Beautiful summer day. You know you're gonna die
that's why you know no joy.
Obsessed with self, there is no answer
unless religion, tv, stories, sports matter.
So what if nothing rhymes and I don't
bring my life into an expressible state
or fight purposelessness, anomie. No one writes.
Running the gauntlet alone. A good day to die, the Apaches say.

For men like us dying's easy, it's living that's hard.
And since dying's much like living, that's hard too.
There's some contentment in letting community decide
your place in it. We're not talking to you.
Really, it's a perfect day. Every leaf is out
that's coming out. The grass is high
and unidentified yet another year. Being knowledgeable
is the best defense against your insignificance.

Can't stop the quince from blossoming
or my sons from smoking, speeding.
The best that can be done or said's a blessing.
Less tv, less guessing
about the effects of your anger unless
you want to be an angry man forever.
Coming from the funeral with friends,
talking on the telephone. OK about being alone.

Alive, almost sure of it. Whether I'm a visitor
to my life or the actual owner.
Mature poets steal, most are masturbators.
This house could use a good cleaning,
dusting for ghosts. I should subscribe
to the local newspaper, do my job well,
do less until one thing's done well.
What would that be? Old, and yet so young.

There are a million poets, I'm poet #500K.
Plenty of mysteries, infinite philosophies,
prayers, laws and unwritten rules.
That's why we go to school, life's complicated.
All I do not know: ATP, probabilities,
the glorious revolution, meiosis and mitosis
and all I'll never see, the bottom of the ocean,
the palm at the end of the mind, a wolverine.

There are certain indicators, undeniable,
inexorable. Forget-me-not, is that all I want?
To get lucky, you gotta be careful first.
To be great, you gotta be willing to sound BAD.
Although we cannot make the sun stand still
yet will we make him run. Brave revelers.
Signed engagement letter attached.
Attachment to self and to things to do.

Boring old militant Marxist Farts
who blather on, in fits and starts
about class war and revolution
(demonstrably a failed solution)
rather than pitied should be scorned;
their websites tapped, subscribers warned.
Such talk begins as plodding fodder
dull as lead – yet even odder:
people read this wretched dreck!
History ought to hold in check
their pawn-shop plans to topple kings
they talk a good game – till it brings
armed madness, rage, the peasant wars
thugs and riff-raff looting stores,
death-camps, purges, civil chaos
union dues, returned to pay us
****** end to a treacherous story –
guns for butter and guts for glory.
Mao’s red flowers, Trotsky’s pick
Stalin’s bearhug – lies as thick
as honey dripping on a corpse.
Centralized control that warps
a free man’s mind. And yet they find
their audience loaded, pumped and primed.
In spite of numberless essays
the true believer bucks and brays
hee-hawing on, in Maoist jargon,
urging buyers to the bargain:
shining paths – that lead to graveyards
strewn with texts by Marxist blowhards.
Endless screeds by tenured traitors :
dialectic masturbators…
Marxist dullness has its edge.
Boring – yes, but forms a wedge
to split the status quo in factions
gaining time to plan their actions.
Arm in arms; so sad it tickles –
hammering plowshares into sickles
battering bewildered readers
(propagandized bottom-feeders).
Red conjecture never softens
pounded in like nails in coffins,
though their pipe-dreams burn away
when exposed by light of day.
Communist theory rings the blows
to forge the chains. The movement grows.
It’s lengthened, strengthened, link by link
ensnaring those who’re prone to think
they know what’s best for rank and file,
propagandizing all the while.
Agitating Marxist praxis
forms their struggle’s central axis.
Starry-eyed, they sing the anthem
plotting mayhem. Yes – I grant them
zeal, devotion, earnest madness…
but their ends begin in badness.
Brooding hate – their only god,
biding time to shoot their ***.
Nip their notions in the bud
before they blossom into blood.
Point them out for what they are:
faceless scribes of future war.
Worst of all: they’re as predictable
as their theories are inflictable.
Gaze into the hole of history
comprehend the tragic mystery…

I woke up to a beautiful summer morning. The sun was shining and the rainclouds were far away. I decided I would spend the day on the beach. I always enjoy visiting the beach as it gives me an opportunity to laugh at people's hideous bodies. But where? And then, suddenly, a wonderful idea came to me: why not go to a nudist beach as they always attract the ugliest people with the worst bodies imaginable. And you get to see their naughty bits too, for added humour.

So I rushed to my computer to check the Internet for possibilities and, to my utter amazement, I discovered there was a naturist beach only fifty miles from my beautiful home. As I read the details of the beach and the directions, I had a sense of déja vu; I realised with a frisson of ****** anticipation that it was the very same beach described by Victor the ****** in his wonderful story "Confessions of a ******" which held pride of place on my toilet reading shelf.

I was at the wheel of my incredibly expensive and luxurious car just as soon as my servants had packed my essential requirements: icebox with chilled vintage champagne, lightweight folding gold-plated sun-lounger, vicuna picnic rug and of course my lunch hamper. My chef had rapidly prepared a delicious impromptu luncheon of smoked salmon, steak tartare and a selection of other goodies. I decided to dispense with the services of my chauffeur in the interests of preserving the confidentiality of my destination.

In less than an hour and a half I was there; and the place was exactly as Victor had described it in his immortal novella: a long stretch of mixed sand and pebbles, backed by dunes planted with wild grass, waving romantically in the sea breeze. Idyllic, and crawling with naked perverts as a bonus. I parked my car and transported my equipment to the dunes. I regretted not having brought one of the servants as the hamper and icebox were quite cumbersome and heavy. I was perspiring gently by the time I had unloaded everything and set it all up to my satisfaction.

I took some care in selecting what I felt was the optimum location as I needed to combine the potentially conflicting benefits of wanting to see as many naked people as possible (hopefully including some *** action) with the need for privacy. After all I am famous. I finally chose a spot where there were several ghastly specimens on view for a few laughs and where I could also see a potentially interesting couple who might be exhibitionistic perverts. The man was about 45, shaven-headed, skinny and prematurely wrinkled all over by the sun (yes, I do mean all over) and he had an interesting tattoo on his back: "I love hot ***** ***", which I saw as promising. The woman was plump with pendulous ******* and very prominent buttocks; additionally - how can I put this delicately? - her **** was totally bereft of hair.

Before settling down to my lunch, I felt a little perambulation would not come amiss. So, as bold as brass, off I went for a little **** stroll through the dunes. I will not describe in full detail the visual horrors I encountered: hirsute old men playing aimlessly with wizened, shrunken todgers the size of a thimble; obese old biddies, their rolls of sun-tanned lard hanging round them like rows of bloated udders on a pregnant sow; tattooed bald queens, muscles bulging under lashings of sun-oil, their pierced genitals glinting wickedly in the sunshine; the list was endless. How could such grotesques revel in revealing their corporeal repulsion to the eager world?

And then I saw him! It had to be him! In a dip in the sand dunes lay a middle-aged, paunchy little man, intently watching a couple of old ******* groping each other incompetently. It could only be Victor the One-Legged ******! After all, just how many unipod Peeping Toms are there?

I strolled over to him, coughing discreetly so as to give him a chance to stop his furtive *******. 'Do excuse me for disturbing you,' I said, 'but are you by any chance Victor the famous ****** whose confession I read only last week?'

'Why yes,' he admitted, 'but how on earth did you recognise me?'

I smiled and pointed to the cast-off artificial leg lying next to his beach towel (which, incidentally, was emblazoned by a giant "V", a bit of an identity hint, I felt). He patted his stump ruefully and laughed uproariously so that his average-sized ***** flapped like a pennant in a Force Eight gale. 'I forgot,' he bellowed deliriously.

'I'm just about to have a spot of lunch,' I said. 'My personal Michelin-starred chef, Jean-Claude Anusse, always over-caters ridiculously as he knows I often pick up people on my excursions, so there'll be more than enough. I'm afraid it's nothing special: some smoked salmon and some assorted cold meats, possibly a spot of pâté de foie gras, if I know Jean-Claude. And, naturally, enough champagne to drown a hippo in. Please do say yes, as I have so many questions to ask you about your hobby.'

'That's very kind of you.' mumbled the astonished Peeping Tom, 'I should be very happy to accept your generous offer. Incidentally, to whom have I the honour of speaking?'

I was, frankly, shocked when I realised Victor had not recognised me, and then I remembered I was naked. That explained it. 'Why, I am none other than Edna Sweetlove, poetess to the stars, creator of the Barry Hodges "Memories" poems and biographer to the intrepid and incredible superhero SNOGGO,' I murmured sotto voce, not wishing to be mobbed for my autograph.

'Edna Sweetlove!' he exclaimed, 'you mean THE Edna Sweetlove?' And so saying he glanced down to my genital zone in order to answer the question which so many of my fans have asked over the years. He grinned as he saw the solution to the great mystery.

Victor quickly strapped on his prosthesis and accompanied me (slightly lopsidedly) to my little luncheon site. He helped me unpack our repast and then made himself as comfortable as a naked one legged ****** could reasonably expect to be without a chair.

I must say Chef and his team had excelled himself in the thirty minutes I had given them: smoked salmon roulades, a magnifique plateau de fruits de mer including a three-pound giant lobster, steak tartare, a whole cold pintarde à l'ail, a few dozen sushi rolls, a monster summer pudding, and naturally a Jeraboam of Krug '92. No wonder the hamper had been so ******* heavy. I could see Victor was impressed as I offered him a chilled flute of the most expensive champagne he had ever tasted. 'Better than the pathetic, poverty-stricken muck you were going to gobble, I expect,' I commented in a friendly way.

'Mmmmmmmmm! Absolutely delicious, Edna. I was certainly not expecting this! exclaimed the grateful freak. But before we start on what looks like a truly exquisite nosh-up, I must give you a word of warning.'

'A word of warning? What about, Victor dear?'

'Well, you see, there's no, um....er,' he blushed charmingly.

'No what, Victor? Don't be embarrassed, sweetie. This is Edna you're talking to. Spit it out, baby.'

'Well, um, there's no ******* on the beach, Edna,' explained Victor uncomfortably. 'So, if you need to pump ship, you have to do it native-style "au naturel" in the dunes over there, which can be a bit messy what with all the filth lying about the place in that area, not to mention the lavvo-voyeurs hanging round. Or else you need to swim out a bit and unload into the sea. Judging by what's on offer at your stylish picnic, we'll both be bursting for a good old **** and crap afterwards.'

I shrieked with laughter and explained there was nothing I liked better than a widdle en plein air or a double act dans l'eau. We then tucked into lunch with a vengeance. It was ******* delicious, even though I say so myself. After about fifteen minutes' happy munching, interspersed with witty small talk, Victor suddenly went rigid. 'Look over there!' he hissed and indicated the middle-aged couple by the windbreak.

I looked and I was surprised. The plump woman with the big *** was on her knees in front of her partner, giving him a vigorous *******, and he was lolling back in ecstasy, a broad smile on his face. He seemed to be looking straight at us, almost visibly willing us to watch. He winked repeatedly in a conspiratorial fashion; maybe he had St Vitus’ Dance. Or even worse, he wanted me to get stuck into the action with them.

'They're regulars here, they normally put on quite a good show,' explained Victor excitedly, his hand reaching down automatically to his rapidly stiffening ****.

'Victor!' I admonished him, 'I would prefer it if you didn't **** yourself off during lunch. How about another oyster, you silly old ****?'

'Sorry, Edna, I forgot,' he replied shamefacedly. 'No more oysters thank you; they only make me more randy than I already am. But I'll have another lobster claw if I may. My compliments to your chef.'

So we sipped our champagne and enjoyed our luncheon as we watched the couple give us their little exhibition. After a few minutes *******, the fat lady turned around and leaned forward on her hands and knees and her gnarled bald hubby ******* her doggy fashion from behind with some gusto; this made her beefy buns bounce about like two ferrets fighting in a sack.

I glanced around us and realised that, totally unbeknown to me, the little spectacle had attracted quite an audience. Nine men, young and old, short and tall, fat and skinny, stood staring transfixed by the petite scène erotique before us, all ******* wildly. 'Oi!' I called out. 'Can't you see we're eating?' I admonished them, but to no ******* avail whatsoever.

Victor was visibly torn between his innate desire to watch the copulators and masturbators and with his understandable wish not to offend his lunch companion by manhandling himself unrestrainedly. But, thank God, his natural good manners prevailed and we continued to converse and enjoy our meal in the midst of this Bacchanalian scene of depravity.

I watched dispassionately as the couple came to what sounded like a very satisfactory mutual ******, accompanied by the observers' seminal tributes to their performance. I naturally had filmed the entire scene secretly on my state-of-the-art mobile.

'If you give me your email address, Victor my love, I'll send you a copy of that little show,' I promised. He nodded in gratitude. 'Victor  the ****** at yahoo dot co dot uk,' he mumbled rapidly, 'no dots, Victorthevoyeur is all one word.'

Once we had polished off lunch, I told Victor I would like to interview him with a view to writing a short story about his life's work. He was touchingly flattered and, with a little judicious prompting and probing, told me his saga, which I recorded on my Edna-phone. I naturally don't want to pre-empt my forthcoming mini-biography of Victor, but suffice it to say that Victor told me how and why he became a ******, he regaled me with some of the staggering things he had seen, he gave me a list of some really ace ******* locations, he shared all his best peeping places with me, he gave me the ultimate lowdown on the world of Britain's most celebrated *** snooper and I was touched by his burning honesty. I felt a tear ***** my eye at this tragic tale.

All too soon it was time for us to part. After thanking me profusely and making me promise I would visit him one day so he could repay my generosity, he re-attached his metal leg and limped away towards his beach towel. I knew he was raring to go as the best of the action normally took place in the early evening.

'Farewell, dearest Victor,' I called out as he tripped clumsily over a fellow pervert who had been eavesdropping near us.

We don't have partners
We love ourselves
And pleasure ourselves

We are alone
And used to it

We make ourselves ***
And isn't it fun

Good Morning
My fellow masturbators

She blew smoke rings like halos from her lips, she tried to teach me, to teach me how to make death look beautiful, like she did.
If angels had mirrors, they'd be as vain as she was.
I got sick of being the cotton wool kid; they never heard me say the word '****' but they all knew I did. They all knew I forgot to wear knickers that one day in school. They all knew I placed my hands firmly by my sides at night in fear of them wandering.
Say your prayers before bed and kiss your mother goodnight. Dream about killing your father.
I thought about seeing a shrink once; but upon that thought, I remembered psychiatrists don't suffer from insanity. They enjoy every minute of it.
I read somewhere that there's a Psychiatric Hotline.
If you are obsessive compulsive, please press 1 repeatedly.
If you are co-dependent, please ask someone to press 2 for you.
If you have multiple personalities, please press 1, 2, 3 and 4.
I can only imagine the awkwardness of small talk for the insane in the psychiatric waiting room; "My invisible friend is Caligula, who's yours?"
The hotline suddenly seemed viable.
I want to know your favourite serial killer, I want to know your last meal on death row, I want to know your weapon of choice, I want to know what you really ******* to. Because my crude aunt told me; "There's two kinds of people in this world, masturbators and liars."
Show me your primary colours. Truly, tell me the first thing that comes to your mind during the Rosarch test. I know you don't just see Eamonn Holmes and Ruth Langford, sat on the famous red couch of 'This Morning', innocently announcing to the world, the birth of the royal baby, George Alexander Louis.
I used to wait till everyone in the house was asleep to play with my chest of toys, because it's the only acceptable time you can make two Barbies kiss without getting caught. Good girls go gay.
It's societies last chance to save traditional marriage. Homophobic columnists writing about how Lesbians will enslave men in America if all fifty states legalize gay marriage. Lesbians already enslave men. Two triangles, a summer of 69,  a Star of David, a new religion.
Tell Father at confession how you like it when she talks ***** as she falls to her knees in front of you. "****, I love it when you pray. "
But ******* when you're insecure is like trying to losing weight, you don't use the scales, you just keep going until eventually you like what you see in the mirror. Until you're satisfied with the person staring back, until you don't want to damage them any more. Then let them eat cake.
I think it's why so many "last meals" on death row, include Diet Coke.
However, Noah built his ark before the flood.
Society and politics make it difficult to afford the trimmings when it comes to 'good health.'
Get rich, or walk with a stick.

Ones and Zeros
In the online digital world
Every boy and every girl
Are villains and heroes
Who knows which?
Son a of a *****
 
The truth is lies
Wrapped up in disguise
We want to believe
Electronic love we receive
Is not there to deceive
The flirting
The sexting
The online molexting
**** pic rejecting
 
Encrypted ascii code
Sent through internet nodes
Wireless whispers transmitted
Thoughts of endearment committed
Fact are conveniently omitted
Lies are ruthlessly submitted
 
Straight jacket
Packet hackers
Hijacking a loving heart
Holding it ransom is their art
Scourge of the community
Harassing
Surpassing
Any level of dignity
 
Players and haters
And the masturbators
The downright crazies
Acting like timid daisies
The cheaters
Defeaters
And quite possibly
Wife beaters
 
The losers
The boozers
Mentally abusers
The popular sexter
Who may not be a her
Quite possibly a guy
But will vehemently deny
 
The whiner
Data miner
The ******* seeking minor
The scammer
The Christian Damner
Super **** grammar
All thrown in together
With the digital picture collector
 
And still we’re looking all around
For love to be found
In a world of made believe
That anonymously deceives
We are ones seeking zeroes
Running into villains dressed up as heroes
 
Hearts shredded and deleted
Retreating and defeated
Yet somehow we try again
Hoping for something less than pain
We are all a little bit insane
Playing the online dating game
One’s and Zero’s

i must admit...
its going to hurt
all this irrelevant *******
just to keep you distracted
from doing what’s actually necessary

i must admit...
you got this
i got your back
and don’t worry
because no one’s gonna attack you
cause all there is is existence

I must admit...
that all this belligerence
i see through
that b.s.
sadly
its pretentious
and if it doesn't serve our attention
than what the hell are we doing with it
anyway
let's forget our hesitation
for a second

I must admit...
they control you
with your own amazement
satiated by
shadows
dancing for hours
upon the points of arrows
feeling forlorn
and scorned by the establishment

I must admit...
that i am laughing
in satisfaction
indeed
the need is clear
to clear your head
and pay no mind
to childish temper tantrums

i must admit...
that I am not defined by politics
so solve those faulty equations
or seek salvation
grieve for the lonely masturbators
who long to be held by your heart
they jump out of windows
as we partake
in the greatest experiment ever undergone
and then call it Art

I must admit...
the mystique is here
and the path is clear
and fear is not the answer
i swear
do I compare my love to her dresses
to her kindness
to her fantasies
to her faint caresses

I must admit...
*** is best in the moonlight
while future stars stare at your heart
you seek for love
and you grieve for love
while doves are flying
in the sky
magic is passing by
right now above your head
we are blessed
yet still afraid of our own essence
you sentence me to heaven
again and again

i must admit...
i know shadow
i know shame
and i am not a stranger
to all of this blame
served in pots made of pewter
served in copper
served in aluminum
served in cast-iron
serve it cold
serve it hot
serve it proper
or all of this may be used against you
and you will be shot
and killed
for your transgressions

I must admit...
the breath renews itself
and you too
so before we stand tall again
i want to crawl upon this floor
and kiss you
all over
again
for music halls
are ideal
places to run, skip and jump through

I.

smile and drop the facade

tune into your suffering and lie to yourself

he's lying                         (watch his lips move)

take whats mine

take the pulse under my skin

**** it all away

                                                           ­ i just need one more day

II.

half pack of cigarettes no wrapper

next to the body of a man fallen from his masturbators

walls plastered with the back of his head and a

dead body saturating in excrement

gun on the floor one casing spent

wasn't long ago he sat there smoking

one burning red fountain is sick 96¢.

the hole they put him in cost

4000 rounds.

III.

open your mouth and ignore the

scorched mounds dissipating into the wind

your whisper your breath your flesh

go they all go

c'est la vie.

******* the machines that press
the makeup cakes
we should take the machines
that press chemicals into pills
and turn them into
masturbators

******* and your ******* degree
your sense of art
your working thinking knowing of anything at all
its the same as the pill pressing machine
your ego
your sense of yourself
sense of accomplishment
twisted view of the world
no matter who you are
no matter where you come from
working to live and living to die

why shouldnt we be ****** ?
murderers?
theives
politicians
fathers
gods
eternal children maybe

just think about your death
you will die
but its ok
we all have to
after all

Calculators
Masturbators
Swiping by numbers

The rich are committing suicide
and taking us along with them
the prosthetic limbed *******
Fort Darwin tottering on fewer stilts
once the Masters of the Universe
presently picking through garbage
looking for an Icarus to pilot
some way back among the clouds
their telepathic goon squads
armed with the ******* of God
squat in the darkness of doorways
lightning strikes all around them
even their telephone poles were clairvoyant
several thousand watts went up my leg
shorting out the only attention span I own
left me perforated but far from lacy
wearing all my masks all the time
fragments of self are selves
in a bulemic deconstruction
where form and content
mud wrestle incessantly for attention
on the crazy train to 3 color 3 finger hell
apparently the ancient gods still rule
in their madhouse heaven
ambivalent petulant flatulent gods
brandishing sword point conversions
wielding gun point perversions
the protagonists the antagonists
fornicators masturbators liquidators
pariahs and unlicensed poets
preaching hellstone and brimfire
now their carcasses are steppingstones
it's psywar out there kids
better find where they hid your dossier
mesmerized of the world unite
you have nothing to lose
but your failed methods of addressing reality
said his slowly twisting tongue
struggling for ratings like any media
the soul cannot erase it can only go sightless
a phantom trapped in melancholy
when we were built to dance
with the twinkling summer stars
he finally learned to undestroy memory
being an ascended master of non sequitur
carried aloft by the wings of Mother Goose
his metabolic hurricane of why
an inferno of intrigue and  superstition
our embryo-headed UFO ruling class
have me inside their fence of skulls
an investment in diagram futures
the idiots