Chapter Two

“I think of art, at its most significant, as a DEW line, a Distant Early Warning System that can always be relied on to tell the old culture what is beginning to happen to it.”                Marshall McLuhan  
  
I attended Bucknell University in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania because my father was incarcerated at the prison located in the same town.  My tuition subsidized to a large extent by G.I. Bill, still a significant means of financing an education for generations of emotionally wasted war veterans. “The United States Penitentiary (USP Lewisburg)” is a high-security federal prison for male inmates. An adjacent satellite prison camp houses minimum-security male offenders. My father was strictly high-security, convicted of various crimes against humanity, unindicted for sundry others. My father liked having me close by, someone on the outside he trusted, who also happened to be on his approved Visitor List. As instructed, I became his conduit for substances both illicit, like drugs, and the purely contraband, a variety of Italian cheeses, salamis, prepared baked casseroles of eggplant parmesan, cannoli, Baci chocolate from Perugia, in Tuscany, south of Florence, and numerous bottles of Italian wine, pungent aperitifs, Grappa, digestive stimulants and sweet liquors. I remained the good son until the day he died, the source of most of the mess I got myself into later on, and specifically the main caper at the heart of this story.

I must confess: my father scared the **** out of me.  Particularly during those years when he was not in jail, those years he spent at home, years coinciding roughly with my early adolescence.  These were my molding clay years, what the amateur psychologists write off with the term: “impressionable years hypothesis.” In his own twisted, grease-ball theory of child rearing, my father may have been applying the “guinea padrone hypothesis,” in his mind, nothing more certain would toughen me up for whatever he and/or Life had planned for me. Actually, his aspirations for me-given my peculiar pedigree--were non-existent as far as the family business went. He knew I’d never be either a Don or a Capo di Tutti Capi, or an Underboss or Sotto Capo.)  A Caporegime—mid-management to be sure, with as many as ten crews of soldiers reporting to him-- was also, for me, out of the question. Dad was a soldier in and of the Lucchese Family, strictly a blue-collar, knock-around kind of guy. But even soldier status—which would have meant no rise in Mafioso caste for him—was completely out of the question, never going to happen for me.

A little background: the Lucchese Family originated in the early 1920s with Gaetano “Tommy” Reina, born in 1889 in Corleone, Sicily. You know the town and its environs well. Fran Coppola did an above average job cinematizing the place in his Godfather films.  Coppola: I am a strict critic when it comes to my goombah, would-be French New Wave auteur Francis Ford Coppola.  Ever since “One From the Heart, 1982”--one of the biggest Hollywood box office flops & financial disasters of all time--he’s been a bit thin-skinned when it comes to criticism.  So, I like to zing him when I can. Actually, “One From the Heart” is worth seeing again, not just for Tom Waits soundtrack--the film’s one Academy Award nomination—but also Natasha Kinski’s ***: always Oscar-worthy in my book. My book? Interesting expression, and factually correct for once, given what you are reading right now.

Tommy Reina was the first Lucchese Capo di Tutti Capi, the first Boss of All the Bosses. By the 1930s the Luccheses pretty much controlled all criminal activity in the Bronx and East Harlem. And Reina begat Pinzolo who begat Gagliano who begat Tommy Three Finger Brown Lucchese (who I once believed, moonlighted as a knuckle ball relief pitcher for Yankees.)
Three Finger Brown gave the Lucchese Family its name. And Tommy begat Carmine Tramunti, who begat Anthony Tony Ducks Corallo. From there the succession gets a bit crazy. Tony Ducks, convicted of Rico charges, goes to prison, sentenced to life.  From behind bars he presides through a pair of candidates most deserving the title of boss: enter Vittorio Little Vic Amuso and Anthony Gaspipe Casso.  Although Little Vic becomes Boss after being nominated by Casso, it is Gaspipe really calling the shots, at least until he joins Little Vic behind bars.
Amuso-Casso begat Louis Louie Bagels Daidone, who begat the current official boss, Stephen Wonderboy Crea.  According to legend, Boss Crea got his nickname from Bernard Malamud’s The Natural, a certain part of his prodigious anatomy resembling the baseball bat hand-carved by Roy Hobbs. To me this sounds a bit too literary, given the family’s SRI Lexile/Reading Performance Scores, but who am I to mock my peoples’ lack of liberal arts education?

Begat begat Begato. (I goof on you, kind reader. Always liked the name Begato in the context of Bible-flavored genealogy. Mille grazie, King James.)

Lewisburg Penitentiary has many distinguished alumni: Whitey Bulger (1963-1965), Jimmy Hoffa (1967-1971) and John Gotti (1969-1972), for example.  And fictionally, you can add Paulie Cicero played by Paul Scorvino in Martin Scorsese’s Goodfellas, not to be confused with Paulie Walnuts Gualtieri played by Tony Sirico from the HBO TV series The Sopranos. Nor, do I refer to Paulie Gatto, the punk who ratted out Sonny Corleone in Coppola’s The Godfather, you know: “You won’t see Paulie no more,” according to fat Clemenza, played by the late Richard “Leave the gun, take my career” Castellano, who insisted to the end that he wasn’t bitter about his underwhelming post-Godfather film career. I know this for a fact from one of my cousins in the Gambino Family. I also know that the one thing the actor Castellano would never comment on was a rumor that he had connections to organized crime, specifically that he was a nephew to Paulie Castellano, the Gambino crime family boss who was assassinated in 1985, outside Midtown New York’s Sparks Steak House, an abrupt corporate takeover commissioned by John Teflon Don Gotti. But I’m really starting to digress here, although I am reminded of another interesting historical personage, namely Joseph Crazy Joe Gallo, who was also terminated “with extreme prejudice” while eating dinner at a restaurant.  Confused? And finally--not to be confused with Paul Muldoon, poetry gatekeeper at The New Yorker magazine, that Irish **** scumbag who consistently rejects publication of my work. About two years ago I started including the following comment in my on-line Contact Us, poetry submission:  “Hey Paulie, Eat a Bag of ****!”

This may come as a surprise, Gentle Reader, but I am a poet, not a Wise Guy.  For reasons to be explained, I never had access to the family business. I am also handicapped by the Liberal Arts education I received, infected by a deluge, a veritable Katrina ****** of classic literature.  That stuff in books rubs off after awhile, and I suppose it was inevitable. I couldn’t help evolving for the most part into a warm-blooded creature, unlike the reptiles and frogs I grew up with.

Again, I am a poet not a wise guy. And, first and foremost, I am a human being. Cold-blooded, I am not. I generate my own heat, which is the best definition I know for how a poet operates. But what the hell do I know? Paulie “Eat a Bag of ****” Muldoon doesn’t think much of my work. And he’s the ******* troll guarding the New Yorker’s poetry gate. Nevertheless, I’m a Poet, not a Wise Guy.  I repeat myself, I know, but it is important to establish this point right from the start of this narrative, because, if you don’t get that you’re never going to get my story.

Maybe the best way to explain my predicament—And I mean PREDICAMENT in the sense of George Santayana: "Life is not a spectacle or a feast; it is a predicament." (www.brainyquote.com), not to be confused with George’s son Carlos, the Mexican-American rock star: Oye Como Va, Babaloo!

www.youtube.com/watch?v...YouTube Dec 20, 2011 - Uploaded by a106kirk1, The Best of Santana. This song is owned by Santana and Columbia Records.

Maybe the best way for me to explain my predicament is with a poem, one of my early works, unpublished, of course, by Paulie “Eat a Bag of ****” Muldoon:

“CRAZY JOE REVISITED”  
        
by Benjamin Disraeli Sekaquaptewa-Buonaiuto

We WOPs respect criminality,
Particularly when it’s organized,
Which explains why any of us
Concerned with the purity of our bloodline
Have such a difficult time
Navigating the river of respectability.

To wit: JOEY GALLO.
WEB-BIO: (According to Bob Dylan)
“Born in Red Hook, Brooklyn in the year of who knows when,
Opened up his eyes to the tune of accordion.

“Joey” Lyrics/Send "Joey" Ringtone to your Cell
Joseph Gallo, AKA: "Joey the Blond."
He was a celebrated New York City gangster,
A made member of the Profaci crime family,
Later known as the Colombo crime family,

That’s right, CRAZY JOE!
One time toward the end of a 10-year stretch,
At three different state prisons,
Including Attica Correctional Facility in Attica, New York,
Joey was interviewed in his prison cell
By a famous NY Daily News reporter named Joe McGinnis.
The first thing the reporter sees?
One complete wall of the cell is lined with books, a
Green leather bound wall of Harvard Classics.
After a few hours mainly listening to Joey
Wax eloquently about his life,
A narrative spiced up with elegant summaries,
Of classic Greek theory, Roman history,
Nietzsche and other 19th Century German philosophers,
McGinnis is completely blown away by Inmate Gallo,
Both Joey’s erudition and the power of his intellect,
The reporter asks a question right outta
The Discrete Charm of the Bourgeoisie:
“Mr. Gallo, I must say,
The power of your erudition and intellect
Is simply overwhelming.
You are a brilliant man.
You could have been anything,
Your heart or ambition desired:
A doctor, a lawyer, an architect . . .
Yet you became a criminal. Why?”

Joey Gallo: (turning his head sideways like Peter Falk or Vincent Donofrio, with a look on his face like Go Back to Nebraska, You ******* Momo!)

“Understand something, Sonny:
Those kids who grew up to be,
Doctors and lawyers and architects . . .

They couldn’t make it on the street.”

Gallo later initiated one of the bloodiest mob conflicts,
Since the 1931 Castellammare War,
And was murdered as a result of it,
While quietly enjoying,
A plate of linguini with clam sauce,
At a table--normally a serene table--
At Umberto’s Clam House.

Italian Restaurant Little Italy - Umberto's Clam House (www.umbertosclamhouse.com)
In Little Italy New York City 132 Mulberry Street, New York City | 212-431-7545.

Whose current manager --in response to all restaurant critics--
Has this to say:
“They keep coming back, don’t they?
The joint is a holy shrine, for chrissakes!
I never claimed it was the food or the service.
Gimme a ******* break, you momo!
I should ask my paisan, Joe Pesci
To put your ******* head in a vise.”

(Again, Martin Scorsese getting it exactly right, This time in  . . . Casino (1995) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/tt0112641/Internet Movie Database Rating: 8.2/10 - ‎241,478 votes Directed by Martin Scorsese. With Robert De Niro, Sharon Stone, Joe Pesci, James Woods. Greed, deception, money, power, and ****** occur between two  . . . Full Cast & Crew - ‎Trivia - ‎Awards - ‎(1995) - IMDb)

Given my lifelong, serious exposure to and interest in German philosophy, I subscribe to the same weltanschauung--pronounced: veltˌänˌSHouəNG—that governed Joey Gallo’s behavior.  My point and Mr. Gallo’s are exactly the same:  a man’s ability to make it on the street is the true measure of his worth.  This ethos was a prominent one in the Bronx where and when I grew up, where I came of age during the 1950s and 60s.  Italian organized crime was always an option, actually one of the preferred options--like playing for the Yankees or being a movie star—until, that is, reality set in.  And reality came in many forms. For 100% Italian kids it came in a moment of crystal adolescent clarity and self-evaluation:  Am I tough enough to make it on the street?  Am I ever going to be tough enough to make it on the street? Will I be eaten alive by more cunning, more violent predators on the street?

For me, the setting in of reality took an entirely different form.  I knew I had what it takes, i.e., the requisite ferocity for street life. I had it in spades, as they say. In fact, I’d been blessed with the gift of hyper-volatility—traced back to my great-grandfather, Pietro of the village of Moschiano, in the province of Avellino, in the region of Campania, Italia Sud. Having visited Moschiano in my early 20s and again in my late 50s, I know the place well. The village square sits “down in the holler,” like in West Virginia; the Apennine terrain, like the Appalachians, rugged and thick. Rugged and thick like the people, at least in part my people. And volatile, I am, gifted with a primitive disposition when it comes to what our good friend Abraham Maslow would call lower order needs. And please, don’t ask me to explain myself now; just keep reading, *******.  All your questions will be answered.

Great Grandfather Pietro once, at point blank range, blew a man’s head off with a lumpara, or sawed-off shotgun. It was during an argument over—get this--a penny’s worth of pumpkin seeds--one of many stories I never learned in childhood. He served 10 years in a Neapolitan penitentiary before being paroled and forced to immigrate to America.  The government of the relatively new nation--The Kingdom of Italy (1861)--came up with a unique eugenic solution for the hunger and misery down south, south of Rome, the long shin bone, ankle, foot, toes & kickball that are the remote regions of the Mezzogiorno, Southern Italy: Campania, Basilicata, Calabria, Puglia & Sicilia. Northern politicians asked themselves: how do we flush these skeevy southerners, these crooks and assassins down South, how do we flush the skifosos down the toilet—the flush toilet, a Roman invention, I report proudly and accept the gratitude on behalf of my people. Immigration to America: Fidel Castro did the same thing in the 1980s, hosing out his jails and mental hospitals with that Marielista boatlift/Emma Lazarus Remix: “Give us your tired and poor, your lunatics, thieves and murderers.” But I digress. I’ll give you my entire take on the history of Italy including Berlusconi and the “Bunga Bunga” parties with 14-year old Moroccan pole dancers . . . go ahead, skip ahead.

Yes, genetically speaking, I was sufficiently ferocious to make it on the street, and it took very little spark to light my fuse. Moreover, I’ve always been good at figuring out the angles--call it street smarts--also learned early in life. Likewise, for knowing the territory: The Bronx was my habitat. I was rapacious and predacious by nature, and if there was a loose buck out there, and legs to be broken, I knew where to go.
Yet, alas, despite all my natural talents & acquired skills, I remained persona-non-grata for the Lucchese Family. To my great misfortune, I fell into a category of human being largely shunned by Italian organized crime: Mestizo-Italiano, a diluted form of full strength 100% Italian blood. It’s one of those voodoo blood-brotherhood things practiced by Southern European, Mediterranean tribal people, only in part my people.  Growing up, my predicament was always tricky, always somewhat bizarre. Simply put: I was of a totally different tribe. Blame my exotic mother, a genuine Hopi Corn Maiden from Shungopavi, high up on Second Mesa of the Hopi Reservation, way out in northern Arizona. And if this is not sufficiently, ******* nuts enough for you, add to the child-rearing minestrone that she raised me Jewish in The Bronx.  I **** you not. I took my Bar Mitzvah Hebrew instruction from the infamous Rabbi Meir Kahane, that’s right, Meir “Crazy Rebbe” Kahane himself--pronounced kɑː'hɑːna--if you grok the phonetics.

In light of the previously addressed “impressionable years hypothesis,” I wrote a poem about my early years. It follows in the next chapter. It is an epic tale, a biographical magnum opus, a veritable creation myth, conceived one night several years ago while squatting in a sweat lodge, tripping on peyote. I

lover of love's long lost history
you are so intrinsically dear to me
and i know you can hear the beat
when our hands go blistering

i love the neapolitan but not naples
listen to how the city sings like the others
but she buys time and barely bothers
to remove her appropriating staples

she is a reflection
of a reflection
of a reflection
of a reflection

but you, my dear neapolitans,

how holistically human you happen to be
and what a human thing to do
to braid oneself with a few
ventricles of other hearts unseen

you are not special insofar as you are human
and the home you make mistakes you
for a permanent resident, assumes you
are a planted person whose sole purpose is bloomin

but you are dynamic, not static
you do not live in someone's attic
you move around, the ground beneath you
isn't bequeathed to staying beneath you,

you

keep moving and loving and all of the aboving
because our love isn't something
that can be taken away by a location change
or how 21,000 hearts are arranged

There once was a race of cake men
equally divided between
birthday and wedding types,
each born into whatever flavor
was selling that day—
usually chocolate or vanilla,
but towards the end Neapolitan-
whose faith was strong.

They succumbed to the next door
country of cake eaters,
who reveled in their two week
long cake eating festival.

The eaters would line up with
their forks and plates
and slice off a big piece of
cake men as they fled to
the nearby country of pie people
who granted them asylum and citizenship
because their people were
mainly rhubarb and mincemeat
and we’re suffering through fruit blight
that was destroying their fabled variety.

Soon the festival yielded
to a full scale invasion.
You see, the cake eaters were
tired of waiting in the sample line.
They ate the cake men to the last crumb.

With all the cake gone they ate the pies.
But by then the idea of cake was a lie.
The cakes were now  mostly pies.

When the last forkful of pie
was in the cake eaters mouth
it screamed:

I will not be eaten by anyone
who can not see my beauty.

The eaters never thought that a cake
could be admired and never eaten.
They had no sense of the art and beauty
that was the filling of the cake/pie men’s faith

That last bite of pie became poisonous
and from then on the cake eaters
(who were now forced to make their own)
could never fully have their cake and eat it
without throwing up or dying.
They were now forever doomed to eat
their meat and vegetables.

You
take me, break me,
stake me down
you
make me smile
you
make me frown
you
tie me up in my knots
and then you reunite my soul
you're
all I want, all I want
repeat two times and hold.

Mandolin please play for me
a Neapolitan melody.

Sit and talk or walk with me
unto the ends of jeopardy
until I see,

be there in the morning when the
light comes flooding in
be there when the Sun goes down
to let my body in
be there in the quiet times when
silence locks me in

mandolin please play for me
a
Neapolitan melody.

take and make or break me
pluck me to your heart's content

heaven sent you maybe
play me
Neapolitan

one more time.

The shells lined up nicely.
"At attention," the conch yelled.
He was curled black, with boiled blue spikes.
And so they stayed, in a perfect line against the wall,
until the wave,
washing ashore, it plucked three.
One was an abalone,
almost full grown,
with five holes descending down its left side.
A sheen of gold and silver out,
murky indigo and forest green in.
He lost grip first,
and was pulled into an incoming breaker.
The second was a conch.
Chocolate and vanilla swirls coated the outer layers
leading in to slight pink.
Her name was Neapolitan.
She was once an adult shell of the queen conch,
washed ashore and set into a line by small hands,
that were gentle and soft.
Zander
A soft voice called.
Inhaled by the mouth of the ocean,
exhaled into a bout of seaweed.  
She was lost.
The last,
was a cowry shell.
He was old,
or at least he imagined so.
This was not the first time he had washed ashore,
nor had he figured, would it be the last.
His back was ivory white
with brown speckles,
in such a pattern
that he imagined himself to be, at times, a turtle.
He had first felt and then saw reflections of himself in sea glass. He was gathered in a bucket and rubbed so that his design reverberated until he felt, every shimmer of himself.
Knowing not what lay ahead,
but understanding,
he held no grip and went where the ocean led.
It's getting dark Zander.
The others gasped,
in horror their screams rasped.
"Save us. Plea...se he...l...p."
As another wave crashed into the wall and stole four more,
again,
till all were cast away from the wall
to be laden across the expanse of sand.

Soft brown eyes stared,
at the empty holes,
where shells had been placed,
as decorations to a most deserving sand castle.
Turrets and towers,
hard packed by child hands,
with a red flag flapping to the sea breeze.
A crude skull was drawn,
for it was a pirate fascination that encapsulated this year.
He had spent hours seeking and finding,
the perfect art,
to be the binding,
to hold his wall against all defense,
but all had fallen in the first wave of battle.
"Oh well," he muttered.
He would try again tomorrow.

YELLOW TAIL MOUSE TALE  
From the 9th diary entry of Stewy Lemmon's childhood adventures.  
 
This week, I had the best surprise present since Christmas Day, when I received my new grouse pet mouse named, Smooch. But the surprise didn't come from my parents, Archie or Flo, for it didn't even come from my little brother Lemmy's mouth. It wasn't from the mouths of my two much older identical twin sisters, Emma and Jemma, either.  
 
Believe it or not, it came from the mouth of my mouse, named Smoochy. Yes that's right, he does speak and he told me about his remarkable life story, since birth.  
 
It began when, I was feeding him some of my Mum's delicious afternoon treat. Do you remember the one that I named, 'a colourful fruit-blast'? Smoochy said, 'wow!, I love your Mum's food, it reminds me of my Mums magical dessert creations, she used to make for me, before I came to live with the you and your family'.  
 
I was gob smacked, when I heard Smoochy, actually having a conversation with me. I now knew 100%, that I wasn't dreaming or hallucinating, when I thought, Smoochy spoke to me. Just like the time on the seashore with the whale, and the fairy floss at the seaside resort named, Slipslopslap Bay. Also the time during the circus, while we were holidaying at the big top park circus, named Rolling River Retreat.  
 
Smoochy, told me about his parents, who's names are, Slippy and Sloppy. He also said, 'that his birth name is actually, Poppy, but he didn't mind being called,Smoochy. His name I had given him last Christmas. He said, 'it's grouse for a mouse to have a cool nickname, in the world of humans'.  
 
He also added, that in the animal world most creatures, don't even speak. Except for some mice, a parrot, and he was also led to believe, maybe even the odd Dolphin, swimming around the ocean.  
 
Smoochy, told me, 'how he and his parents Slippy and Sloppy, ended up at the local pet shop, in my local village named, Shimmerdimmerlee, when he was only about 2 years old'.  
Smoochy' said, 'that his parents, used to travel around the globe, with the very colourful and world famous circus troop name, 'Mr. Kazoontite's and his Marvellous, Magical, Mysterious and Musically Minded Misfits'.  
 
They both used to appear in an act, with the circus's ventriloquist, who's stage name was, 'Mumbling Murray the Mouth of the South'.They would pop their heads out of his top, left and right hand side pockets, of his jacket, and pretend to speak in English.They could also speak, a bit of his native language called, 'Ogbogolo'.  
 
When Mumbling Murray, opened his mouth and spoke, they would only be grinding their teeth together, to get the cheese out of the gaps of their teeth. But, the crowd thought it was funny, so they just kept doing it, for every act, over several years.  
 
Then one day, my Mum was having a baby, it was me. So, I was born in a big top circus and was looked after, ever so well by my parents and all of the other circus workers. Then one day, Mumbling Murray had to go back to his home country, to look after his sick sister.  
 
Mumbling Murray, had just finished the circus tour, near our village and decided he should take my parents and I to the local pet store. He thought, 'maybe they can be cared for, by a new loving family'.  
 
While living in the pet store, we noticed, with utter amazement, a very colourful parrot, talking in English. So Smoochy's Dad, answered him back, and the parrot almost fell off his perch. He spun around, about 3 times in a row. He then yelled back to my Dad, 'did you say that'? Yes, I did indeed, replied my dad, with a very proud smile on his face. Wow, said the parrot, 'I thought I was the only non human, who could speak'.  
 
Smoochy's Dad told the parrot, who's name was Polly, by the way, 'that he and his wife Sloppy, had learnt to speak English, from the ventriloquist acts performing with Mumbling Murray, the Mouth of the South, and the world famous circus troop named, 'Mr. Kazoontite's, Marvellous, Magical, Mysterious and Musically Minded Misfits'. They, in turn, taught their only son, Smoochy, mouse language. during the day and English at night, before he went to sleep.  
 
As for my Mum Sloppy and her magical dessert creations she used to make for the family. It was the best mixtures of sweet and colourful ingredients anyone could ever imagine. She used to go looking for snacks that were left on the floor under the seating area after the end of each nights circus performance. She would find things like salted popcorn with a touch of butter, a variety of different coloured chocolate, Neapolitan ice cream, orange Jaffa's and an assortment of lollies. It was so fun eating it all in a large dessert bowl after our main meal.  
 
Gee I miss those days and miss my mum and dad so much, Smoochy (Poppy) told me. So the next day I mentioned to my parents that I really need to go to the loc pet shop to get something really important for Smoochy. They said what do you need? Dad said I have built you a new pet mouse house for your grouse new pet mouse Smoochy and I even hand painted it with such colourful flair using my artistic nous.  
 
What else does Smoochy need, asked my mum. I said it is something that everyone needs in life and can never be replaced. So my parents said ok, tomorrow morning we will go down to the village pet shop and try and find what is so important for you and your grouse pet mouse Smoochy.  
 
Here we are Smoochy, at the pet shop that took you and your parents in a few years ago. Let's go and have a look for you mum and dad together. We saw slimy snakes, sticky spiders, floating frogs, flirting fish, droopy ducks and even timid turtles. Then all of a sudden we spotted several mouse houses.  
 
Smoochy was quietly saying, "Hello mum and dad are you here", even I was yelling out, Slippy, Sloppy, are you here. Then Smoochy spotted his parents in a mouse house which was stacked up on the top of a shelf full of books, towards the back of the pet shop.  
 
Hello son, how have you been and how did you and your new friend know we were living here? Smoochy told them that his new friend Stewy, knows that he can talk and I told him of my early years of life and what had happened to us all.  
 
I then yelled out to my parents, "I've found what Smoochy needs, we have found his real parents right here in Shimmerdimmerlee's village pet shop. Mum and dad said ok, you can have the two much older mice, so Smoochy has a mum and dad like everyone should have in their lives, even though they aren't his real parents.  
 
So back home we went and welcomed Smoochy's mum and dad, Slippy and Sloppy to their new grouse pet mouse house and even showed them dads unusually built and outrageously painted outback backyard shed.  
 
It was a hot afternoon, so we also slid down the "Terrific Triple Tumbling Tremendously Turning Travelling Tubes" to the village pond and introduced Buck the Duck to Smoochy's mum and dad.  
 
Smoochy and I have decided to keep his families secret to ourselves for now. It's ok that my mum and dad don't believe what I say on some occasions, because at least I know what the meaning of family means deep down inside, for myself but also for my friend and grouse pet Smoochy and his loving mum and dad.

I can be want you want.
But who am I
you crave.
I am not vanilla,
I am not chocolate,
I am not even strawberry.
I am sweeter than those things.
You need to look further
than
the calling
of your sweet tooth.
Let me enlighten
your beautiful mind.
I think you will find
more than a fine dessert
when you ******* desire.

We were waiting at the trattoria
for our friends to arrive,
when she walked in,
Aphrodite, alive.

Her skin, olive brown,
gently kissed by the sun.
A fertility goddess if
there ever was one.

A picture of symmetry
long legs and great hips.
Neapolitan eyes
and, of course, bee stung lips.

Magnificent mammaries,
barely contained
in the briefest of dresses.
as I stared, unashamed.

There, of course, are impediments
I won't try to hide.
The ring on my finger,
my bride at my side.

Plus there's the issue
of fifty years gone.
My Romeo days
have packed up  and moved on.

Now our friends have arrived
and, chaste kisses exchanged,
We feast on our entrees
as wine glasses are drained.

As dessert time approaches
I sadly observe
she’'s not on the menu
Pumpkin Cheese cake will serve.

He manages to free his thoughts
as he gazes the television
for news from a distance,
while continuing to sample
his supper of rice,
and sauteed vegetables
on a aluminum serving plate.

The restaurant he owns
dimly lit this mid-afternoon
with ghostly lanterns,
and artistic impressions
of times past on the wall,
while customers
walk and gingerly pass
ordering from an eclectic
menu of indo-latin-euro-oriental cuisine.

A neapolitan of condiments
dancing among garlic chili sauce,
and mayonnaise.

Mahogany grained panel walls,
and formica woven
seats, uniformly
scattered among
porcelain white
plates; traditional.

Engraved Jade pieces
hung with colors of luck
on each entrance.

I approach the counter.
A sepia toned
picture of his family
hanging by his register
no first dollar bill
or recognitions.
Just family held,
through time,
as he hands me a check.

Sick as hell I check my phone, messaging into school,
I sigh inside and notice the time, deciding to message you.
The pain falls deep in my body, I type to you in glee,
Crushed, squished, I sit up waiting, stuck in a morning daydream.
Sharp stabs and bubbling insides, lead my fragile mind,
despite the feeling, a childish grin came at your reply.

Your golden personality dripping on me, after whimpering a battle cry,
Ballrooms fill with dancing literature, written in the night by a fool.
Words, movements, gentle touches, make my heartstrings unwind,
Music, intimacy, gifts for you, under a sky of blue.
Child-like fantasies feel trapped inside a tub of Neapolitan ice cream,
My confidence felt numb under a heavy lock until I saw your key.

Cheek caresses and dark chocolate eyes are all I want to see,
Our anxieties scare me, but we’ll overcome it like a butterfly.
Despite it all, it feels wonderful, to meet someone who sees esteem,
Blind ourselves, of achievements we hold, to me you are a jewel.
Your impact, care and self dedication is the reason why my smile grew,
Joyful tears, the pain we’ve known, I know we can finally leave behind.

Gazing downwards, I feel at ease, seeing your name signed,
Touching your handwriting, a piece of you, here beyond the sea.
Ambitions are goals made from our souls, we dream of making come true,
if feeling love is what I feel, I want you to prolong this high.
Colours are bright within our lives and I feel like we could rule,
We spoke in harmony, we spoke in warmth, we watch the pouring stream.

Hardships will fall, sometimes we will but I know we are a team,
We push onwards through the force like a blistering wind.
I promise you, I’ll hold on to you, during this whirlpool,
Life is fun with someone and you mean everything to me.
I’ll dream of you thinking of when I’ll see you come by,
The scent of tea over me, over you, awaiting our breakthrough.

Crying, singing and feeling, It’s all I wish to do,
Learning what’s wrong, doing what’s right, mild to extreme.
We cheer, we laugh and hold hands under this moonbeam,
For your attitude of faith, reminded me that day, to never feel resigned.
Carve your name into mine on the bark of a tree,
Celebrate every moment, kiss me in time, the rush of a joule.

I want your days to be as shiny as the lights, glistening near Blackpool,
It amazes me, that this sheltered dream, could become our reality,
You coat me in romance, I will pay back in kind.

Television cooks rarely do
Fish, chips and mushy peas
With spotted **** for afters.

No
It’s got to be
Creamy coconut curry
With Balingud Zalud
Soaked in Chimichurri sauce.

Or Jalapena Lime Slaw
Accompanied by spicy Sriracia mayo
And Rachero Sauce.
Plus a side-dish of fluffy soufflés.

The starter is a vibrant veggy ratatouille
With sashimi, tacos and tortillas.

But then there’s always vemuelli noodles,
Pommes frittes
Teriyehi
Thana messala
And Enchilada Casserole
Covered in Romesco Sauce
Or Hollandaise
With Falafels and couscous.
Then Neapolitan Ice Cream souffled Erotica.

All impossible of course.
But don’t we love
The sheer seduction of those Words.

Paul Butters

© PB 28\4\2020.

One tedious journey, the blistering heat of the day made me stay.
I am home outside the porch exploring my eyes of the panoramic scenery of the countryside.

My mother baked Vanille Kipferl (vanilla crescents) with her own special recipe. The haunting aroma entice through my nostrils. She loves to bake especially on sunny days.

She went out to hand me a plate of cookies and mumbled how magnificent the scenery of the valleys.
True, it is breath taking but she gets to be so flibbertigibbet sometimes.

The tranquility of surroundings is exquisite.
I exhaled and it felt so good.
Rocking the chair, I grabbed an old novel from a table.
The cover was all tattered and dusty but I still flip it.

Then, I walked through a twisting thicket road bound by soil.
The vast green grass sways as the wind dance around them.
The singing of birds is beautiful.
I held my cloche hat while swaying my white regency gown like a lunatic. Every day is a gift. And that gift needs to be value.

I found a shade from an old oak tree at the top largest hill.
It was cozy but I don’t want to sleep, I’m afraid I’ll end up in a Rabbit Hole.  Instead, I climbed the tree with all my might, until I reached the edge.

Up here is different. You can see everything!

The sea is barely visible. Towns and villages are lined up. The atmosphere is heavenly. I embraced the beauty and got down from this old oak tree.

I snatched the book I left on the ground. I hugged it and when I look behind…

I am in a bridge that crosses a canal.

I found a flat-bottomed rowing boat with a man singing.
He looks funny in his striped shirt and black pants.
He grabbed his skimmer and bowed down.
There I go curtsy.
He told me he’ll show me the world. I just hopped in.
The place is floating! There are buildings with such unique architectures.

The man rowed and rowed while singing a song called “O Sole Mio”.
Since it was Neapolitan, I just listened and it sounded romantic.

He said we’re almost there.

…

The honking of vehicles and jamming traffic roused me.
I put the book inside my bag and looked in front.
The cars are huddled together.
These yellow cabs are not moving.

I descend my feet on the ground and shut the door.
The rapid combustion is hideous!

Burger joints, restaurants, people… more people. It’s too crowded.

Anyway, I made my way to this small coffee shop for a little zap!

Then the intense feeling got me clairvoyant.

Flipping pages, I come to enter a portal of a different universe.

In my own little world that no one can get me.

I am the protagonist.

5/25/14

Italy's Capri admirably fits the bill as an enchanted island,
Nestled in the Bay of Naples, it's apt to call it wonderland,
It is famous as a coastal resort and a celebrated beauty spot,
Little wonder of it being touristy and a location often sought

The isle is seriously beautiful, sans any blemish in its splendor,
So little room for any shortcoming, chances of which are slender,
Breathtaking views from any angle makes Capri appear so scenic,
Futile to draw comparison to any other isle that is so panoramic

Capri is known as the isle of the sirens in Greek mythology,
It has very little to do though with any aspect of theology,
Long considered a preserve of celebrities and the super-rich,
The small precipitous island is a must-visit travel agent's sales pitch

Accessible only by ferry or hydrofoil from Naples and its surrounds,
The idyllic isle with sheer cliffs and dazzling seascapes visually astounds,
Steep cliffs rise majestically from an almost impossibly blue sea,
That the isle has that tangible deluxe feel, is for all to see

The island has a mythical charm with its jaw-dropping natural beauty,
Stunning landscapes from rocky caves to the horizon's edge lend to the popularity,
Shimmering sea views, secluded grottos lure visitors in droves to be on board,
Amazing cuisine, world-class shopping are bells and whistles; lest you get bored

Blue Grotto is an oceanic cave at the water's edge with an opening to the sea,
Optical effects created by sunlight bouncing on the cave walls, is a sight to see,
Water lit turquoise hues from below, by the sun, creates a magical atmosphere,
Shimmering cobalt-blue light images beckons us to a virtual optical stratosphere

Through the water on the floor of the cave, Roman remains are clearly visible,
Supposedly used as a bathing place by Emperor Tiberius, a reason nigh plausible,
This lagoon was probably a Roman villa with statues decorating the whole floor,
Other entrances to the grotto were created to improve irrigation, per Greek folklore

Capri's standout are three rocky peaks emerging from the azure blue water,
Called the Faraglioni, the limestone stacks are discernible to any spotter,
Formed by erosion, separated by water thro' collapse of solid land mass,
Emerging as steep rocks rising out of the sea, surprisingly not as a morass

La Piazzetta, aka chiazza, is a bustling diminutive square in the heart of Capri,
Table settings of the handful of cafes are meant for one to be carefree,
The colorful clock tower chimes every quarter hour throughout the day,
With thronging crowds at all times, little surprise why the place holds sway

Post ferry drop-off at Marina Grande, a road trip from Capri to Anacapri is a must,
Brace yourselves for a 3-km. stretch of hairpin bends en route in the mini bus,
On the slopes of Mount Solaro and at a higher elevation than Capri,
The more authentic side of the island and less crowded, is Anacapri

Piazza Vittoria in Anacapri town is the bustling bus stop square where one alights,
Sauntering thro' colorful bougainvillea, geranium festooned lanes is sheer delight,
Behold a mix of Neapolitan tailor shops, artisan shoemakers and souvenir shops,
Enjoy the aerial whiff of the town's lemon groves pervading everywhere, nonstop

Museum of Villa San Michele is a building articulating at various levels,
Ancient artifacts, Roman paving, marble columns are sights that revel,
An elevated garden with granite Sphinx and Greek tomb is a perfect setting,
For a sweeping view of the Bay of Naples below, that looks so enchanting

Continuing downhill, the Church of Santa Sofia is the pride of the town,
The adjoining Piazza Armando Diaz bustling with activity is a place of its own,
Locals chatting and reading newspapers presents such a wonderful sight,
Seated on hand painted majolica benches, as if conveying life is so bright

A visit to Capri is incomplete without tasting the famed Caprese salad,
The taste is so exquisite that one tends to break into a ballad,
Tomatoes, milky mozzarella, aromatic basil leaves are the sole ingredients,
A drizzle of sharply flavored olive oil does little to serve as an impediment

Restaurants abound the lanes with crowds' incessant chatter,
Panino Caprese being made in a jiffy is no laughing matter,
So popular is the salad that it can be found on every menu,
Strolling along past excited visitors, makes for the perfect milieu

It is with a heavy heart that you ferry back to mainland at the trip's end,
While enjoying the panoramic stunning views again, as if there's no end,
It is not without reason that Capri's famed "cliff beauty" is so majestic,
The only describable feeling of the experience is that it is "ecstatic"!

i was walking
humming that song
about neapolitan dreams
looking at all the dried worms
on the hot sidewalk.
the rain makes them run away
from their homes
trying not to drown
but then the sun
comes
and shrivels them up:
little broken
flat
squiggles
on the sidewalk
what a *****
trick...
suddenly
i found
one that was barely
alive
struggling
trying to dig into
the scorching cement
i don't even like worms
i think they're gross
but i picked him up
put him in the dirt
covered him with some grass
to protect him from the sun
because i know how it feels
to be far from home
trying to get away
from a frightening
place

I guess it does make me sad sometimes
The gaps on my wall
Places that you used to be
Now just empty
It’s like you’re drifting away
A ghost
And I do wonder if it all was real
If it hadn’t been how does it feel so real
I can still remember that day in the gardens
It is strange
Stranger
That’s all you are now
But I know every tiny detail about you
But I’m not supposed to anymore
I’m supposed to forget that you like the colour purple, like my grandpa
Forget how you chew your nails
The disapproving looks you’d give me
Those nights
The way that you sleep
And I’m supposed to be sad about it
I don’t think about it
But when I go into great detail
Like the first night we kissed
Eating neapolitan ice cream
You putting aloe Vera on my sunburnt feet
Me making you kiss my dog three times
It doesn’t feel real
And then it always circles back to how bad you’d make me feel
And I remember why I shouldn’t feel terrible
I remember why it can’t work
And now I’ll never know you like that again
Probably never even speak again.

Feast your eyes
on this!
100% Super One-Twenty,
Windowpane, chalk-white,
on a navy backdrop.
Fully Canvassed, mind you,
for the elegance of the suit
is dictated by its drape,
the structure the cloth streams
from shoulder to waist.

Here!
Do you see it? No?
The shoulder, it’s expression:
Spalla Camicia!
Simplification of the cumbersome Neapolitan,
shedding all the padding
of the English shoulder.
(Padding, I emphasize,
is for insecure prepubescent girls.)

Ah, but the star of the show,
the six by two,
the armour of choice of all dandies,
the de facto of the eternally stylish,
the double breasted jacket!
Shoulder wide peaked lapels
drawing horizontal lines
that elongate the torso,
nipping the waist.

(And as they say,
I like my jackets like
I like my women:
Double-breasted.)

Let's keep this short
This is my body
My legs and arms, and my hair
That one is yours
This is not some Neapolitan ice cream, where you may not like strawberry, but you’re going to get a little strawberry
We are different candies made in different factories
And it is our choice to take off the wrappers

The taste on my tongue brings forth feelings of cold creamy goodness.
On a hot summers day, you get sticky fingers and lips as the substance drips down our chins.
Different flavors to chose from...rocky road, mint chocolate chip, cookie dough, Neapolitan ice cream.
Sweet and soft as we share it with our lover, friends, family or dog.
Kids yearn for this sweet joy of a treat that we love to scream for.
Ice cream.

With the dawning of every new day
Comes the chance for my mood to change
It's really no secret how this I do
As I don the apparel of my Ice Cream Suit

On the few days that I'm feeling bland
I take the Vanilla Bean right off of the stand
And the Mint Chocolate Chip I yank off the hanger
To cool down a bit as I battle with anger

If you're looking for a hint of the truth
I know about me but not sure about you
There's no telling what I might do
Without the favorable array of My Ice Cream Suit

There's the chocolate for my darkened moods
With the fudge lapels that helps me brood
And the Neapolitan of brown, pink, and white
In my daily struggles to make up my mind

There's even a suit in Pistachio
When I'm in the mood to let it all go
If you're ever wondering at the mood I am in
Just check out the suit that day I'm wearing...

Awakened and
Awash with life, a soul
Abandoned amid artificial
Sophistication;

Blinded by beauty best beheld
Beneath bold bastions of
Blazing silence. Craze
Rules;

Cacophonies collide and
Congeal, coagulate and
Cluster—melting, not unlike
Neapolitan ice cream.

Durst the dwindling
Darkness dance its
Deathly defenstration? Ought it
To belay its night?

Evening ekes ever closer,
Edging; even seeking most to
Elevate eternity to its
End. Out with it. Time
Is not your pet!

Forward, faithful fowls of
Fancy: feast on flesh
For which you came!
Find a farewell fully
Sanctioned.

Get a grip on grime
Galore! Go, you gawdy
Grateful gyre; gone is all
Glory and rhyme. Now to
Exculpate a *****:

He's the hero herewith, and
Helping hide his horrid
Histr'y is the hill you have to
Climb.

I, interloping idiot, I
Itch to irk some innocent
Ilk. I, the

**** ****** jankly onward
Just to justify juiced minds.
Jury, you must spew a verdict!
Judge you must sentence
This crime.

Klaxons blare that kegs are
Key to this
Kiss, but not to fool
Keen kind of
Folk

Limitations let me
Lie here looking like
Life left me lame.
Lots of lazy lack of
Praising

Made my music
Mainly maim. Most
Men motion more for
Glory:

No one needs to
Name their cause;
Nothing will. Notice now,
What is northward,

Only our obliging airs
Often offered on the
Order of the oligarchic
Thains.

Prosper we, politely posting?
Positing our prescient claim?
Passing not the prophet's muster,
Put we not ourselves to
Shame?

Quickly! Question who is
Questing quietly beyond the pale:
Quoth the raven quixotic chaos
Quite outside the
normal

Range? Really, rouse the
Raspy rooster, rising sun a
Ruse too rare:
Rafting in on rising
Currents

Stallions stride the earth
So bare. Sing the song,
Six pence so-called,
Still the cost of
Love riebald.

Touch the tangled
Truths which dangle
Tantalizingly close to there;
Take the taudry lesson
Home.

Unleash hell upon the masses,
Unsuspecting users will delight,
Until all the unlit gases
Usher forth into our
sight.

Valor vests its
Vanquished victims with
Vociferous applause. Asking
Very little of them—just a life for a
Just cause!

War will wake the
wasting weapons wildly
Whet with wonderous
Rage.

X, the spot is marked e-
xactly where was this
X-human
unmade.

Yesterday young warriors
Yelled out yearning for
Years they have lost
Yeeting sinners into
Their graves.

Zoom! At Zion
Zealot's rage is launching—
Zero zest for living love—
Zoo-like, all the world is watching; all the world,
And that above.

some petty existential observations:
well... i think they're petty...
if i'm thinking that they're petty
i'm not going to negate their pettiness...
but i will doubt that they are petty...
i guess that's how thinking changed
from Descartes through to Sartre...
negation replaced doubt... as a way to "think"...
denial overshadowed doubt...
i always found that doubt was a bit like love:
whatever love is...
doubt carries with it the same:
although a more measured plethora of
feelings... some would say...
all the smart people are full of doubts
while all the arrogant half-***** and jacks
are full of confidence...
i don't mind sometimes not being
confident... i like relaxing in the back of life...
which coincides with
a motto surrounding Neapolitan cooking:
minimum effort, maximum results...
as a fatalist i don't really want to be:
too engaged with life...
existence: out-of-ever-instance i can stomach
i was admiring a congregation of thrushes
on a rooftop: i wouldn't say hundred...
but at least thirty...
a priestly crow sat on an aerial overlooking them...
there was one pigeon among them too...
doubt like love gives me a plethora of
emotions... why are emotions "bad" in this...
atheistically materialistic world view of sensibility?
even i have concerns for deities...
sometimes lagging behind H. P. Lovecraft's
despair at all the deities being Hades...
or worse than Hades... at least in how they obey
the mantra of: head of a jackal... body of a man etc.
two points of "riddle"... or ridicule...
however you want to frame it...
- social media is damaging to young people...
esp. girls...
i remember the days when face-book was
exclusively sold to university students...
you needed a university email address to join up...
what was my Edinburgh university
email address... s... something...
not exactly an Auschwitz tattoo...
or a phone-number... whatever...
i remember being more into... foraging for music...
using last.fm more...
prior to that? Microsoft chat-rooms...
i mean... you can't apply metaphors and fancy
language to describe technological advances:
not just yet...
the technology is still in its infancy
but what i've figured out...
a way of bypassing editorial scrutiny...
as a platform... i can post this... no questions
asked... someone will like it...
someone will not like it...
that's part of the "game"... i can bypass editorial
scrutiny... after all: what's editorial scrutiny?
poetryfoundation.org... all minor publications...
they're publishers...
hence... editorial scrutiny...
my "stuff" will not get published on sites
as remote as 8 poems...
"fair representation"...
sure... they publish 8 poems in a month...
50 50? no... of the 8 poems...
6 have to be written by women...
as much as i love women as much as i love them
best when they're prostitutes...
come on... i'm seriously traversing these subject
matters?! really?
obviously social media outlets that are
prone to images & hieroglyphs will...
not outlive the ones consecrated on a formidable
use of: skeletons in your psyche-closet...
words!
plus... if you're engaging in a platform...
and you know that... you're bypassing all the gate-keeping:
in this... new... "democracy"...
i'm not Stephen King... i know...
reading Heidegger or Kant never had much
traction to begin with... so...
         it's like: there's a brick... think about throwing it...
but don't really throw it...
which is not a metaphor for...
no apparent use for reading a philosophy book
these days... except there's one...
how to best avoid drama with people...
how to not make it necessary to have a soap opera!
well... at least there's that!
if you can't forge past ingesting all that's
happening somewhere... elsewhere
but somehow still somehow visible in this:
what came first? the spider-web or the spider?
obviously if you're merely ingesting
and not... placing something... n'ah... bad argument...
again: i'm lazy...
i think i know what i'm doing...
writing mediocre Harlequin-esque romance novels...
with no romance...
you see a novel on me?
do i really need fiction to "escape"?
i'll just play with a metaphor... a misnomer and
those "air quotes"...
to posit: rather than prove a point...
to bypass editorial scrutiny: to leave it to a whisper:
like that quote concerning a myth of Marcus Aurelius:
for a return to the system of the republic
away from the tyranny of the Caesars...
it's for the people: by the people...
- like i have my pet peeve concerning
the celebration of Darwinism in the anglosphere...
in no other language is Darwinism still
so adamantly focused on...
it might be suggested that... Copernicus had
the same inflation happen to his theory
in the Slavic world...
it's a pet peeve because...
in summary... nature abhors vacuums...
there's this "thing" termed: evolutionary psychology...
by comparison: philosophy seems to be
in stasis... the one time something original could be
cited surrounds Ancient Greece...
child-men... able to think... original thoughts!
they were Spartans by half... but also Athenian
child-men... they carried a child of themselves
with the custodian sentence of authority and responsibility
into later age!
is it so bad to be a man-child?!
is it so bad to feel something beside this,
current... "sensibility" melee of what's primed...
prim & tuxedo worthy?
while psychology latched onto the sign of the times...
cliche... sure...
even i write with conversational overtones...
so did Horace!
nature abhors a vacuum...
the current birds descended from dinosaurs...
biology soon turns into geology...
given how much time it takes to "see" changes...
although: none of these changes you will see...
unless in a microcosm of events!
i know i'm bypassing editorial scrutiny...
where else would i hoard my outpourings?
in a stuffy shelf... in never-never-la-la-land?
where? if this is not achieving sensible traction...
what am i going to do?
make a blank canvas protest akin
to Jens Haaning? for, ****'s sake...
take a picture of my face smeared in my own...
****?!
it's what you put in...
if you're simply divulging these platforms...
divulging...  no... wrong word...
i have too many words made available at my
disposal... i'm sure to misuse... at least one...
i'm thinking of...
voyeurism that you might want...
that's the only way of thinking about...
voyeurism and... well... not lying...
there's no money in poetry: is this poetry?
it's certainly not writing some horror fiction... no?
outside of the English-speaking-world...
Darwinism is non-existent... not in the realm of
the cultural undercurrents of commentary...
while philosophy stagnated... slept...
psychology was born...
even these poetry platforms are flawed...
buying "suns"... buying tractions to engaged a greater
audience... what happened with:
having EARNED it?
again: i'm bypassing editorial scrutiny...
it's not like editors have a finger on the pulse to
begin with...
i drink 70cl of whiskey and pretend to be happy...
if i'n not culturally "appropriating" a curry...
i'll be looking at the syllables of katakana or...
the joyous complexity of Hangul...
i reserve my right to sit... folded leg...
on a windowsill..
hide behind words... words over images...
hide... celebrate words...
there's a need for something: "something":
spoken to, spoken at... soaked with sounds!
people are starving for words...
obliterated by hieroglyphic shortcuts!
- eh... standing at 6ft2... having lost...
         almost 18kg of flesh...
from 118kg down to 98kg...
       i'm currently attractive: visible once more...
odd...
1, 3, 5, 7, 9.... odd...
in the supermarket a blonde... slightly taller than
me... had to take a second look at me...
no need for detail... it's too complicated with the freezed
yoghurt...
then at the checkout i implored a girl to go
ahead of me since... the self-service cashier
was too busy giving out-of-date-beer...
while my bottle of mr. whiskers and ms. amber
had a tag.... while... this tender little thing...
was only buying an energy drink...

wide opening: no door...
she looked at me... casually... ha ha...
as if an alien or a Christ de Burgh muzak started plasying...
well... towering over her...
you lose over 20kg of mass...
women start eyeing you up...
personally... i like the fantasy...
i like the the fantasy because i know...
what reality fathoms... what reality describes
with the focus of continuum...
i know what i am...
a miraculous unit of circus fantasy!
that i'm phantasmagorical...
i know...
i'm un-attain- blah...

here's another perfect conundrum...
there i am... riding my pristine... cheap-*****...
viking road-bicycle... £'125 worth's worth...
do i look like someone guessing with
a helmet for a traffic hazard?! no... hey presto!
i'm donning something few bicycles riders
dare to prove themselves with...

sunglasses... those i have...
perched on the top of my head..
two colts... in school uniform...
i never thought i was cool...
ha ha... "cool"...
Dawid Bovie was...
i'm a mediocre "passenger"...
it was one of those atypical English days...
sun one moment... overcast the next...
so i looked at the sky...
put my sunglasses on...
suddenly i became a celebrity for these two
colts!                    ahem... how?!

am i known?
famous as in... not by the standards of inflated egos?
100 years from "now":
jeztz?!
                   O the agony...i have either:
tired... or cold..... literally...
cold foot-break....
psychology seems to have bitten
more... than it can / could allow itself
to...                                             chew...