If I ever see you again
I'll spat insults and hope they
Spray on your aviators
like the bugs that squashed against
my windshield the last time
I drove away from you

If fate destroys me
and I am in the same pub one night
as your wormy self
I'll tell you how you're the most
arrogant, vapid, shallow, womanizing,
******* male mascot
I've ever had the disgust to know

I'll slap you hard across the face
Oh and not like Scarlett O'Hara,
you demon darling
No crushing kiss will follow
and I'll mean vengence
vile will seep through my mouth
instead of the sweet saliva
I let you taste
long ago

If I ever hear your voice
or see your mocking manequin
among my tele again
With disgraceful force
I will lift that 50 lb set
and propel that ******* screen
across the state
The way your black static apology
shattered the brightness
that used to reside
within
me

If I hear of you
one more dispicable time
I'll grow bombs maticulously
within my empty core
and time them so perfectly
that all of your dysfunctional doormat
confidants
will explode the second they come near me
and their manipulative cells
will burst
and be burried among the soil
of ***** words
you whispered in my ears

****, if I ever see you again
I'll shatter every martini glass around me
and down a fifth of fireball
and breath venomous fire
and burn you, you beastly boy
And I'll pretend beauty amongst you
and walk away, a tall glass of water
That could diffuse
that angry licking fire
that is swallowing you up

When I see you again
I won't acknowledge your existence
and I'll be dressed to the nines
and I won't do a ******* thing about it
Because you aren't worth a sentence within this stanza

But I know I am.

the eyeless eyes following my outline
the fixed limbs moving in one form to create
an expressionless figure
and an expressionless mind

*just as I want to be

rarely does an afternoon snooze turn
into a vivid dream,

not that it's certain whether
     an hour of unwinding after
a culinary labour can produce
the bare minimum energy potential
that translates into a dream at night...

added the fact that there is
such a genre of music
       minimalistic techno,    
             harthouse frankfurt...

      whatever the technicality worthy
of a music critic,
        boris brejcha has become
synonymous with
                       northern siesta...
if there was such an English movement
as northern soul...  
    might as well coin the phrase
northern siesta
     (notable choice of song,
                  dark planet)...

               maybe it might dampen
the resolve of those: ready to wriggle
to the elongating bass rhythms...
   but at least the music is not your
generic café cool...

     techno-***-jazzy-accents...
      or whatever is predicated upon
a quasi-Stasi (ZZ, S-Z / Z-S, SS, ß)
             category...

      | churchbells of the valley -
   scent of convallaria, interlude,
       preceded by°:

{a dream about bow ties...
       one aspect of the dream
akin to a newsroom,
    two invited guests,
        one of them holds a manequin
***** and shows off tying
a bow tie...
             the other guest is wearing
a tie...
     the dream shifts
     into: standing in front of a mirror,
choosing between
          a bow tie that suits
a pale crimson polka dotted shirt
or a silverfox bow tie suited
for the waistcoat}:

thank god there's literature,
     to interpret a dream...
          and all of it...
     is like reading a ******
                      astrology excerpt...        
  
the more interpretations are
available, the more they sound
like hot air, or as the already
       stated comparison:
          astrological ruminations
of the zodiac - hence the irony /
          not that I'd take his word
for it from Burroughs' my education
i. e. that opiates are dream-smiths:

    a safer option,
           tickling deep nocturnal excavations
might be best unergone
    with a prior to siesta...
       as if: sharpening a knife
   or dulling a hammer...
         given the frequency /
and capacity for vivid dreaming...

      and yes, the bow tie is
a focal object,
                     but no:
    i am more content with
   the dream per se
                      (given the scarce
frequency of i have of them) -
that seeking a meaning from it...

   a healthy dosage of scepticism,
always around dream-interpretation,
since i can't see an archetype
    of a bow tie as predating a tying
of a rope...
         manequin *****:
       acting out social formalities...
it's still a zodiac game,
          astrological gallows,
    a tongue pricked with a rose
thorn, subsequently whispered
into a girl's ear, revealing
            a blush blossom on her
   cheeks.

°scent stimulant, brought from
the market;
       via scent into visual
      revitalisation of dream remains,
stored subconsciously in the first
2 and 1/2 hours after waking;
    scent of white flowers
   stimulant, to rekindle
       the memory of dream colours.

p.s.
         some of this can be true,
but tested again for an analogue
        and a plagiarism rubric,
    i. e. scientific categorisation  
    (dogma)?
            
p.p.s.
                  dream recurrence...
or what's called the archetype
of a dunce...
                   how can times do
you have to dream, the same dream,
and not see it as a:
   dream within a dream,
   which is: a dunce standing
     before a blackboard
                investigating the plagiarism
                       of: Bartholemew?

The Dutch are the eternal
Dam Nation, Rotter's is
what the Belgians said
when a **** in Holland
refused to let the Manequin
Pis insert his wee little Wille
in what he assumed was a
Zuider Zee open to the public,
especially as it was in an area
that had been recently zoned red.

Tide recession, timely occasion
to groom a golden mane which
hung upon a barnacled rock, a
jutting berg above water where
but for her an Albatross be perched
in audience to a chorus of Gulls
echoing, repetitiously.

An absence of Wind O' Meters nor
a solitary sail nor tree nor cloud
nor leaf marking uneasy solitudes.
But tresses !

Still. In my observation from a
cavern where drift wood goeth,
salt sea air de misted eyes,
blinked diffusions, a vipers stare.
Idem Manequin.

A risen breeze wings watery surfs
to bubbling froths lapping splash
formations of halo's to sun kissed
auras then colouring rainbows.

A whisp' of current air, a backdraught
slipstream of Monroe Magic revealed her
defoliated midriff, where Maid met Mer
an indelible impression appeared from the
distance. A Cornucopia of Corona Roses,
budding to blossom, perfuming Spring.





12/04/2020


ps.

Sometimes in darkness one can
imagine light, vivid memories
illuminate unwanted seclusions,
bright patches between moon missed
clouds, forested fire breaks, spared
margins of blotted copybooks!

A strand of earth separating sea
from land is where I've escaped to.


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