Manny Pacman won his fight
His 50+ year old fans stand and unite (in Macau because they are the only ones who can afford going there)
Mommy D with her rosary
Looking like she is summoning something
With the shrieks and roars she's committing
Its a good thing she didn't **** anything

The teen peeps in twitter tweeting about the fight
Hoping to get ten rt's or likes
Some are about winning
And others are more of the "internet type"
But who cares? A fight is a fight !

Manny Pacman is now relived
He prayed to God and thanked thee
Now suddenly he is stressed and in distress
Because he needs to think of songs for his upcoming concert

Here in the Philippines
Heroes and villains unite
Police and criminals have a drink
Kris and Boy make more chika
Because it is a bongga day to day
Cuz Manny won the fight

The letter was a warm invitation  and a perfect getaway I needed to lay low after are  brief rise to cult status i had partaken of the
rewards of semi obscurity and had a few angry fathers searching for me.

The big apple it called to me like a stripper apon a pole demanding thats all you got is ones you cheap *******?
My true sidkick  like robin to batman just less gay and good looking.

Met me at the station  Amigo how the hell are you now were's the bar?
Drinks on you right?
Cause when your a semi celeb slash rockstar of hello why the **** should i pay.
Why should women be the only ones to walk into a bar with three dollars  in there purse and get rip roaring drunk.
Besides if i was a chick id be a **** *****.

The stage was set the bar was filled with strange sounding people
all asking my well know  brother in madness who tha  ***** this *******.
****** good man im not just any ******* im Gonzo.

Beer on another mans tab always tasted better   just remember ******
im not putting out   well unless  you ask me niceley  or pay  me
like that rich old lady used to who  also was missing her leg.

yes what memeories id slip her a mickey  rearrange her  clothes and after she woke  up tell her what a wild night we had yes i know
true romance.

BUT ENOUGH WITH THE FOREPLAY CHILDREN!

We began are quest like any other  seeing how much ***** we could
hold  till  normal people began to make sense.
I work everyday busting my freakin ***  still it aint enough Gonz.
The angry little italian man who's wallet i had borrowed said beside me.
Hey a girls gotta eat.
Dear lord man you mean you actully have to go back everyday hey is this a gold card   your worse than my wife freakin ***.
Sir you are a charmer  what angry little people  lived here.

Bill lets hit the ******* im in need of culture  and some naked women amigo  come on im  drinks are on Vinny who gives a ****.

After bill  dipped into his life savings to pay the tab we hopped
a cab headed for Manhattan  to the place  of great myths and wonder
it called to great men from arond the world to bask in its beauty.

No not the statue of the giggantic woman  with a torch although i wondred  as i stood below her ****** why cant she be wearing a mini skirt.
You gotta love a big girl  she was such a tease.

No as i stood  tears meeting my bloodshot eyes
befor the mecca  the big apple and the home  of legends and playground to the *****.

Hey get the **** outta the street *******.
It"s Gonzo  man ****** how many times do i need to repeat myself.
Scores a ******* to the rich  a fools paradise **** Disneyland.
Ive been on spacemountian most my life anyways.

As through the doors we were met by a scene of true
art much like the Mona Lisa  if she were a stripper named candice cane  in red high heels hanging from a stripper  pole.

the drinks flowed  the lap dances were well you get the point.
I realized my two drink minimum freind was a little how should i say it poetically.
******* wasted.

As he tried  to give a stripper named honey a lap dance  
never mind him ladies he's my  ******* brother.
In a plan of true drunken genius i explained he was sick and
his last wish was for his older brother to hookup with
some   hot  strippers to have  ahh  some  after hours activities  
Who's ***** bingo.
how i love  bango I mean bingo.

Tears welled up in there eyes  thank god they didnt question why my little brother was 58.
Hey there strippers  and if they  were all going to college  then
this would be a ******* library  not a high  dollar  titie bar.

Librarians with there hair up short tight skirts and glasses
i swear you get busted for  having a little alone time on a public
computer   in that over rated book store for a second time and everyone  flips ****.
Society is so judgemental  but that's another story  
and court case   away.

The plastic fake boobie women had fallin for it.
So like drunken ninjas in a fog of  dellusion and wild turkey we made are last exit to brooklyn.
  
Hey  Gonz why do these chicks keep asking how much longer do i have.
Smacking my friend swiftly in the head had drawn the attention
of the strippers away from counting there tips and comparing there fake breast.

He's got brain dammage sometimes you have to hit em in the  
head to get him unstuck  ****** just look at the poor *******
he thinks he's not sick  oh dam life i need a cuddle girls.
Bill hold the camera.

We hit my friend's apartment like tourist slipping across the boarder grabing and  consuming great amounts of ***** and some sort of white powder  must have been for allergies.

Like squirrels  on acid  running down the interstate we were  
half nuts by the time that big orange ball thats causes me to wear sunglases did appear.

The ladies who names i cant recall  but honestly who gives a ****.
were passed out in bed Bill  in the fish tank  
calling himself captian nimmo  at this point led me to belive just maybe he had  a little  to much  but theres  many pitfalls on the road to Gonzo pacman.

Few men had the liver  or insanity of your's truely.
so after i talked my  tripping amigo off the frige.
Reassuring him its okay   amigo   thats what women look like naked.

I assure you  just cause they broke theres off doesnt mean they'll do the same to yours.
****** son why have a computer if not to look at **** and read long rants by insane people who call themself Gonzo?

After are long disscussion   about good touch bad touch and happy endings  we were off  again.

                                                 Ground Zero

                                        Silence And Respect

Standing there there was a shared  moment.
And a pain any soul could feel.
It wasnt about race or religion  it was about people
we all lost that day.
John Patrick Robbins stood beside a brother without a word
said as it spoke a million feeling's to the soul.

                           No one ever truley leaves there.

At the bus station a few cocktails behind us me and the kiddster
parted slightly hung over   and strung out smelling of reckless abandon
and strippers and wild turkey.

Apon the bus sitting by the window and some large man.
Who reaked of sardines  and  resembled a  cerial ******.
yes ladies he's single  and will probaly **** ya.
Wonder why he has a hard time getting dates?

As Bill waved goobye to his demented  brother from his own planet.
I waved back saying hey amigo  is this your debit card hell no worries
i'll keep  good care of it and reward myself.

As the bus left the station  my semi ******* friend chasing behind
yelling Gonzo i'll get you for this you freakin *******.
Kidster  that hurt i yelled but not as much as it's gonna hurt you bank account cheers.

That guy in black is ******  you  better watch out he's probaly connected.
No worries my funny smelling oversized friend
so am i replied.
I have the internet as well.

Bound for parts unknown Gonzo  made many stops
and if not for legal reason's  id share most of them.
Yes as i sat apon the beach  after taking a little side trip to Florida.
Drink in hand lost in deep thought's for which i cant remember.
      
Reflecting apon my time in the big apple.
And my friend the Kiddster
A toast to my friend.
Hope you like the post card  and the three week vacation
i treated myself to.

Sorry about the whole life savings thing but
who needs to retire in there 80's  work will keep you young girlfriend.

Cheers your slightly insane friend Gonzo.

*****, it's T-Raww, blood on my paws
Big ***** chick back a ***** to the wall
Never get involved, ****** every bar
**** so illegal, get a green card
Different cars, different from y'all
I work hard, you work at the mall
Pass a ***** off like my ***** John Wall
**** her in the dark, gimme the light, Sean Paul
Yeah, ***** I do this ****
Colder than a ******* penguin lip
And my ***** ***** fire gotta extinguish ****, Lebron James and ****
Got heat super freak Rick James ya *****, leave a stain and ****
On ya couch in ya house like brotherman
Hanging like Mr. Cooper hand, ****.

[Chorus]
Posing, Heisman [x3]

[Honey *******]
Yo, got a Asian ***** on my left side
Another Asian *****, right, right side
They might send your *** off to the next side
***** hold your **** breath 'cause you might die
Got a group of bad ******* and I feel good
Oh you're hungry? Too bad 'cause my meal's good
And I shouldn't beat a broad, yet I still would
But I don't tryna be bad 'cause the deals good
Yeah, now look I got the urge to feed them off some doggy ****
Type of stuff to make them feel like alcohol and potent ****
Hold the *****, just sold the *****, ******* pay me is what I told the *****
You can't walk or talk, I own you *****
Please don't make me hot, I'm the coldest ***** (agh)

[Chorus]
Posing, Heisman [x3]

[Tyga]
Well, running from the cop, boy born to ****
Hand me the lock, bring it to your front door, doorbell
Knock knock, who there? Houdini disappear
Got green, John Deere. More green, Paul Pierce
Amazing win shot, you my son, I adopt, dop dop
Pacman, that's for opening your mouth
Bust a nut, kick her out, lit a cigarette now
Put the cigarette down, I'm the ****, loose bowels
Wow, Laughing, did I say that out loud?
***** getting busy like I work downtown
On to the next if she don't **** right now (right now)
Harder than a pipe, can't pipe down
What you ****** talking about?
Man I'm what your ***** is talking about
Two months then an album out
Careless world drop, pewm, then I'm out.

[Chorus]
Posing, Heisman [x3]

[Honey *******]
If a ***** **** around, I might go off
My advice is you better get down to go
You came to shop at the mall, but I bought the stores
I got a box of jewels, I call it *** of gold
Call the cops to go, as my pockets grow
Get the chains and the rings and the watches, bro
And I boxed a ****, I just boxed a ***
You tryna pass me *****? It ain't possible, nah
Cool as ****, I suggest you dress for the weather *****
Is forever ****, whenever *****
What's a ***** to a queen? Whatever *****!
I crop a kid, it's a hot to ****
Its some Gucci, Louis, fendi, Prada ****
Tell them *******, you ain't not a *****
Find me in the club where my partners is
(Schwagg, B-*****!)

[Chorus]
Posing, Heisman [x3]
(***** I'm The ****)

Every time I touch a controller
I set a new highscore
I said a new highscore.
Look out behind you, *******.
I capped that ***;
You should've watched your back.
Now I got an L-shaped block
Watch as I drop it in that L-shaped slot.
Haters gotta throw the blue turtle shell,
Because they can't keep their kart on Rainbow Road.
Donkey's going to throw some barrels at me;
Don't worry princess, watch me jump.
I promise I won't get hit, not even once.
Hey there champ look right here;
I just stuck a plas grenade
On you right ear.
Lucky shot? So you say.
Still watching me tea-bag you
From the grave.
Pilot Wings, Punch-Out, Mario
Madden, Sonic or GTA
It doesn't really matter
The number of pixels we play.
D-Pad or joystick,
Night or day,
It doesn't really matter how you play,
Put me on tron I'll blow you away.
Turtles in Time:
You take that next slice.
Even blindfolded your no match
For my SuperScope.
Tony Hawk, what a joke!
In Pacman or Galaga in space
Even with the Kunami Code
You've got no hope.
So the next time you hear
Scorpion yell "Get over here!"
Have no fear
A Sonic Boom will soon be there.
Busting out Atari's Pong?
Noob, I'll pwn you
One-thousand to none.
Hell, not even Parapa the Rappa
Can touch my rhymes.
Read those initials
That score is mine.
I said read those initials;
That score is mine.

strangers hold up scoring cards as I pass by
6
4
8
3
i pretend not to notice them, but I do

I try to pretend like I enjoy talking about myself
when people ask me stupid questions about my life:
"where do you work?"
"how are the wedding plans coming?"
"are you going to school?"

all of which hold very little importance
so I shy away from them
perhaps it is because I do not feel worthy of such attention
cannot grasp that some people genuinely wish to know

I don't show love or interest like that
sometimes I am afraid that I am not capable of loving at all

but that-
is a silly notion
scrawled up on Lucifer's drawing table
he wishes for me to be miserable, as he is
why do I succumb to the lies

I feel incomplete sometimes (always)
and I wonder if Pacman feels like an incomplete ball of sunshine, too

"Sunshine," he calls me.

and I shrink from my lover,
because I don't know what to do with my darkness.

fifties music
and
Spanish homework
what a combination
time is ticking
and its all quite
an invitation
for my terminal
disease
procrastination
learning is intriguing
but I can hear my friends
calling me
it wont stop ringing !
Saturday afternoons
wanting to go and do
normal teen things
instead I do an overflowing
amount of useless ****
they don't teach me anything
give me a packet for every class
while you play pacman at you desk
wishing you had your adolescence back
sipping nasty black coffee
while we copy each others papers
confusion and boredom
pains us endlessly
will somebody in this *******
nation stand up for our education
and end my selfish procrastination?!

We couldn't save John Lennon
Cars with fins, or rock and roll
Change comes with time, ah, that's a given
We can't even save our soul

TV shows we all grew up on
All the poster girls we love
They all have disappeared
That's just the thing I feared
It happened when push came to shove

I keep my eyes open when I kiss you
I just have to see you near
Yours are closed,
that's the way it goes
I don't want to see you disappear
That's why I keep my eyes wide open
This may be a dream we're in
I have to see you there beside me
I could not live this life again

Cassette tapes and all those eight tracks
In the garbage they all went
They're with the comic books,
The one's your mothers took
To have them now is heaven sent

Fatty foods and concert movies
You can't find them any more
The food has gotten thin
The movies....in the garbage bin
The good times aren't just like before

I keep my eyes open when I kiss you
I just have to see you near
Yours are closed,
that's the way it goes
I don't want to see you disappear
That's why I keep my eyes wide open
This may be a dream we're in
I have to see you there beside me
I could not live this life again

Where are the good old games of pinball
Not the pacman sort of games
You know the ones I mean
You played them as a teen
And you still know all their names

Whatever happened to the music?
The ones we loved are in the ground
Elvis, he was the King,
the great ones all could sing
There's just so few of them around

I keep my eyes open when I kiss you
I just have to see you near
Yours are closed, that's the way it goes
I don't want to see you disappear
That's why I keep my eyes wide open
This may be a dream we're in
I have to see you there beside me
I could not live this life again

there are no haunted places;
just people that are haunted
by their past and presences,
by their longing to hold
memories and perceptions
of those loved and dead,
hanging on to the comfort
to the pathos amidst the chaos
of grief and mourning,
as if retaining the empty hurt
will assist in refraining from
the departure of treasured  
thoughts, which is all that
remains, Pacman like
following, ready to pounce

you know about as much about copyright laws, as i do, about shoelaces; what's the word... oops?*

and what did i decide to cook today?
oh, just some hungarian goulash sauce -
extra paprika - pork -
served on a potato "pancake" -
mixed potatoes with flour, an egg,
salt & pepper, more paprika -
fried onions & bacon, and, would you
believe it? brussels pâté...
i was desperate: there was no lard
in the house...
   served on two grand leaves of
col lettuce: yummy as a sunset glazing
a hyacinth;
and no, on a flower it's called
caramelised butter effect,
   it's not actually called photosynthesis
at those moments.

i'm still bewildered by these people who
"just happen" to dictate a "reality"
by calling the dasein of events a case of:
on the internet, vs. the real world.
utterly bewildering...
no, i'm still bewildered -
let me tell you a little story...
do you know how much mail
i get through the door each year?
perhaps 4 letters...
        reality check: the b.b.c. is broke,
it's actually the broke broadcasting corporation,
the british bit flew out the window,
they're airing shows from the years
MMXV & MMXVI primarily -
oh look who's coming with the surprise -
no, it's not *pacman: the ol' jolly roger
by the name of jimmus savillius -
****** broke the bank with his antics,
not the b.b.c. is a dog with three legs,
broke! ha ha!
             there's still something
bothering me... what part of "reality"
are these people pushing, that can't see
the duality, instead choosing a dichotomy
of the existence of the internet,
ah, either they're too young,
or the internet itself is too young,
and they haven't seen the shredder impact
of the internet on the high street...
when was i at a local high street?
honest to god, heart on my shoulder,
hand on my other heart singing the regional
anthem... can't remember...
if you only get 4 letters through the post
a year, and even less emails -
unless of course you tell people your email
address...
   either i'm the biggest loser, or the biggest
winner in this fiasco...
   i get as many emails as i get actual,
post-office letters...
    **** me, lucky you if it's a handwritten
letter, without an electronically generic
signature, you must be santa claus!
ah, pretty pretty, esp. since it was written
in green and purple crayon...
     get in there my son, you're bound
to enter the major league of *******
and *** fiddlers: just make sure you mention
the black component preference,
like, you know who.
           i can't believe they're coming for these
people, i swear to god, if someone working
class was to read the saturday or the sunday
times supplements, they'd go gargamel
bonkers... as i once explained the smurfs to
a scaffolder and his girlfriend walking
from an off-lice, as we both joked:
   she's short enough for the blue...
god, her reaction as impeccable:
heaven sent no hell apart from a woman's
fury at being either scolded or joked about;
works every time,
  so, gentlemen! can we return to our
drinking?
                  and they said in pop culture that
grief was an aphrodisiac - twice down
the shoot, thrice with the shakers as **** it is...
as it turns out so is male humour is a gemini
with grief...
     the furious vagi... and i knight her:
            n'ah...
                        i still don't get where
or when the reality check will take shape...
how much of "real" life on the internet
is not mere commentary?
... ... ... ... i'm giving you some time to answer...
whatever happened to the intricacies
of the "real" world and the internet?
what about those hacks, what about
internet banking,
   what has suddenly become so unreal
about the internet?
oh right, so we can hold a welsh f-u f-off (V)
to the publishers, and bypass their
bad taste in prose?
          thinking about it: i think it is...
oh sure, we'll earn a few collateral badges
of those who fell with weak psyches -
but to say, the most splendid, known
to man, ever imagined ******* -
well... you'd be a fool to distinguish
the internet as a wachowski construct...
listen mon, you're saving the amazon,
pixel by pixel by pixel alone...
   but you've also woken the eyes of
beelzebub -
          and the irish are pounding -
and the russians stopped drinking for a month -
and the poles decide:
it's our time to march with the gob!
i still can't believe that people can't
fathom a simple newtonian calculus
of integrating two entities -
     and making them as one -
      personally?
i'm an impatient person, or, rather:
i don't like people wrestling with me over
copyright, copy what? what?!
there's only one page on the internet
that respects copyright laws... wattpad...
no other page on the internet disallows
the ctrl c through to ctrl p...
not one... ******* if you think anything
about "copyright" laws in the 21st century...
one page, one page out of a billion,
that respects copyright, and what do they do?
they kick me off it, because in
privy i asked a girl where she was from,
to get the feel of what inspires her...
like in that film the passengers -
where the girl says: i could write all day
with a view of the chrysler building...
  well then... UP YOURS!

Cancer
That grew so
Big it swallowed the sun
Mercury venus earth mars jupiter saturn
Like juicy blinking pacman dots
And pluto a non-planetary cherry
On top

"Kiss me," you said into the
Microphone *"I don't want to die
a ******."

hearing from you sends chills throughout my body
like someone is playing pacman inside of my organs.
you are not mine
and you will never belong to me.
but you are the breath i take on a rainy morning
in olympia, WA
you take away the arizona heat.
and it's okay, i never want to be more than this
i am comfortable with the fact there are no strings attached
i am happy that there are only tongues tied
i am a horrible person i know
your girlfriend will never have to know
that i am your break.
when things get serious, they never last
so let's keep this casual and comforting
without stress, and just relax.

I'm made of broken bones,
intricate schemes,
bang my head about dreams
I never had the time to dream.

I'm moving while being stuck,
I'm the nuttiest rotten nut,
get my head away with a six packs
in my one pack,

like Pacman
the leaderboard's my crack,
my mind trapped
in a one-too-many bedrooms flat,

I find the time to fly
away from broken expectations,
dream about vacation
from my self-amputation,

raging frustration running through my veins,
I look calm, but I'm about to blow this up,
I have no future,
hand with no palm, soul been ******,

I move away from the crowd,
I'ma just observe,
It's a scene I've already seen,
nothing's ever my concern.

I'm in the quiet
and I appreciate the sound,
it's the noise of all that I lost,
and the big nothing that I've found.

In the depths of my basement
Hidden behind the christmas decorations
And under the family albums
Lies a box waiting to be discovered
It holds a legend from a bygone era
The atari 2600
It may be the grandfather of gaming
But it still plays like it's 1977
It's been going strong for forty years
But my laptop called it quits after five
You have to start with the classics
Like Pacman pitfall and pong
Galaga asteroids and dig dug
All of them in glorious 8 bits
A throwback to simpler times
When there were no updates to download
Nothing to install to the hard drive
12 year Olds didn't mock you online
It was just you and a joystick

atari games
when i was a teenager i had an atari games system
me and my mates played space invaders, pacman and river raid
competing to get the best score and be the best

it was a saturday afternoon in summer in the 80s

that's when it happened while we gamed away
we heard a huge bang and ran out of my mum's house
and down to the road for we knew it was bad
a crowd had gathered and oh ******* hell look!

a girl was lying still on the ground

was she dead?
but i only thought that later
we could see she was nice, too nice,
for all of her legs and **** was on display
as were her ******* and raised short skirt
and what of her face?

i knew she was pretty

there was blood on the ground
but we didn't see it till later
she was near a bus stop which was bent
was she waiting there when she was hit?
hit by the car that was halfway off the road

and equally thru the stone wall?

where was the driver?
the crowd said he'd fled the scene
over the fields and look,
there's tracks thru the grass

my mate's dad came to help the girl

her told his son to go to their house for a spoon
the girl was vomiting and it would **** her
soon his dad cleared the girl's mouth
so she could breath and he stayed by her side
while we watched from over the road

the ambulance soon came and took her away

and later still, the cops nicked the driver
he was drunk and driving and almost killed the girl
later still i learnt she made a full recovery
i wonder where she is now?

does she remember how close she came to death?

and what of the driver who hurt her?
this was 35 years ago and i remember it
like yesterday and the message it says:

don't drink and drive...

He kept coming back to haunt me
No matter how deep I buried him
The world I created in my mind
Belonged neither to the past
Nor the future
But I remember how he marked his territory
Taught me a new language
And learned mine carefully
Each night he made his presence known
And by dawn the discovery continued
As he peeled back the layers
And clambered over the walls
I remember how it felt like
He was always just there
Like a pacman storing away
All the information he came across
Out of all the other people
He collected the most points
The beginning of the end
Was when he wanted more
Pacman became a greedy snake
Overpowering
Overwhelming
Demanding to take up all the space
But he was good
He was ******* great at it
He was always ****** epic
At whatever he put his mind to
And I was mesmerised
Bowled over by his ability
And even now
After all these years
He has managed to stay around
Everytime I think I've forgotten
He lurks in the dark
I remember how he cursed me
Wishing I'd never forget
And wonder if the curse was true
Or I'm wallowing in his prophecy
Perhaps it was mine too

the rocking booths

of arcades.

rated: R, by pheromonal

happenstance.

inboxed: 17, at full capacity.

pacman & stale popcorn--

that gushes butter down

pipelined necks.

matchmaking with

Elio's pizza--dude!

an eighty-year-old strand

of hair.

dyed purple...too west for

its coast.

every jammed quarter's a

pit boss.

David Lynch banging his

57-Chevy fore-lock, against

glass that contains Wednesday's

bacon.

stealing out of the glass of

a corner store.

candy store--such betrayable

headspace, baggable sugar.

shoot...

He wants me at first sight.
His glorious, thick-lipped smile,
surrounded by deep and dazzling dimples,
a square, solid jaw and chiseled cheekbones,
shines in the light of his well-worn work truck.
A whirlwind courtship and I am spinning.
I’m a beautiful ballerina in pink toe shoes.
Yet, I’m a clumsy cog, a contrivance,
desperately longing to find my home.

He wants too much of me.
He is insatiable in his desire.
“Sing for me,” he chants.
“You could be a star! I can see it now.”
His dark brow highlights clever, hazel eyes.
His button nose hides his
heritage, but his thick accent
gives him away.

He reeks of macho ideals and an entrepreneurial spirit.
He asks my parents for my hand.e’s doggedly determined.
A stony shiver runs down my barely-bent spine.
I push the far-off fear away
and dig deeper
into the safety of the sofa.

Sweet sadness kisses the girl
with hidden harbored afflictions.
The fair haired, pale skinned girl
with narrow back and large back end.
I’ve a delicate face and bright green eyes
with feet and ears as large as a man’s.
My fiery wit and sultry smile
hide the black cloud within my brain.
I have it all. Unwrap me.
I’m a prize in Nordstrom wrappings,
but also a stunning disappointment
in Prada heels.

A circle of gold slips possessively
on my relegated ring finger
in a land of strangers.
Their dark eyes burrow into me,
yet I wear my smile
like a shield.
Foreign tongues chant in ceremony,
and I am told to drink
the thick, sweet rosy wine. A bitter
spirit that offends my tongue.
A sad smile sits on my decorated face
like the painted palms
lining the path to the white wedding canopy.
My stomach groans. A rabbi chants.
In my mind, I chew on
French manicured fingernails.

Our bed is a crocodile pit with no rest.
Penurious, predatory eyes
cast an eerie glow on the taupe walls.
Green monsters snap at my innocent
toes
until my posture curves toward them
in subservience.
I made my pristine, picture-perfect bed,
so I remain there, despite the accepted
agony.
Every day, a new reason to hate
myself.
Each tireless tirade
with flailing hands and pounding fists leave me
alone.

I stare at the books on the shelf
to keep my composure,
while his Pacman mouth
spews ugly lies and spittle.
A thick spine of leathery brown
tells of long lost lessons of the Torah.

A tuft of black hair
juts out of the venomous
v-neck of his t-shirt.
His calloused hand hits the
soft skin of my face, but I don’t cry.
Nor do I wince. I merely stare
blankly ahead in the dimly lit boudoir
where jade jailbirds roam free
on diamond-patterned carpet.
Where is that lavishly lucky girl?
Who is this broken wife
who’s stolen her life?
I hide, pitifully, behind my extra
bulk
wishing away his crocodile cruelty.

The numbness envelopes me in its
superficially loving arms.
I become the hateful creature
that he wants me to be
and he hates me for this, too.
I hide in the shadows of the room,
but I am still visible.

I become a buttercream butterfly
free of the tirade
in the abruptly transformed bedroom
feeling the faraway freedom
of the acquiescent air on my newborn wings.
The pinched nerve decompresses
and I begin to fly
high above the ravenous room,
the frail, foreign female,
the mixed up, tormented macho male
and the pain held hostage
by the stranger I’ve become.

Pac man in its mazes
The life in ran different stages
The states of where it begins
The life that never ends
The ghosts that shows no remorse
The Programs of the course
Reality of the force
Consciousness is the source
The Karma to reinforce
The Ghosts of the divorce

Minsan sa kasaysayan
Ang Silangan, ang Kanluran
Ay nagkasagupaan.

Sa tanghalang kamao
Sila’y nagkatagpo
Walang takbuhan dito.

Pambato ng Silangan
Praktisadong si Pacman
Walang inuurungan.

Kayraming Mehikano
Napatumba na nito
Hinamon pa ng Britano.

Ang Perlas ng Silangan
Hindi tinalikuran
Paghamok ng Kanluran.

Tila isang milagro
Two Rounds tapos ang laro
Pilipino nanalo.

-05/03/2009
*for Pacquiao fight against a British

if you really don't understand this, start reading heidegger, i'm probably half the "worth" of concern in this debacle... i can't take the immediate critique of allowing someone to call this a "word salad", when someone cites such a noun against me, and hasn't bothered reading a single book of existential philosophy, instead pretending to write a novel, but instead bound to playing video games... so so soorry; oh *******, i like video games... war robots! interactive internet gaming... my user name? otto iv.

to write poetry,
as if to become a tsunami
akin to a mongolian
horde...
   nothing more,
nothing less:
  to write poetry, without
a single care for orthodoxy
in terms of recognised
dogmatism, and subsequent
recognition of technique:
to write poetry
with only one "technique"
in mind:
   the river...
      to flow, unconscious born,
upon the altar of death:
aware the prescribed demise...
to write poetry,
in "metaphor": akin
      to a mongolian horde:
to overpower with trick
or tail,
to overpower, with volume
with dynamo,
where the river meets
               the waterfall -
to steal from the thief *cogito,
and return all
     "nonsense" of expression
into a conflict of sum
vs. non sum, and liberate
cogito, toward the realm
of neither sum nor non sum:
that is vanus... emptiness,
that the hebrews call ayin -
or rather: ayin sof,
that the latins call it less
remarked: the emptied thing,
that contains the libra of a
worth of: being the "thing" of being,
contra the unworth of: "being" being:
            a worth of the thing
               "known" as "non-being"
without the immediacy to conform
   to a vector of will, i.e. the point.
can it be said without an
existential impetus for pedantry
in markings of the punctual spare
of the fashionable 15? i can't
think of any other approach, minding
the complex of: predestination
without invoking images...
       i agree: a masquerade of "a" self...
truth goes out the window,
along with the aquarium...
with the atheistic scissors cut into:
   what truth? given a secondary potential
of a masquerade of "the" self...
   and the primary potential of "a" self
as that: which serves best the whim,
   and the attache of: whimsical?
language can imitate the next physics
discovery, it too can become sub-atomic -
  in that sub-lettered ushers in
     confusing language:
            language post-kabbalism
in the sub-atomic realm looks like this...
poets too paint...
               but the b & w image looks rather
confusing, or least of all: difficult
to manage a convo over...
             pompous? hardly...
            yes, otto iv says:
   it's a decent psychological experiment...
                   a group-think endeavour;
if there is to be any remnant art,
it can't "escape" into allowing contemporary
understanding and mastery over it,
   true art, has to be akin to history,
is must: stretch beyond the foundation -
should a contemporary understand it,
i'd find that an insult,
    and should a contemporary not understand
it, and use a psychiatric term for
discrediting the effort imbued in the work...
well... the same insult results...
   pity the russians...
  they have a "hard sign" ъ,
              and a "soft sign" ь
(mięki vs. twardy) -
          both are diacritical indicators -
of whatever letter they are invited to represent...
shame the russians, being so religiously
orthodox, never learned diacritical orthodoxy,
of invoking stressors from either above,
or below...
                              e.g.               ę = иъ
   but in french?                  é = иь...

     grave e? i.e. è? that's just a ******* pacman.  

p.s. bloodhound gang's song mope...
alt.? falco... rock rock... rock me
                 aschmadeutsche'tooshy-tooshy:
a fabergé egg before the conversation
starts, talking the lingo of the floral fleshy bits...

hey! mama russia! learn the vertical
indicators! i'm done trying to differentiate
the horizontals!

I'm tired of her *******.
Sending me kisses and hearts.
Yet lying in every part.
She thinks I'm her toy,
to prop her up while she knocks me down.

She's sad,
I'm there.
I'm sad,
She's nowhere.

Round and round,
no end to be found.

Until the last time we spin.
I realize how I can win.
I laugh with a grin,
Because I'm Pacman
And she's Inky.
And none of this is *****.
So I won't send it to ya through the post.
But I'm gone honey.
Ghost!

would you believe it,
but up until very "recently"...
prince was the most
protected by copyright
incentives that couldn't
match anyone...
wanted to watch
   a partyman video:
good luck...
              raspberry beret?
you'd be lucky
with a elevator muzak
"replacement"...
         i guess...
death really does free you
from, all, those,
mundane, constraints....
prince was nowhere
to be found...
sure sure, i'll stream,
then save up,
and, esp. now,
given i own a gramaphone,
sure, i'll buy the vinyl...
but please let me
play the tease...
          what else is made
available on the current,
high-street?
shoes stores,
  gaming stores...
      mobile phone stores...
guess you can't
"napster" the gaming
industry....
   pacman no no...
super mario bros.
double no no...
and it still feels eerie
walking into a supermarket,
when there's
michael jackson playing
in the background...
i was never really a fan...
paedo-up...
  paedo-down...
thank god i bought
the greatest hits
        on 80s silver lining
of a...
does anyone doing
the make-over
to a walkman with
mini-disc players?
           shambles... utter shambles...
well...
why wouldn't it be a vulture
fest whether in journalism
of the critics' shambles
sub-parrot in the whole
medium (of journalism)?
eh music is music is music
isn't some sort of
    a kama sutra "eventuality"...
***: it either happens,
or it... doesn't...
          rough tier around
the prostitutes...
      but when you know you've hit
"home"...
  that scar on your right shoulder
blade?
becomes a tattoo of a dragon
on the right shoulder blade of
the girl you just did it too...
i quiet like when
people elevate the medium
of cipher language,
  to imply where you've been...
and where they
take to make a memory of you
in something transcending
a mere, current,
******* of a (worth of a)
               photograph...
that's nice...
           i like that...
          
revision: it really doesn't count
if you're the person taking
the photograph...
but sure as **** it matters,
when someone takes
a photograph of you...
but given the current climate:
that's going to be, a "slightly",
rare event...

i still keep focusing on "that"
one point of interest /
  historical revisionism...
i.e.: what if...
           men learned to ride
bulls instead of horses,
into a charge?
  what if bulls were elevated
from their domestication
privilege status,
beyond the status of horses?

             i mean...
an army having abled itself
in saddling
a bull rather than a horse?
   i would love to go to that
sort of post-mortem cinema
where other avenues of history
could be screened...

what? hannibal and the (
****... the word just escaped
my mind...
waiting game... "too much"
is going on...
it's related to snails...
trunks, ivory...
       ****... what's that word...)

....................
..................................
ah!                        elephants!

fame...
such an elusive term...
it implies finding
an appeal outside
of the niche audience...

                 and we all know how
that ends up "looking"...
don't we?
               a canopy of ghosts
and greyish mob
               auxiliaries...

           thus said:
to every man who is bound
to finding "something",
he rarely finds it,
tabloid wisdom over 'ere
had to find a coping mechanism
for being forever "undermined"
while sifting through
late 20th century nostalgia...
but, not really
  (the nostalgia bit)...

              came as easily as
remembering black girls
back in school,
      uncurling their sun scortched
twirly locks applying
   vaseline to smooth out
a cow-lick  'air-do.

something akin to ageing grunge -
it's somehow up there
where: ageing rocking (proper) will
never be -
it's an ongoing nostalgia:
but it's not even that...
pearl jam's vitalogy -
   well... it was never going to be
a nightclub dancefloor filler -
clearly it's not nirvana -
                     such mundane observations
that they have to be met
with a blank canvas:
that there's nothing archaic or...
forbidden - or even a Tironian
shorthand -
              well...
            but i assured myself:
no two thoughts are the same -
                but coming across
a feelz synchronicity -
   don't ask... watching caroline garcia
come back set down against
elise mertens -
          well first of all:
play on clay is so... so... slo-mo...
  compared to the other surfaces...
you can almost sense
that the tennis ball is picking up
clay dust and with each
hit in a rally: more force is needed:
the players also tend to hit the ball
higher so there's a higher bounce...
how often they can be duped
"thinking" they can get to
the second bounce and prevent it...
a game of 7 rectangles and...
a football team's worth of
line judges: plus the ball boys / girls...
tennis... the bigger picture...
god... that french aesthetic of a woman...
i briefly dated a french girl...
isa-bella - and she was that sort
of generic french: that someone
like caroline garcia does represent...
the big picture...
   equal rights blah blah...
women need to box... count how
many bones in a ribcage -
a sport for vengeful prostitutes -
or so i've heard from:
a million dollar baby...
                    well... at least now in sport
the audience size is pretty
much the same:
women's singles still attracted
a bigger crowd than any doubles...
beside equal rights:
true... women should play to
3 set best...
                  joke: whatever...
     women's tennis was almost more
entertaining to watch to begin
with: after all...
  there was never a raonic
or a... any of those: serve rapists
with no dialogue - precision ******
serve - cul de sac games:
which would never have allowed
for the creation of PONG...
just that routine of pacman -
                      anyways...
women's equality in sport...
the olympics are a fine example:
i don't need to see any discrimination
bias - it's just poetically different...
a bit like how women and men
approach love...
   but... football or rugby...
or boxing... it's not like they can't...
do what men do:
but... hell: maybe i should stash
my poems into a drawer and only
read them aloud to my family...
    or... hell! an anonymous audience!
- and don't we enjoy that
readership privacy where one can
remain anonymous -
after all... i don't know what i'd do
with all these... unnecessary comments...
beef: ego-tripping...
some new self-esteem purse?
well now with the "pandemic" -
little god of the underworld and sneeze!
finally! a proper experience of
omnipresence!
we have ourselves a tease of...
should the demiurge - should...
who the hell wants to watch women
play cricket, football... or box?
rock-climbing -
tennis -
                all the sports in the olympic
plethora... oh god: most certainly yes!
- i had to check who roland garros
was today...
apparently they named
the stadium after him...
and from naming the stadium...
they named the tournament...
odd... given that... well... it must be a french
thing... naming a tennis tournament
after an aviator -
who won 4 dog fights during
world war one...
           em... tennis and...
mind you... wimbledon and the only whites
policy when it comes to
clothing...
or how lewis hamilton was turned
away from the royal box because
he was not wearing the full anti-monty
of shirt, jacket and tie...
but white on green... fair enough...
clay is just itching for contrast
of colours... subtle hues of blue....
to contrast with: it's not orange...
    if it's going to be orange it's going
to be Ayer's rock... orange... at sunset...
but not even that...
then you can have all the bold colours...
i imagine that a deep mint
of t-shirt and shorts would be
so well balanced in contrasting...
eh... a canvas of blue...
from the US open or the Aussie open...
it's not the same:
old game new continents:
a historical claustrophobia -
me in my dead-end europe am dying
from a frenzy of moths and
books collecting dust:
i am a continent exemplified by...
hoarding...
         it's very painful to have
to edit history...
   after a while the whole idea spirals
out of control and:
either things are over-exemplified or...
relegated to: it's like they
didn't exist at all...
full-circle... europe is not a continent
of museums: it is... a museum per se...
even if i were to relegate
Estonia to: that place where
the northern elephant: the mammoth
was feasted upon extinct...
not so long ago... circa 10K years ago...
i'd still have to mind...
the Livonian order...
or when Estonia was somehow
part of the Polish-Lithuanian
commonwealth...
boor: the eastern bloc - it's harsh to be
"rudely" woken by
foreign capitalistic wild west of the east
circa the 1990s endeavours:
plastics galore...
the death of metallurgy in europe...
oh yes... this is history...
another example:
newcastle united vs. newport county...
the premier league vs. league 2...
i am dying to hear
of... a league 2 side with only
female representation...
not these arsenal leeches -
fan-girl sport...
   which it is... but it doesn't matter:
the crowds won't come
because: better than a liverpool
or a london derby in the premier league?
a premier league side...
playing a league 2 side!
you can't beat the thrill of...
the trials and trepidations of
underdogs! it's a ******* rocky balboa
type of classic!
and i still prefer all the arnold
schwarzenegger films to:
           there's are no adequate
words to write to... sound like...
an imitation of... a balboa pumpkin /
prune mash-up face at the end
of a movie... there isn't...
how tennis allowed itself to create...
a working environment where:
both the men's tennis and the women's
tennis is equally appealing...
i... simply... don't know...
for that matter: the olympics...
stress free... freed from that base
******* of the Sussexes:
constructive racism?
   what... like me going to Kenya and
not finding ol' albino christmas
anemic on billboard advertisement -
i've reached a narrow base...
to counter arguments...
some **** just don't stick...
   it's enough to live among europeans:
no! it has to be tinged with:
we woz the majority 'ere...
i guess: this is me ******* off
to africa then... how about we whizz
and woz and shvapz continentz?
- i am tired of toying around with
a greasy oyster:
i have fat for brains: literally -
alzheimer's is constructed by killer
proteins -
there are these minor wants in my language
that have to go beyond:
mere vocabulary -
  even if i'll assign a new word
to my palette it will not be enough
when someone starts choking
the words i already have...
i will pick up a physical book:
fully scented, paper...
and there will be no comment
section - hard to write a comment
on a piece of Dickens -
why we wasted our time of
Shakespeare - why is he the canon...
and not Dickens: i will never know...
mind you... i've reached a point
in the Pickwick Papers were...
there was a clarity of exhaustion:
to beef up the volume size...
to meet the demands of serialization...
all the authenticity is fizzling out...
Dickens calls a get together
with either Shelley or Stevenson...
or Wilde...
      roland garros is a tournament
named after naming of a stadium:
which was named after an aviator...
azure sport clothes are a deepening
focus staged against:
Ayers' rock sunset orange of clay...
from the feral lands of
the middle-east: which is...
north of anywhere that's Rhodes...
i don't like being told:
what words best punctuate my
thinking -
i'll pause on: black-beggar...
or... schwarzenegger -
     a mighty surname: then i'll stutter
more with sniggering like
a Motley... mutt 'n' all...
        it's not like the russian would
eventually give a ****...
sorry... the soviets...
   it's hard to fiddle around with
a people when... you have the prospects
of living in Siberia...
no one too keen on that
hot bagel of a "transition period"...
are theyz?
           stand me upright against
a wall and shoot!
           if i didn't have my youth
as bargain: i might be towing
some xenophobic lineage of a conservationist's              
revision...
    that they would never
treat a jihadi as a psychiatric mumble-jumble
ol' Joe made a haystack worth
of a crib...
      hell... i bet that if i decided
to live in Kenya... chances are...
on the beaches near Mombasa...
i'd be treated like a ******* Ferrero Rocher!
would i complain?
living in Kenya? what?! no winter!
no autumn! no spring!
this perpetual semi-what-already-is...
giggle of eternal summer?!
how i did find the native
kenyan girls... come night and moonlight...
greased in acrylic tinges
of quicksilver -
how their ivory teased me...
rapacious little i: impossible having
found a beauty to admire beyond
some geisha crumbling... *******
a lemon and still prancing...
correct me if i'm wrong...
let's racially... exfoliate...
i might have a tan come...
i might have green eyes: eyes of evil...
of envious third-parties...
i might be: fraction of legion...
- revisions for ms. amber...
     and she is... that liquid ***** that
once slightly smokey:
when refined...
came across a slurp of maple syrupe
and became mrs. borrowed-burgundy...
syrope syrup:
                    something... rrrrrrrr'ipe...
gluey - clearly i am using a language
that is phonetically biased:
one that write one way but speaks
another: letter-eaters
of the french and the english...
less the english although:
you'd have to see it first...
to make a distinction if prompted
by a sign in a newly ploughed field:
please keep off of field...
you seeing what i'm seeing?
it's not lazy... it's doubly accurate...
and this is among the essex
landowner class...
why bother? employing
a direct article... there's already
a spatial coordinate of a where:
when: i'm reading it...
i.e. passing the field...
                        of(f) -
               **** of wits:
otherwise: to ******* from
a designated standing ordeal
as mere ******...
**** a black girl so that you feel
her coccyx and you're left with
a pretty plum patch of hue in your
little scratch of eden -
that ***** pouch above your:
GRAND INQUISITOR PHA-LULLABY-LOOSE!
yeah... that little itch...
it's a real dodo-project this...
and... with no real desire
to pardon the soviets...
     coming from a former satellite state...
no russians were ever truly
involved:
to my my knot of standing
on a ledge of yawns...
   which is almost sad...
which is almost this horrid friction of
necessity that...
by all means:
to level the smart from the semi-auctioned
to those perfectly serene and
thereby sleeping...
if i will: i'll boast of complaints
that surround hightned efforts
of: friction contra fiction...

one of those scenarios...
in the cul de sac of pedantry -
or there's another word for that...
            but given this is no...
heated affair of: later: a conversation...
i much appreciate
a readership that focuses on
anonymity...
           it's not like i can buy
a book that might suddenly translate
itself with an attache of a comment
section...
i'm not a real die hard fan of
democracy -
i don't see a need to usher in praises
for something that claims i'm
still illiterate: i have count
stub: X - my voice is either a glitch...
or a blister.

Under thee, the guiltless feel safe and free
Correction grips the soul of the guilty

Punished in way most humane
It’s apparent justice – not illusory bane

During PNoy’s first years
Our beauties shone in Ms. World & Ms. Universe

In Sports – Azkals and Volcanoes – another grace
Hey! Our People’s Champ “Pacman” still unfazed

Forget not our Guiness
World’s Largest Human Cross and 10 Commandments

Setting for World’s Longest Coin Chain
We’re not insane nor vain

To the leader who is here
To the people he is dear

Hope those are good signs to vie
Towards our Golden Age! Mabuhay!

-12/16/2011
(Dumarao)

Is it self loathing?
Even a warped self awareness perhaps?
Maybe, maybe not.
Maybe its acceptance.
The forced march forwards to inevitable doom,
I am the war council and the soldier.
I am the battlefield and I am the on winning side,
For if I win I lose and if I lose I win.
The world is the house and the house will always win.
Funny, it seems. Absurd almost.
How much I just don't care anymore.
Empathy eaten away.
Pacman running rampant, severing the ties that bind myself to this war.
Godhood, ascension. A lobotomy to save the flesh from its commander.
We'll go over the top soon I'm sure, we can't hide in this trench forever.
We'll see the sky and feel the warmth. The bullet ridden carapace a legacy with an eye on the abyss.
The struggle over, no capitulation.

thru truckloads of his personal communiqués broadcast
(methinks quite some years ago) across world wide web,
but now still smarting from selfishness, I feel quite aghast.

Yes practically every word
needs be overwritten with bleep,
nevertheless, an intimation doth arise
regarding me-an utter creep,
whose abominable banality, deplorable effability,
horrible insecurity, miserable notoriety...
impossible mission to expunge
indelible impression wrought upon
kith and kin, their rancor
towards me invariably runs deep.

A veritable desert storm sweeps across psyche
of one humbled wedded wordsmith,
who derived vicarious testosterone laden pleasure
attempting to arouse adventuristic, cathartic, ******,
gymnastic, idealistic, kinetic, monopolistic,
opportunistic, quixotic, sensualistic,
unproblematic, and wholistic desire.

Upon scrolling thru mine
quite *******, sordid outdated
personal classified advertisements
herewith follows mild mannered random sample.

...though in me noggin go wah wick it tee whack
*** i ham bull across mental railroad track
ah bet cha, u probably hit the sack
perhaps after quaffing ample liquor on the rack
perhaps daniels jack
or **** king a drag to ease the frack
king beau wows - whether
yar special prince charming white
or orange is the new black.

poetry n prose trademark tagline
of non rugged Scottish tar tanned Matt
whose seeks emotional covalent bond
with a gentle electronic sparks fur us to align.

I use words to hew as doth an ax
cuz, this man haint wanna
re:sieve any mo' cracks
hoop ping newt to induce any flax
wassup - u ax well just wanna relax
n enjoy ******* 2 the max.

'Though principle balance
accounts compounding interest
to pusillanimous po' paw
span more'n one direction set
724 numb bored abode
west o old railroad tracks
don't cross less b *** human co slaw.

thus police try knot 2 judge me
though yar mind i might tax
via the following human
healthy (nada hedonistic) nirvana
pardner 2 ride gingerly
as if...among pacman
with his oxygenated yoked yaks.

I lived west about a doze zen
***** dire strait deeds
done dirt cheap miles
from center city Philadelphia,
Pennsylvania), where tapped kidney *** freeze
and saw no email nor any text message
e'en one replete with **** n ******
cuz I wanna u2 to hear
inxs of imagine dragons snorting
on verge to sne...snee...sneez...sneeze
possibly allergic flirting with amorous tease,
whereat rolling in the hay induces wheeze.

I recoil with revulsion absolute zero excuse
touting ignoble, horrible, fallible, execrable...
extramarital misdeeds sabotaging
marital fidelity courtesy
fostering illicit relationships
with veritable females,
who possibly found me feeble poetic antics
docile, juvenile, nonvolatile, ultravirile (ha)
bemused, cajoled, enticed, finagled...
at overtures sporting Casanova wannabe.