Entropic threats loom and I told them to ******* from the start.
Shouldn't is transparent because it plays warning fair.
I tell my toes to move and they do.
You're next.

Well the nickel beer and
Lemonade has
Already been served

And there is nothing else
That I can recognize
That claims that I am made of
Meat and bone and tissues

Who says I am man?
Who believes that I am
Not God and God alike?
And so than the hypocrites of mind
And man alike will shiver in their
Souls because the realization of their
Clear headed souls will show them
Four years of lost time and tight fitted black pants

The aim
Is beautiful

For it is full
And
FILLED WITH PURPOSE

The real beasts press
Against journalism
All trying to spread their
Highly detailed journalism with
The broken whiskey bottles of their era

In chemistry
Their is magic
And magic is merely
Man on man conflict
Where journalism presses their ink
Onto page
To produce a mere inch
Of their madness and chaos

Let lashing be the whip
Of Joyce's poetry
There once was wisdom
And Dionysus and arguments and nothing
That could spread because reality is neither
Nothing and nothing else because play
Has nothing to do with time

Because the disease of a character manning a mast
Of a man never existed
Plagues the soul of the creator
We are the agents of narcotics and of steel details
That lay to the promise
Of killing with pure reason

And everyone uses a character
For the vehicle for "quotations" is solely
To carry the story for the form of the road
That was repeated for the sake of the "story"

An lo' weighs the film
The man against himself
The U.S.A. taken over by the myth
Where myth
Could not even be defined
By our hollywood intellectuals

And than the death begins
Because youth
Was always so
Fleeting

And our age
Is always wrong
With America

For we think because we
Scream
The higher-ups are
Listening

It is laughable what
Television
Makes for
"Us"

Take the grenade and
Pinch the pin for there
Is only politics and politics is
Spelled out in day one, day two and
Day three and white make-up who
Claims to know nothing...

A regular Dylan carry.

Where are we than?

Who carries the torch?

I can't wait for the cops
To never
Carry me away for
Nothing I've always been
Doing.

And for entertainment and the
Greeks and the campaign trail
The hatred presses for the reasons
Why hate is actively productive for
Money when dealing with the flies
And maggots of Hollywood

Let the un-creative die and writhe and
Sigh with their million dollar wives
Where the rest lay with reality whose
Stones are as thick as the ones first laid

For the break is always near
And where there is nothing else
All you can rely on
Is only but the self

Where there is only night
There is no reason to scream
For the seasons have their turns
And the young have their yearns
But we, yes we...
We have reason for our season
To stretch and to breathe

I got a free hand but I got no broom
They tell me again, but I got no room
There's the check, and I start to swoon
But the taxi's here, and I'll be sleeping soon

A giant being
Where all good
Could be possible
And all finishings
Of the furnishings of

America

Have already been
Accomplished
And lay naked
To be judged
By the pressures of man
Who claim to say
They are the "speaking class"
Who speak

For all the rest

I've got no fingers
Left
And my ringers
Well their minds are on
Television's
Theft

I got no more money
I spent it all
On the freak

And the rest
I saved up
I plan on spending it on
The Geek

Take it from me
The reason to be
Is to keep on the
Breathe
And the scream

Each whisper
Shines through a plate
Of clear crystal screen
And when the happening
Let's go and closes

There will only be the
Sword swallower and
And the goat
That swears
It feels

Oh how time presses where magic
Once where and where we remember
When men were men and women were
The reason to write songs for the empty
Roads show nothing but the dim lit codes

I tell nothing of where I would like to be
For where I've been is nowhere I can see
I've lived enough to trust that life will never be O.K.
And that poet's have died in a life of disarray

Where than do I stand without you?
I pray that no worker hears what I do.
And the detective neither holds a clue
In the English grocery, the line is nill without que

And oh' hero
Who has lived past
The unsurpassable zero

Whose memory and fate
Is never too soon and never too late

Whose tambourine rings
And whose voice will always sing

A poet to die
Whose harmonica's cries
In an eternal sigh

And the laugh of naivety and truth
Where there once
Was possessed youth

The blue eyed son never
Learned the definite definition
Of a human race with a
Solution

There will always be
A Hard Rain

With ourselves
To love and never

To Frame

Tuesday has to be
the worst thing that is thrown at me,there is a lack of fun when Monday's done and Tuesday rises up to be,the zombie that walks inside of me.

It starts okay but then breaks the day, a clumsy numbing feeling then seeps
slowly through the ceiling,down the walls,along the floor,then flings wide open any door I hide behind,resigned I cry,
'why oh why does Tuesday come?
I try to run but Tuesday's quicker,years of being have made it slicker than I could be,I can't get free ,it sticks like glue,
who would make a day like this to **** me off and send me mad,foaming at the gills,filled with headache pills and no amount of any skills can save me from this billhook day which hangs around as if to say,
'get over it you little ****,I'm here to stay 'til Wednesday'

Eventually as all things do it ends,sends me screaming into the night as if I might meet Wednesday before it's due,
I never do.
The same thing happens once a week,I try to seek another way,build a bridge across Tuesday,but Tuesday has me ******* and once again I find I'm glued to it.

I have never liked and never will,Tuesday makes me feel so ill,I need another headache pill,on the scale of one to ten it scores a nill,
I really need to go and chill,
'til Wednesday.

A year had past

I dont recall doing a good thing, i dont remember doing bad things too, all i can think of is a crackle followed by a smoke, the room going in a circle, and people are running away from me trying to stay away from that terrible person.

My mom had always told me that i should keep my money and to not give them away if i need them, but i thought that id be a bad person if i didnt give whoever asks me for some. I wish i listened to her words and took them seriously before i gave that someone money for his school and lost mine.  

My dad used to always tell me, "stay out of troubles or life will put you down". i thought people will take advantages of me if i followed my dads words put i wish i did because being a tough person all the time will only break you in the first weakness moment.

My teacher MR. Nill, once asked "What would happen if everyone treats others the way they treat them?"  I said, "We would live in woods and people would hate each other." He laughed and called me "Sweetheart"  i didnt know his meaning till today. The right answer should be "Thats the best way to live in a peace, so we can feel each others pain, cuz none of us likes to be hurt".

My love told me "Get off the drugs, i cant be next to a ""DRUG ADDICT"". I didnt see my reactions and the way i was acting, I though i was doing well and not being annoying, so i said "**** IT" she will get over it, but now I'M asking ( WHERE IS SHE??).

I LOST MY PARENTS AND MY SIBLINGS, MY LOVE AND OF COURSE MY self(thats how small i am).

So now after a year of using, I decided to quit and get my life together, its my second week off that SH*T, I am not getting back again. Thats FOR SURE.

BUT THE QUESTION IS "WILL I HAVE MY LOST BACK?"

You do this to me
I was away from all the games of love
Trying to gather my pieces and find me my-self
You came and destroyed my entire wit and will
Proving to me that my resolute was next to nill
And I am left longing for you and fancying you every minute
From the moment you met my eyes, with love infinite
You are a gentle soul with the voice, sweetest
You teach me with the thought, kindest  
Full of talent and creativity!
Yet you need my attention? what a pity!
I am a plain jane, to your talents, unmatched
Human nature somehow is indeed complicated
Why o why

Do you dream of me free
Not how happy we’d be
imagine me at sea
tucked up in a tree
While you’re straddled with she
Do you dream of me free

Do you think of me wild
Like when we were a child
How I laughed and I smiled
How my beauty beguiled
How my hair would be styled
Do you think of me wild

Do you speak of me fond
“She’s a queen from beyond”
Though I never respond
So you married a blonde
Do you speak of me fond

I dream of you bound
A storm without sound
Trapped on cold ground
I dream of you bound

I think of you mild
Stock white paper filed
Just a number I dialed
I think of you mild

I speak of you nill
Just a pound of my quill
And a pop of a pill
But I speak of you nill

I wish my words would caress your soul
I want my heart to speak your language
I wish I could paint your mind sinful  
I want to put your brain onto a stage.

I try to yell mountains but you hear a hill
I try to paint waterfalls but you see streams
I yearn to dance the breeze yet you hear nill
I aim to preach worlds but its a distant dream.

some men love life through women, other men love
life through the process of fermentation; latter moi -
then some unexpected party begins with shelling war tanks and bullets:
ooh new year’s eve for several years every day!

you know what the western slavs call
whiskey, cardinal brandy, champagne
and wine? perfumes.
and thus the replied: ***** on icebergs!

well you won't read the books i read, and the books i read
have an almost nill readership,
so if you think i'm desperate to have readers,
i'm not, because what interests me interests a few
and thus i am welcome, and thus i am comforted.

There is a supermarket of feelings
Beautiful buildings lined with bottles racked on shelves.
Marked with labels and brands of different feelings.
Samples are given in tiny cups.
They don't flavor the deep thirst that's inside the heart.
The heart checks out each label and their side effects.
Chances made.
Until the contents expires and becomes a bottle with a defect.
There are thousands of brands
Thousands of Feelings to choose from.
Each moment deserves a different taste.
Pick a bottle.
For the moment there is no time to waste.
There are many shoppers lining the isles.
How many different worlds they have come from.
They have fought to be here for a routine way
for the taste of a new feeling.
As they have become numb to their own unique flavors made like
backyard bootleggers.
The selection was worth the trip over the longest of miles.
The the drink you have chosen hits the heart.
Once the effects of such dissapppear
It's time to go back and pick another
at the unique Feelings Soda Bottle Shop.
Now, from another flask, we drink the numb down to a nill
Until the choice of a favorite flavor is found amusing the others.

was that an ache
or a pain
hold on a sec
here it comes again
if i had
to give it a name
it definitely
would be a pain
now to guess
where it comes from
up or down
back to front
in or out
out to lunch
points in-between
is my hunch
can it be helped
with advil
or do i need
something stronger still
to try and take
the pain to nill
or at least
bend it's will
this ache that i
now know as pain
that makes its way
into my brain
that is the best
at playing games
disappears
shows up again
it's such an ache
to deal with pain

to have conscience,
is to, not exactly have an
unwavering nerve...
from then tetragrammaton:
i didn't ask the semites!
the serpent didn't wind
it's labyrinth around a pine,
but around a tree
that mirrored its siamese
splinter of Y:
each tree akin to the schlangzunge,
apart from then pine
and palm...
    and to my ignorance...
Y with a 45° convergence...
to the root, the muddle,
and the unearthed lie...
         literalism of the poetic
work of the book of genesis,
a poetic Gobi...
            death prior to god,
death of metaphor,
and now, the "humble"
journalistic "fact"...
                came the compass and
i and had I to rewrite
the divine, blind Milton
led me through, and to spice
up purgatory...
for all the heavens to coincide,
hell is what man invested it,
however librating nirvana
was to keep,
such squandered tongues
readied for the pulpit...
the cake question,
no chicken prior the egg dynamism
of res omni,
                   partaking
in res per se jacks...
sorry,  rigid vocabulary...
                       Y of the oak
Y of th3 serpent...
    craft the immortal graffiti:
apparently,  it boiled down to
expressing "ΛV"...
   come the orszak of semites...
how do you spot a Sunni
stupid enough to call
the ancient Egyptian civilisation
semitic?
    an Egyptian with
a phallus limp and a
                        tongue *****....
how you spot the advent of Ali...
Sunni Muslims have 5 pillars,
oddly enough Sh'ite Muslims have...
6...
      taqiya being then:
mind you... far from Saudi whiskey
came the Afghan sandstorm
and resin from Landays...
it was never about literally 6, on the 6th
day, and the 7th that spawned
man's thought
and godly entertainment...
hardly a claim for a free will,
when unearthing the shackles
of conscience,
         excuses from a dehydrated
amylglandala are nill...
   if the Koran was a blessing...
the oil...
                     mmm...
           even if the Saudi king
employed 1000 Moroccan Sheikhs,
and 10,000 hafiz...
              ΛV:
   like a high-semite might, hide
the vowels...
                    consonants
became bricks,
    vowels became cement...
    Oedipus and Electra...
the so-called love...
                     ******* vowel hide-n-seek...
A E I O U pentagrammaton
    within the tet'
             and the Aegeian Sea
weighing turmoil up in turmoil,
the battered coast of Rhodes...
spaghetti curls of
the Mediterranean raven hair...
pillow, and eyes earning
an escape into the pearl sands,
having promised to **** the Graeae
sisters, having blinded the eye...
and the reward?
a tongue as phallus
and the double edged sword of
conversation, made piquant
in the mandible sigma pose...
wrapped around
       the tree splinter the split
king serpent tongue...
      multiplying confusion
rather than adding to it...
since repeated via the "original"
sin of plagiarism...
          taqiya is a Persian invention...
which, the sand ******* /
camel jockeys have little
knowledge of praciting with, tact...
oops is the genear
paraphrase...
      since when is Farsi scribbled into
little Tehran in...
oh wait, you didn't hear the one
about ibn-Saud, did you,
within the confines of
the capital from the east, Riyadh...
   right eye poking out
like any diabetic might see
a sugar cube...
                            little Tehran in
Dubai...
             ha ha...
                                    as if!
                   in latin script...
a serpent tongue split and multipled
clinging to a tree in a Y shared
replica.    
hard to speak of a free will,
when hindered by conscience,
or in oriental terms,
the grandeur of honour...
self-invasive, as conscience is...
   thesaurus, philologists' stone...
apparently all misunderstandings
of exfoliating with misnomer
applicability, reside in
synonyms, alias: proximity collateral.

She lingers in my mind
Like soap around a basin
Light, bubbly and fragrant
As time begins to hasten.

Years go by but still
Her face is in my mind
This happens against my will
And in my daily grind.

My feelings for her are nill
Yet she appears in images still
I wonder why I think of her?
I wonder what these thoughts are for?

the precursors of mourning have already begun -
the shadow is fleeing:
the eyes no longer show signs of glee -
where there were once two diamonds
in the skull's sockets... are but ambers of
dying frenzy -
               these are the precursors of mourning:
it's heightened since
a daughter is crying: her son is pretenisouly
solid - a harsh connotation...
she herself has said: by tomorrow you should
probably leave the house and let
me do my girly "thing" and wallow -
a girl tells a boy he's not supposed to:
as much as he might want to allow himself
to also tow along some tears: he's not supposed
to...
seems like: perhaps i was a boy then...
and the beloved dog of the family died
and one were allowed to weep over so much
animation and nuance in a bark:
but soulless the essence died... nonetheless...
even then... the man who is about
to die ventured to restrain himself in giving
me the news when i was having a sleepover
since: boys don't cry...
it's funny-numb: it's teasing tears that
are not supposed to be shed...
in the last years of his dementia he would still
remember... that same dog...
a mongrel-esque tease of an alsatian
by the name of Bella -
              me, him and the dog taking long
walks... me climbing trees
the dog barking up the tree out of concern...
he couldn't remember details
of the lives of his children...
but me being the solo grandchild...
well... aren't i just ******* special...
- and yes these past years i already witnessed
his death: we were once the graveyard
hyenas as i took him for a walk...
to his mother's grave... to his grandfather's grave
and he would also say:
this is where the two josephs with lie:
side by side...
              i'm hour away from visiting
the old country: dear "mother" will receive me
as she always did: a comfortable sensation
when landing in Cracow...
all that is modern and horrid and competitive
and obstructive to any force outside
of its cement - Warsaw passed-by...
   i'll travel to a little ****-hole of a town of my birth
from the warsaw western termnial:
where i will be approached by a mingling of
ukrainian "tourists": i'll probably spot one
or two mongols...
if it will be a sunny day: i will feel inclined
to savour the sensation that:
even Glasgow - at its most outer grim...
it would only require sunlight to elevate
a reaping presence of glum toughening -
               such this life bestows -
                         lottery, random chance...
purposively agitated wills composed
of a **** / reaping of life...
             until this choice plateau / plateau of choices...
it is unimportant for the lineage
of this man to have survived:
after all... i have not "bothered" to keep
it... rejuvenated... i had no... lineage
quest... no family name...
although... if i invoked my mother's
maiden name: Batuk... almost resonates
like Bathory... origins in the Czech sphere:
- and he implored me to call him
once a month to talk any sort of crap
with him - i hardly ever did:
we came to an understanding that
to talk... a conversation would require
****** features contorting, eyes...
probably some hands too...
is that a regret?
                  it could very well... but not
really...
i have to "man up"... there's the wait:
from the hospice to the shallows:
grave being the riddle and as he stressed
countless times: death the great leveller -
the only democratic auto- prefix:
that no one can "just" veto...
and by all standards of mortality -
born 1939: herr! bite bonbon! circling
around 82 isn't bad for a man...
it's already pushing the expectations...
so my tearing into a soppy-****-blind-poodle
wouldn't do enough justice...
after all: aren't we supposed to feel less
grief for life stretched to its limits...
even he conceded his dementia furore as:
all my friends are dead...
i sleep, i eat... i **** i watch t.v. -
i still vaguely recognise a crossword
puzzle... all that's necessary now is to
sometimes refresh myself
with a familiar face...
i do want to wriggle in feminine emotions:
still his contest:
make your heart small...
             hardened to a coil and inviting
a pebble to circumstance it further:
then you will have all other details in your
grasp, grit... boiling over crescendo...
how i want to weep...
but this impeding ceremony...
his jokes about being buried in uncomfortable
shoes: how he joked about the hebrews
being buried sitting down: so they would:
upon resurrection... get up first...
and not too long ago... a year...
my grand-uncle died: my grandmother's brother...
etc. etc.
how he joked:
             hmmph! a sarcastic sound...
this one disagreement they had:
the accusation was on the lines of:
he said that i was brought up by the communist
party (and the P.R.L.) while this...
semi-******* of a grand-uncle... one footed
with the lost foot a ghost limb:
after this daughter had a miscarriage:
newly converted to god, church and the law &
justice party mantra...
my grandfather will die: negating
any communist party affiliation...
                      so much for Poland per se...
what could possibly need to happen...
next up on the chop-a-block of: inevitable...
my grandmother...
and isn't that going to be a woozy...
a new definition of division...
my mother a daddy's girl...
my uncle a momma's boy...
           my father? abandoned by his parents
is beside stoicism:
i'd pinch a suggestion
at psychopathy - now news of death:
just this... working up to cul de sac certainties...
hours from now and i'll be
bed-side at the hospice talking
to a vision of a corpse not yet formalised...
to exercise the final testament of
his nigh...
               - point being...
his death is what i was anticipating...
              at the end of this rainbow is
the death of "my" tongue...
travel to Poland to speak some nativistic first
coming?
with strangers?
lined up they die and i will not need
to... that's probably as it always should have been:
i can't imagine engaging in
anglo-integration projects
where the tongue is first to die:
because: i'm sikh turban pronounced standing...
i could easily be mistaken for
a german: and that's hardly a compliment...
i have been a german many a times...

- but to be prescribed so much deadening
energy: for the most appropriate masculine
traits... unfathomability and a fortitude of
changelessness -
a sternness and a bleak blind certainty...
i wish i could allow myself the same...
mollusk-esque softness associated with
a pet dog dying:
perhaps i should focus on...
a vessel of a memory of me making this
world all the more hostile and
unfathomable...

from noak hill across three country parks
i ended up in chigwell row...
i admired the sensation of
feet forged to a marathon walked...
i muttered the most inaudible:
find me more aloof... more secluded...
let me join the ranks of those
already sentenced to the base reality
conundrum:
that death is a liberty and that...
i have no fear of dreams per se...

otherwise: thank whoever it is i have
to thank for the least of my talent being
exposed:
there is no: go gently into that good night...
blindness for one...
is not the cobweb of smoke
and mirrors of dementia: the latter...
i have to cherish the exactness of my
gargoyle face to keep these last remaining
tremors of life being gifted with:
an old curiosity...

i will not rhyme what's already
a technical matter...
that i want to wed my eyes my breath
with that of death impeding
and find him there: old joseph batuk...
while my father was "missing" from
me aged 4 through to 8...
because the western lands
required brain / labour drain...
i was the one who punctured his
bicycle wheel when he was engaging his
last days in employment...
that he was a drunkard from time to time:
well... i sure as ****
out-competed him...
i became a bigger drunk than he
ever was... yet by the vanity in me
owned... and by the diabolical belief
in the hebrew demiurge:
i teamed up with project focus
and spew such details... from time to time:

that it is somehow still only about me:
is because... i believe in being
reunited... in the sacred phlegm of Hades
were i have possession
of the most essential faculties to
entertain eternity:
but i no need for ****...
or for gluttony therefore no need
for taste...
i won't be needing these ******* sacks
or an islamic sacred garden harem
to satisfy my death-robbed blues
of unexcavated potentialities:

i want to catch death with its 21 supposed
grams...
how i meditated death of late
by merely walking: expecting to
chance myself with harp and
plough...
that i am forever reminded:
      to be sitting on laurels...
   as ever... to write this belittling of such
little... to be sitting on laurels
is to write poetry:
when one is expected to churn
out expectations with hammer, sickle...
and the brood's best interest...
of which: i can disclose none...

therefore to dance a romance with death:
i want to be there at my grandfather's
second birth...
when there's a fathoming for
a necessary eternity while he's my post-stamp
collector: which he was...
where so much of a year
is me and him preoccupied with
months upon end
admiring neptune...
sending vagueness via postcards
on sunbeams:

first came the atom bomb...
then the tightening cipher of a corrected
explosion in the variant of a beam...
of photons...
terribly accurate scientific verbiage...
if only my hometown assured me
a life in his line of work...
in metallurgy... well... the town collapsed
and so my father had to emigrate...
would be tree-chopper destined
to canada: stalled in england... present day...

death so... what a fine word in
quasi-germanic...
english...
   it sounds so much more horrid
in slavic: śmierć...
no amount of diacritical elevation...
should the same word resurface in
ancient: Ruś...
                            смерть...
smerts! ******* "smurfs" and all...

death o noun too hollow...
and if i didn't believe orthography existed
in english: only spelling mistakes...
well...

death "contra" deaf...
is very much akin to:

     morze: sea -
       może: maybe...
                
        but i implore to be forgiven:
since the english tongue doesn't employ
any diacritical markers:
from either above or below...
i never thought more of expressing
nuance, regarding it...
as the base: "spelling mistake"...
hell... to elevate such mistakes
to orthography status...
you imply i might demean all
that... metaphysical jargon focus...

a. g. barr's ice cream soda...
probably the only sort of drink
worthy of culprit memory...
mine own impressions
are mostly associated with soviet-esque
lemonades...
and turbo-chewing gums...
as boys we were supposed
to have this hunger for:
machinery tip-toe ***** envy
**** magnet:

ol' grandfather and me...
i liked to test horses for a gallop...
he would... tease some others with
an apple and a sugar-cube...

a life so completed but having
to leave one so ******* empty...
i don't care if death is so benevolent in her
praises of justice:
as blind as deaf and as tongueless as
she wants to stress herself to be...
i will not dare to cry...
perhaps... a year from now...
when my own presence in this world
is gravitating toward a new assemblance
of anonymity:
when... already...
my  neighbours are hollow ushers...
imps and diabolical idling...

at the hospice i want to see death
give birth...
i want to be this fairy-godmother
of clingingness and
obstruction...
fazing...
              for the ode of inbreeding
nuances of genes: which he didn't mind...
when he would reserve a stash of
newspapers for the "quasimodo"
that above him dwelled...
and how he would celebrate the antithesis
of inquiring for scissors...
slit lick and itching for a scratch...

you can't work around
having to employ cipher! not now!

the daughter cries for a father:
yet she's so estranged from him nd was...
this supposed: for the life to be bettered
by her offspring... mr. uno!
no... she's crying out of nostalgia...
i'm wanting to cry from...
a memory of me is about
to die within and with someone
nothing this world can compensate
me with...

collateral: lizard skins and hardening...
stone baron...
furthering of life is "nuanced"...
if this is the precursor of
son burying mother...
etc. in that quadratic...
i most certainly want to play
the role of coroner...
burning of bacon...

from the years 2004 through to 2007...
the summer escapades...
bicycle... fishing...
a man can become this completeness
in a memory that cannot be shaken...
obstructed with...
how i abhor readying myself for the
ceremony and the wake...

how the death of my grandfather
is less than
the grief already testified by his daughter:
my mother...
and how my father is this...
******* limbo rubix cube of cipher
decipher cipher decipher...
numb...
               when i supposedly burry
my father i will have to borrow burrying
someone else...

but before all that:
i want to chase death and laugh:
you's one siding antithesis shadow!
you's a shadow!
ha ha! i want to become this
inglorious... fester...
as to how death is defeated...
it's appreciated too literally...
it needs to be...
i can't allow death its grandiosity of
metaphors and church / clerical whimsical churns...
death is death is...
the beauty of the scents of autumn...

- yes, now that i'm scouting for excesses
of freedoms: i bemoan all those
readily cherished...
i have attired myself a beside:
this grievance of a "patriarchal" supposition...
by no way blinded
this lost excavation posit...
  death of "one" nearing the focus
stresor of selling... bubblegum...

death has to achieve a stature of mediocre...
so human yet so debased from man...
if i were to burn upon the pyre
of pagan worship... that death might
impart onto me a wizening...
a detail left in an obscurity of creases...

after his death i might "finally"
read Zły - leopold tymrand...
which i probably will: given how mediocre
all of knausgaard had to become:
celebrating flaubert's madame
bovary...
here is a detail and a corner...
a slab of death's riddle:
stone bound... epitaph thus missing;
but the immediacy so focused
upon a serenity of disclosure...

here lies the emblem of
the last carousel of life...
best kept impossibly immobile...
to lessen the creases...
and how one might...
appease the harems
of woo...
with french poodle jarry yoddles...
no one is to wed themselves
to my "unearthng":
sooner...
this poor rabbit blind...
en route toward my escapist
foundation furore....

to be "happy" is to be hardly
conceiving of... being...
inquiring...
to be happy is to be: dumb dumb
dumbfounded:
lost for words...
a limitless "etc"...
******* dim-wit... yeah...

last "things" i wanted
from the concept of completeness
was... "happy"...
for ****'s sakess with happy...
i don't want to be happy...
i want to be happy....
i want to be "sad"...
as long as i remain inquisitive!

i die or precusror: and therefore:
"button up"... i might fidget with
the nimble crow for all
that the curation of:
that requires the edible...
regal overtones overthrows
a h'americanana... of
a lasting... impossible... first...

and there's a "thirst"...
and then there's a "drowning"...
and an expectancy of
the... great... h'american way'vre....
veer into nill!           q?!

Continue,
Continue when slowing down seems the only option
Nothing is due,
Nothing is due tomorrow
There’s a chance to get something done before doomsday,
Before the clock ticks down to nill
Because once that happens,
Once we can’t see the screen anymore,
There’s nothing to rely on
And this mind
This world
Is destined to burn
We’ve stopped, we’ve lost the melody
We’ve cut the words they couldn’t read
Ten thousand tangents in our heads,
Threaten to spiral off
Into eternity,
Which one is correct?
Which one is correct for now?
Which one can we go down
Later?
This isn’t finished,
I’m scared and I don’t want to create
Another makeshift half-told story
Transitioning between the 200 years
Separating this world from
Something that, by all accounts,
Could be something completely different.

.             yeah...
and sharekhan with
a sinbad
are alive...
             i almost tried
dying while writing this...
with the leftovers of
bon jovi
via          the...
blatant gore of glory...
  but you know...
can't exactly learn
to ride a horse...
while at the same time
learning
to buckle-up
an... automobile...
****'s brickers on 'n
'op...
                wankers sarge...
and wankers they
'ure 'r' to 'emain!
  the 'est part of me
met the choir requirements...
the rest of me
settled fown in Vermont...
i leave the remaining
part of me
to...
          curiosity
phlegm...
and...
      tabloid...
   your knitty-gnat-part-time-son...
surname whicker scone...
******: if you're gonna
borrow:
you borrow with a face
of will and a demand
for...
     the last daft serf
bonanza i will ever
encourage myself with...
the time i will
take to safeguard
building Atlanta,
Georgia...
and you better steal
my best good-gold ******
fold
on betting...
that this ******* pile
of brick will not last into
the mid 20th century...
   betting man man...
thank god we never made
it to the Mississippi..
  ******* mud-dog
hauser!
clingy events of
the clangs of 'ew 'ork...
              bet counter via..
a ******* paddy...
  twice assured a joker
card...
thrice up on t
he king of spades...
i too bet on Boston 'ot 'urning
'een!
                      the base
of experiencing
the blaze...
            i wannah...
but at the same time...
i always want to forget
reliving the experience
of Versailles...
like, world war I and II
were...
the worst that could befall
a man...
   me?
i remember pretending to
chase,
hide & seek...
visiting Ypres...
in the trenches...
(where)
any of us were given a chance
to ****-about
chasing out our sorry-***
souls in the confines of
Versailles?
    not that i know of...

back in the east London
brothels...
you know...
it... really wasn't much...
you don't have to heave
the exhausting
jealousy
segment
of engaging in...
a "life worth living"...

little england:
big america...
       chances of me living
in that grand continet
of praise?
  nill...
     and of it,
knowing where i write
from?
equal "concern"...
           big continent
from where i'm from...
and... little country from
where i'm not to be.

i will never 'e
one over the other h'american,
as i will 'ever 'e
'un one european
to another;
so we 'ave that covered?
good!
      let's give ourselves
enough ground to
reiterate!

please, spare the children...
let us reiterate
the reindroduction
of the jew
among the arabs!
we just had ourselves
a divorce...
the children ought to know!

analogous to expending precious Air Supply
embellishing, modifying, revising, et cetera
a poem crafted about fourteen months ago.

I take stock and revisit good ole days of yore
quite conscious undeclared state of war
prevails within body (Electric
Light Orchestra) of troubadour,
whereby creative juices did perforce pour
forth as if sung by one man koor;
now he haply seated at his Macbook Pro
today April 29th, 2022
accompanied with Christopher Robin,
Winnie the Pooh, and Eeyore.

Since January thirteenth of this year
(two thousand and twenty two),
yours truly suddenly feels
long in the tooth, i.e. auld,
he whose decrepit body and
gnarled hands ice cold
senility and senescence doled
rigor mortis virtuous vice grip extolled
coronavirus (COVID-19) motherlode
courtesy geomorphology dynamism fold
analogous to discovered vein of mined gold

grim reaper with scythe doth silently infold
(in Old English, scythe spelled siðe)
ore yonder church bell knolled
anonymous beat nickles less,  
dime a dozen, day late
and dollar short sexagenarian
dropped out of Culture Club
(any strong resemblance between said poet
whose Grateful Dead head lolled,
and once living person purely coincidental)
death and decay, I lichen to mold
meself finally nill and void nolde
of unwanted excessive fleshy flab
scant personal possessions outsold
to highest bidder polled.

Dead weatherbeaten and fatigued soul
with absolute zero regret
no longer being alive,
immortality impossible mission to connive,
especially when endurance and stamina
took kamikaze nose dive
formerly earthlinked buzzfeeding
desiccated honeycomb hive

in tandem with former anxiety riddled psyche
need no longer worry
his existence perfect example
how hardship did misthrive
death be not proud penultimate quest
since adolescence (think anorexia nervosa)
he did (unsuccessfully) strive.

At long last... Beatle browed
Beastie Boys attained Nirvana
routing hellish existential crisis
courtesy Earth, Wind And Fire
rendered null and void celibate Journey
knight in shining armor
forever staind and tarnished
compliments verboten extramarital whoopie.

Herewith I forthwith take poetic license
linkedin to long line
of Mamas and the Papas
whose music died
when Passenger(s) violently perished
courtesy flaming inferno
analogous to Le(a)d Zeppelin 129
christened Hindenburg.

Along similar blurred lines
foo fighter manned ****** temple pilot
Jefferson Airplane qua Starship
gracefully and slickly
deliberately maneuvered sic
Crash Test Dummies
immediately annihilated upon impact
smack dab into Puddle Of Mudd,
yet lo and behold as a Foreigner
and Survivor yours truly eluded Dire Straits.

Oz suppose during whirlwind Kansas tour,
while snatching forty winks
in toto working out Kinks,
I experienced revelation
regarding divine creator - Egypt me
never securing life, liberty
and pursuit of happiness
elusive weltanschauung as understanding,

the mysterious Sphinx,
yes essentially zilch joie de vivre
minus high jinks
aptly summarizes mein kampf methinks
my life and hard times
whereby vitriol pelted me
courtesy those rat finks.

Nihilistic zeitgeist
apocalyptic outlook sacrificed
no redemption no matter
how figuratively purposelessness sliced
unlike mum man crucified Jesus Christ.

Imagine if ye will
earlier one blustery February sixteenth
two thousand twenty one,
yours truly experienced atypical thrill
perusing pages of heavily laden word book
marking where I leave off reading
courtesy no frills inked quill
(sold to yours truly courtesy original
big bird on his deathbed)

plus jotting down page number
so mundane effort to marry me interest
with me lingua franca (English language)
neither void nor nill
aforementioned laborious literary task
persevered despite forgoing
eating and sleeping might ****
(reading every last word)

hoop ping diligence improves vocabulary
making me maxillary stronger
no matter chronological years
considered smidgen whipping
over third scored Sam Hill
Earth orbitz around nearest star
traveling at (pun one mach two)

warp speed amidst escadrille
whereby accompanying aircraft
eventually zooms into Brazil
housing disproportionate Amazon
rainforest biome encompassing
6.7 million square kilometers and shared
by eight countries.

Even before (the square root of 3844)
years ago exiting the womb
Logophile mine self anointed
nom figuratively feathery de plume
no matter mine cranium
ready to explode ka-boom
I continue to parlay mental energy

like some garden variety harum scarum
and jam additional minutiae
(at thee expense not preserving sanity)
despite very limited (maximum) headroom
to decrease hydranencephaly
the whole hare brain scheme
rigged up with shunted
(think chutes and ladders) flume.

One definite lament
until death doth do me proud
constitutes deficient intelligence
genetically (father) endowed
imbibing cerebral thirst for knowledge
constitutes the lack of photographic memory
nsync with fifty plus shades of gray matter
ofttimes smoldering like dark storm cloud
to retain information I read aloud.

Quite an exciting
(seat of pants) life I did asseverate
less to impress any anonymous reader,
whose interest I did pique and captivate
versus (verses crafted) more so to delineate
quirky passion (couched as poetic endeavor)
inexplicable how to formulate
though no justification be given
hoop fully only kudos to generate.

Tubby in the calving throes
breaking free and clear
shepherding, milking, and honing
rambunctious as bovine bris
versus being stymied courtesy
cow - wordly bull aiming writer's block
for drought of creativity.

Asper this instance,
when a dearth of ideas
like a charred bait oven
finds me (a Brahms man) looking Bach
at drawing board and/or the clock
as if inspiration
can be found teasing out
whimsical child like spontaneity
recalling hickory dickory dock
rather than exacerbate
mental paralysis, akin

to an invisible vice grip,
which tension eventually
far worse than bill
lee esse ness, which former
grips with irony my chin,
I try release -
singsong restraint and chill,
ready to whip out power drill
not surprised finding sawdust,
viz of course after numbing skull
sticking head in deep freeze

or mounting temple
on dry ice, without
receiving nary a cavil
lack of creative noggin fill
intense concentration
invariably heats up "thinker"
as if being scalded,
skewered, sussed out
on a barbecue grill,
(which fixed attention),
never ever engenders

positive flow of ideas,
but absolutely ideal
for reducing a molehill
from a mountain dew,
nevertheless within ma mind,
before long prolonged
cessation to brainstorm induces ill
humor succumbing into
torturous mental state
(fall of the cider

house rules usher),
non poe whet
tick dark age,
whar ah felt jill
ted loom min hated
with panic ready to ****...
mice elf (cue Stuart Little),
cuz dem lil
cerebral cogs and wheels
malfunction for more'n a mill
yen times prompting

to scout graveyards
for fresh corpse, and lovely bones
if results rendered nill
jet over to Doctor Frankenstein,
even if aye gotta
hightail to Trans sill
vein ya, unless....
perhaps ye kind reader twill
donate yar viable gray matter tummy
(right after ya die) denny ya will
almost be him morte till!

Living in a metronome.
Hetero throne
With a center hole
Render me ghost
Trans status... Trans fat is.
Saturated. Tactics
Militia background.  NUTRITION fat now... savage jo don't back down...
Pop a cap off like MILK JUGS
NILL ***. I dont take the rap now.
Settle down MILK DUDS..
You could be sweeter.
Feed the parking meter.
Or get a FINE!!!! (Fine)...
I'll get my **** ******
Still love ready for bazooka round.
Stupid sound.
With cupids crown. In music lounge.
Heart broken. Too profound how two can sound like 1 after the rumors out....
Anyway. Settle down gangsta
Disheveled sound cranked up...
Got metal ground bank ***
hot pursuit after dental boy fights tooth and nail out of handcuffs..
Before we go bankrupt
Say some about the name ***
If I tank ima show you what a tank does....

It's a training match, we rehearse,
reimburse our future selves
when we leave toilet paper
we don't need
on the shelves.

Tomorrow we will do it all again.
Brush your teeth,
wash your mouth.
Until that's the only thing you feel.

You're not thinking, you've stopped blinking.
I see you seethe when you are stopped
from brushing teeth.

I lack the basics, lack the practice,
lack that and I lack this. I even googled
how to rhyme and came out on crab cactus.

I feel void, for nill, as if I might be also lacking.