He only imbibes because of his dipsomania.
She only practices onanism because she's afraid he'll impregnate her.
He despises her monomania.
She's too affable, almost to the point of being obsequious.
He's too acrimonious and muzzy.
She knows she's a bit of a coquette.
He thinks he's a cuckold.
She used to be flighty until she fell into this convoluted dystopia.
He used to find it scintillating to get sozzled.
She just wants a lark once in a while.
His iniquity makes him want her to be lascivious.
Her every fatuity leads to a cabal.
He's too opaque and insipid.
She has to iterate and reiterate everything she says.
He feels his infatuation is unrequited.
She finds this unproblematic.
He doesn't imbue her with anything anymore.
She thinks he's unpitying of that.
He'll malinger tomorrow.
She'll wonder if it's all adventitious or kismet.
She can't handle his odium.
He can't stand her ten dollar words.

Take the moral law and make a nave of it
And from the nave build haunted heaven. Thus,
The conscience is converted into palms,
Like windy citherns hankering for hymns.
We agree in principle. That's clear. But take
The opposing law and make a peristyle,
And from the peristyle project a masque
Beyond the planets. Thus, our bawdiness,
Unpurged by epitaph, indulged at last,
Is equally converted into palms,
Squiggling like saxophones. And palm for palm,
Madame, we are where we began. Allow,
Therefore, that in the planetary scene
Your disaffected flagellants, well-stuffed,
Smacking their muzzy bellies in parade,
Proud of such novelties of the sublime,
Such tink and tank and tunk-a-tunk-tunk,
May, merely may, madame, whip from themselves
A jovial hullabaloo among the spheres.
This will make widows wince. But fictive things
Wink as they will. Wink most when widows wince.

I got ******* caught in my nose piercing
and the *** was overwhelmingly
disappointing.
He tried to spoon me
but I just don't have time for that,
you know? I just don't want that.

He was a **** kiss,
probably had no notion of a female ******,
he's a country boy stoner
doing **** all ever.

They used my student card
to chop up the coke
while I puked behind the car.
That's home though. That's life here.

And you, you ******,
when I woke up I missed you.
I really ******* miss you.

harbouring virtuousity,  curious to express
exhibiting,  she firmly held the pen
to jot down the mystic emotion,
the exquisite dream
oblivious of the mounting stress
pouring
the dissipating words recklessly fading
confused up wit
unable to sought down, the oblivion of sleep

knew not what to indite
unable to contemplate the very dream
but thoughtfully only was such the fuddled sapidness
the psychic images ; a subtle dream

dreary eyes
thirstily awaited
till the very amnesia faded

for the sole muzzy feeling,  this the only manifest
suffice the unenviable question
whence crept the feeling?
whence the love aviate?
where rested the answer?

sudden diaphanous streak
stroke sorely to the pounding wit
paralyzing her for the moment being

the sudden egest
whatever the persistent burden
gone

for now
them thoughts voyaged operosely

beyond the abyssal pupil now dwelt
the glamorous face, snowy heavenly dress..  
the very words ; euphoric conversation
lasting gentle tepid touch
that had dourly crept and haunted
throughout the delusive night...

penned down
finally incurred
peace

I am a bug
mew mew mew
hi lets all wave to the stew!
bubble bubble bump
stew down my shirt front
hi shirty stew
can you mew?
Indeed I do too!
mew mew mew
look the grass grew!
mmmm sunshine on the dew
dew ten feet high
that grass REALLY grew
and now i must say good by to the stew
but he did leave some mildew
green green and fuzzy!
ooh so lovey dovey
i just want to stroke it all day;
and not in a lewd way...
green and fuzzy
like grass;
only grass is not fuzzy
though if you get close enough
it does become blurry;
and blurry is bluzzy
and bluzzy if muzzy
and muZzy is muggy
and if you get that close
then the grass will mug you
just hand you a big mug of hot coco
mmmm hot coco
it melts dew!
it does!
hot like stew....
but stew doesn't melt dew
but will melt bugs.

i want to bury your roses

before they become too real

- before they realize that they have been
murdered

and begin to decay

untethered

and stinking of age

and loss

and grayness

i want to press your muzzy

sleep-warm kisses

in a cheesy paperback

- bodice ripper

so they cannot evaporate

into the commute

of my soul to yours

and only lie

innocent and wondering

at the juncture

of where we will meet

I saw him that day

Not when he woke, like
Any other morning, next to
The warm naked body of his girlfriend
Still muzzy with sleep, half open eyes
Searching to see his face, unbeknown
To her for the very last time,

That sweet smile,

Not as he kissed her on the doorstep
She, wearing his T shirt baggy on her small
Frame, hiding slim undulating form,
After a breakfast of toast and Marmite
Which he loved, but she had always hated  
The taste could still be detected

On his moist lips,

Not when his bike exploded to life
Fireblade thunder, exhausts spitting
Wrath and fury, the voice of an engine
Wanting to go, go, go, like wind
As though the Devil gave chase
To his helmeted head, full faced

Soon hiding death mask grimace,

Not then, but later,
From a motorway bridge, wondering
Why all the traffic had stopped
Checking for my return journey,
He and the bike lay across the lanes
A little way apart, neither going home,

Next week she’ll move back with her mum.

swooshed the wind right through me
as bleakly whispered in my ear
the unspoken muzzy words
left my stun as they steer

for now I knew something
I knew not before
as I saw the utmost ray of hope
consumed by the darkness
craving for more

such was its haste
mollifying the very urge
just like sun relieves its ray
right at its verge

the memory starts clearly aged ten. kept in the fitted cabinet, second drawer down, mother’s scissors. i guess they were around before in a more muzzy state in  mind.

she may have kept my fringe tidy  when i was not taken off to the barber in the village. he used a plank across the arms of the chair to seat me. i was small then.



she said that hers were special, hairdressers’ scissors. we were never to cut paper with them, yet we did. once i saw her cutting greaseproof; different rules apply.



we  had only one pair. just one pair that i remember. i felt that mum gave them great importance, transfered this feeling.

i wish i had kept them, even with the damage.  the incident was one afternoon .



a lamp needed moving,  plug removing and my brother put it off for various reasons. we heard the noise, the bang , we saw the feathers.

those days many people had budgies, ours was blue usually. i think green was a different price?

so mum cut the electric wire with her special scissors to remove the plug, still plugged in. a hole then  in the blade. mother put to bed, we probably took her tea. the budgerigar tidied and settled we all moved forward with experience.



i wonder still if this is why i collect scissors here.



sbm.

I lost myself in you.
Your eyes, your words, your thoughts...
They all seem to leave me in a muzzy state.
You absorbed me.
My heart, my mind, my soul...
All of it is gone,
Buried deep within you.
I can't seem to find any of me,
And that is absolutely terrifying.

Fraught yet tender the day begins
Unexpected effort is surprising
Time is the ruler
As simple goals are thwarted
In the end winning through
And seems a greater achievement
Muzzy head makes the effort
More difficult, strenuous lethargy
A careful check of the time indicates
Not everyone made the mark
Not everyone gave the same
Or achieved what this poor soul
Was even too weak to decree
Continue is a trait
'Keep going' a phrase that
Could be emblazoned on the carved
Headstone of my tomb
But going where at that point?
No medal required, no shout
Of appreciation
Just an understanding that when
All is lost or seems just too hard
My natural instinct is to continue
No deviation or side swipes
Solid unity of mind and body
Not even clever but just how it is

I sit for most of the day
almost always by the window

I place my muzzy body in a tall wooden chair
run my fingers through my eyes
smear dreadful thoughts
which begin with pain in my left thumb
deadness plocks
I am captive.

I want. I tell myself what i want.
I want it to be mine, to come from my aching bones and tingly devilish spasms
petrified
patricide
but its not me. or is it
a solemn search
where the lights are off

I want a vessel to open
in soft creamy sunlight streaks
with warm feel
gushing the stupidness out
numerous arms will captivate me
others. not mine
in crisp air
easy kisses
plop

It was when my waking eyes
shank into the dent in the bed
                                that I knew.

Torpid, little tense in the neck
the phone dead,
my hand snaking through
       a mesh of wires
to get to the muzzy
                  crux of it,
it was yourself
I turned up tangled in,
found ensnared, redrawn,
in throws, and throngs
            of a clonic cupidity.

That was us
who mangled in the night
like cobras with empty stomachs
Churning round
small nocturnal animals
         in the dark,
even in the dark,
I swore your skin was pellucid.

Sleepy-headed still,
I skedaddled outside
to swallow the rain,
and slumbery remember summer,
when I hopped as light
as bird from brier,
up rises my spirit,
down falls the foot
caked in muck,
schlepping slowly
through the mire.

You've slept in my bed
it seems, for as long
as memory serves,
just one of the many things on Earth
I've noticed and subsequently
           can't unnotice,
like the way in one hears a clock
tick.....tick.......tock......
only when one is listening.

I have noticed
that dent in my bed
grow into a dozing silhouette,
noticed the garden-gate
creek in F minor,
silver cobwebs in the loft,
               distant dogbarks
and a pomegranate stain
on your mother's blouse.

Once, so thickly laden
with expectancy,
                     now I know
that I am
                        no longer
                           Waiting.

Two can play at a game,
but you had this
And you flaunt it.  
You were muzzy &  you left
Numskull skinner that I am remain.

Before your people
My head down and fingers crossed,
You crossed over, my hand outstretched
But in vain
Knowing all this,  why didnt you walk inn?

You should have stood in my shoes,
Seen what is saw,
The agony I went through.

Thee art like mystique
Hence i did that but,
Little did I dream  you would gimme a death blow like that.

It's true that I sinned
The debt remains
My dignity hit the sands of time
Now I gotta be the Prince of  Persia

How did you Imagine
I would bear the pain?
Or.. Did you at all?

You saw me being destroyed,
Atleast you should have asked
Why is this? What of it?

Wait;do you need a firm mind?
I thought you had.
But in battle, I must live
I must embrace my spirit
Embrace and struggle for my lose(dignity):(
It was my naivety that was the cause

You tried to clutch me out ;alot
But i managed to reject it in pain
&kept; coming back

If I  clutch you you would know, and if you then me
But you know i wouldn't.

the metal strainer fizzles
as it comes in contact
with the flighty liquid of
adventurous spirits

muzzy and discontent
not so insincere
not so friendly
to make amends
just yet

can be muzzy things, caused by a
sincere lack of liquidisation,
or a symptom of another particle.

substance is taken, ibruprofin, after
hunting the bags, the old bathroom cupboard,
which is tidy now. tea then, and typing, ensuring
the jaw and neck are slack, no tension.

think of montgomery, the garden, relax, and know,

that others have worse than tight head pain.

maybe this is smoke inhalation,
maybe it is nothing at all.

no hormones, no alcohol required.
bandages are useful.

sbm.

You wonder about the celestial walls of my heart
And surely the mutinous eyes
Undoubtedly about the mortise lock over my Ruby Lips
That with a touch can destroy your warm
ice

Diamonds fulfilling the sky do grace you at night
But my little star gazer
Intervening the black,what's the value of
white

You had just gazed my lapis lazuli like smile
But darling inside me a universe resides
Having no noticeable boundary till million miles

You can't bear my hocus pocus mind honey
From my Muzzy vision to my elegant walk
Clumsy alone dumb coward girl to
Glamorous happy intelligent Fearless girl, I carry in journey

My eyes are my magical stick
Beware, my inner self can make the hell out of you sick.

Today, as leaves dance to the dark earth
red, gold, brown
mist soars to obscure the high mountain peaks
a mesmerizing mood

Brings me back to younger days when I flipped, flopped, splashed
in a myriad of puddles
while my mother shrieked "Don't get your pants wet"
I asserted my independence and gloated
in my own  slap happy world
not a word did I hear

At once, I smell the dew
Grass still green from frequent summer rains
listen to the squeaky wet grass beneath my boots
take note of those tiny morsels stuck underside

A macabre walk in the clouds
a muzzy vision of the sticks in the forest
tree tops just a mirage
I snap a photo to trap the ghostly silence
which attests to my musing temper

How happy is the amused, blank bewilderment!
Blank bewilderment.
Does the blank bewilderment make you shiver?
does it?

The constitutional controversy is not private!
the constitutional controversy is exceptionally private.
Never forget the unexclusive and private constitutional controversy.

Acute annoyance is an obvious effect.
the obvious effect is an acute annoyance.
An acute annoyance is large. an acute annoyance is small-minded,
an acute annoyance is puny, however.

I saw the woolly posture of my generation destroyed,
How I mourned the apparent awkwardness.
An apparent awkwardness is muzzy. an apparent awkwardness is confused,
an apparent awkwardness is a flocculent, however.

I saw the homophobic reaction of my generation destroyed,
How I mourned the bitter backlash.
Does the bitter backlash make you shiver?
does it?

drizzle at the
bar grey
as muzzy
print

from your
morning paper
droplets of
ink