to the young privateer.
the captain kidd & his bought n’ taut gang of holy bluffs.
they bribe and imbibe and swoon on the dock-way looking for a quest or two or three
to dream and bury their doubloons in island guts like little mysteries. little sundowns
over a rixdollar indian ocean.
let them take a turn.
destined to mutate from private to pirate, the kidd, like blackened rotten wood.
******* frigates.

the ship:
with her bob and sway. she is, the adventure.
& her song is calling out for a rapturous few,
for men ready to die on the highwater mark by glory or fire or dead glorious sun.
so they put her brass and bough to seafaring days,
the sweet galleon, barely wet, yet
completely riffed to voyage.
she is
from the shores of london. built. designed to kick 14 knots under a full sail blast.
& she will bite.

she’s in calm waters.
the kidd savvy toothed and butterscotched, he awaits the big show,
engorged to set forth the play like wily ocean dervish &
they do.
they do proceed with benefactors coined and crunched on postulations of pirate death &
pirate gold. reclaimed honor as they say. the hunt for pirate teeth.

& with official pass and parchment, high-throne approved,
king ***** III stamp & sealed,
this voyage is.
this voyage is and forever was, hereby charted, to recover said stolen goods.
to reclaim thy warrior vanity &/or vengeance.
to noble this **** with pinched loaf, like now.
set sail. now.
1696.

“**** them navy yachts at greenwich, the thames be ours, boys.”
slap *** and flick thumb toward those armada sons,
& as tribute
smoke balsam herbs on the starboard side for the mother she and the father be.
but for this slight,
this dishonorable silly ****,
one third of adventure’s men are pressed into service of the crown.

[continue.]

the adventuresome few, petty crew and crows.
steal the heart and mother-meat of a french ship. steal everything onboard.
steal the ship itself.
& on her way to new york, new boon, pure and entered into the new world.  
there are new men bought in the american port,
good men and odd men of long criminal legacy.
a small black vicious quartermaster. he’ll do.
a murderous preacher gripped by stars and celestial patterns. he speaks spanish. he’ll do.
another type of holy man and a wild drinker too, embattled by demons on the port side. sure.
plus the dock-boys destined to **** for fruits of exploration.
this is the way of the son of a gun.

the boatmen jockeyed. she is
the adventure
prancing the vertebrae of atlantic and beyond. cape of good hope, she
breathes easy out here on the wide tide and float.
out here on the vast blue this. she
evolves
out here. loves out here.

pirates.
the hunt for pirates or the lack thereof. she leaks.
she rasps into the years on. and on.
the kaleidoscope hallucinations of sun and moon, sun and moon, and moon and sun
forever.
the strait of bab-el-mandeb.
& there
she plunges into darkness, into the stars seen from and through a periscope formed
by ancient hominid lineage.
seen but untouched,
in dreams. the kidd, reluctantly lime, admits to his madness.
madagascar.

malaria and cholera and hell break the boat by the throat.
& thrash.
to be organic is to be ruled by a shadow, or entropy.
the mouth of a red sea.
one third of the men will die here.
simply as insects crushed and brushed off deck and into to her great spate of agua,
the mother gush.
her earth.
body.
father,
hear his whispers in the mirage.
the ancient mariner, the ancient holy ghost riming down there.

in destitution.
in a rough and soggy life squeezed and making men weird or violent or both be ******.
the kidd goes cold to hot sweating noxious.
turns pirate himself
out of sheer hunger.
out of sheer need to eat.
sets the boys like dogs upon a frigate of east india company men,
or french *****. either/or/or/either/or.
he & the boys are in a madness swirl of sun and heavy guts.
cuts to spill blood
or gold. this tender bit.
lip bit
& tested.

captain kidd fractures the skull of a deckhand named moore,
for bad attitude and giggles. moore gets death.
chisel on the deck.
& to think we are all troubled by some primal trauma.
some dumb thing called death, that is.
men starving, men dying, men falling in the vast black that is that eternal void.
dream of women and riches in the meantime.
fortunes.
1698.

savage kidd, cool kidd, cool spit
off the edge. to think of the once soulful idea of these paradise days
& trip.
savage to cool.
the two divine modes of a survived man.
a ghoul man, or aging man.
& to keep control of his crew kidd sets them upon the quedagh merchant;
a 400 ton armenian hulk chalk full of gold, silver, satins, and muslin. ‘tis *****.
renames her: the adventure prize.

madness quenched for now.
charmed for now
& on the horizon are fragrant times. blissful distance.
but robert culliford,
with his mocha frigate. this man, this suave pirate lord, his vengeance act.
he had stolen kidd’s ship years back, &
the captain opts to cut his throat.
take the mocha.
keep calm & carry on.
to paradise.
to dream of her cool warm beaches and fruit forever, peacefully thinking.
so that night they two drink together in good health, and in the morning
most of the men defect to this other man, this other ship, culliford.
other dream,
other captain of true buccaneer effect.
act 3:

13 remain in the galley firm.
this is the house adventure.
& she is burnt alive three days later for rot and ill repair.
but she was fun,
& a *****.
a stitch of old woodwork given-in
& crackling with the eyes of her crew seen in fire.

kidd steps the pond to caribbean times with the adventure prize, toad toxins
& high on the jungled shore.
he trades that colossus, flips her for a sloop and seven little chests of gold.
little bellies.
the island-gut doubloons to bury.
dream, remember?

but the men-of-war are after him now. the privateers & hunters & devil’s dogs.
the men he once was.
men of marked death.
& he is now some pirate, some forthright bandit
settled to **** or be killed.
some sad kid.

first: buries that treasure up the coast of america.
oak island rig.
cherry rocks of the maine bank and *****-trapped pit.
the hunted.
they catch him on an inlet ****, and sail back
to london to be tried for crimes against the crown.
the high court of admirality.
1701.

they hoist and gibbet his body with worn chains above the river.
not for piracy, but for ******.
the ****** of that strange deckhand moore and his giggle.
kidd’s bones
suspended there for three or more years at the mouth of the thames,
as warning
to the perverse travails of a criminal lifestyle on the highwater pond.

A poetic drama (One Scene)

( Egypt’s parliamentary farce)

(The spokesperson on the presidium strikes the table with a wooden hammer and asks for order. Participants become quiet.
Raise your hands and reflect your views on today’s point of argument— The Grand Ethiopian Renaissance Dam (GERD ) on Blue Nile. Various people representatives raise hands,
The spokesman says let us start with Mr. Hydrologist over there.)

Egypt’s globally
Topmost voluminous
Underground
Reserve of water
We could use later.
So via our media outlets
It is better
We dupe
The global community with
Much-touted chatter
“To Egyptians
Demand of water
To cater
Blue Nile is
A life and
Death matter!
As thicker than blood
Is water! ”

Of course,
From the Mediterranean
Or Red Sea
We could extract, desalinate
And use water,
But why should
We talk about that?
We better
Ask on Blue Nile
A farfetched exclusive right.

Though hydropower dam
Has no significant harm
We shall flout it
In a way it runs
Out of charm.
As  the Nobel peace winner
Premier  Abiy Ahmed put it
"Almost all Egyptians
Enjoy the supply of electricity,
While over half of Ethiopians
Are thirsty of such necessity.

Tragically, to date
Using a lamp
Covers most of Ethiopia's map.

For the rational,
It is a source of worry
Innumerable Ethiopian mothers
Still on their backs carry
Backbreaking firewood
So that go to school
Their children could.
What we say
Is if you  are remiss to help
don't stand on our way
While we're flapping wings
From fettering poverty
To break away!"


Also via a conduit
Diverting Blue Nile
Across the Sahara desert
A financial return
Egypt could get
That delights its heart.
The water from
Upstream countries
We do not buy
But paradoxically sell it
We shouldn’t why?

Like Israel
Using drip irrigation
Must not
Draw our attention.
We shall be extravagant
For Blue Nile’s water
Is abundant.
Unchecked lavishly
It must flow!
Pertaining to that
We have to remain adamant.

Also, the
Silt accumulation
In Aswan dam
Could be disastrous
The outcome,
Yet we have
To cry foul
This challenge-averting
GERD must not soon
Generate region-
much-needed power!

Though it is 50 % of the
Annual trans boundary
Water outflow
Other water-generating countries
Are willing to let go
Unwilling anything below,
Kind Ethiopia ventures
Holding only 13% of
The yearly flow to follow,
However, ingratitude
Must feature our attitude.
This may
Provoke a  dismay
But attention
We shall not pay.

(A tumultuous applause shook the parliament. Once more the spokesman asks for order. Then he invites a former diplomat saying “ it is your turn.”)

Once, by famine hit
When Ethiopia   asked
“Help me not why?”,
While others extended help,
Mocking, we did turn
A blind eye.

As our former bent
Whenever Ethiopia
Seeks  grant
From international
Development Institutions
On grounds of
Fighting poverty and drought,
Greasing palms  
We shall bring
Ethiopia’s plans to harness
Blue Nile to naught!
Use we shall
Many a phony diplomat
With a tongue of honey
And a heart of gall.

Tact we do not lack
So cautiously,
Our sanctimonious mask
Our targets
May not hack,
All out
We shall engage in
Self-selling talk!

From all things that fall
In the technical matrices
We shall make a sham politics.

(He sits enjoying a standing ovation. The spokesman invites a representative with a military background.)

We shall blow our
Trumpet in the air
“In lieu of
The reasonable 3 years,
Cooperatively,
From 4 to 6 years
To fill the dam
If Ethiopians dare,
War on it
We shall declare!
Barefacedly claiming
Fifteen to 20 years
Is what is fair!

In such infeasible way
Before it sees the day’s light
GERD will suffer blight.”

(He hiccups and continues)

“With a bellicose bent
To remind ourselves
Deliberately we shall fail
So many times Ethiopia
Chased out every
Egypt’s invading army
Between its legs
Shoveled its tail.
(Ex. Isma'il Pasha/ 1874 –1876
Gundet &Gura March 7–9, 1876)
But why should we care
Arsenal support
Hypocrites, who want to exploit
In the Middle East
Egypt’s political purport,
Will bring to our port.
The current catchphrase
"I can't breathe"
Demonstrates hypocrites'
Justice has no teeth!

We shall
Continue to brag
About GERD’s full actualization
Foot to drag.
I’m afraid
If we strike GERD,
On Aswan dam
Ethiopia will certainly inflict
A similar harm.
Its infantry
Acid-tested hero
Within finger-counted days
Will march into Cairo.

Its top official or
One from its mob
Cold blow up in Egypt a bomb.

We have to understand
As its former PM
Meles put it
“It is not
Its football squad
Ethiopia will deploy
On the terrain rough
When the going
Gets tough!”

We shouldn't worry
We have no history
Of battle front victory.
Poking our nose here and there
(Sudan, Somalia, Yemen,
Libiya, Palestine, Israel)
We shall make political trouble
As we are averse to self
-politics burgeoning dabble.

(He sat after enjoying a heartwarming laughter from the audience. The spokesman himself could not help unzipping his lips and invites a hoary headed historian.)

Subjects of colonization
It is our
Historic right
For the hanging-over
Mentality of predators
To fight
“Gobbling down
All resources
Is our right!”
We shall espouse
Unjust and inequitable deal
“Ethiopia fairly
GERD must not fill!”
We must gamble
Regarding the water division
There has to be a deal
That serves our colonial
Legacy a sign and seal.

There is nothing we hate
Than the following sentiment
Pan Africanists activate.
"We have to get
Behind our back
Days dark!"

(He sits accompanied by an affirmative nods. The spokesman invited Miss Environmentalist "it is your turn." "Thank you for the opportunity,"  she said and  standing she scanned the congregants
before speaking)

In parrying evaporation
GRERD being built in a gorge
Than Aswan Dam
In the desert
Draws better attention.
Though logical,
This we do not wish to hear
So we shall turn a deaf ear
Saying
“Your nuisance
We no longer bear!”

Of course
To avoid siltation
In GERD
Also to ensure
The continuous flow of water
Towards Green development
Ethiopia is making an unprecedented &
Unflagging movement.

Yes , Yes
Green development
Draws rain
Though that is
To our gain
From expressing
Appreciation to
Ethiopia’s timely move
We shall refrain.

From the voice of
Sagacious leaders of
Africa
It is better
To heed a hypocrite
From America;
That could not be a shame
In the political game.

(She takes a seat enjoying a high five. The spokesman invites a parliamentarian who is a member of the Arab league.)

As Sudan poses
A rational gait
Its voice has weight.
Our sugar-coated talk
It may not buy
Hence, the fuel-intoxicated
Gluttonous Arab League
Its voice
Needs to raise high.
White supremacists
Must try hard
To sweet talk Sudan
To our side.
Otherwise
Creating political heat
In to two its people
We have to split
To unseat
Its incumbent president
Popular support that ride.
This  insidious tide
From Sudanese mob
We have to hide!

We have a toy League
That doesn’t ask itself
“ Why
War-fleeing Arabs ,
Shunned by Arabs,
Seek a safe haven
Under Ethiopia’s sky?
Why  of all
In Prophet Mohammed's eyes
Ethiopia stands tall?”
That no one could deny
But we must
Neither wonder  nor ponder
“Why
For own advantage
Arabs-eating-Arabs
That commit  
Political suicide
Could not
Stand by
The reasonable
Ones’ side?”

Creating this and  
That pretext
We shall derail
The all-out task
To bring GERD’s to end,
At long last
To make it
As good as dead.

Why should we care?
If Ethiopia or the region is
Thirsty of hydropower
In so far as
Our conceited
Pride remains
In glory tower.


Moreover if soured
Pushed to the end or angry
Reflect  we must not
Ethiopians could tame
Its this or that tributary.

(When a wealthy merchant raised his hand the spokesman gave him a green light to speak.)

Pampering with money
Fifth columnists cruel
Let us keep on using
In Ethiopia
As runs the adage
Divide and rule,
Along ethnic
And religious lines
To  drive a wedge
So that Ethiopians will not
Come to the same page,
While turmoil in their country
Opts to rage.

We could ignore the fact
Ethiopians soon display
Unity and solidarity
When threatened gets
Nation’s  sovereignty.
In Ethio-Somali war
Ethiopians Karamara’s Victory
Talks loud such history.

I'm afraid
Our  divisive action could
Bring together Ethiopians,
Be it on left or right end,
Their sovereignty to defend.


Robbed of
Their alluvial soil
By a prodigal river
Ethiopia’s  farmers
Undergo a hard toil
If we are asked for that
Compensation to pay
“No!”
We  have  to say.

Note that
Using industrialization
Like Japan
Develop we can
Than irrigating  
A- scorching-sun
-smoldered land
Full of sand.

As the  jealously insane
What should worry Egypt
Must not  be what  it could lose
But  Ethiopia gain.
What I fear
In the diplomatic arena
With GERD Ethiopia
Will come forth
Shifting gear.
When Ethiopians' development
Proceeds apace
Ethiopia could Egypt displace.
So on its development
We  have to pose a roadblock
Or a spoke.
.

(This much  farce is enough for today .Parliament is dismissed says the spokesman.)////////

DURING THIS VISIT

I am a layman laid up
with a very dodgy ankle

that winced about Paris
for almost a week with

every footaghhhhhhhfall.

Now it's the A&E;
for me.

The electronic noticeboard
flashes up its what nots

faster than I
can scan.

I barely catch CQC
Good( shadow )Rating.

Two wheelchairs
(peopleless)
chat about the this of that

typical wheelchair chit-chat.

A portable X-ray machine
pretends to be a giraffe.

"oooooOOOOK...we are going to get
Geoff the Giraffe to have a look at that!"

The child smiles
through the pain.

The screen peppers me
with possibilities.

Extremely likely?
Neither Likely nor Unlikely?
Etc., etc., etc.

My mind opts for
a simple I Don't Know.

"Breast." says the screen."

"Max Fax & Orthodontics."

"Re-hab shouldn't be boring!"

A questionnaire asks me
to think.

Big mistake.

I start to think.

Pain & Boredom
turns these hospitalised facts

( what ever they mean? )

into a something only
my brain can understand.

"And now, straight in at No.!
with a fantastic new single it's...

...Max Fax & The Orthodontics
with the glorious bouncy

BREAST!"

"MORTALITY by
The Upper Quartile

falls down one place to
No. 2!"

My shadow is feeling
very poorly at this

instant
in time.

Hasn't even bothered
to turn up.

There goes my good
(shadow)rating.

I think I'll switch
to silhouette instead.

I practice my Ogham.

SAT 4 APRIL
says the clock.

It's hands joined
together in prayer.

I switch
off my mind &

float
down
stream.

ich wollen ein iranischherz herauf Nörden.

or simply Njørden - often the j is a softening pronunciation -
i want an Iranian heart up north -
that's what is says - imagine why he lashed out
with the words *sheisse ausländer -
miniature form of Dostoyevsky -
at 18 he was confused - his father probably
heard the words... hearing that he lashed out...
this is the proof of the power of commandments -
take one to extreme, and all the others seems
permitted - honour your parents -
he didn't shout out allah'u akbar - he did
a little maxim veto - as said unto me one,
may these bullets turn into revisited tongues -
the west has no concern for poetry -
i wouldn't make Iran an enemy,
after all... they're the ones that appreciate poetry...
mm ha ha! so given Iran's flavour for poetics
i can only applaud at their sensibility -
i too was once duped into thinking that watching
a movie i might lie to a girl and ****** her -
poetry is dead in the west... i don't write
for the west, i write from the west, which doesn't
mean i respect the west -
thanks to feminism we're cruising into
an affair of what feminists don't anticipate:
the impracticality of old age creeping, creeping,
creeping... with large families there are at least
chances of a benevolent child who might care for
his parents - in the west with surrogate foetal-things
it's hardly a bouquet of flowers sitting pretty on
a table - the problem are already waiting...
thank **** if you're rich... if you're poor?
well... hmm what a Disneyland awaits you -
**** stained and **** smeared dying for your idea
like any Communist might; well, i'm not going to
help you... ask Oxfam while the money you donated
ensured that only a penny reached the poor poor
Africans and why 99 pence reached the bureaucracy
of keeping a charity afloat - i know where
i can find fresh water... you have to cross a barbwire
fence, feed 10 horses 20 sugar cubes and you're
at a little stream of clarity... then you do the vegan
diet and sorta'h waiting for a heart-attack...
or you take a Russian Empire banknote with Tsar
Nicholas II to Switzerland and buy yourself out
with euthanasia... either way, win win.
every ****** time i go back home there's the Krähewolke -
i'm starting to imagine myself as the boy instructed by
Barbarossa to watch for the crows and a second life -
it's a small town, used to be industrious,
life here, there, everywhere, now a town of pensioners -
a European squabbling with a European but ignoring
the massive signs MADE IN CHINA, MADE IN CHINA...
MADE IN CHINA... why you blaming me for what's
going to happen to you too? you think this is the steam-engine
days of industrial revolution? do you have an Instagram
account? no. well... if you aren't going to be a third party
advert unit you're worth jackshit -
but still that Krähewolke of summer, thousands of them
swarm the sky - i'm not saying because i'm there,
i'm saying i'm there dwarfed by such a sight...
krähe die messerschmitt - so poetry is written by
*****-whipped English teachers, or it's the medium of
the weak, it has many voices but it doesn't have a voice,
it needs to be pretty, it needs to be neat, it needs to
have a prosthetic metaphor stashed in a pile of **** flare -
some say it even has to be as coherent as an Ikea
manual for putting a table together, people all of a sudden
trash the calculator and attempt mental arithmetic in
terms of reading... what... a... load... of... crock-****...
hyphen... mm... the Germans knew the immigrant Saxons
would speak less and less German and even of lesser
quality than the Turks... the Germans invented chemistry -
the Anglo-Saxons invented hyphenation... but it's so
******* weird that the Englandish outlandish will
hyphenate a word like overt-usage but never include the
hyphen in chemical nouns, like: Hydrochloric acid...
dihydrogen monoxide (yes, the d'uh hoax),
phosphorus pentachloride - what remains of Vater Schwaben
in English is bound to chemistry's language,
where the standard use of hyphen is disallowed -
the German original took on a different optometrist -
the English revision took on yet another (different) optometrist -
the eyes of the English starring at a German word
began to dizzy-up-whirl looking through a kaleidoscope -
the Germans just saw: schieße schrapnell!
achtung! achtung! die wort ist die fondant...
mm... gobble gobble gobble - pristine smile of sharpened
teeth in a smile! klebrigzähne sprechen sehr kleine-eine-miner.
well... if you're going to write a Monty Pi Ten you might
as well desecrate a foreign language with the grammar of
the one acquired - very much interested in how grammar
is reflected by Arabic left-to-right, English right-to-left
German right-to-left,but Latin left-to-right - all the genus
names - **** sapiens: rational man - or the up-kept
(******* ***** -φρεν - alt.  hi-yo in Beijing) desire for:
the instilled continuance of the rationalising man...
rationalise this! knuckle dusters down the East End -
gotta be a **** before you can be a Cockney Wiseguy -
say ooh la la say soo - bud weiss err - say ooh la la say soo -
amphetamine George says: ethanol Scottish Gaelic means:
twins sedative and un-inhibitor - talk of Enzymes -
south and shoo, north and nothing, east and extra territory,
west and **** / Vancouver - van coup verily ******
voulez-vous volleyball aha! write poetry like a dictionary
entry - spandex, annex, fly-flex - it can really become
a tennis match after a while:
   roses are   red
                   violets are blue
             i'm so in love with everything that's dead
    that i decided to call the past the necessary glue.
an article by Bryan Applied concerning poetry -
and why all poetic hearts are bound for Iran -
karaoke the current trend in the west for one -
living at a time when cooking books sell,
and plagiarism is celebrated more than any awkward
originality, but everyone still owns microwaves
and opts for ready-meals -
the rewards of old age aren't there because families
have become atomic based on individuals -
oh right? the article, it's long, ****** me off -
"we turn to poetry in times of need, but can it really
help? and why doesn't it sell more copies?"
ah the selling questions, i forgot a capitalist thinks
of poems like hamburgers...
i'll put in a bracketed word pending in the title and give
you a brief overview of the article...

*** and whiskey interlude

i don't write poetry... what i do do is **** poetry;
why do fellow artists hate poetry?
poetry in the hands of the old and young
thinks itself ******-like, the one art form that
says no to violence, no to intolerance,
no to drastic actions of revision -
keeping the Shakespearean sonnet won't do the art
any favours, it's the art too easily accessible,
because anyone can apparently write it
as long as they get a clue than a rhyme is necessary -
alternating rhymes are not that important,
i asked for a steak tartar, instead i got
plated a shepherds' pie - i asked for raw,
all i got for nanny picked and donning diapers -
poetry is best suited for that dynamo of reaction
known to internet trolls - trolls should overpower
writing poetry, they're intelligent enough, and
democratic too - cold-stone-heartless *******
should pick up these floral arrangements and
do an iron maiden make-over with them...
poems should be torture instruments,
they should never be treated as floral arrangements...
i don't like weakness, neither does nature -
when i walk into the museum of poetry
i don't want to see avant-garde art, i want to see torture,
they really did underestimate the vis poetica -
when i read poetry i want torture, i don't need
safety pins, straitjackets and other torturous
instruments of conformity - but from what i'm seeing
that's all i'm getting - ask any man why the construction
industry is ******* - women on site, women in the
army - feminism has infiltrated sacred sites of
manly brotherhood... you don't see a man stroll into
the fashion industry... well... unless he's a ****** -
a Grimm Brother's tale: once upon a time...
you could listen to a radio on a building site...
then women came in... we only heard symphonies of
hammer and drill... that alone made us deaf...
sure... we worked dangerously, we died more often...
BUT THE THRILL! **** *** bye bye... go on, wave at it...
it's like Titanic's maiden voyage... it's not coming back!
feminism's ugly head should have shoved itself once
more under a horse's galloping hoofs - a few times -
it played with the brotherhood of man - we're no longer
men, we're insurance policies, safety nets,
no wonder the Jihadis are fighting for our libidos -
cos i honestly think they are... they want us to feel the Mojo
once more from the frivolous spirit of the 1960s liberation
that only became slavery of the fake sinner -
**** it... applause gentlemen! applause! thank **** for
me donning *******, i'd be a real loser if i had to hand it
to myself without it... these days it's called the ******* -
the monk's sheaf of chastity - reduce a man to a *****
and you reduce a father to alimony cheques.
what?! ain't that true? i told you, **** poetry, don't
bother writing it, **** that pacified ***** into obedience -
you own it... without you you'd still be crying about
what shame it is that a nation that produced Shakespeare
undermines poets while keeping this old **** ticking
all the boxes of worthwhile inspection... i wish i was
the 20th century example of when poetry had some respect...
at any other time more so in the 20th century -
but we missed that train... shame for us to have inherited
such a past and the internet - so if not so keen on poetry
why Shakespeare the celebratory idol? twilight Sir
****-a-lot is coming - or so i hope.
so this article, citations:
a. Wordsworth 'thoughts that do often lie too deep for
     tears',
b. poetry is the language of crisis,
c. poetry as peak experience constructed from
    the shabby, battered bricks of verbiage
    (otherwise known as talk with a mouthful
      of spaghetti),
d. TS Eliot: 'purifying the dialect of the tribe'
     (too many dialects to make up a tribe, to be honest),
e. funerals in particular are what's called
    poetic crashing the scene, every subject,
    every opportunity, you'd never call a poet a
    polymath,
f. the healing power of poetry... the healing power?
    i never signed up to take a Hippocratic oath!
g. a permanent record of failure... or the allure of a permanent
     record of ridicule by others, so the minor success was
     there too - as in a boy buys a kettle
     is a success story, but a boy writes a poem is a failure -
     is that vocabulary as commodity without
     a handkerchief?
h.
              a sense of abandonment looms...
              the obnoxiousness of this article is all too apparent,
      i rather be headbanging to some ***** M: Ra Ra Rhas Putin -
(even surds deserve a bit of love) -
i might finish the citation of the article... but then again
i might as well cut it short - inc. in the Culture Section
of the Sunday Times, Bryan Appleyard -
people resent poetry for stealing what comes naturally -
really? so i'm a thief? a lot of people don't invest in
vocabulary - they convene to invest in flimsy investments
of slang - after graduation from being teenagers the investment
in **** suddenly disappears - grown-up vocabulary takes
over, comprehensive English, not slang English...
people don't acquire naturally (i.e. easily without discomfort),
if i were to complain to the people for treating me
as a thief rather than a poet i'd ask them to teach me to
do crosswords... a pain-in-the-***... i can't do them!
so i guess that if you're able to do crosswords you can't
write poetry, or give poetry a freedom away from all those
dusty technicalities / identifiers as such -
for poetry doesn't make anything happen
(WH Auden), it probably doesn't, but if you choose a boring
life, a lot happens... 11/15 is the feminist ratio of poetry's
Forward prizes in the genre - k k, a fraction - 11:15 -
new testament? or the old's citation? yeah... why do they
cite the bible like making bets at the bookies?
Gospel of St. Luke 15 to 1? they're betting on the 4 Henchmen
of the Apocalypse - gambling even in the testaments.
performance poetry seldom stands up on the page -
yeah, wheelchair bound, or in pop culture lyricism -
that competition between R.E.M.'s man on the moon
(yeah yeah yeah yeah), and Nirvana's smells like teen spirit,
hello hello hello 'ola! (later the yeah yeah hitchhiker's story);
did i tell you i got barred from a pub in Collier Row for
speaking poetically? a ****-hole of a pub anyway,
walked in with a pair of dolphin flippers and a shark
fin, spoke some words, made a few friends over grapefruit
ale - then a few days later got barred, because i apparently
"threw a pint glass across the room"; that's me booked
for the Cheltenham Book festival for sure... right next to
the cookbook aisle where people will be expecting to make
humble pie and cider squint tarts.

you remind me of a dark place-
my mother’s village
far away,
first day of third grade
blonde girl cried through eyes
the color of my country’s basins.
she wasn’t new to this world,
she wasn’t lonely and confused,
tripping through a concrete forest of
false idols and plastic shadows,
just missed her brothers.

a pitiful excuse for survival.

and i
(olive skinned, hair on my legs,
stubborn, reckless,
fire chugging aries,
everything a jagged rock to scale,
all the bodies must be sniffed
before i release my eyebrows)
always hear your muffled whisper,

coating the air like dew
the intimidated glances
hit me blunt in the face.

but holding my tongue is not an option.
your baffled countenances nothing but
fans tickling flames.

you people are connected like iron on a magnet
and god forbid one of you steps out of the line
one of you speaks your sick mind
one of you opts not to shock the man behind the wall
and devours the corpses instead.

i want to cry, i want to throw things at your face,
i’d want to show you my tribe is better than yours,
if i had a tribe to speak for.
i want to walk into a portal and never see
any of you again.

you think your smile conceals your malice
your innocent voice a curtain at intermission,
but the aliens see everything and
when they arrive, they will only take me
back with them.

8:00 AM, Monday, Nov. 14th, 2016: Alarm goes off.

He rag-dolls himself across the flat. Past the paintings that huddle on the floor against the walls, past the unpacked boxes concaving from dust and into the shower where he keeps the alarm clock and pliers to turn on the broken shower handle. The bed is a place where thoughts unravel like yarn that one can never quite ravel back to its former integrity, so he doesn’t like to stay there long. Instead he concentrates on the two-day **** smell that trademarks his bathroom. Always two-day ****? He thinks. Never one-day?


“WHAAAP WHAAAP Click” he hits the alarm with the edge of his fist and starts the water, which hits the floor of the tub in a carbonated rattle that emulates the patter of the office water cooler being rinsed and refilled, rinsed and refilled for the last twelve years (his personal duration with the company). Avoiding the water cooler is thirsty work but allows him to dodge creepy office gossip. It is enough in the morning to have to shout “good morning!” in a practiced timbre and twist one’s face into a look of serenity to flaunt at coworkers. These, at least, he’s mastered. He thinks practicing these last two items out loud.


Feeling reasonably damp he shuts off the water, towels down, climbs into the clothing he set out the night prior, grabs his computer bag (also pre-stocked/sorted) and marches through the front door, hair still damp, climbing through the frozen city air coloured by police sirens and the familiar song of commuter impatience and into his Honda, saturated in tree-air-freshener fumes.

The radio: “BOW CHIKA! BOW CHIKA! Bow Bow HEY!….Clap along if you feel like a room without a….” bludgeons him through the stereo so he cranks it louder still and try to keep up for about a block, voice horse and deprived, so he settles for a low hum but ultimately feels like a ******* and opts for silence. When the thoughts start to unravel, he turns the stereo back on, half mast.

The bassy throbs of his heart assaults his rib cage, so he’s almost at work.
“Hello! HeelloO!” He practices again bringing the car to a stop, his left foot hitting the pavement as the Honda leans forward, backwards, then goes still. “HE—llo!” Back through the frozen morning, fiddling the keys in the lock and into the building.

The front door of the office presents its sickly yellow face and last minute sighs are exhaled.
“H…cough HeelloO!” He invites.
“Morning! Debbie returns. “Hey!” answers Rick. “Yo, yo,” says the intern whose name he feel terrible about forgetting. “How you doin’ today, Mr. C?” He asks.
Why the **** would he ask me that, it’s 9am, he thinks, but musters a “Me? Great!” in a tone that plainly sounds like Droopy Dog after receiving news from a physician that begins with “I’m sorry, Droopy” so he adds “just another day in paradise!” Something he picked up from young ****-types in university. 
“You?” he directs the question not only to the intern but the entire room to demonstrate gusto.
“Living the dream!” Says intern; “Couldn’t be better!” Says Debbie;  “Another beautiful day! Another beautiful day…” Says Rick.
They stare back at him with their mouth-corners quivering, eyes twitching, neck-veins prominent. They’re literally bursting from the seams with zeal! He thinks.
“Couldn’t be better,” he thinks. “Living the dream.” He settles into his headphones, a small fire welling in his gut. Don’t these people ever get tired of being “great?” He thinks, queuing “Three Little Birds” on his iPod, watching the waves move in, then out, in, then out on his new animated “beach theme” desktop background. 



He settles into his headphones but can’t distract his way out of the thought: why can’t I live the dream? Why everybody else, and more importantly, why not me?

One, who makes One's problems
reflections of the External,
opts that One's Reality
shall manifest as One's Hell.

One, who realizes One's problems
root most often in One's Self,
opts that One's Reality
shall manifest as One's Nirvana.

Globally dense, our ailing nation
makes one weep for sheer frustration
thoughts and dreams grow numb.
Tech-addled students scroll on phones,
‘midst scent of android pheromones,
wafting digital dumb.

Pop-culture, narcissist unkind
dispenses with the human mind
which, failing further, falls behind
the grimly global curve.

We read, in writing on the wall
arithmetic’s impending fall
while numbers loiter in the hall
to get what they deserve.

ENQUIRY, tagged as D.O.A,
a sheeted stiff, is wheeled away
her mourners left to grieve.
entitled maiden, full of sass,
LIBERTY begs a bathroom pass
her bladder to relieve.

When zit-faced rebels run the show
the dismal ratings plummet low;
a vulgarized cartoon.
Descending to unfathomed levels,
Ignorance applauds her devils
calling out their tune.

PATRIOTISM, tarred and feathered
headless, claws its cage untethered
foul, unloved, unfree:
Another casualty of time
which fell for want of noble rhyme;
to water FREEDOM’s tree.

CURIOSITY, half asleep,
now stirs and murmurs from the deep
uninterested, untaught.
She grows yet duller in her ways
returning to her ocean daze,
(her schools of fish uncaught).

HISTORY, dormant, lies in dust
a narrative no man can trust
a book no scholar reads.
Events unstudied as designed
wherein the heart of humankind
for want of context, bleeds.

DEMOCRACY degenerates
until God wills and activates
a nation’s drive to learn.
Curricula will be made void;
disheartened teachers unemployed,
their wisdom fit to burn.

You think the past was less obtuse?
Less prone to youthful thought-abuse?
Perhaps…  back in the day.
And though it may have been the same.
this poet opts to place the blame
on digital delay.

In the early 21st century this is when time
really started to go backwards and the attack on the constitution laid the foundation for the TeA pArTY,
and other corporate fascists. Too much to the right our
nation starts" GOOSE STEPPING".


And Uncle Sam sat on a very narrow
conservative wall.
And the King of heartless ( Bush ) ordered,
" OFF WITH YOUR HEAD" without just cause to a sandy
world of black-gold.
And all three nations were written up as
the Axis of "Jabberwockey".
And Wonderland's scared caterpillar colored red, orange,and so on, sat upon an imagined poison mushroom cloud.
And Tweedly Dee; Teedly Rummy,
gave quick cheap armor ( of course to fight some of the Jabberwockey) from a quickened "Rummy Dummy",
the slam dunker.
And the MAD HATER of people went
DUCK -YOUR -HEAD oil haunting
And "Cheshire Cat smiles ( Bush again ) was taken
at phony opts.
And we majority of Alices tried
making sense of this new "Wonderland" as Constitutional,
law backers were considered bad-and in mirror reversable-
so too International Law backers.
And good was this unconstitutional
main war-knight  (Bush again ) always WORD bumbling,
war stumbling, falling and failing off his Trojan horse.
And still us Alices are in this-now current-perpetual
land of MIRRORED-IMAGE-REVERSAL.
Tune in next time for our great escape
from this forcefully adopted land of horrid wonder.
Maybe if we tapped our shoes three times...Oops wrong tale.

The end of the holiday's are near and it's time for me to get back to work. I've been writing and reading and thinking and meditating for years. Preparing the temple, so to speak. My stories are public and private goods and the presentation and profits of these stories must be landed in a good and truthful way ~ I've spent much time and energy on how to do this in a way where I can maintain certain intensities and integrity. Intensity for distillation of truth and integrity for power and resonance.

Stories are just stories but it is the ***** when someone else co-opts your creation and paves over the nuances and complexities of that which you had overtly placed your personal power, thought, and energy into.

You might be reading this and all you are seeing is: *******, *******, *******, *******.  All ******* for as far as the eye can see. Fair enough, I've been thinking the same for years but just when I thought I was out, the ******* keeps pulling me back in. As far as I can see though, **** is the distillation of truth and I hope that I can spin this yarn into a web that you will see the ******* structure that holds up the ******* truth and maybe we can try and digest that and compost it and churn through it then grow a mushroom on top of it and then eat the mushroom so we can attempt to find the spiritual truth of what our ******* structure lies upon. This particular idea is not just some floaty meandering abstraction, it is a truth I saw on the land: Longview, Alberta. And this truth was emodied in the ghost I slept in, nearby in Indian Graves Campground that night.

The land speaks if we let it; if we have prepared our temples, maybe the land speaks truth.

You feel me. If you don't then that's ok. It isn't your time and maybe never will be for this iteration of instinct that I am presenting. My rhymes aren't meant to resonate with everyone all the time. I'm not writing pablum or soul food. Feed your own soul in your own way. That's between you and Mr. Potter and the Chairman. Our truths are our truths and they are absolute.

The reason that I know I am prepared to write this story now is because I have done the work. I have found my inner compass and tested it time and again. While in process and flow, the landscaping shifted and my truth's fell away and the absolute revealed itself one star at a time and isn't it ironic how in tune our bards are with the ... wait for it ... enigmatic.

So where am I going to land this access point to the White Buffalo medication? I am not. The medicine already flows and always has, I just woke up and took what was prescribed because a dude in shorts once told me: abide!

If gossip be as a hobby,
maybe that noxious scrutiny
oughtta be turned inwards:
the toxicity of talking ****
(however insidious and infectious)
shall taint your humility and soil your words:

Tread carefully;
such paths be steep:
what One opts to sew
One inexorably reaps.

You are my favorite unfinished song,
the jumble of words stuck inside my mind,
but whose chained melody I could not find
not when every lullaby has gone wrong.
This song of sorrow with nothing but flats
yearns for your voice to serenade my blues.
Let it all be for naught, you have your muse,
whilst I'm stuck in the echoes of our lasts.
Yet like a train of thought circling my mind,
soon you'll wither - an ephemeral phase,
without a hint, without another trace,
opts to leave, with me left bereft behind.
All the music and the lyrics are due,
but not today, not when I can't have you.


(k.p)

i might not be the smartest crab in the bucket but... Darwinism enforces hierarchies... politics enforces: hierarchies... how hard is it to not see: political biology?! if nature has hierarchy in place... then: the supposed "man-ape"? you're telling a man he's actually a walking abortion... that's all you're saying... now: i can figure out something for myself: but... that's me! i drink alone: i can figure out the recluse, perhaps not the nature of the recluse: but the desire to be a recluse... hell... i was primed to some quasi-alpha... but i wanted to forgo this inherent: trajectory... Darwinism is... politics: it' universal politics... it's: you want to look at apes and forgo the need for beauty for: this long? ugly heads of the Hydra... come on! you don't require Islam as the driving force for the motives: you need motives per se! it only take 0.000001 of any scale... or measure... to take a noumenon from a shadow: mustard seed genesis... into a full phenomenological exegesis of worry... but it's too late by then... the chess pieces are already moving... inclined to free-will or completely without it... it's just sad to think that: when Darwinism employs the argument for hierarchies: real-politik is somehow "devoid" of said: employment of synonymous measures: the worst of woman brought out the worst of man.

well: after, say... a 7 day back to back **** fest of drinking
solo: a litre of herr whiskers & ms. amber
even my liver opts out...
i call it the furry liver stage: or: the onslaught of
pate...
but by then it's not only my liver that's asking
for a breather...
my heart's no longer into it...
and my mind is exhausted to boot...
heart, liver & sensible Brian are looking for a reboot...
oddly enough... i'm more than willing to give it
to them...
it's not like drinking & writing during the night
while going for a marathon cycle run to sweat
out the toxins... it works when you're having
a drinking ****... but not at the end of one...
you can't just fast-track the toxins out...
you need to... pickle...
i call this stage the honey-trap...
it's alcohol "abuse": unlike the use of ******
from what i've seen in pop culture...
it's the opposite of doing a cold turkey...
the honey trap really begins when you're about
to go to bed: even though throughout
the whole day you didn't think about drinking...
you did go to the local shop for two pints
of milk & bought & expressly drank a hipster can
of IPA... burped for a minute...
the fun really starts when you go to bed...
it's a honey trap although:
you're sweating: stewing or pickling your take...
you have the most amazing night
dripping cold sweat... waking up three or four times
during the night...
the APAP, the naproxen or the phenergan dosage
isn't enough...
you need to fall asleep by draining all the brain
going to your brain: direct it to your intestines:
as ever... you eat too much you want to sleep...
but this is during the night:
you're not going to really eat...
lo! & behold... 2 pints of milk disappear...
after all... if you ever puked up milk you notice
the fatty cells split from all the other matter:
the proteins & the sugars...
it's a pretty looking cocktail...
but i just adore the sweating & the toiling...
of course with milk you'll eat something sweet...
coming down from 118kg because of concerns
for my blood-pressure i was given
the option: lose weight: or we'll put you on
high-blood pressure tablets...
at the zenith of the **** i weighed in at 96kg...
one night of the honey trap
and i jumped up to 98kg...
         one day's & one's night's worth is enough...
i've been slightly sleep deprived enough to know
that i have a rekindled want to spew...
from the hear & the brain...
here's back to mr. liver being the punching-bag...
plus... you don't really want to be hangover
when going to the Turkish barber...
you want to have allowed the toxins to leave
your body: slowly... not via exercise...
i still don't know...
£120 per hour for some ******* & oyster dipping...
or... £12 for circa half an hour's worth of
getting the ***** on my hair trimmed
(since i go for a haircut at a unisex salon)...
i don't know...
the trimming of the ***** (sorry, beard) would
only cost me £10...
ah those Turkish barbers...
but he asked at the end: would you like a hot towel?
i declined once... not this time...
so what was i expecting after having my beard
trimmed, shamed... having a close encounter
of the third kind at the "event horizon" where
skin meets hair with some cool whip
& a classic razor?
well i wasn't expecting to find him drop
the electric razor & add finishing touches with
scissors...
he did put a hot towel onto my face...
started my face & beard with it...
until he then folded it round my face
like a doughnut ensuring my nose was playing
peek-ah-boo... he then told me to relax...
outstretched my hands...
sprayed some lemon zesty spray on my hands...
then started to pull my fingers from
their knuckle sockets...
massaged my arms with slaps and "bites"...
took up my arm and folded it to the side:
each arm... between each arm he crudely massaged
the back of my neck and the collar-bone...
the towel still on my face...
for £2 extra? all this when i only walked in
for a trim of the beard?
he then applied some "olive oil"...
anything by OSSION... this turkish brand of male
hair products... top of the line...
the Fwench can hide with their alcohol infused...
trans-man baby products...
point being: this is so much about make culture...
there's nothing to do with:
make-up... nail-polish...
the end product doesn't even matter...
it's the experience...
a man can groom a man in such a way
that a woman couldn't... ever...
oddly enough i have hair to not give a ****
whether it's the Turkish barber or some
blonde bombshell giving me: something just shy
of a crew-cut... i don't miss having long hair...
one man in history pulled off
having long hair & a beard:
i'm not the one to pull that stunt off...
long hair & a goatee: i tried...
but if you're going for the full beard?
short hair...
                   & if my liver doesn't like it:
when Brian and Hertz is up for it again...
so be it... i'll allow the liver to check out early...
but so much is wong with...
the worst of woman has brought up the worst of man...
you: "you" heard of the current craze hitting
university campuses...
so more & more women are entering higher education:
imagine to my shock: the men they're left with...
the ones no longer bothered about
spiking drinks... no... these days they just walk up
to a girl & "syringe" her: that word has been
elevated from a mere noun: to a verb...
it implies spiking her directly...
i once drank a spiked drink once...
idiot me...
but i'm not a woman...
i found a slap of pavement along my dizzy faze
& ended up walking home with it:
finding my own bed...
i don't remember where i left that slab of
pavement... but i clung to it like it was: anchor...
i was with some girls: full clown make-up:
Halloween... they just dropped some ecstasy &
were dancing like the teenagers they were...
i'm pretty sure that drink was not intended for:
i could tell... 3 guys and 1 girl were playing
this boxer arcade game seeing me drink the spiked
beer...
punching at bad (good) as they could...
i guess they didn't have the sort of punch to
punch a clown...
terrible experience...
         ugh...
    but the worst of woman is bringing up the worst
of man...
incel culture is not terrorist culture...
oh sure... it isn't...
last time i heard that a jihadi performed his acts
of terror by first killing his mother...
i'm pretty sure must have heard of some jihadi
that killed his mother prior to going on a rampage...
right now? i think my mother is obnoxious...
an obnoxious brat...
but then her fractions are all wrong...
it's two days short of a year since she lost her father...
i lost a grandfather & a friend:
but her grief is a hierarchy above my own...
so i have to let the whole ******* ****-show slide...
i have my grievances but they somehow have to
ferment in: how she has had grievances with her mother
over why she wasn't informed earlier
about the dreaded affair of: eintreten tod!

oddly enough i'm about to visit to get a time-bomb
of a tooth fixed with root-canal surgery since...
these days... your best bet at any sort of "tourism"
is: health-tourism...
no chance of me getting root-canal treatment
in England... the easy way out: pull the tooth out...
it's a healthy... semi-healthy tooth!
it can be treated!
no treatment available in England:
****-off i go to Eastern Europe...
mind you: it'll be nice to immerse myself with
a people that speak my mutter-zunge for a while...
where the whole world won't be there...
plus i'll have no internet access...
i'll finish that vol. 4 of Knausgaard & read
some Rousseau... happy days:
unhappy days...
my dementia riddled friend won't be there...
but i'll be the one who'll take his grandmother
to the graveyard & make inquiries as
to why: she couldn't have informed "us" sooner
about the dire straits...
i'll be the grandson making the *******
inquiries my mother: her daughter is not willing
to make...

my uncle: her brother: her son is yet to make it clear
how he knew about his impeding death
2 weeks (circa) prior... he came round &
had a blast talking about: "putting things into perspective"...
he asked for some chewing gum
prior to the funeral surface...
& while the coffin was lowered into a shallow grave
(why shallow... oh... you know...
they were intending to cremate him,
rather than seeing his dead corpse in his most
formal attire) - my grandfather had a fear of
cremation...
as much an atheist as he was:
he still believed in resurrection rather than
the traffic of reincarnation:
well... it's not like reincarnation is "wrong": wong...
but you must be a people with a libido that
allows you to have as many people
as you like: for most living in poverty...
for a people that prefer less people
but a higher quality of life...
"perspectives" alter... no?

so as they lowered the coffin into the shallow
dug-out... his chewing of gum...
it's only fresh now... in the moment i was numb...

even today: esp. today... of course if i'm going
for a blood-test i need to sober up: slowly...
i can't just sweat out the toxins on a bicycle ride:
but a glorious storm from France arrived...
in between trying to snooze in some sleep
while listening to the ** debut
& Trentemøller's - The Mash and the Fury:
there was the sound of rain...
beating against my windows...
the cold sweats & the night...

come circa noon while i cycled to the barber
shop i was still sweating: what was it...
circa 10°C?
it just so happened that once the barber
"doing" me tried to wipe off my sweat
for the 2nd time to no avail that the head-barber
told him: blow some cold air on his forehead...
it worked...
as they trim your "event horizons" they also
treat those areas with some baby-bottom powder
sprinkled on a brush...

between the 3Ps...
priests, psychiatrists, prostitutes...
there are the one singular B... (Turkish) barbers...
esp. ones that keep a pair of budgerigars
in their practice...
enough said...
i could count a 4th P: ahem... poo'ets...
but... come one...
some of us are smear merchants when we
don't get the proper credentials...
some of us are not fit for an underground
streak of luck with an audience...
some of us are not built to last:
outside the immediacy of the crab-bucket
mentality:
few make it for the ultimate game:
the: rattekönig game...
                  
it almost feels like an "unfair" exchange
of resources...
the worst of woman brings out the worst of man...
so those supposed male-feminists are
having a field day at universities being
out-numbered 3:1... aren't they?
it's like revenge ****...
but with added spice...
          thank god i'm your sort of everyday
man: i feel no solidarity with...
ahem... my "fellow" man...
thank god i like to focus on what
i want...
seeing how i want very little...
very little seems.... brimming to the fore
with a fullness i never: not once...
hoped for...
                      lucky me...
but there is no solidarity with man:
if an incel begins his trajectory of terror
by first killing his mother:
i'm looking for a name of a jihadi
that began his rampage in a similar way:
although one thing is sure...
why are all the right-wing "extremists",
incels... branded as... mentally ill...
while all the jihadi "soul-jeers": simply not?

seems rather unfair that one side is about
to be treaded via a pharmacological concoction
while the other side is to be:
left alone... yet still making inquisitions
into the "argument"...
        that's my beef...
i'd say both sides are terrorists...
but one side isn't treated in the same way
that the other side is...
shouldn't all sides be... psychiatrically
evaluated... given the same "happy" pills?
to me... that's not fair...
one convicted side gets an Imam and the "psychiatry"
of the Quran...
the other side gets the "happy" pills
and...        what literary focus?!

perhaps it sounds better in Deutsche...
dies welt ist für ein feuer:
das wille machen
           nacht drechen zu tag...
meit gott! it does sound better in German!
who would have guessed: ist so!

One who opts for comfort over a challenge is a coward.

I am a beggar who is bound to praise and request
Who  is untiringly, relentlessly opts for his quest
I don't hide myself whatever I am that I manifest
Against my well wishers I just never ever protest

Being beggar of beauty when I ask for the charity
My beloved being blunt never ever show solidarity
Even if there is no one like her in the town or city
But she refuses to be my beloved with more clarity

When I want to see her she becomes seriously blunt
Being full with tricks she remains ever ready for stunt
Since I am claimant of her so I just bear the real brunt
At times being nasty it seems that she is devil's agent

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow

I met
A tall Somali girl
Hewed out of a chocolate
With a complexion
I never seen to date
Her milk & iron ball eyes
Having iris brown
With her snow white teeth
And skin
Make a super color blend
A strong message to send.

"I am sure
Such a mesmeric girl
You never beheld!"

With a C curve
She  likes to put her arms
On her perfume-bottom hips
Before the parting of
Full blown petal lips.

She swept me off my feet
On first attempt
Her to greet.

"Cute one
Do you know something
You are an angel minus a wing!"
She responded with
A loud laughter
That still in my head
Opts to ring.

She says my heart is beautiful I think it is her reflection
Which makes my beloved to show me that I can't explain
Both love and beauty are in chain to make perfection
This is the grace which makes both of us to bear the pain

Love is constant torture ,full of trials and of tribulations
When one is involved there is no way to come out of rut
But surely it leads one to new horizons,avenues,beacons
Still whosoever opts for is definitely perfect and fortunate

My beloved through all pleasure and torture I maintain
I will go through this novel experience till the last day
Let my sweetheart play hide and seek in the drizzling rain
To come out let us pray to come out as a lightening ray

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow

when he opts for the obvious   again
this time   I think   will be the time
I finally pipe up and say what needs saying

that while I hope this fish dinner
satisfies you   the taste of the sea creature
on your lips   that salt and vinegar mixture

it ought to be me next to you   on the sofa
smiling or laughing at some ****** TV repeat
fork skewering the gone soggy chips

tips of our fingers stricken with grease
but worth it because our hands
will be a ruler’s width apart

and so   while I wrap your golden gift
slip the fiver into the till
as you puncture a Coke

I concoct my line of choice
something about fish
or how I’ll batter your wife

I find loneliness
To be
Paradoxical
In that
Such a deep hurt
Always opts for the knife
Of its creation
Over the salve
Of its savior

Not I, shall claim, to know what is now next
After the summer sun subsides and sets
Below the roads which all scatter from here,
It is not I who knows, not I indeed.
Not long ago, a woman sat atop
A bed without her clothes, counting copecks;
A cotton shawl rested upon a chair,
And her kerchief neatly folded by it.
Her blue eyes hum a gentle song that day,
They swell in agony, as another
Man leaves quietly from her room with speed.
Her heart beats pleadingly, as if to ask
Forgiveness from her God, the supposed
Holy Father, who sees all his children
In equal love and, I should add, disdain.
How her chest heaves in despair over what
Had just transpired, she sobs as if to beg
the Almighty Father to look away,
Although her God could have delivered her
From such a life, He opts to watch instead;
How merciful He is, a God of love!
Outside she knows no respite from her deeds,
Her neighbours look upon her with such scorn
And snicker as she passes by in shame.
A sinner she is baptized as, as though
It had been her own choice to live this life.
In haughtiness, they may proclaim, that God
Gave her a chance to choose the life for her
And it was she who chose to be a *****.
Yet how could she desire to live like this?
Her father was a drunk and did not work,
Her mother died when she was but a child,
And her new father’s wife is consumptive
With three children to look after herself,
Not one of them can work, not one but she!
And what shall she do as her family
Cries out to God for generosity?
Shall she go to school as her mother dies?
And if this is the path to go, from where
Will she draw funds? What money does she own?
Should she ignore a child in need of food?
If not, what job, what place, would employ her
With wage to feed a family of five?
In fact, what place shall pay her more than what
She needs if she should live a frugal life?
What choices she has been given, look at
The life she has to choose! To live forever
Upon the cost of others on the street,
As beggars dressed in rags and dirt who will
Without a doubt, perish when winter comes,
Or delve in sin, in order to provide
What seemingly that God cares not to give.
What grand a choice dear Sofya now has!
The gravity of her next decision
Shall now make a martyr of a maiden
Or make now a harlot of a hero.
And thus she sobs, as she is robbed of heart,
Of soul, of hope. Yesterday she had woke
To such the same, and more to come,
If only God, and I do beg thee God,
That she will be delivered from such strife.
For now, for her, today, it seems, that the
Next day shall bring not but the same for her.
However I claim not to know what’s next
After the summer sun subsides and sets.

[Wine]...one glass, tipsy...

with his hand pressing her waist

close to his body, she feels

comfortable, desirable, warm, drunk

with pleasure in his leading arms,

she forgets steps between Latin beats, and,

as he fearlessly caresses her hair,

she wonders how it'd feel to

fully entangle herself in him,

gradually unfolding like a lily,

finally drinking him in.

A delicious, undeniable secret:

like fine wine, he's a decade aged.



[Lemonade]...two glasses, nauseous...

and yet her heart sighs for

the sweet Prince Charming who must have

parted the seas to settle

in her home land, since he

grins and glows when he sees her.

She longs to be his companion,

to debate, and learn, and

Be, and, God willing,

joke, in his company.



[And Everything Else]...three glasses, quenched...

and there are infinities of

unsustainable drinks that tempt and

shine and inspire admiration, like

avant-garde paintings from

an optimistic, sprouting, pop artist,

hung on the walls of her mind,

in the nooks the grapevines missed,

pandemonium in silent moments,

until she grows weary and parched and

opts to sip water instead.

It’s unexplainable
The deep rooted seed of love
Oh dear
How will I ever tell you
How I spent days and nights
Kneeded in the dough of love
That magnificent love
Revealed upon me
Bits by bits
And drowned me in its gigantic wave forever.....

Oh the Lover of all lovers
Oh the Lord of all lords
How u created this love
Out of the flesh, that a heart is
And mind a skull contains
How u flourished it so intensely
Insanely,
That whoever opts it
Or gets trapped in it
Looses himself , happily,willingly——-

Quite an undertaking
to break ground
figuratively, and symbolically linkedin
while able bodied and mindedness
readies cemetery plot within Elysian Fields
although honestly, and truthfully
as an ***** donor,
yours truly opts for cremation
once I, the corporeal constituent essence
that constitutes breadth,
height, length, et cetera
of one garden variety generic guy,
whose introspective consciousness
once exits these lovely bones
subsequently shucks off his ethereal soul.

Probable cause of death
and reasonable rhyme
how he died with his boots on?

Accidental overdose spelt demise of Vitamin ******
with over the counter supplements he did monkey.

Apple Cider Vinegar Gummies
Biotin 10,000 mcg
Brain Support Gummies
Super B Complex with Vitamin C
Calcium 1200 MG plus Vitamin D3
Chewable Vitamin C dietary supplement
Daily De-Stress
Vitamin E 400 IU (180 mg)
Echinacea 400 mg
Fiber Gummies
Flaxseed Oil with OMEGA-3 1300 mg
Garlic 400 mg
Ginger Root 550 mg
Ginkgo Biloba 120 mg
Hair, Skin & Nails Gummies
Prebiotic Immune Support 750 mg
with Vitamin D 30 mcg 1200 IU
with Zinc 8.3 mg
Psyllium Husk
Selenium 200 mcg
Turmeric 500 mg
Vitamin A 2400 mcg

Alphabetized list of above
stockpiled synthesized materials
purchased at CVS and Walgreens
courtesy Nations Benefits
and/or United HealthCare flex card
allow, enable, and provide
careful discriminate experimentation
on self - selected as guinea pig
more tolerable versus when being a little boy
and bullied by ruthless nasty
and shortish brutes as scapegoat
of course discriminately
taking a subset of iterated
prescribed macronutrients
each including following specified dose.

A healthy corpse
when the grim reaper calls,
I will gladly bid adieu
bon voyage into the netherworld
and good riddance
to him (a good for nothing)
randy sandy donning tan hat man
Squirreling acorn née joke
hinting courtesy humorous literary arabesques
absent minded handy dandy blue's clue
imploring accomplice Jimmy Neutron,
who willingly frankly (iggy lee)
casually opened, popped, and zapped
license to **** himself softly
while listening to Pathetique adagio cantabile
by Ludwig Van Beethoven
courtesy over the counter supplements,
the Food and Drug Administration doth not eschew.

Mastermind of the universe, I
a skeptic (with flat thinning hair,
yet shrinking paunch)
regarding divine creationism,
nevertheless accepts mortality
as stepping stone
into nothingness that follows,
repurposing random arrangement
of atoms and molecules
that configured one
contemplative, intuitive, operative
and restive **** sapien
(essentially composed of stardust)
reincarnated into another form of matter.

After crafting especially
individualized invitations
répondez s'il vous plaît
as the spirit moves thee.

My grief is stillborn, not consoled by the hope
of replacement of another good little boy or girl
with brown paws and a gentle lick,
another Anne or Tom with eyes that cry of heaven
and a bright mind that can write lines of cerulean clarity or calculate pi to the twentieth decimal,
a wife named All  or a husband named Trust,
a mother named Everything who can  feel,
understand the 10, 000 aches of my  soul,
or a father named Generosity who is there
for every birth, graduation and funeral.  
Everything and All that is  trusting
and generous can never be replaced.

My grief is a suicide that can’t be understood
by the generous and trusting,
everything that has come before
and everything that will happen since.
My grief is not yours and yours is not mine.
I can’t share it with you, only bear it.
All we have in common is tears
that fill a cup of pain and enough salt
to line a Margarita glass, the next
bunch of circular steps till the watch stops
and someone opts us for ash or six feet under.
You cant understand anything of my grief
until you have lost your Everything and All.

My grief is space, a dark, long, lonely void,
like a lost astronaut spiraling away from earth.
There is no consolation in the idea
that at least he won’t be suffering for long,
that God won’t give him more than he can bare
and then some. He doesn’t care that he has all space
to feel the slow asphyxiation that comes
with the release of gravity.  His parents will
still be earthbound, feeling the heavy loss,
forever looking up and wondering
why the sky took their joy away.
The world will let them cry just
as I cry for his floating away.

Tell me a story when I grieve and cry.
For I am a poet and need the comfort of words.
For I need the art that lives and can be passed around.
For I need to know what you don’t know.
For I need to show Everything and All.
For I need to imagine everything you can’t.
For I need the action of your kindness and time.
Grant me your generosity and trust.
Grant me the power of your pardon,
the grace of an honest look,
the sincere utterance of I’m sorry,
for when you lack the words
I know all the generous, trusting, healing ones.

A Mountain Bluebird
matches the sky
soars so high
he settles on a cotton puffy cloud
tires after a wind catches his wing
he takes respite on a pink-hued billow
light weight and fine fathered
comfortable, he relaxes his wings
in daylight, sun drenches him in hot yellow warmth
in darkness, blue moon beholds him in midnight caress

As he observes Earth
he notes devastation from afar
heretofore obscured
oceans jam-packed with plastic
denuded forests
scarified mountain tops
dank air, garbage spill
cities dense with humans
heaps of cars flattened out
smog hangs low

Once, home to a family nest
in an oak tree on a lush green farm
at present, he scrutinizes the spectacle
hence, he opts to tarry
with the clouds, the sun, the moon, the stars

Most people don’t want to be converted at all
    They’ll pick their way along the winding trail
And, when owl in tree asks who, fear his call!
    Like squirrel giving two or three shakes of tail
They run from every breaking of twig
    Afraid the sly hunter’s claws will impale
And now, at nightfall, our Mister Big...

     Sharpened of claw, and focused of eye
With the cloven hooves and horns to boot
   Red predator tempts and tempts the prey
And skillfully tries to make-off with that loot
   But after temptations, th’accusations will fly
As, like the owl, he’ll preen and he’ll hoot
   And silently sit with a grin toward the sky...

So maybe call out to your old safety net
  Your regent who’s remedy always is ready
It might be an option your heart opts for yet
  It is easy & straightforward not vague or heady
You’ll escape from the raptor and won’t soon forget
  The moment you brought yourself focused and steady
To the great task of asking, there came comfort I bet

A Poet
A poet has no age and no choice
Whatever entices becomes dream
He is always ready to pay price
For that wonderful eternal beam

Love he carries on his sleeves
So sparingly he opts to reciprocate
Pleasure comes and leaves
The moment makes him to associate

Love is what he aspires in life
Where ever he happens to find
His sense to love on the knife
Which always makes him blind

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2019 Love Remains

in the rink.
He wears no
padded gloves,
instead opts for

brass knuckles. To hit
and not be hit
you must have rhythm
and wit. You got to

dance inside the
ropes. You can’t rely solely
on hope. You’ll get your
share of punches, nose

bleeds and aching
muscles.  There’s not
always a referee to
oversee, especially as an

adult. You’ve got to do it
yourself. And when you’re
down for the count you must
muster the strength to stand up.