy kids
of Las Vegas...
                          if she wasn't here i'd be dead:
i don't love her like a girl might love
the next best: never-left high school bestseller
for young girls...
                                     my black horse is
quirky and still working on working smug
rather than donning a thong at a cat-walk...
                 but my point?
the comeback the gangsters should have served up
those ****** lips?
                                rapper movie
fakes never taught you how to shoot...
                the gun goes linear: shoot, vertical...
not cool-sly horizontal...
                         you're shooting with a blind spot...
rich girls' songs for poor girls to
cat-fight over who's the better gimmick
of impersonator...
                      but the old Hackney farts still
don't have the quick-snap-comeback...
                  the colts keep referring to E2...
a postcode...
                       the old ladies should have said:
i better move there, seems like a hot-spot
for the postcode lottery!
                           the colts keep referring
to the E2 club....
                             the crew, the gang...
i'm still thinking about these pensioners
nailing them to chairs and drilling through their
bones to the marrow for the Moscow ladies
acting out the faint in the hands  
                       of chevaliers of her retirement plans...
E2? is that a postcode lottery for
                 the losers?
and the "sad" story is? in Poland we all came from
a Communist housing estate...
            only peasants in semi-detached housing...
i guess all these smart-*** young folks
are pretending to be gangsters when all they're
all aspiring to is own a pair of shoes with hay sticking
out of them: and i.t.v. come november...
               well, the casting was smart,
the accents 10 out of 10...
                   but the final point of the accents
in talk?              slow math...
                            is      E2 designated as
the case for a joke about postcode lottery?
                 one thing they're loudmouths...
another that they're also foul-mouths...
                             can't be one and the other...
                  if you're going to be a prop'ah
foul-mouth, better be a slow-mouth
               or a shush-mouth...
                                  and if you're going to
be a loud-mouth, i'd prescribe you Southampton's
away-support choir: oh when the saints...
oh when the saints come marching in...
                                no wonder gang culture
never picked up from loud-mouth birthrights of
the suggested History X...
                               borrowing from History ***:
flash news! there are more things on
my head than just hair to play toothpicks with concerning
self-doubts and the easiest solution:
            a man was crucified...
                               some say we never perfected
democracy as the civilised peoples of the world
as the Jews never perfected plebiscites as the
              "backward" peoples of the desert...
           if race coordination can't be joked about
but getting offended at:
           i'd love the Irish potato diet and the
dates served for breakfast lunch and dinner in Israel...
or in better representation?
the Pig of God... Jesus stinking like a pig
                 before the perfumes of Pilate...
skew: north-by-northwest: a good Hitch reminder:
sheep up toward Scotland...
                           but pigs that north and east...
well: pigs...
                         or how to make words
holy and meaningless when talking about the price
of butter...
                     but that's beside the case for
a quick comeback about the postcode lottery...
           or the grit of Bronson - the film,
esp. the nurse scene...
                       no spoilers... you never know when
it's happening...
                                 the greater the film,
the more monologue orientated...
                                    claustrophilic -
                                                   so you wonder
shoving that **** into the craniums of little boys:
why are they making them do it...
                        and at what point is it legal in
the social realm of guessing at all the rainbow possibilities?
   my theory? most paedophiles had failed
relationships in their teens...
                                  and they never wanted to
experience the complexities of a woman who finally
realised: ****! daddy died! i'm not a princess!
                   it's not a fear of being inadequate,
it's the fear of an inadequate woman...
                  the most adequate woman is a woman
who still resolves to the idealistic world,
rather than the realistic world -
                                   i never understood the
criminal hierarchy...
                                       in the criminal ring it would
appear no moral superiority is akin
   to bullying in school...
                                              choose the easiest
loss of moral judgement and bash it into the head...
    or what Marquis de Sade taught me...
               for most men it's the pink elephant in
the room...
                              or a light-bulb...
****** and theft is still all Robin Hood, the instilled
   heroism: moral ambiguity...
               i don't see how the other crime isn't also
an ambiguity...
                              the *** of man is already displaced
from the *** of woman...
                      why wouldn't age by that ****** ambiguity
not be squared? and doubly unfathomable?
   what made me write this?
               standing at a bus stop...
a girl coming back from school...
                                                 what?
this is a cognitive ping-pong...
                                     what?
                                                   what?!
               i'd dare David the Naturalist come out
from his comfort environment of
                 two monkeys *******, gorillas
with harems and all that easy gesture...
                   man and woman? eyes.
     all the limbs and bones captured by the eyes...
it's not that i don't spend enough time among people
to start imagining these quirks...
                 it's that i spend enough time
                 among people to not start imagining
quirks.

Your reluctance to greet
the loudmouths who've come
to silence themselves with a
combo, pulled from a grease lathered iron shelf
is palpable, even with
the smoke pouring in
from the hissing grill.

I can't resist to wonder,
behind this façade of yours, what is felt
in the hours you ****?
Is your mind content
idly whistling to the tune
of a humdrum existence?

If these inquiries parted from
my incessant curiosity
are met with your resistance,
I insist you breathe in,
breath out.
& either
a) find virtue in persistence
or
b) leap into clamor, run out those familiar doors, with no doubt
that this is the end
& the beginning.

Well a person can work up a mean mean thirst
after a hard day of nothin' much at all
Summer's passed, it's too late to cut the grass
There ain't much to rake anyway in the fall

And sometimes I just ain't in the mood
to take my place in back with the loudmouths
You're like a picture on the fridge that's never stocked with food
I used to live at home, now I stay at the house

And everybody wants to be special here
They call your name out loud and clear
Here comes a regular
Call out your name
Here comes a regular
Am I the only one here today?

Well a drinkin' buddy that's bound to another town
Once the police made you go away
And even if you're in the arms of someone's baby now
I'll take a great big whiskey to ya anyway

Everybody wants to be someone's here
Someone's gonna show up, never fear
'cause here comes a regular
Call out your name
Here comes a regular
Am I the only one who feels ashamed?

Kneeling alongside old Sad Eyes
He says opportunity knocks once then the door slams shut
All I know is I'm sick of everything that my money can buy
The fool who wastes his life, God rest his guts

First the lights, then the collar goes up, and the wind begins to blow
Turn your back on a pay-you-back, last call
First the glass, then the leaves that pass, then comes the snow
Ain't much to rake anyway in the fall

I count by meters.*

One, a blurry woman with a black bag
black hair, white clothes
who knows
if she's an old hag

Two, white teeth, black, short hair
folded papers, talking to the others
I wonder
if he's seen me glare

Three, long nose, thick, succulent lips,
flaccid, shiny, black hair.
Big eyes, blue bag, with a tad of flowers
Has she seen me stare?

Four, two loudmouths, east and west.
Murmur here, gossip there,
blah blah and blah,
stop talking or else

Five, three musketeers, east, west, south,
looking at me like I'll growl
squeak and squeak
moan and shriek

Six, one man, one book.
It read: "Hands off!"
I ran up to him
and he vanished.

Seven, one man, one book
One chair, in front of a mirror--
pressed his chin against his finger
He said, "God, let me rest!"

--- and I slept.

Wasted and wounded, I still adhere to wishing to be some new state
This country made his compatriots buried in the mud
This county slived hopeless ones until they broke into crumbles
This street has no vision,
It’s useless to bond each shambles together, rife with unrecognizable blood stains and toils
No one can creep into the dragon’s nest and see the deflective meanings on his unsharpened teeth anymore
I’ll die here against my will, and I’ll stock myself in a pine box
And collectors gonna collect me someday, so I’m not here to judge

Everyting’s primal, all the pride’s esteemed
My gun sleeps like a hunter’s, my pleasure gets lost
My deeds are tangled, time lays in a deathbed
My loved ones are ghosts, slaying themselves and wearing skins
I’m an antique sculpture that stands still in an antique pose
I got punched by so many weathers that keep changing still
Amongst so many individuals that think they have a style of their own, I made my stand
I’m broke down like a fortune globe but yet not broke in pieces
And collectors gonna collect me someday, I know I’m not ready

I have not to call someone that I think I scarsely know
“That’s not the real news” would be said,                                 “These not the real words”
Plenty things wouldn’t be dawned on if they’re not forgotten
Swear to god I’d know they’re true but they were stigmatized by the realities and brokenness
I’d know it’s fine to get involved in something I feel that I don’t know
Now the best I can is the worst they can’t, the tapsters got stiffed, too many thing’s wrong
And the first break of day turned to be the last spark of ray, I can’t even tell myself that the day’s done
******* collectors gonna collect me someday
I’m pretty sure

The sheriff eats his last supper, he’s going downsouth
He missed his target for 28 times, 24 times he lost attention
Neighbour mumbles :”frankly dear, I don’t care”, now I think he’s freed of wrong tries and right mistakes
Now he thinks he tries his last wrong chance to leave his girl hung on a crucifix, he knows she won’t die
Some details changed about the things fellow citizens talk about, they miss the closures for the each drag-to-death breath, they miss the infinity
They miss the times they would never know they’ll go astray
I’m blinded and I’m bored, far away from the grave-of-soul shores
Collectors gonna collect me someday, and I don’t give a ****

Fies, lo and beholds, invitations to a brought-down loneliness by a downtown girl
Fies, honking mouths and screaming seats
These streets got a lotta work to do with late-night loudmouths
They tuckle and thumb the gaps on the after-rain grounds under the scrapped magazine papers
Over the jacuzzi of draining blackness, under the trees, under the vast, they seek pubs and jobs
As a fact of no matter, I don’t sleep better compared to two days ago
My bed’s not cold yet, blackmen still arresting the quiet ones of bad-aftermathed jigglers at the blue ridge
Oh, baby, somebody’s gonna collect me someday
I don’t care