Abigail slides the glass door shut.
As beads of water percolate off her body
and land on the faux stone tile,
the smell of chlorine from her swim
and the smell of coffee from my brewing *** blend.
My uncle, Abigail's father, and my mother
are seated at the sticky, spilt soda kitchen table beside me.
"Go get ready for dinner," my mother's brother says, sending
Abigail's bikini'd frame through doorway and around the bend.
The brew idles, and I'm all porcelain and sugar substitute for a moment,
then back by my uncle and mother.

"Abigail has gotten so thin," my mother says.

"Is she eating?" my mother asks.

"I know it's tough for girls her age. When they're looking to marry," my mother says.
I want to bash the smoking cup into her face.

My uncle says she's been training for a marathon.
My neurons get tidy and taper off.
So, it's out of the kitchen and into an empty living room
to park my *** on an empty piano bench.
I set the coffee on top, and press eight of my fingers down
on black keys.
I hear toes-to-heels, toes-to-heels.
I gaze over my shoulder.
Now, Abigail's in a black, black dress. Mid-thigh.
In her left hand,
red ****-me-shoes with a heel that could turn a curious man blind;
in her right hand,
black pantyhose and cherry lipgloss.
"You should have swam," Abigail delivers with hushed precision,
like she'd been reciting the line throughout the duration of her swim.

Abigail has long brunette hair,
and it's sticking to her neck.
Deep permanent dimples frame her lips.
She's a nurse in Waco.
Each time I see her, I think about
Bukowski's 103-pound "Texan".
It makes me rash, violent, a heady monstrosity,
and trembling sick.

"I forgot my trunks."

"That's no excuse."

I would respond, but she's sliding the hose up her leg.

In the living room.

While my uncle talks a second mortgage around the bend.

Her right leg crosses her left,
an overpass and an interstate.
My forehead overheats in a flash,
and I feel like she's staring back at me.
When my leering eyes shift from
her toes to her eyes, the pupils beckon:

"All roads lead to me."

dad is in the garage.
days into spark-light and piles of polyethylene
etched.
soon, he says.
as grandaddy laughs,
rattling the icebox for more beer.

dad’s homemade android:
  the thing.
like a doll polished
& grinning, it
dances for us in the kitchen.

the dog barks, chained in the backyard.

the thing,
do-si-dos for a laugh, catches a glimpse
of the trees beyond the yard,
overheats,
circuits popping into a limp heap of pieces.
  dead.
left to mold-over in the garage.

the days.
the rain.
the cats tiptoeing along the edge of fences
across the street.
the dog barking, chained, &
snapped.
  dead
beneath a truck.

dad is in hysterics.
dad is in the garage,
weeks in and his soaked red knuckles.
mom is drinking with grandaddy.
they rattle the icebox.
  the dog.

the dog dances for us in the kitchen,
reboots and sits.
it digs a pit all night and buries three cats there.
it sleeps on the mound.
it never barks.
it waits there in the backyard, still
& staring into the trees.
  the trees.

They built me, standard-grade,
But with one crucial chip missing.
While other models are made
Programmed for social networking.

Laughter and jibes, except
This variant groping in the dark.
Much signs to intercept,
Machine simmers, overheats, sparks.

Every version upgrade,
Alas, still just one step behind.
Patience in every trade;
Stranger, if you could be so kind...

i always knew i would never be
"girlfriend material"

maybe the gods forgot to cut me carefully from the same cloth they doted out to everybody else

a thicker and more claustrophobic material

one that overheats and suffocates you

my mouth is a forest fire that ignites at the first sight of thunder ahead

other people use their words to heal and comfort their significant other while i'd always had a natural disposition of wielding my tongue as a freshly sharpened knife

i wanted to learn

i wanted to teach myself that in order to be in a relationship you have to treat the hardships like delicately gauzed wounds

changing them out every few hours and applying ointments to soothe and mend the broken flesh

but i don't know if it's because of my mother
who was never very nurturing
taking emotional withdrawals from me throughout my entire childhood

teaching me to cultivate my isolation and find comfort in my loneliness

i'd see the signs of her packing up her bags and departing from a mile away and the only survival method i knew was to let her go before she let me go, again
and again
and again
and again

i tried to mend myself for you
to be less broken down for you

i promised myself i'd be healthier and fight my depression like a true viking at battle

i knew i was never girlfriend material

i don't have the patience or understanding to learn how to nurture wounds

my natural instinct has always been to throw salt in them

to slit my throat and slit my throat and slit my throat until i bled out all of you entirely

it's not that i never knew how to love
but that i never knew how to love properly

caring too much and showing too little
displaying my fear of losing you with an anger that destroys everything in my path

instead of affection and vulnerability

my lovers never know if i love them
i display my feelings  in watered down sentiments that take shape in the way i allow my body to mold into theirs under bedsheets


the love i carry though, suffocates me
it drowns my internal organs
and floods the entirety of my body
leaving me speechless and incapable of articulating how i feel or why i feel the way that i do

in turn i appear cold to the touch
and that is how i knew i was never girlfriend material

i want to lay down on train tracks and sacrifice my body
again
and
again
until i get it right
but i fear it only leaves me in poorer condition than the last

i'm sorry i don't know how to love you properly
i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry

you see, i'm just not "girlfriend material"

step right up to this broken machine
she'll take anyone
look at this queen
she's shiny and new with smiles so bright
every step she takes is light
her colours are more than a rainbow can boast
she has more than any
she has the most
they drift in the wind and fall from her fingers
her joy is infectious
she's contentment's dead ringer

this machine never stops
that's why its so popular
people will travel far
there is no other
none so dedicated to her job as this
she's a volunteer so surely she loves it
but a crisis strikes every once in a while
the machine won't admit it, she's in denial
but her colour store is personally supplied
if she told you it's abundant, surely she lied

this machine has colours she enjoys sparing
but to spend her whole life as this machine is daring
machines must be turned off
must be unplugged
this machine never does because help is her drug
she goes and she goes until she overheats
her colours start melting
they run through the streets
these runaway colours are scooped up and scrounged
meanwhile the machine is left on the ground
she rusts while it rains, there on the ground

no regard for the girl whose rainbow
seems to be gone
look how she lays so
curled up and crying but not from her loss
crying because her aid is the cost
with no regard for herself she whispers
"if I take a break, look at who suffers"
but the rainbow too must be regrown
it can only take time and care and sweet tones
encouraging words to let her know
she's not alone, she will never be thrown
from this world with contempt
because love exists
but love may not always come to you free
sometimes there is just one fee
it isn't much... just to ask

When I switch his bathroom light on
the fan starts to turn
a rumble and a whine taking him back through time....

Kaufmann starter kicking off
crack like thunder smoke and cough
from the man on the extinguisher in the smoke
laugh at his cursing you lip-read what he spoke
Wide track rumble to the strip
don't be long she overheats quick
airbourne twenty-four cylinders yell
thank you Rotol Goodyear and Shell
you might sigh for a merlin maybe
but fear this awkward sleeve-valve baby
nothing faster in the sky
get it wrong you are going to die
Fly off track to where she is staying
as you pass you feel her praying
then out across drowned Doggerland
skimming waves speed to command
December greys from sea to sky
hit the coast then climbing high
not trains or targets in the  rubble
today your flying into trouble
Their last big throw to claim the air
put all theirs up from anywhere
trails in the sky mark souls that fall
just men who answered duty's call
over Holland's blasted ports
remember rocketing those forts
now a maelstrom fire and shell
into modern Dante's hell
you picked a speck to follow down
moving fast this chap's no clown
kicking rudder yawing mind
he doesn't see you down behind
A TA 152 now you know
see now howbloody fast they go
push the throttle out to the stop
break the limit wire hope she won't pop
sees you know and spirals round
gaining height you're gaining ground
an elegant sight for both to see
but this is the last thing he will see
Twenty millimetre rounds
make an evil dreadful sound
a mockery of alloy and steel
pulls it apart like the fruit you peel
was that a puff of red you saw
made you gasp a nerve still raw
as the shells chewed up to his cockpit
where a frightened human being sits
gone now in a shower of flame
war and fear this was never a game
low on fuel and cold inside
keep low for home above  the tide
A buzz for her again to show
you made it back but yet you know
however much she has to pray
her heart is breaking every day
A month or two and war will end
Europe for now you did defend..

I turn the light out the fan slows down
notice the tears and then your frown
feel so helpless as you lie
in your bodies prison longing to die
missing so badly the wife who is gone
could you  fly to her beyond the sun
So sad to see you sitting there
your world a bathroom a bed and a chair
we needed you seventy years ago
now it seems nobody wants to know.....

Don't say you love me.
I have a hard time
accepting those words.
Like they are foreign and
do not translate into my
native tongue.

Don't look at me
with such kind eyes.
It burns my skin and
overheats me.
Like sun rays on
newly exposed flesh.

Don't hold me so tenderly.
My body can't handle
the pain of your gentleness.
It has been conditioned
to the harshness of humanity
And may break apart if
handled any other way.

Don't leave me.
I know I am difficult,
closed off and crazy.
Truly a complicated puzzle
to piece together.
But I promise I am
worth it.

I've hit "F5"
waited in line
for this wave to crash and burn ---
Just to get a drink.

feel dry, but not yet parched
i see waves in the heat;
need a moment;
need to breathe.

its too dry...
my mouth begs for a cool splash,
the engine overheats,
I'm stuck wondering
[is it 120 degrees?]

a suburban village
a hum and stream of cashflow...
leaking through unsettled buildings
and cracked doors....
only my feet have begun to feel a sensation of cool
as shade from the trees...
bakes away

i need the rain to make the area
bearable, wonderful
and breathable.
maybe the summer should hit "F5"
and let it rain so maybe
a sense of refreshment
can take over and soothe the panic
of those who cant access the "WWW"
to work,play,
and feel as if the summer from hell
has made its stay short,
so we may 'Fall'
and the screens we look through Re-Fresh.

I love the English springtime:
the lambs that gambol
in the sprouting grass,
and budding flowers
that spread their scent.
But oh . . . !

I hate the sneezes
and the running nose
and streaming eyes
of allergies
in English springtime.

I love our English summer
that warms but rarely
overheats my thirsting
body.  And I love
its cooling breezes.  
But oh . . . !

I hate those wasps
that buzz around
my honey-covered toast
at breakfast-time outdoors
in English summers.

I love the English autumn.
The russets and the golds
that tease my eye;
the orchards and their
apple scent.
But oh . . . !

I hate that mud
that ***** my walking boots
from off my feet
on country rambles
in English autumns.

And then the English winter
that never can decide
which of the seasons
it most likes to emulate.
But oh . . . !
Thank god there are no wasps!

There is no fail-safe.
The heart wants,
What it wants,
And oh, I am miles from safety, now.
No going back.
There is no mechanism in the heart,
To bring it down if it overheats,
To bring it down at all, darling,
(But would you want to?
Don’t you like it when I make you heat up?
Bubble over...?)
I suppose what I’m saying is this:
Remember when people didn’t know you should only heat oil in a deep fat fryer?
We would put hot oil in pots and pans and we would leave it there because,
Human beings have a tendency to be distracted?
And the oil would get far too hot and catch fire,
And we’d try to put it out with water,
But because of the oil it sinks and expands and makes the oil shoot out of the pan in a fireball,
And consume the kitchen in flames,
But,
Isn’t that love?

the sweat cools
where the body overheats
in sudden wakefulness
within the dead of night

no sounds but the heavy breathing
of a startled form beneath the covers
momentarily dazed, unaware of the surroundings
in which it finds itself

eyes shut, it all comes back again
those lucid pictures, vivid sounds
where insects crawl beneath the skin
and one drowns on land

the fault was singular, of course,
a suicide in a fake landscape
a poor show of emotion
where no one may judge

quite often it would happen
in painless reality
where red stains white and
black beats blue

I used to see cars individually
not as parts but the people inside
those people would be driving around me
and we’d wave to each other
while navigating clear roads
I would recognize their car
out of familiarity
the city has grown since then
I don’t recognize cars anymore
just brands and colors
creating the traffic jam in front of me
as my engine overheats.

My melodious fire
Waves and weaves
Making a ****** of wood
Delivering a birth of smoke
Those swirling cinders choking
Everything in sight

Breathing in one of death’s contagions
One by one they fall
Until there’s no call to order
Until there’s none left to perform for

The mob grew angry.

My wrists, my ankles
Chained now with briars
This an execution by my own desire
For I required an exit light here
Unclear liar lost in his lies here
Fear-shaken, no stakes in truth,
Fear-faking, I have no stake in you
So I pull up stakes
See you.

I have no clue what I’m going to do
I get lost in myself
But in myself I have yet to choose
These paradoxes and riddles
That plague and peeve my mind
Deceive me as I deceive them
Till we’re all left deceiving in kind
Till the other becomes the self
And the self melts away from being the better
Cluttered with curses from the past
This incompatible software overheats
Crashes fast
And now we’re back—
Fire.

I was once blind to such simple facts
Broken, silly tracks of thought off-track
Lines left carved up in the sand
The next day wiped away
By nature’s erasure or another’s hand

It is sand after all...

But I gave up a pair
Received my true third eye
It's blind to these facts
The grains look all turned up and twisted
Spilling from my clenched fist
Like they’re seconds in my hourglass
So, my fellow pair-holders, I ask
Why take a second to grasp
So that a second in turn is given?
I see no bargain driven
Just a reality
In which
If you're livin’ happily, serenely
You must be trippin’

i used to buy cans of pepsi cola in order to retain the most
fizz... i've cut back on the cans:
instead buying bottles of the "max" stuff...
because: whiskey: how else?
i'm not a puritanical drinker of ms. amber...
mr. whiskers...

                      but the problem with the bottled stuff...
once opened: it goes stale the next day:
because i never mix it "correctly"...
   but what i found?
                          sunlight... leave an already
opened bottle of pepsi cola in the sun...
and... lucky me: England: it's sunny! wow!
leave it (obvious the cap is ******* on,
but it has already been opened ergo ergo)

leave it in the sun... boom! the gas is back...
it's fizzy again: it's actually more fizzy than upon first
opening it...
so... what's the relationship with carbon dioxide
and sunlight?
carbonated water and sunlight?
does sunshine agitate the carbon in the water
making... oh... right... it must imply...
it has a lower boiling point than water itself...
i mean: you couldn't exactly boil a cup of tea
using sunlight...

but you could... make more fizz out of a going
stale carbonated water by exposing it to sunlight!
yep... just checked it...
it is lower... not that much lower...
but we're talking... sunlight and a plastic bottle:
plastic easily overheats...
and in terms of boiling: there's a lid...
so... no wonder... and we're talking:
sitting on a roof... sunrise? circa 5am...
all the way through to about 1pm...
  
    enough time... the tides will eat away the coastlines...

- yesterday's weigh-in... 101.6kg...
today's weigh in? ha ha...   98.5kg...
3.1kg loss in a single day...
    who even bothers with dieting?
what's the point?
   maybe i just figured it out... just about...
whatever dieting gurus tell you:
if you don't torture yourself physically through
acute exercise... nothing's going to work...
better be the rabbit than the turtle...

for far is it from where i live to Tate Britain,
roughly? 20miles... to get there... and back...
40+miles...
              plus the stress of traffic... which is always
good... stress is a great calorie burner...
plus testosterone... plus adrenaline generation...
it's not like a safe environment in a gym
pumping... pumping! weights...
or running the hamster wheel of the treadmill...
plus the wind obstructing you...
  mind you: maybe drinking that half a litre
of whiskey prior also helps...
perhaps ingesting alcohol: whiskey... before setting
off on a mega exercise routine...
because the calories: as my "dearest" gwand-m'ah used
to say from alcohol are empty calories...
by drinking half a litre of whiskey you're not eating
a fattening burger...

alcohol calories are not... protein calories...
they're not carbohydrate calories... they're not fat
calories... they're alcohol calories...

and on your bicycle... am i just fuelling up?!
i don't mean ingesting alcohol and doing weights...
i'm talking about ingesting alcohol and
punishing myself via the cardiovascular method...

personally i can't imagine myself becoming a father:
decreasing the amount of testosterone running
through my veins:
   i'm the "wrong" sort of gambler...
i measure my gambling ability on how well i can
maneaouvre... ****... too many! vowels!
man-oeuvre... manoeuvre... now i'll remember...
that's what the English speaking folk say about
my native tongue: you're ******* vowelled-up mate!

right: MAN and OEUVRE... like...
the total of someone's productivity: posthumously...
i'm more of a gambler like that:
will i squeeze in? will i get past?
either give me a horse and the Siberian steppes...
or give me a bicycle and London's roads...

oh wow... i'm actually thinking like a free man!
sure sure: i can care for people on "pretend":
little cameos here and there... and it's genuine...
but... to replicate myself: to have to "nurture" genes?
why does Jamie Redknapp (K surd!)
  look like the older brother of Frank Lampard Jr.?

i know the answer...
    because Harry Redknapp married a woman
that was the twin sister of Frank Lampard Sr. bride...

i'm sort of giggling now... but walking to the shop
for some early morning cider...
there's this great Danish film about a group
of guys who are constantly ingesting alcohol...
in acute amounts... no... not binge drinking going
out on the tiles sort of drinking:
irresponsible drinking is out of the question:
know your limits...
if you can't cycle to Tate Britain from 20 miles
away while having drank half a litre of whiskey:
don't do it...

DRUK... another round... funny that...
       druk means print in my native spreschen...
pisany druk: written print...

i look at old men as no wiser than the wisest...
it's a bit like looking at babies:
either men or women...
i want death before i reach this unnatural
old age... this retrospective cinema...
it's almost like seeing menopause:
this slack in testosterone curbing...
it's like looking at able albeit decrepit bodies
lost in a memory of former agility...

heimat! heimat!
all of the German war songs are worth singing!
heil! heil! wenig scheisse...
that's what my Russian girlfriend used to call me:
kakashka... little ****...

do i write from the perspective of regret
or from the perspective of memory:
i don't know...
what would you do... having travelled to Russia...
upon first entry into her abode:
getting a slap in the face...
i tried punching myself harder from time to time...
but that slap was waspish...
she thought i wasn't monogamous with her:
even though she kept her ex in her vicinity...

alle huren! alle huren!
   alle verdienen mein liebe!
ich kann nicht diktieren zensur von
solch(e) pracht!

   ich kann nicht! ich kann nicht!

maybe that's why i'm not bothered by nudes
in the art gallery...
       i abhor Lucian Freud...
                     i find his gaze repulsive...
it's what i'd call: cloggy...
beauty in the eye of the beholder blah blah...
there's that strict format of identifiable form
readily expressed:
which is mostly in the ****...

no wonder i like ******* in front of a mirror:
and that's mine...
und das ist mein!
                  mein allein!

        i suppose, therefore: i don't need to paint...
i can only skim a membrane of what could be
considered a painting... writing the membrane
of an art-work...

               Nietzsche showed the nail...
Heidegger provided the hammer...
   better an early death and eternity than all those
materialistic sensibilities of progress...
better the promises than simply prolonging
a fate worse than death:
ein los schlimmer als tod...

i want to die viral... with all the vitality that life
allows!
i don't want to die as a toothless wolf!
ich do nicht wollen zu sterben als ein zahnloswolf!
this is torture... old age apparent...
no wonder men have lost their libido!
if what's waiting for them:
no man want's to live the sort of life
that grieves him with old age!

it's unnatural!
             it's great for clones, cupids and other
quasi- makeshifts of creature...
it's not so great for men...
old age of men and the lost testosterone...
is a bit like the menopause for women...
but it's not spoken of...
   Western gynocentric antics...
                               i like the Eastern traditions...
man comes to the fore... woman come after...

i'm already in a dodo mindset...
i truly don't mind...
    the middle-ground has already been salvaged...
humanity will not perish...
genius is always born once in a while...
not that i am:
irgendetwas du möchte denken...

heimat! tanz! heimat! tanz!
   die fluss von menschen...
        die fluss von alles dinge...

               das ist alles.

A mind racing through the street, In the seat next to me making worries obsolete

My chest overheats when you held my hand, feelings unplanned suddenly lost where I stand

Stuck in quicksand when we lay close, kissing your nose a smile collectively grows

No one knows why the daisy chose to be yellow, but like a lions bellow you had me at hello

Every programme rammed down my throat makes me want to puke, being a terrible judge of the character plot I look but don't see what the images do for me,
except maybe
give me some time to pen in a line to the editor,
'get with the programme'
but of course he already is.

The remote overheats as I
constantly switch from terrestrial
to satellite
morning to night and there's nothing, nada,
surely they ought to by now
be getting it right.

What happened to Andy
Pandy?
or Muffin the mule?
Playschool?
the Woodentops?
and so tragic
there's no
Animal Magic.

Emergency ward 10
will I not see that again?
and what about
That was the Week that was,
gone
because they think they know better,
time to pen another letter.

Dear Sir,
are you there?
what's going on?
obviously not the
programmes that
John want to see.

yours sincerely
Old Mother Riley,

nb
omitting the smiley.

Metal music, vintage sound

feel the beat pulse all around;

Louder! Drown out my heartbeats,

drown out this fire that burns and overheats.

Play louder than my heart, perhaps I'll forget,

that it tears me apart, this unresolved bet.

Schrödinger's cat of blissful ignorance,

a stalemate, a draw, merciful ambivalence.

We could be a pair, like tequila and salt,

I'll just keep dreaming, 'til I wake with a jolt.

Smoke in my lungs, my hair in my face,

I'm lulled into numbness, in the music's embrace.

Sensory overload of lights and sound,

In a club's chaos, clarity I found:

Things will work out, in whatever way,

and even if they don't, I'll be okay.

Whatever happens, I know I can handle,

for I am a forest fire, not just a candle.

the things only human eyes can see

the faint every-color-yet-no-color glow
masking the sky
there is no clock in my room but there’s
one somewhere out here
buried in the ground maybe where I left
all my feelings to dig up on accident
another day

I thought there would be stars out but
they’re asleep already
I thought everyone was asleep by now
but that is never true
I wonder if they’re happy
the people rumbling past in their black
jeeps
or taking the freeway just for driving
nowhere

I wonder if they’ve ever gone outside in
the middle of the night because
everything frozen suddenly overheats
and then the freeze turns physical and
everything stops again
but they can’t help but wonder about
the next time it’ll thaw
unexpectedly
because that’s how feelings are
you think they’re gone, and they are
for the most part
but even if only a shell of something is
left
shells hurt to walk on barefoot
and I’m always barefoot
except right now
I put socks on because I knew it would
be cold
.
everything out here is quiet
muted
there’s still sound
and I’m still shivering, but from the cold
now instead of from the heat
and everything is numbed
except it’s not
it’s the opposite of numbing
it’s poking and prodding at the parts of
me that were asleep
and here, as tired as I was, I feel more
awake than ever before
and the ground is getting warmer
it’s because of my body heat but I want
to believe the earth is welcoming me

it’s pure life

it’s so fresh and new
even though it still seems like
everything is dead
but it’s the fourth month
so everything is really starting a new life
we’re a little behind because of the
lack of oxygen up here against this
mountain
but we can start a
New Life
no matter how late in the season
it’s 2:05 AM according to my dimmed
screen

I wish there wasn’t a screen
I wish we could hold everything with
our hands
touch it and feel it and truly know it
but everything is suppressed
like dipping a finger in a fish tank
and wanting more than anything to pick
up a golden shimmering life
and just feel it
but knowing that fish aren’t meant to be
held by human hands
just looked at by human eyes
but looking isn’t enough
human eyes are meant to see
see things that other eyes cannot see
but who looks at a fish and really sees it


it’s 2:09 AM but in my mind I picture the
sun
waiting
just for a little longer
it knows I’m not ready for another day
yet
I want it to be cold and fresh and clean

as long as it takes for my frozen limbs to
thaw out later
I’m wishing the cold to stay
it’s cozier when the warmth comes from
within
totally self sufficient
and yet unseparated from anything
surrounding
it’s not just
surrounding
it’s

threading its needle through me
shards of air puncturing holes in
my lungs
blades of grass poking up through my
ribcage
growing through my melted heart
I can’t decide what temperature to keep
it at
do I freeze it? a heart at 32 degrees? or
so motionless, maybe it’s at 0 kelvin
or should it be set on fire until it burns
black
neither option seems entirely healthy
so I think I’ll just stay here
in my blanket
shivering but never warmer
not thinking about anything but
obviously
thinking too much about everything

I get lost in my brain
I don’t even know what it looks like in
there
I would get lost if I went too deep
I might accidentally trip and unplug the
icebox my heart is kept in
would it melt or just go bad?
//
frozen fingers stretched out too long
I need a gentle touch
someone to tell these eyes they need to
close
they deserve to close
I haven’t taken care of them
they see as human eyes see
everything but not enough all at once
overloaded but unstimulated

but we choose to see

the world holds too much
sometimes the right choice is to stop
looking and just feel

it’s 2:22 AM
if the sun was my friend it would nap a
little longer behind the mountain
but it just does its job
I am glad
I need another day
a
New Life
I’m not a tree
but maybe I can bloom late with them
I can grow pink ruby blossoms
and they’ll open when they feel the sun
on their faces
their petals will open
and something beautiful will appear

or maybe just drop to the ground

but whatever happens
it’s me
and all this happens because I see the
beauty in the gray-no-color sky
with my eyes that see only how my eyes
can

perfectly

I think I will go inside now
my heart is warm now
I can stand the heat now
and I can stand the cold
but I would prefer to be warm now
I can rest my eyes
and get ready for another day
my New Life


.

She sits in a room
All alone
All day sobbing
Her brain overheats
In anxiety throbbing
And lobbing grenades
Upon rainy parades
Is the only way she
Can ensure the pain fades
Crossing over again
To succumb and suppress
She still seems
In control
But is a
Complete mess
But her kind
Of frenetic
Magnetic
To me
She stills pulls me
As if
The full moon
To my sea

i sat down at the end of the day
having spent it
tending to my garden:

so much emotion is in my stomach
i doubt that i even have
a heart

3.5 grams of marijuana can last
me about a month
and i'm wondering: where was i in my 20s
when i smoked so little
i hear
heavy smokers obliterated
by the discovery of the Stretch of Time
time non-linear not
history
i better: sink feel this:
send those emotions to my *****
my genitals:
kneel and speak with my ***: relax
my ***:

then i think sometimes
i imagine speaking through my ****
rather than my mouth
when i think i sometimes
imagine speaking through my ****
rather than my mouth
because i'm no politician rhetorician
and i'm getting the blues
afraid of myself:
why am i so stone so Sisyphus
why am i so nervy ******
playing an IDLE GAME

games were so different back in the day
of Mario Bros
now there are IDLE games...
you get fed adverts
your pocket sized DEEP BLUE
overheats
and then you have to start hacking
the phone
because there is apparently moisture
in the charging socket
but there isn't

because when you hit ON button
i smoked half a joint
tonight
and i want to write
so i also drank a whiskey...
or two...
no... best keep this Election Night
giggles under shades
i know who's going to win
when in Europe there is the Right
while in England it's: Conservatism
but random people
talked to me on the train about politics
and i was coming home
tired

but beside that: just reading habits:
who can spaghetti monster
and the custard clot Yellow King
of Hapsburg and Lovecraft
an Austrian monstrosity hanging
over the German people

bad habits: like really bad habits:
i have too much on my mind
that even summoning an *** for a mouth
will not do:
now i have three mouths in my head:
bleak Corinthian dynamic
oh jeez:
jazz? maybe:

                                Zukofsky's A
and when i heard that voice
bro: i was over-tell: myself that the silence:
oh those wind chimes bother
me why did we invent them
when not living on islands for most of the time
the voice bothered me
i'll finish the joint when i'll head
to bed:

the best anything is 1/3 bourbon and 2/3
whiskey
i created a mutant spirit: at 40% loading...

i'm scared of myself for not being a worldly man:
an ambitious man
a politician:

democracy is:
when in its infancy as an idea of governing people
by people
why so many loops and snakes and ladders?
i'm not an ambitious man
i have no world demands
although i'm sitting on wealth
and with that comes:
pips of cherries and trees in winter...
and *******: plenty of *******:

while Wimbledon is on
and the Euros
and the elections across Europe
and now England:
how many prime ministers?
elections are called in times of crisis
i saw Cameron, May, Sunak, Liz Trolley...
i saw Blair, Brown and... who?
ambitious men:
i am afraid of myself:
not being an ambitious man:

less but more Harold Norse contemplating
not being a male-man
(ha ha, politico automachine
spell edit, introductory
alliance with "woke" terminology:
old ****: geezer, gas baboon)
because not prone to violence
or appreciative of sports notably football
just mad about poetry

but mirage mirage:
what a combination on ***
and the trans train: of alphabets:

     LINDA DE SOUSA
    with / & WADE WILSON:

scary to think there are even people
there:
on the "other side" of tax collectors
and i've been with ******
and there are people there:

we're so dynamic in our dualism beside
the mind
that there are parallel lives being led
with parallel fates being fed
in the simplest of languages: by one: in one:

i had to escape: become schizophrenic-schizoid:
how?

i'm bilingual so...
backup banning floppy disks in Japan
(if you read the newspapers:
you'll know)
the 3"15            was that the t.n.t. detonative
ascribing ref.?

           i need to write in English but listen
to music in German:
notably folk: folklore bands
Faun: federkleid:

i just need to because otherwise
i can't stomach
the life of the one tongue
and this rabbit rabid ethnicity
based upon
nothing but the tongue:
or two:

now the flood
of memories: subtle:
when i laughed at my mother speaking
English over the telephone:
i was a terrible brat
but today i am old
and older and at least
she's not a language confrontation
of lackey: suite...

the bible and the quran can exist
and... whatever:
but i want to write a contender:
antitoxin...
or toxin:

ah the ambition awakes and i'm delusional
again with my lover...
tub tub... tub tub:
three little finger flickers
then her tasting herself
after i finger her and put my fingers
into her mouth...

but Heidegger became real:
schematics
of external security:
at Wembley: someone was flying
a renegade drone over the south
of the architecture:

FOOTPRINT? my ***...
charlie 1: olympic steps
charlies 2: oh jeez... never heard of
positions 2, 3, 4...
charlies 5: Atlantic Way
Charlies 6: north east staircase
Charlies 7: south east staircase
charlie 8: south east ramp
charlie 9 and charlies 10: gate 3
(with quadrant Romeo)
usually Frenchie: endearing?

charlie 11: zig-zag alley
charlie 12: Spanish steps:

da-sein: concern:

Om om: the Mongol? began winking at me:
did i look panicked?
pan-caked:
i thought i was going to enjoy
ACDC
when they came on: i did:

apparently i was working outside
and i heard the better acoustics
and i almost played my guitar the last
time i was bringing
salt and sugar and toilet paper from
the attics:
i once upon a time wanted
but was not fated with either guitar
or chemistry as supplier
of bogus narcotics and to alleviate
the softness of this world
while the primitive aspects were
concerned: of no concern...

                 but i didn't: one handshake
i wonder what that is in Katakana:
handshake...
ooh! no Cambridge Dictionary hyphen
assertion:
it only took Charlie 6 not note to
CONTROL:
medical emergency:
possible concussion
head split open
falling over traffic barriers
metal to calcium
infestation with iron: this calcium

what? call an ambulance?
am i the ******* patron Saint of the Hospitaller
or something?
the Wembley footprint?
judge of what? character?
the guy is bleeding like a monk:
tonsure...
the natural bird-line of his nesting hair:
call an ambulance?!

two quadrants showed up
*******:
three charlie call signs
then the External Manager:
LIMA ECHO...
how the **** was i supposed
to call an ambulance:
hell's bells was playing
in the background:
sure, i was at the ac/dc gig:
got two t-shirts:
for me and my father
but i was working:
getting paid for X
but not getting paid for
reinvigorating the reinterpretation
of Heidegger's Dasein...

not the ambitious man:
i "forgot" to text my availability to Lyndon:
***** Scouser: yar...
and i forgot to text back my lover
and that's just that:
if poetry:
well democracy works when you
have individuals like Damocles
and the swords of Saddam Hussein:

work... but when you have
democracy contra democracy:
people are not infringing on your way
in living:
today i was visited by a Conservative
minion campaigner
and there my ambition stumbled
and i became this
devilish little man
of little things
and that was just fine:
since god is not c.c.t.v.

              demonic in flavor or anything
more than the 1
in the eternal decimal pointer:
UNDIVISIBLE:
UNDIVISABLE:

   1
       not: rather: 0.111111111111111...

1/9:             there are NINE: nein?
NINE HORSES OF THE APOCALYPSE:
five are missing:

             boredom!
                  madness!
          technology!

i found at least 3: got kicked in the head
by a white horse in the moonlight: almost...

            PEACE!             that's four: the horse
of peace: peace is like a war:

         conquest?         contra the mortal quest?
from the Vatican:
what 7 deadly sins?
  how about the 8 realistic horses?

conquest i will do like the synoptic
readers did unto
the apocryphal readers:
i will: turn: the other cheek..

   you savvy: drop drool and lip
blossom: no? maybe spring in New York
and in central park...

the horses are running:
War Rower
             Peace Pacifier
  Famine Fetishes of Fat
Death the Central (Power)
Boredom and Brew Dogs

how many horses? i need a chariot:
no carriage: just two archers...
5...                      3 more?
borrowed from the classical
sense of geometry
Greco:HYMAN:HYMN
ITALICS:WOMEN:He:did':brew:'t

          HALF-DEATH: horses of dementia:
needle? thread: extension of grass?
so much *** of glitter... no?

      horse of TECHNOLOGY:
the Solipsist: the St. Augustine
with his Soliloquy: once: Soliloquies
like the injustices performed
upon Sisyphus by the gods:
while... the Titans were helpers:

Prometheus: and the un-ambitious man...
like: moi...

              have i covered more: not expected?
just the barrage of typo
and type: dot dot dot
while i watch a book burn unlike
a cross in the Chatter
Club Capitalism: wavering:
unsure where is Left Copernican
and Right Copernican:
north and summer
south and autumn
winter and east
and spring west:

                not sure: feel: disorientated...
slightly...
     almost got kicked in the head by a horse
but i was stupid enough to walk
in the woods
while angry at the blinding darkness
i had no ego for light-bulb
but instead overheard:
i will not be a **** enthusiast
i heard SATAN I N EXCELSIS...

                i must be a good enemy of man
if i am also the best friend of man:
however many times:
i try not to be one.
perhaps that's how it came to be:
to thus become:
learning how to pet animals:
minimizing talking to pets
like minimizing talking to lovers
during ***...
i make fun of my cats
automating onto onomatopoeia(s)
while they pretend to want to talk...

oh but i know animals can
talk the talk of humans:
i overheard my cat Oscar Darshan
tell me outright:
(ty) JABEŁ...

                i don't need to raise
children: people disbelieved me
i went to psychiatrists
*******
and your white powder SODA brain
freeze: powder! ambitious
sexed up men of grey: and suits!

          women can have children
and hear them speak all they want
but life for man?
when he hears a petted animal speak?
sorry:
aversions to your **** and
providing bus drivers and doctors:
i have mystique:
and my testosterone:

wasn't the fox at the Greenwich:
yeah: the hustler:
enough proof?
doubting Thomas you too?! not so much
a Peter?! Edie?