Despite repeatedly shaking her pincer... much as a sprightly pensioner might brandish a furled umbrella at a grappling contestant, currently being boo'd at in the red corner... the baby crab stamped her foot in annoyance as she glowered at every passing wave that rolled along the shoreline.  In absolving herself of any guilt she may have felt over her prolonged excursion, she had become, even further marooned by a failure to catch a succession of tides back home, an oversight she later confessed, to observe local tide-tables in 'Old More's Almanac...' on sale in all discerning book shops and selected High Street newsagents, priced 10/6d... for unless fluent in the Russian vernacular, it was just about as articulate to the little crab as a map of the Moscow Metro during a blackout, only to have the Rouble finally drop with a throat gagging 'Gaaargh...' clunk, that you were currently standing on the down-line platform, when you should've been stood on the up... as the last train lurched unsteadily out of the station whistling a jubilant entente cordiale... 'wish me luck as you wave me dasvidaniya'.

     Still stamping her foot, only now in strict rotation with the other seven, the baby crustacean peered out from beneath the shade of the large pebble, rearing its bulk out of the rockpool like a lollypop-lady's 'STOP'!!! sign, her beady eyes twitching independently, first this way, then the other, cut withering swathes through every cardinal point of the compass that didn't duck quite fast enough, was rapidly coming to the conclusion that the rock-pool in which she found herself tapping her foot in today, would be no less aquatic as any other rockpool that she may find herself still tapping a foot in tomorrow and that the best course of action was simply to stay-put and take the matter up with the local town council, then petition for additional fare-stages to be implemented... and with the cost of shoe leather at current prices... well, with eight legs to consider it would make savings that weren't to be sneezed at.  

     It wasn't everyday of the week that a young and upwardly mobile baby crustacean had occasion to move both up-market and down the beach, all in the same mouthful... and into what could only be regarded as a desirable, detached beachfront property, a rock-pool of distinction with all available mod-cons.  She felt relieved that apart from the occasional day-tripper, who invariably dropped litter wherever they went, that a baby crab of distinction such as herself, was certain to be accepted socially and hob-*** with a new and discerning circle of acquaintances... you only had to take that nice lady earlier in the week, they both seemed to have so much in common... then she would roll up her sleeves and really show the neighbourhood what knitting was all about...  

     With as much enthusiasm as that of a three year old screaming for an ice-cream in the middle of an heat-wave, Red marched up the beach and as far from his wife's waspish tongue as a lame excuse would carry him, heading back towards the growing crush of holidaymaking fathers who were only there presumably, for the sake of their own children, laying siege to the mobile vendor... only this time, having already stood in the same queue ten minutes earlier, now had a sufficiency of funds to purchase that which he'd unsuccessfully queued for the first time.

      After an unspecified time which by his wife's reckoning was grounds for divorce... Red, now laden down with the iced confectionary picked his way through the same throng of fathers who moments earlier had been happily chatting in the queue together, were now enjoying the same berating as the one Red was looking forward to as he made his way back towards the rock pool, juggling more ice-cream than two manly hands could intelligently control... while in a bid for freedom, the rapidly thawing confectionary were hatching plans of their own, ones quite independent from those intended as they embarked upon their meandering exodus, known only to iced creamy desserts on hot sunny days... and into the unknown, roaming across Red's hands and trusting their fate to a far higher authority.

     "Did I mention that I was on a diet" snapped his significant other, as she sat licking pistachios from the melting cornet... "don't you ever listen," secretly smiling to herself... "and you did remember to bring Sockeye's water this morning.. didn't you..!" she continued "someone with half as much sense would've stood it in the rockpool to keep cool, I'm sure the little crab wouldn't have objected..!"   At the mention of his name, Sockeye with ears far too free-lance to ever consider gainful employment of their own, needed no further persuasion and charged straight through the rock-pool to his mistress's side, walloping the thermos flask for a tail whopping six... bringing his personal batting average so far this holiday to a self congratulatory forty not out... and found the baby crab spluttering flat on her back and having second thoughts on any immediate savings in shoe leather were she to stay. 

     Generous to a fault, Sockeye now thought to shower everyone's ice cream with liberal helpings of the seashore as several parasitic irritations had Sockeye hard at work serving eviction notices on some of the more exotic zoology that only a patent Bob Martin's would dare to muscle up to... the local wildlife, by the look on his face were having the time of their lives bivouacked behind his left ear, throwing wild parties and disturbing the peace.  Cross-eyed, it was only while launching a double pronged assault on the latest settlement of interlopers that Sockeye finally succumbed to his injuries and surrendered to a neighbouring sandcastle... it really didn't do to mention a certain name too loudly at times like these, especially when you just happened to be on the receiving end.

     For some strange reason he was undoubtedly in the dog house... they'd shouted at him, which made him sad, all except his little master who had pushed him away... which left him bereft.  Sockeye sat down on dads beach-towel and had a long, thoughtful scratch... where had all the fuss gone? he searched for appreciation their faces... his tail gave one disheartened thump before it stopped... and all those little pieces of ice-cream dipped wafer, which up until now had always appeared as if by magic.  

     Catching sight of one such treat, undoubtedly forgotten by the rock pool, a marauding seagull pulled out of a rolling dive and swooped, at the same instant as two gaping jaws launched themselves skywards... canine jowls quivering bravely in the light sea airs... and not too dissimilar to a heat seeking missile, rose gracefully from the ground to meet it... 'well intercepted..!' as both ears applauded in mid-air... no aerial freeloader was about to skip town with Sockeye's ice cream wafer without paying... leaving one solitary wing flapping its willingness to pay up.

     At least it kept her husband in useful employment Tina decided... and mercifully out from under her feet, as she brushed a fragment of affectionate pistachio from her bikini top... she'd have to  make sure he went for the ices in future... and without the means to pay for them... a mischievous smile turned the corners of her mouth as she leant towards the beach-bag and invested herself with several more juicy grapes... that everyone who fell within her sphere of influence had been warned well away from... under threat of dire consequence... and it would take a brave man indeed, or a very foolish one... she gave her husband who was sitting well within arms reach a caustic glance... and Tina's particular variety of justice had a very long arm indeed.

                                                        ­           ...   ...   ...**

a work in progress.                                                        ­                                                                 ­  1297

Rugby, Warwickshire
16/10/2015

Unholy streets of G-d, liquid tobacco,
gentle froth and steam
from the coffee estuary, split beneath the clock tower
on the idle hour; more pigeons than people,
more buildigs than choices
on this small-town, charity shop parade.

The women are still beautiful, still unattainable,
still on the brink of a breakdown
in the most confident dress.
Street-pastors carry the drunks home,
the street-cleaners appear by the afterparty,
clear out the old bottles
before the commuter picks up cigarettes
from the newsagents that never rests.

Tattoo parlours, barber shops,
Christmas on the radio come Hallowe'en-
this is the town that crazy built:
war-time poetry, jet propulsion,
chief inventor of sport,
of mild alcohol addiciton.

There's hundreds of places to get drunk in this town,
hundreds of places to hide away;
a foreign face in a sea of family and friends.
Landlocked, gridlocked,
centrally located but left out on a limb;
this town clings to the tracks,
it's avenues of escape
the only margin to keep the residents
out of mind and in their place.

But this is where I grew up,
always more car-park than parkland,
my first steps on Campbell Street,
on Armstrong Close,
first time I broke the law on Bridget Street,
on Selborne Road.
I'd push my bike all around this town,
no stopping off for a smoke,
for to get my fix-
I'd push on and on past graveyards and open bars
without a second gance.

Now, it's all shooters and soul-singers
and happenstance;
chicken wings on a late-night binge,
a box of wine, a night of sin,
wake up in shame,
life's a guessing game
and guess what, you'll never win.

Chewing gum, patches,
vapour that scratches the back of my throat,
nicotine in my blood,
you know, I'm trying my best to get clean.
Blister packs of vitamins, bowls of fruit,
buying coconut water over the counter-
green tea by the rising moon,
incense sticks and vegetables in the garden,
yet by the time night rolls on by
the locus of my eyes, they darken;
I'll be back on the beer,
I'll be smoking a carton.

This is the town that crazy built,
even the flowers by the roadside wilt,
cement factory, hum-drum poverty,
post-code belonging to Coventry,
kept out of the war
by a matter of minutes,
kept from the future
by corporate interest.

Hospital lights, supermarket glow,
I can't remember the last time
I wasn't loaded with chemicals
every time I get home,
every time I sign out
and put my head on the pillow,
I see familiar streets, familiar signs,
the job centre, the floodlights,
the 12% lager, the twist of lime.
I struggle with rhyme,
I struggle most days to get out of the house,
but at night, I know, that sea of doubt
is a river of light, to ruin my liver,
to spike my fever, to calm me down.

There's hundreds of places to get drunk in this town,
and this world it don't spin,
it just throws me around.

There’s an Indian restaurant down the road,
And the owners have a beautiful daughter,
But she’s the apple of her daddy’s eye,
So I really don’t think I oughta.

There was a Chinese takeaway next door,
That did the best fried-rice,
But the authorities came and shut ‘em down,
For infestation of rats and lice.

There’s a newsagents further along,
But it doesn’t do much to dazzle,
Unless you want overpriced cigarettes,
And back issues of Razzle.

The Arab café across the road,
Does the best cappuccinos around,
The sound of Algerian pensioners laughing
Is such a beautiful sound.

There’s a Working Men’s around the corner,
Where the Guinness is dirt cheap,
And in it I’ve had drunken nights,
And memories I’d fight to keep.

There’s a chicken shop on the way back home,
Which I must say is pretty useful,
When I’m staggering home, ****** as a ****,
The chicken burgers taste ******* beautiful.

There’s also a chippy down the way,
That does an excellent saveloy,
It got burnt down, and I can’t help but suspect,
It was a sneaky insurance ploy.

There’s an Irish pub next door to that,
Full of drunken, singing Micks,
The Dubliners on the jukebox,
It’s where I get my fix.

But I’m always drawn to the Indian restaurant,
Where the owners have a beautiful daughter,
She’s witty, glamourous, the same age as me,
And I really think that I oughta.

She came up to me one day in the office seeking help
She'd heard me talking about my nightmares
She was a lovely looking thing, she was big into dieting and health food and healthy eating
Some of the other girls used to consult her about such matters
Thinking her to be quite an authority on the subject
I think she might have had a sideline too selling some Health products
She was a...a gorgeous looking creature, she had lovely blonde hair which framed her beautiful oval face like a heavenly aura,
Maintaining always a resolutely bright and cheerful disposition
She radiated positivity and optimism wherever she went
(I suspected secretly that when she got home she probably kicked her cat around)
I'd be all agog just looking at her
I suppose yes! I probably had a little crush on her
Unfortunately I was a good deal older than she
So I could only see myself as a secret admirer, a dark lover from afar...

She'd been acting a little peculiarly of late since returning from her Easter holidays
I wasn't the only one to remark about it
Gone was her usual self assured poise and grace
Gone too her lovely bright positive glow
It was like some sudden terrible tragedy had befallen her
Like some big dark ominous cloud had suddenly appeared on her horizon
Now she seemed rushed and frazzled, strangely distracted, unsure of herself, hesitant
Clumsy, apologetic, not at all like her usual confident self.

So she came up to me when I was alone one day and asked "You know something about nightmares, don't you"
She proceeded to tell me this story
She used to drive to work but because of the unusually mild and clement sunny Spring weather coming up to Easter
She had decided to leave her car at home and walk to work
Probably thinking it to be healthier I suppose
The route she took meant she had to pass by a certain newsagents *** confectionery /sweet shop
Now coming up to Easter as it was
The owner of the shop had strategically placed in the front window of his shop a big Easter egg
Wrapped in pretty ribbons and bows and encased in a very colourful, most alluring box
Every day she had to pass this shop with its lovely chocolate egg prominently displayed
You probably know where this is going,
Yea! A secret longing began to grow in her
Passing that shop every day and seeing that big chocolate egg started to rekindle in her memories of the days when as a child she used visit her local Sweet shop
When the only ambition she had was to get enough money so she could buy the newest chocolate or sweet
She began to remember fondly thoughts of all the old chocolate bars and sweets she used to eat
Anyway this longing, this desire of hers... each day it grew stronger and stronger until finally, like a river bursting a dam
Yea, like a huge monster, it finally overwhelmed her
Yes! She... she SUCCUMBED!

One evening she drove her car to the shop and parked on the opposite side of the street
There she waited till the street was deserted, with no one around
When the coast was clear, she got out of the car carrying a big shopping bag
Wearing a big hat and dark sunglasses just like a movie star
She went into the shop and told the shop girl she wanted the big Easter egg in the front window
She lied telling her it was for her little nephew
She hastily paid for the Egg, then quickly bundled it into her shopping bag carefully covering it up with other items so no one would see
Then hurriedly she left the shop, crossed the street with her head bowed, got into her car and quickly sped off
Over the next two days, in an **** of orgiastic chocolate eating, she secretly gorged upon, devoured all by herself the entire Easter egg
When she had finished, she sat there, a sullen lump among the ruins of her feast
Bits of ribbons and bows and torn box strewn all around her
Almost immediately she began to suffer pangs of guilt, berating herself repeatedly and bitterly for her lack of will power and mental strength, for her perceived weakness of character
This went on for the next few days, she just couldn't bring herself to forgive her behaviour
And she couldn't fathom how she had let this desire overcome her
...Then curiously, she began to experience a strange recurring dream at night,
She'd dream that she went one evening to another part of town where she wasn't known again to buy her Easter egg
There was no one around at that hour
She'd buy her Easter egg, tell her little lie about her nephew, then bundle the Egg into her bag and cover it just like before,
Then she'd leave the shop and head down some backstreets not wanting to be seen by anyone she knew
At that time of evening the shadows had begun to lengthen, the backstreets were very quiet and deserted, had a very lonesome forlorn air
As she walked along, she suddenly began to hear what she thought were the sound of footsteps behind her, the tread of feet behind her...Big feet, Bom-bom-bom!
She'd turn around but couldn't see anything, not a soul and not a sound only silence
She'd continue walking and the sound of the Big feet would start up again
Naturally this began to unnerve her, she turned and called back at the shadows
"Is there anybody there?"
But no answer was forthcoming
She'd walk on and again the sound of the Big feet would come Bom-bom-bom!
By this time she had become so unnerved, so completely flummoxed that in a state of utter panic
She suddenly took off at a frantic girly gallop down the narrow backstreets
Behind her she could hear the sound of the Big feet quickening, coming after her
In a quick change of plan she decided to climb some steps that would take her back to the Main Street again
She hoped there'd be other people there who might be able to protect her
She was very disappointed then when she found not a soul upon the whole street
Well she ran and she ran, she tore down her own street and with key in hand she quickly opened her front door, then slammed it shut fastening all the locks and bolts as she did
With this done she heaved a huge sigh of relief, a huge 'Phew!" and wiped the beads of sweat from her brow
She backed slowly away from the door almost as if she was expecting at any moment, there'd be a mad pounding on it, as if some strange belligerent entity would be trying to gain entry.
She kept backing up, the suspense almost too hard to bear
Suddenly she bumped into something behind her, something big and soft... and furry
Soft and furry ???
She turned and well, her mouth, it dropped wide open in utter shock and disbelief
Her eyes, they nearly popped out of her head
For there standing before her was... THE CREATURE
"It was hideous !" she said tearfully
"What was hideous?" I replied quite intrigued at this stage
"It was a Big Rabbit !"
"A big...a Big Bunny 🐰 ?" I said
She went on explaining, standing before her was a giant seven foot Easter Bunny
"A seven footer eh!" I said as if I was knowledgeable about these things, which I wasn't
She continued with her story, the rabbit he had big floppy ears, big buck teeth, a twitchy nose and whiskers 🐰
And on his face he wore this pretty gormless vacant expression🤡
He was wearing a waistcoat which had all these Easter egg 🥚🥚 designs on it
And on his front paws were these two big red boxing gloves 🥊🥊
She looked around desperately for some means of escape but Alas!
For her THERE WAS NO ESCAPE, she swallowed hard
Suddenly the giant Rabbit's teeth began to
natter
As if he was considering some imminent action
Then totally without warning one of his boxing gloves
It suddenly shot out and punched her right on the nose knocking her clean out on the floor
As she sprawled there dazed and utterly confused, the Big Bunny, he looked down at her with his big eyes 👀
And then, with a sudden leap which surprised even her
He jumped right up onto her chest where he proceeded to bounce up and down on top of her
Of course, here she'd awaken from the dream drenched in sweat and screaming for the Giant Bunny 🐰 to get off her.
When she had finished her story she buried her head in her hands and sobbed quietly for a few moments before regaining her composure
She seemed very relieved to have gotten it all off her chest, the story that is not the Bunny
Well I suppose she was glad to get him off as well
She went on to say how stressed she felt during the day, how she found it hard to focus on anything as she was too busy thinking about the night to come and the arrival of her unwelcome guest
She looked at me pleadingly "He'll be there again, I know it, with those big eyes of his" she blubbed half in tears
It seemed obvious to me what'd happened, mentally she'd been beating herself up
And now her Subconscious was merely reciprocating by creating this giant Bunny to chastise her
It was just a manifestation of the guilt she felt for eating the Easter egg
For a moment I felt like I was Sigmund Freud.
I told her what I thought and said she shouldn't beat herself up, I told her we all had our temptations and that at times, few of us were strong enough to withstand their advances
I told her of the importance of forgiving herself
But nothing seemed to placate her
She still seemed overly concerned about the coming night and the prospect of the giant Bunny's re-appearance
She catastrophized and saw only dark things ahead
I knew I had to say something authoritive
Suddenly I had an idea, I put my arm around her shoulders as if to console her
"Look my child", I said really beginning to warm to my Father Confessor role
"The Beast! Do you really want rid of this Beast ?"
"Yes! I do! I do!", she replied emphatically
"Really! You really want to get rid of him!" I said as if to question her resolve
"Yes! Yes! I'd do anything" she replied
I felt we had to send a strong message to her Subconscious mind -
I told her "This is what you must do. After work go down to the same Sweet shop and there buy the most expensive ornate Box of Chocolates you can find 🎁
But this time instead of bringing them home with you, bring them instead to my house...
To the above advice I added a few more instructions
"And that's all I have to do" she said sounding surprised and hopeful once again
"That's all you have to do", I assured her, "you'll have no more trouble from IT ever again".

So in the evening she arrives at my house with a big box of fancy chocolates
I open the door and abruptly ****** the chocolates from off her
I say loudly "These Chocolates are all mine and you can't have any of them
Lovely Chocolates... and their all mine, all mine!!!
And you're not getting any!"
And I let out this evil cackle of a laugh
Then I said rather theatrically to her "**** off!, Get lost! Shoo! Begone! Begone!
And then I slammed the door right in her face
After a few moments I opened the door again
And began to chase her down the path shouting "Begone! Begone! The Chocolates are mine! All mine!"
I even picked up a stick and shook it at her.

The next morning she runs up to me at work with a big smile
"He's gone ! He didn't come last night"
She looked renewed, she positively glowed again
She assured me I'd be her friend for life and that she loved me to bits
For a moment I was beginning to fancy my chances with her
I had visions of the two of us together in some romantic scene
That was until she went on and said that I reminded her of her lovely Uncle Joe
"Her Uncle Joe", I thought, "****!... feckin' Uncle Tom"
Then I thought I should have charged her, yea! charged her just like a hospital consultant
$250 Euros upfront and come back in two weeks for another $250, sorry for a check up I mean.

Well that's it then... that's my Easter story, I've got to go off now and take my afternoon nap
Y'know I've been getting some funny dreams of my own of late,
Yea! I've made a new friend
He's been teaching me how to box.

1992, seldom electric fire
  Top tier tenement
grease paint balcony
White flack veranda, in cold
     Aircraft damage
diamond hill - screen run
  centipedes crawling from under carpets
  Three stacked wage
Lighters tossed in
click click click
            Shared alternate
          Wiping vandal on jeans
- aquatic codex
     Ran       G - Er
Cleaning ***** pipes to play
     Brushes
Pushing out bits of pigeon meat
             Nature
                   Takes back
                         Inner pink
walking through valley, 2 shops
   Butchers, newsagents, bag on back, 75p Irn Bru
     - niaroo, old folks
a Roman decoration
   Holding hands, woken camping
Damp - Sleep
             Dams
man-made, man-made
   shoes
Taken off
  tiptoeing in inch high slow decline
Straddling fallen tree rings
           Egyptian replicant
      Citerazine, bag full of frogs
       Tree swings
                  - rope burn
    Cap full of Night Nurse
And a newtonian lung full of phlegm
  Mattress protector, cold sweat, menthol
                      - Or
  Retailed Jelly Beans pushed through face
      Lactic acid
          food pylons
     change t-shirts on trains home
     Thawing moments
     In a misty aether
       - That we found
            While eating in the Rain
     Sidestep
         Sidestep
              sidestep
         Til' we ***** rocks on waxpaper
                                Quasi-negativity
overheard on the 57th chemical bus
           Imitated cough
  Flash point culture
Aching on
a woken bad comfort, 50 minutes
    Surfing on liquid Archipelagos
- Camping - On a swollen inner thigh
                 Cause the
                 (carriage)
                           Today
Several dead.
   Yet cosmos vanished lacquer
                              Manslaughter
boiled mouthwash
       in the future
- drole
        acryllic ****
Shoes taken off at doors
      A need to laugh, Not in bars
    Not in rigor, not in Lips
Blankets on open doors to Firs
         rings century heat fort
  eight days external
             licking
     The imaginary
                  (Wound)
Shameless St. John
  Bricks
  Smashed off 204th launch
          finger split.   Splint
      -Fibration
              g
               oo -
finding Love in Junipers
        enchanted, Vanilla pod
Apple fries, casual ***, loose horseshoes
    Draper
           &
             a cold Vermont
        Liberty, capitol savings/Planck
        Ever twisting Venetian control
           Executive seep
        - In Sunlight
          skies scraped Cosgrove, Skies
presents, present
maybe sunny side of Barstow
    Agony aunt Limericks
and - Deep thrombosis
Let's build pyramids          In our Dreams
the night time sky
here
Will         never     Win    any    Awards

Janice walked back with you
from Harper Road
where you’d been shopping
for your mother

for sugar
in a blue paper bag
and flour and eggs
and other items

on the list
and Janice
with her red beret
and red dress said

what was the book
you bought
in the newsagents
the other day?

it’s about Robin Hood
you said
and his Merry Men
and I’m half way

through it already
was he for real?
she asked
I guess so

you said
I’ve seen programmes
about him on TV
and Maid Marian

who’s she?
Janice asked
Robin’s girlfriend
you said

and sometimes
in the boring bits
of the programme
they kiss and such

but I like
the fighting parts best
with swords
and bows

and arrows
you added
my gran said
violence solves nothing

Janice said
as you both walked
into the Square
and she said

she heard it some place
that those who live
by the sword
die by the sword

but I don’t **** anyone
you said
I just pretend
to sword fight

the bad knights
or sometimes fire
my bow and arrow
at the pram shed door

imagining it’s the drawbridge
of the bad knight’s castle
o I see
Janice said

sounds fun
you can be
my Maid Marian
if you want

you said
so long as you leave out
the kissing bits
she stopped

and looked at you
don’t you like kissing me?
she said
you looked at her

in her red beret
and red dress
and white socks
and brown sandals

her hands holding
the bag of shopping
from side to side
sure I do

you said
if it’s ok for Robin
then I guess
it can’t be too bad

good
she said
can I use
your sword too

and help fight
the bad knights?
you nodded
and walked on

and she followed
but don’t tell Gran
Janice said
or she’ll tan my backside

or so she said
the other week
don’t worry
I won’t say a word

you said
and sure
you can use
my other sword

Maid Marian does
on TV
so guess
you can too

and that was that
and you climbed
the stairs in silence
to your mother’s flat.

The funeral was well attended
Nobody came
It was sad in a way
Clashed with the dog passing away
There was a friend with a leg
When I say a leg
I actually mean two
Though he had the flu
The Priest nearly made it
But he passed too
The butcher discussed it with the baker
In the newsagents where the notice was placed
Was it his wife who put it in
Well yes, to begin
Then a black guy called Fred
Placed another, hopefully dead
Followed by Titch
Who looked quite rich
But was really his *****
Not to detract from Simon
Frowned the butcher, calling him pieman
Though, that was simplistic
The florist  cried foul
She had the contract
But just for a while
It was left to the undertaker
Wade
Who had to subcontract
When thieves stole his *****
Joe from the pub
With the maths degree
Discussed the angles
Buried under a tree
Bernadette, at the bookmakers
Had to agree
Rushing off to mass
Father Joe listened with glee
It was a trying day in the village of Dull
The pub was in mourning
There was a definite lull
But one thing was agreed
As they slowly got ******
Rover the dog
Would surely be missed.

We walked along
the flowered streets
and felt the gentle sunlight
dripping on our shoulders.
I think I smiled
for two days straight
and every laugh
was like the uncorking of champagne.
The buildings on either side of us were egg shell white
and just as delicate,
their slender bodies and effortless sophistication
somehow humble and full of history.
Every turn was met with unending beauty,
so much so that it made your eyes hurt
and your chest ache.
Winding streets slanted us in the right direction
and the smell of fresh bread, crepes
and something without a name
made our stomachs feel warm and full
and rumble too.
The dirtiest newsagents was a palace
and the grimiest bar the same,
the topsy turvy,
tipsy language in the air adding instant elegance
to the ***** walls,
the filth on the table tops somehow romantic.
We left the city
and it whispered goodbye,
through the car horns honking
and the dogs barking,
a melody most sublime.
We left the city
but it never left us.

The funeral was well attended
Nobody came
It was sad in a way
Clashed with the dog passing away
There was a friend with a leg
When I say a leg
I actually mean two
Though he had the flu
The Priest nearly made it
But he passed too
The butcher discussed it with the baker
In the newsagents where the notice was placed
Was it his wife who put it in
Well yes, to begin
Then a black guy called Fred
Placed another, hopefully dead
Followed by Titch
Who looked quite rich
But was really his *****
Not to detract from Simon
Frowned the butcher, calling him pieman
Though, that was simplistic
The florist  cried foul
She had the contract
But just for a while
It was left to the undertaker
Wade
Who had to subcontract
When thieves stole his *****
Joe from the pub
With the maths degree
Discussed the angles
Buried under a tree
Bernadette, at the bookmakers
Had to agree
Rushing off to mass
Father Joe listened with glee
It was a trying day in the village of Dull
The pub was in mourning
There was a definite lull
But one thing was agreed
As they slowly got ******
Rover the dog
Would surely be missed?

my grandfather will die a communist,
he still marks his words
with a no sense of embarrassment
with regards to the regime,
Soviet satellites on one hand,
banana republics on the other...
    my grandmother's brother
always makes the point:
that he was raised by the church and God,
while my grandfather by
the P.R.L. (polska rzeczpospolita ludowa)...
oddly enough, you don't seem
to find old communist being hunted
by operations, notably paperclip...
the angel of death died of a stroke
while swimming in Argentina...
so much for the other horrible deaths
in his shadow...
          currently in Poland
you have a restablishment of
               the unholy communion
of the church, and state...
            macro Vatican of the north...
for any outsider who doesn't see this,
what the west clung to by
creating a border separating church
from state... is obsolete in the current
climate of this land...
   the church has somehow fused itself
with the state...
        of all the current city-states,
London, Paris, Moscow...
       theres but one church-city...
      which can only spawn Poland,
as being the first church-state...
like my grandfather, i'd honestly prefer
they grey bureaucratic attire of communist
suits... than this pomp & circumstance
of the piglet clergy...
            I don't know, I didn't exactly
live, through the "horrors"
   of the imposed Martiall Law of 1981...
but sure as he'll no Soviet tank
grinded its way into Warsaw...
  as the interpretation of Pharaoh's
dream: seven fat years, followed by
seven lean years...
                  point being, with due
comparison on everything premature,
notably premature birth,
   and premature dementia...
       communism of the 20th century?
premature...
     the fact that the ideology still remains
like an extended form of pedagogy
in "immature" adults...
and considering that communism was
first tested in Mongolia, before it took
the shape of something worth
a cold war, and the cultural exchange
programme of the Moscow-Washington
pen-pals...
             no one can deny
the cultural loot of the cold war,
the acting where one side pretended to
be evil, the other side pretended to be poor,
yet both sides played the cheater's *****
trick, of fighting proxy wars,
      and talking about collateral damage...
only that the Russians,  as was me clear
with the current climate,
had the audacity to show their
ergonomic tact:
                     Newton's third law:
for every action, there is an equal
and opposite reaction...
    mainstream media calls this
symmetrical, I like to call it:
                              dividere aequalis...
with newton as the far far away precursor
of la chetelier and all things
mannered upon equilibrium...
                         but talk of a universal
living allowance,  the onslaught
of an invisible Mongolian horde
of machines...
              20th century communism
was premature,
    how else could you make a frame
of reference to the current year
with children marching in protest,
               and the talk of late capitalism?
20th century communism
   was premature, crafted by Slavs,
hotheaded, infuriated unlike
the dull eyed tea and crumpet brigade
of the hibernian Isles of Europe...
          already the transition period
in Scandinavia...
                      I don't even know how
to write a critique of capitalism without
thinking about over-production,
subsequently waste
   subsequently owning a a pair of Levis
jeans where you could still read:
made in the USA... 20 years later...
             absolutely no authenticity
in any subsequent critique of this system...
but at leat during the cold war
there was a fertile cultural exchange
program,
                 a compatibility of interests...
if the Russians had a ***** secret
surrounding their nuclear programs,
Amricans can have their little
pharmacological soup regime... thing...
premature depression...
a term not widely used,
   insomnia, the mainstream illness
of being exposed to light pollution,
notably the lux measurements in Hong Kong...
countered with: I wrote this in the presence
of two flickering bellydancers...
comfy light, almost medieval...
        after all,
aren't there more than one way of
applying capitalism?
              there never is, one business
model...
               just because the Slavic
version of Marxism didn't work,
notably with the expulsion of Jews...
  doesn't mean that, in 5he current climate,
a germanic version of communism
isn't attempting its attempt...
              and still...
    the expulsion of Jews...
   if not in the mainstream guise...
well... horror and some other word
for it... a holocaust survivor...
    mireille knoll (85), stabbed 11 times
with her body set alight...
a ******* cherry on top!
              then again...
    maybe the current "revisionism"
of communism of the 20th century is
benign...
              boring and too safe to be anything
more than egoistic moral tripping...
hard to become intoxicated on words
when the past too close to comfort
had its neukleinabenteuer...
                  and we have?
   0 hour contracts, and a "work ethic"...
hard not to see capitalism enter
a dementia period of its own existence...
no wonder that when someone gets
paid Alice in wonderland salaries for
kicking a ball, that photobombing spam
reels is also begging...
     which can only mean one thing:
the internet's les miserables...
     because the authentic beggars,
on the street, seem to have *****...
                         not to mention that I was
probably the last of my age-group
that still bought ***** mags from newsagents...
which is something, the easy-****-access
generation knows little, or nothing of.

well... i have one solution...
can taking a ****
be deemed as an addiction?
only on laxatives...
so i pull one off while
taking a ****...
   i'd only feel guilty
about doing it
if i didn't actually take
a ****...
   i'm probably one
of the last men to buy
a ***** mag,
face to face with someone
in a shop...
****! belgium newsagents
were so cool about it,
there was nothing
about english puritanical
about it...
          so...
you'd rather ******* to
  watching cow dangles?
i'm wearing health orientated
testosterone spectacles...
insert the mongolian
idiot harmonica...
    i take a **** and do it
and i'm beating
     the "king of kings",
while sitting on:
the throne of thrones.
    it's no biggie,
no bagpipe either...
mind you, i mind ease out a ****
that sounds like
the pict instrument...
   but i must be one
of the last lads...
buying a ***** mag,
under-age in a newsagent...
i guess i had the ***** before
the trojan horse virus
stopped attacking
***** sites...
lucky me, i get to don
the rose cheeks of "shame",
thank **** i was under-age
when buying these mags...
the youth end of the
bell-curve of a certain generational
gap...
          what?
***** don't give, dog don't take.
do one on the *******,
and you'll be like:
do i really need to do one
with scented candles and a
comfortable chair?
                    do i need
an aura of ambitious
pretenses?
           do your no. 1,
then do your no. 2,
   and then do your no. 3...
   it's not a jig-saw puzzle,
in all honesty...
       wash your hands twice...
i find it the most perfect
3-in-1 combo-rambo...
      having a tennis partner is
already like doing no. 1 and a
no. 2...
      what's the problem?

.when circumcised men talk about the pornograhic usage of un-circumcised men... the whole: ein, zwei und drei of sitting on a toilet... well... i've heard, that some circumcised men read a book while expanding their ****... what's the problem? this is a conversation to be had between circumcised men shaming *******... what about 1970s Italian *****, and Bronzino... and still-images reworking the imagination as to what could be established with a photograph of a body; who the hell ever suggested watching *******-*****?! are you talking about the sort of guys who never managed to experience buying a *****-mag from a newsagents? circumcised men... never my sort of calibre of intellectual titans... uncircumcised men: different story... i don't actually know how to talk to circumcised boasting males, they're as weird and incels to me... actually: weirder... they have a stipend for raising the more: unnatural line of argumentation; em, would it be more natural to talk about circumcising lips? what else might you not need? how about the ears and the nose? you don't need those lame artifacts! ****, one better! why would you need... eyelids?! you don't need eyelids... why would you need eyelids?! if you don't need a *******... the logical conclusion arrives at: if you don't require a *******... you don't need eyelids!

you know how relativism
doesn't exist
within a subjective
dialogue?
   in the statement:
relative:
   a subjective experience
is absolute...
and an objective ".........."
  is... relative...
with the only worth it is supposedly
able to summon...
i.e.: nothing!

______

and whatever made man's mind
into a spaghetti tangle...
lessons to be learned:
for whatever the lessons,
i only keep forgetting,
what sort of lesson is that?
equipped with the "knowledge"
of an omni-this
and an omnit-that...
            "knowledge":
    what is, english,
translated into a song in
finnish?
                  nigh of nought!
     metaphors...
you sure you'll lead
them by obscure poetic techniques,
when shunning our
grief?
             what?!
the modern sing-along karaoke,
the modern thespian...
i agree...
   ****** poets came
ashore...
                  none to ever loose
their mind to madness...
and even fewer to,
exercise a rite to sucumb
to the asylum...
          a growing beard
will not save you from
the insanity of the best
kept secrets...
      
my i thank the deity...
as i succumbed to bypass
the P.U.A. reversed dynamic....
how the love
for folk music translated
itself from classical,
choral and jazz works,
back into confidance for
succumbing to folk....

           the sort of carnal
desire / hunger spoken of the flesh
of woman, died in me,
the moment,
when i laid my ability to love
to rest...
   i once loved...
       once was enough...
now if there's a god and i'm
to learn a lesson?
          right now:
god can *******...
                i have learned
too many lessons
to begin with...
any more lessons and i'm still bound
to a scholastic boundary,
i'm still bound to endless rubrics,
and subsequently,
the only freedoms are arrived
at, with the expressions
of terrorists...

                learn how to become
an imbecile!
             god, god, god...
                i'm a "schizophrenic"
but more bilingual thanks
to this, this omni-****,
grand, glad glory of humanity!
save the west?!
save it yourself...
     hope you get some *******
on board...
you have my blessing...
but none of my conviction.

   p.s.

   well, that was the draft,
          skleroza -
   a polish term...
  brechta (he's laughing) -
it's not chatter...
                 like in east german,
          ich is isch: e-ś/sh...
come to think of it,
the english zunge is now
my playground... my circus...
i love, how, i can fathom
a position, of ownership
via acquisition,
    leaving the natives scrambled...
the natives are contained,
they only know one language...

but last time i checked
the news... 5,000 jobs are on
the line... given the english
steel industry is finally buckling...
only 5,000 jobs?
  not so bad...
  around 7,000+ jobs
were undermined from my home
city,
              a whole city
was displaced...
          yeah... it was...
          a steel industry based
city, exponential growth...
            now the english,
know my pain,
of being: immigrants...
   they have it easier though...
there's south africa, canada,
h'america, australia, new zealand,
to fall back on, without
learning a new zunge...
    bon voyage!
          sehen sie später!
   what else was there?
  is the soviet satellite state's
steel industry imploded,
the english steel industry was
only given around 30 years
of preservation...
and that's considered lucky:
the pillars for the stade de france?
they were produced
in my home town...
   ostrowiec świętokrzyski...
too many consonants?
         what's your gujarati like?
not "too many" consonants
              in hindu words, or greek?
    
a mongrel german loan word...
polacks have this inherent
validation process of
integrating loan words into
their zunge...
           it's a ******* etymological
playground,
   came the russians,
came the swedes,
the norse men who founded Kiev
while rowing down the Vistula,
came the Mongol, came the ***
who later founded nation of the Magyar...
oh, i don't need tattoos,
i have plenty of historical events
that already tattoo the insides
of my cranium...

apology: i will use english grammar,
                  to write in der richtigzunge,
i'll never get it right,
but i need to escape this
***** of a language,
this neu-lingua-franca...
this language of globalißation...
            apparently the easiest language
to learn... not if you have been thrown
into the deep end of the pool aged 8
unable to speak a single word...
learning: the hard way,
the only way...

                                                    "easi­est"...
well, given how there are no orthographic
distinctions: and some do appear,
and how the language is plagued
by instances of surd-particulars:
i.e. "silent" letters...
              well... if, so so "silent"
why conjured in the visibility of the eye?
e.g. gnome...     gnostic...
              oh look... diagnostics...
it's no longer "silent", is it?
            and where, may i ask,
is the gamma in a word like:
thought?
          ah... aesthetics anti-orthography...
for all the misgivings i have
with my native zunge...
based on loan words...
                  at least is expresses
a clarity of syllables...
                    thought?
                       ­     phonetically?
     fowt.
                     when when: w,
             fowt.
                             see? looks ugly, doesn't it,
oh but i'm not worried about the new
gate-keepers of techno-literacy,
coding,
     that **** will outlive me... it's only young,
i'm, more, interested,
in the old, gate-keepers,
            the old gate-keepers,
the clergy, the priests, the literate caste...
it's already evident they don't care
for their own power...
so they're getting sloppy in abusing it,
no longer able to hide it as well,
even if they caged marquis de sade
in the bastille... because he was,
probably going to make public his
uncle's deviances...
  and what did the marquis de sade actually
do? he told a ******* to
re-invent the crucifix into a *****...
one "deviance", and then he was hounded...

so if you asked me, what sort of drunk,
are you?
     not your typical drunk,
given, drinking is a matter of using
the sedative property of alcohol...
i was, regularly,
   i dress, well... whatever the night
appreciates and a low body count...
and, while rehydrating my body...
i make dinner for my parents,
busied by garden work,
   i can plant a cherry tree,
say kind words to it,
   even my mother was surprised...
she bore no fruits last year,
only flowers...
        this year?
                     unlike the plum tree...
and i pray to gott,
  that i have enough grapes to make
myself about 15 bottles of homemade wine...
i'm the drunk,
who will write something, akin, to this,
discipline, is, key...
                    grammatical discipline...
as i will stand... rolling out dough,
using a glass to cut little u.f.o. shapes
of dough for pierogi:
           polish dumplings... roughly 40...
filled with meat, sourscrout,
                              onions, mushrooms...
i'm a drunk,
              i don't mind,
    i've seen what a stereotypical drunk
does, namely my grandfather...
                        but i am a god-fearing man...
and no amount of "awe" with regards
to reading philosophy will come between
me and a bottle of *****...
such that i would turn to
          a drunken stupor...
                     sure, the odd occassion
of a drinking session,
turning into me comforting a teenager
on a website, while washing my shaved
head with whiskey come sunrise...
or going into the forest to scream...
to prove to myself:
            beyond the breath,
                             the vox, the schrei.

p.p.s. or p.p.p.s.?
a man threw a crab-meat torilla wrap
at a mosque and...
one pig snorted a sentence that read
as follow:
while i was never a carrion...
a scavenger of the dead...
perhaps mr. and mrs. pig have wronged
the camel-jockeys somehow...
seeing how i sweat more than
a sheep and if i were to fathom the sun
i'd suntan to a crisp-bacon...

bite matthew: bite where there's
a paradoxical impromptu n00b n00b...
so pig is off the menu...
but crab meat isn't?
mr. pig and mrs. pig and the pigglets
roman and lypi
said: because of no furr we are...
least santified because...
we devolved from the boar...
truly we are the Huguenots of the animal
kingdom...
even the bonsai tigers
bound to the lineage of Muhammad's cat...
Muezza...
have it better...
but why belittle us worse than...
what's freely eaten... if not the Beijing dog...
and not the north h'american vulture...
then the ***** of the Maldives!

this supposed eating of ****...
well... a bear will eat the automated process
of fermentation of fallen apples!
and fall over drunk!
no animal will eat ****...
islamic myth...
but there are cannibals as there are
necromanducare...
vultures... *****...
and we eat ***** and even dare to call it:
a most pristine meat...

sure... ******* the dead is only
a human phenomenon...
pigs alligned...
but eating the dead? so... it's not fresh...
and it's not readily available...
and it is allowed to do its utmost
to rot, first?
and Islam begs to blame the porky
but leaves the crab, absolved?!

lamb stinks...
esp. the kidneys...
for some reason pork doesn't give off
a whiff of chanel no. 5 oddity and or
perfurmery!

no better, no worse... there's just this.