romance me

with your

macaroons

la dee da dee dooo

White girls can get stuck too,
the same way that no money
sandwiches you between two
slices of dreams you cannot bite
into, because we cannot pay for that
school—stuck like peanut butter.

I want things, but mostly
I want to be able to stay at the
university and learn so, someday,
I can teach others too.

Teach them to love good and
truth and not care that they are
not the businessman or engineer
with a steady job.

All they—all we—have to do
is be willing to clean the bathrooms or
flip the greasy burgers if we have to.

Hands that are working and honest
are always good hands, no matter
what they do.

When I tell people I love English
and writing, the man or woman instructs me
to pick something more practical—be a
technical writer, a reporter, an advertiser.

But I love my poetry, and no one can
ask me to sell my happiness
and design for a nice house and a
maid who cleans because hubris
has rusted my joints.

I am not a hero or a martyr
for words, but I am a woman
who would humbly scrub toilets to
feed her children, write poems at
night, and be happy.

You're a spoiled brat.
Daddy's always bought you everything.
Expensive clothing, expensive phones, expensive holidays.
Daddy's cash even bought you friends.
You think those girls actually like you?
You think they can't see your spiteful ways?
They're there for the $3 macaroons or souvenirs you gift them.
You think anyone who does not wish to hang out with you is below you.
You treat them like dirt.
Every time I say Hi to you, you completely ignore me,
as though I'm not even worth your time.
You only hang out with the 'pretty' girls,
or rather, your definition of pretty.
Underweight while wearing revealing clothing.
I've had enough of you.
Wake up or you'll eventually have no one else and you'll be left on the curb, alone.
But,of course, you'll always have your designer shades!
That's a relief, isn't it?

rarely do i have a title before a poem,
but sometimes it feels like i've abstained
from ******* for a month and i write one down;
i'm surprised i didn't take the bait,
i was a blind man that was give sight years later,
every gold-digger's wet-dream some might add,
but what post-Marxism has revealed is that
that bourgeoisie like to belittle those of menial-task
labour rather than the upper-tier socialites,
it's just that they don't possess insignia of power,
they exercise their power on the lowest kind,
men who'd gladly spend a hot summer's day toiling
the fields in full happiness of physical splendour
than spend it pampered in a Versailles parlour kin -
they think books are their macaroons...
i should have not minded my self-worth so much
and settled for the prize of easy-living,
it was more like a self-obsession but made kinder
with the word solipsism... whatever it was,
i spent a month in St. Petersburg like Al Paccino in
Alaska insomniac witnessing the white nights...
i could write a honorary poem with rhyme and
perfect punctuation... but life isn't like that...
it was a night to remember, a great **** on a bed
with a tortoise green headboard and a line of mirrors
where the concept of ******* was made clear:
Narcissus watching himself ******* with nymph
after nymph until Echo's turn came; it was no longer about
the face or beauty, but the insect-like banality,
Narcissus inventing fiction, ******* in-front of a mirror,
discharged and opened a Pandora's box for himself,
pronoun usage... strange how all monotheists contest
the existence of one among no other, like polytheists
contests the existence of one among many... like now...
if they be gods, their names do not necessarily denote
a chance encounter and formal airs or grievances mastered
for a brief conversation; very much resides in their poetic
investment being banked, that Narcissus, less noun
and more imagery is best understood -
for i claim that poetic techniques are equally needed in
the lessons of grammar: such that metaphor,
onomatopoeia, imagery, pun are equal with noun, verb,
adjective... etc.

rude words? crude words? well, i guess
you're fine with the carnage of images,
you abstract someone in alternative versions
of dimension and say a £-D person doesn't matter...
when did Luis XIV ever bow before a *******?
so she calls you up, this rich, pampered,
self-righteous Cinderella hopeful from
St. Petersburg with a flat about 10 minutes
shy from the the Hermitage...
she's walking on glass, i can hear her from
a mile away like a shark sniffing a droplet
of blood from a mile, the salt, the salt
agitates it's senses, god be merciful,
but god wasn't with missing eyelids on
aquatic creatures and serpents, i'm guessing
the Darwin in me swoons to say:
eyelids breed dreams, mammalian blood,
no eyelids, no dreams,
amazing how a rainbow can penetrate a
cave of darkness, don't give me the meaning
of dreams, Freud, give me how it happens,
your why is perfect for the rich,
a second coming of communism -
those neo-**** punks don't know what
they're defending, they think is glam-rock
style obituaries, it's degenerate culture
right on the pitch of saying... it's a fork.
no, i don't have any respect...
why did you leave Edinburgh, she asked.
i don't know, he replied.
now comes the abstracting of rigid
fiction systems due to the psychology of
being attracted to ancient pronouns,
after all psychology was always attracted to
ancient pronoun uses,
we have the scholarly etymology from ego
as the up-keeping of Greek -
fair enough, keep the alphabet, but forget about
the ideas behind it... but wait, you kept both!
and the urban etymology from self
as the insertion of slang & slur and what
other nonsense you'd come up with for applause...
so she calls you up after you asked her:
those anti-contraceptive pills working?
yes.
you asked me to not use a ******.
yes.
can we keep it casual?
yes.
am i looking at torture instruments in a museum?
yes.
**** me, i better get drunk every night and hope
for an early death... 'cos that's what i'm doing right now!
i don't want to live more than i had wished to live...
every ******* time i open *harold norse'
autobiography: memoirs of a ******* angel i'm nagging,
i read the **** thing, too much premature **** in it -
or.. swearing... a healthy approach to a vault of vocabulary -
it's not a version of bankruptcy, it's just economics babe,
say it blunt, use a sharp knife... better that than
saying it sharp, and having to use a blunt knife,
believe me, you'll be taking oaths on a guillotine by then...
but you'll find it easier buying a harold norse memoir
than one book of his poetry...
it's antiques we're dealing with, this ain't
alan ginsberg's howl, it's the fringe, a scotland of
the roman empire, antiques!
i do wish i never said: get an abortion...
but the dialectical dichotomy in me that some would
say less eloquently as being schizophrenia now wishes
i didn't... but... what's that argument for feminism?
i forget taking contraceptive pills he ***** me on my period
or he ***** me on my period and i get impregnated,
so this is some miraculous ****-up situation by chance?
she said the exact words: i think i'm pregnant.
the Cartesian in me says: i think... so i'm guessing
she doubts she is.
better still... i don't know!
so she is, she isn't... my truthful reply would be...
i, don't, have, any, money... she's the one with
a spare apartment roughly 10 minutes from the *******
Hermitage and i'm stuck in limbo to her game plan of
having parents and never growing up...
well of course poetry doesn't sell, we don't have
patronages from popes, and if only english teachers
and aristocrats write in this medium...
then you're all about to pack your bags for
Disneyland...
still the first page from that autobiography ****** me off,
i don't know why, there's so much pompous pie
in it... given social stratification the outcasts feel
empowerment by rebelling against social norms and
expectations, while the social in-casts have to feel
shame... and this is an existential shame, a sense of
purpose without a sense of continuum -
that's what's bothering me, it's that shady grey area
of ratios 2 : 1 in China, 2 : 3.4 in England or...
1 : 2 (single mother, two children)... if i really did a runner
would i write for zilch? if i did a runner i'd run blind
completely, i wouldn't expose myself to some minor
event in my life... i'll repeat...
approximately 10 minutes... from the Hermitage...
i can see the Shard of London as a toothpick from where
i'm sitting on the odd day in the park...
my position isn't exactly one of power, but more of gob.

given the history, all our predecessors held dear,
given the history,

well... i'm starting to think that utilising
italics meant an enumeration,
meaning that utilising italics
gave us non-differentiated stresses everywhere
and on each letter

by that i mean: people italicised entire words to
leave the stresses of individual letters to a continued monopoly,
italicised words meant not adding the acuteness of
stressed correspondance (post-code) to a letter, like é added to e...
it's running out, the monopoly of literacy - but the last
Bastille is on diacritical marks - è, or i ate it / cut it short,
walked from the movie theatre before it ended,
when i collage - ah! ****! found the erzett! ʒ -
the ß of minding a borrowing of ř! in that poem of mine...
woodland bořki - to replace the rz sound akin to ż -
i was looking in the wrong place, looking to stitch
in a plagiarism from Czech - but there it is, the equivalent
of schafres S (ß), the schafres R (ʒ); ha!
to simply change the aesthetic, and i have:
woodland boʒki.

see Communism rising its ugly head with the intelligentsia
once again? ***** pepper shaker shaker, prep talk moan shake
once more... never believe socialist utilitarianism,
the English are the masters of that... never believe it though...
the English, by definition? the utilitarianism bit is correct,
but they also follow the carrot bit of the stick... the carrot
is evidently the capitalistic motto: a Caribbean cruise.

but what this poem really means?
i really feel like punching someone in the face,
preferences like with Middle Eastern
appearances, while Sodomising
western values of politically coerced into
democratic robots... it really feels like that...
wanting to punch someone in the face,
and oddly enough it feels good just thinking
about it rather than actually doing it -

the universality of the Cartesian phrase -
non-factual, never factual, never to be factual,
the Iranian volleyball team taunting
the Polish volleyball team,
if a terrorist attack happens in Poland,
i'd be surprised if piglets fly further than plumbs,
and we get French braids on beards rather than
the hair plantation - of the lowest caste
i obviously emigrated -
i had some intelligence to shine through,
to a degree agreeable more or less,
remember i'm working on fame from
the basis of myth (a marathon) as in endurance,
rather than on the basis of being photogenic
(which i'm not) and the short-lived held breath
100 metres... the Olympics is really a barometer
of life otherwise... the Iranians are really fond
of getting braided beard from Poland...
i guess the English are too impolitely politely nice...
Thesaurus Rex would solve a all rhyming clues
with its catalogue of synonyms -
also... i'm a poet, critics of poetry in English
know jack-**** from Jack the Ripper...
i did't steal the language, i merely epitomised it
differently, you merely wrote an analogous epitaph
that was so ******* boring everyone applauded
when you spoke it the sake at a funeral
as you spoke it on a Bar Mitzvah... oddly enough
western society is lactose intolerant the year round,
but when someone dies the fondue set is out,
everything orange including the Essex
suntan is out and oiled to a greasy joke
that only gets a pig's grunting worth of encore.
it's odd, but the best way to write poetry without
English teachers telling you left is left
is by imagining someone being punched in the face,
bleeding nose squished cherry -
it's the violence that we're not allowed that we're told
about about our ancestors who freely exercised,
it's harsh... you're tingling with the anticipated wait for
expressing it, in the end you're turned into an atom
bomb of passive aggressiveness;
a bleeding nose squished cherry - even so, you want more,
more, more, you want the actual ferocity of the act,
not some cinema ****** of passiveness...
there are thieves around us, ghosts, not real thieves
wanting your belongings of handbags,
i mean the real sinister thieves... in one generation
the people of Empire and colonialism were turned
into the people of Globalisation and brothels...
well the brothels bit is currently debated whether
slaves ought to experience paid pleasure,
or whether slaves should just serve warm macaroons
for bourgeoisie opinions to be debated a Tartar stakes,
i.e. never really leaving the saloons of Gucci skirts
and the cancan dance of indivisible politics.

no

of course  not

a disease is a disorder
with symptoms and signs
an internal dysfunction
a...
disturbance
in the design

No
I am not infectious -
I touch this boy so,
and see!
He is still a normality
A ******* fiend
An hourglasss devotee -

I am not foodborne, no,
Unless you count
the macaroons
pistachio green
and lemon too,
what a taste
of boyhood,
schoolboy blue

I am not acute,
a one-time sneeze.
I am not
a short-lived
Green coughed
wheeze,

I am not
the plunger in your vaccines -

I am the pistol red and glitter
in your
genes

the farewell of the magical-masque
           the dance of the whirlwind
           the twist in valediction
a pantomime of comedy dripping in life’s heat, its tragedy blooms forlorn
silently the mountain-ranges stare
the sky-face won’t relent and contemplates the open-disease in homes*


1.
disguised as simple relief – rescue lies cooing in the palm
     crumbling in blue-ash beside your grinding-palate
     you reach for pen and paper to appease an entity unknown
shrouded in grey, no scavenger can touch the head of one
who carries blessings in the scabbard – the present worthy of now

stairs are slippery, fish are mouthing, anger grows
     symbols hop along outrageous, so stylised and signs come in decisive
     all at once, almost
there is some purchase in the widening-valley
when climbing-feet need to rest on your narrow angular-will
and wait.. (before them chips rain down)
until the merry-turnstile comes in view


2.
the worm-wheel goes blank a while
and out tunes a dastard-and-devilish prank, courtesy of blunted-fate
sacred-fillies get hacked at by small silver things and they lie slaughtered on stark-plains
and the orb dips in reverse this time
a sooty-traveller from the western-flank
               glances out at massive-figures at supine-rest
               gets startled by the rude ***-fire
eyes slit and pates distort in hostile-fever
at the starling-ingénue in mock-fatigues and fake-epaulettes
but cheering up with wry-humour makes your feet
           a touch too slow to react in time
           and the halberd comes crashing down
well, the last thought you hold before your next one
is how utterly beautiful she looked at the station
long, black hair – silky-shining in your eyes and gay-dancing in the wind
when she passed you all her sweet-love from eyes so wet and smile so quiet
and selected dried-fruit in redolent-parcel
                                   a sealed pelt-skin of unmixed-whiskey
along with fresh-baked raisin-bread in cotton-cloth
                    coarse-sliced and buttered so generous
and
a semi-rusted dry-tin rattling its bounty of macaroons through that smudgy, ***** window
what sweet-victuals to keep alive . . .



man, that journey is a long one!


                             (I’M STANDING HERE        oh, you just know I am here

AND YES -- I’M WATCHING YOU                        
                                                                ­               and no use looking round now..
      YOU CANNOT SEE NOR HEAR ME  
                                                                ­               or begging a purty-release
                                                                 ­                                             
                                  oh easy, boy.. EASY!!)                                                          ­                            
                                                                ­                                             
                   ­                                          


3.
once more, the worm wriggles in microbial-distaste
and the season’s wheel comes dangerously close to being undone
IT DOES
and seconds later, cogs fly hard in every fool’s direction
and luckily.. you catch some in your face.. mouth agape
        crushing your tongue
        splintering all your dental-treasure
        smashing half your reason
no time for moaning.. or eroded-regret.. or even to feel your lips in ribbons
for, when they turn their backs, you will know
what to do..


because you’ve picked some pearls the hard-way..
that atonement could well appear in spells
of any shape
or size



not so?





S T, 30 dec 2013

This morning breakfast was two coconut macaroons
and a novelty- sized pecan pie.
All from the cafeteria.
       When you’re going it alone, it’s the small things.
I can still hear the echoes of sleep as it recedes,
8AM, throaty yelps - panic -  
and it slurps down the drain.
        ****, I’d give anything for a drain snake.
****, I’d give anything for black coffee
and a hood on this ******* coat.
Just above the below and below the upper,
        I’m hovering somewhere in midfield.
But we didn’t cover this coordinate system in geography,
or what to do when you’re drowning
in waves of self-righteousness and the desire to be hip.
       I need that hood. And probably new shoes.
When your roommate is an egg-shaped vampire
optimism can be hard to come by.
Her munching marks the stroke of midnight,
       and I reach for the sleeping pills.
Oh for the perfumed winds of personal space.
Oh for the prairies of carpet and private bathrooms.
Oh to have hot water at 9PM.
        Sing sweetly of home ye golden-thighed youths.

(The sun is somewhat dimmed, as though I'm looking through a film.)

Losing myself in the crinkles of your eyes
As you smile carelessly into the camera
I remember
The way you scrunch your nose a little
The way your lips remind me of cherry blossoms

(It's a little cold here. The temperature is falling.)

Even as I lay in bed shivering and battling my fever
I remember the nights you wished you were here
The nights you work as a bartender, carelessly picking up girls over the counter
Do you serve them all poisoned holy grails?

(A hollow whirring. That's the sound I hear when my ears are blocked.)

Your favorite song plays in the background
I remember
When you said my voice was soothing
When you said I meant something
Ed Sheeran probably didn't mean it
But now I cringe with every note of his

(The brightness before me is blurring. Are those my tears or is it just the water?)

It was beautiful, really
But pink sakura petals do not bloom in this region
Even the colour pink is distressing to me
Since we matched in winter through spring

(You nicked my heartstrings. How do I mend it?)*

I find you in all the little things
Cigarettes, temples, business trips, huskies,
Harry Potter, Radler, Netherlands, salmon,
Macaroons, banana man, an 18 grand television

Round and round, the second hand runs on the face
The sun goes down and down, signing off the days
Round and round, you're running in my head
I go down and down till I reach the seabed

“When are you leaving?” unknowingly, words slipped out of her mouth, he was packing all of his ancient Mario game discs, in a hurried state.
“Soon” he replied, slowly, he had to leave or would lose his mind, she was driving him insane in every way possible, her heart faltered a little bit more, as he stuffed more things in the duffel bag
Then he asked”why? You’ll miss me?” smirking, his lips drawing into tender smile
“Maybe” doubting, of what she is to him, not knowing of the importance she carries to him.
“Answer me in yes, or no, nothing in-between” he raised his voice a little, waited, he had been waiting, patiently for this moment, he has been in love with her for a while  now, but she had never been responsive, now that he is leaving, cruel fate is looking his way
“Yes, I will, the essence of you” her lips etching in to a smile, then she looked the other way, hiding.
Her heart has been broken to many times before, it’s a risk, but her gut says he’ll be worth it.


I will miss the notes you wrote, symbols you marked in all of my Bukowski books, how you sat in the run-down library across the street, and devoured frost.
I will miss the raspberry flavored macaroons you left in the coffee show where we first met every morning for me, with a snippet of your favorite lyrics attached to the box.
I will miss the way you clicked pictures of me at the oddest of time, with my Polaroid, they always turned out funny and crazy, but you framed them, and hung them on your bedroom wall like the moon hangs in the cobalt sky, delicately, fixed, reminding you of how no matter how hard the times are, a piece of beauty will always be there.
I will miss all the mess in my tiny apartment, all of your shirts, books, PS games and vinyl records tangled together, spewed all over the floor.
I will miss the way you had freckles all over your nose and your weird laugh, the ways your eyes crinkled whenever I made horrible jokes and you wanted to contain yourself from laughing.
I will miss running my hands through your hair, giving excuses that I just want to know how soft they are ,I said they are not ,so every time you washed them, and wanted to prove I am wrong  I was in pure delight.
I will miss you waking early to just watch that 90’s sitcom Seinfeld and way you laughed at a loud volume through it, waking up the neighbors’ dog and your horrible bathroom singing making me cringe and my ears cry.
I will miss your cedar and minty scent and the way your heart beats against mine, hard, quick, pounding against your ribcage, when we are wrapped in each other’s arms.
Yes, I admit I am in love with you and will miss you terribly. Everything about you and all the things you do.
So can you please stay?
Please stay?
Will you?

If I were pink
What would you think?
If I were blue
Would you be too?
If I were green
Would you be mean?
If I were yellow
Would we still be mellow?
If I were black
Would you attack?
If I were brown
Would you turn me down?
If I were beige
Would we still engage?
If I were heliotrope
Could we go elope?
If I were vermillion
Could we go to a cotillion?
If I were maroon
Would you buy me macaroons?
If I were aubergine
Could we go to Dairy Queen?
And if I were cerise
Would your affection cease?

Brent Kincaid
4/7/2015

of tossing the chevron throw pillow
from my bed to the floor
even on nights I’m sleeping alone

I stretch across the entire Queen size mattress
press my body against the cool white of my other pillow
pretending it could be some body, your body
perhaps, sometimes finding myself

thankful that it is not. In my mind
we have already dated –
showered together, read books, cooked dinner.
I’ve eaten macaroons with your mother
taught your sister how to knit.

In my mind I’ve already imagined
you let my dogs leash drag on the ground,
I get jealous of your best friend,
you think Bukowski was a feminist.


We’ve broken up, blocked each other’s numbers.
I already made a spotify playlist of heart break,
have already tired of the songs.

So when you come after midnight,
and toss my throw pillow to make room for yourself on the bed
I already know where it will land on the floor beneath my window.
I’ve already practiced picking it up
to place it back on the bed in the morning.

in most instances there is no real
criticism - just the debate as old
as the life of Aristotle, so lagging
behind modern liberty -
the deviations of the two extremes,
the nicely polished marble
and the coarse flint - a debate
concerning nouns -
one man will venture into marble
synonymousness -
another man will venture into
flint synonymousness - but still
the monism of saying one thing
adversely or conversely -
one layer on top of another,
like a wedding cake - sooner will
the adverse noun usage emerge -
sooner too will the converse noun
use emerge - and make battle for
what society is entitled to -
well, both! the pleasantries of the nouns
surrogate and mother, damnable
essentials of two homosexuals and
a ******* - i know, the former and
all the pleasantries and pigmented macaroons,
the latter and dirges and the dingy
back alley - one stands up for pleasantries
the other for the coarse mountain view -
one sees a mountain of the jagged panorama,
the other a normal distribution curve -
both have peaks, one's a woo ***(!) slide on
your ***, the other a carefully calculated
descent - so you wonder how certain words
are encoded to create a certain emotion -
one thing to understand a string of words:
do this do that, walk over here, walk over there -
and the other string of words:
feel this, feel that, think this, think that -
perplexing - mostly the dichotomy of seeing
and hearing - a dualism is an acceptance of
the two extremes as a constant -
a dichotomy is a lack of acceptance of the
two extremes, they are never consolidated -
dichotomy represents an active game of ping pong,
dualism represents: a ping pong table,
two ping pong rackets and a ping pong ball...
but no actual activity - dualism in theory,
dichotomy in practice.

r a n, or: reformed alcoholics named, such pretty,
saintly creatures, you can almost yawn at the whole affair;
i've never heard such gracious life-affirming stories as these -
watch them scuttling like rats from a sinking
ship, you can count them, hell, you can even name them:
oh there's jerry who ****** himself in bed,
there's bradley in black-out mode
at liverpool st. station,
james the one who puked blood in the toilet...
and there's me, using alcohol for what
the arabs feared it could do to a man:
dehydrate him and leave him with a snail-tongue,
all slurry and slow - not a very known
sedative back then, it was first used to sterilise
medical equipment used in removing an
appendix, or the third tonsil (e.g.) -
rarely was it used as a sedative, people abused it
during Bacchus ****** - they'd dance and sing;
Spartan meat-heads used to drink diluted wine
(all that six-pack growling and Hoplite Phallus...
Phalax... whatever RAA!) and would give pure
wine to shame someone and walk him down
the street, tumbling... the Japanese... hmm, what
an odd case indeed... i'd need a barrel of sāké /
säké to get drunk... and they drink it... warm,
disgusting... mulled wine i can understand...
but drinking ****-***** ***** warm is sick...
            now concerning the diacritical marks,
so the umlaut a (dot dot)... am i right in assuming
that in english it would be equivalent to write
it as: a a            and whatever letters either side?
oh oh! like aardvark? i'm good at arithmetic, . .    . .
    . .        . .            . .         . .                             σ 12, yes?
then surely the macron on the other variant is also
a prolongation, or perhaps an elongation of the vowel,
but of course with the     e           you're sort of supposed
to jump, make the tongue jump or fire a slingshot
or throw a Molotov cocktail or something, ṝight?
(yep, that's not a trill but a "growl", the english
                                        hollowed-out r -
     meaning it is prolonged, but it's not trilled -
                                        the posh Chelsea girls would know,
puffs and toffs and macaroons, whatnot, oh ya,
yeah, those kind of girls, they'd tell you all about
                   the hollowed-out and prolonged english ṝ
there's no greater amount of ambiguity like there is in
that and why w is said to be a double-u but is written
like a double-v, and translated into polish
a                 w is actually             a         ł;
                            i think this is where we ref. everything
to the dispersion of the peoples and the tower of Babylon).

The games
The small-fry
Ketchup she squirt's

Talking heads
sugar on my
miniature flirt
tongue

Burger bands

Gimme_ Gimme
((Mini Macaroons))
Don't big change me
My eyes like
((Rocky Racoons))

Movie Mania
Beatles miniature
I want to hold
your hand
Lucy in the sky
No chip diamonds
Cool Hand Luke

American girl doll
Exchange for
my red bike
Twilight zone
dimension I_
Cannot read
the numbers!!!

I-phone oranges
compared to
small apples
That's me
Mini Cooper
Car drinking Snapple

The shooting
star
Just gas up
  V-Wagon
mini car

(Mini Bow)
ladybug
kissed her
Coffee mug
The red and
black dots
treat her
like a lady
Small bits of aroma

The smaller sticky
yellow
notes what votes
Mini-me camera
Mini hot_  Hollywood
dog dachshund
*    *    *    
It's mini
mealtime__

Adorable
Presentable
The Dollhouse
lodge Mini
Disneyland_*
No copying to
resemble

Mini Fruit
salad merger
Red Robin's Burger
were overly generous
Mr. Big
imaginable
so small
Superman's
flight of rage
So-Huge_ and long_
turned him if I only
had a brain
((The Tinman))
mentally touched him
Sprayed his oil can
in mini heart size

Hello Dollie
collector
magnifying glass
Handcrafted
Pleasurable kind
and small
Broomstick
Witchcraft

Miniature leader
Knock on
heavens door

The Doorman
The Penthouse
Mini Bavarian
creme
Me doughnut

The cool breeze
off her fan
Big thumb
((Thumbelina))
The mini frog
Hit too many
London fogs

Mini White castle
burger  chips off the
miniature block party
Meat tenderizer like trolls

Las Vegas
money slot machines
Those miniature dolls

((Minerals Top Ranks))

Gemology
produce
more blues
******
Adolf ******
generals
Cereal boxes
Sly Foxes Attention
How her
features met
his smaller
side_
Royal hot blues singer
Mini He pops dishes
All Banana nut's
When it
comes to
Monkeying
around

With_?
miniature swingers
cereal_

The truth is I'm not very good at anything I do. I'm not trying to throw a pity party but honestly, I have never done or thought anything worth while. My hands are really ***** right now and sometimes when I'm on my period I wont wear underwear and I'll were a dress. I haven't washed my sheets in months and I've been wearing the same pair of underwear for five days. I stopped doing my laundry, so when I finally do change my underwear I wont even put on a clean pair, I will just put on a less ***** pair. I keep forgetting to eat and so far I've lost nine pounds! Nine! Which puts me at 132lbs. I haven't been that small since my freshman year. I can't focus on school. I can't focus on anything except writing sometimes. I like to paint on my arms and then go in the shower and watch the paint pool at my feet. I lay in snow banks because I like how the cold snow hurts my skin and I often look in the mirror and slap myself in the face really hard because it makes me feel better for a second. I'm sick. My brain is wrong. Reading makes me want to puke. Literally puke! I just looked up how many miles it takes to get to Chicago from here. I don't have enough money to get all the way there. I'm going ******* nuts! Locomotive. Locomotive. Maybe I should smoke a bunch of ****, or get super drunk, or go streaking, or run away, or fake my own death, or swallow a bunch of pills and either enjoy the high or die. Is it sad that I call myself a writer but if I was someone else I wouldn't read my own poetry. It tries too hard. Honestly, I use rhyming words. Not even cool ones. I rhyme words like five and alive. ******* every poet ever has done the exact same thing. It's not good. It's really not good. I use to be able to just sleep my worries off! I can't even do that anymore. I can't sleep for more than two hours at a time. I never never sleep and time keeps going and I look at the clock and it reads 11 PM and then I look at the clock again and it says 5:40 AM. **** me! For real! **** me! Manic depressive ginger faced ****! If I had a spoon in my hands I would drag the cold metal over the blue veins on my wrists. Why am I writing this here? Because none of you can find me! ******* Flee! Here are some words you probably hate now... ****, *****, Niger, ****-****! **** face! Racist! ****! Shut up! There are a lot worse things that could happen to your day! Go buy some ******* macaroons and watch the ******* desperate housewives and daydream about your ******* sugar-daddy future! I don't care who you are! I don't know any of you! I just want my head! Did you know I'm asexual! What the **** am I suppose to do with that! I'm a ******* plant! A Plant! I'm no better than a ******* Fern! At least a Fern is good at what it does. God was suppose to make me a ******* Fern but somehow I am a ******* Human! What the ****! **** me! For real! ***** ****** ****! Eat It!!!

only among poetry do you feel so
guilty having written much and read so little;
then come the chances to appreciate other genres,
and having appreciated such genres, become
all too willing to change
the genre of your expression
into something worth attention
when none was required;
such is poetry, an art of beatified
speech where there was none
to begin with;
and where adequate reading was enjoyed,
no other arithmetic of adequacy
was expressed, given the tongue's
complications of usage, i.e.
no beauty ***** joining him
for a scene at the opera, blah ha;
no tsar that met him ever left talking
about him with a feeling of jealousy -
the concert of concubines
and the nagging of the tsarina to keep up
appearances:
now watch the nagging darwin in me
with a monkey's face doing the juggling act
of ooh ooh oh ooh for the mouth's
shaping into a protruding of lips awaiting a trumpet!
blows a desire of the many sires, and hence the shipwreck
of the aristocratic hearts gathered into a populace
of a little city without silverware and serf hands
providing the chess moves of moveable silverware
for entrée, main and dessert of edibles macaroons: ah those
feasting eyes and corsets... how eager the scythe in hands
that sweated for the eyes to be so tearful and yet unsatiated
at a table of candlelight and ahem aha manners of using napkins;
i'll concern myself with courtesy when i'm able
to express myself in saxon or bavarian:
burping after a carbonated drink at the table drank...
and indeed i'll ease out a **** on my way out from
the splendour to an applause: without a necessary crescendo
of my own undoing!

i'm not Agatha Christie in terms of volume,
but i still feel a sickness
      when i'm the foetus
    and someone cuts my hands off
          that are attached to the umbilical cord
that's the mother that's the keyboard that's
    the cyber web, and what not.
i guess it's unforced haiku incision:
    poetry or how to keep a **** in yer ***
in a crowded train...
           they always say that: keep it to yer self...
true that, but when it's waking up in the early
morn and ******* hangover, even the Chinese
poets would applaud the effort...
                     excusing the pristine haiku and rhyme
and getting knee deep in **** -
sure i could have become an engineer
or an Apple pioneer talking about a revolution  
that never ends but actually ends when the next
revision pops up on the speedy shly
               for all 'tings said: Sean was always going
to say all things, a little bit shooner...
      Mish Tooshpencepenny -
                        he does say money-penny, against the obvious,
total badass spy work, that is.
the clocks are dead, the blinds are up, but it feels
like morning, as i lie in bed i know
it's the morning sun knocking on my eyes:
it's less dictatorial, actually everything feels less
dicta, there is no need to pass on the information
of any kind, imagine: morning sun and all the things
that desire for everything to be less rummaging -
the morning sun, a sketch of how it actually feels less
intrusive than what the hell happens in the afternoon...
to be exact, half past ten a.m.,
squash and contemplation of the anti-gentlemanly
consideration of a "stop the quirk **** reroute epi",
lapse into the metabolism, like any addiction:
worthy the romance, bro.
                       and no doctor could write a better prescription,
doctors are famous for their chicken-scratching
type of handwriting, they're one and truly kindred
to be in the white-pill mafia with only pharmacists
able to decipher what is generally thought to be a cipher
morse code...
                          now, if you ask me, i see a poem like
this and think: also a prescription,
              but less white-pill blue-pill and more a hook and
an offshoot for any analogous or otherwise narrative
in a person's daily hygiene / narrative;
i don't know, you might read this and automatically suggest
to yourself that you swallowed an octopus,
                 or that you drank some consecrated holy water
out of the benediction urn in a church...
                 whatever i did, i still remembered my first
lesson in sign language in a primary school playground,
five steps to say it:
a. left palm canvas
                   with index and ******* paintbrush
      slap
b. as           above, although reversed, slap with
         knuckle side of fingers
c. wedge a V / Y          of the index and middle
                            fingers to the side of the canvas (palm)
d. then make a fist and thump it against the palm,
e. the raise your thumb with the fist still intact
           and move it away from the left palm....
psst....
           you just said: y don't you f off?!
                                               oh not personally,
i'm just teaching you sign-language i learned as a kid,
passing on the genes, as it were....
                                             either that or it's me lying
in bed trying to think whether my body is the parasite
with a finite contract, or my ego is a parasite with
a deluded infinite contract - well mascarpone macaroons
to you too... don't know, just felt like saying,
what with the killer clown craze
             and the frivolous: ever dance with the devil
in the pale moonlight?             stance of the old waggler
being all hushy hushy, and not so much pushy pushy
in a public debate; for your eyes only ta d'ah!

rarely do you spend a night stumbling
around a town
       drunk, figuring out a fortune of
a face, a luck of a smile,
          decisievely:
                          never much cared
for language other than for thinking with
it, lucky some, who actually use
it like they might use a hammer...
      what then, came first?
                               the hammer, or the nail?
god, i had to escape the chicken-shack...
and... looks like i almost did.
            if ever: the exhausted language,
and then there's the hidden
linguist, somewhere, probably in
          Posen... lumbering away at
a second language, that is apparently a tier
just shy of: making competent
users.
        - and i did forgot drinking
with a mirror...
                        instead took photographs,
of a snail... a snail...
         point being:
    i don't even remember how i brought
it home...
                                         bribe?
unlike hallucinogenics...
           drinking... yeah...
                                   yesterday is vague...
i drank less, walked more,
and brought home a snail...
   a ******* snail...
         once i brought back a hedgehog...
once i brought back a frog...
      next day?
          that has to be some sort of
hallucinogenic drug teasing me to remember...
i don't know who that person
is in the photograph,
   he claimed that breathing alcohol
filled breath on a snail
                   was appealing to the snail...
he even claimed that the snail
had dermatological properties of
healing: slight, discomforts...
             hardly a wart, just a skin hardening,
so this guy placed the snail on
the skin hardening and started to
feel the cosmis ****** of feeling
        the snail eat up the "concern" with
its under-belly...
            my first girlfriend told me
of the time, as a kid, when she used to pour
salt on snails...
   i remember seeing two boys
play with frogs...
            ******* used to smear lipstick
on the poor prince charming
                         and then set it alight...
YOU, CAN'T, THINK THIS **** UP...
i too wish for such a depraved imagination...
come to think of it,
   on a completely different topic...
public intellectualism is only a western
concept...
               a bit like religion...
good in private,
                        but out in the public, open?
the public intellectual who has given up
his private intellect:
      god... the scrutiny that comes with it...
there is such a thing as a privacy
of intellect?
                     just asking:
      because even poetry isn't an open
and closed scenario of a seagull
regurgitating in order to feed the chicks...
and yes, chickens are natural
cannibals... if you've ever seen a chicken
on a stump of wood right and just after
the axe-chop...
                  you'd see the remaining
nervous system after death...
                 and how other chickens will
jump on the stump... and drink the blood
of the Antoinette...
   with Antoinette's head still, partially moving...
unless of course you're thinking
about Hollywood and...
   christine chubbuck:
                 and that one shot to the head
that Hollywood couldn't make: instantaneous...
   like Kafka, i'd go for the stab at
              the dark, namely the heart...
because why would you even
think it was a mild execution...
             with andrei chikatilo:
          back of the head, left in a prison cell...
god, i can't stop to imagine the marvels
of this cockroach urban myth of surviving
               in a limbo of succumbing to a diet...
say all you want,
  but i'm pretty sure there's enough
reason to contemplate the inverted niqab
of hollywood...
             groove the shades, though...
can't **** for a hundred metres though...
              the Veil of Thespian...
oh hell, it's real...
              not as ****** obvious as
a ninja trying to look slim in a desert
wearing a velvet bin-bag...
         but i'm pretty sure there is a Veil
of Thespian...
             Louis XIV even said it:
                            the seemingly holds
the sway of power, before the jury,
           to appear...
                     rather than be...
        qua (as being) in antonym form
must give birth to: quiff (as if)...
        frivolity and cotton candy smiles...
people are beginning to make
   the assumption that poetry will save
         them from the tyranny of acting...
besides the point,
  given the example...
          if only there was an instantaneous
death like depicted with:
heavy editing, and no thespian involvement...
i can't help but see a movie
and not see a piece of paper
                    and a pair of scissors...
odd... because i wouldn't make
the same connection
               with a pear and a magnet...
               moth and macaroons?
appears i wasn't even "forced"
       to wear this veil...
                    acting should have really
been left to neglect in
   a theatre...
                      on behalf of
    democracy... why not speak of
                           the thespian tyranny?  
all the other forms of art are
starving...
                 why even bother wondering
why moden "art" (painting)
                is a bit off, trying to escape
                             plagiarising geometry?    
it's not healthy...
                       modern painting is
starved for the benefit of one medium...
that can't even fathom itself
           as member of the same family...    
yeah...
                    well, i guess i could
throw in the minstrels...
        but then i passed a busker on
                                  the street last night...  
poetry in public?
                  unless you're competing
                   with a mad christian preacher...    
but acting is both mainstream and
subversive...
                               (it) doesn't necessarily
require a stage: to find an actor...
           but if i'm not living
under a thespian tyranny...
             then i'm no more a poet than
one: requiring to write in orthodox rhyme.

I’m from living my life through video games
Listening to music to drown the bellowing voice of my father
Sleeping through my life

I am from trees for climbing
Horses for riding
Dogs to love
The oak and maple trees in the front of
The house that I’ve grown up in

I am from twice baked potatoes and sweets my mother bakes
I’ve come from the hard workers of Iowa
People who hide their emotions at all costs to not show softness

The “keep to yourself” to “go socialize” and “make friends”
“watch your mouth” and “don’t be so loud”
“get off your computer” or “don't be on your phone”

Staying up every Sunday night for the new Rick and Morty episode
Watching any new cult Netflix shows
Waiting for season three of Stranger Things
Time between filled with Youtube

In my room Bob the traffic cone that has more of a story than me
a book filled with drawings
A dresser filled with books and memories
A computer full of video games
A part of me people don’t know

From the pizza and balloons on Valentine’s Day
The chocolate macaroons and puppy chow around Christmas
Turkey noodle soup after Christmas and Thanksgiving dinner
All the potatoes I can eat in a night when they are made.

Most importantly I come from San Diego, California and Illinois Born and raised Parents
Traveling with my mother and siblings
Having sand between my toes
Loving the life I live and every moment of it.

of lies, stuck just as a fly. I broke
my wings on silken strings that felt
velvet to the touch. I fell for him as autumn
leaves fall off the tree, leaving the branches

bare as a broken kitchen chair. Beware
of the rays so blinding. They light up
the sky as lightening. And strike! It rained
splinters, sharp and cold as icicles in winter

the night I uncovered his lies. I cracked
the hive. And all the sugary amber spilled
to the floor. It oozed out of all his pores
into a big mess. I cannot look at him without

seeing his lie. How can I look at the sky
without seeing the clouds puff out
their chests? Without swallowing the grey
sunken in my breast? I'm hot as a summer

sidewalk. You can fry an egg on
my back. I'm taking his lie and planting it
as seeds in the spring when the earth
is soft. The morning dew bathes the blades

from yesterday. I gave his lie
a grave. And out from it blooms macaroons.

.as ever, some memorable lines bumping like atoms in my head, and instead of a pen and paper handy, or a keyboard, all i have is a mouth full of toothpaste, shampoo in my hair, a Popeye's squirm, one hand washing my genitals and the other holding the shower (handle), replying aloud to "the third person": what?!

... and after that? a whole array of punctuation
marks: drying yourself,
remembering the last conversation
from yesterday,
                 '****, this would be a waste
of a **** fine bottle of amber-glug...'
                            (not that it matters)...
'this might as well be a dial-up modem!'
  again: punctuation marks...
    putting your pinky finger into
the pinky end of a glove to dry out your
ears before putting in the headphones and
plugging in...
   what will it be today...
   jazzy cosmopolitan feel....
or airy, haunting, indie cosmopolitan
nostalgia -esque -esque of a missing
   prefix?
              ah...
   (i still find horror movie soundtracks
the most ideal lullabies...
   forget about Strauss dying
                              with a lack of
     contentment at not being able to write
a serious piece of work...
  well... if you're going to be a waltz-poodle
for the Habsburgs...
   you're going to be a waltz-poodle
till your fingerprints are no more...
   and you die a death by macaroons...
in a room filled with: white lilies...
as a joke: Strauss, waking upon
the deathbed:
    any of you ******* put those
chrysanthemums near me! i swear!
    better throw some fallen autumn leaves
from the park! i've never encountered
the scent of a rotting fern...
but these flowers just about do it!)
      ha!
this would have been a waste of a good
bottle of whiskey...
why didn't i encounter this prior...
   toiling in what ended up being something
of a cough medicine in terms
       of: well... something or other.
- unless i remember what it was...
    however many pockets in a day...
Nietzsche and pockets...
         or rather the film starring jim carrey,
dark crimes...
         and... yeah... that filter layer...
that something like this happens...
   but then turned into a movie...
     well... that doesn't exactly hide what
is made into an elaborate fiction:
working from a very base beginning...
like metallurgy...
      reality is the base ore... crude...
  un-rehersed...
  until it is subjected to... refinement...
  but that isn't the point:
       what is Heidegger's
    dasein in relation to journalism
in relation to post-journalism as in:
the film industry?
       which deviates from a mere "existence"
(out of every instance...
  my variety of ex-instance [E, A...
O... what's the difference?]
     there's an insistence) -
   and becomes... presence...
            or rather...       concern...
otherwise known as: the murky wood...
synonymous a variety of
other psychoanalytical metaphors...
yet in a film like 4.5/10 IMDb starring
jim carrey (well **** me!
    6.5 IMDb nicholas "8mm" cage!)
       that... dasein aura that journalism
cannot capture:
   as if we're supposed to be repeatedly
shocked by what "doesn't" happen:
when it clearly happens...
        en masse journalism:
frankly? i prefer the anaesthetic prior
to my tooth being drilled...
                     alternatively:
the film industry has made me
dasein ******...
                                      like gaining
access to a third eye that's in
the back of my head:
   and a ego-"personna"
           that capitulates to the role
of puppeteer:
   whereby the cognitive essence of
"thought" is: third person...
                   or... akin to the movie
get out:
                  always that one shutter-close
prior to: no other eventuality.
- besides that!
   already criticism:
nagging nagging, pampering
to... der geliebt leßer...
                     my ***: to some
coffee-mug "whining rhyming" poetics...
- but sure as ****...
you can make a fine, fine cauliflower
soup... as long as you add fried
   chouriço sausage to it...
  (χoυριςo) - which has clearly
entombed an orthographic error:
            correction - χoυρισo -
yes... every roman in italics:
is just as well (in appearence) greek -
but guess what!
   ever see a Greek write Greek?
i mean: handwriting...
                    even i inquired...
crux?

                Υ                        Ν

- is that an N?
- no... that's a U...
- "huh?!"

mind you: they do look pretty similar,
and i am more used to Vv(5)...
                                      ν / υ

and that was a real life scenario...
back on the 23rd of November 2018...
Warsaw...
     and giving directions
to get from Modlin (aiport)
               to Warsaw (central)...

still... a whole jar of coffee...
  and thankfully there's double cream in
the house... at 30% fat...
what coffee isn't a Hollywood coffee?

- and then there's that...
thought from the shower...

           honest to god...
give me the 1950s / 1950s-esque
   technicolor movies...
   eastmancolor - or whatever you want
to name them...
that very specific tinge...
acrylic...
   and you can hide all the CGI
and all the phosphorescent neon
             80s optic-**** festivities...
and those panoramic one shot
scenes... where a man on horseback
travels from one end of the panorama
to the other: and there is no cutting
             involved: no sub-movie editing...

mind you:
i'm still trying to find the sort of person
that could epitomize
   being more inclined to read
comic books... than watch a movie...

  coffee and cream... coffee and cream...
and a wintry afternoon.