And when I met that girl in San Francisco
Off a dusty little pier
with rotting wood
and squawking seals
And screaming bayside wind

She caught me off-tropics
and danced with the grace
of a palm tree
lines between the quaked
concrete
off telegraph avenue
On an obscuring Sunday morning

and no
she didn't go
to church or any silly thing
like a temple or synagogue
She said those were no places
for god

God was the trees

We smoked cigarettes and got off to each other's
carcinogenic practices
oxidizing a little faster in conjunction with hopeful
Formaldehyde
Deriding the formalities
of small talk and trivialities

She liked her guitars with nickel-wound strings
I with nylon
But I couldn't play songs
that sounded any good with them
while she could
and did.

and girl did it ever sound good

She'd laugh at the contests on the radio
while we drove on a half-moon
to half-moon
full and whole of ourselves
We'd stopped in the lobby of a cheap motel
And waltzed to background
muzak
wacked out of our minds
Sniffing in deep huffs of subliminal
divinity
Understanding
loving
that mind-numbing
monotony

muzak...
ppsh.
Who ever really listened to that?

And then she left
at the end of one fine winter day
in a cloudless sky I waved
watched her plane
skip off
towards the edge of a pale blue horizon
back south
to warmer climes
to wherever she truly stayed
The tugging on my heartstrings
chimed grotesque in
precise
D minor.

ah, christ, what a CREW:
more
poetry, always more
P O E T R Y .

if it doesn't come, coax it out with a
laxative. get your name in LIGHTS,
get it up there in
8 1/2 x 11 mimeo.

keep it coming like a miracle.

ah christ, writers are the most sickening
of all the louts!
yellow-toothed, slump-shouldered,
gutless, flea-bitten and
obvious . . . in tinker-toy rooms
with their flabby hearts
they tell us
what's wrong with the world-
as if we didn't know that a cop's club
can crack the head
and that war is a dirtier game than
marriage . . .
or down in a basement bar
hiding from a wife who doesn't appreciate him
and children he doesn't
want
he tells us that his heart is drowning in
*****. hell, all our hearts are drowning in *****,
in pork salt, in bad verse, in soggy
love.
but he thinks he's alone and
he thinks he's special and he thinks he's Rimbaud
and he thinks he's
Pound.

and death! how about death? did you know
that we all have to die? even Keats died, even
Milton!
and D. Thomas-THEY KILLED HIM, of course.
Thomas didn't want all those free drinks
all that free *****-
they . . . FORCED IT ON HIM
when they should have left him alone so he could
write write WRITE!

poets.

and there's another
type. I've met them at their country
places (don't ask me what I was doing there because
I don't know).

they were born with money and
they don't have to ***** their hands in
slaughterhouses or washing
dishes in grease joints or
driving cabs or pimping or selling ***.

this gives them time to understand
Life.

they walk in with their cocktail glass
held about heart high
and when they drink they just
sip.

you are drinking green beer which you
brought with you
because you have found out through the years
that rich ******* are tight-
they use 5 cent stamps instead of airmail
they promise to have all sorts of goodies ready
upon your arrival
from gallons of whisky to
50 cent cigars. but it's never
there.
and they HIDE their women from you-
their wives, x-wives, daughters, maids, so forth,
because they've read your poems and
figure all you want to do is **** everybody and
everything. which once might have been
true but is no longer quite
true.

and-
he WRITES TOO.
POETRY, of
course. everybody
writes
poetry.

he has plenty of time and a
postoffice box in town
and he drives there 3 or 4 times a day
looking and hoping for accepted
poems.

he thinks that poverty is a weakness of the
soul.

he thinks your mind is ill because you are
drunk all the time and have to work in a
factory 10 or 12 hours a
night.

he brings his wife in, a beauty, stolen from a
poorer rich
man.
he lets you gaze for 30 seconds
then hustles her
out. she has been crying for some
reason.

you've got 3 or 4 days to linger in the
guesthouse he says,
"come on over to dinner
sometime."
but he doesn't say when or
where. and then you find out that you are not even
IN HIS HOUSE.

you are in
ONE of his houses but
his house is somewhere
else-
you don't know
where.

he even has x-wives in some of his
houses.

his main concern is to keep his x-wives away from
you. he doesn't want to give up a
**** thing. and you can't blame him:
his x-wives are all young, stolen, kept,
talented, well-dressed, schooled, with
varying French-German accents.

and!: they
WRITE POETRY TOO. or
PAINT. or
****.

but his big problem is to get down to that mail
box in town to get back his
rejected poems
and to keep his eye on all the other mail boxes
in all his other
houses.

meanwhile, the starving Indians
sell beads and baskets in the streets of the small desert
town.

the Indians are not allowed in his houses
not so much because they are a ****-threat
but because they are
***** and
ignorant. *****? I look down at my shirt
with the beerstain on the front.
ignorant? I light a 6 cent cigar and
forget about
it.

he or they or somebody was supposed to meet me at
the
train station.

of course, they weren't
there. "We'll be there to meet the great
Poet!"

well, I looked around and didn't see any
great poet. besides it was 7 a.m. and
40 degrees. those things
happen. the trouble was there were no
bars open. nothing open. not even a
jail.

he's a poet.
he's also a doctor, a head-shrinker.
no blood involved that
way. he won't tell me whether I am crazy or
not-I don't have the
money.

he walks out with his cocktail glass
disappears for 2 hours, 3 hours,
then suddenly comes walking back in
unannounced
with the same cocktail glass
to make sure I haven't gotten hold of
something more precious than
Life itself.

my cheap green beer is killing
me. he shows heart (hurrah) and
gives me a little pill that stops my
gagging.
but nothing decent to
drink.

he'd bought a small 6 pack
for my arrival but that was gone in an
hour and 15
minutes.

"I'll buy you barrels of beer," he had
said.

I used his phone (one of his phones)
to get deliveries of beer and
cheap whisky. the town was ten miles away,
downhill. I peeled my poor dollars from my poor
roll. and the boy needed a tip, of
course.

the way it was shaping up I could see that I was
hardly Dylan Thomas yet, not even
Robert Creeley. certainly Creeley wouldn't have
had beerstains on his
shirt.

anyhow, when I finally got hold of one of his
x-wives I was too drunk to
make it.

scared too. sure, I imagined him peering
through the window-
he didn't want to give up a **** thing-
and
leveling the luger while I was
working
while "The March to the Gallows" was playing over
the Muzak
and shooting me in the *** first and
my poor brain
later.

"an intruder," I could hear him telling them,
"ravishing one of my helpless x-wives."

I see him published in some of the magazines
now. not very good stuff.

a poem about me
too: the ******.

the ****** whines too much. the ****** whines about his
country, other countries, all countries, the ******
works overtime in a factory like a fool, among other
fools with "pre-drained spirits."
the ****** drinks seas of green beer
full of acid. the ****** has an ulcerated
hemorrhoid. the ****** picks on ****
"fragile ****." the ****** hates his
wife, hates his daughter. his daughter will become
an alcoholic, a *******. the ****** has an
"obese burned out wife." the ****** has a
spastic gut. the ****** has a
"****** brain."

thank you, Doctor (and poet). any charge for
this? I know I still owe you for the
pill.

Your poem is not too good
but at least I got your starch up.
most of your stuff is about as lively as a
wet and deflated
beachball. but it is your round, you've won a round.
going to invite me out this
Summer? I might scrape up
trainfare. got an Indian friend who'd like to meet
you and yours. he swears he's got the biggest
pecker in the state of California.

and guess what?
he writes
POETRY
too!

we were mentally ill, and mad
in so many beautiful ways
we sat for years - just sat
with that garbage rotting
everything - our brains rotting

(was there a camera behind our bathroom mirror?)

then, there was that night we got lost
in a fog of angel dust
you, crawling on all four, praying to Jesus Christ
throwing up blood and whiskey
begging your Savior for mercy
and we Believed (for a few hours)

(was there a dead man looking through my window?)

the buzzing of banana-flies
buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
grindin­g of teeth
and that hysterical laughter from the TV next door
all the muzak in the vestibules of hell

(were they laughing at us?)

oh, Lord! what perfect panic!
i painted. painted like my life depended on it
they were all on the canvas - friends, family, and neighbors
hundreds of white eyeballs
all looking upon us with disgust

(could they hear our thoughts?)

now,
we are two ugly, screaming faces
drifting unchecked in time
onward, paranoia!
onward, terrible fear!
onward, my dear friend!

Among pelagian travelers,
Lost on their lewd conceited way
To Massachusetts, Michigan,
Miami or L.A.,

An airborne instrument I sit,
Predestined nightly to fulfill
Columbia-Giesen-Management's
Unfathomable will,

By whose election justified,
I bring my gospel of the Muse
To fundamentalists, to nuns,
to Gentiles and to Jews,

And daily, seven days a week,
Before a local sense has jelled,
From talking-site to talking-site
Am jet-or-prop-propelled.

Though warm my welcome everywhere,
I shift so frequently, so fast,
I cannot now say where I was
The evening before last,

Unless some singular event
Should intervene to save the place,
A truly asinine remark,
A soul-bewitching face,

Or blessed encounter, full of joy,
Unscheduled on the Giesen Plan,
With, here, an addict of Tolkien,
There, a Charles Williams fan.

Since Merit but a dunghill is,
I mount the rostrum unafraid:
Indeed, 'twere damnable to ask
If I am overpaid.

Spirit is willing to repeat
Without a qualm the same old talk,
But Flesh is homesick for our snug
Apartment in New York.

A sulky fifty-six, he finds
A change of mealtime utter hell,
Grown far too crotchety to like
A luxury hotel.

The Bible is a goodly book
I always can peruse with zest,
But really cannot say the same
For Hilton's Be My Guest.

Nor bear with equanimity
The radio in students' cars,
Muzak at breakfast, or--dear God!--
Girl-organists in bars.

Then, worst of all, the anxious thought,
Each time my plane begins to sink
And the No Smoking sign comes on:
What will there be to drink?

Is this ma milieu where I must
How grahamgreeneish! How infra dig!
****** from the bottle in my bag An analeptic swig?

Another morning comes: I see,
Dwindling below me on the plane,
The roofs of one more audience
I shall not see again.

God bless the lot of them, although
I don't remember which was which:
God bless the U.S.A., so large,
So friendly, and so rich.

It was in total a fast track ticket to the moon
and I can't return to transaction dock 8 too soon
the star checkout lane at my local supermarket
tops balloons with rocket science aeronautics
that pilot's service areas binary counter perfect
exceeding expectations bent into global orbit

My items sped along to muzak her slim milky way belt
a smile beaming discount countdowns heaven sent
taking off in bit lips when her priceless item buttons
almost burst free to air with a strain of special promotions
helpfully assisting my every excess flight of fancy
made impulse buys a baggage allowance necessity

She stroked parts of her radical laser station
to fully engage hygienic wiped spills of imagination
and I felt the warp of hyperdrive tangelo engines
urging me into a dive to scan juice ripe tangerines
a last minute save fuelled by stalling flashback cavities
gyrating in tight nets as we escaped earth's gravity

With a twist of her wrist I was into fits-the-bill ecstasy
as the whirr of electronics cut loose such quality
with a lick of an index finger our mission was bagged
handled too efficiently for any danger of jet lag
no flyby chance to not exchange standby coupons
my trolley emptied of offers too galactic to pass on

****...
        had an appointment,
a triage appointment from 8 a.m. onward,
that went high flying  with Icarus and Lucifer -
dazed and confused woke up at approx. 9 a.m.,
the life of a kingmaker; but never the king -
                                     energy! energy! energy!
downed a whiskey and eased... dialled the number
to the local surgery,
Dr. So-and-So was told he had a nice
voice... started doing the auto-cue...
nice muzak - classical, Bach
symphony no. don't know -
6th in line...
                      first dial the conversation
sounded like:
hello?
              can you hear me?
are you there?
             hello?
                                i could hear the
business of clerks and office
banter in the background, got hung up.
dialled again...
                   n'eh n'oh n'eh n'oh (more like
knee-no, knee-no, knee-no and
bright blue fluorescent blinking lights)
            waited with more Bach muzak...
  the same woman answered as she did
yesterday...
                       yeah, he called,
sorry, i'm an insomniac, fell asleep at
the last hurdle, missed the call,
can i book another appointment?
                 past the slight slur and
disorientation (**** me, mornings are
rough, not as rough as i remember them,
but rough enough these days):
and ever you hear the glorification of
work and never mention the Chinese thieves:
beckoning the dynamic toward Auschwitz.
   so i was playing Adele for a while...
- hello?
- hello?
                      - yes, hello...
- hello?
                    - me Tarzan, me book appointment...
- hello?
                          **** on me,
never do whiskey in the morning,
have some barley and milk...
               yes, me, book, appointment,
England pays me £120 a week for poems
but doesn't know it...
     i pretend to be sick but i'm competing
with Stephen Hawking for the disability...
turns out my brain isn't made of concrete
but of a variety of sponges that soaked up
salmon sweat...
                            so i get booked...
apparently nurse Lizzy (Elizabeth?
yes, Liz, she want's to check my blood pressure
and my cholesterol levels...
                                                   )
dandy, and Andy too (cockney hack for
lazed handy and the oops joke) -
                     **** on me, it's mandible,
jaw or play-dough,
            softer... softer... softly...
smooth operator... smooth operator...
             and she says bye like 20 times before
i hang up...
                             it all seems like lovers
talking by the end of it...
                               so after 2 p.m.?
   thank you...
                                the way women say
bye bye bye...
                                into that famous hush...
            i end up petting the cat
and watching the godforsaken drizzle of
                             jesting rain that feels like
a complete remark of wetting a square metre...
                  then it's onto an article
about Paxman's dad...
                                       i wasn't perfect, once
upon a Grimm's tale...
                                       i used to binge
once a week, never smoked,
                                      studied...
            all that hushed bye bye bye
over the phone and a Yob's redemption aren't
on the horizon... don't sacrifice yourself for
things inherent if you can't redeem...
                                  i'm just like the rest of them:
       broken,
                       broken,
                                        and left to scramble
testicles for the bitterest of jokes:
                             i don't pity the kids with
cancer...
                  they're too brave to be pitied,
they have no competence of life,
                                        and they're the lucky ones.
i pity the nervous wrecks that surround them,
staging excess ethical conduct of Hippocrates
            happy little ******* engaged with
so much affection... never human cruelty and
the human definition of thought-in-transit: boredom...
        happy little *******...
                                         angelic choir ensemble -
    and with a snap of the fingers: without a moan
or a groan... gone...
                                        gone gone gone...
a **** evaporating into roses and flamboyant
chequers of shameful cheeks
                              in Bermuda:
                         pirouettes in high-heels.
still...
          2 p.m. and another appointment...
fun playing that Adele game over the phone with
               a sexed up voice of longing.

i was directed to this place by Marty Feldman, and he said i should say this password to gain entry: float like a chapati, sting like a vindaloo.

i' not good at making passes at someone's death,
just yesterday i was thinking
while a quiz show took place with haiku clues
regarding famous people, so i wondered
aloud: would it still be the correct answer if
you said: cassius clay? what a cool name,
colossus of clay - what the hell does Muhammad
and Ali have to do with african rooting
when you hardly speak Swahili? a bit pointless,
but a name like cassius clay... unstoppable -
already mythological, rather than a family
feud between Ali and the Caliphs after Muhammad's
death - maybe he should have confirmed his
baptism as Muhammad Ali with a confirmation
akin to catholic practice and added a surname, like
Khadijah, well... if Mozart is turning in his coffin
for his music being turned into a muzak
or a Porcupine Tree tree song, then the first wife of
Muhammad is turning in hers... a wise women
of sound economic acumen could be compared
by secular standards to Gabriel's voice, women tell lies,
just today i saw plain Jane turn into a stunner,
she was gagging to go on a date with a guy of her dreams,
by media standards a subsequent loser in Morocco,
at a photo shoot of practising flirtation a half-and-half
love affair between the Gothic island of the Caribbean
that's England and the Bahamas flirted with olive skin,
blue eyes and pecks, and an ego shaped like a woodpecker...
or an u.z.i., poor guy, got to make a show,
but the ***** is out! she noticed her eyes!
what further shahada of scheherazade?
just one more night, just one more night, one more, night.
demigods and men, traces of narcissus in man resides
in his eyes, nowhere else, man and woman fall in love
with their eyes, rather than narcissus and the complete
visage, but as i once said: imagine narcissus looking
into the sea - he might as well have fallen in love with
the stillness of the lake rather than the image represented
by it - across the seven seas he roamed, across the seven
zeniths, until he came across the Lake of Echo,
and heard the echo of footsteps beside him, to have seen
the natural mirror by moonlight, and settled to lie,
disguising himself as a flower worth recycling:
each god in polytheism his own individual, reigning ideal
in the pantheon of gods: solipsism - with man's intervention
a notably study of, himself.
although i'd love to chat thoroughly about this,
i'm not so sure i want to - hear the words:
you're a good man... you're a good man in a brothel?
you think a ******* would forget saying that
and continue? *persona incognito grata -
a golden crown on her tooth that i peered into with her
Ukrainian accent speaking polish, i lost my virginity
to a French girl without any connection - proceeding
from the way she decided a child learning a new language
aged 8 could not be considered a native speaker
for a psychology experiment - i gave her a silent lesson
in history concerning Napoleon and the last heroic act
of warfare, after that, civilians were utilised like bombs
or rifles, the many guilts after all the killing seized.
anyway, today i decided to cook two knock-outs...
the first was intended as a kolhapuri chicken curry,
the latter was chicken do'h pyaaza, with the later
the title, indeed the fenugreek incident, fenugreek
being a concentrated version of kasoori methi,
if the Turks invented hot & sour with a pickled chilli,
the blue Indians invented a whole palette of sour and hot
with this dish, and the crucial ingredient that's
fenugreek - although the crystalline form of this spice
is more potent - the recipe asked for one tablespoon
of the raw products, the leaves (kasoori methi) -
i added a teaspoon of the concentrated stuff -
what a disaster! i asked for two tasters to tell me that i
wasn't tasting bitterness in the gravy as if i added some
English ale revenge against continental beers...
because the excess of the component of intended sourness
of the fenugreek turned into an ale-like bitterness -
hence the notion that sour isn't an antonym of sweet,
but bitter is - hence sweet & sour rather than
sweet & bitter - you can have a turkish pickled chilli
and still have a compliment on the palette of hot & sour,
but imagine tasting bitterness - excess of concentrated
kasoori methi does the trick - and since Faust doesn't
have an Igor like Dr. Frankenstein, he turned himself
into a hunchback, and started picking out most of the
fenugreek crystals from the gravy, one by one, ony by one,
hunched over the sauces - until the bitterness disappeared
and the intended sourness came through -
it took a while, but Faust as his own assistant kept on
saying: stop lying, stop lying! i want to eat this sauce too!
that's the thing with chemistry and cooking,
i received a present not too long ago, an arsenal
of spices, which means i can punch-bag you a Peshwari
naan with raisin and almond stuffing (a bit of sugar too),
and i can add the raw ingredients - i'm richer with
spices than with drugs or gold: turmeric is also known
as saffron - although saffron is more potent,
turmeric does the same job... coriander powder, cumin
power (also seeds), mint the prime garnish for
do'h pyazza curry... garam masala made from scratch,
meaning i have: cardamom pods, cloves, black cardamom,
mace... and i can make you a kohlapur masala...
honestly... in this great culinary babylon of english society,
from pizzas to chinese to Kentucky to New York
street vendors... i'd give up the cuisine i was born in
and convert to India's palette... i don't need to convert
anything else... religion can remain with those who
barely read, or who read and cite only one book...
let them have it... i don't care...
i already converted to a non-religious fascination with
mystical Judaism (sorry Allah, couldn't do anything
with your name, it didn't fit the Latin revision of thinking
about it), and as such, converted to a dreamy everyday
of India's culinary prowess - Kama Sutra is nothing
compared to the recipes from Kashmir or anywhere
where the blue bloods fascinated the merchants rather than
scalped them in berserker rage among the puritan
envoys.

STROLLING OUT OF TUNE

When the wind blows round it swirls and sweeps memories of what was once there, thoughts of an old song take longer and longer to repair

Began toe tapping almost adding in the clapping but would rather arise maybe explore to find a new prize

Stuck in a cerebral gap this tune may take a map,keeping digging in try to place that gorgeous groove

Set off out the door to not be a bore, soon found myself pacing in time to some hidden rhyme ,waiting for it to arise

Birds and buses beginning to chirp and hum adding their part, as I try to pick up more clues

Taking it in stride feeling this may be a long stroll,that unknown elegy will be a nice surprise

Rambling again, smooth echoes entering my mind hopefully helping to harmonize my next muse

Making the next strut to remove muzak from that rut, picking it up a key or two will surely bring brightness to my eyes

Lost lyrics lingering ,slowly letting go of that *******,  guitar maybe a banjo or dobro waiting with a new lick to diffuse

Back to the trail humming along listening to the sky's to drop that song,so will this shuffle bring a new ruffle or just be for the exercise

Again set to travel as the sonnets unravel,  hoping that bebop will be part of the hop desiring the dancing, breaking into upbeat prancing finally finding that new melody will be the best news. R..C.

When he went through the windshield, amid the shrill fracture of glass and above the curling guardrail, he did not think of Junebug or his mother or his boyhood summers at Lake Tenkiller. He thought only of deep-grooved ritual: get in, turn the key, press power on the radio, turn the air to 1, and buckle in.

He saw the guardrail. He saw the guardrail and knew, or half-knew, what would come next.

He headed straight for it, going sixty, sixty-five.

He used to play a game to break up the monotony of interstate travel, back when he worked the night shift at Wolverine. He'd close his eyes for as long as he could while driving. He began with five seconds then ten, no peeking, eventually making it an entire minute, speeding down I-44 alongside the eighteen-wheelers and the farming crowd. It was around 5 a.m., sure, but a minute still.

Before he cut the ignition he turned off the air and the radio, always. His dad told him it made it easier on a vehicle when you started it. A mechanic later told him that wasn't true. Not even remotely. He still did it.

He saw the guardrail and thought of it in the same realm as driving blind, a game of chicken ending inevitably in forfeit although victory and loss weren't clearly defined, only the edge tangible, the heart rate going mad, the blood rushing through the tributaries of the body.

He thought brake. He even said it out loud, alone in the car. The air was on 1. The radio was on NPR, some story about "hacking" your closet. He saw the guardrail. His foot pressed down on the gas harder. He wondered what it'd be like to fly over the edge then he was flying over the edge.

He glided above the first snag of rocks, small cuts on his cheeks burning against gravity's drag. The car did not. While the engine continued to hum, pieces fell around him, shards of glass and jagged bits of the valance and bumper. The radio played Muzak. They were between segments.

He turned the air to 1. He hit the power button on the radio. Why didn't he buckle the seatbelt?

His screams came out in long monotonal bursts, automatic and not quite human. Turn the ignition, power button, turn **** to 1, click.

He didn't think about what he'd hit first, tree or rock. There was still some fifty feet to fall before that decision was made for him. He didn't wonder if the car would land on top of him. He got in. He turned the key. Radio on. Air to 1. Then he clicked, didn't he?

Marie didn't call tonight. Marie. Her shape started to form in his mind, waiting for him on the couch in that stupid shawl, her face lit, a bright blue, by the glow of the television screen.

A tree, he hit a tree first.

The rough bark tore at his face, chest and arm. He could feel the tree bend then repel him. He took a branch to the rib and continued his fall to the stony earth. He hit the ground and kept falling.

how over pretentious of me...
islamophobia and russophobia...
odd bedfellows...

Mатвей Дракон: profile name...
but it's in russian and no one is willing
to stretch a darkening of humour...
to the extent of monty python...
because there's no canned laughter...

and there will never be...
not since i realised...
those four bottles of cider get me
more drunk than half a liter of
ms. amber... because the drinking
is measured and can reveal itself
in the process - rather than wait,
concentrated... and only expand
into more hours of sleep than
i could ever wish for...

but at least the russians speak of
russophobia as a reality -
the evil genius mantra...
which they are...
but there's no sense of: via irrational
arguments we will counter this
irrational fear...

so... the scuttling spiders announce!
and we will have ourselves
an orchestra!

even i thought this was too much,
too pretentious...
it's not a study... it's teasing...

a study in greek, hebrew, cyrillic and possibly sanskrit... because i'm not a monolingual hyper-inflation that will solve a crossword puzzle... when めば (eye-spot) is already... available? In a name there's a name in oh so many other languages... should i rely on relapsing into "gender-neutral" pronouns i'll cite... the noun-status extensions of letters, akin to a' into alpha... o' into omega... etc.

めば (eye-spot): that much is true...
sudoku...
i have made the following circumstance
plain...
there is no chance of me rising above
this already apparent crab-bucket intellectualism...
perhaps...
burden of rhyme...
it's only a "poem" if it rhymes...
rhyme is somehow identifiable with poo'etics...
ask an anne sexton... or perhaps:
no, don't bother...

she to burdens herself with rhymes -
and maybe she doesn't...
but this endless expectation to rhymes...
yes: plural was indicative of
the irony...
sometimes it's not even available...
to look back at this tool we have been given,
perhaps perfected better -
or not - since most of the time i find
myself: without an inch of belief
in catching some oratory / rhetorical
tsunami to... be the crow that croaks
the most and the loudest in this wake...

at least the russians acknowledge russophobia...
oh they're pay privy diligence to it...
they know they're the evil geniuses of this world...
they allow this irrational fear to sink in...
and then they rationalise it...

too bad for islamophobia...
it's not an irrational fear to begin with...
it's... more or less... a rational fear...
i think russophobia is an irrational fear...
after all: Kiev was founded by Vikings...
and apart from crown russia that's still
pretty much in Europe...
the asiatic branch of russia is too far away
to matter for either st. petersburg
of paris...

it's not convincing to be "reassured" while
the "enemy" persists to look bewildered
as if: no event is ever to happen
in the world - or also include him...
muslims? oh no... oh no at almost every turn
it seems...
sacred cows walk the streets of new delhi
while the people starve...

no dire warning: tiresome from the perspective
of a wormhole -
the count and the next count
the measures and what's to be left
dwindling... which is never a spectacle worth
reserving...
like putting on a vinyl and watching
the vinyl on a gramaphone...
or lighting a candle with a sulphur-sparked
match and sitting and "waiting"
watching while the candle burns...
and feeds a schtick of "anorexia"
absorbs all the shadows and stands at
midnight noon: with no wax to burn...

that feeling of having just ****** off
and then... prostate cancer pains
of having to make it absolutely necessary
to take a ****... to clean the ducts...
i still don't know why this "event"
is so precious for the quasi-cenobites...
it's no big deal...
just another genocide done into
the tissue later flushed...
perhaps if i were... shooting eggs
without the yoke it would somehow
matter...
perhaps i am...

but there's no zeitgeist to be had
concerning something that i make synonym
with wiping my *** asking
for nutella... and a skippy crunchy...
because: that's going to be the decade
defining EVENT!

funny... you ******* for no real reason...
nothing procreative...
gym-bro bollocking and that's not even
as much fun as going to a turkish barber
for a shave...
by then: everything concerning your
being - that is not going to be a moral
tool to raise children...
limbo in ego or the ego in limbo -
and that's never self or i...
but after an *******...
the most desperate need to take a ****...
to flush and make the ducts pristine... wiped
with ***** disinfectant...

about as odd as the bass guitar rising above
the drums - the oddity bass "rhyme"
and please... no guitar solos...
no metallica death to the bass
all that i hear is solo and rhythm guitar
and the drums...
they never got over the death of cliff burton...
or: how the rock band killed
the jazz band... focused on the rhythm guitar
and drums... but no trumpets just the vocals...
but still... no better use for bass?

it's always either: all that's music and...
it was always going to be not enough ***...
enough *** or just ***...
i went down the route of playing the brothel
roulette to catch up with the girls...
who i expect will later play bingo...
and we will probably try to age...
and be all romance...
and the man idiotic will still preserve
himself as unable to lie...
and she will... m'eh ah and all that litany
of sighs find the purse and the penguin
dancing the foxtrot from out
of the antarctica of his own ***...

russophobia: yes, an irrational fear -
even the evil geniuses of moscow acknowledge
this burden...
islamophobia... and... what?
milk and honey and yeast
and comatose black gold of ms. saudi of
the dinosaur arabia plucked...
a leaf... a laurel... from the pages of history
of: who's the good dog willing
to aport on call of command?!
into iraq and iran?

i can't hear a counter...
when it comes to it being anything rationalised
equal to the russian monologue...
claustrophobia and... it's irrational to me...
esp. when long winding...
when the cube talked to a field about...
abstract thinking -
at least claustrophobia is a metaphor
for abstract thinking - the lesser -

islamophobia is a ***** word...
esp. the -phobia suffix...
it's a perfectly rational fear...
given the mouse-and-leans have the gears
the fuel and the poker and backgammon "rules"...
as someone who might appreciate
a well sung adhan more than
an operatic aria...
well...
what's not to love?

at least for some it's known:
a drowning man will attempt to grip
a razor's edge without hope that it might be
an edge of a floating raft...
and they will always purse their mouth...
and waggle their tongue for
the pennies like sand shrapnel from
the payers for the goods...
an emirat sheikh and... the bore of the world...
if only the lottery of oil...
somehow... landed... in mongolia...

this world is a tiresome place...
given that arabs have the money...
and the chinese have: g.i. joe factories...
it's such a drab place...
such a clone furnace of the numbers
of mandarins...
and oh that niqab cinema...
even if you sell me something swedish
in black & white drab...
or some proto-turkic propaganda movie
to convert the "al-qaq" kurds (qa-eee-d'ah?)

welcome to europe... ghetto west of berlin...
back east there are needles...
walking about on the mountains
of camel humps...
notably in west warsaw coach station...
but the ukranians are always rather:
rowing the boat and the boat is always
heading into the furnace...

crab-bucket intellectualism...
these words are words that should be printed
and left on the northern line tube carriages...
like some free journalism paper wipe-my-***-with-i-wish,
why of course!
the highest i.q. renovations bottom-up to the top
always spreschen rhapsodies in wrap...
wrapping akin to:
i imagine the rappers chasing those...
john moschitta jr. is not a wrapper... rapper...
he's the add guy... and no rap on radio
adverts... when the T&S clauses are stressed...
and the muzak is dead and the lift is... falling...
like a ice-pick on the one dancing foot
of a burning burning with epitome given
the name... malchik trotting trotsky...

otherwise: blah - and endeavours into the bland...
some call it a guillotine...
i call it manglonia in england -
tiresome safe -
i almost pray to feel dangerous having
to acquire a straitjacket -
straitjacket bungee jump into conversation
like a rabid hive of the persona non grata:
of the commentary left-overs a priori
to the: walking onto the stage -
and talking with a gag in the mouth...
to speak a language for moths.

Just before midnight on scant-traveled roads,
the stream of each streetlamp hypnotically flows.
No one dreads the hours ahead
for onward through darkness we silently tread.

Nocturne and noontide, our wayfaring tsoris
dissolves in the preludes of a botanical chorus.
Echoes of muzak crackle in waves
as rhapsodies soothe our youthful malaise.

Over the moorland, into the canyon,
under the silken moon.

The Gods are money sound these days.
and priests have marketing degrees -
The faithful, called to worship
by giant plasma screens,
in mega-shopping sanctuaries
selling salvation through merchandising.

At the Church of Holy Consumption
all denominations are welcome –
hundreds, twenties, tens.
All the hymns are sung by Muzak -
the readings daily specials.

A sister spritzes us with holy essence
(The bottle's 40 bucks an ounce).          
Leave your offerings at the till -
major credit cards accepted.

When worship time is up,
sign the dollar across your chest
and bend a knee to the talking head
cooing soothing benedictions,

“Go in Peace, my child. You’re worth it.”

*January,  2007

What's my name?
Take that universal,
that yeah yeah, that
ohm and play it backwards.
I'm that undercurrent,
the invisible force that pushes the hand, that pushes
the red button, that levels seven stories--for?

What's my name?
Take that post-post-modern literature,
that self-serving academia-meets-nihilism,
and think as far opposite, Herculaneum/Uruk,
and you might just find it, my name,
carved in Aramaic or Latin in a dark wet cave,
forgotten, misspelled in a dead language.

What's my name?
Look just past that buffering screen,
right before the pixelated beheading starts.
I'm between the zeroes and ones in that heaven-place,
the Internet, where people go when the final death takes.

What's my name?
Take that ever so subtle airport terminal muzak,
and listen for the counterpoint, the competing rhythm.
It, my name, swirls and mingles with that ever flowing
crowd, weary and reduced to numbered tickets and departure times,
speaking fifty different languages, a flattened and recurring Babel.
Take that ohm, and play it, play it backwards.

Tim sounds nice. I mean reads nice. By what you described, he seems like he treats you alright. Rock n' roll. Movin' on. Proud of you.

Sorry he found that letter I wrote you a few weeks ago. Though it means a lot you kept it. Aren't remnants of past lovers interesting? It's not enough for us to take pieces of each other as we press forward, but we also have to leave little trinkets to remind of the good, the bad, and indifferent times.

Tara left her favorite burnt, metallic necklace with a blue buddha charm embedded in the carpet when I lived at 2307. Thousands of hairpins were hidden throughout the place when Sam and I split. You threw that gypsy bracelet in the grass by the streetlight -- the one I got you in Colorado.

Karen didn't leave much with me. Instead certain shirts and pajama pants of mine -- became hers. She put a smell on them. I still can't wear the clothes; though I also can't get rid of them. I'm a hoarder. Keep all the memories for myself.

Do you ever dream of me?

No, I haven't seen Easter Island again. I looked Sunday night at O'Brien's. I imagine she was in one of those modern restaurants --  Japanese trees, Muzak -- with her white napkin folded neatly in her lap, drinking ice water, and humoring some fast-talking crazer who has a snowball's chance in hell with her. If I ever find the energy, I'd like to be that crazer.

Yes, I'm still night driving. I've got a big adventure planned for tomorrow. I'll tell you all about it. Tell me something honest in your next letter. Something you're afraid to tell me.

I'll learn to accept Tim. I promise.

Frisked at customs...sphere-d Muzak...
upped and away...rife, with non address.
Photonic personification...perceptible, yet...
imperceptible gestures Godspeed-ed--
sheer forgetfulness...the genius of remembrance--
Expiration Dates.

i pity the man who was unable to
shed a tear on the basis of
being animal, hiding behind reason
and whatever other "tool" came
his way...
                 a man unable to see a wild
in a petting: in the unfathomed
with a nature...
                 with which i reply for
a castrated pedigree: that's ******* cruel!
but no, it was always going
to be the shortlived extract from / by
an account of Judas...
      it would actually speak the words:
more harm done to a castrated male:
than a castrated female...
    call that to claim a male or a female,
the practice still stands:
   the male genitals are more
protruding than a female's -
  and that involves: searching for a loss
rather than owning it...
why does poetry have to become
this claim for idealism,
   this: "ideal love of mine":
waiting "unexplored"?
         what does the term cultural
relativism actually mean -
when we live in the abhorrent times
of moral relativism -
since we know that America is worth
citing, in cultural absolutism:
ZEE VEST IST ZEE BESTE!
   ZEE VEST IST ZEE BESTE!
   the **** is culturally "relative"
  about that statement?
         you can't spot a ******* quasi-Adolf
sniffing in your backdoor to call
in the hind of relativism?
cultural what?!
           America is known for
cultural absolutism, there's nothing
"relative" about it...
the only relativism is equivalent to
a Mongolian playing
a harmonica grass-reed -
           because: why would you
compete with either expression?
       the hamburger is the perfect sandwich
while a prosciutto ciabatta is
dog meat...
                  well... either one came from
the devil's ****: or neither did...
   when i was in Russia i could
eat crêpe avec caviar...
            but that's apparent so bad i need
to appreciate: a regurgitation of
meat...
               but the oh so benevolent
     media enterprises of personna need to tell
how to: buckle down, shut up,
   and keep it: globalisation veering into
claustrophobia...
            but no... the best only knows
champagne und schwarz kaviar...
   no, not the common people orange: kaviar...
but it knows beef dog meat and
pompous meat-head muscle flexing:
it knows that!
         hey, come by some time we'll
**** each other off wondering whether
there actually exists a cultural "relativism"
and if it's hard for the "common" folk to
integrate an absolutism with their
culture-nation... which already exhists
as counter the academic:
            nation-state...
      America is a culture-nation...
        it's not a nation-state...
              why the hell would i need so
much America without having a chance to:
taste their guacamole?
  but you can nonetheless eat a
                         crêpe avec caviar
in chez Russie...
sure, they play ****** muzak of
classical greats at a fountain ceremony...
but i bet you my *** had i
the parental guidance: i'd be at home
in Siberia like a sushi herring in salty water...
it's just an itchiness that bothers me...
     dog meat over caviar...
western chauvinism of the man-child...
      i can't compete with a 2nd tier of
playground...
                it was fun the first time around:
2nd time around?
    can't be bothered:
  i rather be this alcoholic loser than play
this idiotic game of:
  the toys we managed to get without
having our parents to have to get them...
well i managed to collect a library while
my parents went on holiday to the Maldives...
****, am i looking at a hippopotamus
or an elephant?!
          i don't buy cultural relativism
in the same way that the ancient greeks
didn't buy into a moral relativism:
    after all: there's either good, or evil -
absolutely -
       ha ha... so in culturally "relative"
terms france is also ascribed a global stage
to compete with america?!
                           no it isn't...
america is: culturally absolutist -
  in that there is no nation-state ascribed to it...
for what remains of america is
the currently declining: culture-nation.
      **** it: i still had my crêpe avec caviar
in St. Petersburg...
        so i really have to celebrate
that dog meat's worth of a hamburger?
you have a dog i can borrow?

Don't ever tell me that
I need a man to ground me,
To stable me, to protect me,
To reign me in;
A man to be the bit in my mouth,
The collar at my throat,
The bars of a cage
Like I'm some wild animal.
If I did need a man,
I don't need to feel
The weight of his control
Crushing down on my ribs,
The incessant ticking of his
Calculator mind
Playing overhead like muzak.

For the love of all good,
Do not suffer me
The cautionary tales told from a lover's lips.
They slither down my throat
With their false slimy sweetness,
"I tell you this for your own good,
Baby, I promise, I love you."
But their faces twist with the words
And their hands clench,
And you know they're really just
Waiting for you to shut the hell up,
You're making a scene.

You can't pair a poet
With a grounded man,
The same way you can't pair
A lily with a flytrap,
A rhinoceros with a lapdog.
I was not meant for the life
Of a housekeeper,
Bound hands and feet
To the homestead,
My sole purpose in life
To cook and clean,
To serve and produce
Squealing piglets succeeding
In his pigheaded line.
I need more than that, so
Don't try to force feed me my "man,"
Mr. Sensibility, Mr. Every Woman's Dream,
Mr. Right,
I don't want him.

Give me a man who writes,
Ballads and sonnets and epics
With words handcrafted
By decadent Grecian gods,
Who spends his nights bent
Over an antiquated typewriter,
Rushing to get the mid-dream thought
Down on paper.
A man who paints his soul,
Turns a blank canvas
Into an emotion,
Raw and real and ravaging,
Who will wait patiently
While his model fidgets
Just so he can get
The ***** of her neck just right.
A man who plays music
Sweet and soft and slow
Serenading me to sleep
When the night is cold,
Who hears songs in
The rustle of rabbit's feet
And the whisper of slumbering breath.

I don't want a man to hold me down,
To show me how to act.
I want a man to create with,
To fight with and play with,
A man who loves with encouragement,
And not reprimand.
I am not a mistake to be corrected,
And I don't need a man
That will convince me otherwise.

sitting by the window.
with the sounds of some nondescript
parisian accordion sounding
bourgeoisie muzak playing overhead.
all the while I write poetry in a coffee shop.
*******
this may be the trite-est of ironies
any explanation would not be weight bearing
for this ridiculous setting.
only suitable for student films,
with a beret on top.
who by no fault of their own
originate in new york
by way of black and white paree.
cigarettes and drowsy violins,
odd bedfellows and conjoined twins.

if you are seriously listening
to genuine folk songs of the world

     not to the muzak that pervades all malls

after a while you find yourself
     floating into these worlds  of ancient tunes
     imagining an ambience  of ages past
whose melodies have kept their power over centuries
and still keep tickling legs and bodies
     in our days
     of young and old

these melodies of our ancestors
simply remind us that they,
     too,
did know a thing or two

about the joy
     of living

actually, the only home i have are the muddy fields of belgium during world war i, or among the jews, but given the jews are settled, i guess i better daydream: i mean i never got the cultural imprint of the english idea of dating... put me in the Czech Republic and i'd be freely participating in ****** any day... this stiffening date-culture never appealed to me, it always felt like a divorce before a marriage: so no amorous fun with body but fun in making out in cordiality of being fully dressed and lapping palettes up with tongue rather than the *******, as if throwing a coconut at Robinson Crusoe? yes?! ah crap... point towards the Zulu clan, i just feel the need to strip naked.*

yeah, i believe in meow-meow land,
that's the country next to la-la-land...
where you're trying to sterilise
yourself in terms of organic
historicity and integrate yourself
in terms of inorganic sterilisation
via importing alien values to hush
the monogamy crescendo of failure.
with the irish telling you:
ain't no english...
and with scots you shout back:
there's no thing as to be treated impossible
whether in thought about or moved!
the irish want you to have a coarse
enough accent as them so you can be belittled...
i always favoured the scots, warm-hearted *******,
and i too the first hairy-shinned trans-gender
kilt loving twirly girl of a music box
of cherry tree cheaply picked Muzak
for the thrills of shopping for cardigans and pineapples.

Much music is like magick
Stampeding cross the mind
Drumming up a rhythm rare
Which purest passion lies behind

Musicality’s parade
Is everlasting, dear
Each note is a joy, delight
Sensuous and sheer

I yearn to bond with melody
That medicine of muse
Which heals the tender malady
My spirit sore, contused

The **** Name List*

The Alarm **** - This is a good **** for the beginner. It is easy to identify. It starts with a loud unnaturally high note, wavers like a siren, and ends with a quick downward note that stops before you expect it to. It sounds like something is wrong. If it happens to you, you will know right off why it is called the Alarm ****. You will be alarmed. The alarm **** however is rare.

The Amplified **** - This is any **** that gets its power more from being amplified than from the **** itself. A metal porch swing will amplify a **** every time. So will a plywood table,and empty fifty gallon drum, a tin roof, or some empty cardboard boxes if they are strong through being amplified in this way can be called an Amplified ****. These are common farts under the right conditions. For example, if you're sitting on an empty 55-gallon steel drum.

The Anticipated **** - This one warns that it is back there waiting for some time before it arrives. A person who is uneasy for a time in a crowd and who later farts at a time when they think no one will notice has farted an Anticipated ****.

The Back Seat **** - This is a **** that occurs only in automobiles. It is identified chiefly by odor. The Back Seat **** can usually be concealed by traffic noise as it is an eased-out **** and not very loud. But its foul odor will give it away, due to the way air moves around in a car. It is often followed by someone saying, "Who farted in the back seat?"

The Barn Owl **** - A familiarity with owl calls is helpful in identifying this ****. Almost any morning if you get up just before daybreak you can hear one of these birds talking to himself. It's a sort of a crazy laugh, particularly the way it ends. If you hear a **** that has about eight notes in it, ending on a couple of down notes, and it sounds maniacal, you have heard the rare Barn Owl ****.

The Bathtub **** - People who would never in their life know one **** from another, who would like to act like **** don't exist, will have to admit that a Bathtub **** is something special. It is the only **** you can see! What you see is the bubbles. The Bathtub **** can be either single or multiple noted and fair or foul as to odor. It makes no difference. The farter's location is what does it. Maybe there is a kind of muffled pong and one big bubble. Or there may be a ping ping ping and a bunch of bubbles. The sound I should point out depends somewhat on the depth of the water, and even more on the tub. If it is one of those big old heavy tubs with the funny legs you can get terrific sound effects. While one of the new thin ones half buried in the floor can be disappointing.

The Biggest **** in the World **** - Like the great bald eagle, this **** is pretty well described just by its name. This can either be a group one or a group two **** and can occur just about anywhere. I heard it one time, a group two identification, in a crowded high school auditorium one night, right in that silence that happens when a room full of people has stopped singing the Star Spangled Banner and sat down. It came from the back. There was not a soul in that room that missed it. A **** like that can be impressive. The most diagnostic characteristic of the Biggest **** In The World is it size.**** freaks who go around showing off, farting like popcorn machines, and making faces before they **** or asking you to pull their finger and then they ****, never have what it takes for this one, which is rare even among your most serious farter's.

The Bitburr: Sounds like just that--you're walking and the initial explosion "BIT!--" during one step is followed by a more gentle release of the rest of the volume during the next step: "brrrrrr..."

The Bullet **** - Its single and most pronounced diagnostic characteristic is its sound. It sounds like a rifle shot. The farter can be said to have snapped it off. It can startle spectators and farter alike. Fairly common following the eating of the more common **** foods, such as beans.

The Burning Brakes **** - A silent **** identified by odor alone. Usually and adult ****, occurring while the adult is driving a car or has a front seat passenger who farts. The Burning Brakes **** actually does smell a little like burning brakes, and seems to hang around longer than most farts Which gives whoever farted a chance to make a big show of checking to see if the emergency brake has been left on. When he finds it hasn't you know who farted. A common automobile ****.

The Car Door **** - Either a group one or a group two ****. Very tricky. It is meant to be a concealed ****. A matter of close timing is involved, the farter trying to **** at the exact moment he slams the car door shut. It is usually a good loud ****. It is one of the funnier farts when it doesn't work, which is almost every time. It is a desperation **** and not too common.

The Celestial **** - Not to be confused with the Did An Angel Speak ****, which is simply any loud **** in church. The Celestial **** is soft and delicate, surprising in a boy or an adult. It is probably the most shy of all farts and might be compared with the wood thrush, a very shy bird. It does not have the sly or cunning sound of the Whisper ****. It is just a very small clear **** with no odor at all. Very rare.

The Chicken Soup ****: One day I had chicken soup for lunch at work and then stopped off at the gym after work. When it came on, I eased it out, covered by the gym's muzak. It smelled exactly like chicken soup. A few feet away some woman sniffed and said; "Is somebody cooking?" I had to turn to the wall to hide my laughter.

The Chinese Firecracker **** - This is an exceptional multiple noted **** identified by the number, and variety of its noises, mostly pops and bangs. Often when you think it is all over, it still has a few pops and bangs to go. In friendly company this one can get applause. Uncommon.

The Command **** - This **** differs from the Anticipated **** in that it can be held for long periods of time waiting for the right moment. Unlike the Anticipated ****, it is intended to be noticed. Harold Tabor recently held a Command **** for the whole period in history class and let it go right at the end when the teacher asked if there were any questions.

The Common **** - This **** needs little description. It is to the world of farts what the house sparrow is to the world of birds. I can see no point in describing this far any further.

The Crowd **** - The Crowd **** is distinguished by its very potent odor, strong enough to make quite a few people look around. The trick here is not to identify the **** but the farter. This is almost impossible unless the farter panics, and starts a fit of coughing or starts staring at the ceiling or the sky as though something up there fascinates him. In which case he is the one. Very common.

The Cushioned **** - A concealed ****, sometimes successful. The farter is usually on the fat side, sometimes a girl. They will squirm and push their **** way down into the cushions of a sofa or over-stuffed chair and ease-out a **** very carefully without moving then or for some time after. Some odor may escape, but usually not much. Common with some people.

The Did An Angel Speak **** - This is any loud **** in church. This **** was first called to my attention by my father. He probably read about it somewhere. For **** watchers who go to church, this is a good one to watch for as this is the only place it can be found.

The Dud **** - The Dud **** is not really a **** at all. It's a **** that fails. For this reason it is strictly a group one identification ****, because there is no real way you can identify a **** that somebody else expected to **** but didn't. It is the most private of all farts. In most cases the farter usually feels a little disappointed.

The Echo **** - This is a **** that can be wrongly identified. It is not some great loud **** in an empty gym or on the rim of the Grand Canyon. The true Echo **** is a **** that makes its own echo. It is a two-toned ****, the first tone loud, then a pause, and then the second tone. Like an echo.

The G and L **** - This is one of the most ordinary and pedestrian of farts, known to everyone. Certainly it is the least gross. If you have not already guessed, G and L stands for Gambled and Lost. One of the most embarrassing of all farts, even when you are alone.

The Ghost **** - A doubtful **** in most cases, as it is supposed to be identified by odor alone and to occur, for instance, in an empty house. You enter and smell a ****, yet no one is there. People will insist that only a **** could have that odor, but some believe it is just something that happens to smell like a ****.

The Hic-Hachoo-**** **** - This is strictly an old lady's ****. What happens is that the person manages to hiccough, sneeze, and **** all at the same time. After an old lady farts a Hic-Hachoo-**** **** she will usually pat her chest and say, "My, oh my," or "Well, well." There is no reason she should not be proud, as this is probably as neat an old person's **** as there is.

The **** **** - The **** **** is a **** by a **** who smirks, smiles, grins, and points to himself in case you missed it. It is usually a single-noted, off-key, fading away, sort of whistle ****, altogether pitiful, but the **** will act as if he has just farted the Biggest **** in the World ****.

The John **** - The John **** is simply any ordinary **** farted on the john. It is naturally a group one identification, with the sound, whatever it was, somewhat muffled. If it is all the person's trip to the john amounted to he will be disappointed for sure. Common as pigeons.

The Lead **** - The heaviest of all farts. It sounds like a dropped ripe watermelon. Or a falling body in some cases. It is the only **** that goes thud. Except for the odor, which is also very heavy, it could be missed altogether as a ****. What was that, you might think? And never guess.

The Malted Milk Ball **** - Odor alone is diagnostic and positively identifies this ****. It smells exactly like malted milk *****. No other food works this way. It is rare.

The Oh My God **** - This is the most awful and dreadful stinking of all farts - a **** that smells like a month-old rotten egg - as the Oh My God ****. If you should ever encounter it, however, you may first want to say, oh sht, which would be understandable.

The Omen **** - This is the adult version of the Poo-Poo ****. About the only difference is that the farter will not say anything. He will just look kind of funny and head for the john. This one is easy to spot if you pay attention.

The Organic **** - Sometimes called the Health Food Nut ****. The person who farts an Organic **** may be talking about the healthy food he eats even when he farts. If he is heavily into health foods he may even ask if you noticed how good and pure and healthy his **** smells. It may smell to you like any other ****, but there is no harm in agreeing with him. He is doing what he thinks is best.

The Quiver **** - A group one identification **** only. When you ****, it quivers. If it tickles, then it is the Tickle ****. If you have to scratch it, then it is the Scratchass ****.

The Rambling Phaduka **** - You must not be fooled by its pretty-sounding name, as this is one of the most frightening of all farts. It is frightening to farter and spectator alike. It has a sound of pain to it. What is most diagnostic about it, however, is its length. It is the longest-lasting **** there is. It will sometimes leave the farter unable to speak. As though he has had the wind knocked out of him. A strong, loud, wavering ****, it goes on for at least fifteen seconds.

The Relief **** - Sound or odor don't matter on this one. What matters is the tremendous sense of relief that you have finally farted. Some people will even say, "Wow, what a relief." Very common.

The Reluctant **** - This is probably one of the oldest farts known to man. The Reluctant **** is a **** that seems to have a mind of its own. It gives the impression that it likes staying where it is. It will come when it is ready, not before. This can take half-a-day in some instances.

The Rusty Gate **** - The sound of this **** seems almost impossible for a ****. Is is the most dry and squeaky sound a **** can make. The Rusty Gate **** sounds as if it would have worked a lot easier if it had been oiled. It sounds like a **** that hurts.

The S.B.D. **** - S.B.D. stands for Silent But Deadly. This is no doubt one of the most common farts that exists. No problem of identification with this one.

The Sandpaper **** - This one scratches. Otherwise it may not amount to much. You should remember that if you reach back and scratch, it automatically becomes a Scratchass ****. Common.

The Shower ****: These are a lot worse than bathtub farts, due to conditions of humidity and heat. George Carlin once said that you can tolerate the smell of your own farts, but shower farts are the exception to that rule.

The Skillsaw **** - A truly awesome ****. It vibrates the farter. Really shakes him up. People back away. It sounds like an electric skillsaw ripping through a piece of half-inch plywood. Very impressive. Not too common.

The Snart: This is a **** that you succeed in suppressing so as not to not to offend, but then a sneeze jars it loose.

The Sonic Boom **** - The people who believe in this **** claim it is even bigger than the Biggest **** In The World ****. The Sonic Boom **** is supposed to shake the house and rattle the windows. This is ridiculous. No **** in the world shakes houses and rattles windows. A **** that could do that would put the farter into orbit or blow his crazy head off.

The Splatter **** - Unfortunately the Splatter **** exists. It is the wettest of all farts. It probably should not be called a **** at all.

The Stutter **** - If you think stuttering is funny, this is a very funny ****. It is a **** that can't seem to get going. The sound is best described as pt,pt,pt-pt,pt-pt-pt,pop,pop-pop-pop-POW! It is usually a forced-out **** that gets caught crossways, as they say, and only gets farted after considerable effort.

The Taco Bell **** - The Taco Bell **** is far richer and full-bodied than your ordinary Junk **** and takes longer to build up. Sometimes hours or even a day. But it will get there. And it will hang around after, too. Even on a windy day.

The Teflon **** - Slips out without a sound and no strain at all. A very good **** in situations where you would rather not **** at all. You can be talking to someone and not miss saying a word. If the wind is right he will never know.

The Thank God I'm Alone **** - Everyone knows this rotten ****. You look around after you have farted and say, "Thank God I'm alone." Then you get out of there fast!

The Tickle **** - A group one only and one of the easiest to identify. Usually a slow soft sort of ****. If you like being tickled this is the **** for you!

The Unconscious **** - My friend is asleep and snoring and they let out a couple of farts without know it.



Other Names For Farts

nouns
verbs
aerosolized stool
after dinner mint
air
air attack
air biscuit
air monkey
air ****
**** acoustics
**** announcement
**** escape of wind
**** emissions
**** oxide
**** retreat
**** evacuation
Arkansas barking spiders
ars musica
**** blast
*** dropping
backblast
backdoor trumpet
back draft
back end blow out
bae
barking rats
barking spiders
bean bombers
bean fumes
****** leaver
beer ****
belching clown
big spit-up
bilabial fricative
blampf
blare-***
Blat
blow-by
blow fish
blue angel
blue bomber
blue darts
blurp
bologna sandwich essence
boomper letters
bork
bottom burp
botty burp
botty cough
bram
brewer's ****
brown-body radiation
brown haze
brown mist
brown speckled mallard
brownster
brun canard
bubblers
buck snort or bucksnort
bull snort
*** and flutter
bunsen burners
burners
burp that went astray
burp that comes out the wrong end
**** burps
**** cheek squeak
**** moose
**** mutt
**** trumpet
can o' chedder
carpet creeper
case of swamp ***
cheeser
cheese toasty
chert
chold
chou pi
chunder
churchhouse creepers
******* tremor
crepidus
crunchy frog
cushion creepers
davebrok
deer snort
dej
desert varnish
doofu
doozer
doozy
double flutterblast
drifters
dr

i’m not here to pay my taxes
blah!
octopi strings attached into thinking
i’d down a bottle of *** without the hawaiian angels!
to hell with you!!!
she’s
the last cause i have of me,
but it’s
the one that makes billions accounted for
in history, dead numbering 70,000
by only one historian's care for facts, that's
when history is dyslexic with numbers instead of words,
it says: solomon's appetite, the reverse onomatopoeia
recorded of hum? mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm... *******
waves of virginia ah wooooooo!

*um um dumb d’uh 9 oh 6, 5 ah ah index pinky 1 2 3... ******* retards... throw that alsatian off the red brick wall to learn a few mannerisms of broken feet! i’ve had enough! pickle those foetuses in brine for emperor peter the great to intercede! i’ve had enough of the philistine peasants! i’m going coo coo in the artefact of the rolling composers loosing it in the muzak spectacle of the st. petersburg fountain; give me davy jones’ eternity on loop without insect ***** or interactant activity of the interpreted state of affairs, for the dictator to civilise his “insects” and reel in a misery that could never be a puppeteer’s excess shadow of string with the shadows wholly formed into balance of a hand picking up a stone excusing any excess of cobweb to interfere.

z rodziną najsolidniej na zdięciach i w wspomnieniach / with family most solidly tied on photographs and in memories.

and to start off we have king george v
(1865 - 1936) - a doppelgänger of
tsar nicholas ii (1868 - 1918) -
indeed nice photographs but even nicer
photographs of the trenches -
perhaps the oedipus complex only works
on Wilhelms, notably the 2nd -
but dear oh dear O me - looking at them
looking as recordings by the duke of Edinburgh,
or should i say Count Edibletoothpick
as one man said: 'the joke was, i was to either
shove a hundred toothpicks up my ***
rather than get impaled, i chose the toothpick
torture...'
you call this a refined elocution?
most of the time i don't understand them -
ooh chirpy chirpy chow - neglected i call that
aristocratic tongue -
but for kings, queens, princes and princesses,
2nd cousins and all those lookalikes
(princess Eugenie is a blossom -
no fish-eyes in sight, i'm telling ye you
tractor handler, spur the mechanical beast
on into 5ft gear riding alongside
MOD scooters - 30 miles per hour and tears
in their eyes) -
anyway, indeed refined elocution,
a postage stamp on every american tongue,
or a lysergic acid get together of high society -
indeed refined elocution...
but these ornate in jewels crowns and fine linen
are beggars of vocabulary!
ten out of ten on elocution, two out of ten -
housed in glorious castles they have a vocabulary
of a moose (not insulting the moose of course) -
terrible riches in the vault of vocabulary -
the vault is like a street with a Frank Sinatra
muzak (elevator music) pennies from heaven,
it's not even the sort of quiz show altar for one
word kept too keenly remember,
usually a phobia, like the fear of beards
(what about the fear of bearded ladies?) -
pogonophobia - or the fear of ponytails? that too;
but then current news, gotta take a capital
stance: IN A PICKLE OVER LEAKING ART...
the ****** culprits,
Hi R St. scientists claim that dangerous
levels of formaldehyde are leaking
from the pickling of a cow and a shark -
b of the bang, a piece by doubting thomas
  heatherwok dismantled after spikes
  were falling, cost of construction £2 million,
  sold on a scrap heap for £17 thousand -
  sunflower seeds* by Wei Woo Hey
   created a health hazard with people
   walking on the porcelain seeds
   where one avid art admirer
   spotted the ghost of Spinoza in a corner -
dreamspace blew over and two people died
(by Maurice Assisi) -
   a huge umbrella by an anonymous artist
flew off and crushed a woman against a rock -
modern art, a killer - and this is still only
the third page of today's newspaper -
but imagine how a newspaper looked like
from thursday april 22nd 1926 -
well, it looked like footnotes and bibliographies
of books: tightly knit, even Sherlock Holmes
was reading it with a magnifying glass -
almost like terms & conditions sized print -
it wasn't so much a case for literacy but good
eyesight and a magnifying glass.

i'll be bevis, but mind your **** to be ****-head.

as i say to most girls:
depressed in the teens
eager thailand
for a quckie after...
girl your libido is morbid
enough to *sprech greek ******
of the noose:
and i'm hanging, sure i am...
hanging limp...
there's you with a better biology
statistic living into widowhood;
i'll ******* rolling in the grave
like mozart with one of his symphonies
turned into advert / muzak for
a fridge door opening and counting
your calorie intake... or an elevator going
up without aerosmith.

i've cooked plenty of curries in my life
(in the back of my mind there's this mainstream
narrative that comes to the fore
with buzz-words like: "cultural appropriation"...
so i can't cook a curry for myself
i need someone native of the "concept" of curry
to cook it for me? the use of cumin, coriander seeds...
star anise... cardamom pods is off-limits
for me? like donning a sombrero?
i hate acronyms but, in this instance i'll just
keep it short and shrimp-y i.e. w.t.f.?!)
but what i recently conjured up has become
a... revelation...
i know that the taste profile of some Asiatic
people: the Chinese love their dichotomy of
sweet & sour... as well as sweet & salty...
come to think of it: i like those profiles too:
salted caramel is the next big taboo topic?!
the first proper revelation came to me via...
refika's lavash & hammered beef recipe...
she's on youtube: it's so **** when a woman
as voluptuous as her knows how to cook...
plus the ol' raven hair: beyond that...
it's not that she knows how to cook:
i can trust her to cook...
    not that i was willing to make lavash from
raw goods... i can buy that...
the genius is instilled in the marinate...
what was it...
oh hell... my beard is itchy... i guess at the mere
thought of eating this dish...
sea salt, pepper, lots of peppercorns...
fresh garlic, fresh rosemary (thankfully i have
a garden and i have rosemary in it)
dried chillies (whole or flakes)
olive oil, white wine vinegar...
into the pestle & mortar...
the beef thinly sliced then marinating for
15 minutes at best: the vinegar tenderising
the meat quicker...
fried for 2 minutes or whatever time it takes
until you see the meat pouring out the most
hidden blot clots...
but beef & rosemary?! huh! who would have
thought... i certainly wouldn't have...
sure... LAMB & rosemary...
but beef?
oddly enough the meat works just as well
when topped with English cheddar...
you don't need a Turkish cheese...
but that's not even the end of the story...
of the lavash wrap...
it's the side dish...
the onions! slice the onions into crescent moons...
squeeze them to get the party going...
they must be red onions... some salt...
some more white wine vinegar & let them pickle
for a while... after the "while" add some
sumac (i also add some gochugaru chilli flakes...
for colour and tingling buzz)
SUMAC... topped off with some fresh parsley...
i could be writing about my escapades
in the brothel... but this is so much better...
what's ***? meat you can't eat...
at the end... it's meat you can't eat...
tease it, nibble it: but you're not going to eat it...
i very much like the ethereal nature
of cooking: it reminds me of the time i studied
chemistry in Edinburgh and conjured up
Esters from scratch...
Esters? oh, those scented compounds used
in the perfume industry...
yet today i came across an even bigger revelation...
Indian cuisine? done... Chinese... no problem...
the number of curries i made in my life...
eh... ha...
            hell: even the Hungarian goulash
for a massive potato "pancake"... garnished
with something sour... cabbage most likely...
or at least a coleslaw to off-set the smoky-paprika
taste...
green peppers a must...
of course you need some sprinkle of paprika
on the lavash wrap-up...
for colour: to "combat" the "insanity"
of cheese... & some extra pepper....
& rosemary...

well you can't exactly call a stew a curry
a sauce or jue... it's not  juice if it's a juce...
some "chew"...
esp. not in the Persian cuisine...
pity me at me at my self-wallowing in being
cosmopolitan on the outskirts...
i'll take one step into the night
and i'll be met with the resounding
presence of foxes...
i stopped being bothered about BWV 988
being just a cliché...
which it of course is...
so many pieces of classical music were once
beautiful...
now... in the gulag of the muzak...
they have become: morphed...
hardly stand-alone pieces of music...
moonlight sonata being the "other" over-emphasis
of needing to match-up to the demands
of / for mass consumption...

i hope this doesn't read like some foodie
blog... every time i want to replicate a recipe
i have to scroll down through so many
self-congratulatory deviances
from the narrative... none of these food blogs
seem stressed about giving out
what's needed:
the list of ingredients... eh... the methodology
doesn't really bother me...
i always miss the click-of-the-button
where i can simply get to the knitty-gritty...
there's always "some story"... some care to grasp
at some "authenticity":
it's almost like rereading Wittgenstein and
his focus on tautology!

come to think of it...
i watch out for tautologies...
like i watch out for metaphors and misnomers
and the... ahem "air quotes":
you can't stretch it as far as a metaphor?
then we'll be stretching it into a misnomer
status...

FESENJAN...
it's not like the Persians were not knocking
at "our" doors since... perhaps time immemorial...
what about that off-shoot tribe of Aryans:
the Sarmatians settling in the basin
of the Vistula?
funny... the concept of the Aryans...
that the Germans espoused it...
while... historically... never mind...

it's not a curry! it's a Persian stew...
i couldn't fathom it at first...
you make a walnut paste...
you toast 'em...
salt, pepper, sugar...
some of the usual suspects appear:
like cumin...
cinnamon...
    but then you get:
pomegranate molasses...
and fresh pomegranate seeds to garnish... with...
you also use fresh parsley instead of coriander...
only one tablespoon of tomato puree...
some ground almonds...
a pepper: which, along with a can of
chickpeas somehow, "somehow" managed
to disappear in the sauce...
garlic... sure... ginger? no...
onion... yes...

         i knew that Persian cuisine tickled
the sour fancies... but i never knew to what
extent! zest of a lemon: juice of a lemon...
no aubergine... this time...
turmeric: the peasant's version of saffron...
no difference... you can sprinkle some of that
anti-bleach magical dust and it works
just as well as a pinch of saffron...
but we're talking about the sauce...
cinnamon i already mentioned:
even though you can use acacia bark as
a substitute... pepper: already mentioned...
honey...
imagine my shock: no mention of a canned
lot of plum tomatoes...
******* roasted walnuts...
pomegranate molasses...
tomato puree...
ciućpajza...

this wasn't a curry... walnuts, though... when roasted?
ahem... "cultural appropriation"
of the Indians using cashews... & almonds
in their Korma... but walnuts?!
hey presto... some Turkish ingenuity combining
beef with rosemary!

is my native tongue a dodo lingo?
i'm just... wondering...
perhaps with the omnipresence of English
we'll all be savvy cosmopolitan nomads
by the end of this century...
i still manage to squeeze in a word:
or two... into my currency of the current:
lingo... but... the point
of: no one's speaking it beside me...
it's not a rhetorical question...
it's not even a question to begin with /
per se... it's a... vague obligation to:
some mustard seed metaphor sort of "power"...

youtube used to be such a fun website...
until the wallets started rummaging
hyping up...self-tutorial videos of make-up:
cover-up...
it used to be (this)... now it's... )this(...
sure... don't blame women...
it's not like Helen wasn't fabled for gearing up
a thousand ships...
Eva Braun wasn't Jewish... no no!
she wasn't... wi- do you really need the suffix
-nk?!

a grammar school playground filled with only
boys... hey... presto!
a girl comes in...
        what's going to happen?
the worst things... imaginable...
i'm giving birth to a shadow...
she's curious about giving birth to the gambit
of: more time... please...
i can be done with all of this spectacle in
a moment... she needs this misery to continue...
come to think of it...
i don't think the supposed
"forbidden" fruit of Eden did anything to Adam...
i think the fruit was a placebo...
he just towed his ******* ******* along
to experience the wind & the dangle...
whatever the metaphor of Moses implies...
ignorant of dinosaurs?!
seriously...
there's a talking spine of a t-rex...
there are the crocodiles of the Nile...
there's the imagining of a large fire-breathing lizard:
a dragon...
oh sure... the idea of dinosaurs wasn't somehow:
unconsciously implanted into us...
dragons precursor the discovery of dinosaur bones...
don't they?! don't they?!
imagining dragons precursor our discovery of
dinosaur bones!
no?! no?!
hell-oh... Pandora... how's tomorrow?
oh, right... can't say... just like today then?!

since the usual quest of bypassing the atypical
gatekeepers has been... quenched...
i'm no Tolstoy...
western democracy is worried about democracy
per se:
ooh... something terrible is bound to happen!
some terrible has been happening since
time immemorial...
it's only inflated:
in a society bound by glorifying sociopaths &
psychopaths...
the fakery escalates... so much of this culture
is bound to celebrate: hardly the opera singer...
hardly the poet... forever & until more
the Thespian... you know what happens to a culture
where only one art-form is given:
too much attention it deserves?
there was that period of time when
poetry was celebrated... when the western
letf-oids seemed rather... refreshing...
what now?

           let's go back to civilisation based on
the motto: we need carrots!
we need cabbage! we ******* need root vegetables...
oh forget the fruits...
that's not important for us...
winter is coming: a warm winter...
to borrow a phrase:
how can there be any hyperboreans:
what eternal sunshine?
i think of an eternal night...

               when i think of the wind:
there's not one... there are 8...
the wind from the north... south...
the wind from the north-east...
the wind from the south-west...
i count 8 winds... if there aren't 8
then we have a lemniscale...
a lazy: reclining 8... or a beta metaphor: B...
no?
the origins of numbers are all Hindu?!
sure... the letters too?
i can... rewrite the origins story
of numbers using only Greek or Roman letters...
with hindsight it doesn't punch-up
but... proud retardations of borrowed
cuisine aside...
L: 7
4: G
      mirrors! mirrors!
9: P
8: B
1: I(ota)
3: E
2: Z
5: S
6: b...

we didn't march across the *******
Siberian tundra
arriving at the Caucasian
peninsula for no ******* reason?!
we also managed to drag along the tribes
of Mongols... Turks... that settled in this grand...
continental funnel...

i learned "numbers" from Sanskrit...
i suppose the letters too?
like... ooh... i love how Hangul was
conjured...
   Sejong the ******* Solomon...
Abraham... St. Cyril...
   i always thought that Cyrillic script
was a cheap-*** variation of Greek...
sorry... it looks: looked:
will forever look: sort of shabby...

this time round: the devil didn't come round
with either fire or sulphur...
smoke & mirrors...
smoke & mirrors: Kowalski!

there should be easier ways to buy jazz records...
perhaps i should be more familiar
with black literature... perhaps will alexander
is not enough... oh god: i just stepped into
a reverse psychology faux pas...

  again...

there should be easier ways to buy jazz records...
but clearly there aren't...
for years and years i sat on the tube as it rolled
between leytonstone and leyton...
they now have a grand mount... for the new graves...
prior to... the graveyard stretched...
almost the entire distance from one station
of the central line to the next...

i did plan to go into london before
lying myself to sleep... once upon a time i would
go all the way... into tourist central...
i'd go and do the usual... tate modern...
tate national...
i even dressed myself for the occassion...
well... "dressed"...
does a dog change its fur...
i had to capture the sensation of wearing
the same clothes for long enough...
washing, personal hygiene -
change of t-shirts... of course...
but today i was going to buy myself some
jazz records...

i couldn't just hop on the bus (when was
the last time i used a bus -
rather the centipede of my own legs?
you never forget to swim or ride a bicycle -
when was the the last time
i used the tube?) -  and just head to the shop...

that would be so boring...
and i'm not a female to window-shop either...
what ensured a diversion?
immaculate timing...
   walking up to the bus stop...
a girl... probably 16... sitting and waiting...
bus pulls up... i gesticulate: ladies first...
and she gives me a smile...

that decided... winter! it's winter!
and Freya's daughter took a needle's eye
and brought me before the altar of my original
whim...
jumped on the 66 bus and then on
the central line... newbury park,
gants hill, redbridge, wanstead,
leytonstone... leyton... and onto st. patrick's
roman catholic cemetary...

just before spring comes...
to find the absolute nadir of winter -
perhaps autumn is when romance novels
are written about death...
but i much prefer graveyard in winter...
i would have gone further into london:
but those jazz vinyls are not going
to buy themselves...
plus... i find graveyards... well...
hardly morbid... i like them because...
esp. the roman catholic ones...
have statues... and...
well... who wouldn't want to see
a museum of statues: al fresco!

reiteration - because i can't mumble
or metaphor myself or make this succinct...
graveyards are museums al fresco...
whoever was the sculptor... of the crude stone...
the second artist... the weatherer has also
done his bit... coy wind... a splattering
of "paint" with rain...
the... basking in the sun...
the drop in temperature...
i like to see the "other" artist at work...
give me this one life's span a peek into
the deeds of this almost eternal sculpture
baron...

whether god or: death personified...
               the theological god can return to his
origins story... the sun the moon the stars
the: what came first the chicken or the egg...
what came first... the spiderweb or the spider?
pointless hamsterwheel questions:
a priori this... a posteriori that...
museums are stuffy... they might hold
under their roof... in pristine vacuum...
the Elgin marbles... but i want to visit a museum
that breathes! these gravestone statues...
breathe! if you're not careful enough...
you might see a wandering eye...
as if someone transcendent has touched them...

graveyards: museums al fresco...
and in winter? and it's your typical sodden...
overcast... london clepsydra of drool and dire
and the scent of wet dog fair...
and there is no chance to intoxicate yourself
with the decomposition of autumn's fall:
banquet of leaves... and that sickly sweet
botanical scent of decay...
it's winter and raindrops become piercing
needles of sensation...
you wouldn't even dare... to blink.
                    
- of course i had to take a few photographs...
it would be weird if i didn't...
once upon a time even death was due
man's concern for beauty...
in these grave statues... whether it's a 1000th
jesus or some obscure saint...
whatever it was... it was certainly worth...
imitating a ******... getting all wet with
goosebumps on the ******* sack tickling you...
no hard-on... whenever you'd want
to gasp and spew some variation whale
sonar: morse onomatopoeia: coy cooing an ooh...

so back on the tube and to the record store...
****... need to ****...
to the pub and half a pint of guinness...
again: a woman's smile is so up-lifting...
and that surprise as you're only there for half
a pint... up the stairs to the toilet and...
out the pub...

the thing about buying jazz records...
why would i buy a gramaphone...
if i didn't intend to only buy jazz records for it?
why buy, modern vinyl?
the thing about buying jazz records...
you need to know a few names...
you always look at the... "starring"...
i know there's another term for what i'm
looking for... "starring" is easy...
and it's in no way related to the word:
repetroire... but it is french etymologically:
although mutated from: ensemble...

i'm pretty sure there is an english equivalent
to ensemble: which is not "starring"...
accompanied by...
                 that sort of mid-way introductory
statement by the vocalist...
on the piano we have...
on the guitar we have... and each band member
does a little accent impromptu:
accent impromptu: which is not a full-on
hair-metal solo 2 hour slow bbq **** chicken
strutting send-off into the stratosphere...

never mind... can't a white guy just appreciate
jazz... i'm tired of the sycophants of classical music...
including charles bukowski...
the japanese have covered this sycophancy
and elevated it to virtuosity of the drum-kit
monkey... fair play...
but jazz never allows you to... over-think...
anything... a head without thought
and all that sea of feel...
logic is over-rated... i like my cushion of
the antithesis of descartes: res cogitans in that
i find pleasure... in res vanus...
- and classical music is over-thought...
to me at least... it's a falling piano of notes
and no breather... no feel for bass drums or pause...
for an accent of sorts...
no real idiosyncracy - beside the idiosyncracy
of the oeuvre...

jazz says to me: i don't want to over-think:
not-thinking...
it's as simple as that... i hardly think a cat
allows that onomatopoeia: meow...
i hardly think a dog allows that onomatopoeia:
bark / woof... to enter and govern his mind...
this imitation of being: surrounded
by beings with complex prompts and
a car-wreck of sounding verbiage...
hardly a woof or a meow to be "deconstructed"
in those furry-heads of theirs...
how does a sax sound in my head...
when i can't hear a sax outside of it...
i'm not a composer... letters would congest
the sponge... soapy water instead
of live-young evian... pristine cool and crisp...

drums and all their ambience...
when there's the intro by the horn...
before the protagonist sax takes over...
sly little horn...
jazz... i don't like to over-think not-thinking...
classical music?
i tend to over-think not-thinking...
with jazz i can never over-think not-thinking...
because: feelz... and what-not...
it's hardly an armchair of apathy...
it's hardly a sofa of tolerance...
it's a cushion for a head that sometimes
feels like a tonne of lead...
and the air doesn't become water: "magically"
to even wish for a sinking sensation...
blurps of bubbles no...
there's only the almighty fall or an explosion...

feelz... (this will be addressed...
the Z... in german... that i do promise...)

- again, not again, again... i can't buy the same old
stale **** narrative behind the slave trade...
there's a jack of spades in here somewhere...
no blacks in h'america: no jazz...
it's that simple... god forbid where i'd be at if
i were to still praise the suffocating confines
of classical music...
this is classical music to me...
this is... everything that's suffocating about
Bach's innovative polyphony...
polyphony sure... but what jazz allows and
what classical music doesn't...
it's hardly called a solo if only the piano gets
it... a chopin or a liszt...
any... famous violinists sharing the stage
with the pianists... the piano is the only instrument
that's allowed a solo: proper...
but in jazz... you can get all the instruments
in the ensemble given a fair share...
no africans coming over to h'america...
no jazz... instead:
       pirouettes in corsets and crinolines!
ugh...
               liberated into: chain-smoking
and giggling why pulling an imaginary chain
saying: choo! choo! this train has nowhere
to stop... beside a tomorrow...
and should tomorrow come...
                                      that's still only a gamble!

jazz because there is no singing...
            well... 'my funny valentine'... chet baker...
better known on screen as ethan hawke...
astronaut... thespian... at large chameleon...
dat dere: the disappointment from
having chamelon leather shoes...
that will riddle... should ever a pair be made...
no fluorescence no change in the weather...
just at the time of the killing...
would the pigment remain: "thus desired"?
well... i don't know what the muslims
and the yids have against pork...
i'm pretty sure most standards of belts
and shoes are... made from pork skin...
which is... well... leather...
perhaps they should don the orthodox ***
yom kippur statement of running
into the synagogue wearing sneakers!

just saying... porky pink and whitey sneaked
in with a guitar and a piano...
sonny clark also tip-toed on the black
and white cascade...
                                  interludes from absence...
or the myth of the custard -
               it boils like a voice unearthed from
mud... tinged with surprises of a canary...
gloating glutton of the stove...
               jazz in the kitchen,
jazz in the bedroom... jazz in the living room...
jazz sitting up, jazz sitting down,
jazz drinking a hop-heavy lager...
jazz sober...
                                        it's not jazz:
because i live in new york and i have a feel
for the romance with frank o'hara and all things
gay and otherwise cosmopolitan...
romford is probably like hull...
and i'm the antithesis of phil larkin...
my verse is more scribbles and scrabble than
his neat: your parents ****** you...

jazz is a rebellion akin to 'my parents ****** me'
when they fed me a classical music diet
as a child... rock guns 'n' roses grunge and punk
were minor rebellions: teasing pop...
but nothing to match to the diet of classical music
ingested early on in life...
                          jazz was and is, though...

- when buy a jazz record... you have to look for
the usual suspects...
sometimes you look what the lead protagonist
is playing... after hearing Grachan Moncur III's
avant-garde... i'm not convinced...
but there is a list of the usual suspects...
evolution just reminded me of everything
i didn't like about eric dolphy's out to lunch...
but there's a list of usual suspects...

'i can't believe i almost bought a vinyl of a c.d.
i already own... money jungle by duke ellington...
good that i didn't...'

the usual suspects of an ensemble alternating:
eric dolphy, paul chambers, freddie hubbard,
sonny clark, joe chambers, herbie hancock,
john coltraine, sonny rollins, kenny burnell,
art blakey...            wayne shorter...
what would probably become equivalent to...
sitting through a ****** movie...
but otherwise finding the end-credits more
entertaining... the ******-movie of what's not
remembered as that golden fleece of mid-20th
century nostalgia...
i once placed my nostalgia in h'american
hippy culture... come to think of it...
i guess my nostalgia is: the coming out of
1950s america and no quiet going the full mile
into beatnik poetry recitations with jazz
in the background...
no one would **** the poets:
instead the jazz musicians...
                     somewhere cowering under
an umbrella sown together from moth wings...
assuring himself a lightbulb was
the sun... evidently no formality of language
genesis: dear sir / madam
exodus: yours sincerely / yours faithfully...
and all of this... in between?

                         shoes shoes...
two jazz records is hardly an extravagance...
these days...
oliver nelson - the blues and the abstract truth...
sonny rollins - the bridge (jim hall on guitar)...
well... because sonny rollins and: colossus...
24 quid...
                why am i supposed to remember
the slave trade... am i a native of these parts?
i thought i was the "dumb ******" industrial n-----
joke? don't shoot the messanger...
do i look like i've just killed your grandma'
by playing a ******* harmonica?
not everyone is going to be listening to rap...
what jazz gave rap... isn't gonna give
that easily for me to ingest... *****-nilly...
sonny rollins... looks like a well attired man...
even if it is 1963... perhaps my own ambitions are lax...
i'm the son that wouldn't become
his father... and he was always the son
that was going to overshadow his father...
and that leaves me with my paternal grandfather...
all that remains to be said...
by my maternal grandfather: we has a hard worker...
well... stick that as an epitaph for
anyone without an epitaph on their grave...
i'm sure those dates will look like
candy dripping from a ******* rainbow
any day soon!

thighs, legs in total, comic sanskirt of the brains
between the gallows of *******....
and hands: all those geisha hands...
are the erotica canvas for my no-thrills
genocide *****-and-tic canvas work of a tissue...
because... even if i "cant get any"...
any is just as plenty...
i shared a moment in a supermarket with
a guy who was buying...
wine and bread... honest to god...
he was buying wine and bread...
i missed the last supper and that magic
of a philosopher's stone of:
the wood of all metaphors...
that great driftwood of history...
the postage stamp of contemp. african
get-togethers in europe...

                       an eric dolphy or an bobby hutcherson
on cymbals... "vibes"
   ("vibes" could also be made synonymous
with a prog rock artifact...
a Hammond E-112 ***** too)
                            could work...
the cymbals or the xylophone or whatever
that elevator muzak attache is...
could work... in synch...
on something like grant green's idle moments...
as forrest gump would have said it...
the gi(t)ar is in symbiosis...
but please no horns no sax...
well... sax ever so slightly...
just below the drums...
most certainly beneath the bass...
keep it clean with the guitar and the piano...
only then... some sort of equilibrium...

otherwise what's 120 quid?
something my hands can touch and the sort
of money that i would never spend:
how much vinyl can a man eat
before he realises... this **** isn't liquorice!
from pocket to pocket...
from hand to hand...
                  i never gave that money 10 quid
short with a box of chocolates or a bunch
of flowers... so i guess...
that's money best swept under the rug
of daily needs... flowers wither and chocolate...
eh... chocolate...
                                it's not the thought
of liquorice when playing a vinyl record on
a gramophone... anise amber anise amber anise...
cinnamon and...
and and and and... the raven hair of
bulgarian prostitutes... fingertips...
if only the tongue could read braille...

       i'd ensure that if i went into a brothel
i'd spend a good ten minutes moving my fingertips
ferocious against a brickwall...
some might say: i wanted to experience
of feeling oysters under my fingertips...
when caressing the otherwise sandpaper of skin...
and time...

beer becomes an elevated circumstance
of some leftover whiskey...
and this... cameo cinema of my memories...
yes... rubbing my fingertips against
a brickwall... before walking into
a brothel...

- the germans have been lying!
they have another "secret" letter in their arsenal...
although they will not outright admit it!
perhaps the ß (eszet) is interchangeable in
younger brother ßaß (saxon) english...
surprise: surpriße!
                
             most of the arabs flock around
the nationalflaggehandelsflaggeparteiflagge...

perhaps there was an S-to-Z-to-S-to-Z
interchange bound to the ß...
aber...

wo alle straßen enden...
                     hört unser weg nicht auf,
wohin wir uns auch wenden,
die Zeit nimmt ihren lauf...

         yep... that german "z"... which is more like...
a "russian" c... a ****** c... most certainly
a wet snare sizzle of... a ... Ц...

   das herц, verbrannt...
                   im schmerц, verbannt...
so цiehen wir verloren durch gas graue
niemandsland.

              then again... that all depends which german
dialect you're talking about...
and that russian spy ц is most certainly missing
upon a: schwarzdeutsche
             richtigerdepflugdeutsche rendition of:
zu...

and that's the compensation dynamic...
i'll reach into the zenith of jazz...
but come into the nadir of german army songs...
i'll squeeze a horn but then
come and drop a stone dipped in honey
into a hornet's nest...

              perhaps i haven't been the best
tourist when it comes to the concentration camps...
but i have visited the mass graves of the germans
from the first world war around Ypres...
and i have been to the graveyards of the allies...
a sparrow or a robin always seems
to sing each individual german soldier's lot
in the graveyards of the sleeping en masse...
the silence always breaks...
seeing how they were piled up...
                 compared to the individual graves
of the allied soldiers?
it's almost like going to see the end product
of the contracetion camps...
              a heap of bodies readied for a mass grave...

let's not riddle a liking for folk songs into this...
folk songs are non-negotiable details in all of this...
a black man can call another black man
a n-----... well...
i might as well call another white man...
carelessly and with ridicule... a ****...
sorry... hehe... "oops"... a... naцi...
                                                                a нaци...
         beware the german Z given the ß und Ц...
eh... don't mind the S... it's hardly a caron (š) S...
you'd need to compound -sch- into the whole affair...
and still the east germans would write
ich... их... but... somehow make-out to say:
isch... iś... which is not a caron (š) S...
nor saшa...            it's... somewhere "in between":
                                 š   ś
                     via rammstein's ich will...
well... it's not french... so there's no grave S
          to compliment... so... das ist das... yener...
                    
so much for a friday night...
              before the altar of Moloch...
and his resurrection... busy body demon deity
of the abortion clinic...
and these are the old gods united
under the single Mammon facade of the semites...
Moloch is alive and well...
perhaps the babies sacrificed to him
are not still-born or otherwise...
perhaps the strain of the argument from
the conservatives whispered a retort for me
to utter: that each ******* if a microcosm
genocide... i will not utter the name...
call it an elevated sort of superstition...
or rather... i don't have to say the racial
slur... because... i'm pandering to
                                   porцellanmenшen -
that's two russians "spies" in already...
                                       regarding the иɐzᴉ...
at what point...
                                     under what authority...
it's a **** good metaphor though...
"metaphor"...
          that Moloch is awake once more...
as a deity in his own right -
no longer the "fallen angel" in the pantheon
of semitic gods brought to heed...
before ha-shem.

.i don't know are you here to listen to classical music for the same reasons as i? i never bothered with any i.q. testimony or how: i'll abstract "better"... i'm here because... quiet frankly... the drums are doin' my 'ed in... thump thump thump... knocking on doors and the sound of hooves on cobblestone clanking along would probably be a sometimes of a: more appealing hope... and quite frankly the lack of vocals... otherwise modern music and the drums would require one to scream rather than sing - to pass a soul a breath through the custard scrutiny of a wall... why wouldn't drumming translate into gore-screaming sensations; - i'm here to escape the drums and the vocals... some would claim that: Vladimir Lugovskoy has the most serene wikipedia entry of a life: that's better lived - if not best lived... no chance of drowning further than one should: with an epitaph... i have walked many graveyards... i'm yet to find a grave with an epitaph... to me that's like... finding a unicorn!

for as long as i remember... i thought that prokofiev
couldn't better his oeuvre...
outside of his lieutenant kijé (suite), op. 60...
notably the romance piece...

there's a saying about a classical music station...
say, a classic.fm - that what is played is only a fraction
of what was ever produced...
how is a pop music radio station any different
to a classical music station?

it's not really... and there's that other saying:
that most of what is played...
is by a fraction of composers...
the "lesser" composers are only known
for a single piece...

edging toward 34 years...  and... no...
i haven't heard this piece before...
for me it's like a compensation for
liking wojciech kilar's: the beginning
from the film dracula...
oddly enough...
how these two pieces seem to
                "borrow" from each other...

but no amount of time listening to a classical radio
station would have brought me here...
the youtube algorithm spat out an: anomaly...

        otherwise during the day... there's that program...
from 1pm to 5pm... when people phone in...
and... they rarely ask for something specific...
the names of classical music
            pieces are already complicated...
they instead ask for... something akin to the mood
they're in...
well: who would bother remembering
the names - muzak express!
high-brow my ***... music...
that... after all... is... the antithesis of
modernity in that: can i hear any drums?
i wouldn't bet on the drums being included...
whereas most of what's modern:
if the drums are not involved...
does that imply: there's no rigor and standard
bearing to time the matter?

i thought i better call in sometime ago...
and ask for... christopher young's - something
to think about - from the hellraiser II: hellbound
soundtrack...

well...
sergei eisenstein's 1938 film alexander nevsky -
and what prokofiev gave for it...
notably: the battle on ice: 5 April 1242...
but this is new to me...

it's not like discovering: the moody blues'
spin on pop music with:
nights in white satin and... days of future past...
i have listened to the radio many a times...
but prokofiev's alexander nevsky suite
never made it... to be aired...
a relic - russia under the mongolian yoke,
song about alexander nevsky,
the crusaders in pskov, arise ye russian people,
the battle on the ice,
the field of the dead, alexander's entry into pskov...
there really can be worse ways
to spend circa 40 minutes of your time...

was there a composer that might have
celebrated another date...
15 July 1410 - my history - this sort of history -
perhaps even "god":
apology - i know it's rather... infantile of me
not donning the proper togas and
contentious smiles... of it's a wish for salting
the open wound matter...
of course: always: the "other" the "forgotten"
crusades...
bride of the crown: lithuania -
the pagans that lived into the 15th century!
again: circa.

next on the list: prokofiev's ivan the terrible
suite... but i'm guessing that's going
to very ambitious of me...
but i have allowed myself to stomach
miles davis' ******* brew and coltraine's:
a love supreme...
  prokofiev's ivan: i don't predict anything
less epic... the ultimate nerve-ending shatter...
but... probably not as...
philip glass toying with penderecki...
mahler... even in classical music there are limits...
when a bout of existential apathy seeps in...
and you have grown out of cutting your arms...
or chicken-scratching them...
you might own a female cat...
and forget to cut her nails...
and you pick her up wanting to find
a babushka doll insides -
find the ultimate bonsai tiger to the already
bonsai tiger she already is...
and she digs her nails into your arms...
all this while imagining putting a needle
into your ear while listening to some mahler...
or penderecki...
that's: well... the ultimate sacrifice for anyone
self-harming...
a combination of the two...

otherwise, in history... why did the northern
crusades takes place?
well... the calamity of the 4th crusade...
the largest army... the german army...
pickled barbarossa and... the drowning in the puddle...
and the loss of moral...
a crusade was going to happen...
anyway... if it didn't happen in the holy land...
it could happen in the east:
perhaps a mongol or two could be converted
too...

but: mein gott - i have to check if i have
any tattoos on my skin...
why? perhaps my "soul": no god no soul...
ergo summa summarum (grand Σ)
that other explanation for what "motivates"
me and what: doesn't make me think
about my heart: unless i'm having a heart-attack...
this membrane that shields my thought
from acquiring thoughts concerning
these thoughtless items -
when i walk: i don't think about walking
or moving my feet...

come the exclusive res cogitans...
coupled with the inclusive res vanus:
the thinking thing vs. the empty thing...
no god: no soul...
but there's still a summa summarum!
thinking is not the spider
and my body is not the spiderweb!
****: i thought you might suggest: ego, spider...
that we still have "ego theory"
and the counter: the germanic root:
prefix automated equivalent: self-...

and that no serious history would ever
take place... outside of the ethnic minority
reactions from the 20th century...
then i am... infantile... or imbecilic...
for looking toward the old forest...
with... not all crusades happened in the holy land
and against the muslims which ignited
Saladin...
some happened in north-eastern europe...
where the last pagans sat dormant...
at least into the early 15th century...

they have a name: krzyżak...
and the breath of the world: the wind...
blew these ******* in our direction...
because... barbarossa was pickled...
and he drowned in a puddle...
and what better way to invigorate a loss
of morale... and... be "left out"
from the 4th crusade party with richard I
and philip II augustus of france than...
turn one's attention elsewhere...
but by... historiological standards...

i be infant... having this tattoo of history...
i need to be told:
the only serious part of 20th century
history is: the m.l.k. oration!
some other... social justice cwusade!
wow! you brought the welsh with you?
i figured: what's the point of tattoing my body
with something akin to...
a Lale Sokolov's 19860515...
i'm still "there": as much as heidegger's
dasein allows me to be:
an inflated tattoo... it's missing 10 million
at least... to reach this number...

all serious history ever happend after 1950...
in terms of social change...
the closures of psychiatric asylums
and those... clown "fakeries" from:
bulletin lobotomy...
we all have that added spice in... all soz'
we wuz' knots not yuz...
yizzy? hasiddy yizzy gerschwitz
mild rash: what's that?
we can change the "jew" to a ***... no problem...
but i am tired...
what? "jew" becames a ***?
em... yiddish? lazy ol' sloth in acquired
english slang: ***- as prefixed...
omitted a punctuation mark: susan me!

             the following history that prokofiev's music
was invested in... "idiosyncratic"...
or... a juvenile delinquent case of:
keeping remains of a memory that...
oh: mein gott! doesn't include...
a... multicultural mandate!

from my perspective: this borrowed tongue...
i wouldn't be looking for
remains of the crusader armies...
but then again: barbarossa did drown in
a puddle and was pickled...
and the germans feeling they were being left out...
marched home and found...
their second jerusalem in Wilno...
i guess the mongolian itch was also the "real"
reason why... why loiter?

i have my own... what? history?
oh right... the past is me either being "romancing the stone"...
or the celebrated fate of the mamluks
and the janissaries? slaves or slavs...
etymology... i wonder how that excess
of an added E... looks...
alongside... what's to be eaten...
from: GERMANS... ah... the A and N...
said the "germs" to the "slaves"...

word: swovo...
                                            yabudyed!

it's infantile history though:
the only history that would ever concern
me as having come from the 20th century
and the furthest past...
no... not necessary...
the social juice and oratory speeches...
character before afro...
in english: i remember moving to england
aged 8... and... well...
being born into a monochromatic all white...
society: brave Zulu warriors...
under the patron saint of joking paul II
braved the berlin wall and the satellite
yoke of the communist empire...
and made it! into Poland!

this story... is a tree: that needs to be... ****** on!
liberally!
otherwise? no **** no ancient oak
stamp... savvy?

it's still prokofiev! it's still the alexander nevsky suite!
it's me starving... 30 years without litening
to it... it's... making sure...
that wojciech kilar... doesn't "borrow" from the suite...
otherwise: russophobia...
a quiet literal fear of the evil genius from the Muscovites...
while, simultanoeusly...
appreciating their sing-along and literature...
further alienation on the trench line of
islamophobia: apart from Rumi...
and le trio joubran? what's new in arabia?
law-rence?!

i know i know... having a body free from tattoos...
but a brain tattooed all over with these insignificant
dates... my bad... my, travesty!
i should best remember the civil rights movement...
in a country...
how many times have i visited Ypres?
enough to play sunflower: he loves me, he loves me not
using poppies...
i'm still waiting for my first ****** overdose
from the trips...

schematic: western europe remembers the 1st world war...
eastern europe: remembers the 2nd world war...
but that's still me being: infantile...
why have i been dealt this ****** hand of cards...
in terms of: what history is worth being
remembered... and what isn't...

whatever is happening to the palestianians...
under the israelis...
nothing quiet akin to what happened
to the ottoman muslims under the serbs...
and... what if the soviet union...
took the route of yuogoslavia...
when it collapsed?
what if the soviet union... happened like
yugoslavia happened?
upon disintegrating?

can you imagine?! there's only one praise
for the soviet union... the way it folded...
after all... the soviet union didn't do a ******* ms. sarajevo
as yugoslavia did...
pierdolone jugole... abused prefix term further
up north...
what's that? proto- / any pan- ethnicity umbrella
movement? oh... i thought the germanic plan
was working so well...
who failed? the british: these little brother
saxons... or the p.i.g.s.? portugese, italians,
greeks, spaniards?
i once upon a time figured...
so it wasn't about eastern europeans joining?
well... who was bringing the bulgarian
prostitutes into england? the turks were...

i am gnashing my teeth and peeling a suntan
to later burn over a fire and call it...
once properly stretched: the sort of leather
required for a pair of shoes!
or a belt!

am i still being infantile...
given i know historical figures akin to:
philip II augustus... alexander nevsky...
conrad I of masovia...
       ulrich von jungingen....
no... wait long enough: these people will
become myths... phantoms... ghosts...
no sooner than with the onslaught of time
in the ***** of journalism!
why is there a myth of Oedipus:
it's safe! it's safe to reap psychoanalytical
archetypes serfs of ego from
the couch-sitting bollocking-*******-herders!
it's safe... until the day...
when the crucifix will emerge as nothing more...
than a *****!

east? anything east of the Oder river
is called a... cyrillic! maestro!
a... швaб... a szwab... a "swabian"... a helmut...
hell-muttering of some ****...
he's not a ßaß... that proud term for a people
that came along after the romans
left these isles: which i am speak from...
little africa in northern europe: deutchland...
the pomeranians, the bavarians:
the швaбы...

as the old proverb states, my grandmother:
the only woman in the world that
always wants to fiddle with my beard...
i have never met a woman that wanted to play
with my beard... apart from my grandmother...
well... she says:

if you go among the crows: you better croak their croak...
that's too over-worded...
kiedy wchodzisz miedzy wrony:
musisz krakac jak i onny...
(no diacritical markers...
i feel lazy a'today)...
how's my assimilation coming along?
unique, due, unique "dude":

if you go among the crows: you better croak like
a crow...
so... given the russian is a bear...
moi... the french slav... ******...
well... i'm either the totem stork... or...
the bison... the european wunderkind!
from what i've heard? the letter: Ł?
well... it's as much kashubian and sorbian...
as it is... navajo... inupiaq...

when jung asked: modern man in search of soul...
i asked the materialistic question:
better or for worse: this has to be reworded...
if the breath became the soul...
and the soul became the spaghetti of daydreams
and other leftover rewards of thought from
having abstracted outside or inside
the triangle and the letter delta...
there must be a categorical impetus:
i.e. nothing is true... but i'll continue a...
roulette of will... subsequently...
i'll call it the corona-sigma: the summa summarum...
the crown-total...
wow... there's even a chemical name for it:
18-Crown-6  (1,4,7,10,13,16-hexaoxacyclooctadecane):
yes... the remains of alt-vater-deutsche:
words: notapprovedtobewithouthyphens...
still make it via chemistry...
everything else? oxford hyphen standards...
must be kept!

an imperative is not an impetus...
an imperative has the faculty of a sense of sight...
an impetus? blind man sentenced for ****...
how the hell he ever managed to find
the key let alone the keyhole that led
to the shameful expression of O of the door being
opened... and... guilt!
the pleasures bound to...
the least obvious investigations...
and by now... any drunkard's roulette
when the words come less as a precursor...
but more as: dear... still clinging to a "moral"
afterthought? non sic?

we were talking about prokofiev... weren't we?
lieutenant kijé suite - romance -
my epitome of: "sad and lonely": but god!
my most happy!
and... the newly found: prkofiev:
alexander nevsky - the battle of the ice...
and: how, somehow, wolciech kilar...
borrowed or played ping-pong with this music
to... originate with a dracula soundtrack:
the beginning...

me and my tattooless body...
what is this history? does it have to belong
within the confines of the 20th century exodus?
aren't people always speaking in the 21st century like:
but it's the 21st century!
if they say such things then the exodus must have
happened in the 20th century...
circa 50 years later...
and we're expected to behave like...
at least two centuries have passed since...
1968...
the inverted circus: hear the bang of a firework
first... then... the actual firework explode!

it's not something you'd want to experience
when walking down the Nevsky Prospect in St. Petersburg...
that i did pull off...
i managed to find a russian girl to fall in love with me...
she only wanted a spring and summer...
an autumn for a break-up...
thank god for that...
who is going to see russia from the people
i went to school with?
india's a bore... thailand is a bore...
the U, S of A... a bore...
we do have the cultural export frontline exposure...
what's new?
hell: if i want... i'd make it to israel...
but a month in russia?

oh it was worth the slap in the face...
even she knows it...
we were young, we were cruel...
we only had obligations for the heart to weave
a pseudo-mind and a quasi-skeleton we
would later call: the siamese crux...
and just before i met her...
i remember Edinburgh being haunted
by a ****** eclipse of the moon -
some would even claim it was the first time
they saw a marsian moon...
tinged crimean... borrowed from cardinal red...
and crimson...

some life... 13 or 14 years ago...
like i said, once already...
memory: cameo cinema that i love to revive
almost every night, when drinking...
because: it is not the most spectacular
a life that's worth... a backlog of autobiographic
entries readied: end of life sequence:
better scribbled than forgotten...
but an ongoing parrot's chatter... impromptu...
this the most unfortunate of love stories...
one where... we didn't allow ourselves
to have to mutually share: adult responsibilities
as to have to squander good conversation...
when the bills came a'rolling in at the end
of each moth...
i guess we allowed ourselves
the last idealism of love either of us
would be able to experience...

for a relationship where she proposed...
she chose the engagement ring...
and she herself decided to break it with me...
she would later... "i think i'm pregnant":
descartes: "i think i doubt" therefore "i am"?
the supposed contraceptive measures we took...
how many partners did she have
after we broke up? cuckoo or what?!
oh i remember the ones i had...
the ones i payed for...

               what's not cling to: loved-up and
still not having the sort of...
love with obligations:
love as... the most pristine failure...
that... children in love...
without the existential focus points to...
achieve the invitation of time... inclusively
of boy becomes man becomes father becomes
grandfather...
and not exclusively as: you and me...
i.e. me and her...
etc.