The second I imbibed
her,
I knew she had me.
It always happened
that way.
That lovely warm-rush
in my head
and her sweet kisses
on my lips,
traveling
down
my throat,
deep
to my heart.
She brought me
to my knees.

Last Christmas grandmother told anyone who would listen that she quit the wine. She said it once as my father cracked open a bottle of ***. She said it again serving the ham; mentioned it in passing while gramps polished off a bottle of Malbec;

she said that last summer in the hot-tub at Laurie’s she had a bit too much Sangria and got out and fell on the pavement, cutting up her knees real bad ---

she said that she couldn’t even believe it was happening, she couldn’t believe that she drank so much. I could believe it.

Gram had always been a bit of a drinker; her sober stinging words caught you good enough even when she was on her best behavior. Imagine when she was unhinged! Talking while her teeth were all red was like getting sucker punched by a kangaroo; Gramps got all loose and loud, Gram got all hot and bothered and mean.

Don’t get me wrong. If I could, I’d drown in a pool of whiskey, choke on the amber stream from the tap.
But I don’t lie about it! I don’t talk about it; I don’t lie about it.
I’ve been sneaking sips since I was 14,
and I’ve been drinking pools of the stuff since I was 17 and if you asked anyone they might not believe you.

I wonder if punching people in the face and choke holding them into doing what you want them to do is a past-time. Most people drink to get nice.


People like her drink to get mean.

She sets down
her very large glass of Malbec
sighs and lights
a poorly rolled
******-like cigarette
the look on her face
bothers me deeply
I open my mouth
with good intentions
and probably should have
said something like
"Are you ok?"
but what came out
went something like
You are nothing to me
just an **** potato
there's almost nothing
that you could provoke
within anyone
except for the cats
Yeah,
I'd bet you could start
the feline revolution
with your poisoned toenails
and mashed carrots
not even seventeen vats of ****
could make you more slippery
No,
I don't want your wet cake
just bees,
endless mayonnaise
and cherry flavoured toxic yoghurt

Pinot this and pinot that
This young Grenache is a trifle flat
Better to try and get along
With a slightly older Sauvignon

I sometimes get a trifle low
When dabbling in a cheap Merlot
And so to scare the blues away
Will sip a spendy Chardonnay

But to avoid real ennui
Drink super Oregon Pinot Gris
And let’s be quite awfully frank
That’s much better than Chenin Blanc

But while you sort out your Pinot
Give a break to Grignolino
It’s good, but not the same as
A bold and cheeky Oz Shiraz

And if you want to go very far
Don’t ignore local Pinot Noir
It always sells well on the block
And I wonder who likes Marechal Foch

As I was supping a cute Barbera
At a certain State affaira
Things got quickly very highbrow
When someone mentioned Muller Thurgau

It is no lack of vinous respect
That makes us scorn the best Malbec
And can you find me a single fan
Of that very odd vine, Carignan?

If one must go to a grapey hell
There’s good company in Zinfandel
But if we really must go
Could we have some Nebbiolo?

In the end we all agree
Any wine is better free
But if not free we’ll surely call
Any wine beats none at all!

i’m wearing malbec lipstick at 330 in the afternoon, my own personal hue that stains lips and teeth, drips down my chin so a tongue flicks out to savor the drop. it leaves a maroon trace like i’ve been ******* blood.
when i swill the wine, it captivates me. like i'm swishing around my own blood, praying enough of it sloshes out to **** me.
i’m headed to catholic church in an hour, maybe i’ll light a candle for myself.
god knows i ******* need it.
i’m at that delicate lining, the in-between stage of the five stages of grief. the soft spot at the base of my skull. self-destruct button that’s so tempting, nestled between anger and depression. skip bargaining. take a trip around the sun.
i've lost my hair tie and i want it back.
i've lost my heart and i want it back. ******* give it back.
reapply mauve lipstick the flavor of malbec. go to church. rinse the good off when you get home.
i still feel him inside of me. taking everything. claiming it as his own, two hundred and fifty-eight hours later. like he’s stained me and now i'm tainted and unapproachable. undesirable.
piece of plastic wrap that used to keep his heart fresh, now i'm trash.
now i’m his.

Some converted industrial uptown space
$20 brunch at a table for one
Nice and filling it seems, no room in my gut
Nor wondering why I walk gasping for breath
Pouring water, wishing it were alcohol
Too dumb when the check comes to add a figure

Some deep lasting sustenance from that, I figure
Stumbling home down block past shop and vacant space
Nothing sanitizes quite like alcohol
Great to see strangers holding hands one in one
Except I'd claw them and beat out their breath
Wrenched and stuffed I'd kick them in their stupid gut

That's not very nice, I know it in my gut
But somehow don't care much more to figure
Which story to tell or the smell of my breath
When tables for two require just as much space
And a spot at the counter suffices for one
Despite the sadness and lack of alcohol

I think lager, Malbec, other alcohol
And there is some deep craving still in my gut
For drunkenness or eternal truth, which one?
What luck, I'm rescued by a dashing figure
Some vibrations in my pocket fill the space
Imagination comes up to catch its breath

But that's about it, no handsome man with fresh breath
Just me standing in line to buy alcohol
Squeezing past the register makes for tight space
But maybe it's all the sausage in my gut
There's no lasting sense in minding my figure
So long now resigned to the comforts of one

The alternative is an uncertain one
And to explain I feel I'm wasting my breath
But there's no harm in ogling a nice figure
And there's no harm in a little alcohol
Oh, poor decisions, I feel them in my gut
Forgetting prescient matters of Time & Space

Perhaps there is one, sipping on alcohol
Inhaling deep breath, with a fire in his gut
Awaiting a figure to write lines in space.

I unpacked your boxes too quickly.
I exposed the whiteness of your thighs
freckled by the reddish-brown hairs
I uncovered the wrinkles in your blue iris
the lies and tears behind your front teeth
evenly crooked

I wanted your words to flutter from your mind
but they dropped from your throat to the floor
I wanted your laughter in your core to be kind
but it came from a shallow, envious drawer

I pulled strands and veins out of boxes
Found bundles and tangles
that I assumed should be unraveled
but when I pulled and twisted one straight,
you left in your car with a crunch in the gravel
Drove straight into the arms of
Malbec wine
at low rise tables with one chair,
an excerpt from a novel bent at the spine
and the sweater you never let me wear

I drank from the pint glass you brought home for me
and it wasn't a statement.
I wore no mask.
I simply sipped.
It's only meaning to transport water to my lips
Calmly, coating my belly
So slowly I'd wait
Imagining water burning like *****
Barreling down my throat
like an interstate

I wanted it back
the feeling of feeling
the fear that walks with revealing
the love, the artist, and the lunatic
all cooked together and left to steep

I pulled out my own strands
the ones anchored deep.
I worked endlessly to straighten
You wrapped yourself in my veins
to tightly
You were trapped in the bundle
so you ran, then came a stumble
forgetting that I was anchored too
and so you pulled me right down with you.

And I left you there
with your tearful stare
I bunched up these strands
and laid out my demands
I carried them off, the tangled mess
You once announced was yours to hold
but you overestimated yourself
and watched me become cold
A block of ice, you could never melt
you were not all, you were not my wealth
you were only the weight I felt.

Inconceivably generous. I am deliberate. ill-chosen, splintered, and imposed on. As a degenerate, I summon the Master's actions to justify my behavioral grit. My consciousness is as mixed as a Montrachet, yet my heart is as bold as a cheap Malbec.

What is so gently placed before you
Is a hideous manifestation of my world views. Skip the introductions-- pas de deux let's rendezvous into a drunken abyss of "I love you" and when I call to say something is missing-- it's been about 6 shots of regret and a couple of packs of loneliness.

I am like the tear in your sheets. I can make you feel warm until your body meets the open seam. Like that scarf you had around your neck that did not quite hide the marks that I left.

I am Inconceivably generous. I am deliberate. ill-chosen, splintered, and imposed on.

I wanted to tell you
That my mom was sick
She was strong & I was at my weakest since my brother slipped forever
But whatever, we don’t need to talk about that
Alas through my paranoia and tobacco riddled anxiety
She would be ok

I wanted to tell you
that I cry more than most people
Especially during the part of the movie where
I can't remember
But you know the one where the crescendo truncates
And he promises her whatever is
She wishes to be promised

I wanted to show you
My favorite painting
Those lofty strokes and sharp lines creating the right light around a blue tunic and sure footing on the morning star
When color was black & white
Yes, those moments when religion meant everything

I wanted you
to hear my favorite song
But then you kissed me
Before that wall of sound could swallow that third verse
Before the violins could be whip stroked
Before I was just going to *******
And stream something else

I wanted to tell you
That there is a bigger **** out there
Filling all of your existential regret
and satisfying your unwanted needs  
Attached to someone far more important
with longer hair
and a mom and dad who love each other

I wanted to tell you all of this in the mere moment we had Standing before an open minded stranger
Elbows propped eagerly along the marble
Stretching a hand out across an ashtray
I wanted to tell you
It's not you
It's me
But we both know after 3 glasses of Malbec
And one deeply destroyed waiter
This isn't true

I wish I would have told you
That I am not afraid of getting old
I am afraid of feeling old
Out of touch with whatever happens to grow around me
Having no room to absorb or breathe anything but time’s ailments
Nervous nails & the black & white hair you called distinguished
Which only serves to remind me, that someone has died
& I have lost so much
& still, will have nothing to leave behind

I wanted tell you
It's not because you aren't pretty
It's cause you act ugly
It’s cause you think I am stupid when I act smart
It’s cause you lie professionally, to survive

I wanted to tell you all of this
All you wanted, was for me to buy your drink

I buy a shirt, a blue shirt, a button down.
I drink a glass of wine, a red, a Malbec.
And I watch.
I stand still in the midst
of the St. Cloud Market.
The crowd—that singular being—
jostles and jockeys and talks
in broken English.
I chew gum, cinnamon gum, Nicorette.
I feel my habit inverting, bending, becoming mechanical.
And I must flirt and be moral
with the shopkeeper who looks a little
like me.
And I must revert to an irrational, emotional,
childlike state as I buy three pirated DVDs.

The crowd forms a circle instinctually.
Three women dance slowly in the center.
Paper falls from the sky, newsprint, a day old.

Gunfire, the sound of it, its slowing of time.
No one says a thing
and no one's feet make a sound and
every child is perfectly behaved
for one relentless moment.

A miracle of the earth
and the hands
under an unbeaten Sun
the wise wait
and the seasons

Meat and blood
of the land and Us

I've left my heart in different places,
it's been slowly chipped away at.
In La Paz,
it was the chicha
& in Mendoza,
a Malbec at Azafran,
nice warm saki in Kyoto,
some anejo in Ensenada
& cheap beer in Seattle.
Now all I have left
is enough for shots
of fine whiskey...
I'm still ticking Darling,
cheers.

When you kiss me
It releases me
From the chains
That bind my brain

I get this feeling
It's like I'm healing
Can't get enough
End up wanting it rough

Your touch is intoxicating
Your taste is levitating
I could do this all day
I always want to stay

It takes me so high
Even feels like I have died
And gone to heaven
In our own love haven

The feeling I get
Feels like we fit
In the pit of my stomach
Warm like I'm sipping Malbec

Your lips fit perfectly with mine
The sensation I get is so divine
I want these moments to last forever
I want you wherever, whenever

I look into your eyes
You're better than the other guys
Such a beautiful affair
Perfect and rare

Blended and aged to perfection
semi sweet or dry to taste
you pair well with any meal

We toast with you
and celebrate special occasions
when you get all bubbly

Rosé
Blush
Blanco
Burgundy
Chianti
Moscato
Reisling
Pinot Noir
Malbec
... just to new a few

My carafe breathes
with FERMENTED GRAPES
fill my Waterford crystal glass

Poured to perfection
I drink you in
you complete my day.

I

*******, the blues
were running, the scrum
of seagulls a white cloud
of chaos above the waves.
The water churned and chopped,
teeming with small fish
devoured by bigger fish
ravished by the sharp-toothed bluefish—
all of them darting frenzied toward shore.

And my father screaming
for someone to, quick,
grab the fishing poles
for God’s sake.

My little sister
in her yellow
bathing suit
would not wait
for the poles.
She yanked fish after fish
from the boiling surf
with her small hands,
screaming in delight and victory.
She ran up and down
the beach, between
colorful umbrellas,
pausing only to toss
another writhing body
onto hot sand:
a wild child flinging
silver-scaled sacrifices
to stoic, multicolored gods.

We ate smoked bluefish for weeks.

II

Remember sitting in our first apartment
watching the snow beyond the windows,
listening to records and drinking seven-dollar
bottles of Malbec from juice glasses on the futon,
the narrow hallway strung with Christmas lights
illuminating thrift store paint-by-numbers?
Billie Holiday was singing “Lady Sings the Blues,”
her voice like a lady’s shoe, worn-in, refined.

I remember pondering the present
I would give you a few days later
in Ashtabula on Christmas Eve,
neatly wrapped and hidden under
the bungalow’s sagging eaves
(more vinyl, a Coltrane/Hartman reissue).
The snow would be falling in Ohio too;
your grandparent’s house filled with the smell
of Scottish shortbread and the sound of daytime TV.
When your grandfather died a few years later,
we listened to Vera Lynn’s “We’ll Meet Again”
at the service—your grandmother crying in black.

But what I remember most about that night
was later in bed, the snow subsiding,
the radiators clanking with warmth,
the Christmas lights casting colors on the wall,
your finger tracing songs across my back:
the stylus gliding to center, making me spin.

III

300 milligrams of Wellbutrin,
orange pills arranged in my palm
like hallucinatory ellipses, swallowed
to see where the last sentence will lead.
A bleak prescription: pain has a syntax;
grief, a simple grammar.
A land of blue shadows. An ocean of glass.

But that was years ago now, thank God.
I wrote poetry like crazy then,
on a word processor with a screen
the size of a paperback novel.

I smoked. Skipped class. Slept 17 hours at a time.
I scoured the dictionary for recondite words,
turning sesquipedalian over and over
in my mind, each syllable a sedative.
Like Rilke’s panther, I paced in cramped circles
around a paralyzed center, my winter boots
tracking mud along the brightly lit corridor
that led to the psychologist’s office.

One night I crashed
at my aunt and uncle’s
place in the foothills
and woke up alone with
a sense that the room, the house, maybe
the whole **** world was shuddering,
coming unmoored.
I retrieved my uncle’s .357 magnum
and tiptoed from room to room brandishing
an unloaded firearm in my boxer shorts.
The only sound, diffuse in the darkness,
was the gurgle of the fish tank filter.
I cocked the hammer, watching lionfish
swim in vibrant, agitated circles.
Next morning, I read the newspaper
and chuckled, having never felt
an earthquake before.

With a shock, I think back
to the Thanksgiving break
when I flew home from college
for the first time: the vertiginous
sensation of floating thousands of feet
above the Wasatch range, the mountains’
blue shadows and blinding snow
disorienting, my heart an unspun
compass incapable of pointing true.
The plane’s engines roared in ascent.

Decades later, I’ve landed:
married, with three children,
we drive across the country
in our minivan with the moonroof open,
howling out Tom Waits songs in unison.
Our moments together are conjoined
like tender marks of punctuation—
commas, semicolons, colons:
when the wind washes over us,
it whispers
and, and, and, and, and....

She spilled the wine, again
My aunt says walking into the living room to get a towel
She always spills her wine on her white pants
Always the white pants
You would think she would switch to white wine
But she likes her Malbec
I now see where I get it from
I’m clumsy too
Spilling glass after glass of water
They banned me to plastic at one point
But soon returned me to glass
Last week I broke a glass in the trunk of my car
It was my grandmothers
Blue and covered in butterflies
It hurt knowing I lost what could’ve been the only thing I had of hers
It could be
But it isn’t
I cherish the moments I get to spend with her
In the tiny apartment above the bay
Her house sold in 5 days
400,000$
We couldn’t show her the house
It would break her heart
She loves the days she gets to see her dog
When he comes up from mass
I love her
But at least I have something of hers
Her love.

Dove dark chocolate
Black coffee with almond biscotti
Raspberries and Engstrom almond toffee
Oma I miss you
I’ll see you in 80 years, or so
Have a cup of mint tea for me


Rosemary and Malbec
Ginger snaps and lavender
Grandma why does my dorm room
Smell like old memories of you


I think I left my sunglasses on the dining room table
The last place I saw you
Dyed blond hair, gold necklace, and your sweet soft smile
You gave me your blue jacket
Perriwinkle blue raincoat
Oma it’s raining
I’m making you tea
Dove, deliver it safely to the clouds above me

mi alma is made of pineapple fabric,
bartered in the palengkes of San José,
nothing like the silk of Manileño prep-school boys,
in their country clubs and villages with gates,
classmates whom I envied for their patrician ways,
whose diphthongs I eventually learned to emulate
as I dyed my pineapple-fabric soul with neon desires,
neon as bright as New York City lights,
and put on an invisible muzzle on my face.
but what was harder to wash away from my soul of piña
was the stench of garlicky stews we ate in San José,
so foul that even aswangs kept their distance,
'stead of ******* me out of my mother’s womb and taking me away,
throw me up deformed somewhere in the UK,
deformed like the glorified mongrels that are my cousins,
those UCL-educated mestizos, or was it LSE?
oh, maybe my life wouldn’t have been so ******* mierda,
in a corporate attire with a three-thousand pound pay!
but unfortunately, I wear my alma of pineapple fabric
masticated by the teeth of unsolicited advice,
fragrant with cathedral incense, heavy with the guilt
of having been cummed on by ersatz lovers, ‘straight’ best-friends
whom I’ve cut out of my life like overgrown fingernails,
for tripping over loose threads and undoing my soul,
oh, yes, I get lonely without my BFFs, but at least
I still have mi alma de piña, my greatest source of pride,
fragile pride as fragile fabric must be dry-cleaned monthly
at Au Beau Blanc, Gallardo Street, Makati City,
elegant but indeed makati (which is Tagalog for really really itchy)
remember: don’t you ever dare to wash me in the Machine!
or as I like to call it the Lacanian Other clothed in moreno skin,
castrative, repressive, myopic Manilense society, nope!
I will not go to spinning class with synthetic souls ever again
cannot chismis anymore about Manila scandals over brunch,
because my soul is made of pineapple fabric
and pineapple easily tears apart at the seams,
shedding its fibers behind in faraway places,
foster cities and countries with their irrevocable stains,
like those of chimichurri and malbec in Buenos Aires,
Debería haber nacido en Buenos Aires, I always like to say
‘cause it would be more chic to drown myself in Rio de Plata
than the ****** waters of ******* Manila Bay.
Pues, thank God, I didn’t, because now estoy en Spain
and of vermut ***** con aceitunas I am always inebria—
ted, waxing nostalgic for a time when these white men
would’ve scoffed to see an Indies dress,
would’ve asked my pineapple fabric soul to untuck,
scared to be stabbed by some concealed, mystical kris,
but no! don’t get me wrong! I love Mother Spain!
but I don’t think I belong here either,
nor in Buenos Aires or the United States,
nor will I belong again in any one of those seven thousand isles,
which my fingers fidget with like the rosaries I pray
to call out to the god of overseas workers,
the patron saint of the unmoored, the new cosmopolitan
oh, please help me conquer, for the sake of mi alma en pena
hecha de piña, now ruined, stinky, sullied, stained,
help me find a street, an enclave, a hamlet, or a shore
just somewhere—a corner to feel not so out of place.

my dreams are
marzipan
almond paste and
powdered sugar
egg whites beaten
kneaded
wrapped in
cling film and frozen
i took them out
to thaw last month

my dreams are
chickens
unhatched
i’ve counted
done the math and put
all of my eggs
into a single
provincial french basket

my dreams are
castles
in the air
or castles
in spain
depending on how
far back you want
to take the saying

either way
their spires are
dark toned
bordeaux bottles
narrow and
full of deep
burgundy
nero d'avola
and beaujolais nouveau
those fit into the
hamper with
my eggs

pinotage
zinfindel
shiraz
malbec
cab franc
take me around
the world
and back again

swooping past
the buttresses
i built of
carmenere
monastrell
grenache

deep and
treacherous moats
filled with every
kind of filler
red that pads out
your favorite blend

(some day i hope
to go to spain
to see my ambitions
in person)

my dreams are
highly breakable
when dropped
on concrete
and notoriously difficult
to clean up

my dreams are
clouds of
small batch
irish cream
swirling around
in espresso ***

my dreams are
right in front of me
and yet i can’t quite
reach them unless i
lean forward
knock over some
neatly arranged plans
spill out school
let it pool and
run off the edge
of the table
and onto the floor

my dreams
are spite
shards of
broken glass
a fallen shelf
astringent
eighty dollar whiskey
wafting through the air

my dreams
are for the future
but are somehow
impossibly
inseparable from
the past

(i always tell myself
if i could live through
a pandemic i can
do anything
including making this
phone call)

my dreams are
motivational
hobby lobby signs
strung up with
fairy lights in my head
“the difference between
a dream and a goal
is a plan”
“just busy building
my empire”
“hustle and heart
will set you apart”
but the signs don’t mention
the heavy feeling of
dread in my gut

don’t tell me
what it’s like to carry
a dream
tell me what it’s like
to carry
aspirations of
something
better for myself
while schlepping
along an intense
fear of failure and
the itching dread
that i’m making the
wrong decision

my dreams are
olive drab and
dried out californa
soundstage brown
a younger me
who could never
foresee who i
am today

my dreams are
the skeleton
hanging in the corner
of henry blake’s office

my dreams are
99 cent
shots of blue liqueur
on my 21st birthday
burning
the back of my throat

my dreams are
lit candles
on the cluttered
coffee table
greenery and
light florals
wafting
into the night

my dreams are
chronic
the thing my parents
warned me about
a genetic predisposition
to addiction

my dream is not
to be rich
my dream is to
afford therapy

a little argentinian malbec for
persuasion -

  because there's nothing for
the sort of blues of
reading through the poetry
bestseller books...

i'm not going to milk that
ol' goat of gloating
in saying:
        i'm better than that...
i'll just remind myself:

god, i possibly can't be
any worse...
   leftover ideals of love:
the sort of love
where a woman
is a mannequin
    and a man is...
           an imitation octopus...

that i've come to a crosswords
is probably an understatement...
stalemate in prose
to boot...

just so it happens
   i've done more walking
than writing:
having covered most of
the north-eastern aspect
of greater London...

from Romford to:
Epping,
             Coldharbour
Canary Wharf
St. Paul's cathedral...
Upminster, Brentwood...
and round and round
around Chigwell through
to Woodford...
   Epping Forest is overrated...
too many roads
cut through and too many
little rivers run through:
more like a swamp than
anything...

and with this, my "dilemma"...
circa 7 languages to
draw a picture...
  either a horizon or...
a take on Cezanne's still life...
better something Dali        esque...

眼 (ㄩㄠㄋ) -
      which is eye (yaun)
                       in pinyin / zhuyin:

since a glyph is not a letter
(apparently well d'ah d'ah d'uh!)

exhibit (a)

                                          երկինք
  שמש

                             เมฆ

                                     ㄕㄢ    (ㄕㄚㄋ)
ヤマ

    पानी (i.e. नदी)

                                       ც ე ც
                                       ხ ლი

         ⰎⰀⰔ
                         ᛋᚴᛟᚷ

           oddly enough coming back
to ol' ge'ez...
   i.e. ethiopian... i.e.
the word... for king...
                                       ነገ
                                           hmm
   "problem"...
            i know how an acute accent
on an S sounds like

                      ነገሠ    vs.
                          ­               ነገሰ

and i know the word... in "slang":
i.e. NYGUS...
                                             ነየገሰ

that vowels "might" be hidden
is obvious...
        disclaimer: although this is
a phonetic sketch...
  i'll write each word as it is:

sky, sun,
   clouds, mountain, mountain,
water (i.e. river)
                     fire
forest, forest,
                              king...
          
   մարդ        ստվեր
       ชาย         เงา
           ニンゲン    カゲ
आदमी       साया
   კაცი   ჩრდილი
         žmonių     šešėliai

that i was looking for (ų)
              is without a doubt...
what with the already planted (ą, ę)
i had the sound...
but i couldn't posit a meaning /
a word with it...
lucky me... lithuanian... had it...
all along...

       just like...
an imaginary petition
to revise some Cyrillic...
   i.e.
       if Ш = SH = Š
          and if Щ = SHCH = ŠČ
        then why . o O why...
does   Ц = the polish "c" or the german "z"...
i.e. why does      Ч = Č                ??????
                                         ­              ?????
                                                       ?????!

does ras(PUTIN) know? no?
looks pretty ******* solid to me, no?
i.e.
         Ш + Ц = Щ
                  
          it would seem plain enough:
n.b. the last time i read (past participle
red? lost the a, letter, not the indefinite
article)

of Dickens mention "orthography"
was nothing short of a spelling mistake...
i.e. the slightly above "average"
of phonetic-
                 (open form, hyphen attached,
no         -ing
          e.g. begin{n}ing)

juice worth of shrapnel...
whatever the eye might see
and denote as: cardamom...
             इलायची like so...
or კარდამონი like so...
      the nose a priori the eye...

a sure sign of Caucasian "superiority"
is bound to...
ahem... the "concept"
of having uppercase and lowercase
lettering...
unlike in "mother" Cyrillic...

at times Cyrillic looks cheap at
times... survivable...
to be of use... on the Siberian tundra...
which is hardly a Saharahaha...
sprout of a giggle and a variation
of a dwarf's name like Gimmley &
tow Grimm...

honestly: a bottle of Argentinian
red later and i'm... theta or phi i.e.
fffffff-erocious...
             raucous...
it's under suspicion that i cite...

Byzantium is not allocated
the Caucus route of all things...
crumbly...
post-colonial... imperial-y...
     like thing-y
        magic-y...
                       from... TWITCHY...
from fidgety...
the article of "nuance" /
association...
the associative article in english...
i.e. y
            
   if there is an indefinite article (a)
then that there is a definite article (the)
a possessive / plural article ('s / s)
so... the article of association / loose...
Herman?
            ein(e) zeppelin... bitte...
                                            werfen scheiße!

more example of a pan-Caucasian
takeover of... Caucasian ***** 'n' / &
*******?
            if god had such a grudge
against sacrifice of a jeez Louise
and zeus to boot...
then latin, this script...
would have gone the way
of the egyptian gylphs
and the babylonian cuneiform...
dodo... to paraphrase...

but no... oh no!

while "we" have the African boyos on
the beatbox of Beelzebub
i'll be the one ridiculed as...
tossing up a bother over a woord
sooload...
           because:
just because...

my petition is simple...
          Ц = Č... can't you feel it...
the old evil... the cold war...
the fact that you want to **** khaki nazis...
just because you're dressed in rags /
mongolian heaps of ****-smear
and a Bolshevik too
and they're the nicely primmed
Munich boys donning...
   Karl Diebitsch, Walter Heck
and of course 'ugo Boss...
            just because... it's that sort
of evil you want to ****
because... it's prophetic and it's
fire and it's crisp and it's
arrogant and stratosphere real...
it's the high heavens... all the 9s...
it's... an evil of potentially me...
it's: a betterment clause...
because i want to be...
         this ZZ-TOP...
                                                    sav­vy?

i.e. i'm not here to "talk" about
post-colonialism or the zenith of the
british empire...
history... etymology...
a language as something of
a labyrinth as those who acquire it...
weave it... ***-tickle-fancy it...
worthy of a revision...
but not... biased with...
cf. race-baiting...

   chris rea: so... so long long we
go to yet... gone...
   fish................... ing...
      
                    some bias in a b'          'op....
suppose there's a long pause
between the apostrophes...
mistake the apostrophes for hyphens...
b-                              -op
or better... a *** a sour-*****-klein-kinder...

in reverse reverse-psy-ops...
of the whittle Bangladeshi from
Manor Park, Forest Gate,
to Stratford through the Roding Valley...

***'s a yield of two a broker's supposed:
breaking of the son...
down or up the Gierkowa...
i.e. from Warsaw to Cracow
or from Cracow to Warsaw...
piggy-bag on the shoulders
of no lesser pseudo-Atlas
that, than was king Casimir...
some third...

           rummaging in the derelict
parts of heaven...
like an afternoon watching
my girl fridy...
apparently making a film in
1940s... and the whole world
deserves to "disappear"...
in a figment of 3rd party...

there isn't an associative article?
there isn't a dissociative article?
         bound to some          -ish...
that it's blue-ish...
that it might be tree-of-sort?
   this language this my playground...
who's no 'ere who is 'ere
anyhow?
  the last Portuguese take
on... chewing cheese?
      if "they" only knew what Alfonso /
missing the suffix -o actually implies
elsewhere... herr ****** etc.

- such that half of Poland died when
my grandfather died...
i mentioned the name: KRUPPS
and he knew...
to do with metallurgy...
and enterprise...
                          and by the time the other
half dies... i'll be...
freed toward the perspective of
flying... kite against swallows...
hoping to confuse
swallows with sparrows...

one word...

           scarecrow...
probably a misnomer given
the i.q. of crows...
crows probably... i just too pretend...
scarecrow in english...
let me check...

strach na wróble: literally...
reads as: fear for sparrows...
that's ******
pole ****** for you...
hmpf....
a rare sound of arrogant: quasi...
what do you want me to...
tailor / edit?

    doy'tch...
             vogelscheuche
noord: i.e. nordic...
             fugleskremsel...
a variation of skremme...
          schrecken: scare... to...
rather than: to... fear...
       absolutely nothing... to do...
with... allocated birds...
****'s sake... might as well be...
as easily done as...
frightpeacock!
              or aghastsduck!

this is language: my ******* playground...
no ethnically bound pseudo-darwins...
the empire... etc. are... all that welcome...
hier, i(s)ch bin "gott":
                                         ich bin wort!

hölle: bin ich... 'meow'?
                gurke-gänsehaut-ständer...
nein?

1:30am... that's enough...
          the wine has been drank...
the song... partially written... mostly unsung...
numbed...
******* Schwabian and sort...
because the Saxophone players moved
west and called a piece of Denmark
(Anglia)... that Roman variation
of Albion etc.
    and i'm here doing LEGO puzzle(s)
with Ali from dislodged Tehran?

crosswords... patriots of north h'america...
nationalists of europe...
funnel... fizz...
           the hardly... croat patriots mingling
with the iowa patriots of...
can you... allow... conjunctions
in acronyms?
united, yes.... stated...
                                   milkshake lingo...
of(f)                 ham... the burger buns...
      land of Ur...
that variation of Abraham
     *** Gilgamesh...
       veering into
Qi and Raq...
as...         how the Ottomans were
"necessary" in... Medina...

         bon ******* voyeurism of...
the taj mahal... via... c.c.t.v. etc.

힣 jitto appersoote:

a little bit of nonsense
until punched into
a search button
of google
   retaining only 1 result...

i'm so glad that i don't
have to love someone
with the sort of love
baggage that one loves
someone and their
in-laws...

how i will never be a father
is a little bit "demeaning"
but almost all of existence per se
is a bit like that...
but i will also not be
a failure a waste of air
a short-coming
    someone with an unhappy wife...

i'll continue to pet a cat
dreaming of enough
    money to own a german shepherd
or: god send a Rottweiler...
72 of 'em...
    
   when love was something that
a mind and heart of a teenager
occupied itself with...
a 21 year old exacted
with a few months of leech-suckling
****... between Edinburgh,
London and St. Petersburg...

in between i know that i was
always alone...
it doesn't matter more and more...
it's become an affair of
an armchair
when there's the body towing
the feet into a marathon distance
circa 7hours...
for the mind, though:
i'm alone and aloof...
teasing solipsism -
                   as a St. Augustine
teased with his soliloquies...

    but so much comfort to not idealise
love like one might:
prior to first contact with
one's own imperfection...

an armchair in the mind:
frozen and almost breathing with
all that's leather...
so possibly everything
not being in love: in love
and for all those divisions
of enterprise, expectation:
metaphysical labours...

this almost faux pas
of investing in breeding children to
somehow find oneself
surrounded by "loved ones"
on a deathbed -
dozing off on opiates in pain
and drizzle...

as Caesar is to be cited:
a sudden death - all others are tedium
upon tedium upon too much...
yes...
it's becoming comforting:
comfortable is not enough
to say what it feels like:

to not be in love to not be divided
to not be spare
to not be living under
scrutiny of expectations
and failings, ambitions and what not...

placebo solipsism has made
its mark: the sort of movies that
depicted what happened to people
in England in the 1990s
are no longer made...

it just so happens i write this
almost too lazily: like i don't want
to write it:
of course i don't...
but sometimes an exercise in
the realm of res extensa
         away from thinking cannot
be helped: writing is sometimes
more than speaking is
and as such: i don't have to orate
i don't have to peacock or want
to be understood
with formal standards of
communication that need to
kept when interacting with...
supermarket attendees...

a carrot is a carrot is what's
before a donkey's horizon
when dangling on a stick...

currently i am willing to leave
behind Hangul & Katakana...
i want to escape these phonetic
encodings with all my will & joy...
harder to escape
            タオ (tao)

or... how geometry was "refined"
with ロ (rho)
                        and
                         Δ i.e. d(elta)...    
i also abhor exasperated social-commentary
poetics...
i don't have enough worries
to worry others with
(them) - being absentee...

  but not being in love:
not being claustrophobic and this limited
by a Noah's pairing...
i'll have to return to English, purely,
and leave all other languages
where i found them...

that i remember this teenager who
would catch the bus
and wanted to be seen
by the Ursuline girls from Gants Hill
to Ilford....
what a waste of time
to want to be strategically
focused in third-person narration
with a c.c.t.v. scrutiny for
an android limb attached
to one's shoulder...

  O that's most certainly rolled...
from top to tool and whatever
diacritical distinction
you might want to add...

Argentinian red:
a Trivento malbec...
a solo project a solo concern...
it's so still persistently well curated
this little scrap of heaving
a heaven of purpose...

but it's not going to be a celebration:
outright...
i don't want a sphinx jinx nibbling
at my toes when they start
to turn all twinkly...

it's enough...
  it truly is... enough...
i don't have to love
from some enforced demand,
some expectation...
something lubricated
something prone to succumb
to a predictability:
i can be a boredom on my own
terms and i can simply be
bored, too... also on my own
*****-nilly choicest of
festivities...

i can forget my birthday
and Christmas Eve -
i can accustom myself to a freedom
that only solo endeavours can
ever disclose...
i can find some variation
of solace...
  it's almost mesmerizing...
                it's zingy it's zesty
it's the "metaphor" associated
with mountain air,
or a perfume akin to freshly washed
bed linen...

in bed today i came across one redeeming
passage in Knausgaard's
my struggle vol. 4 -
an encounter with his friend
on a bus... Jan Vidar...
and talk of how blues is ******* etc.

       the redeeming passage
about bicycles, and a purposive pointlessness
of... a devalued attention toward
attitude...      aardvark...
verbiage but not teasing
peacocking...
     i'm not tired i'm exasperated
and i know this is plain ****** silly...

like Mozart's last words
(which were not an epitaph):
this is for me...
that i have the "right"
to showcase these words
to adamant voyeurs is another
barrel of herrings...

it's not like i'll stash them somewhere
where they might become more valuable:
given my death and enough
patience on everyone's behalf...
i also don't want to drink too
much: but of course it's not
what one might expect from
a paragraph of prose...

nor wanting a lyric or a rhyme...
as it stands:
black boys in *****
and in the riots...
i'm also tired of everything
cream-cheese ****-floral patterns
and this addition of coffee ****
and i'm tired of gesticulating
something "lesser"
when the lesser is circumcised
and i'm tired of guilt i'm
tired of something being translated
in a way that has to transcend death
and i'm tired of wanting
or appealing to white,
mostly anglo-saxon women's whims
and *******-tying...
i too have a fetish
a geisha girl without a ****'s depth
to match-up to that of whale's great
dip... how's that?
the pendulum swings to & fro...
i'm tired of wanting something
i either don't...
or will not have...
        
i'm tired of wanting or having to
compensate myself in
the genitalia Olympics of how's
it pairing... up? may i ask?
hardly a frown-upon these demands
of topic... it's there this low
hanging fruit of baritone tickling
shaved *******...
for one man's 12" is another man's
violin-esque of a fiddling with
a beard:
that has certainly become
a welcome addition with age...
that little bit of something
to cover the chin and neck...

***** so made a spectacle of...
i'll scratch my Eden region
of the body...
and it will be the same sensation
coming from the elongated worth
of a stubble...

troubles with interludes:
i like the words laconic and lethargy -
both don't expand into
an explanation akin
to "conservative" and "to conserve":
nor rigidity and
glue...

    how i've stashed enough worth that
might be deemed necessary for
it to be categorised as "lye fff":
life... and not one of those
awkward lapses
of moments to delve into
existence (out of every instance:
a persistence) like
all solo endeavours are
to be devalued because...
one isn't... i'm an omega male-on
hard... pass...

write long enough and after
a while the most random trivia-esque
posits come to the fore...
memory expands...
imagination shrinks to a size
of a peanut:
bellow: how come this pink
elephant-sized grease of a form
come into a room and expect
seeing the constellations?

how ridiculous: from time to time...
when not interchanging
definite and indefinite articles
properly... "properly"...
how very odd... how very english...
how all so queary: odd but not queer...
same but not **** bogus
or Duke Wellington / Harry Enfield...
skewing into -esque...

how sensibly so...
    how anything this must be how
they attired... and how things
mattered and how it was the year
2021 and how i have to scribble
enough to want: looking afar and toward...
my own certain summary of deeds:
that i'll be dead too: "alas"...

a century's worth of time
from now... from these numb to nimble
fingertips...
the choicest of breeding comparisons
of towing chew...
brevity exampled when stressing
such restrictions as kosher...
             enough to grant pork
benevolence...
elf-half-a-vegan troop of emptied
stomachs...
this endless gravity into darkness...

i might as well pretend to squint
from too much lemon &
je suis...               hail "Zeus"...
               joy begot sussing out
the standards...
            all very limited: progressing...
when laughter came to be depicted
in writing and
the Spaniards wrote
something the Germans agreed
to really quickly:
or how the western slavs strode
with a pronoun i.e.: ja ja ja ja ja ja ja....

yore... yawn...
    why Y is given a consonant
status (elsewhere)...
and is not treated as
a                            samogłoska?
     i don't want to know...
yes... being bilingual can be bothersome...
almost schizoid-ascription-prone...

because the mezzo
  full-fattening bogus is cut short / off...
i can translate...
to hell with it...
feed it to the pigs:
throw it against a democracy...
don't bother refining anything...
feed it to the poach and tickle...
make mediocre the desiring
quest for all things...
thus lazily begot...

     feed it to the pigs...
smear it in mud, ****, tripe and ghosts...
call it an alimony of literacy:
vote: X...
      i'm tired and have been
too belittled to continue with
an entertainment of...
having to care.

it's just one of those nights
when you just feel like...
a bottle of a chilean
malbec would finish
the day off, pristinely,
having just watched
Wolverhampton
get beaten (2 - 3): just
by West Ham, watching
the football with
the ol' man...

               thinking:
i'm not the son he
deserves and he's not the father
i deserve...
although... best to not know...
otherwise it's still him:
61 and me... nearing 35
and... if it were
for some sort of a housing
ladder...
some socialist... circa 1983
in a soviet satellite state...
a day after having cycled
probably over 50 miles
from somewhere
in north east greater London
to Canvey Island...
on the way back of course
there would be a detour
on the flatlands of Thurrock
just before
the M25 and Upminster...
but it's also one of those
nights where you can't
for the love of god
find a corkscrew
and there's most obviously
a cork so it's not one of
those *****-caps...
and... to improvise...
well pushing the cork in
was an idea...
tried the thumb...
then wrapped a toilet towel
around a knife and pushed...
like i might have pushed
a constipation
of a yogurt abortion... clotted...
no no...

resorted to making
a makeshift corkscrew with
a makita drill tip...
that half of the cork
was butchered out in shrapnel...
evidently the rest i pushed in
and then had to... sieve any remains...
although... on the tip of my tongue
i can still itch to taste cork...
but it's one of those nights...
over the Easter holidays
a conversation with dearest
grandma...

while the dead managed to throw
a horseshoe from the wall...
a tomahawk was in play between
sister and brother (mother and uncle)
and... considering what bad luck
my father's side of the family
had with family building: could i be
patriarch material...

i thought... a major relief that...
35 and given past luck... of this lineage...
i arrived at a cul de sac of events...
of which: the dancing dead
and the superstitious living...
apart from the clockwork bouts of
fear concerning old age...
how almost has to be undermined
when fathoming this:
more assuredly a solo escapade...
this lack of investment in a "future"
of child-rearing...

now that i'm slumped into
a crayon-oyster sort of position
slumped with a belly for a jug
of wine...
and my body ferments
while my thinking turns into a peacock
of verbiosity / teasing verbiage...
i tend to conjure up the hours
of freedom on a bicycle...
eyes-that-gobble-down-a-horizon...
a wind that "speaks"...
a sun that glistens with silver-membranes
added to all things that come
into passing...
an almost complicated ownership
of feline breaths....

Convey Island...
before me the great mouth
of the Thames...
and also before me: the soothing
brood of the north sea...
somewhere, "elsewhere" a name
of a land most associated with
Danes...

no message: but a floating cork
in a bottle...
it's this life so almost forgiving...
cowardly lenient and to have moved
away from any attempt
by extroverts
to instil pointless dramas into it...
a sample of where my eyes
have wandered to:

in braille or katakana...
   syllables that can mean something
than have prepositional value
akin to: to and tu:
    to (this) / tu (here)
       ⠞⠕   (ト)
                             ⠞⠥   (ツ)

i had to return to something
that might allow me to escape these
letters, for a while...
hell i've tried concentrating on runes
and Cyrillic, Glagolitic...
and Greek...

        the best i came up with
was            ж = зъ
                           ш didn't work
    since neither cъ or cь
                     could invoke... the caron...
above the s: for the hidden H or Z
of sh-ee-ring... h'ush-ing...
             even though                   cь does exist...
   środek - centre...
  although i hardly know
whether cъ does since...
                                       cъ ≠ š = ш...

if i'm this supposed "atomised"... ahem...
"individual"...
then perhaps i need to see language
atomised: into more complex constructs
that have to borrow from
other tongues beside
the english variation of
vowels: and the vowel catcher H
(of the tetragrammaton)

and consonants: a B's not an Ab
but a Be(e)
a D's not an Ad but a De(e)...
however an N's not a *******
(k)Ne(e)... since it's an eN... no?

language has to become
less conversational when i write...
less and less conversational
if i am this: walking abortion
sort of shrapnel...

because i feel that less of tribal
monkey **** flinging: i am...
gin + mulled wine...
who would think tonic is
worthwhile?

i should be saying:
it's more important for me to not utter
such  readily available noun
but like a jew's jew sort of a friend
i cower under the auspicious suspicion
of ha-shem...
or the tetragrammaton...
because NGGR shouldn't be
a most sacred word...
in my thinking cage...

  no?
           i guess the remedy comes
from even less conversation that
i have allowed myself to prospect: or hope for...
less conversation...
less and less...
here's toasting with my fears
and enjoying the last scraps
of familial ties
of son, mother, father...
and sort of pulling the thick-threads
of narrative along...

however loser posing i might appear
to be...
no luck in me attempting
a Goethe patriarch status...
wedded to the lock-up
with the disintegration
of the Arab dream of having all that oil
but... less and less of the camels...
and therefore less of the structure
of father-figuring out
a shadow of a mother...

modern burrowing ****-up
and cuckoldry antics of events...
here's to no pleasure:
to not have left behind shrapnel genes
to have left pillars of salt...
here's to time! here's to the tyranny of
this sea without echo, water or waves...
seashells... no seashells too...

here's to the misery of being
Tao-content...
here's to the salvage and no need for
glowing egg-heads clamouring
crab-buckets and the plateau of
the pristine... effort... shared oh of course
also shared...

the end.

Spring is gin
weeping
in the hand,
Malbec against
the wrist,
the deep-drafted
light cresting
all their laughter.

It's hard to bear
when I'm over
here, in the other
hand of the night,
running beneath
the moon as it
wanes down
into the river,
as if trying
to push me
your way.

suppose we were as wine
differences, yours and mine
confidence of a Cab strong
seductive as Muscat's song
Merlot's slight temper swings
the warmth Shiraz brings
Pinot's finicky fickle mood
and Zinf's friendly attitude
Malbec's soft kiss on the cheek
Tempra's velvet dress so sleek
Chard always has a smile
Sauvi is forever in style

The track was hot with autumnus heat
While the bleachers reflected an open sunshine
I felt the rooted feeling of avoidance
The weighted awareness of my longing for release
Had convinced me to flee
For a brief moment
The unsettling rattle of companionship
Close by, but unseen
Stirred me with scent and sound
I sat in my relief trying to feel the rush of my
Fleeting toxins
Fleeing me

I reached out for something tangible
I could feel what was always familiar

I couldn't identify the vicious concerns
Wrapped so delicately in my routine
A dagger clutched me
Alike,  i’d clutched it
This pain dawns like a masquerade
With cheap, unforgiving cloth
The palette of my skin became malbec on a white dress tent
Enveloping the practice
Of being numb

Companionship became confusion
While the screams became louder
in the depths of screeching,
I could evacuate my despair
Though not without my tragedy
Leaving an echoing hum behind me
Forming dichotomy as if my pain
Was trying to escape me

Companionship became witness
A rambling explanation of a situation
Melted into self interrogation


Two contradicting ends of one spectrum
Colliding in unfavorable manors
Depleting nature of its pollination
Creates a channel of confessions

The hole was empty
the swelling left alpine bruises
Delicately observed

The dagger was gone
The evidence was towering and
The drive home was like floating
bare on an ice cap miles from
the nearest track.