only a scouse inhabitant could have pointed it out (merseyside english / liverpool) to no better comparison.

i'd love to have the salt & pepper dilemma
between low alcohol sessions and
high ******* session, just did the low
alcohol sessions and laughed, after having
become equipped with marijuana "abuse"
starving / fasting, never gearing for chips
and munchies...
the streets of london look a lot different
walking about high & hungry
rather than jokey and as a jockey of an
imaginary horse...
god made sanity and soberness an ivory tower
that was not worth defending
unless for manual tasks... all other tasks
were never ready for the multipliers of human presence,
not all of us would hammer a nail
for all the scratches of a vinyl disk if all were able.
indeed the scouse lad knew it,
languages that clung to latin were left historically
naked, without diacritical marks,
instead they delved deep as to upkeep the latin
they forced the closure of grammar schools
along with coal mines...
and what they earned was not a sense of categorisation,
english slosh tongue said the 18th century
happened akin to the abhorrence of moral relativism
by socrates to make stab in the eye a ******,
to thus say bronze age was but a hundred years...
keeping latin naked as it was by the abhorred
conquered land of the romans due to its bad weather
may have made a milton or a shakespeare arable...
but because of a certain type of censoring not ever used,
what became beautiful in other european tongues
became the ugly spelling of the english tongue,
what became stress marks of "accent" for the french,
and german, romanian and polish,
there was none of that in english, instead
we became accustomed to aesthetic "marks", that
were "marks" because there were no actual examples
for a clear rubric... instead we received too many examples,
the particulars of why we wrote the and said a sharpened v
in written form v'eh off veer...
there are no unitary aesthetics marks other that words
themselves... rather than what we have in terms
of unitary diacritical marks of akin umlaut...
there's no where else to go... the Minotaur has caught
up with us and our shadow! there's no labyrinth to further
our heaving lung to cheat both silence and breath! there's isn't!
it's the end... not using diacritical marks on units
only creates aesthetics of multiplying units
where they are multiplied: riddle... mirror...
                 keep, kettle, leer, pass, throttle, amiss.

(the syllables are not perfectly connected,
therefore much of "coining the phrase"
with prefixes anti- con- un- sub-
being endeared into your vocabulary,
then again clearly, accenting and aesthetics
compare to reach a parallel,
never leave it naked i say, never leave it naked,
for fear of reprisal of that which ought
be buried still alive, and with clear
acuteness for certain letters appropriating
there is no originality in the british tongue
for origins of the a - z under virgil
who originated the letters to the plagiarism
of grecian theology with the trojans
moving from turkey to italy -
therefore you become akin to other european
nations enacting a parasitic semblance
for the simple reason of ease coupled
with the many "loop holes" of the tongue,
or you reach absolution with the missing diacritic
as reasons for the modern acronyms: l8r, o.m.g.,
b.a.e., i.r.l.... all of this crap is a byproduct.)

but to say latin is dead, you must recreate the latin
alphabet with an ethnic particularity of a modulation
that might be compared to the migration of goths /
huns / vandals... to say 'latin is dead' and keep the
latin a without a modulation to craft an ą,
is a darwinian heresy that demands counter-evolution;
there's hardly one coliseum in london, although
i admit plenty of football stadiums;
still the evolutionary need is still necessary
and consistent, because it's not the case of the three
wise monkeys seeing, hearing saying no evil...
if this phonetic geometric is to survive and the crucifix
not be a vanity shield of artists due to the wrathful lamb,
it will need to specify whether it's gaelic english,
welsh, australian, london based, come home county based,
arizona or texas draw.

They huddle in the cold damp darkness
grateful for the sheltering sandstone
shuddering at each echoing blast
a remorseless dull ache
like their meagre rations
eyelids shutting wrinkling between attacks
seeking peace and inner sleepless solace.

'Them docks is taking a pasting.'
'Me Dad works there.'

Another attack, tunnels rumble
evoking century old echoes
of rusty trundling drum-line wagons
bearing sandstone blocks to build the docks
now being blitzed blighting the night sky.

The morning brings a dusty disquiet.
Merseyside emerges curses soldiers on.

My Grandfather,
with his bare hands
built that house on our
fertile land,
were I was born and did reside
and there it stil does stand.
Rite on the borderline
of Greater Manchester
and Merseyside.

Since the day I could walk
and way before I did talk,
I'd help a little
with sickle and pitch fork,
and I'd watch the workers
like a hawk.

One day I'd reached my prime,
my farther said I'd  come of age,
and then at last came the time
for me to get my first ever wage.

"Now its time for you to get paid
(Great maybe now I'll get laid.)
Have a think about investing
(does not sound interesting)
In some great machine
like a tractor,
so your workload does lessen"
(Or maybe I'll live the dream
and get on X factor,
now I can pay for a singing lesson.)
                            
"You tended well to our crop
a bumper harvest you did yield.
Best we've had for years
Good on ya son."
"Great now I can sit on the Kop
always wanted to see Anfield
and go out for beers
around Goodison!"

I got dressed up to the nines,
on a sunny day ,in the finest Lacoste.
Here come the good times
In the big city I got lost.

Thier was some kind of parade
for those with pride.
I was given a serenade
by a chap with his hair dyed.
"Have no fear come in for a beer
you dont have to be queer
all are  welcome here."
Was not sure what that implied
but I said thanks and went inside.

First place I'd been in Liverpool.
Bunch of lads inside playing pool.
I picked up a que
and asked could I play to,
they were not cool            
"Who the hell are you?"
I did not sound Merseyside
so they took me for a fool.

For what it was worth I tried to explain.
"Only had to bunk six stops on train.
I'm local enough so dont complain.
I'm the man that grows your scran,
digging the earth in the pouring rain."

"Stop your bul you wool,
you sound like some kind of manc,
we'll give your ars a spank!"

I  was not sticking around for abusing.
I downed my tonic
and out the door I did walk.
Although I did find it amusing,
and somewhat ironic,
that a scouser could take the ****
out of the way anybody did talk.

Feeling dejected and worried
I'd almost come to harm
I went back to work on my farm
to the Job I'd hurriedly rejected.

But then the nights did draw in
and it did start to get colder
and again I felt my life was boring,
need to live a little before I get older.

Had enough of merseyside
with thier closed off unions.
I'll try my luck on the other side.
I'll go meet the Mancunions.

Yes its going to be great,
yes I'll have a night to remember.
I'm on the lash around Deansgate,
on the twenty fourth of December.

Strait in first place I saw
It looked all I'd hoped for
and more, top draw.

They had an event of some kind
seemed to me it was for charity.
I'm not usually one for morality
but twas night before Christmas
so I did not mind.

A fundraiser for the down and out
refugees that were homeless and brasic.
Some were prancing, call it dancing,
others just hanging out.
The juke box was banging out
a Stone roses classic.

"Pint of smooth."
All stopped to move,
I felt the needle scratch out of that groove,
and no creature was stirring In that public house
not even a mouse...
When I say nothing was stirring
thier was three hundred pair of eyes
that did stare at me  from all sides.
But you know what I'm saying.
I open gob, record scratches off,
stops playing,
and no creature was stirring
in that public house, not even a mouse
and the barman, he looks at me and he says.
"Are you Scouse?"

"No bro
I meen no are kid
and I'm here to spend
doe you know so
dont flip your lid."

"Whats that you said?
What do you meen
what am I doing here?
I'm Lancashire!
Born and bred
I'm out thier in my wellies
watering turnips to keep
you townies fed!"

"I'm not on tour
I'm no pretender."
Was going well for me
until they all saw me
take a selfy
outside the Haçienda.

In these modern times
most try our best
to be excepting of the rest.
Strait, gay, white or brown,
but I say its just as important
to extend that hand of friendship
to those in the next town.

For after all,
if we got together
and gathered our masses
we would surely be the most awesome,
the very best.
We.
The great working classes
of Englands North West!

The roughness of unshaven sandstone,
dark from the morning's early growth,
jutting its chin estuarywards,
cold until lathered in the midday sun.

A platform for he who would rule
all Merseyside for an instant,
taking in deep breaths of fantasy
for his private meditation.

When the water is warm in July
beneath the Merseyside sky
he sets down his Pimms
and goes for a swim
on his back to keep his nuts dry.

Like a maestro on her rostrum
she waves her arms, conducting
a symphony of clouds and sun,
synchronizing showers with sleet and snow.

Or a white witch casting her spells
on Lakeland fells and Pendle Hill,
from Morecambe Bay to Liverpool,
where slave ghosts haunt the cotton coast,
from Merseyside to Manchester,
then chants she changes over Cheshire.

She weaves her isotherms and bars
through the warp and weft of our map,
wreathing those Western Approaches,
where siren sea nymphs shimmer.

Lost Love
25 years ago September met April and
September fell in love; she was eighteen I was 52
…I know what you think.
At the post office, she worked, and I posted letters
to pretend friends in Liverpool and return address
and if someone opens them know they will find
an ocean of words about loneliness.
One day when I came there, she held the hands
of a young man, her eyes dripped of love and
I never sent the letter to a fictitious girlfriend  
at Beck Street number 12 in Liverpool.
You could not help falling in love with her she
was perfectly formed had long blond hair and
laughed like an angel.
It was the usual story she married had children,
then a messy divorce.
We are friends now I told her how much I had
loved her, but I never had the courage to say so.
She held my aged hands and said: I loved you too
but thought you didn't care about you many
girlfriends on the Merseyside

phantom universe of
the universe!

ohan!

***** the spirited away
not some whiskey
and rye abode....

such blisters of youth
and the gods
and allah the masculine
hoy rider joy
ahoy joy...
on a motorcycle...
allah rides alone
little satan:
sorry... apologies...
my alone... time... my being
space bound

i don't want fish dreaming
then riding bicycles...

to the priest;
Vulcan:
marrying yhwh:hwhy

turn the *******
and the Star on David
with aid of
the clock...

     open:; sesame!

turn the Star of David with
either clock:
time has forever been turning
clock and anti-clock wise... wise..
backwards and forwards:
the first time my
proselyte Hebrew turned Muslim
Hebrew
decided to turn all her light off
no longer scared of the night
the damp the swamp...

                   then the cat-istrocracy came
all French purr and
there was the Ginger Monk
among them an Alfonso: the Protugese Greek...
no Arab linegage like with
Lamberto Lonardo...
   Loan an Idea... of? row row row row...
lard nut: hard to quash envy:
envy among males
is joke of envy among males
and the jealousy of other women...
is the joke:
dearest lord:
you made me eat of the fruit
so to create the dyanmic of the universe
and reincarnation to boot and suit....

lord: but i told you in advance i would
turn Zombie into Vampire
and the Zombie the creep anti Romanticism
of Vampire:
i am the Zombie King:
i need my Vampire Qujeen...

i need to part with cartilege and
infuse her with my dying Alzheimer's
protein... gobble gobble yack yuack!

Manchester should pride itself
and gain city rights...
free city rights...
like the cause of World War II
wasn't the intellectual inner
circle of the Danzig Myth?!

London the barometer...
ergo the test sites:
Manchester and Edinburgh...
pretending to be standing
on one's head:
Hollyewood and
the moon Landing...
at least the Soviets
were honest in their failings
until their peacefully collapsed...
such Labour and Conservative
passive aggression
at not acknowledging being wrong...
so much self inflicted
and later transmuted vitriol...
among the invisible class of life
those obsructions fake
of the pursuit of life..
these people who are the:
graukhaki:
                 ill stomach: all **** stain macht
Frau:              nachtspaziergänger:
spaces - orbiter? ecology of philology: how much
space to establish a colony:
away from the prying ones: with eyes...
neu Teuton?
elsewhere? Jesuit extreme of: must relax?!
Teuton Cyprus Teuton Hawaii...
you think? past Merseyside...
Middlesborough....

tales of Danish ****? or Saxon ****:
the **** victims settled for
titling themselves as Anglo-Saxons
because that's what the rapists would do:
like Stephen King said from the depths
of the depth:
they **** each other with love:

my liver itched and pulsated like the heart
of Wolverine...
Hugh and the entire cast i feel you:
*******...
you thousand furies and combust them into
one unique posit to be
in harmony with both space and time:
subjectively:
not by rocket sense
of the rocket implosion
the Newtonian implosion that was
Einstein: at a very bad time...
time of the Holocaust: what compenstation is
there?

subjective overload of experience:
the grander the numbing objective realizations:
of truth... conjecture of unity:
but then the recurrent theme of the bulging
subjectivity about to overflow...
and the cup will overflow...
like it always does:
and for humanity to perpetuate the continuity
of birds:
humanity will have to learn a long
and a hard
and a lasting lesson...

i'll call it a gracious and a Day of Origins
when Reyla will call me in simple
shyallables:
not my name
but by indictator stature not Papa
not Tata...
but Toto...
         this this: this is what i sacrifice
and make horde of sand against the water
and the tides of time...

this is only one: in my long list
of demands: to say goodbye and see
you on the other side....
London has been plentiful
abounding in self-sacrifice...
maybe i should take that book in jargon
German...
Olson? i know i got him cheap:
£30 for the Maximus poems: the 9th Gate...
but i wouldn't take him:
i think i will let go of
Ezra Pound's Cantos:
with my pale accomplishment to compliment:
yes. yes. i will.