Baba. Little Man.
My fluffy beating heart.
So gentle and warm.
Here’s to the day we met and you found a home at my feet, and slept
As I stood, completely overwhelmed.
Cushioning you like a delicate flower in an autumnal wind.
And here’s to the day you first gave me your paw, holding it out like a promise
A vow. To have and to hold.
And here’s to the days we’d lay side by side.
Your head on my chest.
Watching you rise and fall. Little life buoy, bobbing in the sea.
A sanctuary. To keep me afloat.
And here’s to the days you’d gift me a toy.
A symbol of devotion.
A boomerang. To throw and fetch and then never let go.
And here’s to the day I realised the softest souls are the biggest.
And that love is a pool of drool on my knees, or a bunch of fur on my jeans.
It’s a wag of a tail.
Or a lapping tongue to my face like a child licking ice cream.
I’m sorry I left you.
And I’m sorry I didn’t come back to you every day.
And I’m sorry that when you got tired the best thing I could ever do for you was to let you go.
And spend the rest of my life wishing you’d come back.

with no real reference to u2: i still haven't found
what i'm looking for -
which is music in a nutshell...

            hell... with all those guitar virtuosos...
to name a few... joe satriani...
                           john petrucci or steve vai...
but it wasn't what i was looking for...

   working backwards... something on the lines
of tom verlain...
      something: more laid back - guitar music:
sometimes lyrics are... bothersome -
              
           well... and the virtuoso music is simply:
a mood killer...
then the youtube algorithm starts
to glitch and fond memories of the jukebox
pop up like phosporescent moles...

            tommy guerrero...
                              no mans land...
                     a real shame to be writing anything
while this is playing in the background...
i'd settle for a wasp's nest of a head -
busy body me with both hands tied -
sipping a ms. amber in a corset and stockings
(bourbon) with some pepsi through
a straw...

                      i did think i was looking for
this something with egberto gismonti's solo...
apparently not...

   and for all its worth: the cut-off point...
i.e. what was once a calm revelation
of a lake...
becomes a frothing waterfall:

sometimes words are like bones anc concrete...
but me, being lazy...
                 teasing dyslexia or...
whatever...
                       you can say all you want
about... kevin spacey...
i'm not going to play the devil's advocate...
but...
                drift off... drifting off...
the required amount of prescriptive sleep...
no dreams...
i so too thought: i thought so too...
we wouldn't be buying sleep and dreams
over the counter...
big pharma excavations....

lester burnham...
and of course... kaiser sow'z'eh...
          sure... otherwise a kim novak /
     james stewart...

                      proper immigration:
send us your women... your ukranian... women...
and the brain-drain:
the best folk...
blah blah blah... blah blah...
what a load of...
glued to the concept of island:
easy to spot a border...
i guess...
                   it's always the carte blanches:
of a cate blanchetts and neurosurgeons
that make it...

no wonder... rewards in ***...
hmm... how about a genocide worth of *****
into a tissue... flushed...
gets the blood boiling...
Paris pre and during and "sort of"
after lockdown...
spike in female depression... no no...
this that and the other...

    so much more with... ****** and ***** banks...
i feel truly sorry for... women...
that will have to give birth to...
worker ants... construction workers...
not those pretty battersea shelter for
"stray" cats and dogs "nurses"...
i will  feel really sorry for the women
who will have to "forget"...
what's that term... hyper-... no...
  gyro- no... hyperbolic... no no nein!

hypergamy! yeah... and some women will
clearly not... up and up and more up...
if only i were a milkman's son...
a tiny little enclave... a stage...
the sea... the cliffs: i the next...
fisherman... the next trucker...

women of the world unite!
but this article... rage...
women don't need men:
of the same class - of the same dada venture...
the same dandies the same:
throws out a perfectly good electrical appliance...
because... "forgot" to check the plug fuse...
same ****... different cover...
all stereotypes... slavs are good workers...
all the plumbers and electricians
circa 2004 - 2018 were polacks...

everyone's a ******* poet over in:
englishland...
and a journalist...
and a whitney houston diva!
        well... no mistake there...
since all the n.h.s. nurses are dancing tiktok...
and...
i once thought it was: slavery...
unless: but i was... wrong...
about that well explained aspect of:
not a slave... but... rather...
being... conscientious...

          well... if you say it like that...
the ex-patriates who had tea with mussolini...
they weren't immigrants or:
high price of culture...
nor that anywhere west of the river Oder
experienced the cultural enrichment
of: that one-time-hit of mongolia and
the golden **** horde...
or that... some pakistanis still have a name:
muhammad... and a surname: khan...

it could be worse... it could be... much worse...
i could be... circumcised...

hell... have children: teach them how to ride
a bicycle: have them listen to mylo's
sunworshipper -
or stick around aging people...
walk up and down creaking wooden stairs...
and hear them snore...
while the bed lamp is still on...

with children and the fear of the dark...
with aging people and the fear
of death... and that's the middle ground
of focus...

royskopp - so easy - elevator music...
horror movie soundtrack:
nostalgia for the 1950s / 1960s
of the 20th century...
now... i can almost understand...
nostalgia for... circa:
the three muskateers...
         vikings...
                            but this sort of
nostalgia: "early on"... em...
the graveyard is the new musuem
with the added splash of al fresco artistry:
the wind, the shine, the peckish sparrows...
the rain...
the hot the cold...

'french single women were supposed
to be miserable on their own...
      thrilled from the pressure to hook
up' - adam sage...
          sage my st. augustine's sololoqui
burnt and smothered in sand-paper...
***...
            
   the world of *** toys and ***** banks...
and... casual joe says:
tables and chairs... brick walls...
buildings... magically popping up...
thin again! thinning air...

oh... i'm not *******... the french ladies
the english ladies don't really care much
for: women of the world unite...
press the war button...
otherwise an invasion is riddled
without bullets of rifles...
written on a postcard: wish?!
i'm coming over...

                     who's paying for the viewcount
of / and credibility?
heidegger and blue boy: remember me:
i'm asking... me standing before
the mirror - in half of adam's attire...
whithered: en vogue...

                  musik for the jilted generation...
heated debated looking for alternatives...

*** toys and ***** banks...
       white knights and... placebo hearts...
how i sometimes wish...
this was an abortion of a beethoven
and this was the medium of the grave...

i would much have better not been sold:
the child, the boy...
whatever that was circa up to the age of 21...
dress me up... in stilletos...
and horse reins and claps...
and tell me: plough this 'ere field...
better that... than the myth of the child of man...
that man is ever a child...
beside the lie in waiting...
tugged and pulled along...
    constipated / claustrophobic language:
that much i can understand...

i wish for having pristine:
leather like skin...
but since my skin: isn't doing my bidding:
that i am doing its (bidding)...
fur... living fur... cats for cuddles...
there's one sleeping in my bed...
right now: and i know that if i pick her
up... one of those bath floating ducks
playthings of a box of music of meows...

sensations: regarded as bone thinning...
and via tooth-loss inspired:
fwench kissing...

- junk-box of suprises - as random as a kandinsky
canvas or a burrough's paragraph...
better this kid achieved maturity
within the confines of an abortion...
than... this... one sure short: missing ******:
insert - ***** and ditto...
the constipated and less so:
islamic harem of the martyrs...
when three holes are given the liberal
shakedown...

to be shamed by *******:
when one isn't conscripted into
               circumcision: that flake
of living skin: the new niqab...
is like: the old, the new, the old...
moral compass of mommy kiss your cherubs
goodnight... **** daddy's **** prior...

wunderbar!
                    learn from spewing stewart...
learn a ditto: at least...
learn:
|
|
|
|  this is how you get a marker and decide
on how a paragraph begins...
cooking a slice of tender beef: aside...
into the beauty of a mid-western...
half baked cookies...
cookie dough jam: the ice-cream...
the crucifixions of no new tomorrow -
the same old... replica of constipation...
and... orthodox jews learning the violin...
like it's a slaughterhosue for horses -
and by miracle of the ching-chang-wall'ah...
prunes! prunes of the squirm!
lemon meets Paris...
meets... lemon meets...
a wine connoisseur... mr. lemon has
a busy schedule... all of asia... "practically"...
mr. lemon arrives in beijing...
                  suddenly the concept of batman
spawns... a centipede torso of...
availability of movement...

cul de sac protests! of course...
bag a cockerely and interrogate him in...
finnish!
it's as if... "they" almost forgot... to...
circumcise and castrate...
and have a 1UP on us... for that...,
much desired... quack!
choir of castrated oink voltaires:
no... those we call...

                    Sardinian...
                                 and tenors...
and: purple ******* sacks of a culmination
of a beard / stubble...
all bishop: all kosher... the voice!
the crescendo: better: unlike rain on
copper roof plating... tulips in goth...
goth: some would call...
strawberries: looking plump...
as juicy... and edible...
             come the cushions of a december
plough...
                  
            i much agree for the concerns
of the: seasonal dietitians...
root veg through winter...
the rest will follow: choir imperatives...
            
             tap tap... drum-roll: more chaotic...
and all the right: lost precisions...
akin to the enigma of:
the ballett of soft teasing snow...
come night and the toll of moon...
                  
            striding to find accents of heaven...
with worded: brush strokes of
the easily irritated fathomability:
bulk prize - it's still... a ******* square...
leaning tower of Pisa or cubism...
Picasso or no... Picasso...

all are waiting, the encore,
the alphabet... the encyclopedic entries...
suggesting: no banter for a worth if a wriggling
seance worth of shrapnel...
or that... arachnophobia:
and the scuttling spiders...
or the ones you touch... coin-flip...
limps stressed: tense... folded...
preteding to... play dead is all they ever do...

tommy the satire gun: ownership contra
worship... like... something from
a ***** universe...
before the sober judge...
before the sobering jury...
the drinking... "aristocrat" of accusations...
i drink... i drink...
because that's when i tend to scubadive...
skydive... i tend to spew: stew...
tell the truth... that drinking and listening
to music is one of those hazard free
"side-projects"...

        i find my heart among the sparrows...
such is their love for life...
i find my tongue among the crows
and magpies:
such is their critique of life: per se...
i find my feet in that magic carpet ride
of the widow swan:
a fate near impossible... nay...
completely: not near: impossible!
petting a dog for its worth of thick
cranium...
   circles galore! circles and circles...
this is not me stroking a leash...
or.. being fidget genius
over a muzzle...

        thumbs up: the ****...
                   more sparkle?
more colour? more dehydrated shrimp
paste? shrimp *****
and mr. lemon serves up:
an experience of tourism from beijing,..
mongolian squint eye:
squiggly noon ugh... sun...

warsaw the parade of ghosts and echoes...
esp. the underground
when the trains roll in from Kiev
and further east...
karma-alcoholic & cinderella "ulterior"
opt outs...
            by best decipher for ads...
i.e. counter... oculus per oculus:
eye for an eye...  shylock and i agree...
a violin for a violin...
a horse's mane for a bow...

                             better than: the end...
             ditto...
                            lady justice gave both her
eyes up... to pressure
a box into abiding by rules
of the guillotine...
  like hell: will this supposed soul...
this branch of learning:
psychology and the logic of non-existence...
ever...
because of how asthma and irregular
breathing... mr. itsy-witsy
and mr. boogie rain-man..

                             **** up and **** with
the readily available...
i'll watch...        a best canape of voyeurism...
is akin to: faking a pose of
atlas... when... performing the banality
of the metaphor of sisyphus.

/             i can't even conceive the concept
of "lounging"
   with a cool breeze of a refrigerator
ushering out
        mylo's: sun worshipper...
without thinking of dragging
my naked *** onto a plot cool, cool green
grass that hasn't been scarred
by this july sun...
              what, with the old people
dropping like flies,
      or rather hiding for the majority
of the day...
  is this a ******* metallurgy factory?
         sun?                *******
                            back to arabia!
- and take your knightbridge boyos
with you!
          i'm pretty sure they can drive
their lamborghinis in the riyadh heat...
                                        just as well!
well it's not like the arabs
    "invented" oil...
                     talk about sitting,
  and then ******* on the laurels of
                      passing on the annoying phrase,
there's no water in the desert:
                    well no **** sherlock!
        there are no camels in scandinavia either!
- as one bengali once expressed at
school:
                       ******* camel jockeys.

burn-out flesh born from a scraping
sensation:
   tips of fingers numbed on
scratching bricks...
           before oysters of bodies could
be painted onto...
     some basic grease...

               well... when writing was
still fun... because the money didn't matter:
there was no money in this adventure
to begin with:
but there was the dimension
of diabolical joy: sometimes those
out-of-body experience fuelled by
bourbon and nicotine:
cackling: a magpie's laughter...

            sometimes writing into the silly
hours: going to bed with the sunrise...
i don't think it's all that necessary...
come to think of it...
    it's a bit like a nostalgia for
when Paris was circa 2004 - 2007...
and you'd adapt to some
club music slyly:
    mylo's destroy rock & roll...

          time to think about exercise...
6 months of revision to put
down the genetic embarrassment
of inheritance "tax" of high blood pressure...
all those nights spent
wriggling in doodles...
            and still no pursuit of rhyme...

riding into the sunset...
or at least riding in the early morning
before the major custard of traffic...
        to write very little to drink even
less... but to somehow salvage the night
and wake bright as rain...
fresh as an impeccable daisy -
    
buy a bicycle - buy a bicycle -
of course i'll have to trade in the bogus
idea of a viking street-bicycle...
not thin enough for the tour de france...
i'll need to trade that in
and get someone with enough
rubber and beef to prize a loss
of roughly 20 kilograms...

                      it's not like i can digest
new music these days...
lazily bbc radio 3 wakes me up
in the morning and...
                   that thrill of looking for new
music isn't there either...
a consistent return to the couch
for the ears...
           hamsters and wheelies...

   all better for the world too:
like a taoist mantra from so long ago...
the best way you can aid the world...
is for you to forget the world...
and for the world to forget you...
oh i'm sure there will come some
spontaneity postcard down the line...

midnight and 7am never seemed
to refreshing...
   or a sunday morning...
the scent in the air...
when walking to the shop
for some fresh buns and a newspaper...
it was raining during the night
and there's a mojito-esque breeze
in the air... although
the mint is rarer -
it's still there but thyme and rosemary
comes to the fore...

       come to think of it...
writing lines up with a depreciation of reading...
i don't believe you can write
and read simultaneously -
well you can - journalistic galore...
but...
       m'eh...
                     a return to the peace
of reading - someone else doing the
peddling -
                      perhaps no philosophy
books... yes... more fiction...
   the odd quirk of poetry...
                                on a quickened
sense of reflection:
reading a cereal carton's ingredients
or a shampoo bottle
while taking a ****...
                  
                       yes... quiet agreeable:
a mid-midlife "crisis" as
  escaped from...
                     investing in a bicycle...
and that song: sunworshipper -
ride into the sunset *******...
      ride! ride!

best with a sigma of self...
than this shrapnel self...
                    come to think of it:
yes: there's no sigma-self...
             but a sigma of self is better
than mere sharpnel...
           boost cool and collected...
                       that's that.