The ... " GREAT DEBATE " ...
Would Seem To Surround This Thing Called Race ... ?
  
It Makes Some FROWN And Open Their Mouths ...  
About The Ways This Debate Is ... Swept AWAY ..............  
    
By ... " Heads of State " ...  
And Those Who Claim That .......................................  
    
"Racism displays are minimal today !  
So blacks who have a chip, should stop running their lips !"
    
Well Like The Young Orators ...  
Shown In ... " The Great Debators " ...  
    
My View Is Simply This ...  
    
Would They Rather Blacks Shoot ... Clips ... !?!  
Than Use Their Minds To .... " THINK " ...  ???  
    
A Question When Expressed ....  
That SHOULDN'T Be Answered ... YES ... !!!!!  
    
It's CLEAR The Great Debate Will ALWAYS Be This Way ...  
Because A Black Whose Brain ...
Is Used To EDUCATE And ELEVATE Our Strays ...  
  
Is One Who Will Be Labelled As A Person Telling Fables ...  
Whose Thought Waves Are ... UNSTABLE ... !!!!!
    
" A TERRORIST !!! "  
" A COMMUNIST !!! "  
AN UPSTART WHO ...  
SHOULD BE REMOVED !!!
    
... "HIS - Story" ...  
    
KEEPS Giving PROOF ...  
That Blacks Who Choose To RAISE THE ROOF ...  
When They REFUSE To ... " **** and Shoot " ...  
  
But Choose To Use Their Brain Tissue ...  
To ... Air Their Views On Race Issues ...  
Are DEMONISED By Those Who Unite Behind Racist Tribes ... !!!  
    
It's NOT A GAME To Face Race hate ... !!!
    
And Now Is NOT The Great Debate ... ?!?    
The Great Debate Has CLEARLY CHANGED ... !!!  
    
Osama ... Obama ...  
All Kinds of Street Drama ...  
With The Credit Crunch At Number One ... !!!!!!!!!!!!!  
    
Terrorist Crimes At Number Two ...  
And Number Three ... No Energy ... !!!  
    
No Oil ... No Gas .... !!!  
No Cash .... No Bank .... !!!  
    
No Bonuses The Onus is ......  
    
DIVERSIONS Folks And That's NO JOKE ... !!!  
    
Until I Hear This Very Quote ....  
    
"The President has sold his home !" ...
    
I Won't Adhere To Credit Fears ... !!!  
    
The Olympic Fund Has Seen NO CRUNCH ... !?!  
    
Even Though ... Cashflow Is Low ?!?!?  
DOESN'T Quite Add Up Like Government Sums ... !!!  
    
Their Great Debates Don't Seem To Relate ...  
About How They've ... Got EMPTY Plates ... !?!  
    
When I See THEM Starve Instead of Laugh ...  
About Policies That PROVE They're THIEVES ... !!!  
I'll Agree That WE ... Have Got PROBLEMS ... !!!  
    
The Type That Mean No Bonuses ...  
For ... BOARD CHAIRMEN ... !!!!!!  
    
No Whitehouse For The President ... !!!  
No Number 10 For The ... " PM ".... !!!!!  
    
And NO More Wars Where Cash Is Spent ...  
As If There's More For .... KILLING Men ... !!!!!  
    
That's A Great Debate ... I'd  Undertake ... !!!!!    
  
Non Violent Acts Against Government Plans ....  
Like Corporate Expedience ... Against Civil Disobedience ...  
    
Debates Like These Are RARELY Seen ...  
EXCEPT These Days On Movie Screens ...  
    
But Even Then Critics Defend ....  
The Lack of Facts These Movies Have ...  
    
... " So, a movie lied ! " ...  
    
How Many Times Has Hollywood ....  
Made Things Look .... " Good " ....  
Because The Bad Would DISPEL Facts...  
SOCIETIES ... Stick To Like GLUE ... !!!  
To KEEP The FOOLS ... IGNORANT To TRUTH ... !!!!!  
    
When Governments ...  
Become ... UNSTUCK ...  
Who'll Debate Then .... !?!  
    
The ... IGNORANT ... !?!
Who've Been FED LIES Most of Their Lives ... !!!!?!!!!  
    
Now That Will Be A ... WORRYING Time ... !!!!!    
    
The Average Joe Who Is GUNG ** ...  
RUNNING The Show When People BLOW ... !!!!!  
    
It's Happening NOW Some Youth Are WILD ... !!!  
    
Running Around ...  
Toting The Style of ... " Gangsta Clowns " ... !!!  
    
Guns And **'s In Videos ... !!!  
How REAL Are THEY Who Get .... " Airplay " .... !???!  
    
Another Debate That May Bring SHAME ... ?  
To Those With FAME ....
Because Their Fame Has Been Man-Made ... !!!  
    
Like HIS-Story Now Seems To Be ... ?  
The Racist Theme of This Here Piece ...
Is NOT All That It Seems To Be ... !!!  
    
Whether It Be RACE Or The Exchange Rate ...    
Or The Time It Takes For Equality To REIGN ... ?????  
    
It Is CLEAR Those Who ORATE And Try To Educate ...  
Should ALWAYS Have A Say ...  
  
Within ...  
    
...... " The Great Debate " ......

i can walk in the street with canned beer
and appear to be ******,
because alcohol gives me buddha eyes.

alcohol is always looking for a righteous expression,
it's abused all the time,
it burdens the n.h.s. all the time,
it has too many idiots succumbing to it,
it requires someone to drink
and be an intellectual, simply to pardon
alcohol in the conglomerate
of ****-ups, hangovers, puking in toilets,
et cetera et cetera.
when used with sleeping pills and a paracetamol
tab it's the perfected sedative,
i sedate myself, i don't drink to party woo hoo!
encountering a bunch of marijuana idiots
giggling over a pickled cucumber pimples
ha ha... pickled cucumber acne... ha ha...
enough about my drinking...
loving it anyway: it's holiday within a jolly
good day... passed a young blonde and an old ****,
they were having a therapy session in
the park... second time i pass them i end up
whistling as they pass, the old **** is telling
the young **** to look the part and assert
some for of happiness, marriage and security
and the dead man's dole to keep her interests
in perfumes and clothing afloat...
i tell the ancient oak it's required to be brown,
while the colts miscarry brown with penicillin green,
marshmallow and fungi, both squidgy,
the octopuses of the forest,
mush watered-fevered-of-shape for an umbrella
invented, latest the 18th century, with an aeroplane.
other than that?
i accuse the beatniks of desecrating sacred grounds / tool,
they invoked the use of words, they recorded their
experience of ancient indian / aztec shamanism...
carlos castaneda* quoted the shaman don juan
as saying: the experience is for you alone...
the beatnik poets started to write about the experience,
werther's original (butter sweets) turned sour,
they invoked recording their hallucinations,
**** them, **** them **** them **** them!
the mystical experience has been eradicated,
any more talk of neil armstrong and walking on the moon
parallels the desecration of these hallucinogenics
with words, these american poets desecrated the one
single dimension that could not be written about:
they walked on the moon and wrote about it...
i know nostalgia and all that, but give us a break!
the only people taking peyote these days
are rich white girls who end up injecting the concentrated
version of the natural, the essence, into their arms...
god said analysis... man said: synthesis (and analysis)...
although i dare to add the fact that there are two
strands of poetry: one that looks like a morning hangover
haircut... and one that looks like the taj mahal
of rolling marbles...
for example: ezra pounds' and ginsberg's poetry
looks great, and i mean great, they write like
they telling you to use a microscope...
but they don't have the voice to orate...
whereas gregory corso's poetry doesn't look that great,
actually it looks like ****, too simple,
but when he orates it... HE ORATES IT!
maybe his life gave him the power,
i wish i could orate like him, in fact, i never had,
the most i orated was impromptu
and it was never noted down...
but the point is: those who orate perfectly
write a simple aversion to the other strand of
poetics that is relegated / more interested in optics:
rather than a stage, a crowd, a voice "in the wilderness;"
all in all, my affiliation with hades.

I seized a colorful pigeon on my palm
And I started to engrave the story of our love in its feathers
It flew away to orate our love
And in the night I met him in my dream
He was dead, and said “This is how the society deals with love

If the wind is parch white
And the universe stops
And listens to the words
Shape and form on the tip of my tongue
Vultis nosse?
Vis sentiunt?
Could I chip away the walls that separate our bodies?
Medio claustra potui dirumpere animas?

It would seem foolish, huh?

Funny, how hurt is so heavy.
Funny, how desiderium clarius est quam amor aliquando

Chant these ancient hymns
And press your lips against the sound of eternity:
*et orate
et orate
Amo te

Wake up vibrations,
stroke us kindly,
we’ll all be one someday,
singularity is just a timepiece.
Gotta sell the diamonds
to calibrate the cogs,
we’re digits livin in
clogged colons.
We cure MONOtony,
with medicinal MONOgamy,
mourning the cut cord of civility.

Oh, how I miss the vibrations
of those tribal jam sessions.
Maybe cause I didn’t record them
with voice memo boxes.
We’re living in boxes.
Driving in boxes.
Working in boxes.
Staring at boxes.
But beauty is roundness.
So help me measure the circumference of your face,
because I can’t tell where it begins and ends.
I will knit you a beenie come winter.
And we’ll skate upon this lake,
willing the ice to break.
Cause we are done being fake.
We are done telling people
where they should skate.
We are holding her hand
and his hand
and our own hand
when we hold hands.
Black Red White Yellow
they are all hands
with the power
to give and to take,
not just orate.
So give the politicians
the *******
and then join hands
break down rectangular gates.
Then, meditate.
We will wait for utopia,
but we won’t stand for things being the same.
And come spring when we re-awake,
we'll draw up a new constitution for
a consciousness revolution.

i keep looking at people become serious diarists, like Paulo Coelho writing the alchemist, which can be an odd experience... i've got ants in my pants and i'm a dog's bone away from playing dead, sitting in mantra of: load off visiting Singapore and never getting the hangover joke of Bangkok... sinus gaping pore? it's all ******* feathery anyway... flusters of rouge should fantasy come to life.

learn to cackle, thus said: invoke a magpie, to learn laugher -
ha ha (etc.), as can easily be turned into a cackle,
only magpies cackle and even funnier,
applicability of diacritical markings,
as if stealing letters of silver spoons...
Scōtlānd: meiné skoot,
overt
           lá                           -nd...
spacing for the macron -
          and hence the acute without spacing...
                          truth to the tooth
and elsewhere bone-shattering governing the rattle
of the ribs... a canary's song least that of worth
with a woad's pigmentation...
               or said ivory to turqouise...
azure, and vented in lavender...
           but the cackle came
with *Scōtlānd: learn the linguistic
arithmetic! the macron und umlaut
synonym... if applying it learn it,
if not applying it: learn Bulgarian,
Oristice the peacocking accents...
        turquoise though:
Eurydice... Orestes... synonym of acne...
so few do, in that the diacritical indication
is a higher-tier arithmetic...
            such that the less implied is
governed by the impeding peacock variation
that suggests Da, in all prevailing -isms,
                   as saying raw, to a Tartar
over a horse limb steak galloping toward Ukraine...
         but here we are: adorning tartan
of chequers and navy that mingles blue & purple...
                       and here we are abiding to
the Faroe Isle recluse...   spelled aisle    said
i'll...      and that i dare not wallow in it much further...
haggis neeps and tatties... wanking over
a cow's testicular dangly... truant to all truth...
        and all truth to the truant rodins....
  thus to laugh excessively is to cackle like a magpie,
   and hark a phlegmish soar with the raven...
                and end all tragedies without
a Hebraic definition of ha as
      the: direct article... for good manners suggest
that no clue be justified in cradling the sigma
of either the zenith of the Babylonian tower
or the spiral of condescending might twirling into
an imploding tornado over Egypt and all things
                  extravagantly Pythagorean...
  or as Balaam said: i rode a donkey out of Yerusalem:
sprechen yiddish.            
               three years among them...
  and i can say with much demand: Scōtlānd...
scootlaand...     if i ever learned to cleanse,
i also learned to adapt... a circumstance of thinking
myself adequately counter-inept to share
   the Baltic with Lapland skiers, as synonymous
and congregational in being translated into Ęglish
          for what already is: a truancy when cultural
criticism isn't enough... because the culture makes
one truant from engaging with it... because there
is no culture to be critical of...
                   a hermit foretold and with clasped hands
   gave alms, and later: with a slow clapping
          made hands orate what the tongue made shoelace-
                                                       ­         (op+. -spaghetti)       .

spelling backwards through time,
      stroke by blurry stroke
      a maiden's coal-black hair regales
      the flattery from her lips...  and so the doom
-- and boon of a crimson warrior's arm --
      was drawn from speech a flame,
      and kindled mind to burn away for lust,
one speaker fed and doubly fraught
by goddess's
      invention brought
to give away his name and trust,
for doppelgangers' games
                                 and beauty
                                         to consent~

that trollish abysm our aching selfhood
deems unworthy, war can celebrate:
iconic genius symbol may encourage,
it may remembrance windows of our history~
      but only breath, and inner sight so keen
      on solid strength of living fact
      can triumph in the plain!
some semblance of an older wisdom
strains to orate still, and lust itself afar,
      but brawn and tested fibrous body build
      must turn the page of time;
and this, to know the truth withstood
that vision
        of a perfect youth
                            forever,
one start and line without an end,
      a floating dance of pulling under waves
      that never waves as being surely does
like no ancient-honest country-prophet ever saw--
thus, remnants of the wisdom from a fallen mind;
and so he fell to her and had not her for long...
she had a wider window, immortal panes,
this temptress
       suppleness of limb to shock
and shake the bones of foolish learning,
that thinks itself imbued with everlasting fame.

it was a mossy light
                         of eyelash shine
                                           and sheen
                                                   to woo
                                                        the wisdom out,
electric sense to lure the hapless sap
into a brutish trap: to learn alone the
atheletes pathos, relearn the heart-race
from a chest of seemless vigour,
from lungs of endless winds
and legs of trunkish growth the
channels and the prism of an empty skull
instead of learned ships and foolish mimes of finer times--
                   he does the bidding of her will.











.

The Beatnik Café’

Cigarettes, coffee, a ****** beret
Blue smoke and Blue Mountain, blue verse, blue rhyme --
O Come to the side-street beatnik café;
Here present-tense yourself; caffeine the time

Here order your Bacon very well Donne
And jam your java with croissants and Keats
Orate from Spenser; groove with Tennyson
Tap out a line of Seafarer-four beats

Tap out a manifesto; everyone does
Pulp-print Red rags yelp “Revolution Now!”
The typewriter is holy, and Up the Fuzz!
Bongo that Kerouac, and Howl, but how?

Bongo that beat, oh, yeah, it’s crazzzzy, man
Sheaffer that rhythm, cat; Parker that line
Ferlinghetti your truth to a yellow pad
Sharpen your verbs to a rebel design

Sharpen your verbs from a bottle of ink
Light up a Camel; blow intellectual smoke
Teach the ****** bourgeois how they should think
Grey-suited capitalists – what a joke!

L’Envoi – Time Slouches On

Tee-shirted capitalists joke in Mandarin
The latest chained coffee’s inside the mall
English and Apples are original sin
On glowing screens where the pale pixels crawl

And no one crawls through rhythm, rhyme, or verse,
Or bongos out an existential cry
For poetry is dead; the twitters terse
Reduce the ancient loves to I, me, my.

pst... they read too much fiction and philosophy, they keep forgetting poetry is akin to music... you know, mozart mozart mozart... they think they’ll definitely orate a revival of the roman empire with poetry... but it’s μ... it’s moo... it’s moo... it’s ha ha ha ha. let’s face it, attacking poetry is attacking music, hence ascetic islam, i don't know why philosophy forgot musicology when stating grievances with poetry: oh i know, karaoke.*

but when you wonder what nietzsche expected concerning god’s panic on the 1 / seventh day, i might as well speak the lines:

and god’s indolence master crafted satan.

so you see, the timing is relevant, no spontaneous combustion with snow white eve and the envious ‘mirror mirror on the wall,’ just the fact that a force of insurmountable creativity slouching like a couch potato could only craft satan.

evolutionary biologists don’t panic! don’t panic! the evolutionary theologians are on their way! they said: too much drunk history going from a. present times to b. the epic of gilgamesh to c. monkey - it’s just that the artists depicting kings and queens made them look ugly, such unsympathetic depictions of such beauty... where’s the irony, eh? i do mean it, one university lecture started the whole of of history by citing the epic of gilgamesh as the begetting of the tempted eve - not that there’s much correlation between the two - but imagine if she wasn’t tempted and man could not differentiate himself from all other animals? of course the byproduct would have been a surreal take on vanity.

satan is the activity of what is otherwise repeat, repeat, repeat of the stars and crow pecks and perks, he’s the randomised activity overseer, the whole karma of the thinking stone, but obviously stones don’t think, so there’s man in all of this: sooner a mountain will meet a mountain than man with man - some desirable ******* like that.

it’s the bored in reflection - but how can i say that in my “group therapy” sessions in the park - perched high up are the dog walkers, who barely known the word wolf... leashes and leeches all the same, cats roam free and i’m free from them, but a dog is like a fascinating emblem of the person walking it - the leash - i necessarily exist because i’m attached to this dribbling driftwood that begins talking with woof, woof! i let the cat go, and i drift into the same serialisation of fearlessness before death, having encountered it several times i’m almost certain there’s an angel behind it, punishing me, eagerly anticipating me to have a career, a wife, a child, a puppy, a car, a mortgage. no can do, me and pavement are opera if things come to the clinical stages of peering in the lives of others on a sunday. me? eyed myself wonky testifying the success of an old couple with one of them dead the other soon follows in siamese fashion. so i drink the beer get a suntan in the shade, and write what the auburn colouring could provide in letters.

now we’re talking inspiration, brief, sudden, lightning strike... we’re not talking stephen king and lumberjack.

We spend all our lives at Circus Maximus.
We are preoccupied by the external,
forsaking the locus of our sacred worth
that is our hearts and souls. Rather,
we gaze transfixed by ludi of clowns
who make us laugh, at inspiring athletes,
at plays and recitals, at celebrations
of our victorious battles, at gladiators
who thrill us by killing other gladiators
and lions and Christians, even at
public executions. Politicians sometimes
come to orate. But never do we hear
a word about love and being loved.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

we pamper the old as if they were children,
we pamper the children due to their inexperience,
yet we pamper the old due to their experience,
and naiveness at allowing them an extended
childhood, which goes well beyond childhood's
allowance, of so many counted years;
the old are children in disguise, children are
the old in disguise... whatever the balance...
we pay undue respect for either, and leave
ourselves with very little, other than a clumsy cotton
feeling of tending to both.

there was once a national health service
for sure, all the current pensioners
are using it to brimful excess,
respect the aged due to frailty,
**** the youth,
make them so embittered they'll pop up
middle aged torturing pensioners,
by the looks of it...
i can't even get my citizen allowance
of what being a citizen of *such a glorious
beacon of light of western civilization
as england claims to be,
i'll sooner find the cure to my ailments
talking to a coffin that i would chance talking
to a doctor around here, for a pitiful number
(58) of sleeping pills... sleeping pills! for ****'s sake!
maybe genuflecting with a dog-collar
would keep me on the social sonar,
or maybe i'm just a stranded ***** whale
ready for a selfie... whichever...
'if you're expecting a belief in eternity from me,
forget it! i wouldn't want to be stranded with
a bunch of 72 secretaries on a desert island
for 5 minutes let alone eternity.'
now i'll have to down 7 paracetamol tabs
to create a sleeping pill effect...
wait 48 hours for a written form to be filed,
an then hope, hope... to speak to a doctor...
if they're going to privatise the national health service,
they could have done it with a little bit more
decency than the take of: in-your-face... **** 'em.
survival of the fittest? great theory...
survival of the greediest... gluttons galore,
and the rest of it.
i never thought a disease such as a drug addiction
would play the monopoly card on us all,
leaving us stranded in insomniac limbo
for an eerie feeling of wanting and waiting
but never receiving aid - not even allowed
self-medication strategies... just told:
2000 calories is your medicine dosage,
air, water... and a television set...
listen to the pipe piston-maker...
listen to the rat tat tat rapper...
keen eared, ogle eyed... blunt on the scent:
and disinfected on the touch
with the bone-**** of the hand imitating
love and war... apathy and peace and everyone
on the dole - in a society where sickness is
punishable with a slow death rather than recovery,
in a society where self-employment eradicated
social security of a governable state as state worthy
in recognition to the patriotism of cheap football chants
and hymns of splendour,
in a state that eats its people in order that foreign
investment can blossom and in turn
retract to allow such a state to take a warring stance
in investors' vicinity... a puppet state
of disorientated people... where the strong are told
to sit it out... while the mediocre meddle
in organising the strong with the weak to no
distinguishing recognition being allowed...
the people are hardly identifiable with mankind;
i've seen democracy fail a countless times,
and the more it fails, the more its adherents
orate its perfection... only a system that's bound
to fail and in failing be equipped with such
a strategic defence mechanism of astronomical
proportions: esp. among the doomed fate
of non-reproductive organisms as the homosexual
coupling suggests: trample the heterosexuals...
demand slavery of all men, the freedom of women
emancipated from a theocratic patriarchy...
wed them, provide them with children,
and then a divorce... keep the idiots dreaming...
make them wage-worthy and alimony providing.

evening beds the daytime

chronicle

gather in toward yourself

the care and benefits of the day span


Welcome Vessels and Vessels go

It’s made overly complex

But Satellites ;

Are not we all ?


In jeopardy

a froth at sea

we raft together

like a healing tangle

once we are tossed to shore

we dismiss our gratitude

comb out our hair

and rebuild a dignity


we structure a calendar

scribe in the journal

and orate ourselves

a branded new history

I arise alone,
Having less time than yesterday.
Suppressing the urge to idle
I forsake my repose.

I unbolt the drawer
And make a selection.
Preparation in silence for the day
Sustaining my hunger to last the day.

I set out from the door
To burn my legs upon nature;
No hand recognizes my presence,
For the wind stands still.

Stopping but journeying through life
An unrivaled struggle resides ahead.
Then I am challenged here,
And stoically fight through fatigue.

I alternate my room
To practice what I preach
And labor obsessively to breed a seed.
A hand sails past my window at twilight.

Then confidence finds me
And guides me to orate the answers.
For I know these matters,
Presiding at the peak of the caste.

The roots of my seed dig elsewhere.
I glide into the brisk wind
Hearing trillions of hands applaud me
As I amble home again.

Más zafio tranco diario
llagánima
masturbio
sino orate
más seca sed de móviles carnívoros
y mago rapto enlabio de alba albatros
más sacra carne carmen de hipermelosas púberes vibrátiles de sexotumba góndola
en las fauces del cauce fuera de fértil madre del diosemen
aunque el postedio tienda sus cangrejales lechos ante el eunuco olvido
más lacios salmos mudos
manos radas lunares
copas de alas
más ciega busca perra tras la verdad volátil plusramera ineterna
más jaguares deseos
nimios saldos terráqueos en colapso y panentrega extrema desde las ramas óseas hasta la córnea pánica
a todo huésped sueño del prenoser menguante
a toda pétrea espera
lato amor gayo nato
deliquio tenso encuentro sobre tibias con espasmos adláteres
ya que hasta el unto enllaga las mamas secas másculas
y el mismo pis vertido es un preverso feto si se cogita en fuga
más santo hartazgo grávido de papa rica rima de tanto lorosimio implume vaterripios
sino hiperhoras truncas dubiengendros acéfalos no piensos e impactos del tan asco
aunque el cotedio azuce sus jaurías sorbentes ventosas de bostezos

beber de tu fuente, ahogado
entre tus ojos

tu verdad es la religion
de un orate en ciernes

beberte lentamente, a tu
piel adicto

mas alla de pasiones y desdenes,
la ferocidad y la ternura

el deseo inherente a tus ojos, pegado a mi
anquilosado al alma

una voz y una vision, en mi oasis
de verdades y pesares

perdido y encontrado, entre tus
manos de artemisa

beber de tu fuente, sediento y
muriente de tu escensia

y como una diosa, yo soy
tu ethereo devoto

artemisa, que cazaste el alma de
leon de un caminante

perdido entre becerros, y cazado
por la DIOSA

a los ojos del padre, y entre sus hijos
eres mi artemisa, cazadora de leones

entre sueños y visiones, el padre
permita y bendiga

alejados de mundo, en el reino de los
sueños, yacer en tus brazos, sereno

en paz alejado de su maldad, perdido en
tus ojos grandes, bajo los cielos

y frente a la maldad, solo beber de tu fuente
mi saciedad y serenidad

hold on to the music
to the sound my mouth
is making now
hold on to the wind
it'll blow you south
it'll blow you everywhere
but the one place
I hope it blows you
is here to me
I made a mistake
my bad, I guess
wish I could take
it back with a word
or maybe a few
dozens of hundreds
but no matter how
many novels I orate
you will probably
never be back with me
the winds carry over
the sea and away from me
and though that
brings about tears
it's the way of the world
it's like the sound
of a heart beat
can't change the melody
no matter how many times
you swear to the skies
my heart is breaking
just from sheer will
from the ideas that fall
through my cluttered skull
and I know it's about
to explode onto the sidewalk
but if that's the way it goes
if that's the way the wind blows
I guess I'll be sitting here
a long time
a long wasted time.

There, in the looking glass
Don't you see her?
Her eyes, light green
So full of mystery and past pains
Her dress, so pallid
Has been stained by words so very brutal
And her lips, trembling so
Daring to speak but she won't
For her lips have been sewn shut
By the man who told her not to orate one word
The man who should've listened
The man who should've loved her
The man who she dares not to ever utter his name even once
The man who she should've been proud to call Dad
Is now the man who's ruined her
Who's given the hellish gift of anxiety
Its icy hands wrap ‘round her neck like a vise
Reminding her of his merciless words
The bullets that he shot at her
The scars he has given her
And now her white dress is no longer just stained
But it is a whole new color
All thanks to he who shall not be named

perhaps the hardest lesson to learn
is based upon drinking
whiskey slowly...
    you can down one kalimotxo glass
after another, and if you have
to litres of wine, you can also chain-smoke
choo-choo it down the slide
into more uninhibited territory -
but with whiskey: there's a need to
keep vigil, and wait, and wait...
  and it can sometimes be disengaging
that you somehow have to wait
for the right moment, and begin...
      oh, i drink out of choice,
not out of an addict's plea -
   what three weeks in Poland showed me
was that i can switch off the "addiction"
in a day, and feel no cold-trukey drama...
the western world with
its romanticism of madness and its
theatre of addiction narratives bores
me... quiet literally bores me...
   so why am i writing this?
well... i feel the tipping point of the Libra
working its way into my drinking session...
a few aphorisms by a german
philosopher in hardback...
   then a few newspaper articles from
a newspaper (column section, primarily)
and i can begin...
   and i can begin: because i feel no shame
in writing what i would consider to be
utter tosh... but given the Libra principle:
at least i'll write nearly as much
as i have read...
     i find it a disaster to merely write...
to fill some void, as if to rekindle once had
conversations with transcient friends:
notably those in a system of either schooling,
or work...
    i just have a void in my head
that once had pristine conditions (soul-like)
for thinking... now i don't...
  as happens when blood spills onto neurons
and you hear a sound akin to water
on an electric current...
but never mind that...
          do i care for past conversations
as a writer might, in that current film 5 to 7?
well... i'm not really a writer...
   as it is self-evident: i have the least
interest in paragraphs, or ensuring someone
takes me writing to bed as:
the best way to fall asleep... not as depressing
as someone falling asleep with the television on,
i gather that much...
     but i'm not really here to talk,
to orate grand things in the vein of a Cicero...
i thought i could begin citing more
Seneca and Cicero than the Greeks...
but then i found that: they cite the Greeks...
so why bother citing those two?
     pedantry, for the care of it being
a reflection that: there actually was a beginning,
and with that beginning i find myself
lodged in the current year, a.d. 2017.
    it's not that i care about these historical
figures... they're as far removed from me
as someone in a village 100 miles north off
Beijing... gearing up from tending to a field
to occupying a cubicle-sized room
with a naked lightlulb dangling off the ceiling...
it's hardly an umbilical cord...
but such is the contrast i'm experiencing,
a philosophy book on the one hand,
and a newspaper on the other hand...
  you can't find a better case of zenith and nadir...
i read one and i reach a nadir -
because current affairs and my place in the world
are a bit pointless by comparison...
  but i read the other, and i am walking
up a mountain, upon which i find coordinates (0, 0)
and of all things: gravity - a pulling force
that drags me to say, well...
coordinates (0, 0), but that's on an x-y graph...
i'm the z-line, so, more precisely 1 (0, 0) -
neither of these two mediums are actually
three-dimensional, as such, not the objects
themselves, but the content...
   so i have to stand outside the already prescribed
coordinate foundation...
but i still find philosophy books inadequate
in some way... a) no grammatical words...
not using the basis of categorising language,
all the time, just throwing words into abstracts
and geometric bulwark -
      no grammatical words, not one,
only Artistotle nibbling at it: proper names...
       or such thing from ancient lore...
and b) the rigid concepts used, intact,
to further an argument, or merely state
the logic of language...
           e.g. ad infinitum (to infinity) -
and never toward, say, something poetic...
   it's enough that grammatical words have never
been used in philosophy books...
  allowing a pseudo-ping-pong or at least
the quickened step... a wormhole effect...
but the fact that there can be no, i.e.
    αδ μηταφoρυμ -
        for example syllables, diacritical marks
as punctuation marks / syllable enforcers within
words... why then all the way to infinity
and not toward the given, now?!
toward metaphor, yes...
               how there is medicine all around...
a doctorate in linguistics might also mean
using another kind of scalpel to cut open words...
and not begging at the oratorium of:
the pen is mightier than the sword...
         so i guess that would mean:
the tongue is mightier than the thought,
  or as some would say: the thing that incubates
thinking... the in abstracto brain...
why would we begin to think by claiming
the origin of thought is in the brain and is by
brain solely coordinated?
   what of feelings concerning the heart,
and my drunken odes when the liver speaks more?
i can hardly be as merely a brain in a pickle-jar
attacked to a computer (some time in the future)...
the heart speaks as much as the brain,
if not more!
           side-tracking,
and why:                    Γγ      Υυ
   and not akin to Ιι                      Ρρ   Ττ    Χχ
      Ψψ, i.e. identical shrinking?
   some would say: can that ever be a serious question?
well... unless you're part of the crowd
asking about the mysteries of the universe,
i guess it isn't...
                   well... it's there, i'm in it...
it's unfathomable to the extent we currently
understand it... but at least this thing i asked is
concerning a human question,
   not a dialectically theological question
that stacks a lot of brains working on
the cartesian "i am" without much thought,
i.e. the tri-tier dialectics of theism / deism / atheism:
no matter what thought i put into that thing
that boasts moons, stars Jupiter and Mars will
ever produce a lightbulb...
     or a recipe for a well cooked roast...
here, now... language... it's bewildering
on the basis that: well, we're not exactly
merchants on the silk road writing route symbols
so we don't get lost when we travel across
Arabia... by the looks of it... we're already lost!
yes, that really was an exaggeration:
but i like to think it's so,
it's not as simple as 1 (straight), 2 (turn left)
and 3 (turn right) -
so to walk through a maze you were given
the instruction schematic:
1, 1, 1... 2... 1, 1, 1, 1... 3... 1... 2... 1, 1... 3... 1, 1...
bingo!
   and believe me.... you will end up writing
these little codes at some point, wondering
why it was that you didn't remember modern
code given computers... or as i do...
or why i do these little codes, because,
as a byproduct of being drilled 1 + 1 = 2
   from age 8... i feel like taking a break
and writing the most basic ciphers...
a bit like receiving complimentary chocolates
on your hotel bed...
  it's not exactly a chocolate fountain...
but hell... they're there.
yet what was that thing i mentioned,
the Libra principle?
     well... it doesn't matter what i wrote...
i spent the past hour reading...
   which makes me feel, actually a bit shameless
about writing anything at all...
   it's how i find writing to be at best
a chance of being trapped in a moment
    that post-pones more balancing acts...
i just can't stash inside of myself
  this high-air i'm wearing a cravat sort of airs...
like i might need a butler...
     i can't say i write more than i read...
but at feel less urgent in writing anything at all...
and the content just passes me by...
the context is more important:
whiskey, cigarettes, newspaper, windowsill
a bit of heidegger...
               and that's how it should be:
it can never be that important as i might even
like to think...
         and yes, as Kafka noted should
his works be kept, published IN LARGE PRINT...
you seen a Kafka book?
    New Times Roman... probably size 9 or 10...
they overdid the justice bit with Bukowski...
Kafka is stacked on my shelf and he's moaning
saying: you ******* should have at least
published my books in larger font:
so it's easier to read... who's this chuckling Charlie
doing in the myopic section of the library...
i mean: how many insuctices have been served
like that... he can boast all he wants:
the reason he's pop is because they printed
him in LARGE TEXT... Kafka received
a **** when he ordered a steak tartar...
   and yes... the stench of a nation once incorporated
into the Roman empire is all too evident
in an English newspaper...
   coming from a faction of peoples who didn't
experience being brown-nosed by the Romans
or who claim no conncetion with the Roman world
can be a bit daunting...
               it would seem to suggest that there's
nothing to boast about...
    and that much is true...
as if true that Poland: has absolutely no moral
obligation to prevent the people of Hong Kong
from being swallowed up by the one-party Chinese
state...
       because no more Kowtow means: no more Kowtow.
if i were British i'd cite Bilbo Baggins...
Gandalf... i feel streched... like
    too little butter spread over too much toast...
what's with this predicate of having moral
obligations... 6000+ miles away from Dover?!
well... these are middle-class opinions,
   instead of reading a newspaper, i should really
try to get an invitation to some *******'
    dinner party in Devon... or Richmond...
that's what i meant when i meant: two Europes...
  suddenly got the fear
and left: because there emerged a workforce
with a communist work ethic,
a generation who had to join the army for 2 years...
given the conscription laws...
         every time i wake up and feel nothing
but jealousy of not being born in poland in the 1960s.

i am you
i’ll play a tune
to sing of sunny haze
and cloudy gloom

you are me
you’ll write a sonnet
to speak of fireflies
and underground moments

i am me
i’ll paint a picasso
depicting stained hearts
and abstracted souls

you are you
you’ll orate a speech
declaiming of eloquence
and casual vernacular street

we are we
and we will forever be
immoralised from art to poetry
faded all the way to infinity.

I wrote you a letter in Latin, 
But I couldn't read it. 
I admit, I thought the class
Was an easy credit. 
Not the phrases, but my nuance
Needing mending. 
Felt a lie, and I'm not so good
At pretending. 

You just couldn't see the hand
I was extending,
As into the wallpaper
I kept blending.
Perhaps it's my fault, since
I wore that shirt. 
Standing out's the quickest
Way to get hurt. 

But speaking from the diaphragm
I can bellow, 
And orate like some old dead
Roman fellow. 
Standing out and looking 
Like a plain fool
Reciting broken Latin 
Learned in high school. 

My only benediction is
The violence of my voice, 
To compensate the losses of
The silence of my choice
Standing naked 'fore the masses
Flawless Latin being read,
Without the slightest clue as to
What any of it said.

Then you looked at me with pain
In your dark brown eyes, 
When at last,  my folly 
You had realized. 
You said that, though my effort
Brought you much joy,
"Latinas don't speak Latin, 
My dear, dumb boy. "

He has that radiant azure eyes
Everyone said they are pools of lies

His lips is an adept
Seems there is no apocryphal when he orate

When he is around
Her angst will fall to the ground

He fills her days with all his alibi
Until she does not need to watch TV

She agigated for his love
That is atrocious and mysterious

He suddenly left without adieu
And let her feels so blue

Now, she is just a book with no happy ending
Because he is the one who writes everything

r.a.

Luego del próximo recodo
tal vez convenga irlo pensando

sé de un viejo compatriota
terrateniente él
que en su colchón de muerte
miró uno por uno
a sus llorosos herederos
dijo
       ah farsantes
                            y a continuación
crepó como un bendito

es claro que para ese gesto
los latifundios son indispensables

yo digo que más vale improvisar

porque si reno programa decir algo pujante
y después solloza como un perro apaleado

o si se propone soltar un llanto digno
y luego canturrea corno un orate

o si planifica extender la mano abierta
y después es un puño y no queda claro
si es por tacaño o por comunista

puede ser tildado
de inconsecuente o frívolo

y ésa no es una huella lápida
que va a ser.

there's either a tribalism to return to, or there's a return to trivialities, pedantry and offing on incredulous banalities of modern life; modern life, what a treat: more like cubicle life (ref. p.t.s.d.).

yet among the rubble, there's hope -
     the intricacy of little pleasures -
     *klein freude... apologies:
    i have both the annoying tendency
of an englishman saying sorry
for no apparent reason,
  which, to the english, is a bit like saying
'hello' - and i have a fetish for
the deutschezunge (german tongue) -
don't ask me why,
                 i can only guess at the idea
of heaven as being a place where
i speak german...
               but then again: i'd miss the
trilling of the R in slavic...
   **** it, whatever.
            - it's high autumn (by the way -
and by the way: colon = italics,
and - hyphen at the beginning works
just as well as a semi-colon, i.e.:
a hovering manoeuvre of interjection;
i'm not kidding you,
  it's no mere heimlich).
  - i found it debatable,
full-stop inside... or outside the use
of p.s. linear (bracket)?
               ..., now that's a cliff-hanger:
suspense! wow! houdini just
entered the building, and he left an hour
later, as elvis.
cheap jokes: keep 'em coming.
- now i've heard of magic tricks that
wow audiences, e.g. swallowing swords,
but doing the cockney magic trick
of swallowing letters?
       never!
                can you imagine swallowing
letters?
        a bit like the perpetually asiatic
swallowing of the H -
      khan - whoever has khan
as a surname, and is from pakistan -
grand-grand-grand-grand-grand-grand...
grand-mother must 'ave been
genghis' khan's concubine...
            don't you think?
**** got: wacky!
     funky wack, shimmy shimmy shimmy.
- and yet (yes, with a hyphen
+ interjection, you can begin a sentence
with a conjunction) -
              what's the only good
thing you can say about the nazis?
        gucci ****** gabanna and never
looked back,
it was one, giant, fashion ****...
  everyone, even the poles,
     always, and i mean: always -
pays the nazis the compliment akin
to a z. z. top song, because they were,
sharp-dressed men;
  and my i add, there's no grand oops
to be minded on either your's,
or my behalf;
   i can almost see these actors or
       background images of "actors"
without one-liners (cameos are for
people famous in other fields) -
   frothing at their mouths,
so eager to don the uniforms of
    the wehrmacht...
                          well, might as well
reference it now...
my paternal great-grandfather owned
the ss ehrendolch -
  the dagger with the insignia that spelled
out:
  |m|e|i|n|e| |e|h|r|e| |h|e|i|ß|t| |t|r|e|u|e|
problem is: i don't know if it was his,
or whether post-war "totem":
i'm thinking of the correct word,
but i can't find it... you know -
like scalps were... hmm...
      not memorabilia...
   ah, **** it, totem it is.
father never really talked about it
beyond owning it,
       then again, his mother came from
Silesia, and Silesia was annexed from
germany and given to poland,
    while the russians took l'viv...
so... hands in the air, i honestly don't
know the correct version.
- ah, but that's beside the point...
autumn, i have a fetish for this season...
its sheer opulence of scents,
  far greater than that spring provides...
it must be the cold,
  the early nibbling of winter's chill,
winter the crab, lobster spinster that
pinches and never forgives,
   and is never asked to forgive.
the grey skies, the endless night -
      the season where the crow and the kafka
orate the deathly silences -
of which there are seven -
  and my my, watching snow fall in
the night... that's when god reveals
he's transgender, and lifts his skirt up to
revel in the image of venus...
    but that's how nature is, evidently,
the near monochromatic colours of
    decay, ranging between the heart warming
browns, reds and yellows or oranges;
  i agree with frank o'hara -
orange is a terrible colour,
but not when it mingles with the others,
when it does so, it compliments them.
yet the decay of non-animate objects
(well, trees are animate, but in slow motion) -
yet the decay of nature on the level
of plants, unlike an animal or a fruit or
vegetable... nature showcases decay as a:
bouquet of sweetness...
                      i could never imagine watching
something dying to be so,
******* beautiful...
           melancholic beauty -
perhaps because the death of man is so
****** depressing,
  and that fact that you already have
the a priori of spring being recurrent
  and just around the corner...
           whatever is...
                autumn is never too long,
but always too short...
       and just behind it,
  the humbled trees,
    with their shady skeletons and lost
crowns of lost hair...
             seemingly mangled and stringy
by some sort of arthritic deformity...
       still, a humbled tree,
  makes for an enlightened man.

p.s. the perfume of smoking wood,
cinnamon and butternut squash
cloves, cardamon and perhaps
a tinge of fennel... and
                  foxes mating in the night,
almost makes me un-wish wanting to
hear wolves howl.

힣 jitto appersoote:

a little bit of nonsense
until punched into
a search button
of google
   retaining only 1 result...

i'm so glad that i don't
have to love someone
with the sort of love
baggage that one loves
someone and their
in-laws...

how i will never be a father
is a little bit "demeaning"
but almost all of existence per se
is a bit like that...
but i will also not be
a failure a waste of air
a short-coming
    someone with an unhappy wife...

i'll continue to pet a cat
dreaming of enough
    money to own a german shepherd
or: god send a Rottweiler...
72 of 'em...
    
   when love was something that
a mind and heart of a teenager
occupied itself with...
a 21 year old exacted
with a few months of leech-suckling
****... between Edinburgh,
London and St. Petersburg...

in between i know that i was
always alone...
it doesn't matter more and more...
it's become an affair of
an armchair
when there's the body towing
the feet into a marathon distance
circa 7hours...
for the mind, though:
i'm alone and aloof...
teasing solipsism -
                   as a St. Augustine
teased with his soliloquies...

    but so much comfort to not idealise
love like one might:
prior to first contact with
one's own imperfection...

an armchair in the mind:
frozen and almost breathing with
all that's leather...
so possibly everything
not being in love: in love
and for all those divisions
of enterprise, expectation:
metaphysical labours...

this almost faux pas
of investing in breeding children to
somehow find oneself
surrounded by "loved ones"
on a deathbed -
dozing off on opiates in pain
and drizzle...

as Caesar is to be cited:
a sudden death - all others are tedium
upon tedium upon too much...
yes...
it's becoming comforting:
comfortable is not enough
to say what it feels like:

to not be in love to not be divided
to not be spare
to not be living under
scrutiny of expectations
and failings, ambitions and what not...

placebo solipsism has made
its mark: the sort of movies that
depicted what happened to people
in England in the 1990s
are no longer made...

it just so happens i write this
almost too lazily: like i don't want
to write it:
of course i don't...
but sometimes an exercise in
the realm of res extensa
         away from thinking cannot
be helped: writing is sometimes
more than speaking is
and as such: i don't have to orate
i don't have to peacock or want
to be understood
with formal standards of
communication that need to
kept when interacting with...
supermarket attendees...

a carrot is a carrot is what's
before a donkey's horizon
when dangling on a stick...

currently i am willing to leave
behind Hangul & Katakana...
i want to escape these phonetic
encodings with all my will & joy...
harder to escape
            タオ (tao)

or... how geometry was "refined"
with ロ (rho)
                        and
                         Δ i.e. d(elta)...    
i also abhor exasperated social-commentary
poetics...
i don't have enough worries
to worry others with
(them) - being absentee...

  but not being in love:
not being claustrophobic and this limited
by a Noah's pairing...
i'll have to return to English, purely,
and leave all other languages
where i found them...

that i remember this teenager who
would catch the bus
and wanted to be seen
by the Ursuline girls from Gants Hill
to Ilford....
what a waste of time
to want to be strategically
focused in third-person narration
with a c.c.t.v. scrutiny for
an android limb attached
to one's shoulder...

  O that's most certainly rolled...
from top to tool and whatever
diacritical distinction
you might want to add...

Argentinian red:
a Trivento malbec...
a solo project a solo concern...
it's so still persistently well curated
this little scrap of heaving
a heaven of purpose...

but it's not going to be a celebration:
outright...
i don't want a sphinx jinx nibbling
at my toes when they start
to turn all twinkly...

it's enough...
  it truly is... enough...
i don't have to love
from some enforced demand,
some expectation...
something lubricated
something prone to succumb
to a predictability:
i can be a boredom on my own
terms and i can simply be
bored, too... also on my own
*****-nilly choicest of
festivities...

i can forget my birthday
and Christmas Eve -
i can accustom myself to a freedom
that only solo endeavours can
ever disclose...
i can find some variation
of solace...
  it's almost mesmerizing...
                it's zingy it's zesty
it's the "metaphor" associated
with mountain air,
or a perfume akin to freshly washed
bed linen...

in bed today i came across one redeeming
passage in Knausgaard's
my struggle vol. 4 -
an encounter with his friend
on a bus... Jan Vidar...
and talk of how blues is ******* etc.

       the redeeming passage
about bicycles, and a purposive pointlessness
of... a devalued attention toward
attitude...      aardvark...
verbiage but not teasing
peacocking...
     i'm not tired i'm exasperated
and i know this is plain ****** silly...

like Mozart's last words
(which were not an epitaph):
this is for me...
that i have the "right"
to showcase these words
to adamant voyeurs is another
barrel of herrings...

it's not like i'll stash them somewhere
where they might become more valuable:
given my death and enough
patience on everyone's behalf...
i also don't want to drink too
much: but of course it's not
what one might expect from
a paragraph of prose...

nor wanting a lyric or a rhyme...
as it stands:
black boys in *****
and in the riots...
i'm also tired of everything
cream-cheese ****-floral patterns
and this addition of coffee ****
and i'm tired of gesticulating
something "lesser"
when the lesser is circumcised
and i'm tired of guilt i'm
tired of something being translated
in a way that has to transcend death
and i'm tired of wanting
or appealing to white,
mostly anglo-saxon women's whims
and *******-tying...
i too have a fetish
a geisha girl without a ****'s depth
to match-up to that of whale's great
dip... how's that?
the pendulum swings to & fro...
i'm tired of wanting something
i either don't...
or will not have...
        
i'm tired of wanting or having to
compensate myself in
the genitalia Olympics of how's
it pairing... up? may i ask?
hardly a frown-upon these demands
of topic... it's there this low
hanging fruit of baritone tickling
shaved *******...
for one man's 12" is another man's
violin-esque of a fiddling with
a beard:
that has certainly become
a welcome addition with age...
that little bit of something
to cover the chin and neck...

***** so made a spectacle of...
i'll scratch my Eden region
of the body...
and it will be the same sensation
coming from the elongated worth
of a stubble...

troubles with interludes:
i like the words laconic and lethargy -
both don't expand into
an explanation akin
to "conservative" and "to conserve":
nor rigidity and
glue...

    how i've stashed enough worth that
might be deemed necessary for
it to be categorised as "lye fff":
life... and not one of those
awkward lapses
of moments to delve into
existence (out of every instance:
a persistence) like
all solo endeavours are
to be devalued because...
one isn't... i'm an omega male-on
hard... pass...

write long enough and after
a while the most random trivia-esque
posits come to the fore...
memory expands...
imagination shrinks to a size
of a peanut:
bellow: how come this pink
elephant-sized grease of a form
come into a room and expect
seeing the constellations?

how ridiculous: from time to time...
when not interchanging
definite and indefinite articles
properly... "properly"...
how very odd... how very english...
how all so queary: odd but not queer...
same but not **** bogus
or Duke Wellington / Harry Enfield...
skewing into -esque...

how sensibly so...
    how anything this must be how
they attired... and how things
mattered and how it was the year
2021 and how i have to scribble
enough to want: looking afar and toward...
my own certain summary of deeds:
that i'll be dead too: "alas"...

a century's worth of time
from now... from these numb to nimble
fingertips...
the choicest of breeding comparisons
of towing chew...
brevity exampled when stressing
such restrictions as kosher...
             enough to grant pork
benevolence...
elf-half-a-vegan troop of emptied
stomachs...
this endless gravity into darkness...

i might as well pretend to squint
from too much lemon &
je suis...               hail "Zeus"...
               joy begot sussing out
the standards...
            all very limited: progressing...
when laughter came to be depicted
in writing and
the Spaniards wrote
something the Germans agreed
to really quickly:
or how the western slavs strode
with a pronoun i.e.: ja ja ja ja ja ja ja....

yore... yawn...
    why Y is given a consonant
status (elsewhere)...
and is not treated as
a                            samogłoska?
     i don't want to know...
yes... being bilingual can be bothersome...
almost schizoid-ascription-prone...

because the mezzo
  full-fattening bogus is cut short / off...
i can translate...
to hell with it...
feed it to the pigs:
throw it against a democracy...
don't bother refining anything...
feed it to the poach and tickle...
make mediocre the desiring
quest for all things...
thus lazily begot...

     feed it to the pigs...
smear it in mud, ****, tripe and ghosts...
call it an alimony of literacy:
vote: X...
      i'm tired and have been
too belittled to continue with
an entertainment of...
having to care.

all the hard work seems to have been done,
not that any was done
to begin with...

   from the fountain of nouns -
   there's nothing...
   well there's no new new
   in the sense that
   a hammer was monumental
   a bridge too...
   when wine was first made...

i'm waiting for something spectacular,
like a Krzesimir Dębski
arrangement or a film like
American Beauty -
        or just tomorrow that can
be turned into a resurrected
dog...

         not that a life, this life is
somehow wished alternative...
      that it can be: the life... that life...
today i was at the fishmonger
eyeing up a lobster -
perched on a platter of dead fish...
more animated than alive...
animate thing -
   eyes like dark portals -
         i a puddle's worth of a labyrinth
in which an ******* could
equal genocide of my d.n.a. -
something a little horrid:
   just like that...

and of course...
      what is a george oppen poem...
what's a miroslav holub poem...
   two days prior i was in a w.h. smith:
in the classics sections
with the meagre display of poetry
on offer...
    and... well there wasn't much...
so here's to... doing it for free...
doing it for the cult-esque fancies
of a readership...
doing it for... best served outlet:
bypassing editorial qualms and
what would / might sell: eyes peeling...

what's a Will Alexander poem...
what's poetryfoundation.org even about
except: race, bad grammar in bio:
i they O vey you and my pronoun
whiplash: Aladdin's ditto to
               a Khan or otherwise a variation
of Ottoman...

pristine nouns - historical gravity
i.e. a receding pastoral version: today
yes and of a time: that's prior...
when written i'm assured:
not spoken -
  at least that's how i know when
i can relax a little from thinking:
or any other: moral-ought
should i still have any...

       to the source of ontology -
       how to be: prized culprit a nuanced
       deity of the omni-
       prefix rubric like 2 x 2 =

there are some places where only
a first Tuesday of January
at 2pm belongs to...
   i can think of at least three-quarters
of a dozen of such
places: which i will not name...

but at least here: i would like
to express how i relax from thinking:
or... not thinking...
between the structures
of res cogitans / the narrative ortho-physical
gob...
and res vanus / the empty vacuum
two eyes for periscopes
a sea of grey amassing -
     a variation of suppose: people
their own lives...
    placebo solipsism /
           it's like that 'the earth is flat'...
"theory"...
      it's not an 'ought experiment...
it's more a: because it might happen on
c.c.t.v. no chance for north.east.west.south...

exhaustion... fork in the road:
now more sketching than...
it was never going to be a conversation
or a script to... orate & plagiarise...
in the end: that's a beginning...
while in the middle
there's all this shrapnel and...
   a need to compartmentalize...
shove and sort and take a strong arm:
work a shovel...
not that you'd ever use
a shovel to shove...
or shoo / cuddle with a coo coo...
a flurry of pigeons...

    and that i was shat on one today...
years ago i thought it might
be deemed lucky...
  but the image in my 'ed was...
only lucky... should 'un'
                        take a diarrhoea "tot"
on a bowler 'at o' mine...

3 full glasses of wine...
   that's... 3 full glasses of wine...
       a cat sleeping in my bed...
and half past midnight to come...
also...
   had i discovered pinyin earlier...
no matter i'd still be
bothered about the eternal glyphs...
needless to say
i came across hangul and katakana
prior and i knew
they made sense...
            
well: sounds...
         back to the sound of ambiance
i.e. the "music" a refrigerator makes
in the middle of the night...
that there's N
and all the vowels...
       (ン) ア     イ ウ エ オ

and this is how N looks like
     when "mutilated" by, said vowels...
acting as a prefix

n.b. why ES and not SEE
                "C" but not ECK
                 KAY... TEA but not ET
                ZEEZEDZEZ but:
                 EN
                 EM
                           ME N'EH...
                  NA            NO...
syllables syllables...

(ン)ナ     ニ ヌ ネ ノ

MANNA
   i.e.                          マンナ         (1)
                                   マンンア    (2)

      (1) is...             (2)... isn't...

rigid structures of bull-tied-to-tongue
doy'ch:
           stier-gebunden-zu-zunge...
a name of a woman...
                         アンナ...

ナノ:                   n'ah "know":
   which isn't: now...
           ergo: n'oh...
                                laughter in
katakana: ハ ハ
                            ハ   アハ      ハ ....

bother:           cull the surds and then
"somehow" the sounds...

borrow / lend: apples and coal...
i.e. セキタン
          (sekitan)
          リンゴ (ringo) non essentially:
1960s anglo-ßaß culture: rut...
nostalgia... bonfire...
       crisp as: cutting in with words
it's not like there's a moral
backlog of cursed morose & dodgy
fabric... history sort of:
relaxed & ****** off...

           if i could wiggle in some
korean: Ta
                 Ke
                             the periodic
of keeping tables...
   having chairs to char a bias
on for bone...
  serve up the chisel...
    rough up: coincidentally
the brood of stones & stoics...

              hoops... which you could
dub bonanza for chitters,
jokes and jitters...
           variations of D        Z:
talk Fwench ****:
wan                   and qi    cue: K...

the "currency" of verbiage...
      
   otherwise: when a pronoun behaves
like an article...
notable example:
       mein kampf - i'll treat "my" as
a pronoun rather than as a determiner...
the way i see it... thus...
my struggle is...
      casually... my: definitely articulated...

ich / i(s)ch kampf...
                   "i" struggle... which is...
an indefinite article...
blessed jah! the grammar *******
have... cometh!
phi or theta closure?
both?!                  hey-ya!

   variations of:
     chew-tongue... slurp-bone...
  kauenzunge
                 schlürfenknochen...

    loiter-with-shadow:
                   "head" detached...

herumlungern-mit-schatten:
           "kopf" abgetrennt...

rigid like Trent and...
              heave the Rhine, Rodin...

ol' schwab...
    wine = sour-grapes
                                            wein = sauertrauben...

these fesseln these scharniere,
these schleifen: ernte... nichts...
             my godhead humming...
                      no play-pristine-good-fork
of a **** 'ere "now"...
language for the eyes...
language for the nose: K: cardamom...
before we: were never going to
sit it out in a Siberian work-around...
chasm such that the echo: spawned...
litanies in Byzantine...
     which was a precursor to
Turk & Ish...

                     schweinefleischhacken...
what a nice... nice bIG best...
rounded word with
not hyphens...
maXen m'ah mummy: noun that's also
a verb... alias:      schleichumfang...

ein / eine bursary für
                                    sechs ("z"ex):
          
           zitieren:
quetschen - unter alles die onomatopoeias
  (rigid ******* word...
hasn't changed since the greek's
eureka 'id it)...

           los los los...
               gargantuan only with
a glagolitic mmm...
   almost looking armanian...
ⰏⰀ
   マ...
                 Helmut gorun'd'tat...
heave!
              
   - and "they" thought i might just...
give up... tongue like ice-cream...
like easy like
low hanging fruit... like:
for the taking...
all the **** and ****
and she still has a superiority
complex when
i look at it as: collateral...
little o... pseudo-***                  
  
             (ch / č
                        hide a vowel / vowel-catcher...
      cache a vowel...
                    verstecken ein vokal...
                 vokalfänger - or pretend...
just pretend to laugh)...

and croat... down the corridor
of an arm-wrestle between
proto-prussian and pan-slavic
rus...
        tell me some more:
and i'll acute that S for you...

                                                if only:
details could be written in german
as: detallen detallen...
but is... otherwise... beiwerk / nähere...
oops is for: regenschirm -
and bloat is for: pilz...

         and here's for a *******
carousel!
   rotondo, kalimotxo... "jajaja"...
meow-up-m'ah crease of zzz of agitated
lazy of herr Kraz...
certainly...                 if that's how:
letters "work"...

                 arbeit: arrived at:
macht...               freedoms pigeons
and dolphins...       creases of paper...
           come 2am... it's plenty.

without the trenches...
there's still that commeradary...
what nuance
of the bombs of ****...

i lost the ability to feel
an intimacy when...
  a cat had to find a cushioning
sensation of fudge-packing
a corner: while at sat on a sofa...
all that furr-borrow against
a clarity of a crease
that's towing a knee and all
this naked flesh-out...

by the *****-load of
traffic... wriggling away at the
base posit...
i'm here for the
"chomąto": a collar for a horse:
i'm your paddy sort of
well respected plumber /
hobbit folk...
i'm here for "nothing":
but i'm most certainly here
for a toothache...

there is no war...
there are no trenches...
there is no mud of Flanders...
but i'm here... scribbling
toward a ferocity that:
begs giving countering
explanations...
the arabs are no longer
mere camel jockeys...
their kept monotheism
and their polygamy...
they are rich oil sheikhs...
and i'm wondering as to how or why...
i'm already a trusted extension
of *****... whenever i trusted
the bone marrow to speak...
when i was a **** toy...

                now to degrade myself
with a single mumsie...
                h. h. holmes forever solves
the plot...
   "something" is expected
to thicken... i cook a **** good
curry sauce...
the vikings were savages yet
they managed to grease up
a tier above animal...
the stature of poets...
because? the priests
were not supposed to read...

i'd sooner want to see the horrors
of the trenches...
than this... peace-abiding... faking it...
that i haven't allowed myself
to be loved...
how strange it is...
to then "stress"...
animals can stand me...
i don't expect loving to be
in their repertoire of cue...
and children find me...
bewildering enough...
to allow an exchange of eyes...
which is more than
a conversation...

i've been told to trim my Engel beard...
i gather: it is... rather bushy teasing
afro concentration
of: where oh where: my chin and
slobber?
                    
it's really sad it really is...
                  i'm here faking
homosexual erotica "literature": the best counter
to casting a ******* vote...
while i need to hear some
balloon popping in a metaphor of:
when a tree falls...
in a forest... and there's no one to
hear it fall...

                    truant! truant!
                        the tree doesn't "fall"...
there's only...
a need for rain and the forest to
be "riddled" by oaks rather than pines...
so that the rain can fall on leaves
that have to later earn
their status of cymbals...

      but this is not world war I...
i see no trenches...
yet... for ****-toy that i was...
it's nice to be appreciated as merely as such...
who dare, climb the frictions
of: father status...
and i could have been that
base alcoholic foundation stone
for a son that managed to...
transcend his origins...
i would have: i could have been
the motivational tool!
a drunk with a private library that would
have contestants shy...
in disbelief...

look at me now...
a walking cul de sac prison of life...
not "yet" aborted...
but clearly not donning a niqab...
either...

to hell with it!
let is appeal to the river of heraclitus
and god's (any god you please)
will as you orate arguments
most thoroughly...

i started to itch when i listened
to both sides of the "argument"...
i listened to the woman...
i listened to the man...
                  i'd much prefer an ownership
of a dog when i would not
have to invest in a leash...
or a muzzle...
i'd like selfish-act of presence
that abide by the foundation:
alias glue...
      i don't want selfless acts
of pretty-please...
i want the most base...
selfish acts of overtly-simplified...
life...

    i supposed myself to be...
tangled up with wilhelm's khakis...
no... wait.. adolph prone-types...
the germans / the russians
are no longer the celebrated enemy
for a cultural phallus hard-on?
i am... supposedly... facing an enemy...
that... props and gangash river plough...

this is all i have...
a sickness of christianity...
the ***** has yet to reach
the crucible... the beast is already towing
a thoroughly graced feast
of furrow...
in 7 ******* languages...
i arrived towing
the newly baptised nations of africa...
how they became so willingly converted...
i guess to counter:
the east african slave trade...
to erase all demands
for muhammad: middle-class...
come the story out of Kenya:
notably Mombasa...

     my limits of hand...
shaking agreement with shadow
then cusping a *******
reconstruction of "boney-m" *****...
i am... a walking... ghost of an abortion...
i need to satisfy myself with:
the fact that... i am not...
a protagonist choice to thereby:
climb...

i exhausted myself on proving
that geocentrism was not...
and that heliocentric is...
but sun up or down down...
gynocentrism is still the *******...
paramount of narratives!

        as well walk around
*****-tied to the narrative
of god the father...
god the necrophylia-esque sworn...
it's enough to want a rottweiler
that could be petted as a cat...
no leash... no muzzle...

it's not that investing in emotions
with anyone beside my mother...
i was a bilingual strategist
before a schizoid dumb-down...
like i had to be made
RE-tarded before gaining
the chance for the e populus
choicest of applauses!

i did imagine traffic in the trenches...
fighting a goliath of an SS-man
in the woods...
not this... not this cheap-***** of a:
as man...
when there aren't any problems:
we will... invet problems!
and if they're not problems!
they'll be known as... bureaucratic solutions!
because our hunger / fetish
for bad *** never allowed us to
disavow...
mediocre work of... perfecting an
acting principle of... loitering!

*** does two "things"... it sells...
but it also... clogs...
and by clogging in creates: cogs...
so the machinery of *******
expands!
*** selling is the easiest bit...
that it clogs up thereby creating cogs
is... a "subconscious" desire
of this... multifarious... diadem...

**** similis marries...
         cerebrum fungus...

       there! that's your ******* **** sapiens
story!
there! ping pong latin-esque quadratic!
**** similis qua fungus cerebrum...
similar to man... quasi ape...
as being... a fungus theft... of a brain...
on the "reverse"...
"god" only talks to the brain-damaged
or the brain dead...
or we evolved...
by being invested in / infested by...
a ******* talking... mushroom!
sputnik neon-lights!
arbitrary-counter-bites!
        it's a duality of arguments...
that a brain-damaged exhibit (a)
"conversing" with god
is less credible than
a brain-placebo-sucker exhibit (b)
"conversing" with:
emptiness suckle... or:
the sensible approach of...
the veil! the mushroom enzyme!
right now! no one is more sensible...
i count the affairs of the brain-damanged
in conversations with god
assured new progress as those...
"freely available"...
toying a pawn of chess...
with amazonian ******-pharmacology...
n'est ce-pas?!

as fast paced as: not necessarily rhyming -
which is all that rap is...
talk quickly and mishap -
i take another refill:
arrogant sloth borrows me once more:
it must be something to
be born in westminster:
i tend to visions of the countryside...
i'll cover 10 miles in under 3 hours
and sweat to the point
where my tip of my trousers
at the belt height are drenched...
it's all about pacing and writing
to some music:
or better still... i start talking...
and the music comes in...
i'm still not rhyming nor detailing
any event of "poet"
as being "europe": a funnel for
squeezing in some ottomans
or some mongols...
the hordes of huns and germanic-
prior:
rubbing a history like it's
aladdin's lamp: there i'm also
rubbing a lamb with some
oil salt and rosemary...
perhaps i have an anemic language...
forever this pangs of
shortcomings:
to a reply:
        well what if i had to be
less of a beheading:
literally talking - lyrical...
not this encryptic: ego-cipher
bilingual "muddle":
as ever i forage for eyes and not
the ears...
i'm slow pacing:
she's over there gun glazing
and reshaping cotton into copper
into easily agitated listening:
a democracy of being left behind...
heaps of scraps:
whether metal or charon ligaments
and sinew...
i write nothing to elevate hearing:
sometimes i will burden myself
with technicalities
my own name is a technicality
of nouns under the hubric of:
tetragrammaton / ha-shem
         for some people...
  will i invoke the caron S
            or merely... delve into more
bilingual nightmares for
the tongue to endure...
seems i have my niche: prospect of
interest:
once more it's not about
the people it's about
grammatical technicalities...
and... you... really can't rap about
that sort of crap...
it must require leisure:
eyes crying or eyes bleeding...
and time beyond: beyond time of my
allowance for anything
to achieve a stature of: ripeness...
such that: in the immediacy of
composition: it's necessarily
mediocre - it's just agitating enough
to know it exists without
it being agitating enough
to be given a phonetic palette of
gurgling: rumble-rumble-oh...
a tongue that trills the R but can also
mimic the numbing tarantula bit R of
Woah-don... all Lone Escapee
not literally: the river that professes
a tide but not bulging at the seams
of a monsoon seasons...
it flows in... it flows out...
it's murky greyish matted zenith for
the eye to peer at...
            again: what's lost this
conversation was never started...
                all these nuances of "jealousy"
and of... limp-**** echo jolting...
it's forever a team-up
of shaking hands with my shadow...
perhaps from fear of "impotence" - aside, aside...
now this really is  relish:
a solipsistic exhibitionism model -
but at the same time:
skim reading into beauty:
that there is: always in traffic of...
let me allow this grand word an outlet:
democracy like in school
when we were told:
it's better to draw a straight line
with three coordinates...
       "just to make sure"...
          i see straights line all the time...
it only takes... from A through
to a B...
unless: the copernican veil:
it always has to become
so grand and devoid at the beginning
then so humble and hollow self
and minding the numbers
for: but reinviting the old
geocentric model for:
our drama of huddling by a fireplace...
orate me this...
i can't reach this focus group
attentiveness for entertaining crowds...
not this writing perhaps
escapes into fiction: but all that friction
i'm back... armed with an x-ray
of words and an oyster for
where the brain is supposedly at work...

- hyphenated new entry: supposedly
either verse of paragraph...
it's a telling sign that i've come to abhor
that i write... juxtapositions any
new tenures of the supposed unexpected...
it's still this inverted "claustrophobia"
of "verbiage":
now bounce... bounce *******
for the suffix -phobia...
to groove into details of:
how best to walk...

    for all the exotic details of
a well composed night... in that all of them
are detailed with people awaiting
hindering... talk of people and people
the gross misjudged inconvenience
of "individual"...

if i don't borrow some cyrillic
or some greek i'll become head from
a guillotine utilised as
canon fodder...
that's me... head limbo tongue
squiggling worm-esque:
now that language has an image
i can't talk briefly: i can't rap
and conjure fudge details
for the membrane...

i write as quickly as the eye deciphers
what can be: limitless
in literacy...
given... the priestly caste kept me
from this, apart, for so long...
i can... wait a little... borrow some blues...
but then by 34 years old
i'm this disgruntled stereotypical
loath... mein zunge ist nein neu...
i'm parrot-phrasing some:
Horace... conversation overtones:
because i hardly think it's necessary
to ingest a tongue through the ears...
sometimes it might require
an eye...

i start drinking i demand of myself:
to forget to blink...
and then... as that happens...
i hardly expect to find my own voice
trapped in giving democracy
for: flowers or bricks or ****-soiled
mattresses my own: echo... prince...
it's so impossible to:
an-ti-thesis...
                ff...           ff: thrist for...
                alTHough...

            V's up a welsh longbow man victory
salute... i look at the corner of
my room... it spells out a geometry of
Y...
         i look at a serpent's tongue...
Y slithers into my tongue...
i curse the sound of J...
in english...            it's beside a dryness
excvated...

now i feel inclined to be
the most workaholic...
the best performing plumber...
i want to be a daily post-office cue:
"anon" walking marathons to no end...
since the day:
the day that paper had to reach
for a route of the horses:
how they are still kept...
to saddle... but hardly... to be exploited
to work...

they... just... graze...
equestrian... in the english "freely available":
i've walked the routes where horses
****...
lucky for me... i have yet someone
arrived at a speeding porsche scenario...
to own... a horse...
but to never... sit in one...
at a gallop...

poland has cheaper details concerning
renting out horses...
and... for all the awe-sigh-pondering...
one would expect...
being able to... saddle up a horse
for prizing a gallop...
two heels digging into the torso
for a "gear change" bravado...

as it stands:
i'll go to either hungary of the czech republic
to take care of dentistry...
then i'll go horse riding in poland...
too little of me investing
in... yachts...
         then again... yachts...
or pedigree dogs... proper...
rottweilers or alsatians...
                and such legs as i have
to walk either genus...
        
not in england... though... these
animals
have been grazing long enough
you'd start thinking...
what if... we... re-painted all
those battle canvases...
with men having mounted...
bulls...
what if we replaced
all those horses
with the charge of men
adoring bulls...
and took to eating more horse-meat
than... these poor castrato beef
hulks...
what if?
it's only impossibly: what if... isn't it?

- such that i delude myself with
my antagonist...
the ferocity of youth and health...
that i cling to shadow like
i might cling to blinking...
prior to old age i am...
walking around a choice of trees...
i tend to burden myself
with birches...
on the continent... furthest east
before you encounter russia:
you can find patches of forest
reserved for birches solely!
not in england... "though"...

well... so much of my life is but
a memory that...
so much of it has to invoke
patterns of debilitating stressors
in the vein of: exaggeration...

which is not... but since so much
is the same:
to the point where... even a *******
in a brothel would have to remark:
'but... you haven't changed!'
i read that as her giving ear to...
a kierkegaard's the changelessness of god...
for that matter: most assured...
a stone is... a mountain a sea...
a river... a man can also...
change very little...
but then again: what are the habits
of mountains...
what makes us... stale impersonators
of a supposedly exciting: yesterday...
last autumn?

i like the idea of being undisrupted:
a mimic a replica...
no clone will ever touch this
crimson lent caricature should
shame dethrone my brows...

they might just... drop off...
it can almost be deemed agitating that
i remain as constant as:
an inanimate object...
prostitutes should know...
you haven't changed...
unchanging is hardly an impasse...
being thus is...

yes... it's enough to pet animals
in order to doubly appreciate
the patience that's required from releasing
oneself from being a music *****...
as to how i became...
the benevolent misanthrope and
not... this... overtly-protectful:
scheming philantrophe...
beats me...

             i supposedly signatured my
presence to a gynocentric / heliocentric...
world order... or a patriarchy / geocentric world...
muddle spaghetti toasted figs monster...
blah blah return...

i am a misanthrope...
but at least i'm not a meddling philanthropist...
quote: mickey microsoft yates
"might have said":
by the time the second wave hits...
they might know... etc etc.

quote me on god:
i intejectd once... big mistake...
i had to satisfy myself with...
let them settled their own battles...
i will not take sides...
they engaged themselves
with crafting the pyramids...
they can escape concentration camps...
it's not like they will be alone
in the endeavour... it's not like
other people will not hear their plight...
the end...

how does this supposed "god" work...
the genius sadistic ingenuity of
the demiurge: new atheism citations
of parasites...
that wriggle into the eyes
of lambs...
        god is not a c.c.t.v.: please put
your chewing gum into a designated bin!
do not! spit! your chewing gum!
onto the pavement!

this is the vain attempt to convert
atheists?!
hyper-escalating
the already hyper-escalated
omni- litany?
  what of pause for death?
can't death be given a romance
and an angelic personification...
it has to be so ******* sterile?!
so... ha ha! alias... "godless"?

the stone becomes godless because...
the cat starts to fiddle with its
tongue for the prospect of reclaiming
genitals: by a smear of a tongue:
and that's why i kosher! chicken protein
pulp used in... a kentucky fried
wings: pigs don't fry:
sort of a spectacle...

             minus one "point": *******
to that...
they start decapitating french history teachers
who are presumably arsonists...
the 'acking ****- has a quest
to re-noun the dire straits
of telling me:
what the concept of reconquista
implores! let alone... implies!

we have achieved a fever pitch
with what book burning provided...
at a time time and a whine
when the monotheistic gods
don't have enough to **** or therefore
enough to settle for...
**** on some sand and let's call it
glue and a sand-castle:
**** it... let's call it...
a kettle of boiling water...

you heave this monstrosity of certain affairs...
you heave this... diatribe of
diabolical quests...
you become this figment
of invested life...
this crease wording...
that has to be met with ironing:

this antagonist hebrew motto
prior to: how their pride...

nasze kamienice: wasze ulice...
our tenements: your streets...
this is how the jews spoke
in ******-land... prior to their great
expulsion:
as most people do when
they talk with a wounding of their pride...
i still acknowledge the testimony
of the hebrews:
god-fearing folk are not...
their-god celebratory allahu akbar esque:
shorthand for...
if you were... circumcised upon
salvaging an inconvenience of marriage:
as to how...
Kant made the bachelor rite
a status juncture... for... right...

i don't own a porsche...
   it's not status symbol: it's not a klup necessary...
but if i owned a horse...
i'd know how to gallop with it...
break a neck etc.

this will not make it for the
egravious, larger, audience?
oh.. sorrow woo for you too...
paid for... mr / mrs. netflix
queening and boisterous king-ish...
no?
  then... pay for your own
******* bread... let me conjure up
mine!
critique for what's freely available is
a bit like:
terming in ******* when it rains
and you're not equipped with
an umbrella...
because... it has to be necessarily:
raining over saint tropez...

****** wriggling await...
for a hand-job cold fingertips
sort of gimmick...
****** of sorts...

i suppose there might have been
an audience... but... the again...
supposing there was never a supposed 'un...
i proposition: i...
i heave a conjunction: thought...
i don't allow myself an
immediacy of "reliving the past":
most immediately...
with: think or thinking...
i brush up on all over
the moral nuances...

and... hey presto!
                      a body of work... of wording...
best left completely ignored...
ergo... moi... or a germanic upper
tier variation: m'eh...
here's to!
how tulips dare to resound
in... keel-y-anyah.
i've never been...
but i'm betting
the lithuanians and the ukrainians
will give me... auxiliary / sputnik...
tabloid press hive mind-set
preemptive details to:
concern myself over / with...

here's to finger-crossing goo!

A few more words squeezed out for the year

Become the candle which I kneel to
Endure the flames which kiss you
Orate your tears in my arms
Wince as our wuthering tempest jolts us
Unyielding our souls shall be
Ligaments tear apart with blighted tone
Forsaking atonement for damnation

This I swear to you
Yours will be the name I cry at night


A few more tears freshly picked from the oven

Elsewhere in a surrogate legacy
I was walking down the corridors
Our effigies, dead ringers and tableau
Unruly, unnecessary, and everywhere
An afterlife I didn't want to exist in

But you told me something I can't recall Scattered like leaves in the wind
The soundtrack of nails
On a chalkboard
An onslaught of recollection

A pitch perfect rendition of my deeds
A choice between myself and you

Bitter, battered I fell
Bloodied, bruised knees clotting

Your illustration, your illusion slid to me
Your plunging neckline, of plumed faith.

Labium laboured
Labrum lolled

As you held my dying gasp
As you gazed into infinity in my eyes

You breathed the last loving words.
Hark, my king.
Kiss me, kiss me goodnight.
Surrender to me,
One more song for the end.