What is death, I ask.
What is life, you ask.
I give them both my buttocks,
my two wheels rolling off toward Nirvana.
They are neat as a wallet,
opening and closing on their coins,
the quarters, the nickels,
straight into the crapper.
Why shouldn't I pull down my pants
and moon the executioner
as well as paste raisins on my *******?
Why shouldn't I pull down my pants
and show my little ***** to Tom
and Albert? They wee-wee funny.
I wee-wee like a squaw.
I have ink but no pen, still
I dream that I can **** in God's eye.
I dream I'm a boy with a zipper.
It's so practical, la de dah.
The trouble with being a woman, Skeezix,
is being a little girl in the first place.
Not all the books of the world will change that.
I have swallowed an orange, being woman.
You have swallowed a ruler, being man.
Yet waiting to die we are the same thing.
Jehovah pleasures himself with his axe
before we are both overthrown.
Skeezix, you are me. La de dah.
You grow a beard but our drool is identical.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

Today is November 14th, 1972.
I live in Weston, Mass., Middlesex County,
U.S.A., and it rains steadily
in the pond like white puppy eyes.
The pond is waiting for its skin.
the pond is waiting for its leather.
The pond is waiting for December and its Novocain.

It begins:

Interrogator:
What can you say of your last seven days?

Anne:
They were tired.

Interrogator:
One day is enough to perfect a man.

Anne:
I watered and fed the plant.

*

My undertaker waits for me.
he is probably twenty-three now,
learning his trade.
He'll stitch up the gren,
he'll fasten the bones down
lest they fly away.
I am flying today.
I am not tired today.
I am a motor.
I am cramming in the sugar.
I am running up the hallways.
I am squeezing out the milk.
I am dissecting the dictionary.
I am God, la de dah.
Peanut butter is the American food.
We all eat it, being patriotic.

Ms. Dog is out fighting the dollars,
rolling in a field of bucks.
You've got it made if you take the wafer,
take some wine,
take some bucks,
the green papery song of the office.
What a jello she could make with it,
the fives, the tens, the twenties,
all in a goo to feed the baby.
Andrew Jackson as an hors d'oeuvre,
la de dah.
I wish I were the U.S. Mint,
turning it all out,
turtle green
and monk black.
Who's that at the podium
in black and white,
blurting into the mike?
Ms. Dog.
Is she spilling her guts?
You bet.
Otherwise they cough...
The day is slipping away, why am I
out here, what do they want?
I am sorrowful in November...
(no they don't want that,
they want bee stings).
Toot, toot, tootsy don't cry.
Toot, toot, tootsy good-bye.
If you don't get a letter then
you'll know I'm in jail...
Remember that, Skeezix,
our first song?

Who's thinking those things?
Ms. Dog! She's out fighting the dollars.
Milk is the American drink.
Oh queens of sorrows,
oh water lady,
place me in your cup
and pull over the clouds
so no one can see.
She don't want no dollars.
She done want a mama.
The white of the white.

Anne says:
This is the rainy season.
I am sorrowful in November.
The kettle is whistling.
I must butter the toast.
And give it jam too.
My kitchen is a heart.
I must feed it oxygen once in a while
and mother the mother.

*

Say the woman is forty-four.
Say she is five seven-and-a-half.
Say her hair is stick color.
Say her eyes are chameleon.
Would you put her in a sack and bury her,
**** her down into the dumb dirt?
Some would.
If not, time will.
Ms. Dog, how much time you got left?
Ms. Dog, when you gonna feel that cold nose?
You better get straight with the Maker
cuz it's coming, it's a coming!
The cup of coffee is growing and growing
and they're gonna stick your little doll's head
into it and your lungs a gonna get paid
and your clothes a gonna melt.
Hear that, Ms. Dog!
You of the songs,
you of the classroom,
you of the pocketa-pocketa,
you hungry mother,
you spleen baby!
Them angels gonna be cut down like wheat.
Them songs gonna be sliced with a razor.
Them kitchens gonna get a boulder in the belly.
Them phones gonna be torn out at the root.
There's power in the Lord, baby,
and he's gonna turn off the moon.
He's gonna nail you up in a closet
and there'll be no more Atlantic,
no more dreams, no more seeds.
One noon as you walk out to the mailbox
He'll ****** you up --
a wopman beside the road like a red mitten.

There's a sack over my head.
I can't see. I'm blind.
The sea collapses.
The sun is a bone.
Hi-** the derry-o,
we all fall down.
If I were a fisherman I could comprehend.
They fish right through the door
and pull eyes from the fire.
They rock upon the daybreak
and amputate the waters.
They are beating the sea,
they are hurting it,
delving down into the inscrutable salt.

*

When mother left the room
and left me in the *******
and sent away my kitty
to be fried in the camps
and took away my blanket
to wash the me out of it
I lay in the soiled cold and prayed.
It was a little jail in which
I was never slapped with kisses.
I was the engine that couldn't.
Cold wigs blew on the trees outside
and car lights flew like roosters
on the ceiling.
Cradle, you are a grave place.

Interrogator:
What color is the devil?

Anne:
Black and blue.

Interrogator:
What goes up the chimney?

Anne:
Fat Lazarus in his red suit.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

Ms. Dog prefers to sunbathe ****.
Let the indifferent sky look on.
So what!
Let Mrs. Sewal pull the curtain back,
from her second story.
So what!
Let United Parcel Service see my parcel.
La de dah.
Sun, you hammer of yellow,
you hat on fire,
you honeysuckle mama,
pour your blonde on me!
Let me laugh for an entire hour
at your supreme being, your Cadillac stuff,
because I've come a long way
from Brussels sprouts.
I've come a long way to peel off my clothes
and lay me down in the grass.
Once only my palms showed.
Once I hung around in my woolly tank suit,
drying my hair in those little meatball curls.
Now I am clothed in gold air with
one dozen halos glistening on my skin.
I am a fortunate lady.
I've gotten out of my pouch
and my teeth are glad
and my heart, that witness,
beats well at the thought.

Oh body, be glad.
You are good goods.

*

Middle-class lady,
you make me smile.
You dig a hole
and come out with a sunburn.
If someone hands you a glass of water
you start constructing a sailboat.
If someone hands you a candy wrapper,
you take it to the book binder.
Pocketa-pocketa.

Once upon a time Ms. Dog was sixty-six.
She had white hair and wrinkles deep as splinters.
her portrait was nailed up like Christ
and she said of it:
That's when I was forty-two,
down in Rockport with a hat on for the sun,
and Barbara drew a line drawing.
We were, at that moment, drinking *****
and ginger beer and there was a chill in the air,
although it was July, and she gave me her sweater
to bundle up in. The next summer Skeezix tied
strings in that hat when we were fishing in Maine.
(It had gone into the lake twice.)
Of such moments is happiness made.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

Once upon a time we were all born,
popped out like jelly rolls
forgetting our fishdom,
the pleasuring seas,
the country of comfort,
spanked into the oxygens of death,
Good morning life, we say when we wake,
hail mary coffee toast
and we Americans take juice,
a liquid sun going down.
Good morning life.
To wake up is to be born.
To brush your teeth is to be alive.
To make a bowel movement is also desireable.
La de dah,
it's all routine.
Often there are wars
yet the shops keep open
and sausages are still fried.
People rub someone.
People copulate
entering each other's blood,
tying each other's tendons in knots,
transplanting their lives into the bed.
It doesn't matter if there are wars,
the business of life continues
unless you're the one that gets it.
Mama, they say, as their intestines
leak out. Even without wars
life is dangerous.
Boats spring leaks.
Cigarettes explode.
The snow could be radioactive.
Cancer could ooze out of the radio.
Who knows?
Ms. Dog stands on the shore
and the sea keeps rocking in
and she wants to talk to God.

Interrogator:
Why talk to God?

Anne:
It's better than playing bridge.

*

Learning to talk is a complex business.
My daughter's first word was utta,
meaning button.
Before there are words
do you dream?
In utero
do you dream?
Who taught you to ****?
And how come?
You don't need to be taught to cry.
The soul presses a button.
Is the cry saying something?
Does it mean help?
Or hello?
The cry of a gull is beautiful
and the cry of a crow is ugly
but what I want to know
is whether they mean the same thing.
Somewhere a man sits with indigestion
and he doesn't care.
A woman is buying bracelets
and earrings and she doesn't care.
La de dah.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

There are stars and faces.
There is ketchup and guitars.
There is the hand of a small child
when you're crossing the street.
There is the old man's last words:
More light! More light!
Ms. Dog wouldn't give them her buttocks.
She wouldn't moon at them.
Just at the killers of the dream.
The bus boys of the soul.
Or at death
who wants to make her a mummy.
And you too!
Wants to stuf her in a cold shoe
and then amputate the foot.
And you too!
La de dah.
What's the point of fighting the dollars
when all you need is a warm bed?
When the dog barks you let him in.
All we need is someone to let us in.
And one other thing:
to consider the lilies in the field.
Of course earth is a stranger, we pull at its
arms and still it won't speak.
The sea is worse.
It comes in, falling to its knees
but we can't translate the language.
It is only known that they are here to worship,
to worship the terror of the rain,
the mud and all its people,
the body itself,
working like a city,
the night and its slow blood
the autumn sky, mary blue.
but more than that,
to worship the question itself,
though the buildings burn
and the big people topple over in a faint.
Bring a flashlight, Ms. Dog,
and look in every corner of the brain
and ask and ask and ask
until the kingdom,
however queer,
will come.

Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,—
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm.”

Then he said “Good-night!” and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
   A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the ***** of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,—
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,—
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the ***** of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the ****,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the ****** work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,—
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

Without the April wind to send their song,
The mourning doves of Middlesex are singing
And will be heard never again from long
Away, if graduation bells are ringing

And now November rains erode the nests
That mourning doves assembled in the gardens
From where their mild and wind-warm coos caressed
My ear, to quiet earth that cools and hardens

aix, beck's, becks, blech's, checks, cheques, czechs, dec's, decks, dex, eckes, eques, ex, fecks, flecks, flex, heck's, hex, jex, kecks, lecce, lex, meckes, mex, necks, nex, next, peck's, pecks, plex, rex, sheck's, shek's, specks, specs, sphex, tech's, techs, teck's, tex, treks, vex, whelks, wrecks, x, x. amex, ampex, annex, apec's, apex, armtek's, avtex, aztecs, berlex, caltex, cemex, centex, cmx, comex, complex, comtrex, convex, crownx, defex, dissects, duplex, effects, ejects, entex, execs, expects, eyetech's, fanech's, fedex, finex, gatx, gtech's, inmex, intex, latex, memtec's, metex, natec's, nobec's, nymex, nynex, objects, onex, opec's, paychecks, paychex, pemex, perplex, pewex, playtex, portec's, projects, qintex, quebec's, railtex, rednecks, reflects, rejects, respects, roughnecks, scitex, simplex, starplex, steinbeck's, subjects, suspects, syntex, telex, telmex, tenrecs, timeplex, tridex, trintex, triplex, truex, vertex, visx, wall-tex, wedtech's, westtech's adaptec's, ametek's, atx, banamex, between decks, biotechs, bottlenecks, cineplex, cybersex, cytotechs, datarex, discotheques, equitex, eurochecks, gendrisek's, genentech's, govpx, hyponex, intellects, intersects, kaisertech's, malcolm x, medarex, mediplex, megaplex, memorex, methanex, metroplex, middlesex, multidex, multiplex, neorx, oraflex, pillowtex, prentnieks, rolodex, stratoflex, superx, symantec's, teleflex, turtlenecks, unisex, ventritex adaptaplex, ameritech's, audiotex, begonia rex, ****** simplex, solar apex, videotex, tyrannosaurus rex, regression of y on x

plodding down the slow hillside
chestnut roots have made the path perilous

I've walked along the high trail
over the bridgeless creeks of Middlesex

from the manmade ravine, and the spring
where my mother drove us

to fill up our water jugs
till the car trunk hung heavy

this hill has only one side
and the grass is always green

...

from around the low end
where the hill and lake diverge

sun in his face, I see Du Fu
climbing this track again

says he's looking for warm weather
bamboo forests all year round

I mention Chengdu, and he grins
if I should find Li Bai

might I say "Du Fu asked for you"
and sample his elixir

Springhollow.
Something broken, something borrowed.
Friction fighting flesh
Against my white stained pillow.

Middlesex.
Promising perfection in excess.
Cutting palms with lovely letters.
He was seven.  I was six.

Nottingham.
Proclaiming to know the promised land.
Wrecking ball through golden temples.
Romantic fixations.  Romantically ******.

1044.  BC
King.  David.  Writes. On the. Run from Saul
". Keep me. Safe. O. Lord in you I  take. My. Refuge."
The. Year. 1338.  
A.  Pestulance. Lies. Untouched.  for. Hundreds. Of. Years. Suddenly. Awakens. .
  China.  The once. Great.  Mongolian.  Empyre   Finds. a. Gateway to the. West,
Only to become. Ravished by. Sickness.  ,.
Cappas. Catapult  corpses. ,
Cappa. S.  Merchants. Flee. On. Death. Boats. Set. For. England ,
Prosperous. England's.  Green fields.  ,  
A. Monks. Prayer  
". Dear. Lord. Keep. This. Sickness. Away from these. Green  fields. "
Yet.  Flanders.  Ships. Sailed. ,
Port. To. Port. The. Merchants.  Sailed .
Fear. Stalked. the. Deckhands. ,
Stay away "  
Stay. Away ". Cry. After. Cry. , untill
The. Ghost ships. Deadly. Cargo.  Of.  Fleas. , and. Rats.  Sailed. Into. The.  evenings. Sun.
Airborne !,!!!  
Boils
Fever,
The. Spewing ,
Dead. In. Six. Days.
They. Danced. The. Macarbra. ,  ..
Mothers.  Abandoned their children. ,
Fields.  Lay. Empty. Of. Harvest ,
Death. Stalked. England's. Green. Fields. Like. a. Table. Cloth set. For. Tea .
  
God. Is.  Love. ,
God. Does. Not. Condem.
Those. He. Loves.  To. Damnation. For their sin.
All. Will. Be. Well.  do not. Fear.
For. All. Will. Be. Well. ""
Julian of. Norwich. Had. Seen a. Great. Vision
Burn.
Her. Manuscript. Must. Go. To. The. Flame"
The. Reformers.  Came. .
With. Pitchfork and. Intent.
Yet. They. Found. Nothing.  
Nothing but. An impenetrable   Fortresses of. Love.
Ashford. In. Middlesex.    Twenty. Sixteen.  
Dudley. Road. Sunday. Morning  ,
God. Forgives our sin.
and. Heals. Our. Deseses. ""

dissect in the ranks... would you believe it:
the english way of drinking black tea with
a dollop of milk is not somehow unique
to the english... it is known to be practised
in Siberia...

now... how did i learn to write?
i write like my english teacher conducted lessons...
a Glaswegian by the name of
Thomas Bunce...
i almost took the King's Road all the way
from London to St. Andrew's...
i was accepted into Bristol: for
a course in virology... i passed...
seeing Edinburgh for the first time...
felt like seeing Paris for the first time...

but this English teacher taught by digression
alone... that was his tactic... overflowing
with anecdotes...
of course i wasn't going to elevate my
English by learning from strict English
teaching English types...
i would require myself to be immersed
in a people who "forgot" speaking Gaelic...
who... had Gaelic accents:
the trilled R... the general sing-along
clarity of syllables... the Scots don't speak:
they sing...
none of this English bulldog saliva custard
pie of consonants eating vowels
and consonants eating consonants...
come on... Trainspotting was written in
a "dialect": a Scottish accent alias for:
there should be some Gaelic in you...
no? the Welsh subservient cucks of all people
still managed to pull it off...
why... not... you?
the accent is enough?
i guess that's why the Welsh kept their tongue
and didn't mind having any bother
for an accent... generic... Middlesex...
home counties safe... sort of an outlet...

oh i'm not going to drink black tea with a dollop
of milk for some time...
i've turned to... something from Paraguay:
Para-g'why...
           YERBA MATE...
of all the major tea drinkers of the world...
the English... the Russians... the Turks...
eh... one coffee is enough...
but something after dinner...
something in the morning...
i'm still all for milk...
although i'm easing into finding too much
of it as unpalatable...
not constipated not diarrhoea prone...
just... bloated...
if you ever had a chance to... ahem...
"suffer" from classical bulimia... the ancient Rome
type where you'd shove the index and middle
finger into your mouth and wait
for the oesophagus reflex
you'd know that milk upon impact with
the "creative" juices of the stomach
becomes curd cheese shrapnel...
the rest is a yellowish water of lactose...

dissent in the ranks: i'm not going to drink
any more of this cow-squirt tea profanity!
this Siberian tea for milking first mothers...
that's another name: i missed the original term
for tea drank this way:
BAVARKA... tea drank by lactating women...
of Siberia...

- pulverising digression... imitation of
blitzkrieg... one wave after another... and another...
until... XAOS...
or chaos... it's spelled differently:
it's hardly CHasing orders... is it?
K-O-Y-S...
     why no why?
i wouldn't learn anything about the English zunge
in Bristol...
i might pick up a western land accent
at best... but among a people that
didn't tend to their Gaelic garden...

ol' Thomas Bunce knew how to digress...
he spoke with a collage impetus...
one "thing" led to another...
and he would speak...
and speak... Shakespeare was ol' Shaky
for 'im... i can't imagine if it was also a pear...
he introduced me to jazz...
i introduced myself to jachie mittoo myself...
(jackie? no... judge: itch with an i.e. "me too" #)

i can't help it... every time i visit a
brothel is reeks of bourbon...
the best sort of bourbon...
the air in a brothel is suffocating you
with bourbon... that's of course
until you arrive at the "pearly gates" of
a woman's naked body...
hence? the flood...
all the painting can cower and find:
redemption in a shade and some blinking
eye...
befriending a horse...
riding a horse at a gallop...
a lover-boy of a cat cuddling up to you
in bed while ******* off while you
find your sweet spot falling asleep on your
side...
walking a dog without a leash...
riding a bicycle on a stretch of the A12
or calculating spacing & timing on
the Gallows Corner roundabout...
it fits... sure... it fits...

- hyphen before a newly arrived sentence?
i couldn't write a novel...
too much time in between...
one smooth cut: one pristine use of the axe:
there's no need to chop at a neck
of Mary Antoinette with a blunted blade...
paragraphs are: congested bile...
myopia...
bogus labyrinths of follow-up linear:
non-patterns...

thinking of Brazil i think of the pristine
post-racial society of mulattos...
it works... i can see it clearly...
my white... sandpaper skin will bleach
any Kenyan d.n.a. in a matter of...
two generations of interracial *******...
truth... not paper...
but no European, ahem... "nation":
h'america will try and try will fail:
whatever "racism" is there is merely:
a focus for the integrity of what can ever
be allowed to be kept...
too much history... esp. history written down...

if there was a Friedrich Barbarossa...
then there must be a Conrad Bartablondine...
schnurrbartblond...
(sznur - rope)

there's still a bottle of wine ahead of me...
-bart- hair... rope-hair... blonde...
i must look Danish at this point:
god... those... handsome *******...

every time i leave the brothel
i have an image in my mind...
William Blake's
           the ***** of Babylon riding
some schizoid creature...
looted... looted...
i'm curious about the concern for identity
theft since... Nietzsche began:
at least he posited the origins in ******...
deluded as he was:
my advice? it's no advice:
i can prescribe anyone going mad
early on in life:
point being: it's a double-jeopardy game
after the first time
i.e. you can't go mad twice...
the second time you're suspected
of "going mad": you have only achieved
a: tunnel-vision...
horse gallop with blinders...
ladies... gentlemen... we're digging trenches...
say all you want:
Vietnam had the best soundtrack...
and it was the first war proper:
it was proper because it was staged
against guerrilla warfare...

i leave the brothel and put fire to that ol'
painting of Blake's:
while i hope to listen to some
KMFDM - JEZEBEL! (juke joint)
ah.... i'm still stinking of bourbon even though
i haven't drank any...

point being: England would have won
that football match...
if only their woke-ness led to a woke-insomnia:
if they took the second knee into
perspective: like a Catholics do during mass...
one knee wasn't going to cut it...
sorry... it would require: two...

but then... where was the Eucharist?
ghost god limb on the ghost mouth nibble?
come to think of it... it's no longer a metaphor
for a "king without a crown":
unless the lazy crown of laurels
is your thing when Horace is usurped
by someone donning a crown of myrrh...
how about: your average Joe...
having a hard-on proper:
but not donning a strap-on ***** to his
forehead...
because... some woman somewhere
might think him as being: "always in the mood":
retractable possession... some Duracell bunny type:
typo... a universal plumber taboo topic of:
"that" spanner...

thus: seated at the left hand of the father...
herr joke-a-lot... and this is even before i leave
a mark on my closure:
a weak-bladder i can feel the sense
of excitement at it not being a premature *******
contest...
i forget to time writing what i write
and drinking what i drink
and prior to the zenith...
i scribbled something down...

i'm still begging for closure...
if his birth was governed by the slaughter of
the innocents to plagiarise the birth
of Moses... Herod's lust...
Chernobyl seems pretty, ******* tame...
oddly enough i'm turning "woke":
the rest have been galvanised:
insomniac of proto-protein shakes
and amphetamines... and teasing some...
gwammar... itches...
you know... the usual...

all this before me intended: intent...
i tried it with her... this Romanian mare...
i couldn't get a *******...
i tried and tried: i probably drank too much
to give me a limb status of whittle 'itch-ard...
so i began to point at her body parts...
i wanted to know the noun
for eyes in Romanian... freckle...
collar-bone...

i'm not going to sit around and ****
Nigerian **** while i'm at studying
the geography of a woman's body...
a naked body of mine: but most assuredly hers...
will sink any man to any extreme
of finding a revived purpose...
i'll go blind with rage:
with a rage most associated with lust...
how paradoxical it must be...
when circumstanced with the oath
of Hippocrates...
oddly enough: modern psychiatry is alien
to anything to do with Hippocrates...
psychiatry is pseudo-medicine...
it's a bit like giving surgical license to...
butchers!
i have no respect for these: cre-a-tures...
of their own fancy: their own benevolent
twist-and-turn of sadism...

the worst lot of man and... the best lot of man...
enters these confines of scrutiny...
my brain some chemical soup...
**** 'em... give me the sort of Vietnam
with the soundtrack already provided...

but at least a ******* touched me...
he fiddled with my beard: played the *******
metaphor of violin with it...
there was even a goodluck charm
by her way of fiddling with it
just so a leprechaun would be conjured up
like a mushroom in the night!
like a spaghetti twister of an octopus might
conjure a spine!
enough dead-weight for a decapitation
sequence with ol' Ollie Cromwell being
invited... a football match with
Robespierre's head being kicked about!

yes... i started to read more Charles Olson
and deviated from all that's Bukowski
and all the Beat poets...
we're living in a democracy...
we're not living in a democracy?!
is my worth of worth a worth
of stale bread, somehow?

- so much trash from a people who have a
complete disrespect for the:
livestock market... of where their "canvas"
of brushstrokes is coming from:
seemingly from some "afar"...

the original transcript...

   languages are only fascinating within the confines
of nouns:
                                 )
                                             )  Buddha smiles
                                 )

                                 (
                                            )    hieroglyphic
                                 (                 rock-god... agitates
                                               the eyebrows to take a wink...
wink...

   (etymology grieves... while Darwinism is...
nothing more than a bombast return to "form"...
ulterior... cubism and.... Bra-bra-zeal!)

  (eyes: not: to impression oneself on
the "other" with a... "look")...

romanian - ochi
finnish - silmät
****** - oczy
english - eyes
german - augen (blick...
trust the germans to fathom
noun as verb and in reverse.. blick)
italian - oculus per oculus (occhi)
greek - μάτια...

oddly enough verbs are less fascinating
when... there's all that "compensation"
concerning nouns...
foremost: verbs are not etymologically
      "gathered"...
        there is not etymological "rooting"
in verbs... but there is... concerning nouns...
verbs have no etymological rooting...
nouns do...
but whatever the zodiac-esque importune...
that we place on nouns...
to fulfil the meaning of our name
Matthias - gift (of) god... not from...
Conrad - wise council...
prepositions are shrapnel...
   w (in) do (to)
   z (with) o (about)
vowels that also act like
prepositions
      i (and) zza (from... behind...
                 the Tartar mountains... Czech republic)...
    za (for)...

also... eyes... ayes... how many eyes do i have
to say: yes... parliamentary...
English s unique in that...
you can say say two things once...
but also say them twice...
the encoding divergence of "spelling":
ayes vs. eyes...
                see through to sea...

i must be a king turned pawn:
the queen's all bishop creek...
hallows aat the rook...
i must be lamenting:
the best ******* i ever received
came from someone i paid for...
dumb-smart is the next best thing:
of outsmarting the mythological:
mantis...
chimp craze with mantis
antics...
      well... who's superior
who's who?
                     "milk" some other  bull
for all that genocidal ***** juicing...
hello brick-wall: hello...
alpha what?!
harem posits?

                 i walk into a tornado...
i walk into a "grieving" sea...
       sooner i come across these creatures
than if i were to come across the ferocity of
a neglected woman!
this neglected beast... look at her...
how exfoliating mantis she suddenly
come with added bad english gwammar...
it almost looks like a stand-off in Velsh!

the maxim of my late grandfarther starts ring:
there are no ugly women in this world...
there are onbly neglected ones.

I walk down the summer country streets of Middlesex,
The art of extravagance, a scenic landscape filled
with dancing delight, relaxed and serene, emotions
running wild, the cool breeze encompassing me, staring
at the beauty of the bright blue sky, various beautiful houses,
and people trailing through their yards in the early morning,
hauling piles of trash to overcrowded dumpsters – distant sounds
of a long day’s work ahead of them, while across the street, a young
teenage boy mows the lawn, drench with sweat, working like life will never fade away.  I watch the farmers work in the fields, picking
tobacco and cucumbers in the scorching heat, conversing and giggling, while a thundering tractor passed by them, its massive tires treading through the short blades of grass.  I stare at the colorful butterflies hovering above flourishing flowers, like bluebirds circling high in the horizon over huge trees, a sweet and invigorating presence, the smell of the country air warms my soul, brings magic to the world of poetry, my heart connected to this captivating country world of breathless escape.