I still have flashbacks, horrifying and spectral: of conference meetings, projectors and efficiency meetings...corporate metrics, acronymic value cards that read like a Masonic Temple's pledge.. ...honesty, commitment, sacrifice, the dutiful worship of mercury and saltpeter; also customer satisfaction.
           Those flashbacks frequent my mind alot--especially when I am ramming my co-workers into the trash compactor with the blades of the fork truck. They say " ooooh" and " ahhhhh" as if they are getting a massage. They dull my blades with their dull heads.
          I have to ram them with the blades of the fork-trucks, or they will scramble out. They still say things like, " make sure that has a tag,".....and " wear your safety goggles," making chills run down my spine. I haven't put all the workers from the " Do-Wee depot" in the compactor only corporate cadavers and not zombies.
          But I have to forewarn, the zombies are not a threat, it is a few cadavers and the "consumers" that pose a threat to me and what I have built. The zombies are producers, even only if it is moans and putrefaction, but they are good sports, and my only friends.
         Some co-workers, who I was friends with before, I have spared from the compactor--owing mostly to that the part of their brain that was corporate, either fell out on the floor, or was gnawed on by a fellow zombie rendering them good sports and not cadavers.
        I use the building material section to chain them to their previous aisles. Jose, was my best friend, he was shaped like a slug, with a huge lower lip, and slicked back greasy hair, he always cheered me up, how busy it was and how slow he remained. Him and I worked together in the ' outside-lawn-and-garden' section. Even his zombie self has kept his lisp.
          I chain him to the outside lawn and garden section, where he likes to water the flowers. He lunges at me sometimes, but the chain is thick, and Jose is still a cool zombie.
Angry Joe is out there too. He is chained to the 'reach' truck. He is always mumbling about overtime.....or " Im not staying late."
         I have disabled the riding engine, so he just stands on it and runs the fork blades all the way up then all the way down, beeping the horn the whole while. He is the only one I kept, that has some vestige of corporacy in his brain, for the reason that he watches the back gate. The consumers are constantly probing this outside metal fence gate, and Joe has eaten all of them. Don't get me wrong, Joe can be a good sport, when he is not drooling about 'overtime' or ' I havn't took a lunch yet.' He can be quite funny.
          He banters with Ryan from inside 'lawn-and-garden' all the time. Ryan is alot younger, alittle younger than me. He has a mullet(what I call a mullet and he say's a hockey cut) and verily is--before he become a zombie-- the laziest person ever, and now that he is a zombie, well let's just say, I don't have to chain him anywhere, I know where to find him.....at the back gate smoking a ciqerette backwards with his mullet on fire or in the break room. He had the most squeeky voice when he was a human, but now odd fully enough, he sounds like Tom Jones.
         " You ate my cosumer Ryan," drools Angry Joe, " No I didn't Joe, you ate your own consumer," Ryan rejoins in his acapella voice ( I like hearing Ryan's deep zombie voice).
There are others, in the various departments of the Do-Wee Store, but this journal is to relate the first most pressing concern, two cadavers have escaped the compactor.
             The store manager Joyce and her minion(the assistant manager Damien) have escaped. They were ******* humans, and remained so in corporate cadaver form. They hide from me, as I plow through the aisles with the inside forklift. I have used wire from the fencing aisle to reinforce my forklifts. Sometimes a cadaver co-worker will jump out with a price gun, drooling " where is your spootterrrr...."( a safety regulation in the store).....I run them over with great gladness, but then wishing I heeded their advice of safety glasses."Splat."
            I have my theories, on how everyone turned to zombies. It started with over-ocurring routine, which my a.d.d could have been impervious to. But I couldn't have been the only one in the store with a.d.d? But that seems the case. The first day when I showed up to ' outside-lawn-and-garden' it took me six hours before I noticed everyone was zombies. I didn't notice they were zombies until I noticed them in good spirits.
               But the first day of the zombies, was concurrent with the rise of the consumers--ever more dangerous, greedy, and audacious are the consumers. They consume everything in their path, they consume good conversation, good manners, and replace with their mark, which is this....your life with the current moment is to be sacrificed to get them what they need to continue resuming their lives. They do not enjoy shopping, but enjoy holding you in place, consuming you and your values into their value, which has no value at all, since their mind has consigned the present moment that has you and not them, to a number that always has too much value, and they will bring you and it down while you are subject to time and they are not.  
             They turned my friends into prisoners of arbitrary time; and like putting a rabbit in a dank dark basement, with plenty of food and treats and space, it will slowly get diarrhea and die.  Everyday I marked the sunrise, and I would always pay thanks to it, no matter if I was on break or not.  The nine hour day could not ruin me, but my friends being ruined, that started to ruin me.
                       And that is what I believed started all this, nature has no room for two kingdoms of Consumers. So the producers(zombies) were created from the routine of being divested of life, and from nothing they came to produce: producing gases, vile ****** smiles, human  cannibalism, hearty conversation, practical jokes, moaning questions to the infinite sky.... they were created human again, given value, and most of all, I have my friends back, and they are happy again. But, the corporate cadavers that escaped the compactor , put my creation in risk, they look to let in the consumers again, they are up to something...
             But presently with the corporate cadavers gone, and the consumers held at bay, I have my Depot of Eden, I can grow anything, make anything, and soon will be able to ferment everything, especially fuel.   Now monday morning conferences that threaten you to pick it up because there are alot of people out there that want your job( iterated by the frizzy headed gangly Joyce) are replaced with 'zombie dance parties'.  
            " Zombies, what is the first rule of zombie dance party," they reply to me, " dohmp talk bout damp party," then we make a music video.  I let loose a couple of cat's in the break room, and presto, an agile cat make's flesh eating zombies look like Micheal Jackson.  Even I get busy with them, I feel so comfortable with them; dancing to Juvenile "back that *** up,".the best dancer gets to eat the cat...sure beat's listening Joyce's depressing morning pep talks about quotas while I am watching a bird outside the front glass trying to eat a dragonfly, " Keith you paying attention."  I just want to say, " No I am not you frizzy headed gangly walking skeleton key(she is skinnier than the gang of keys jingling on her belt)."    I will find her and put a roofing nail in her temple and her plans.
                The sound of zombies walking in here is music to my ears, like gypsys walking barefoot on a strawberry patch.  I don't know what that has to do with anything, but I like it, and don't care who knows.

            I fortified the outside of the store with everything within the store. I grew a garden, with all the fertilizers, and acids and alkilines of outside garden. I also use the garden chemicals to sprinkle on the brains of my co-worker zombies to change their acidity(almost like a hyrdrangea shrub). The purpose to get them somewhat coherent to play poker and darts in the breakroom. I figured out how to make explosives, with the nitrogen fertilizer and pool cleaning acid, well actually HeyZues did, he always eats both, and one day he moaned really loud  " BLOOOONDEEE " ( his nickname for me from The Good The Bad And The Ugly) and  gestured his expanding stomach, he blew up and gave me my first wound, he destroyed my dart board.   I took his head and posted it on the back loading dock, I know there are consumers trying to infiltrate when he sounds off with " BLOOONDEEEE..."  resounding through the whole store (almost like when he was a human).   I created another dartboard, I can create anything here, sometimes I think, that feeling is what........
                But the point of this journal is the two who escaped the trash compactor, Joyce and Damien. They haunted me before and haunt me still. When I leave to venture outside for gasoline for the generators(the only thing I need, not for long hopefully) they run amok. I will see new ' sale signs' in zombie penmanship, and I can see that they have hidden co-workers to have cadaver meetings, where they talk about ' customer satisfaction.'  I can sometimes hear keys jangle, it has to be Joyce, for the sound is to the cadence of her John Wayne walk, like she has been on horseback her whole life.
            Outside is very dangerous. There are many consumers out there.
                 I was outisde in the parking lot, where consumers still wallow around when a consumer asked "which product is better." I had to drop a cinder block pallet on him with the forklift; they are more adacious then my zombie co-workers. Even after a pallet of concrete is forklifted on them, they wave fliers with sale advertisments from underneath.
            Well, this particular trip, I returned inside and was startled by the loudspeaker, it was Damien's voice, the same as before, paging the hardware department. I jumped on the fast slim forklift to hunt for him. There are phone terminals everywhere, and he could be in the upper level offices. I saw Joyce's shape through the window once.
          They are up to something.
Everytime I ventured outside, the store became altered. I even saw a consumer waiting in line with the cashier machine now on. I sent the consumer to Angry Joe, who was due for a lunch break.
          There is a gap in my wire somewhere, I know it.
            I was at the gas station, getting propane and gas, when a consumer was scowling " where is the gas attendant, is everyone stupid or what?" while he was trying to figure out how to pump gas. I disabled the safety pumps, they do not shut off, and do not coincide with numbers, you hold the handle it pumps out as much as you need.
              He was pacing around like a little kid denied recess and suffering from sounds of frolic and kickball--dragging his feet due to the fact he had to pump his own gas, I heard a scraping metallic clicking noise. My eyes were caught by a bright glare on his shoe tread, I gripped my nail gun..... then he dropped the hose and walked back to his car with gasoline gushing as his wake. I saw what it was on his tread, I had no time to flee....it was a push button grill ignitor with the orange tint of a " Do-Wee" label on it......" ****."
              The last thing I registered was the consumer saying " ahhh don't touch me," apparently talking to flames. I woke up in a ditch, the big fork truck and my gas station destroyed.
I limped back to the " Do-Wee" store, and utter horror greeted my singed and surprised eyebrows.
              " Grand Re-Opening, 50% off everything." I squeezed the trigger of the nail gun, the nail harmlessly echoed off the parking pavement at which it was aimed. "They set me up at the gas station. "
               They had to do better than that to separate me from my zombies.

             I entered through the store in a nun-plussed state. I woke out of my unbelieving stupor with the sound of Jose's voice. " Welcome to Doooooo-Weeee....can I eat your...."
            "Jose it's me, who chained you to the entrance?"
         " Dammian, Keeeeeth, they are waiiiting....here's a newsletter...." --he smacked me across the face with the newsletter.
        " I don't want that ****.....' as I clutched the newspaper the loudspeaker went off in Dammians annoyingly over-polite and late-night-voice.
       " Attention shoooppers. all prices are feeeefty percent off, ask our associate Keeeeeth for a 80% discount, he is the skinny deleeecious looking kid with spicy skin, and a boston red sox hat on."
Hundreds of consumers pivoted their heads to my direction. " Hey, that kid has a Boston Yankees hat on."
         " Run Keeeth," zombie-lisped Jose.
           Fifty million imbecilic questions assailed me at once......" can I return this sprinkler for a jacuzzi.....can I get 120% off.....can you come to my house and fix my television for free"-- it was unabashed audacity, survial of the most annoying and repetitious; and the corporate cadavers have let this consuming flood in on me and my poor zombies.
           I needed to find my steed, my inside forklift. It was not where I left it near the entrance.            
        Surely they have sabotaged it. " the riding mowers," the thought uplifted my fading resolve. I darted past wallowing consumers before they could get my scent. I heard a consumer, " you obviously don't know what Im talking about," talking to zombie George, who was munching roofing nails.
         The consumer grabbed me, and said "here he is, this is Keith, he is wearing a Phoenix red sox cap"--panic bit into my brain, this consumers grip was implaccable. The grip that holds the steering wheel tightly driving nowhere fast, with anything in that interstice of commuting, not worthy of manners and the least of which being a friendly wave to 'go ahead.'
           They formed a wall of uttering stupidity, escape was cut off. They scratched at me, hissed, tore at my flesh and screamed demonistically in my ears. I caved and and called the hoard m'am and sir, they choked me, and loosened their grip only so I could tell them " Im sorry, sorry for your inconvenience, take my life and personality as tribute, take my imagination rendered prostrate by these sceptic corporate words that this mouth emits, betraying my personal form, the human element to this lifeless purposeless machine....destroy me, for finding the infinity between letters of corporate law and none between nature's laws......"
        I was almost unconscious, giving a speech to imagined hooded phantoms......" destroy me, for valuing friendship and imagination, and seeing infinity, in the shadow of a letter, eternity in the numeral of a number, and for defying the order to see things as others do....."...." destroy me, for seeing that people are unhappy and trying to uplift people for the sake of seeing them smile....destroy me, destroy my smirk, and add a lifeless smile to my corpse."
              I heard a horn, the riding floor mopper/buffer, it was Ryan, he commandeered the machine with precision-like drunkenness. He knocked down the consumers like twenty pin bowling. " What's up ***** cat," he possibly said, and I climbed to my feet.
         I walked to the riding mowers, and turned the key on the floor model. I sped the main aisle, with caresses of consumers that would be deep clawings at a slower speed. I dodged stupid question, and swerved from unabashed frugality. I turned up the tool aisle, grabbed a battery nail gun.
              " It says batteries are included, but are they included?" I answered with a 12 gauge nail, and resumed my course to the upper offices, that for too long looked down on me and my friends. I climbed the stairs and entered. The office was abuzz in corporate banalities. " Hello, this is Damian how may I help you.....oh helloooooo keeeeeth, one minute.......sir hold one second thaaaanx."
                I aimed the nail gun muzzle at his ugly overly polite mug." I finally found you, I will get the store back in shape Damian...."
          He cut me off, " no yoou woonn't, they are pouring in, we will meet our quota for the year...."
        " Me and my friends

it didn’t take a lot a look a few words a few more looks bam not that any girl stuck around and so it was on to the next nothing is precious everything is possible forget what you know leave the road behind invent dance new dance cough spit breathe dance verbs multiplying gazillions of verbs stars what is it about art in my mind i hear all these things i was going to express all these itches scratch pick scabs get drunk write poetry dance ******* in your mouth ******* in my mouth salty sea surfing waves Caravaggio Courbet Turner Goya Ad Reinhardt Rothko Rimbaud Johnny Unitas Walter Payton Annie Proulx Patty Berglund Hannah Wilke Kim Gordon dark clouds rainbows meteor showers lantern licorice amethyst bone

in the end it’s you and your maker ashes to ashes dust to dust Mom questions it’s 4:30 PM December in Chicago and pitch black i don’t understand it’s not supposed to be this dark this cold she imagines a past that never existed events never occurred

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

it will be daylight soon and i am unprepared so terribly unfit for a new dawn suddenly realize tomorrow is today

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

when people die in masses is it any less lonely more comforting than when you die individually or is dying solitary for everyone

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

redemption is a powerful force but what if existence actually does not present second chances and we must live with the consequence of our mistakes

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

if there is an afterlife do i have any say in it or are we all merely lost baggage tossed from airport to airport

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

what if travelers at airports were met with welcoming arms shared stories food instead of suspicion body scanners separation boarding seating procedures

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

i built a magnificent sandcastle with wide open rooms interesting views spacious bathrooms huge kitchen secret places winding stairways auspicious towers swinging rope bridges welcoming gates but the tide washed it all away

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

i cry yet know not why am i a ***** i must take the goose by the neck whatever that means

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

speaking personally i’m never interested in the last bite only the first bite the middle tastes rather bland all chewing gulping automatic consumption talking swallowing stifling gases

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

horses mate with donkeys then out comes mules yet mules cannot propagate nature is so strange mysterious what is it about the attraction between donkeys and horses

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

2 gorgeous petite charming sweet young girls are subletting my place in Tucson i imagine ménage à trios or relationship with either one of them then realized how improper my thoughts will i ever learn

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

Reiko likes hanging out naked if the door is locked and they’re in for the evening she strips Reiko is one of those women who look better without clothes the curls under her arms are growing in dark thick her bush is filling out even her **** is hidden by silky brown hairs he cannot stop checking her out she pretends not to be aware as she trims her toenails he leers **** your cooch looks tasty Odys i like that you can speak crude to me he murmurs you really like that she answers yes i really like that he sees himself in her he is deep in sleep wakes by her hand pulling his hand down to her ***** bone he stirs confused in half sleep as she continues tugging his hand Odysseus realizes what Reiko wants it is 3 AM he touches her there warm distended begins to massage wetness gushes moves down bed puts face there she presses pumping grinding whispering repeatedly i want to *** so bad his mouth tongue breath work her hands grip his head push unyielding muscles stiffen arch shudder continues licking until her body lies still crawls up kisses her forehead hair bodies spoon fall to sleep in the morning he comments you were a naughty little girl last night Reiko grins answers i had an orangutan attack he questions an orangutan attack she confesses yeah they both laugh he has never known a woman so fierce urgent to ****** Reiko has a man’s libido she reminds him of himself they mimic each other hearing Reiko speak Odysseus’s own words back at him and visa versa convey how demanding insecure insensitive each can be to other they do not simply speak but mimic each other Reiko ‘s voice drops to low pitch as she grabs his buns kids hey Reiko Lee what do you think about us wiping each other’s butts we could become more intimate with our bodies Odysseus raises his voice sounding feminine replies Schwartzpilgrim you’re gross take a hike it is hilarious yet intuitive therapy that maintains level playing field neither allows other to be too weak or dominant

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

it is Sunday snowing blizzard freezing cold outside Odysseus sits on floor watching Bear’s football game at Reiko’s she sits naked paging through Art Forum magazine across sofa from him he hears her crunching on bag of barbecue potato chips during half time he reaches touches her bush runs fingers through her ***** hairs twirling them in his fingers she spreads her legs wide open he smells her hair breath perspiration ****** *** feet feels both repelled and attracted he is lost in fascination gently tugs on her lips slides finger inside massages probes her opening she directs him to kneel stands above him her arms at waist her pelvic bone in his face she orders **** it **** it good he follows her instruction **** my ***** she commands as she holds his head in hands her long skinny body thrusts hips forward Reiko presses gently pumping then more furious rough into Odysseus’s face ooohhh i’m going to shoot a load baby swallow my *** she shoves ***** bone into his face bangs his nose hard yet he remains ******* her legs thighs stomach muscles tremble oh oooohhhhh ohh Odys did you see that i came just like a guy oh Odys i loved that he wipes mouth laughs

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

a person’s sexuality is always in question how one interprets his or her own ****** persona relative to another person’s personality response ratio how one’s power measures reacts to another’s vulnerabilities strengths Odysseus and Reiko fit well together switching roles in impulsive volley he loves her masculinity the unpredictable equation of their love he teases Reiko Lee i’m so attracted to the tomboy in you i want to **** you off and let you **** me come over here and stick that fat hard **** in my pink little **** hole all the frustration rage pain pent up inside you i want you to harness that hurt and slam it into me and shoot your load all over me **** me good Reiko Lee she looks at him strange says you’re a weird bird Schwartzpilgrim how weird do you think he asks her voice takes on a creepy overruling tone Odys, you want me to fist-******* he snaps shut up Reiko Lee get out of here she runs fingers through hair breathes out through nose taunts Odys let me ******* a ***** and ******* in the *** Odysseus’s voice grows loud Reiko Lee you’re crossing the line just because i mention some crazy thought doesn’t mean i’m actually into such weirdness don’t try to take what i say to some sound conclusion i enjoy experimenting but i’m one hundred percent male i like to test limits because i’m secure in my manhood spicing our *** life with ***** fantasies is one thing but don’t overstep i got the **** and you got the ***** let’s keep it that way don’t mess with me she replies ok ok Odys i didn’t mean to offend you

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

often he personifies the lead and she interprets the willing or amendable he requests many ****** urges she for the most part eagerly fulfills yet knowing his desires run over the top he considerately concedes to her sensibility he asserts rule number 1 Reiko Lee please let me have my way with you ok please try to not refuse me she smiles consents ok Odys and i want the same from you he insists rule number 2 repeat after me i’m addicted to your ***** i’m codependent on your **** she repeats i’m addicted to your ***** Odys i’m codependent on your **** he challenges rule number 3 at least one ******* a day agreed? She answers yes Odys agreed later he thinks about their conversation approaches her Reiko Lee sometimes i need more than one ******* a day maybe one in the morning and one after you get home from work i need your adoring attention down there will you do that for me please she shoots sarcastic look at him what are you a cow that needs milking everyday all right Odys whatever you desire he gratefully acknowledges Reiko Lee you’re so good to me thank you next morning he says Reiko Lee when i think about you the first image that comes to mind is your eyes i love your eyes more than any other part of you she comments oh yeah more than my **** hole? he flinches surprised oh god i can’t believe you said that you are so outrageous Reiko Lee you have got the sexiest **** hole i’ve ever seen i love adore revere your hairy **** hole when are you going to let me get some of that she remarks we’ll see Schwartzpilgrim in due time the following morning he notices bathroom door is wide open peering inside he sees her sitting on toilet she looks up smiling as he nears he questions which are you doing peeing or ******* she answers why do you need to know he requests lift up and let me watch she raises her thighs knees legs curling toes on toilet seat her **** muscles pucker then a brown extent begins appearing from her hole her vaginal lips flare urethra presses as short spurt of ***** accompanies discharge the ***** length drops into bowl followed by smaller piece Odysseus perceives the action produced by her body as intimate natural expression occurring without contrivance manipulation he studies the form as if it were a sculptural object descended into water to bottom of bowl Reiko reaches for roll of toilet tissue he interrupts **** she answers let me wipe myself first it reeks in here you mean watching me taking a **** turns you on you are one sick monkey he says shut up and **** she follows his instruction after several minutes he pulls out of her mouth jerks off while she watches he shoots wildly on her chin neck chest she rubs his ***** on her ******* they both break out in laughter she says come on let’s take a shower together she begins speaking sentence he finishes it she says Odys i’m not comfortable with more than he breaks in one ******* a day i understand Reiko Lee she expresses thank you Odys one is enough agreed he replies ok ok

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

a week passes Saturday evening she comes from work to his place with stressed look on her face she falls back into wall on floor with her legs stretched out she asks got anything to eat he answers a couple of beers in the fridge her brow furrows as she speaks in low tone Odys i’m guessing there’s something seriously wrong with you he questions wrong with me huh what she comments your physique is weird your shoulder blades and rib cage stick out you’ve got a sunken sternum he answers yeah i know it’s not really a problem more like natural peculiarities she says yeah well you’ve got other peculiarities he asks oh yeah like what she remarks i’ve never known or heard of a man who gets hard as often as you it’s deviant you’ve got some kind of disorder you need to go see a doctor he admits i know i got a problem my libido is out of control it’ll calm down it’s been a long time since i felt so hot for someone do you really think it’s serious enough to go see a doctor she answers serious enough to insist you bone me once a day he laughs Reiko Lee you had me going she grins get over here you ***** ******* and **** me good Reiko’s favorite way to ****** is with her legs closed tight she lies beneath while his ******* presses in pumping her thighs buttocks squeeze stomach muscles tense whole body jerks spasms as she reaches ****** Odysseus’s favorite position is with Reiko on top he likes her rhythms and control

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

when Michael Vick was found guilty for dog fighting mauling cruel killing i wanted him dead dead dead but he is a brilliant quarterback and i was wrong who am i to understand another person’s background judge them maybe there is redemption

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

if another war comes it’s China we must fight to hate fear them run hide

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

it’s a long twisted road down a dark cold hole many are too damaged others work toward salvation yet some unscathed by all this filth

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

on the brighter side death gets a bad rap by mortals think positive perhaps death is graduation to whatever at worst death is release from life’s disappointments expectations responsibilities burdens betrayals pain horrors

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

i remember when Dad was dying all these new people who i still remember entered my life for a brief time it seems like the same thing is happening now

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

Mom i’m right here behind you don’t be scared i’m watching out for you

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

So you know you’re looking at two very different styles of dress, here. But precisely what decades? When did that waistline move back down? What details are the defining touches of their era? How long were women actually walking around with bustles on their backsides?

Lydia Edwards’s How to Read a Dress is a detailed, practical, and totally beautiful guide to the history of this particular form of clothing from the 16th to the 20th centuries. It tracks the small changes that pile up over time, gradually ******* until your great-grandmother’s closet looks wildly different than your own. As always, fashion makes for a compelling angle on history—paging through you can see the shifting fortunes of women in the Western world as reflected in the way they got dressed every morning.

Of course, it’ll also ensure that the next lackadaisically costumed period piece you watch gives you agita, but all knowledge has a price.

I spoke to Edwards about how exactly we go about resurrecting the history of an item that’s was typically worn until it fell apart and then recycled for scraps; our conversation has been lightly trimmed and edited for clarity.

The title of the book is How to Read a Dress. What do you mean by “reading” a dress?

Basically what I mean is, when you are looking at a dress in an exhibition or a TV show, reading it in terms of working out where the inspirations or where certain design choices come from. Being able to look at it and recognize key elements. Being able to look at the bodice and say, Oh, the shape of that is 1850s, and the design relates to this part of history, and the patterning comes from here. It’s looking at the dress as an object from the top down and being able to recognize different elements—different historical elements, different design elements, different artistic elements. “Read” is probably the best word to use for that kind of approach, if that makes sense.

It must send you around the bend a little bit, watching costume adaptations where they’re a bit slapdash. The one I think of is the Keira Knightley Pride and Prejudice, which I actually really enjoy, but I know that one’s supposed to have all over the place costuming-wise.

Yeah, it does. I mean, I love the BBC Pride and Prejudice one, because they kept very specifically to a particular era. But I can see what they did with the Keira Knightley one—they were trying to keep it 1790s, when the book was written, as opposed to when it was published. But they’ve got a lot of kind of modern influences in there and they’ve got a lot of influences from 30, 40 years previously, which is interesting to an audience and gives an audience I suppose more frames of reference, more areas to think about and look at. So I can see why they did that. But it does make it more difficult if you’re trying to accurately decode a garment. It’s harder when you’ve got lots of different eras going on there, but it makes it beautiful and interesting for an audience.

The guide spans the 16th to the 20th century. Why start with the 16th century?

Well, partly because it’s where my own interest starts, in terms of my research and the areas I’ve looked at. But more importantly in terms of audience interest, we get a lot of TV shows, a lot of films in recent years—things like The Tudors—that type of era seems to be something that people are interested in. That time is very colorful and very interesting to people.

And also because in terms of thinking about the dress as garment, obviously people wore dresses in medieval times, but in terms of it being something that specifically women wore, distinct from men’s clothes, I really think we start to see that more in the 15th, 16th century onwards.

Where do you go to get the historical information to put together a book like this? What do you use as your source material? Because obviously the thing about clothing is that it has to stand up to a lot of wear and tear and a lot of it doesn’t survive.

This is the other thing about the 16th century stuff—there’s so little surviving. That’s why that chapter was a lot shorter and also that’s why I used a lot of artworks rather than surviving garments, just because they don’t exist in their entirety.

But wherever possible, you go to the garments themselves in museum collections. And then if that’s proving to be difficult, you go to artworks or images, but always bearing in mind the artist will have had their own agenda, so they won’t necessarily be accurate of what people were actually wearing. So then you have to go and look up written source material from the time—say, diaries. I like using letters that people have written to each other over the centuries, describing dress and what they were wearing on a daily basis. Novels can be good, as well.

Also the scholarship that has come before, the secondary sources, works by people like Janet Arnold, Aileen Ribeiro. Really well researched scholarly books where people have used primary sources themselves and put their own interpretation on it can be really, really helpful. Although you take some of it with a pinch of salt, and you put your own interpretation on there, as well.

But always to the dress itself wherever possible.

What are some of the challenges you face, or the constraints on our ability to learn about the history of fashion?

Well, the very practical issue of trying to see garments—some of them I did see here in Australia, but a lot of them were in the States, in Canada, in New Zealand, so it’s hard to physically get there to see them. And often, even when you can get to the museum, garments are out on loan to other exhibitions or other museums. That’s a practical consideration.

But also, especially when I’m talking about using artworks and things, which can be really helpful when you’re researching, but as I’ve said they do come from a place where there’s more interpretations and more agendas. So if someone’s done a portrait and there’s a beautiful 1880s dress in it, that could have been down to the whims of the person who was wearing it, or the artist could have changed significantly the color or style to suit his own taste. Then you have to do extra research on top of that, to make sure that what you are seeing is representative.

It’s a fascinating area. There’s a lot of challenges, but for me, that’s what makes it really exciting as well. But it’s really that question of being able to trust sources and knowing what to use and what not to use in order to make things clear for the audience.

Obviously many of these dresses were very expensive and took a lot of labor and it wasn’t fast fashion—people didn’t just give it away or toss it when it fell out of season. A lot of times, you did was you remade it. When you’re looking at a dress that’s been remade, how do you extract the information that you need as a historian out of it?

I love it when something like that comes up. I’ve got a couple of examples in the book.

Well, it can be quite challenging, because often when you’re first looking at a piece it’s not obvious that it’s been remade. But if you’re lucky enough to look inside it and actually hold it and turn it round different angles, there’ll be things like the placement of a seam, or you’ll see that the waist has been moved up or down according to the fashion. And that’s often obvious when you’re looking inside. You can see the way the skirt’s been attached. Often you can tell if a skirt’s been taken off and then reattached using different pleats, different gatherings; that can give you a hint that it’s then been remade to fit in with a different fashionable ideal.

One of the key ways is fabric. You can often see, especially in early 19th century dresses when they’ve been made of these beautiful 18th century silks and brocades. That’s nice because it’s the first obvious clue that something’s been remade or that an old dress has been completely taken apart and it’s just the fabric that’s been used. I find it particularly interesting when the waist has been moved or the seams have been taken off or re-sewn in a different shape or something like that. It can be subtle but once your knowledge base grows, that’s one of the most fascinating areas that you can look at.

You page through the book and you watch these trends unfold and there are occasional sea changes will happen fairly quickly, like when the Regency style arises. But how much change year-to-year would a woman have seen? How long would it take, just as a woman getting dressed in the morning, to see styles just radically alter? Would you even notice?

Well, this is the thing—I think it’s very easy, when we’re looking back, to imagine that in 1810 you’d be wearing this dress and then all the frills and the frouf would have started to come in the late 1810s and the 1820s, and suddenly you would have had a whole new wardrobe. But obviously, unless you were the very wealthiest women and you had access to dressmakers who had the absolute newest patterns and newest fabrics then no, you wouldn’t have seen a massive change. You wouldn’t have afforded to be able to have the newest things as they came in. You would have maybe remade dresses to make them maybe slightly more in line with a fashion plate that you might have seen, but you wouldn’t have had access to new information and new fashion plates as soon as they came. To be realistic, there would have been very little change on a day to day level.

But I think also, for us now—it’s hard to see it without hindsight, but we feel like we’re fairly fluid in wearing the same kind of styles, but obviously when we look back in 20 years, we’ll look at pictures of us and see greater changes than we’re now aware. Because it happens on a slow pace and it happens on such a subconscious level in some ways.

But actually, yeah, it’s to do with economics, it’s to do with availability. People living in towns where they couldn’t easily get to cities—if you were living in a country town a hundred miles away from London, there’s no way that you would have the resources to see the most recent fashion plates, the most recent ideas that were developing in high society. So it was a very slow process in reality.

If you have a lot of money you can change out your wardrobe quicker and wear the latest styles. And so the wealthiest people, their clothes were what in a lot of case stood the best chance of surviving and being in modern collections. So how do we know what working women would have worn or what middle class women would have worn?

Yeah, this is hard. I do have some more middle class examples, because we’re lucky in that we do have quite a few that have survived, especially in smaller museums and historical collections, where people have had clothes sitting in their attics for years and have donated them, just from normal families over the years.

But, working women, that’s much more difficult. We’re lucky from the 19th century because we have photographic evidence. But really a lot of it will come down to written descriptions, mainly letters, diaries, not necessarily that the people themselves would have kept, but there’s examples of people that worked in cotton mills, for instance, and people that ran the mills and their families and wives and friends who had written accounts of what the women there were wearing. Also newspaper accounts, particularly of people who would go and do charity work and help the poor. They often wrote quite detailed descriptions of the people that they were helping.

But in terms of actual garments, yeah, it’s very difficult. Certainly 18th century and before, it’s really, really hard to get hold of anything that gives you a really good idea of what they wore. But in the 18th century—it’s quite interesting, because then we get examples of separate pieces of clothing worn by the upper classes, like a skirt with a jacket, which was actually a lower middle class style initially and then it became appropriated by the upper classes. And then it became much fancier and trimmed and made in silks and things. So then, we can see the inspiration of the working classes on the upper classes. That’s another way of looking at it, although of course that’s much more problematic.

It’s interesting how in several cases you can see broader historical context, or other stories happening through clothes. Like you point out that the rise of the one-piece dresses is due to the rise of mantua makers, who were women who were less formally trained who were suddenly making clothing. Are there any other interesting stories like that, that you noticed and thought were really fascinating?

There’s a dress in the book that a woman made for her wedding. I think she was living on her own, or she was living with a servant and her mother or something. She made the dress and then turned up to her wedding and traveled quite a long way to get there, and when she arrived, the groom and all the guests weren’t there. There was nobody. So she went away and came back again a week later, and everyone was there. And the reason that no one was there before was that a river had flooded in the direction that they were all coming from. She had obviously no way of finding out about this until after the fact, and we have this beautiful dress that she spent ages making and had obviously gone to a lot of effort to try and work out what the latest styles were, to incorporate it into her wedding dress.

Things like that, I find really interesting, because they talk so much about human and social history as well as fashion history, and the garment is the main way we have of keeping these stories alive and remembering them and looking into the kind of life and world these people lived, who made these garments.

Over the centuries, how does technology affect fashion? Obviously, we think of the industrial revolution as really speeding up the pace of fashion. But are there other moments in the history of fashion where technology shapes what women end up wearing?

One example is where I talk about the Balenciaga dress from the early 1950s—with a bubble hem and a hat and she would have worn these beautiful pump shoes with it—with the introduction of the zipper. Which just made such a huge difference, because it suddenly meant you’d have ease and speed of dressing. It meant that you didn’t have to worry about more complicated ways of fastening a garment. I think the zipper made a massive change and also in terms of dressmaking at home, it was a really quick and simple way that people had of being able to create quite fashionable styles on a budget and with ease and speed at home.

Also, of course, once women’s dress started to become simpler and they did away with the corset and underwear became a lot less complicated, that made dressing a lot easier, that made the introduction of the bias cut and things that sit very closely to the natural body much more widely used and much more fashionable.

I would say the introduction of machine-made lace as well, particularly from the late 19th, early 20th century onwards where it was so fashionable on summer dresses and wedding dresses. It just meant that you could so much more easily add this decadent touch to a garment, because lace would have been so much more expensive before then and so time-consuming to make. I think that made a huge difference in ordinary women being able to attain a kind of luxury in their everyday dress.

That actually makes me think of something else I wanted to ask you, which is you point out in your intro the way we casually use this word “vintage.” I think about that with lace. Lace is described as being a “vintage” touch but it’s very much this question of when, where, who, why—it’s a funny term when you think about it, the way we use it so casually to describe so much.

Oh, yes. It’s crazy. I used to work in a wedding dress shop and I used to make historically inspired wedding dresses and things. And brides used to come in and say, “Oh, I want something vintage.” But they didn’t really know what they meant. Usually what they meant is they wanted something with a bit of lace on it, or with some sort of pearls or beading. I think it’s really inspired by whatever is trending at the time. So, you know, Downton Abbey became vintage. I think ‘50s has always been kind of synonymous with the word vintage. But what it means is huge,

Visions from the past,
race before my eyes
like parts on the factory line.
Over these past few years,
oh how I've changed.
I gave up on a lot of something,
ended up with a lot of nothing.

I've left my brain,
scarred and burnt,
now these somber words are all that remain.
They remain the one way to keep sane.
Warriors to the cerebral pain that challenge me
day to day.

Contemplated verses on all I've learnt.
trimmed thin through all the **** smoke
I can't see the end, I've been blinded by the trend
Every passing cough and choke carves another notch,
my troubles are a joke.

On the grander scheme of things,
my ordeals seem small and petty.
How selfish must I truly be to actually believe
that I have it worse than anyone else.

At least I can see, breath and speak,
eat all I can eat, without worrying about
whether or not I'll have food next week.

How this sense of selfishness and selflessness make me weak.
The guilt of the contradictions amongst my convictions,
make it all the more difficult to speak my disturbed mind.
Self-constructed illusions of altruism and egotism
always end up in indefinite confusion.

This literal mess passed off as poetry,
is a perfect example of the train wreck
the doctors dubbed so eloquently: My Mind.

What a waste of time.

No, no, no, I know I was not important as I moved

Through the colourful country, I was but a single

Item in the picture, the name, not the beloved.

O tedious man with whom no gods commingle.

Beauty, who has described beauty?  Once upon a time

I had a myth that was a lie but it served:

Trees walking across the crest of hills and my rhyme

Cavorting on mile-high stilts and the unnerved

Crowds looking up with terror in their rational faces.

O dance with Kitty Stobling I outrageously

Cried out-of-sense to them, while their timorous paces

Stumbled behind Jove's page boy paging me.

I had a very pleasant journey, thank you sincerely

For giving me my madness back, or nearly.

-Patrick Kavanagh

Copyright © Estate of Katherine Kavanagh

He hums his happy-making tune,
she ***** a brow, one dimple shows,
then slyly spreads across her lips.
She knows full well what is to come.

I
found
an
old
phone
today

In a shop
  with antiques

Bulky,
   black and
       beautiful

From the 50's
just like me

For sure it's dial
is a rotary

Its ring
takes me
to a musky old hotel lobby

I hear it ring... ring... ringing

The desk clerk shouts out

" Paging Irving  Paging Irving
      come to the front desk please".

The pay scale
for poets
is bleak indeed.
I could use
a wealthy
benefactor.
Where are you,
Lorenzo?
Even the Muse
needs to be fed
occasionally.
  - mce

Paging Dr. Jekyll ,
he’s gotten lose again.
No, no casualties yet,
just a long trail of sin.

Yes, we understand,
control’s not the issue.
I think it’s time for drastic measures,
yes, you know what to do.

What do you mean,
he’s part of your mind?
It doesn’t matter at this point,
he’s too dangerous alive.

**** him dear friend,
or the blood’s on your hands.
He’s hurting people,
and that simply won’t stand.

He’s a monster, a freak,
you’re much better off.
There will be side affects,
but nothing’s gained without loss.

Hello? Dr. Jekyll?
Are you there? Is it done?
Oh God Dr. Jekyll,
what have you done?

Were Paging my favorite book
With a cup of hot chocolate
& Reading diplomatic poems
...
Got bored
.
.
Wear my socks again
Bring my coat & camera
Run away...
.
.
Shlup shloop
Wet snow wets my boots
Seeing patterns designed on the wall(seem not professional)  but charming
.
.
Low key light screamed on my eyes
slow down please.
you're low contrast
_ok
Then fade away

"this is hoffman, what's going on, where can i find her?"

"there's a nursery rhyme delivering your baby in 114."

"wait, what are you saying, ma'am?"

"nurse heimlich is delivering your baby in room 114!"

"oh sorry, i've been under the weather (chasing the dragon)."

      the fog finds you,
      it'll take your place in time,
      there is no rhyme or reason,
      or even frame of mind.
      the fog blinds you,
      it can't segregate,
      it'll capture all your secrets,
      it doesn't hesitate.
      
      memory recalls you,
      don't procrastinate,
      synapsis fire like machine guns,
      in the middle of the day.
      sensory remembers truth,
      better claim your fate,
      this ain't the time to run,
      new life won't cleanse your slate.

"jane! i'm here. how is our girl? where's doctor klein?"

"she's..."

"shush! mr. hoffman, i'm nurse heimlich. please take a seat.

there were complications with jane's umbilical chord."

"****."

"your baby's lung collapsed, causing her to suffocate. now, we did the best that we could, but the air and blood just wouldn't flow back to her heart."

"i was told there was a nursery rhyme delivering my baby in 114. this isn't a nursery rhyme!"

"then learn something from it, mr. hoffman. I sure am."

(BLT challenge: song titles from one singer)

This is the story of THE STRANGEST ROMANCE I ever encountered.
It didn’t involve me because I was then TOO YOUNG TO GO STEADY. I  hadn’t even purchased my FIRST FORMAL GOWN yet.  MOST PEOPLE GET MARRIED, under the ALLEGHENY MOON in this part of the country, but this couple said no to that. I kept telling them to GO ON WITH THE WEDDING, but they insisted it would be ANOTHER TIME, ANOTHER PLACE.  I then suggested OLD CAPE COD, but they said THE WALL has ears, and if anyone found out they were eloping, it would be GOODBYE CHARLIE. I told them to TRUST IN ME and I wasn’t FIBBIN’ when I said it.  They said: REPEAT AFTER ME: “I’LL  REMEMBER TODAY and keep your secret. I swear this on a CROSS OF GOLD”
Swearing on a gold cross made my heart go PIDDLY PATTER PATTER and I now felt like WITH MY EYES WIDE OPEN I’M DREAMING.  They told me to HUSH, HUSH SWEET CHARLOTTE, and to GO ON HOME.  
I had my Walk-man on, so I trudged home with THE SOUND OF MUSIC in my ears, but the walk seemed like TWO THOUSAND, TWO HUNDRED, TWENTY THREE MILES, and as I thought about their rejection of me,  I WISH I’D NEVER BEEN BORN.  Being brushed aside like that left me with A BROKEN HEART AND A PILLOW FILLED WITH TEARS.
EVERY TIME I think about that day, I want to throw MAMA FROM THE TRAIN for not letting me even go to their wedding when it finally happened.  I had kept their secret and told no one.  I’m proud of me.
                              ljm

I'm not Zonke, but tonight we gonna talk about
Feelings.
We gonna talk about stealing.
My Heart.
Do you remember when i was repealing,
You went all kneeling,
Appealing,
Begging,
Caring.
You molested my Feelings.
All this pretending
Fake loving
French kissing
Love making
while screaming
and hard breathing
Midnight
Phone ringing
I've been ignoring
but its starting to be annoying
While you were taking a shower
Quickly I paged, while paging I perceived
The ******* is cheating,
I am leaving
With my Feelings
I am taking
All my love and belongings
Now that my face you're no longer seeing,
Your pinna, my voice no longer hearing,
Your mouth, my lips no longer tasting,
My nose your nose, our noses no longer
rubbing..
You wanna talk about Feelings...
What Feelings?

When farewell is said
And no light is seen anymore
When you know sleep is not in the cards
And eyes are all shut around you
The world around becomes your own
Personal hell

You see dancing shadows against the ceiling
And your eyes are fixed on them, you try to follow their way
The smile of a wicked lover reflects from the mirror and it sends shivers down your spine
You hear the desperate shout of a woman
No one will be answering her
Not then, not now, not ever.

The man who sits there, night after night,
Paging through forgotten memoirs, with the dark soul and piercing eyes. He is the one who breaks your heart. With a ciggarette in his hand, he reminds you that life with the light on is just a hoax.

"The bitterness of dissapointed will be the persistant flavour in your mouth if you keep on believing there is more to everything around you." He says, "So go on, little girl, without putting any of your faith in that light."

He became your nightly companion. Said some wise words and made you think. Until one night he took everything with him.
The dancing shadows on the ceiling, the reflecting smile of a wicked lover and the desperate shout of a woman.
And finally you could sleep.

Light leaks as though spilt from a glass
Are you just the last?
It asked.
Paige mentioned this would probably happen
Paging Doctor Left Over Hearts
Are you there dear?
Are you ready to start?
Electro magnetic heat wave micro chip revolution
And you were only thinking of a solution?
A potion to this mess where children
Will soon be calling their mother short of blessed!
Real winners reek the benefits as well as shine their shoes
Showing there is truly everything to lose
Once you have coined the BIG one
Thirty two hearts
Thirty one flavors
Try not to recall
Any favors

Things that turn purple:
Feet, when exposed to the cold
Food, when exposed to oxygen
My face, when exposed to fear
To my habits
To my past.
The mention of tying a noose brings pictures to my mind
Of how I used to plan my own death
While paging through a magazine in a waiting room
Ready for the doctors to see me
To tell me I wasn't that sick
Because they didn't know the things I did to myself
I covered up the sliced layers of my skin quite nicely
With different grades of fabric
The belts tied in the shape of my neck
Hung like skeletons in my closet
People kept telling me it was his fault I was so distraught
But that did not make me feel any better
They would constantly tell me there were support groups for the molested
That I was not alone
But there is never any solace in being a statistic
Numbers burn across my skin like matches
Each additional time I heard them
The skin would bubble and blister
Forming a new wound for me to later pick the scab off
If the world did not do that first.
Through therapy, I learned that
When I try to carry the pieces of me
That are bigger than my hands can hold
That are sharper than my flesh can take
That are wider than my unwieldy body
Even though I didn't think that was possible
I crumble like the walls of Jericho
When an army came rushing the city limits.
My past is an armada that rushes full speed through my chest
Piercing me with swords and muskets and bullets
Causing me to bleed and rot from the inside out
Causing me to fall away like petal from stem
Causing me to implode silently
And maybe a sign of this disaster
A symptom of this sickness
Is discoloration.
Things turn purple
As a result of prolonged exposure
To their personal kryptonite.

The hinges creak closing time.

The library door slams,
and the key—a rusted Peeping Tom—
clicks its metal tongues, and exhales disappointment
at having to leave so soon;
a puff of dust

from within the lock,
through the keyhole, and over Luna’s fingers
stretched out on the counter, paging through the late returns;
pages whisper, windows rattle
at the wind’s wailing:

*‘The show’s about to begin.’

elephants have memories
long,
to my way of thinking,
that must be hell!

imagine, remembering
in detail,
fine and complete.

the days of your life.
beginning at number one,
when all slippery,
slimed and mucked,
you were forcibly expelled,
into a world, of hard knocks.


image, each stumbling step
as you grew,
each slur,
each pointed arrow flung your way,

first fall, first hit, first miss
first kiss and all the desperation, set between.

and then,
you hit your teens.
emotionally bruised and battered
and running for the bell
placing 563rd  in the
contest of popularity.
trying new styles of clothes, dreams and personalities.
hormones raging, momma texing, paging,
virginity flexing
and all the other
****** bluff...guff....stuff
..."hell yeah i can never get enough"

finally you get to remember,
the grown up stuff.
projects due, bills to pay,
finding somewhere half decent to stay, grocery lists,
other people constantly ******,
in a it's all your fault kinda way.
deadlines,
diminishing lifelines, standing in unemployment lines,
waiting to pay a fine lines,
playing mine or yours in
your divorce foray.
and honest to god,
thats just the day to day
k-rap.
living low and *****
until the next pay comes along.

ok, there would be,
indeed some,
remembered joys,
some flowers,
among the weeds.
but thats mere fodder
and seeds,
for a better poem .....
written on a better day.

so finally you are old.
you are so, over it!
all creak and cracks, pills,
bad backs and bengay..

not to mention, the teeth
that sit in water glass smiling away,
all night.
on the table bedside.
that my friend, is just not right.

you are counting down the days, the hours...
watching.....home and away.

til one day,
you make the mortal coil's end...
and your shift is done and dusted.
bucket kicked,
daisies planted,
dirt kissed....
                  .....recalled.

all that.... and ba-jillion more
memories looking for time
on the elephant's mammoth mind - memory  dancefloor.

1 Corinthians 11:5
"But every woman that prays or prophesies with
her head uncovered dishonors her head: for that
is one and the same as if she were shaven."

As she prays her head's in praise
She meditates and her alignment is what has them prey
Her hair is worn in algorithms
So you see a circuit board or mother board  of a new age black unknowing
Algorithms aligning her soul with the spirit's accord - they will try to abort
So they make her wear hair of trimmings like when  lands split
So soon she'd forget the fist of her Alkebulan print
Her hat covers the map to the heavens where she'd captain, from braids to the afro we find terraces of the cosmos...
 I see the keys of the piano and then I know that music is the language in which the verses union the Source wrote

Woo a man with womb and bring man's seed forth to expand the clan
Conscentise the concave mind to open eye to the cosmic kind
Patterns of pathways a patent, paintings on hide of dinoaours latent
But her hair is worn high and that's not esteem, instead it's a yellow thigh
Stereo paging on the cell telephone to tell her she's a foe to sink all your woes and curb them with her ******* and wrap you in her steatopygia.
But in her hair her head they would embed things the black gods would dread and then a set for the silicon concept, a new tribe is bred
  And to be fair is the paler hue rather than the iridescent swarthy tune
And we're globed in a speherical rationale where a flat earth is irrational but the self as a governing god the logical equation
So then we're in a situation
Her hair cannot be antennae because they tan her and fan her to the popular grammar, sentenced to the prison cell of a hashtag. Her real hair is rags and her significance is concealed by an iPhone and a bag.

Straight outta the E-town underground, yeah you gotta do what yah gotta do to be found. Out for blood so you best guard your neck, for it's a dog eat dog world and I'm willing to whatever I can to get another check. Money runs everything, for you can't be anything if you got nothing. I earned this ****, and I'm not going to lose this **** because If I did I would probably lose my ****. Don't hate me for being brown, and stop trying to drag me down. Going out like John wick, yeah I'm about to do some sick tricks with guns popping off some stupid *****. Should not mess with me, for I'll come out of nowhere because like john cena you won't be able to see me. Not one to sleep around, because I'm looking for my other half and I don't want to carry around past regrets or wounds.

I know life ain't no fairytale but I want a love like tom hanks and meg ryan in the movie you got mail. ***** I ain't gay, and I'm no hick that you may find down by the bay. I'm a poet and I won't stop it, for I want something real rather than a hit it then quit it. In health and sickness, in poverty or wealth, in horridness or goodness. For ever I commit, for my love for you is too legit to quit. Never doubt or worry, not going to fold what I was dealt and I know sometimes it'll feel like a long shot to make up after a argument but we'll make it like steph curry. But anyways back to saying **** you want to hear, but **** it I'm done thinking sideways and being influenced by my peers. I don't sell out or buy in, for I'm out of my cell and ready to put all my chips in.

Life is a gamble, so either you can rise to your potential or stay on the ground and continue to be trampled. As much as violence is senseless sometimes it's the only way to solve things to keep on the illusion of happiness. People **** people, so how can we have a better sequel when we continue what our ancestors did because life is supposed to move forward not stay in some paradoxical prequel. Am I mental for be ethical? Am I truly gentle or am I just a boiling kettle? Proud of being different, and I'm not to say it loud and make it apparent. Classy but no wishy washy, yet I'm also Gaudy but not ******. Hastily with emergency I spit honestly gracefully and tastefully because it just one of my special qualities. Not to shabby how crafty and classy I be, for I'm on a verbal assault so best not **** with me.

Paging the future class people are catching up so best hit the gas. 3,2,1 blast off, raise the mast, to be unsurpassed so bravo squad please confirm that we have lift off. Yes in deed I took off, going off like a Molotov yeah I'm life is an adventure so best explore it like Laura Croft. Got the 8-ball rolling, so join along with me don't be a thot and don't be scared what life will be unfolding. Gotta have an appetite for destruction, because before you reconstruct society you got to fix its corrupted dysfunctional delusion. Watch your approach to this danger, because things will become stranger. But if it ain't ruff it would be to easy, and life isn't ever supposed to be breezy. Check your chin and make sure your looking straight, don't overdo it because we are as fragile as plates. You got to be a dope man just as long as you don't get caught up in the dope man. If you get asked to run 100 miles run 100 more, because you got to stay humble yet dedicated to the core. Never be afraid to express yourself, and if you get depressed don't let lies enter your mind that say to **** yourself. There will always be good, bad and ugly and there will be times where you takes hits as if you were playing rugby

The architecture in DC is interesting
Politics, influence, beauty, money
City at Night! City at Night!

Worth the drive
Worth the cost
Gratefully my son

Michael Gerson is thankfully dead
George W. Aging
Andrew Greeley was right

53 and she still wears boots
Maybe a sportswriter turn the paging
The Valley of the Gun

                       Protection!

toil, foil, toil, foil: fold

      stacked them high toward
a shadow of a commitment to say
likewise

like for like
eye for an eye
that is some bearing
to this current: simple un-gratified
loss of prayer

in a vague entrance to sight
from sigh
or the entrance to thought
through: perhaps a hum of om

the Hum of Om
like that fabled: research, please!
the Hum of Om
like Ayat
like Aql

                 i know an hour will pass
and i will think that i have written so much
but instead i'll realize
that i'm readjusting
to the hermit me
who would spend his time writing
and drinking

i just finished the first book of Dune
and unlike the film:
i'm trying to un-see the film
because in the film you only learn
of Paul Harkonnen
at the end of the movie with:
grandfather...
but in the book that is already realised
in the tent
while Paul and Jessica
are waiting for Idaho
or not waiting for Idaho

before Jessica drinks the water of life
the worm ***** or whatever
juice
of the ******* wriggling
to the death by water:
point being beside the noble worms
as perhaps whales
whales yes
because that's the mammalian aquatic
threshold

     and i mean:
i will not have written much but left enough space






      to look through...                from
the perspective of writing and living out the mundane
without Edie...
the time that is required...
all the fears and dictates of my mother
and father
are nothing
that i spent the day cleaning
the house
to only have mother come back from
hospital and reflexology session
with "Auntie Rajama"
well... sliding doors ahead of you...
i too live under a matriarchal oppression
mental gym-bro that's a girl
in the public square burning her bra
and competing with men
in the construction industry
or the security sector...

we had guys known as KLAWISZE
former prison guards
operate this sector...
now comes the time of the ex-military
brigade
but still so many loopholes
with the mass exodus from India to
the Crown...

             yes: some pause is a must right now
when i think about the length of
the task and all the curvature that
might come
not even asking: who is the thinker of thoughts
and the dreamer of dreams

perhaps ask, specifically for who is i
if i were, that is, asking myself with a hypnotic
hypothesis of pathology
and lack of pathology in the confines
of apathy:

      climbing the ladder of grammar i see something
of myself that requires a reminder
that is my selfish life
this bookworm this caricature
of man who elsewhere shine in glistening
a muscular
   a weird attentiveness to the sea
a local fisherman with no rod
but a hook and line
standing in the open Pacific
like this is my Dune not Dune
this glass ripple and all the salt
to juice the carnal feast in **** and bear
and ox tail and yummy yummy
some heroic end to my struggles
i thought not like but
heard all those warnings by men for men
and all that talk
i wonder could i end up like
a proverbial Friday,
  
        Friday the Idiot from London
shackled to Kauai...
           forgot his library...
what one book would i bring to have with me?

when i was younger i asked myself
the question:
what is the last music track that i will hear
before i die?
back then i was a Intrinsic:
the equivalent to a Mentat -
i would obviously not know the last track
of music i would have heard
unless i armed myself with
continually wearing headphones -
a commuter's hell and paradise
not exactly thinking machines
as automated beings,

thinking machines exist, but require
a thinker's input to be animate
otherwise thinking machines are inanimate
and therefore not a hazard,
threat... no...
they require input...
but... automate beings...
automated beings automated humans...
that's android territory of psychopathic
dolls and reels of cheese bad cheese good
melting canvas for:
silicone but what if moved the cellulite from
buttocks to the *******
give god his female rearing, fearing: form
of enough breast to *** ratio
and thighs and a very thin face
with no dub dub my own double chin
that i hide using a beard...

i heard of the toad neck
the toad neck of living outside of salt water...
the toad-neck is caused
by the Thyroid Gland...

        Thyroiditis:
all subjective experiences of each individual
body parts
is bound to the subjectivity of horror
without experience
the sheering horror of Sigma the All Encompassing
ego to letter focus
suggesting the ego-parasite will not wriggle
out somehow still not aware
but this symbiosis of ego as incorporating self
and other
and the plurality of us and them
and all that weaves itself into the earth of politics:

but at least i paid my dues
wit enough reading to writing ratio:
i always: feel: guilty: if: i: have: written:
more: than: i: have: read...

              made an old endorsement for paging
mr telegraph, paging mr telegraph
see the colon punctuation system
for the digital telegraph

             no STOP            for              .dot

i.e. words separated by colon
and finish would be a              sweet wipe
of the lips or lipstick off
or perhaps just finished a greasy meal therefore with ;
a semi-colon of             .
                                     ,

(enlarged)
                                   .
                                   .               (colon, enlarged)

or least there's the thought:
why the sudden conversion or what is this
even mean?

without knowledge
have sent astray?
so set your
man by nature u/p
which He has creat-
Allah's creation. T-
know not --
Turning unto
duty unto Him, and e/s-
who ascribe partners (u
of those who spli/
matics, each sect exulting
And when harm
Lord, turning to Him in/
tasted of His mercy, behol/d
to their Lord

those torn pages of the Quran
by my mother
when i was exploring different thresholds
of understanding
by no obscure way
i was going to depict the tares
at the Romans and ending at Luqman...

then i saw the tare and the following
sentence emerge:

WITHOUT KNOWLEDGE AND THOUGH IT BE IN A ROCK

i stand to poise, i do wonder whether
that means anything
perhaps to ants it does
but to humans?

without knowledge
and though it be in
a rock...

expand: i am not really prone to saying things
prophetically or pro-wisely
what what?
   man without knowledge
is...
           and even though
it be in a rock:                    knowledge?

no: fascination?
admiration for life and life-intellect
say god is of life
and no god is of death
and both are right
whether by sooth
to tooth to soothe and however i word
it there's this second parting
heavier than the first
but also lighter
because now i just realised
that it was a second parting
and i'm not too sure where she is on
this page
finally realizing that perhaps
i'm not for her
and perhaps she loves me enough
to leave me alone
that i might refocus on this cascades
these blues in wine
and tokes with starlight and friendly
neighborly conversations...
which might be not to ms claustrophobia's suiting
should that be a chasm a biological
fear a sudden
terrible monstrosity
given that she's not my daughter
and there would be to mention of ******
and inbreeding
for some Heb Gazzarye beast of the falcon
and the lizard and the clue as to how
gizzards became a sweet meat special...

         timely: onion gravy and mash p'oh
tatties...
the idea is timely and still refreshing
to think 38 oh 38
come my 60th i'll have
a wife aged 77
and a mother aged 86
and a father probably dead
and i will be renting a property on an island
a Pacific *** *** hello venture
like
there is no nothing zilch of me here
in the London Obscurity Digital Zoo Central

you have to live these parts girl
from text to text from whim to whim
on whimsical tides
arguing not arguing
not really a part of some collective
narrative but instead imploding to home
and to the maturity of manners
i just like m in that sentence
a letter a mem
        a mem is for example a maturity of manners
or for example the tinker tailor triad
a mem is a particular punishment opposing
             punishment itself
yet riddling the punished a punishment-in-itself
punishment itself is no punishment
without a punishment-in-itself

i think best exemplified by how abstract
German became
and not really read in popular circles
would never amount to unfolding the abstract
fabric of the simple change of wording
to gravitate toward the laissez-faire
of meaning in that: nothing is really just a pronoun
thing as in: a thing-in-itself
is almost like my questioning
the authenticity of having
a subjectivity of a thyroid gland?
apart from having been subjected to a body
in total by what comes after seeing
namely thinking or subtle-thinking
before the ego creates hatchlin' hooks of
parasitic symbiosis devoid of a name given
as responsive:
the ego responds to it's "ego"...
                i'm currently subject to:

no no... the thing-in-itself...
but if explored outside of the realm of "things"...
then a blueprint analysis
of say: heartbreak and heartache and
love and 3 years: what down what drain?
not against the waves of the sea
not against the river?
down the river? who knows?!

but these are my supposed days off
but they aren't so much days
off like days in between
where there is a glimmer of science-fiction
escapism but
a crashing crescendo reality licking check
for friction akin
to frost on a metal pole
like i know certainly realities
but i still want to be the ball-breaker
qureysh:         Qureysh                     winter...

metabolism sloth and fire breathing
bear... somewhere in a cave in a forest
centuries ago:
i too was teased by the fate of
Nebuchadnezzar -

my 20s are a vagueness but not born
a king could not have wed my feeding to grass...
Samyaza: Nephilim -
apocryphal Christianity -
in the old saying:
the books kept to be read in private
to children
as bedtime stories about Noah
and the giants and Angels...
not the protestant revamp
of the word: apocryphal...
not heretical no just obscure i.e. to be literature
for families to form outside
of the synoptic canonical text
spoken of in the church with authority

well if you want a functional christianity
you will have to allow the apocryphal library
to be reintroduced into the family
environment -
if you're serious...
if you want to go down the Quran Avenue
of having a sacred text:
you have texts!
not belonging to a single individual but many!
on account of that...

the apocryphal library needs to be released
for the understudy of family life
and myth formation
no other books outside of the apocryphal
HERESY segment are allowed
in the house...
and there is no book of authority
except the books of the old and new testament
depending on the fervor one
is cited more than the other
the two are interchangeable...
i see the latter as a greco-hebrew
conspiracy manual against the Roman Empire
and Jesus wasn't Jewish
he was probably Assyrian
or whatever and who knows
that trip to Egypt as a toddler
then returning back to Judea
because Joseph's carpentry shop wasn't
doing so well...
Africans love their stone and marbles...
who needs 'ud / wood in the desert?

but the apocryphal library will have to be
manifest...
in the houses of these christian families...
text that are obscure but
but... expansive...
you can't have: i appreciate the dedication
of the illiterate to the Quran
some reciting on trains as if literacy
is equivalent to learning how to ride
a bicycle or learning how to swim:
point being! once learned?! never forgotten!