For bright prosperous future,
They say oiling is required.
They inform buttering is must;
If in job promotion is desired.

Butter increases cholesterol.
It is not at all good for health.
I say no to such promotions.
Poverty better than such wealth.

I cannot **** my conscience;
To make tomorrow brighter.
For oiling I've a jar of kerosene;
And I always carry a lighter.

I wanted to write a poem about the joys simple things. But I’ve lost the meaning of them since I’ve been away it seems. For many years I’ve served duty tours, it’s just the life that I have lived. So I write poems of war and of warriors and death; sometimes it’s all I have left to give.

I picked my brain for images of candlelight picnics on sandy beaches, but I opened the basket looking for ammo to load in my weapon breaches. Oiling my guns may not be romantic, or when I lace my boots up tight, but you can bet your **** it comes in handy when you’re caught in a fire fight.

I tried concentrating as hard as I could, trying to envision more peaceful things. Instead I was reminded of Black Hawks with M240-Bravos in weapon slings. It seems I can’t be normal or think like a normal human being, I’ve been battle hardened inside my soul and this is part of what it brings.

PTSD is what they call it, they say I need some aid, but it just feels like second nature, pulling the pins and throwing grenades.  I’ll go home one day and I’ll look the same because my wife can’t see my scars, I’ve hid them all inside myself and that’s what makes this hard.

They tell me I’ve been lucky, I didn’t get a single injury. But the damage was done inside of me and that’s what they don’t see. So I’ll go home a “lucky one” and act like I am fine, and live my days pretending, while keeping this war trapped in my mind.

black coffee walks alone
closed eyes, avoiding signs
holding love in back pockets
cracking open pens, drink ink
blink: sunlight! it's blinding,
and alright, but I much perfer
darkness.
                so many calls that make me
feel small. I don't know what to say,
so I hang up, and hang myself in the
backyard to dry, afraid you might catch
my scent, and run away.
                                        you taste like
flowers, feel the way my lungs do when
it's hard to breathe, feel the way my ears
do when I struggle to hear the mumbled
mess of what you wouldn't dare say straight
forward.
              I saw you coming, felt you coming,
lost you, lost myself, removed the sheets,
found someone else. To remove myself,
you hoped, I hope it helped.
                                             bagged in plastic
styrafoam cups, luke warm, but you're warmer.
a charmer, heart farmer.
                                        Welcome home, please
make sure if you leave, it's somewhere better.

.well **** me, after writing such a revealing piece, i really need a double whiskey gob-smack... i need a drink... i really need to have drink... but it's honesty, i'm not ashamed of it... people have a harder time owning up to gay bar pop songs in their closet, like a Belinda Carlisle song... ooh... personally? i've never come across anything more **** than a pregnant woman *******, or, to mind the pursuit of the Wendol idol? exhibitionism to boot; a striptease? pare by comparison... you can't exactly possess the carnality of a woman, and the concept of the mind's eye... with a fetus, to boot.

in terms of jerking off...
**** me,
  i moved away from
fine art nudes...

  found an alternative
outlet....

https://tinyurl.com/ybhzl3x5

i.e.?
the exhibitionism
of
pregnant women...

it's like peering into
a wormhole,
of sorts...

    who the hell needs
******, glory-holes,
******* crap?

   pull me to sight
a pregnant woman
encouraging exhibitionism
and i'll be there,
within second,
with a tissue...

**** it...
she can do it, and doesn't shy
away from?
    m.i.l.f. is
so lost...
been catching up on
the whole American Pie franchise...

m.i.w.i.l.f.

    mom in waiting i'd
love to ****...

who said that jerking off leads
men to ******* ***.
****** *****?
  who said we would turn the
******* avenue?
     oops? for not being
adventurous enough?

  adventurous consisting
of watching
a pregnant woman
exhibition herself,
oiling herself,
jerking off...
    what... if i were married...
could probably
become the mouth and tongue
of God in terms of oral ***?

******* losers...
having the negligence
stipend in allowing a wife,
as pregnant as she is...
to exhibition herself like that...
for me to pick up
the crumbs from the table...
******* losers...

i'll admit it...
jerking off to a pregnant
woman exhibit herself
beats jerking off to fine art
nudes.

i've noticed that, upon ushering words from the depth
of nothing, or as an interlude in Knausgaard's day-to-day
musing in vol. 6 after inviting Geir over:
this "i" or that "i" or for that matter "my" i...
however you want to frame it...
    i noticed that if i allow myself an evening of not writing...
esp. on an electric screen for someone else to see...
if for example i lay down to go to sleep...
not exactly asleep: dart out of bed and scribble something
on a piece of paper for only me to see...
i will still dream...
but if i sit down and face the electric screen:
pixels like the eyes of a fly... for someone else to see?
i don't dream...
   otherwise... having scribbled down the following
on a piece of paper:

   exploring Heidegger's dasein in another language...
my native, which i will translate into English,
basically prepositional coordination of(f) being
off not necessarily implying non-being -
perhaps merely: being-in-itself or rather the other...

tu-być : be-here
              to-bycie : this-being
ten-byt :                      ditto
although: nuance... there is a distinction...

i also scribbled down something i heard a long
time ago about how Russia, India and China are
re-orientating themselves with the slacking of the western
influence on: whatever it was that the west had
for the past three decades beside
proxy wars, collateral damages and "culture"...

i heard the term: post-ethnic-nationalism
post-ethno-state post-nation-state...
ergo: multiculturalism... which, oddly enough:
i can't come to grips with trying if not trying to
pretend to be a native of these isles -
perhaps it might be a shock for someone outside
of London - but in London it's almost
second nature to... be surrounded by people
from all around the world...
needless to say: the natives are not so disgruntled
once they're sitting all pretty-cherry on top
of some hierarchy: esp. in the journalistic
opinion sections of the Saturday / Sunday magazine...
then it's an open bonanza against
the "lower class racists" and what not...
i can't be an anti-racist: after all...
                                     anti-racists once produced
a schematic for us to learn from in primary school...
which shower the size of brains of...
a white person, a black person and a racist...
and some other brains...
the racist's brain was under-developed:
smaller...                                      ­ really?!

anyway... so Russia, India and China have opted for
what has come to be known as the:
civilization-state...
                                     given the ongoing zeitgeist
******* blowing up in the Anglophone world from
H'america... the culture-war(?!) -
i would bet fairly and say that pretty much all
former nation-states of western Europe
and beyond are currently in a state of morphing
into: buzz buzzword: being - culture-states...

but whereas a civilization-state seems an abrupt
optimal to counter and disagreement with regards
to continuity: civilisations don't merely come and go...
whereas cultures do...
   culture is somehow a totality of the little things
in life... fashion, the arts, politics, faux pas innuendos,
trends, diet...
that's culture and some...
but civilisation? to me that's like saying...
the foundation of Rome was the creation
of the aqueducts...
                  civilisation to me is like saying:
the British Empire and the steam-engine...
civilisation to me, London, exclusively is... the tube...
the underground network...

seriously... i don't need to go to a West End Play
i don't need to go and see Ed Sheeran play
to a sold out Wembley stadium of 100,000+ people
(although, i did, even though i did because
i worked a shift there doing security,
so, technically i didn't, but did)
            i don't need culture... as such...

all i need to do is first, do a shift at Craven Cottage...
hope that the Elizabeth Line won't be working
travel on the Central Line from Newbury Park all
the way to Holborn... and then blah blah...
instead of trying to look at the tired faces opposite
me admire the map of the Central Line
(it's a toss-up between the Central Line map,
or the District, Northern or Piccadilly)
and then, on some sunny day... get my bicycle
out... and bicycle for most of the route... notably...
skewing... merging at Fairlop working my way
through Barkingside, coming to Gants Hill
then less of the tube route (mind you...
between Leyton and Stratford it's pretty
much over-ground) -
   and then from Stratford - through to Mile End...
from Mile End via Whitechapel... to Aldgate...
from Aldgate to St. Paul's... Chancery Lane...
Holborn... rat beneath the ground:
like a rat needs a bicycle -
   well this rat is no hamster: hence the bicycle
and not a hamster-wheel...

what culture? movies?! i tried watching something
relevant to the 1980s today... ***** Dancing...
great soundtrack but... cringe!
that's even before Malcolm X and how inter-racial
inter-****** relations had to be the new norm:
i mean: ******* fair play...
    building the new Brazil -
    but i still think there's an under-representation
(and isn't everyone supposed to get a fair share
of representation) of white boy Romanian girl
(Roma, gypsy) or white boy Turkish girl...
   or white boy half-white half-Indian girl...

i know i will not dream tonight because someone
will see this...
my little itchy thoughts, my freed from the reins
"i" that doesn't really have these words clogging
up its mind - only until the itching of the fingers starts
and i have a blessed day...
like today...

why is it that a Saturday evening can feel like
a Sunday evening?
oh, right... i made steak for dinner tonight...
potato wedges (skins on, first boiled until
the the water started boiling, turned off, soaking
for 5 min, drained, olive oil, cajun pepper sprinkle,
into the oven)
    and some baked vegetables:
leeks, carrots, parsley root, red onions,
celeriac, swede... balsamic vinegar,
    sambal, cumin, coriander, salt, pepper,
sugar (i stopped using honey,
   it sticks to the baking tray plus the vegetables
lose their crunch, and vegetables need their crunch)...
2 steaks (456g total) shared between three people...
seasoned with sea salt and grain black pepper
(i prefer pepper grains than pepper powder,
i.e. pockets of explosion of that spice)
    3 min each side... a perfect medium-rare blush...

however the Indians might sell their spices...
chillies etc. there's still something wholesome
when it comes to eating certain types of food...
given that... i wouldn't be eating beef in India:
i wouldn't be seasoning beef with chillies!
that's why pepper is important...
that's why horseradish is important...
i let most of the Indians slip up: oooh! the Europeans
didn't have any spices...
apart from thyme, rosemary, sage, lavender,
mint... pepper, horseradish, i#m sure we
were also familiar with cumin seeds -
as well as that anise-seed that' not the star
(i forgot the name of it, it looks like
a cumin seed, but fatter, and split down
the middle - green) oh and of course:
plenty of salt...
what's all the spices in the world in the culinary world...
IF, YOU, AIN'T, GOT - SALT?!
   (if you don't have... i know i know...)

it's rather bewildering talking to certain Asians...
although, saying that...
most of Eastern Europe had plenty of interaction
with Asians, namely the Mongols
and the Turks - which the western Europeans
sort of... "forgot"... after Darwinism they
skipped over Asia and went straight back
to Africa... personally? i feel more akin to Asians
(esp. the oriental folk) than i do with anyone
from Africa... however Christianity was born...
after all: what's the definition of a white man?
Caucasian? and where's the Caucus?
Asia... Europe was always going to be
a funnel - a bottle-neck continent -
a port... a departing point...
       perhaps we shouldn't be so clingy to it...
unless of course:
   oh the parody of Jesus never came out of
Europe: "we" had to wait for it coming from
North America, but by then it was no longer
a parody of Jesus but a parody of North American
Christianity... a North American parody of Jesus
is... oddly enough... a European parody
of North American Christianity: via Jesus...

which brings me to another thing... only upon
doing a shift at Craven Cottage did i first hear
the parakeets... never before...
     i'm not going to bloat my ego this much but...
since then i've seen an article on Wikipedia that
i never saw before, the article just appeared out of
nowhere: feral parakeets of England...
subsequently... only a day ago:
you're only here for the parrots, fans chant
as birds swarm Leyton Orient pitch (Evening Standard
4 hours ago)
and bare conker trees overrun by bright green
parakeets make them seem vibrant despite leafless
branches (Daily Mail, 3 days ago, somewhere
in south London)...

today i was given the chance to walk back into my old
haunt... as much as i love cycling...
it's sometimes refreshing to walk...
the slowing of pace, the horizon almost intact...
more so... if walking into a forest...
Bower Wood... i know it is a curated wood...
it's not as feral as the pine woods of Eastern Europe...
but: if life gives you X... you make XY...
x = lemons, y = juice ergo xy = lemon juice...

i'm pretty sure i was familiar with this wood...
i was out hunting for souvenirs for my mother to dress
the table / fake deer antennas for candles to sit in...
holy, some other greenery with black berries...
i was hunting for ferns, almost near impossible
given this time of year... found some! bright blush
of childish envy... oh... and birches...
some oak barks fallen off... just me alone in the forest...
i was so thankful by myself...
but usually i heard crows, magpies and woodland
pigeons... but now?! parakeets?!
here?! now?! parrots in winter in these parts?!

i swear the world is standing-up-side-down...
it's hard not to miss an under-current of a serious
pagan revival weaving and slithering its way through
Europe: if only you care to listen...
i switched off from whatever is available in culture
these days... i know that what i'm listening to
will not gain popular traction...
i can walk into the forest and... there's the forest...
i go back home... cook dinner...
go into my bedroom, open a bottle of cider
thinking: no champagne will beat this...
put on a record akin to...
Heilung's TENET and... hey presto!

                       i was in company of a good friend:
someone already dead who...
i don't know how someone can lose themselves
in the forest... pareidolia...
   you can sometimes see paths already trodden...
unseen but somehow: you can see a "ghost"
of a foot here and there...
    you know: you just KNOW where a human foot
prior to yours once treaded...
there are patterns... better sticking with pareidolia than
the iconoclasm of celebrity...
i always thought that was better...
i like to think i'm in the company of strange
creatures: phantoms of my mind...
but hardly! how can these be phantoms of my mind?!
i didn't spontaneously conjure a face in a tree
when the ******* tree is older than me!
the tree was here before me!
what?! some sin?! some psychological sin
of non-conformity?! i don't adhere to star-gazing
in the filth of commodities and entertainment?!

i know why this feels like a Sunday evening even
though it's a Saturday night...
i was planning on going to the brothel tonight...
but... oh hey mother, hello father...
i'm going out... where? you don't have any friends...
blah blah... yeah... well... i'm kind of happy
because of that: no social-constraints of expectations...
as the conversation usually ran with the last
remaining friend i had from high-school...
- so, what have you been up to?
- nothing...
     and he knew that i was scribbling like mad...
what's there to talk about when it comes to writing?!
last time i heard: you read what is written...
you don't talk about it...
hopefully the reading of something written goes
back into thinking and is not spoken of:
since the conventionality of everyday
formality of social-speech crushes anything delicate
that is born from i-ought-not-but-regardless-i-must!
it's a compulsion!

i went to the shop about 3 hours ago to buy an extra
bottle of cider because i knew: having read a little more than
usual i had to keep the Libra of conscience in place,
"conscience": never write more than you read...
and never read less than you write - so so...
          wow... FORK in the "ROAD"...
                        this is me replaying the opening of the song
TENET - the sound of the horn...
well... i didn't have a horn in the forest...
but i had my pagan statue... a dead white tree...
i left this little stick next to it... i used to walk this wood
more times than i can remember...
sometimes i walked into it bare-chested...
blind from the darkness, but somehow illuminated
by the moon... sat on a stump of wood...
silence... then a breaking of a branch...
not the sort of breaking of a branch still attached
to a tree... something stepped on it...
i wasn't alone... i froze but then ushered in my voice
to compliment a shared bewildered amazement:
that is not a foot of a man stepping on a branch...

in the same wood i saw my first GARMR...
would i really have to go with the flow
of a Christopher J. MacCandless?!
                                       if hell is going to send its hounds
out to meet me, it doesn't matter where that might
be... i don't need to visit the northern most parts
of Norway to find what i'm seeking...
and what i'm seeking i found: since i'm dragging what
needed to be found around...
it's not surprising that at Bower Wood i was
alleviating a traffic problem when
two does and about 5 fawns were causing havoc...
"havoc" in the night implies 3 cars pulling over...
me coming down from the hill running up to
the village of Havering-atte-Bower spotting one...
not caring if there was a stag nearby running
with the fawn which subsequently ensured
the two does and the rest of the fawns
started to gallop and disappeared into the Wood...

i wish i could make this stuff up...
but then again: i'm not jealous of people
who have seen the Galapagos Islands or the Maldives
or... ah... just recently...
i took that rat-above-rat-below trip on my bicycle
into central London... i said to myself:
circle round St. Paul's cathedral... nope...
not good enough... around the Old Bailey then...
o.k. - and i "prayed": please! not another flat tire!
hey presto! on my way back... a flat tire at Aldgate!
great! well... i walked this distance before...
i can walk it again... walking back...
passed the East London Mosque and then...
Allahu Akbar! a bicycle repair shop!

walked up - leaned the bicycle against the wall,
the Chinese guy said: just 10 minutes
(while he was fixing this Deliveroo rider's
electric bicycle) - no problem -
i took some times to each some gelatin sweets
and drink some water, looking at people,
i felt like i was in some exclusive club,
only cyclists allowed - it felt like a very urban
sensation that most punks must have felt,
or goths, standing out...
i paid too much compliments to those guys
in Cycle King bicycle shop in Chadwell Heath...
i knew the front tire was worn down,
but i thought: get the professional's opinion...
they would be more than willing to change
the inner-tube for the Nth time before telling me:
oh... you need to change the actual tyre...
how many times did i change the inner tube?
**** knows! milking it... ******* were milking it!
but this Chinese guy said outright plainly...
it's ****... i'll change it for you...
inner tube, tyre and labour... £55...
done!
               he changed it to a tyre that...
well... let's face it... 2nd gear front
and 4th, 5th 6th and 7th gears in the back...
i was whizzing past home... he said:
less width... more grip... for the grit...
   but at least he was ******* honest...
that's what i mean about a European's relationship
with the Asians... i'm honest, they're honest...
they're not some SCAM MERCHANT KNIGS
of NIGERIA: CNUT-MBAPPE typos...

oh... and it's not like anyone didn't notice
that Indian girls think they're the bomb?!
oh yeah... oh no, not the Muslim girls... those girls
are whipped into always staring down...
like white girls are whipped into peering into
their smart-phone screens and envisioning:
anything outside of inter-racial relationships is:
pederasty (loose term)... whatever it might me...
bulimic antics: not done properly, mind you...
not in the Roman style of training the oesophagus
to just spew on a whim: i.e. i ate too much...
apologies... i need to... ugh! ugh! ugh!
                      get ready the trampoline!
we're going to launch half-digested fish-heads!

now i'm happy... my Trek Merlin 5 is compatible...
fun... looking at that *** trying to chase me down
working my way down toward the Old Bailey...
Asian ceramic raven haired
no helmet... and never, never... ride a bicycle
in an urban environment minding
the sticker on the inside of a large vehicle:
BLIND SPOT... well... d'uh... so use the large
vehicle like a battering ram against all the gnats
of smaller vehicles... ride on the outside of the large
vehicle... always on the outside...
what are you, cyclist... a Hebrew forced by
the **** brown-shirts to walk in the gutter rather
than on the pavement?! what am i?
just because i'm a cyclist i'm no less a hazard
to a motorcyclist?! momentum, self-generated!
i like my legs... let me know when you're dealing
wheelies and whizzes on a ******* wheelchair...
until i have my legs... i'll be skimming through
traffic... Norman Davis might have called
the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth God's Playground...
i think i'll call London my playground...
there's plenty to play with around here...

                 but for once i listened to my ego...
for some reason i didn't require a depth of the
Freudian secular trinity of the addition of superego
and id... i was just about to think about going to the brothel
but then my ego said: you're not feeling it...
and i wasn't... i still had to clean the kitchen up,
take the garbage out... i was oiling myself up...
"oiling": checking if i still had a 30 year old's hard-on
i stopped using the fake diet of ******* of
actors: disposable, unattainable...
i switched to: ROMANIAN AMATEUR ****...
well... it's what i'm going to get...
but i checked my hard-on too many times today...
checked, i.e. checked without climaxing...
checked about 4 times... the 5th time i checked
i was thinking about going to the brothel...
but then my ego (not my ego) checked me...
you're not going anywhere:

THE FICKLE MIND AND THE FIRM TRUTH
OF THE BODY...
the mind lies more times than the body cares to admit...
until, of course... the reality of body steps in
and the mind has to retreat... just as happened with
my excess drinking... i went to buy that extra bottle
of cider and waiting in the queue while a mother
with three daughters "****'s sake" the mother retorted
while the girls were undecided what else
to add to the basked i looked at the shelves
with all the spirits... no! no! no more whiskey!
no more *****! no more!
i checked my supposed "impotence" too many times
today... "impotence": more like being
insulted by the madam: beached-whale...
she just flicked it when it went limp because
i found her physically abhorrent...
flicked it... like it was a worm...
like she was 6 years old and i was 5 years old
and she was still playing with Barbie dolls
and unlike she was...
because she knew what a key was and what a keyhole
was... but she had no idea what
physical attraction was...

                        reciprocated...

well ****... it's working... guess it's not working with you...
a bit like the horse that Christopher Reeve rode
when it dropped him and recalculated Superman:
without a spine...
plus i had no excuse to leave the house...
i had plenty of excuses to read some more of Knausgaard
and write this...
tomorrow i'll have the excuse of "working late"...
going to a brothel is not like saying:
oh yeah... i'm going on a date with a girl
we're going to the cinema blah blah...
       no... dearest ******* Madam...
she's the one that chased away both Mona and Khadra...
what the **** happened?!

what am i? a Duracell bunny?! there's an ON and OFF
switch with regards to my phallus?!
if that's the case... what's the dynamic of ****?!
is ****... no... it can't be... **** is a man *******
a turned-off woman? i once had an experience
of a woman who... let's put it mildly:
her **** was as dry as the adequate metaphor
of sensation one might regret to feel from rubbing one's
hands on sandpaper!
hands... finger tips... rough skin...
ergo the ability to play guitar or rock climb...
we're talking tender skin...
so... technically: hardly a pleasure for a ****** to feel
pleasure from an unaroused ****!
ergo?! that was an aroused **** and it's all psychological:
not physical... the shame of giving it so freely
and unwillingly... whereas playing games with
those one might want to give it up to...
i can hardly **** with a LIMPY -
   but i certainly wouldn't want to **** a timber-mill worth
of toothpicks, match-sticks and left-overs...
**** is psychological it would seem...
                the shame of it... all those labyrinths of playing
games suddenly disappearing from the case of
"spontaneity"...
   you should ask her: South African... Sancha...
worked in a private school... teaching boys Mathematics...
maybe she was a *******... by now who knows?!
i do know that i wasn't terrible aroused by her
the first time we tried...
i got a limp... like i got a limp with Ilona:
a forewarning... but she was adamant and whispered
into my ear: you will not deny me...
second time i was in her teacher accommodation
i brought a copy of the Machinist with me on DVD...
she must have spiked my drink because then the horror
of cocoon *** ensued and that's when
she climbed on top of me and gave me the sawdust
sandpaper **** treatment in the dark...

it kind of follows through to the casual mode of
argumentation people have concerning the schizoid condition:
it's all in your mind...
right... so the schizoid condition is simply: so...
your i-think detaches itself from thought
and forms a i-hallucinate complex as if: spring follows winters?
well then... it's all in your mind...
**** is probably in most of women's minds...
it doesn't actually exist in reality:
in the physiology... **** is a mental construct...
it must be... since i don't recall any ******
talking about: oh ****... i had to pull out...
her **** turned into a mantis or the mouth
of a worm from the planet Dune... i just couldn't
continue!

the next day she drove me to the station and i never saw
her again...
ergo? i have a strange relationship with a limp ****...
it's not impotence: per se,
it's more a judge of character concerning a ******
partner: however brief, however informal...
it's like a wild animal freezing still...
     deer in the headlights...
                                      i should have known better
with Ilona... but she pressured to the point where it
finally started "working": i wish "he" didn't...
it would have saved me so much pointless drama...
if i were a man with a child i would tell him just as much:
it's not working for a reason...
that ***** is a mantis... you're not a robot...
this isn't a *****... you're not an extension of a *****...
it's not working for a reason...
go and check... watch the most realistic "*******":
switch to amateur stuff...
                                that's all you're going to get...
and can you, get it up? well then...
it's not you...
                                     once all the glamour is gone
and you're left with a butcher's cut of antics...
                              well... if you're aroused by that sort of stuff
in private... why can't the partner reciprocate?
maybe that's just me finalising some logistics for
tomorrow...
shift at the Ice Rink tomorrow...
me... two girls...
   one butch lesbian... she keeps rubbing off on my arms
every time the home side scores
and she's celebrating...
      one rub by chance i can understand... two rubs
and i'm thinking: this isn't homosexual conversion therapy,
is it?
the other? got me the job to begin with...
started taking dieting pills because she feels depressed
because she thinks she's fat and this is what
working with women looks like if you're not
in the business of being a plumber: in the realm of
customer service...
    
                 that's how this new girl i fancied at work
got fired... about 4 other girls ganged up on her
and she was literally bullied out of work because...
            
it's coming up to 1am... i need to get up early tomorrow...
do a cycling shift...
trim my mustache, my beard, my ***** region, my arm-pits...
finish one more bottle of cider for good luck:
or no luck...
           listen to some more pagan music...
think about Bower Wood and how i wish that if i weren't
working tomorrow
i'd buy myself a bottle of whiskey and walk
into it, right now... to howl and wake up the crows.

p.s. oh, right, that dream i had last night when
i didn't scribble any words for anyone else to see?
two night ago i was swimming with
pseudo-jelly fish on the edge of the universe
transmitting vibrations of light...
last night i was watching while some colts
were gleefully celebrating their ability to drink
shots of absinthe... until i walked up to the bar
and showed them how to drink absinthe
properly...
i took out a spoon, dipped the spoon in some
sugar... poured some absinthe onto the spoon...
lit the spoon and the sugar alight...
watched the caramel form...
then poured some water into the glass
to clue them in into the secret of drinking absinthe:
you don't drink absinthe like *****...
you need for the green-milk of wormwood
to emerge!
    sie müssen für die grünmilsch von wermut
zu auftauchen!

City rush me
Pretty push
Did he see?
The wish on
*******
Sunday I thought
A rush of pluses +++
He won
Be on time if not - - -

Monday be
good to me
Rumors
Fantasy thoughts
I am
What I am
Not Popeye
Going day back
I need a third eye
I am
All free
Robin
Bird
From
everyone

Wait!!

Don't rush me
I love everyone*

Newspaper's
Sunday
Daily
News
Poem
touchdown
My poem stood
With the others
I bowed ((Gladly))

Waking up
To a Racers- mouth
Ray_ speed lover
No homework

All game
Sunday_
Candles burned
The House flamed

"Procrastinator"
I'll be back
"Destroyer-Terminator"
Coffee drug me percolator
He April fools her
Shopping Sunday
right up magnifying
dress

He is back
Not the future
Smart *** tricks
On the Escalator
He Jeremy irons out
her clothes
That's it!!!

Never rushed
on Sunday
To make
a mob hit

The call girls
Busy- tight pants
So Panicked Monday's
religiously
Hooked in
Scientology

So ****** in
Not to ever kiss
her on a
Sunday
He bunked into ((God))
Poem ritual bunk bed
Well NYC
Cabbie, he
will
never
take it
on Sunday

The big game
crazies
The flower
shops
of horror
Emptied
out with
Moms
Tiger
Lillies
Smelling

Mad Men hungover

Rush hour
Tv movie
Hangover
Jet game
Sprinkler
shower

Opening up
The door to his
apartment
Big Girly
hoarder mess
After a
long talk
night

Saturday Night
Brooklyn
The Disco Queen
bridge-sight
His Mom
is still oiling
His BMW Racecar
with
Hot fire Crisco
he
will never
be
rushed
out the door
His car
never
starts
Sunday
or a
Monday

Teased on
Tuesday
Wednesday
shes wild
Thursday
Ladies
drink
for free_

She got
her husband
to buy
her cushion
cut square
On Sunday
Do it or dare
She's
hanging
low

Times Square

Girly rough
Brooklyn
tough
Channel
blush
On Sunday
he is so
wired bushed

it's 10:20 a.m., or a.d. for that matter,
i'm drinking for a sloppy mistake
i call ease, in circumstances that
are rather necessary for my balancing /
juggling act... the alarm on the clock just went off
but i woke up two hours earlier, listening to
b.b.c. radio 4... talk of birds (cuckoos /
winged parasites the specialist says) and
hindu assimilation into western opera via goa;
i'm watching a pair of sparrows build a
nest in my neighbour's guttering;
they noticed me perched on the windowsill
puffing out smoke, so they figured,
no better safety than under the watchful
presence of a dragon;
and indeed the chinese and the welsh
drew dragons long before any bones
of dinosaurs were unearthed;
it wasn't necessarily instinctive,
but a premonition, i.e. prior to the motion
of accommodating such a truth,
or truce, however you mind it;
so an eventful morning, while i stress over
the fact that i have two sleeping pills left
in the reservoir, and am about to phone
up the surgery to, "hopefully" getting a
triage appointment with the medical
bureaucrat / general practitioner (who
gets the entitlements of the status 'dr.'
and a 'dr.' salary, while the surgeons doing
all the ***** butchery gets less and only
a title 'mr.', i guess paying them less is
a motivational tool, look at all the pauper
artists of the Renaissance for a comparisons,
the pope and all his riches could never
enrich the message of our father);
so a pair of sparrows flying in and out
of the shrubbery, he brings back a beaked
piece of twig, she brings back her presence,
i don't know who to attach the
number of caterpillar legs i.e. who's
doing the leg-work to, i know she's the oven,
but why isn't she chopping twigs off?
she's just randomly flying to and fro -
and indeed man imploded, he knew
the hunter gatherer, the beer brewer, the plumber -
she exploded with the numbers,
and only in times of war was she conscripted
as equal and equally able in the realm of
man's autism of provisions of profession,
into that deathly hollow of obsession -
the prostitutes just laughed the whole thing off,
you could see them from 20 miles off:
ha ha he he... but boy were they *******
when they received an ****** on the job...
the highest reconciliation, and yet the lowest ebb,
the futility of the matter,
having gone through all that trouble
using skin creams to create a fake arousal
and actually reach the peak of being aroused
via an ******...
well i did once **** a girl with a dry *****...
obviously i'd proclaim it as ****,
i have to... we watched the film the machinist
prior - when you have *** with a girl
who isn't aroused but she still wants to,
then we'll have a talk about the precautions
that prostitutes take when having ***
without psychological intimacy,
oiling themselves up with skin cream
to ease the matter of engagement.
but still, two sparrows building a nest,
because they know a dragon perched on the
windowsill puffing out cigarette smoke
is formidable enough for a cuckoo or
predatory affairs curbing the multiplicative
chances of defence tactics being used -
and as man, we have become that in a sense,
we provide a multiplicative evaluation of things -
yes we are, yes we were, yes there's more to come -
but in terms of addition, there's hardly an
explanation at hand... i mean you diminish the
chances of addition by citing maxims of those who
added to the history, but that's still a multiplicative
evaluation - you haven't ventured into the realm
of adding something to the feat and fate of humanity,
you're still there, a maggot on a fishing hook-curl;
so whether you (x) to humanity and seek the algebraic
fascination of questioning to the extent of not really
answering, or whether you (+) to humanity and become
yourself, an algebraic fascination that asks and answers
in baby-steps... there are still two sparrows
building a nest in my neighbour's guttering.

...and now I am tired,unwired and unstrung and what had begun when the sun hit the streets has now ended,I defended my right to work into the night,I was wrong,the night was so long and my life,once light,now weighs me down.
I am drowning in the aspirations of what were once my own creations,treading on once upon a times and struggling hard to work these rhymes into some sort of verse.
Someone nurse me back to youth,
in truth I think that's all I need,to wait beside the fountain and feed upon the spring.
Someone bring me yesterday where I can lay my head and say,I'll do it differently and in the time it takes to cook a goose all hell's let loose as time bends back its hands and the clock stands still,then in reverse,which in itself is one more verse that rhymes,time's marching on and yet we all know that the time to talk has gone and words mean nothing if not spoken,something tells me that time is broken, and by the spring I stand behind I watch the universe unwind.
This is one more notch upon the post or at least the most that I could hope for as I open up and close the door,
sleep will come.
if not now then later so I'll wait a while,lights down low,don't want the night to know,
I'm here.

Today I'm thinking about the ones who didn't make it;
ODs, suicides, and prison.
Some of us made it.
Grooming dogs, working in cubicles, working cash registers,
cleaning cars, fighting rich people's wars, having babies,
bowing down to the man,
oiling the machine we used to rage against.

My family said I was too good for you,
that I didn't belong with you,
but I did.
They didn't see you
and they didn't see me.
We knew we were different from other kids,
but we didn't know why yet;
carrying a pain so great
when we were so young.
Some of us have been crushed by it.
The secret pain:
family dysfunction,
mental illness,
disability,
addiction,
alcoholism,
abuse,
neglect.

Some of us made it,
but what does it mean?
We've been beaten down by life,
submitting to the man,
oiling the machine we used to rage against,
we forgot who we are,
but can't forget the ones we've lost.
We don't rage anymore.

No, no, I haven’t been doing this myself,
but I live in Cambodia,
and 2 guys and a girl were deported recently
for riding around on a motorbike in the ****
in broad daylight. Actually, you see,
naively or deliberately,
they rode right past a police station.
Now that must have been a sight for sore eyes.
So the police set out in hot pursuit,
rubbing their sore eyes, or whatever they rub,
maybe their truncheons, eh?
And when the perps were pulled over,
the cops didn’t fall about with hilarity
when these riders said quite calmly
that they were going to pick up their laundry.
Truly! They were backpackers! As if that explained it.
But publicly, the cops said nope,
these perps are obscene to be seen like this
and they violate Khmer customs and culture.
The cops even took pictures of this outrageous obscenity.
Indeed. The riders' rapture of being bare assed
and naked and **** free is not for Cambodia.
Certainly not at this juncture.
So their capture resulted in them being deported,
never to show hide nor hair in the country again.
Just goes to show...
But you can get away with ****** here,
particularly shooting union leaders or critics or protestors,
or you can throw a grenade into the opposition,
and **** a few right there. Those killers go free.
It's probably dangerous to speak openly,
but I don't think these guys read poetry.
They're probably busy oiling their artillery,
and even rocket launchers, as the PM
threatened to use against the opposition recently.
Seriously.
They're on the lookout for dissenters here.
Oh yes. And bare *****. Obviously.
So watch you **** in Cambodia,
especially if it's bare on a bike.
And ssshhh! Watch out for your mouth.
You need to cover your mouth up properly, too.

Mike T Minehan

please don't ask
why my words
are so intent on
chaining your heart
to the nightmares I've
stuffed my pillows
full of
with promises rusting
into blackened iron
links and truths that
would shine better as
lies

I never meant
to cage you
in my dreams -
it's just that my
eyelids solder shut
and I cannot pry my silver
eyelashes apart without
cracking at the faultlines
I forget to mention
whenever I wake up
alone

it's just that my
soul needs more
than a little oiling
more than a little
you
to breathe away this
metal corroding its way into my
tear ducts, dripping rust
down my cheeks,
choking on 'blood oxide'
and mechanical residue
buried underneath my
fingernails

it's just that every
******* 'i love you'
is yet another link
around my finger,
wrenching the life out
of me,
blue shadows engraved
on my skin never shine
like silver in the sun
but if this is the
only clanging chain
of heartbeats echoing
in metal boxes
from me to
you;
what can I do?

it's just that there
was a lock somewhere
along this mess of coils
and chinks and mistakes
but oh god,
when did the rust
between you and I
melt into three thousand
miles of mercury trickling thermometer
poison into everything
we say?
I've lost my keys;
they had sunk first and
I will sink last

it's just that
the clinking thump thump of your heartbeat
is my lullaby;
it's just that
knowing you breathe warmth is enough
to cool the burning silver in my lungs;
it's just that
close to you is the closest I will ever
feel to 'alive'

it's just that
if I can't keep you -

nobody can

it’s like my body is a roller coaster
there
for anyones pleasure
what goes up
must come down
so enter me without any thought
until the ride is over and you can walk
away
power and strength all in your possession
and i am left with
nothing

because who wants to thank me
for the acceleration
the quickening of breath
the energy
the never ending rush of excitement

who wants to spend a few extra minutes on this roller coaster
smiling
with thankful eyes
maybe returning the favor?
oiling my gears and making me
sigh with pleasure
rather than
squeaking with pain?

but that is to much to ask

once you’ve reached the end,
and what was once up is now down,
and your heart is slowing its pace

you can go find another ride
another roller coaster
that will take you for a few spins
for a few minutes of satisfaction
until it is over and you’re tired

and i’m tired

but who cares
because the next ride starts now
and what goes up
must come down

Be my muse,
I'll translate you into binary
and back again.
Lying on the ground,
blue carpet between your ears,
synthesized sounds convey through spaghetti,
hearing aides grow old with us.
Child sized vowels fall off their bicycles,
from between your lips.
Keep me busy; when I'm comfortable, I get lazy.
Your shirts are overlaid grids,
the holes, coordinates.
17.43
Always a poet, only occasionally writing,
I hedge my bets and roll die
with insults open to interpretation.
I don't like your words,
I don't need your hyena smiles
I don't want your degrading remarks.
But I know your skeleton,
your tendons, cartilage and marrow filler.
I understand how you move,
the coconut oiling your joints.
Be a textbook reference,
help me cut apart the paperchain people I’ve made,
I want to portray them realistically.
Shade their features with scrawled adjectives,
resolving to care about typography.
White school glue takes too long to dry
to have hopes of staving off entropy.
Scribble highways into dusty prairies,
be the cartographer that misplaces my world.

Your life is threadbare
and it's cosy

Uncomfortable
but safe

Poor
yet secure

It's not killing you
but then neither are you living.

The head is above water,
Struggling against the tide.

Grinding along on a hamster wheel
that badly needs oiling

I mean

You now earn less than you did at your first job.
It was **** all then

and that was 5 years ago.

The years have not been kind. The hairline has crept upward
Roughly in line with inflation.

A job's a job's a job's a job's a job.

There's a damp roof over your head.

Are you ready to trade all this in for a taste of adventure?

A main course of personal growth
washed down with a side order of

Drudgery

loneliness

and Japanese Encephalitis.

Will they find you out?
Will you be pulled into an office

while a polite local
explains how her English is better than yours?

That could all happen, says the head

but the frightened, quivering heart longs to change.

To jump into the fire and emerge reborn
strong, dynamic, brave. All the things you aren't now.


Just don't hope for too much.

She lived in that white mansion
Up up on the tar hill
All her life she was wrapped in it
Look closely to find her
Between Christmas trees and patio
Spinning under them wishing so hard
She was a fairy and prayed for a wing
Late evening, she creeped under
this tree she doesn't even know
the name of it
Molding foods out of sands
Driving in a plastic car with her feet
Accidentally her right foot was under the car tyre
But kept trying to drive past this root from this big tree
Crossing over drains so gracefully

She told me the good times
When people praised
That she could write her own name on a markerboard
Or when people said she was pretty
In scarves even though
She looked like hell
She told me it reminds her
Of Fleet Foxes 'White Winter Hymnal' lyrics
With scarves of red tied around their throats
To keep their little heads
From falling in the snow
Her scarves was all red too with ribbons pinned on it
That she regret losing it now

Right back when she could wear dresses
Without remarks from her mom
That it felt good when people don't talk
About her hair that is bad everyday
Chocolates were shared without even a thought that she did not want it
Turtles can be kept because there
Were still aquariums
But they went missing the next day
Just like her hamster named Michael
Also this cat she left at a fish market a few time
But got back home like there's a GPS, itinerary and atlas all in its head

When her dad had to work until daylight
She will have to sleep upstairs with mum
In that little space there are microphones of which
She sang songs that find ways until 3 lanes behind her house
She hated the smell of the sofas
She wasn't afraid of heights but
Everytime she looked outside the windows she just get the chills
At nights engines revving on roads
Passing by frightened her so much

Once a burglar got into the room
Where her aunt sleeps in
When dad was working she slept to the room next to her aunt
At 4:00 she heard a distant cry
Up to this day, she doesn't like
The holes on the bathroom walls
She said she could feel someone
Watching
And still there's this trail of size 7
On the white wall under the window
Images of a flower *** moved to the front door
To stop us from running away,
that *******

Now she is out of her own
Beautiful tragic cage
Now she can be found beside this road
Her last step out of the black gates was no tears
I can still feel the echoes from the pictures of her mansion
Like a phantom limb hanging
The air that surround the mansion now
Is straight out of hell
The fog like a poltergeist in her head
Making sounds and moving things
Oiling cogs in my head
And sow the longing deep underneath
To come back in summer and search for her red scarves

yeah, let's compose the alphabet in music for each letter we try to sound like a wine bottle cork unplugged from vintage; it won't work, i known, but it might get a few skidding on gizmo go go, trying to democratise iran: try turning iran sunni first, you, you defrosted snowman worth a carrot and two chalk coal ******* writing: hardboiled into sight of believable. oh here comes a white man talking privy aloud with the rapper loosing breath, but keeping it up and replacing the pelvic hinges with easy, drool, rhymes; a kind of rubric tablature of scores for rodeo with alternative sounds to: moo, ow, ah, broomstick shoo, take the cow for a milking home from the dead bull dazzled into genesis on t.v.; or that other literati spectator sport of not reading but talking oneself into academic bibliography for an intro.

the great thing about being an alcoholic...
you never quiet know
when you're drunk or hungover;
but it makes up for great twilight sunsets
pooh lonely; ah ooh smooch -
kisses a honey stick stuck to ****
in a hollywood crescendo of
                     paparazzi and applause;
and anorexia; and dyslexic oiling for a facelift:
that's called smiling i have you know -
                          enter michael jackson - hippie hip he;
if i die aged thirty, i'll be happy to have
            been frisky twenty-nine into a thong.

or, alt., tell ****** about the swimming pool and the tadpole kenyans sprinting into impregnated landownerships of priests: sounds like this: pst - herr führer - die schwimmin poolst erst niener jessy ovens geeignet. no one said that african buttocks couldn't bayou the ships ashore, but they did; what?! i'm not the 12" dangle! you keep up racism, i'll keep up mozart's austria; alt. please see how censoring adjectives in relation to objects gives you a false moral subjectivity that's only a matter of pleasantries.

i'll let you on a little secret... spaniards are gigolos to the slavs... cheap-****, chinese rolex beauties, which is why the english are prone to vacate there: oiling up to get a quicker suntan than an essex lass turning orange-brown in the space of a weekend's session at a u.v. parlour.*

westerners define western slav as cleaner material,
if not simply the plumbers and  electricians,
got a blocked toilet? get a pole
to unblock it. but you see... the thing is...
the slavs see the spaniards as
euro-trash... cheap-****-cancerous-suntan...
spaniards are cheap **** to the slavs...
western european nations (excluding
the germans) invokes a sense of self-worth
that, like a tapeworm feeds of the slavs migrating
without colonising... when the western
powers migrated and colonised,
never really preparing themselves for jihadis,
st. john the decapitating tyrant  spoke to st. george's
dragon with a cockney accent:
oi bruv bruv up up mate! score us an eight's worth
of 20 quid!
so while the high tier of europe speaking deutsche anglican
rather than deutsche swiss keep time and
penny flip: carnal heterosexual or just plain ****?
the slavs mock the same tier with a choice
of holiday resorts exploited... next to the fake suntan...
because spaniards are like albanians for the slavs...
oiled up cheap-**** material for even cheaper literature
of the handsome, blue eyed, dark haired (well oiled)
stranger... selling pomegranates... that a fair maiden
might succumb to... selling her virginity the fiftieth time.

It is all about the thing that is the last whisper you hear  before you sleep.
It is all about the lingering feeling of a soft kiss on your lips before you snuggle the night away in his arm.
It is all about the random tide that hits you making you realise how much you're loved,
Like a silent sky people forget about sometimes but is always there when you look up.
It is all about the numbing chilly breeze on a wintery midnight, that makes you feel so much,
The roads and surroundings covered in orangish pink hues,  slowly humming to themselves, luring you in a trance.
It is all about the soft wintery moon smiling down at you,
Or the science exams that bring out your artistic streaks
It is about those moment of tranquillity where every piece falls into the places they belong.
It is all about the stains you get after laying in the grass early morning
Each dew drop looks like a twinkling sun of their own.
It is about getting to taste heaven in your favorite flavor,
And enjoy the sun  kiss your skin.
It is all about nani maa oiling your hair and your mother's eyes twinkling,  while she says you're such a spoiled  kid.
It  is about the hope that someone else  will get the door.
It is all about fluffy socks,  sweater with hand drawn patterns
It is all about flushed cheeks, freezing hands in your friend's pocket
Like the snow flakes that fall,
Unique in their own way,
Every season with itself brings
Its own flavor and shades,
And though summer is well known for  lighting a wildfire  in everyone's heart,
And adrenaline rush of first love,
Winter stands elegantly,  and let things run into a deeper course.

O Palestine
My Palestine,
Open your eyes
You  need to reply all
       in the language of bullets
In a voice full of hatred
I saw Israeli bombardment overnight.
Burning human civilization all around
The curse of our souls is upon
those who are engrossed
                     in destruction.
Those who take away our abode.

O Holy Mosque Al-Aqsa,
You are the essence of our existence
I swear by my Lord that
I will never allow this
holy place of yours to be defiled.

Where is my brother
Arab non-Arab
Qatar
     Kuwait
         and the King of Saudi Arabia
Who are holding the flag of Islam?
Who are contained an ancient heritage.
O brother
Are you engaged in oiling their palms ?
Now we want unity.
And there is no alternative to unity.

I hate all airstrikes
Bullets are falling from unseen dark
O Palestine
My Palestine,
When will you sleep unduly?
We are waiting for the good day.

He is the puppet master, that has
strung his strings through my
wooden hands, played fate in
my hollow days.

I am the puppet dancing to
every rhythm of it's somber tune,
playing psychic to his every wish.

I am the warrior, crying surrender
to me in my strongest days,
denying defeat after it's already
happened.

I am the warrior, oiling his guns
after using them on I-playing
slave in a world of freedom.

He is the ice burg that sank my
ship, when I almost reached
shore, teasing the land.

He is the mountain that blocks
my view of joy, blinding my
eye to know this.

Now I am the guilt in his
heart, playing nightmares in
his mind.

                                                                              SDPope

Thee Woman

There is always a woman every man will ever come into contact with that no women after or before will ever come to level with. This woman could be an assortment of types. But in this case.. in 'my' case... this woman was 'Thee Woman'. She stood tall, strong, elegant, classified, grounded, intelligent, beautiful beyond comprehension. She stared with such force. Eyes piercing directly into my soul.. But she did not mean to frighten me.. but instead show me a certain kindness I had long forgotten. She fully understood her own passion and chaos. When she was weak she would not show it. When she felt Joy she would remind he who poured that joyfulness over her. She was exotic in her passion. The *** was not something of this world. It was like 2 universes entering a black hole, into oblivion.... She would moan and roar and scream and cry and she would rock the stars in the long, dark, frightful night.. The sheets of our bed would soak, the windows in our room would fog, Our bodies doused in exotic bliss and ****** ***. We were drunk off one another... We held on tight to one another and made utter love.. Her juices oiling over my as if to loosen up my rusted body parts, to make me move again and have life... a new start. She was god like but demanded no worship. She is humble, she is creative. She is pure... Earnest. When she loves she gives it her all. She is so many things... so many good things... Completely and undoubtedly, the woman of my dreams.. in reality.

Santa's got up from his bed and
he's oiling the wheels on his sled,
There's no longer a freeze so
he doesn't use skis,
yes,
Santa's got up from his bed.

i’ve learned all my trickling tricks of puppeteering from philip augustus of france early on in my schooling, richard the lionheart never came close, i was in similitude with philip augustus, that i even bought jim bradbury’s book to read and essay with.*

never become the alcoholic that denies his alcoholism,
you can’t hide an addiction, better embrace it,
when addiction enters the stage as the acted upon acting
there’s no point hiding it,
enter the realm of the full embrace, hiding it will only make it worse
than it actually is, i embraced it, and i think
the piggish commons are getting their tax payers’ money’s worth
with my poems, if you think otherwise... you stand
happy-idle at the supermarket check-out and tell me
the football scores from the big weekend
when a northern monkey team took a thrashing
from a southern fairy team.
the question is different thought - forget the beginning and end
planned - we already have the diapers and the coffin,
make what the middle ought to be, clueless narration, spontaneity,
off the streak of the river currents not expecting change
but having to accept change...
michael greilsammer’s la ville blanche
cream’s white room
or cat stevens’ into white?
none of them... moody blues’ nights in white satin...
but a funny emerged from trying to sing greilsammer’s la ville blanche,
i speak no french,
and in my mumble i managed to see the other imagination,
the skeletal one, not the technicolor one of images and walt
and the housewives sleeping beauty and snow white
(although i appreciate the other walt, the whitman),
i mean, through my “un-imaginative” mumbles i tried
to skewer the words of the song, i couldn’t,
i could usher in a single perfect word
but beyond this i was trying to imagine the god awful spelling excesses
of the french tongue... i mean bordeaux when you only say bore’s door /
boarded up door - no x oh... xylophone, yes, no? no...
oh no wonder dyslexia and spelling mistakes...
these letterings are phonetic approximates,
anyone can make the visuals complicated
and retain power... but few to own up and say:
1 + 1 = 2, but the priestly order said: e + ' = é
as jumpstart ready on the trampoline... but e + ' = è
means you get a sudden attack of the mute & mime.
that’s what happens with a missing diacritic that’s blatant in english,
you get to spell a french word like bordeaux with a zed and look at it and qualify
the tongue to say: yep, bored door... needs oiling... oil up oil up!
then spontaneously play a harp of unconscious snorkelling
(also known as snoring... boor hiccup shush... bore hiccup sheen):
it’s the last stronghold of the imagination, this invested in english
from mother tongue slavic... it’s like trying to sing to a song
without spelling glaring at you...
so you start imagining this blessed primitivity...snakes and matchsticks
to flare up... turn it all into a 1970s disco...
it makes sense to mumble then... for ****’s sake... bordeaux?!
who adds so many letters in between definite lettered sounds
to make it look more uglier than the pretty riviera? huh?!
monaco? oh... well that explains it: why vaduz (capital of liechtenstein)
doesn’t have a grand prix.

When I've aged
With passion spent,
I'll save my breath,
There's less to vent,
Save my energy,
Say, Yes.

When the kettle isn't boiling,
Or the hinges need an oiling;
There's no alarm to turn me on,
I sleep soundly through the dawn,
That's when I
Say, Yes.

I've read love rhymes,
Lived a few,
Now culled my books
And love letters,
Sacrificed like a goat
That's tethered,
Parsed my heart
To flames and feathers,
Still,
I say, Yes.

I say it to whatever's offered,
Break the lids off creaky coffers,
Scatter rainy days with blue.
Ah. Getting older's what we do.
And through it all,
Say, *Yes.

tossing
restless
the in-between space
of darkness before sleep

cogs turning
in the engine of mind
need oiling
no shops open

dawn
light through the window
illuminating corners
where no one can hide

From the iron works of my mind. 
I invite you to drink comfortably from the cog of warm longing. 
Steel beams and steel rods set in heavy slant.
From block hats to angler clothing. 
I invite you to the splendor of ships sailing across a mug of spewed oil. 
If only for a while to delight in 
Iron plates along with nuts bolts and other various knick knacks. 
With handles attached to the back of our necks we'd gladly suffice the steam filled cups, the ticking of grinding gears. 
Oiling the pipes of gentle longing. 
Behold the giant structures wrapped around glass eyes with shaded tint, 
Metalized lens and hydraulic jacks enticing fascination, 
Here 
Between the clock towers of umbrellas and block hats. 
All is quiet. 
Oiling the pipes that crave but a simple thirst. 
Watching the steamships sail across an mug of oil. 
Taking turns sipping from the nape of bolted necks and mechanical hands. 
Please won't you join me

Thinking about that guy
How he got all rusted up
How he longed to have a heart
How he got stuck in mid-motion.

I long to write again
But like the tin man
My heart (for writing) seems lacking
Haven't I said it all?

I mean it gets old
It's no longer refreshing
Writing is a gift that seems to have peaked
Something that once flowed very well

I'm frozen up
I need some oiling
To get the process churning
Frustrating, when I want to move

But I feel stuck

Baby, as ancient as you are
your naivety worries me,
or is it my own? Thinking I
could ever have you again.
Oh but how I wish, pray, on knees
again to set eyes upon glory
of man named Antonio Guadi,
his Sagrada De Familia.
Is he finished with you yet?
Will he ever be? Would I want it so?
Artisans carving sanctity to sky,
what have you chisseled in my absense? Is God's work ever done?
Do, continue on forever, give me
chance to return.

Ah to bask on shore of San Sebastian,
with pollished rellics of former
architecture found in his beaten grains.
I long to melt there once more, in awe of
noon on Mediterranian Sea. My eyes
taking witness to painted Catalonian
women, *******, with holy devotion
dipping faithful fingers into your
waters, and signing the cross before
dipping into blueness. Good Catholic
girls they are. And handsome Gods about,
oiling each other and bearing wittness
as well. The ice cream boy, is he
grown now? Does he walk by open
mouthed still, where we left such
imprint in the sand for all to see?

When? If, I arrive again, will we walk
Las Ramblas, stare at human
statues, dance with gypsies, drink
Absinthe and be taken by spell of
Green Fairy? Will we then not care
that pretty pick-pockets rob us
blind? Oh, for the hallucinatory
love of it all! Hold me in your fortress
walls forever, should I ever, return.

My Barcelona Baby, take me back.

PJ Poesy

p.s. I never left you.

In the dark of the night I sleep
The day tires, exhaustion does creep.
But I wake, as the mind races
It does not rest, it goes places.
Cascading thoughts of years gone by,
Of years to come, I worry, cry.
I think of those happy around
And how I always wear a frown
How, when they can converse with glee
It is when I’m quiet that I’m free.
The past consumes, it hurts, I bleed
Deep inside, I know what I need.
Mistakes made, pride before a fall
Catastrophic, I can’t stand tall
Only to me it seems that way
They say, “Move on!”, but I just pray
For strength to exist, to not fail
Yet again amidst wind and hail.
So I hide, I don’t speak to them
Those who bear my monstrous emblem.
I read, I’m told, of self-esteem
That’s what I see in waking dreams.
Envy, anger, sadness I spout
Company I can’t do without
It makes one feel weak. Who am I?
A girl who waits but doesn’t try?
One who turns off lights to see dark?
Or one who tries to make a mark?
We’re all worn pieces of fabric
Pristine, glorious, woven magic
Of frayed threads, of holes, botched stitches
Some, stories from rags to riches.
We do not know when it will end
We don’t know what the fates will send.
Life’s the course we take to finish
Our fine cloth without a blemish
Perfect it may seem from afar
But It is made from many scars.
The past made us who we are now
Bid goodbye to it with a bow
For it made us strong, made us strive
Again, once more, to try and thrive.
I will no longer let it rule
Forget the girl I was in school
Ignore my self-deprecation
Omit the failed conversations.
I will not let them define me
Fallen leaves of my standing tree.
Long-lost dreams fade, new ones begun
The mind's made up, I'll have some fun.
Long road to travel, things to do
Hard work smartly done with a clue.
Music's gentle hand guides my way
My only light in the dark days.
Smiles, laughter, speech with confidence
I'll try and lace them with good sense.
Perhaps the God above knows well
Things he won't explicitly tell
He'll shine in places we can't view
Clearing our way in unknown queues.
Giving strength when we do feel weak
Oiling our machines to no creak.
With that faith, I will move some more
Finding new paths, opening doors.
The future’s mine, I’ll make it right
My life, in the dark of the night.

i can perpetually encapsulate the images
around me, of the outer-reaches of
suburbia with o.t.t.'s billy the kid strikes back...
the haunt of the place, outer-reaches suburbia...
you haunt the place with a chance traffic
of deer, foxes, and domesticated cats
crafting pacts with foxes to be un-edible
with the fox snouts readied for the blooming
scent of sardines, or some other
dietary requirement in black bin bags... a lovely place,
hazy, misty, enigmatic forest readied for
the lost soul in the dark to tread its path,
i know, the architecture of the place
bald patches everywhere, none used for
agriculture, just aesthetics, but still
the odd chance of complete darkness
encapsulating you to see nothing
while you walk in the doubled shade of trees
at night... this is the feel of the place, my vicinity,
it's not an urban environment of trade-secrets
of slang... that slang is way gone,
gone entombed in the 20th century cut of
the umbilical chord... it's gone gone gone...
there's no new cool, no new groove,
no jukebox humpty-dumpty beat-box
look smart... jive or grime...
the genocide of south america proves my point,
the chain "linkage" from ape to man
is among the unique ****** features of Chileans...
i wonder: Aztec, Mayan...
well, genocide via european diseases...
but we get a hot coco latte in return... thumbs up!
and then posthumous fame came to the one
who asked for peace... who said:
i want to drown the sound of modern traffic with
music, autumn is too subtle with falling leaves
falling notes to paper to guide me,
and spring is too deaf to be sound-testing
instruments for the two full symphonies of vivaldi
that are summer and winter, the two seasons
perpetuating a lack of change...
spring and autumn are vivaldi's pre nuptials...
they're not symphonies, they're preludes
should they be translated by jazz impromptus...
there are no constants in them, the fluxes,
the magnolias this year bloomed too early,
you could hardly see the pink and corpulent
flowering, the bloom of magnolias this year
showered no prawn pink for the eyes,
they hardly blossomed, shrivelled skin of petals
and excess bishopcric colouring (purple),
anorexia you might say, shrivelled up anorexia
attired in bishop...
tattoo me earth, with your changes,
make me an organic animate, rather than an
inorganic animate... let me chisel the facts into
myself that i see... don't give me the ***** of
regurgitated facts of having experienced education...
leave me be... leave me to experience this world
without aided information as a way of stabilisation
my experience of it... let me be the mini Columbus...
taking but a step but travelling a whole acre of open sea
diagonally... passing both electric air
and incubated waters in a glass bottle...
let me not unearth the metals of hades...
the metals, which when storing waters with the ship
heaving tremble and heartbeat agitate the waters
stored in them (aluminium of the beer can as example)
to a storm, a tsunami a frothing wave...
give unto me the storing of the voyage's ambition
in eye as in glass, the carbonated waters in bottle
insulated by glass and mirror, yet otherwise agitated
by metal; a message in a bottle, my captain's notebook
noting with a readied hand, unshaken, deciphered easily,
more easily than a student under examination:
sweaty hand oiling a pen to slip and mishandle
a g.c.s.e. a* grade of content reduced by poor handwriting
to a c grade... ready me for the voyage into
the sea of cosmos and eventual death.

I remember when i was a little girl,
I was as brave as a lion,
And i knew i was perfect,
I didn't fear oiling my hair and wearing two ponytails,
Because i knew i looked pretty,
I had clear skin,
Slim belly, warm eyes,
Chubby cheeks, soft voice,
Pink lips!
And i knew my brown hair was amazing,
When i was a little girl,
I could do what i wanted,
I didn't really care what people thought,
I did know i could be smiling
and melt people's  hearts by just speaking a word,
Also i knew my heart was as pure as gold,
and mind as creative as Lord's creations.
Then i was a good girl,
And i only wept when i saw others sad,
But when i grew up,
I started being reckless,
Hating myself,
My skin had acne and my hair fell,
Yes i was sick mentally and physically,
No more my words melted hearts,
Instead they irritated people,
My smile now was no more real,
Instead it hid my fears, hatred, sadness,
But still my heart was pure,
Not as much as earlier, but pure!,
And mind still creative though a little dull,
But creative,
And yes i do weep when i see others sad,
But just silently,
Of course i over think and mess up things,
But maybe things were meant to be this way,
And my heart to drown within my soul,
And losing my self confidence,
But never losing hope!

why would you entice art for there to be teachers of it,
and learners of it in some oyster library
of the frail tongue? why? why not set off by yourself
into yourself and the last remnants
of educated art to be the least educated,
barbarian i dare say or raphael in the day care centre
of oiling canvases...
what are you here if not an opaque pale
imitation of what could be worth an
imagined residing place
had the king thumped into statue
heart carved from a single stone a mountain...
what are you here
if not an understudy of a tongue
that only provides release
once the least is expressed / expected...
for more iron forges a symmetrical cotton in shirt
than you'd see in iron clamouring for a blunt object
of warring dare be seen if the merchant class
of people remaining in communism nearby
to govern a heretical monopoly
of words without things: or of man
the unifying self of solipsism as a species for
the bargain of category of lion the father to
a bonsai kitten:
or as heretical to monopolise
the added milk to an over-sweet espresso
begot them less alcoholic but more diabetic...
i.e. i've heart if bean sprouts and cloves sold,
but none of the technically grammatical words
added to the cirriculum vitae... more like cirriculum mort
so for the cucumber i get a kalashnikov?
juicy!
but as warmth is said to be behaviourally acute
so it's said to be discriminatory with pseudo justification;
oh arab. no amount of mammon will be just-cause
you a stealth when all is "hidden" in the exposed.
invoke the meaning of niche...
then i bring in the collateral abundance
of bee ***** to the sickle sweet beehive...
and we settle the score between a room full
of them... and an endless stream of them dislodged
to applaud ******* as them ******* to no applause
of the men who left them behind for the open road;
and looked back on origins for a formless
chill than a shadow in revision of what tamed the soul
when the body spoke more of shadow than of thought
to couple itself to a relief of a hidden hope that could ever be made image:
the gods in their own image crafted man (narcissus),
but man crafted the gods in the image of his own shadow (hades):
so too a form visible akin his own:
cinnamon men of the ivory dagger of india,
cinnamon askance of the asiatic in igloo,
japanese pale apple pulp for european jealousy
in the high stationed salon ladies for the baby powder pamper...
the girl with blonde hair of the book of revelation
only attired in grey insomnia while the girl of the equator
was fitted in auburn chock. to stress the girl of the sun:
the girl who dittoed the most of it...
easter island aquiline featured jews,
and so it goes... one lung of the amazon healthy...
one lung of the himalayas sick if not merely shrivelled
by a gasping odour of a congregation's coughing up a sahara
in the moulding to give wind the power over sand
as water for the clay that rose into splinters penetrating
into the lunar orb.

today’s pigeons are heavy they carry churches on their backs
they rest on my windowsill when it rains like oiling
and the world anoints to heal its lack of love
i get angry because i cannot make them leave  
they stay as long as they please knowing what i will never know
with their placid eyes in the light of this century
sometimes white-feathered
i reread the bible and my old letters under magnifying lens
my bow-tied memories
cut them as if a deck of cards to see what’s drawn out
it’s amazing nothing changed i grew old sitting at the wooden gate
on a wooden chair in  a life with basil drying under rafters
and grapevines uprooted

.that rare chance to be a spectator, of intra-cultural h'american difference(s), notacibly between REP-ZION and ONI-SION; wow (clearly)... i never thought it was, this bad, looking "forward" from the old continent, the schadenfreude mentality is, a bit, like, a paddy walks into a psychoanalysis clinic, slouches into the chair and repeats: where's the beer? h'america has become an unrecognizable culture-export powerhouse, the doubt plaguing these people is, rife... the fear? unfathomable, when it comes to expressing deviances of paranoia... once upon a time: great ******* music... now though? eh... not so much, esp. on scale of what's deemed acceptable... sorry... back on the "old continent", we're looking on, clueless... i've only just recently become exposed to this sort of content, these... hobbos of the internet... come to think of it, given these guys... failure is the only self-serving absolute to make deviation from up-staging the homeless, in reality, and these, leech test-dummies... current export of american culture? zero value... i'm still figuring out as to why america would require a cultural import "levy" on content creation: guess the teenage girls will not be enough as consumer digest "scrutiny", worth the base for an economic health analysis... the greatest country in the history of man, and they are unable, to perform with the sort of late 20th century hard-on... bothersome, i agree... but Europe is not exactly the place you'll be in want of finding inspiration... that's the last place you'd look.

there's nothing more **** than
witnessing                a spring blossom
in the ivory moonlight of
the night
       in my neighbour's garden,
which i'm feuding over,
which i "encouraged"
               to move house...
    sure... i wrote a poem once,
became so content with it
that i slipped out a wolf's imitation
howl,
  couldn't bark, i spoke...
and he reminded me of it,
asking me to: tell him,
when i was going to grill some
meat on the b.b.q.,
  i said: you're ******* mad,
he said: you're the madman
howling at night...
i replied: touché my friend...
last year?
  june / july?
    they have an autistic kid,
which is what you get when
you're circa 60,
and your maiden is circa 50...
apparently me minding my own
business,
  smoking a cigarette,
perched on a windowsill,
sitting on a folded leg,
             crushing my ankle,
smoking out into the night
was the problem...
but it wasn't the heat,
oh no no...
the same heat that left me
moaning and groaning
upon waking up,
the same sort of heat
that made me sleep through
dreams that literally threw me
out of my bed,
and pseudo-suffocating
on the cold wooden floor...
or running into the garden,
in nothing but underwear,
to find the cold grounnd
with a cranium riddled with grass,
and trying to sleep an extra
2 hours on the cooling earth,
in nothing but my underwear...
but yeah...
   70cl of whiskey...
no... i'm not feeling it...
        give me some more...
just make sure that the spring
blossom appears
before my eyes in the night...
i was being, resonable,
who is to dictate whether i can,
or can't, smoke a cigarette
perched on a windowsill of
my bedroom, smoking it out
of my window?
i told him,
and later her:
  your property: your rules...
my property: my freedoms...
****, i must have been speaking
mandarin,
  because that sort of "logic"
didn't translate...
well, 50cl of whiskey in,
pepsi and a lime,
and i hear the right song,
what happens?
   an electric surge,
a stimulus of pleasure,
orientates the number of
hairs on my head,
and move right down into
my groin and testicles,
and...
       starts to "thrill" me...
like i'm sort of self-automated
robot ****-bot,
goosebumps...
   chills...
     i never felt so good
about not ******* as i did,
listening to the right kind
of music,
   and looking at the right kind
of thing...
spring blossom, white,
in the night...
   i'm guessing it's a pear tree...
oh but i'm considered
mad...
   but i live next to a neighbour
that tells another neighbour
to clean up her dog ****
because the, fumes from the ****,
can somehow affect
their already autistic offspring...
i hear the little ******,
like any child:
cute gurgles of speech...
but the **** i hear,
when he's being told down,
**** me...
          i talk more ******* romance
to my cat than what i hear
from behind the wall...
and me, smoking out of my window,
is a problem, during the 2018 june /
july heatwave...
no no, the heat wasn't the problem...
talk about leaving a dog in
a parked car, next to some supermarket,
with the windows closed...
   i can only be just so much
reasonable, then i lose the plot,
and the plot becomes:
sane people pretend...
                                "sane"... people...
pretend...
              i was falling out of my bed
gasping for cold,
running into the garden
  to find shade and a grassy patch
of land,
   but it was me smoking
cigarettes outside of my bedroom
that was the problem...
flimsy... ******* flimsy...
        i had to bring this up,
it's the sort of petty information
that translates itself into a kept
momentum...
   i'll never read a book by
stephen king,
  not out of spite...
unless that could possibly be
the same sort of spite as to why
i will never read j. r. r. tolkien...
the movie did its bit,
by the standards of the hobbit...
you could have had 9 movies
in total...
   almost a star wars franchise...
it doesn't help that
i watched the fellowship of the ring
9 times at the cinema...
one time with a family friend
who was so obsessed with
enter the dragon...
that he watched it circa 30 times...
****,
i'm starting to feel
the loosening effect of the 60cl of whiskey...
guess that implies:
i'm ripe...
   for blah, blah blah...
at the end of the day,
i have limited imagination,
which eases my inability to lie...
truth, or mantra...
   and the state of h'america these days...
i remember times when
europe would be barraged by
the cultural export of h'america...
now?
     socio-political commentary
excerpts via... the usual channels...
how the **** didn't i make
a move to inact the more extreme
play-roles of *******?
oh, right...
the first and only
        canvas plot
of *******...
     Bronzino's
                    cupid, venus, folly & time...
i focused on the tender,
  oyster-like tongues...
and the entire spectrum
for the fetish of ******* a sister,
if i had one...
              *** outside of the mind
is so, so: ******* un-spectacular,
overtly competitive,
but if you have some sort of
a taboo cage,
   which you dare not break,
well: hello arousal.
    that basic translation
   of metaphor:
        phallus this,
enigma ***** that,
            Terra Mater of the phallus...
transgender...
          Neptune... the god of
the pearl ivory genitals
of a woman...
          depends...
if you know what a ****
feels like...
   most prostitutes have
the professional decency,
to oil up, even if they are not aroused...
an oyster in a desert scenario?
i might as well have been
circumcised within the interaction...
complaint?
        years later,
after she first courted me
with the words: you will not deny me...
**** me, first date is over,
and she still owns a DVD copy
of the machinist...

                good "thing" that i visited
a *******,
   now i know what male ****
feels like:
      dropping a sort of viagara
into the food,
   and then not oiling up
for the, ******,
cocoon ***, under the bed-sheets,
in the dark, feel, of, things...
at least with a *******
the lights were on,
we didn't do it under bedsheets...
i showed my chubby,
she showed her chubby,
and then i washed her
while we took a shower together
afterwards...

       two prime examples...
she was struck with a quasi-paralysis
when she came to an ******,
reality-breaker...
    my casual average little richard
could do that...
   and she couldn't fathom it...
  apparently i was only her second
in the trade...
      m'eh... **** happens...
forest gump ran across the h'american
continent...
          
            forgetting my genitals...
because i didn't trim my *****
hair for a sensible act
        of experiencing *******...
'good man' / 'nice'...
    the **** was up with
                                       jackie boy?
well yeah: i'd be a moralist
if i managed to put a strap-on
on mickey mouse's head,
whenever the lightbulb moment
came into drawing the *******
cartoon for: a bright idea.
      
hell, i love writing about ***...
given that it's not exactly graphic...
unless you come around
to what i have to say about,
Lucy, and south park,
      near Seven Kings...
in between Seven Kings
and Goodmayes...
                the "affair" of the
kit-kat...
         4.... 4/1,
                                  *******...      
but all of this is hardly spectacular,
it's nothing akin
to the "castration" of marquis de sade
strapped to the iron maiden
of the Bastile...
          his writings are worse
than his actual deeds...
   that origin story,
the one with the profanity
of the crucifix used as a ***** on
the ******* who reported him?
tame, his imagination was more wild
than his actual deeds...
come to think of it,
i don't even know how
the 16 year old me,
came about his most brilliant work,
the short ficto-essay ******,
but i did,
   i'd love to put a staff
into the Vistula, just in order
to change the current...
    but... clearly... this is,
   one of those instsances,
where a Moses metaphor,
                   will not do the required, trick;
   the sheer impossibility of
the act,
   transcending the physical
groundwork
of laws that give man,
a mind,
   and a stability of vision,
a future,
                  well...
that **** just went out of the "window".