I had put on weight,
I enjoyed life,
I  was optimist,
I was my children's  number one,
My husband had not left me,
Though my beauty was receding.
Didn't have time for beauty parlours,
I decided to sum up myself in the mirror,
Looked at my curves,
None at all,
Looked at my face,
Slight traces of beauty left.
Needed a face lift,
Smile still **** and beautiful,
Hair, high time I went to a good hairstylist.
I turned this way and that way,
I was no more stylish,
I was fading.
Tears welled up in my eyes,
I heard a chorus from behind me,
"BEST CREATION FROM GOD"
My three children and husband
gathered around me for a family hug,
We love you as you are,
Nothing More Nothing Less.

Rugby, Warwickshire
16/10/2015

Unholy streets of G-d, liquid tobacco,
gentle froth and steam
from the coffee estuary, split beneath the clock tower
on the idle hour; more pigeons than people,
more buildigs than choices
on this small-town, charity shop parade.

The women are still beautiful, still unattainable,
still on the brink of a breakdown
in the most confident dress.
Street-pastors carry the drunks home,
the street-cleaners appear by the afterparty,
clear out the old bottles
before the commuter picks up cigarettes
from the newsagents that never rests.

Tattoo parlours, barber shops,
Christmas on the radio come Hallowe'en-
this is the town that crazy built:
war-time poetry, jet propulsion,
chief inventor of sport,
of mild alcohol addiciton.

There's hundreds of places to get drunk in this town,
hundreds of places to hide away;
a foreign face in a sea of family and friends.
Landlocked, gridlocked,
centrally located but left out on a limb;
this town clings to the tracks,
it's avenues of escape
the only margin to keep the residents
out of mind and in their place.

But this is where I grew up,
always more car-park than parkland,
my first steps on Campbell Street,
on Armstrong Close,
first time I broke the law on Bridget Street,
on Selborne Road.
I'd push my bike all around this town,
no stopping off for a smoke,
for to get my fix-
I'd push on and on past graveyards and open bars
without a second gance.

Now, it's all shooters and soul-singers
and happenstance;
chicken wings on a late-night binge,
a box of wine, a night of sin,
wake up in shame,
life's a guessing game
and guess what, you'll never win.

Chewing gum, patches,
vapour that scratches the back of my throat,
nicotine in my blood,
you know, I'm trying my best to get clean.
Blister packs of vitamins, bowls of fruit,
buying coconut water over the counter-
green tea by the rising moon,
incense sticks and vegetables in the garden,
yet by the time night rolls on by
the locus of my eyes, they darken;
I'll be back on the beer,
I'll be smoking a carton.

This is the town that crazy built,
even the flowers by the roadside wilt,
cement factory, hum-drum poverty,
post-code belonging to Coventry,
kept out of the war
by a matter of minutes,
kept from the future
by corporate interest.

Hospital lights, supermarket glow,
I can't remember the last time
I wasn't loaded with chemicals
every time I get home,
every time I sign out
and put my head on the pillow,
I see familiar streets, familiar signs,
the job centre, the floodlights,
the 12% lager, the twist of lime.
I struggle with rhyme,
I struggle most days to get out of the house,
but at night, I know, that sea of doubt
is a river of light, to ruin my liver,
to spike my fever, to calm me down.

There's hundreds of places to get drunk in this town,
and this world it don't spin,
it just throws me around.

-

Why can’t I see past the buildings,
skylines obstructing my view,
collecting on the curb
with doorways and steps
inviting to someone else I suppose

Still I push past,
hugging the shoulder
of a rush hour highway
Staring into windows
as they pass, staring back

Exits signs point at me
but I can’t listen
Their warnings make no difference
in cloverleaf grumblings
and exhaust fume skywriting

One foot in front of the other,
worn converse high tops
gray, the greens are lost
with the sunset that breathes down my neck
reaching for one more moon rise

No rest, still creeping alongside
sleeping 18 wheelers purring
on their asphalt mattresses,
straddling yellow lines
leading to the bathrooms…not a chance

27 miles the sign reads
in reflective lettering calling out to me
It seems like nothing,
compared to what is behind me now…
My life or what it was

But that is no longer my concern,
my future is now 22 miles away
Where your arms are waiting,
holding my future…open, warm
and I begin running faster

Another 10 to go, down main streets
with coffee shops and beauty parlours,
one traffic light and a train station
a kid on a bike delivering newspapers offers me a ride
No need, it’s just around this corner…

On the lawn is a flamingo,
plastic and pink behind a white picket fence
with a gate that creaks and a porch light comes on…
illuminating my dream…as I see you,
it has finally come true

i've been to kenya, all that these "charity" adverts are fuelling
is ignorance, they're presupposing
all the african nations are like kindergarten,
they're insulating them... it's like that:
give a man fish or give him a fishing rod,
i.e.: give a man money or give him a
method creating & subsequently circulating wealth:
these charitable companies are insulting
african nations to be at a loss,
they're only feeding european bureaucrats
who are really the only worthwhile
charitable pay-cheque givens, odds 4-5.*

a retired lady selling poppies
for a feeling
committed suicide
being hunted by ninety-nine
charity organisations...
charity organisations...
start-ups akin to apps of
cue: shaved face, young, eager
****** venom ****** statues
of jealousy...
all the bankers' wives have
a tier system, the origin of
charity companies
(surely a wife can't be as pristine
as her husband):
first two don't count,
third: modern art "collector",
fifth: philanthropist,
seventh: possessor of an O.B.E.
and as one bemused englishman said:
king arthur and the zimmerframe table
of knights with walking sticks rather than swords:
money made people lazy, less adventurous,
let alone less tribal and communist,
adventure just became predictable,
tourism...
the modern shopper is envious of
the hunter gatherer... so envious
he wants to look the part, but live as modern
lazy allows... after all... all the gym sessions
can't go to waste... got to run standing still:
hey! don quixote! leave the windmills!
check out the treadmills... you see a caveman
anywhere in the sweaty parlours?
i don't.

Spent the evening walking nowhere streets
dodging horns and sirens of hungry motorbike taxis.
It was a parade of street-food vendors,
security guards half asleep by bottles of whiskey.
Every woman I passed was beautiful,
laid their *** on the numbered tables
as off-hand as their mobile phone, their purse;
their bored men. Each one had their toenails painted,
wore short skirts and vest tops in the stifling heat.
The best of them wore tight dresses of black or red
and ate their food in the same studious manner
I imagined they would take to the zip of my jeans.

Could feel the sweat roll down my back
kicking gravel out my sandals every ten strides.
The playboys rev their motorbikes
as if it were a talent they had been working on,
a kind of siren song to tempt the free women.
Each one is on the lookout for a bargain.
Each one streaks past to some indiscernible point
where they will bury themselves amongst
the massage parlours, karaoke bars, and short-stay hotels;
Each one a straight-up brothel once you make it through the doors.
I feel too awkward in this ******* town to order a sandwich
let alone try out my second language to ask for a cheap *******.

Every foreigner here had some kind of breakdown.
Some kind of complex that drew them like a moth to flame
to some place where white skin is enough to feign riches,
stimulate desire and place you amongst better men.
We steal a living for a year or two of forever blue skies.
We eat good food and toast ourselves every evening
with cold lager and palm leaf cigarettes.
We cannot read a word in these humid streets
where every single building holds a portrait of the King.
Spent the evening with my shadow, both alive in the night
beneath the heady aroma of cooking oil and street-food spice,
both hurting to become, both slipping out of sight.

you were a reckless tearaway arriving
to take the heat with a debt reckoning
in Sunday skies marked for duckbill clips
of dark filled entries on its balance sheet
a challenging force I felt I had to account for
a raincheck that I wanted to cash in on
before the heavens opened and blew me away
knocking at my door for a riot of rebellious
adult licence needed
love to be let in

you agree we meet outside in the gathering storm
for there's a multitude of conflicts to be resolved
stark contradictions and that's what excites
with you there's upsetting imbalance involved
upending equilibrium with blunt direct questions
and reactions like a Luddite with the mind of a librarian
so that I never quite know where you're coming from
but know the answer is next
written bold on the sheet
which has your signature on
I predict with a scrawl
but that you think
is kinda neat

"throw me every strain of emotion you can pick up"
and you do and your wake never lets me down
propelling a wet film wind machine
should I withstand its crazed delivery?

those sheets of rain that blew in
off the bay
you always try
your best to tear
across
I feel them shooing the air
into my lungs
winding up branches faster and faster
like a toy plane rubber band
dancing in my hair
this way then your way
until it stood on end
scared
to not go on and on
the way of so many plucking ideas
drawn from the spoils
of let's-play-chicken arts
found on the tables of tattoo parlours
when the shades roll down
and pages flick quickly as dices roll out
extremes in exfoliating salon sport
close shaving loose leaves off every hairpin bend
and scratching the bald patch
ever more bold
as if you liked transplanting bulbs
follicles in deep crimson beds
of eye poppy temperatures gone wavering

impossible to ignore in a flash of eye shadow
from a bouncy bobbing weaving
pony tale conductor
keen to take on electric vaults
showing me a pair of high heels
whatever
I ****** at your scurrying reins
my grasp like a wind slipping
through a shake of tussled vanes
black curls of wild abandon
whipped up into a shift dress
in shades of grey flight
centred in misplaced miss red
lipstick outline worn to a fade
over the top of the roots
rushes **** the breeze with pollination
as full on as a full Brazilian headdress
collected from a gazillion dipping flowers
a rainbow opening to shower off
it's end in privacy
high pitched screens

little cover in those shorts of ours
from a summertime blanket of rain
which you turned up to cloud my thighs
always thrown over and folding your way
ace-of-***** cards played torn
and ragged with bare laced love
thrown down with on-the-river sneers
cornered with those winking semi-colon smiles
open ended to point out the end will be fun
but I get your gusting gist in the mean time
determined to wheedle the worst in me out
which looking up is on its way now
and when the lightning will stop dancing
is a rough reckoning I'm not ready to say
but in the eye of this exciting storm
it's clear
not tissues not anything
need wipe these slate skies clean
from our trail blaze
my tearaway

Never mind steel,
We are creating new materials,
Carbon nano-tubes, poly-ceramics,

Twirl a ball above your head, we are
Building elevators into space,
Stringing massage parlours around the earth,

We are engineering ourselves,
Computer worlds and,
Selling real estate, we

Are leaving the old people,
Behind,
Stained curtains and they are,

Walking into forests,
In Japan.

He left with the passing time
no farewells offered
no heartfelt backward glance
his footfalls ticking seconds
echoing in the Sunday parlours of the righteous he despised

He left with the passing time
no one mourned,no tears were shed
His sacred, bleeding heart
now but a tattooed image
on the chests of the dejected

He left with the passing time
on whispers of myths
and suspected tall tales
doubting his own truth
despising the lie of his creation

He left with the passing time
while pious mice sang of his glory
behind the battlements of faith
as the wars of the wicked raged in his name

He left with the passing time
while mothers wailed at shaken babes
and the disappeared sang from **** choked graves

He left with the passing time
as society shunned his brand
and drunken feet  danced lasciviously on his moral high ground

He left, with the passing time...

The sun sempiternal shepherds its flock life-longly. Repetition be its brother, night be its foe. As regurgitation fumes, funneling heinous broth of decay and hostility, the tedium drips ashore, clenching its claws, raising the congregation of lunatics hellwards and in a moment of inseparable divisionism, bursts out loud, hardening the ground with desecration. Outbegotten and throughbrought, the once ****** ******* feral sons to the demented deity all above and none below, in turning, swirling and the ever-prying agony, facilitate themselves a house atop a hill. After the cacophony concludes, The Fool finds himself standing, thrice woven, wolfmeadow thrown, fistlike tenacity hit, once beholden to each beast of coppered glow. Up he reaches, but finding nought and disillusioned with disinterest he breaks down in acid tears and horrid shrieks for mercy. The inward calibre reciprocates and bursts out a tubular noise of contradiction. In all still-standing, the Queen, she of the all-overseeing, turns to The Fool and parlours him a wisdom: "I am unto you as a universe is unto itself. I am within you as this earth is within me. I am you and you I shall stay. And when you at once turn dust-wards, I shall, bereft but forthlooking, beget you again." Aghast with sudden agonising fragility and from the cosmic incantation a ghost arisen, The Fool in all his momentarily found glory and happiness conjectures himself a vessel to venture upon. What he once missed he now resides in. He found it and now he rejoices. To Youth, at long once and at once forever.

There were thousands and thousands o'kids
Pushed down pits or stamped out in t'mills
Mekin theer bids fer freedom.
Aye...from the drudgery and slavery of serfdom.

Now I realise..all that they got was a sub standard plot..
..and two penny's to cover...their poor dead eyes
And in the parlours Ma cries.

It was the minimum rate from which..
..we still cannot escape.
The rasping and grasping maws..
..the jaws that still trap us in poverty and penury
It's time for the judiciary to alter the law
To give poor people more.
What the **** are they waiting for?
A return to the old ways..
..back to the old days?

I wait for the answer but suspect I won't hear
And wonder what year this can be
Or even what century.

England lies below the ground
Chiselled out of diamond,
Blackened halls where men would dance
On floors of obsidian, twice removed from the stars.
Parlours made of coal.
Where man and beast alike would toil
Birth would grant them pigment
But birth’s decision was in vain,
When the sun began to fall, they would arise, of colour all the same.
Nowadays the men walk free;
Above
Drink pints in the morning, offer empty yells,
To that guy who came here to escape the shells,
To the girl who arrived here with three degrees,
And now scrubs floors down on her knees,
To the guy who works for minimum wage,
He could be writing upon this very page.
Spirit crushed under coal when the mines closed down
Now England lies below the ground.

ah man... it was just a saturday night,
wet cement
   and street lamps glaring down at me...
it has to be something to do with
password, which i created at 17 "centimetres"...
what's troubling me is the beer i had
on the way... it could very well be dubbed
nameless... bavarian...
but unlike Budweiser... no fermentation of rice...
nothing like budweiser, that ****** albino
of beers...
          no no, nothing crisp either, like you might
drink it on a hot summer's day...
this was different...
     it was extracted from wheat...
ever drink liquidated wheat?
        what, not ever?
    that's why i took the picture which is sitting
in the background...
the beer was so memorable that i kept the actual
bottle...
      who would have thought, that by adding
wheat to the usual medley of barley and hops
you'd get something, worth writing about...
of course, as i spotted the onset of spring
and trees blooming with those little flowers...
  but that beer. ****, on, me...
        it's revolutionary what they do these days,
fermenting wheat, on top of barley and hops...
you almost want to eat grapes rather than drink wine...
want to start a revolution? start brewing beer
incorporating wheat...
   i was actually walking from street-lamp to street-lamp
reading the ****** label...
you sure this isn't belgian?
           either that, or i looked completely stupid...
  it's there though... it's not a budweiser
with that ill aqua-fresh feel of fermenting rice...
it's a co-op (supermarket chain name,
also do funerals, like multi-facet parlours,
or ****) -
what a ****** name for such a good beer though?
wheat beer... bavarian wheat beer:
   made with malted wheat and barley...
   who does that to a masterpiece?
   someone who probably whistles along
to symphony no. 2 in A-minor...
and never bothers with proper titles...
    like.... francis bacon's studies of lucian freud...
i'm guessing they're lazy about naming
their output, simply to they have so much of it,
and it has to look clerical, or let's say:
    surgical, imply that against
the other dictionary that humanity possesses:
an algorhithm...
insert the words: word for surgical, clean...
   ah! there it is, the little ******...
antisepctic...
         just as well... when writing can but does not
reach an elevated status...
   isn't the thing that you take to bed and doze off
using it as a sleeping pill...
    the bit of me that already stated:
i wanna be as rough and toiling as a lumberjack,
as the lumberjack said: writing was never
about creating a *****-magnet,
a bit like a cow, in a field, less bulls to **** me,
yet more bothersome paper-clips like flies to
daunt me... or that's what a tail is for,
to disperse them...
           the devil and a tail and an impotence of
a tail that he uses for a trouser-belt, but doesn't wear
trousers, merely picks it up, that flamboyant additive,
and swings it to a twirl of full circle,
walking away while whistling
and saying: the part where i say: i've eaten the heads
either side of a cooked chicken bone...
heads? those parts that need lubrication,
so the things that are later called gensis: arthritis...
but it was in all earnest, a magical beer,
a revelation... who could have thought that wheat,
that from wheat alone, i'd be walking the night
and actually sniffing the neck of a bottle...
   like an arab in a bakery, sniffing freshly baked baklava...
and that really is, pistaschio galore...
oh right... pistachio... no s... taccos and chow mein...
apologies, i sometimes forget what the "unspoken"
rules of **** schizoi consist of...
write it one way, speak it another way -
sure show... how about a Pinnoccio drinking a capuccino
donning ccinos? again: what i see as necessarily
dyslexic: it's actually pinocchio,
   and it's cappuccino... and it's chinos....
and all that, from the greek χ (chi)...
or whatever χ was doing when the family k c q
came about... i'm thinking q is a mistake given
the already stated optical implants that really do,
deviate from how to base clear-cut memories of:
in case we need to remember.
    i still know that s z and x have a thing going on.
that beer... budweiser tastes nothing like
it might, ever, don a crown to encompass the spectrum...
you're basically drinking this beer
           and you're thinking belgium, but it's
bavarian... and i'm currently in a youtube vlogger's
punctuation mode...
   watch way too much of that **** to end
up writing like i am, right now;
                                          eeek! a teenage girl! run!

With a little tightening round the waist the skinny day comes out to taste the fatness of the light
I am in sight of something great but I'm hungry ,cannot wait
so I make my move too soon
and am swallowed in the craters of a Moon so cold
so very,very old with its yellow hardened crust that would lead me into desperation with gnarled hands and beard and face as red as any rust turned into dust
I would become
the dying of a dying sun
no matter fat or thin or if I wore a belt or braces
the many faces I would see
would only ever face the end of me.

I try to modify this future that only I can see by praying to a God I can't and never did
I wonder if that God is hid among the craters on the Moon and was it that he made his move too soon?
If so,
we'll have much to muse upon as we wonder where our lives have gone
and would he tell me how to live or would he give a eulogy
prepare me for that long journey?

I've come ten million stars through another thousand corner half lit bars where girls would sell me ballerina dreams that danced for me on spotlight screens and how could everything that seemed so real
be whisked away?

The spinning wheel came to a stop and zero popped up on the marker board where rich men ****** their eminence
and all pretence was stripped away.
Any other day the Lords that lorded over us would break up parliaments and owls would hoot and say
Wit and to whom would we deliver it?

A bit of eccentricity electric elementary educationalists get me fired up again as if I ever learned from them old men with old ideas whose only thoughts were to get young men up off their rears and into wars
more ****** who sold a bill of lading to trading partners who shot us down in front room parlours on council housing states of minds.

A kind of beauty in this fractured glass where through osmosis I can pass but not pass away only into some other uneventful day.
I lay my tortures on your brow
you know how to soothe this pain
before I go off scale again and read a riot act to those, where those who have lain their lives in ***** fields and barn houses full of hay
would have me say,
that we should not have to live this way.

In the craters on the Moon
I see that all is all too soon and will always be
another eulogy is read
for the dead undead who do not know
that here is where we are
there's nowhere left to go.

the mirror eyes of the corpse, long after people
voiced their concern of the fear of seeing
them no longer blinking, or allowing a peering
into the window of soul, either shuttering
them still to suit the numb limbs, or preparing
them with two coins for Charon and the crossing
of the Styx - that foul river of modern combustion
engine ointments of unrefined diesel.*

i'm angry at my piano of letters,
i call it the dog whistle piano,
the silent piano that rightly can also be
compared to a machine gun -
and that dumb musicology of poetry
is rhyme, or as one english teacher
revealed, the poetic alphabet of 52 letterings:
roses are red (a)
violets are blue (b)
             dearest repertoire of procrastination's jive (c)
             a head donning a beehive (c)
better dead than red (a)
i wrote this wearing only one shoe (b)...
and like this onto:
bring in the four elements,
atheists argue life ought to be like air,
never connected to skeletal structures,
randomised in atomic form and our bodies too,
the ones citing life's arguments
using earth have the easy inhibitory
village life, they're the characters
on b.b.c. radio 4's the archers (not
that peach schnapps, the mighty
"i'm living on a farm yo ** **",
what do you call a non-urban benefits
system? farming subsidy) -
those of argument from water we take
to imply basically all of us -
the fiery ones' motto better to burn out
than fade away - the 27 club -
and then the lightning ones
are stuck in a dying light-bulb epilepsy
of constant mirroring rejuvenation -
mind you, the moths are bewildered,
it's a lysergic acid (can you imagine
a lysergic alkaline?) trip for them,
so they don't even bother smacking the
**** thing for an instant light-bulb-tan:
moths invented u.v. sun-tan parlours long
before we had the thought of it.

The city
illuminated
by neon lights

Busy souls
electrify the shops
and parlours

Rows of cars
line the streets
their headlights glow

Walk down the
sidewalk and see
people drunk on love
and *****

We're waiting for the green light

We're ready to go

in the house of bumbling,
frogs jump sidways
to avoid the talk
tense
with the things
unspoken....

in the house of bumbling
birds mime joy in silent cages
waiting for  life to smile...

in the house of bumbling
ants march in straight lines
hugging the walls
leaving poisoned crumbs
behind...

in the house of bumbling
the lizards no longer lounge
but busily repetitively clean
the cowebbed dark corners

in the house of bumbling
spiders have no parlours
****** no flies
they now knit cardigans
and read the words
of the wise


oh the house of bumbling
is a place of curious wondering
and sometimes is found
stumbling
in the reccesses of my mind

where and whence
it goes
when not residing with me
i do not know...

perhaps you may have
the delight
of the house of bumbling
staying the night
and removing the seriousness
of the plight

the one in which
you fight boredom
in the dark reaches
of the lonely night....

In Albion’s realm, where misty moors do lie,
‘Neath ancient oak and silver sky,
A question stirs in hearts so deep,
A debate where souls and morals meet.

In halls of law and homes alike,
Where whispers rise and thoughts take flight,
Assisted dying’s call is heard,
In hushed tones and measured word.

Through corridors of time we trace,
From Hippocratic oaths to modern grace,
A journey long, both fierce and bright,
Through shadows cast by life’s last light.

In England’s green and pleasant land,
Where life and death do hand in hand,
A plea for mercy, calm and kind,
In final moments, peace to find.

For those who suffer, bodies frail,
With voices weak and faces pale,
A choice they seek, with dignity,
To end their pain, to set them free.

Yet in this isle of storied past,
Where traditions hold and shadows cast,
A struggle brews, both old and new,
Of ethics deep and justice true.

The lawmakers and healers stand,
With heavy hearts and steady hand,
To ponder laws and futures bright,
In sleepless thoughts through endless night.

For some do fear a slippery *****,
Where lives are weighed with loss of hope,
And others see compassion’s glow,
In helping those who wish to go.

Within the courts, the voices blend,
Of those who seek life’s gentle end,
And those who guard with fervent plea,
The sanctity of life’s decree.

In parlours warm and hospital halls,
The echoes rise of earnest calls,
For choice and freedom, calm and clear,
To face the end without the fear.

Yet also rings the cautioned cry,
Of hasty laws and who decide,
For life’s great gift, both pure and bright,
Must not be dimmed in darkest night.

Oh Albion, with heart so fair,
In this debate, take utmost care,
For every life, a tale profound,
In every heart, a sacred ground.

So let the voices blend as one,
In search of wisdom, never done,
To find a path both just and true,
In shadows cast by life’s last view.

Through trials hard and thoughts so deep,
In sleepless nights and dreams that keep,
May mercy guide, with steady hand,
In life’s great arc, from birth to sand.

Oh, Heavenly Father, light our way,
With wisdom’s glow, both night and day,
Grant us the grace to choose what’s right,
In shadows cast by life’s last light.

In Albion’s realm, where misty moors do lie,
May wisdom reign and spirits fly,
For in this choice, both grave and bright,
Lies the soul of mercy’s light.

i'm not a gambler, you won't receive a gambler's 100%, the heart sways toward what is best represented as what the last man would have said, being the first man of tomorrow; i am neither, away from civilisation, i wish to remain the rest of my days, whether real on unreal, on the Føroyar Øer - my body might be tied to your gimmick... i am extinguished from such life on this plateau.

so much necessitates human innovation in technology,
and so little in poetry, among other
queues, well, because it doesn't sell,
and what's the point of that?!
America knows why,
it means affairs in AFGHANISTAN
as elsewhere to be... MONOCHROMATIC...
KENTUCKY... if that ain't the truth
then i'm moving to Mongolia and telling
you... no, wait... that's me being the past
9 years, and i've heard more from
Humpty-Dumpty than i heard from all
the "Robin Hood" tech giants releasing dough
to the poor... where's Ivan?! where's Putin!
i need those Igor Tsars to catch me a bear to eat!
i don't care whether Britain exits of remains
in the Euro Union, firstly the sterling
like the Swedish Krona, or the Polish ZŁOTY!
gram of gold... oh keep my women as ******,
i'll keep your spices as jokes from Paris worth of
perfumes, don't Matt me then... Hawaii Auschwitz,
greyish sunset boulevard, *i'm German! i'm German!
**** woudn't know, neither could he between
Kashmir, Bangladesh or India with shopping malls
in Mecca... big ben of the middle east, abraj al-bait -
**** bing ****... your sister had a beard,
send in the Americans to complete the joke...
oh we'll get along, like we always did -
we'll be just fine, delicatessens versus curry parlours,
ready PakiDonalds (PcDonalds) versus make-your-own stink...
oh right, Europe will survive, former British Empire
conquests conquering Europe with Syrians?
you sad *****, who wouldn't if only they did?
there's me hoping for a family,
there's me seeing *****-wipe presses of plum
and hiccups - the waving version of
sunglasses, and then i say: thank ****
i wasn't programmed to reproduce,
given the benefit of 8 billion, thinking of Solomon
reducing his harem to a thought of ants,
regretting praying for wisdom yet possessing
so much luxury that lead him to default his
prayer and only lead him to vote in democratic
affairs as queen Sheba warned.

Something knocking
one time dead,
something knocking
in my head.

My eyes open wide and that
something slides inside
and the knock, knock,
knocking fades away and then
it dies.

Baby cries deep in the crib
Mother cradles one more nib
and Father writes of sights
he's seen.

King of parlours, Queen of hearts,
no matter who
the knocking starts,
knock, knock, knocking,
baby rocking,
eyes tight shut
but
the knocking
waits.

So you stared at the hourglass and counted
For all that it was worth, for every grain that fell
What exactly are you trying to achieve?

Drunken nights and empty parlours
Bottomless glasses and dusted shelves
you look in the mirror and see what bloodshot eyes can see
blurred lines and skewed vision from your lack of depth and ability to perceive

You watch the clock make it’s way around once then again
More like you’re on a boat in the middle of the sea
lost at will and on course to the places you’ve never been
And the places you least wanted to be

Live inside the walls of your mind
They’ve carved you out so well you could be a pumpkin on All Hallows Eve
Everything that used to be a part of you was simply tossed out the window to feed the starving crows

I see that your heart is bleeding again but no amount of gauze will swallow the pain
You can stare at the mirror for hours trying to love the parts of you that you hate

But they’ll never see the rotten parts of you that you see so clearly

The walls are closing in again


Don’t lose hope


                               Don’t lose hope



                                                         ­      Don’t lose hope

(m.e.)

English journalists writing about Mao's
China have this air about them
that's best summarised
by Charles Dickens'
attempts at philanthropy;
by the way, i'm taking this
point of view into Essex county
on the N86 bus:
were it will fester explosively
like a gangrene wound...
and rear parasites, upon parasites'
worth of infestation allowance:
Mongol horde to reap the rewards
with ****** from Goodmayes'
"tanning" / "massage" parlours
while the Bobs of Scotland Yard
drive their german machines
in idle splendour "unaware"
              via the practised criminality...
for the ******* dole chequers
players equipped with old
                      age as excuse... lassoo those bums!

There upon the foamy waters
boats rock with silent ease
all about reflects the sky
forget me not blue
stretches the miles.
Hushed I watch the majesty
of simple lives
Under the toil of the sun
boatmen sing their nets ashore
shimmering with life
as though the dawn itself were caught
within
a single bell, chimes skylark sweet
keeping time with the rhythm of all.
Calling home calloused hands
to pretty parlours
where rest and the devil take hold.

The Twilight Zone
In the nearest town and close to all amenities
such as hospitals and funeral parlours my wife
and went to look at an elderly people’s hotel
where people of a certain age get a small flat to
live in, yet it has a café for the social evening with
where young ladies who have gone to university
and studied geriatrics, sing and give the recital of
something suitable not to offend and often
a priest comes around and talks about Jesus.

Sunny Lodge the place was called, and we thanked
the manager we should think about it and was given
brochures to read. Driving home my wife cried, she
has a daughter who is no quite there I have no offspring
we decided to live in our cottage as long as possible
egoistically, I hoped to die before her it would save me
the funeral and sorting out and throwing away my private
collections of bleakly second-grade poetry, blowing in
the dusty wind of forgotten time.

.i really didn't mind which side was going to win... it was pretty obvious in the snap general election, in england, this year, i would have been sold the Blairite mantra any day of the week... that old flavour panache... you won, yes... blah blah... that's the one thing i don't understand about such events... it's not enough to win something... you have to succumb to that brazen: gloating... if only there was a sports' like stoicism behind winning... a sense of decorum... perhaps that's why i didn't vote... i didn't want to succumb to the subsequent brazen gloating... the odd chance that i experience ego-tripping is enough: when i encounter some abstract cul de sac of vocab that will be written... but never entertain everyday formal conversations... but... this gloating... some people can never make it into a... richard federer moment... why would they... after all... politics... voting... imagine if all the cheers and chants in a football match were actually indicative of who was going to win the match... perhaps... they are... "in hindsight"... i.e. when there are only 10 seconds on the clock in stoppage time before the game ends... in politics that's how having won: gloating emerges... it's not enough to have won... one has to bask in it... just like those away fans... with the majority of the home fans having left with Elvis having seen the most erecticle-dysfunction thrashing.

today i learned that some very intelligent people
managed to construct an a.i. system
that would be able to finish beethoven's
symphony no. 10 - or, as a matter of fact:
that the computers did it!

i would applause this achievement...
but... i'm hardly going to...
i wouldn't even applaud had "my own"
flesh and blood - an organic exponent achieved this
feat! unless - he were a deaf man -
even then - relativism of some sort...

as i'm writing this i wonder:
what if these intelligent people managed
to construct an a.i. system that would be able
to finish off... Kafka's the castle?
should "we" celebrate such an accomplished:
should it ever come to pass?

a much harder undertaking...
and for all its worth, classical music...
rarely does it translate into something you
can whistle it...
rarely... and when you can: you barely can...
beside the interludes...
basically Bach's polyphony destroyed
the simplicity of classical music -
classical music? no wonder modern music
has to borrow the technicality of the event...

- could this be a Kierkegaardian style of meditation
or... dare i say it... Knausgårdian?
i frankly don't mind...
how much of my biography i will include
in this is beside the point -
like? do i think that for all their worth,
their grand narratives,
some people can still come off as slight?
i do not want to immerse myself
in how so many petty things
bind people together when being
stripped to find themselves beneath
celestial bodies and some disposable awe...
yawn at the stars and enjoy some
soap opera... get into the jungle petty
crimes... yawn at the stars...

this surely must have been written
from an underbelly...
by a turtle starving when being flipped
onto its shell... otherwise...

classical music and its complexity...
i tried to figure it out...
but i will rarely come to finding it
necessary to enjoy certain things...
classical music i will rarely enjoy -
especially if i have to think about it...

oh the glorious days when i thought
that thought was a pleasure in-itself...
now? this spaghetti monster with recycled
pieces of self and the christo-freudian
trinity layer-cake of ego, superego, id
of modernity...
i'm always somewhere, nowhere:
playing the cameo role...
i imagine a psychologist talking to me
armed with all these surgical "equipment" items
for my metaphysical surgery...
and i have no knowledge / consciousness
regarding each vector or enzyme or...
how i'm still, basically...
primordial in explaining myself via:
a pronoun, a verb, a noun, a conjunction,
and obviously a definite/indefinite article...

have i missed the point?
verb pronoun verb definite article noun?
tell me: what is psychoanalytical theory
staging, before the stage of grammar?
grammar is the father of all learning -
given that the mother is mathematics...
deviation from formal grammar must be excused
if this is at all to be even, remotely,
resonated in the ars poetica...

beethoven!
i can whistle about two or three extracts
from classical music...
the one, that i know of?
that resonates akin to la marseillaise...
and say... the british grenadiers' fife and drum...
and... that bit of beethoven's symphony no. 9...
ode an die freude...

no, i somehow want to stumble into
this egregious cliché -
try whistling to some chopin...
after all... chopin was in a contest with
liszt over who... would break a finger
while playing his centipede technicality...
what sort of woman would faint
what sort of matthew arnold would
go home and ******* in the dark
crying when seeing liszt perform live...

if you're taking a **** and then having a shower?
a few lazy moves of the fore! skin doesn't
even elevate the event to any "immediacy"...
as i once had it: *** pistons *** pistons...
it's fair game... but... after a while
and you haven't paid for it and *** is the glue
that weaves itself into your narrative
and there's talking after and...
god... looks like i was lucky...
my 20s? em... i don't know...
i "think" i was preoccupied with my psychosis
of meeting god... to which i'd reply...
you don't want to be looking for him...
nothing was said -
there was an angelic choir and a great
wind that dispersed it... while i was
running around in a church trying to figure
out 'a how' with regards to still being
the owner of an iPod and...
fasting... high of some variant of marijuana
they only serve in London...

plan? what plan? i'd say: don't go looking
for god: unless you're absolutely sure...
you'll only come back with clichés...

is it really music in those heads of theirs?
i mean the composers?
i hardly think they "think" in terms of melody...
it's not like you could write a polyphony
based externally on whistling...
perhaps a main theme...
like in ode an die freude...
there's a premise... but then?
pandemonium rapes the head of a ludwig...
and... they just keep adding and adding...
but none of it could be compressed
to a song...

thanks be to bukowski for pointing this
out... ludwig didn't frequent the parlours of god
(words) that often... rarely...
he only wrote one: Fidelio -
and it was only as a joint-venture with...
Arturo Toscanini...
because you can't exactly sing along
to classical music...
and if you don't enjoy classical music...
you suppose: the heart has to "think"
in order for any "thinking" by the brain
to be disengaged from: the sound of rain
falling on a tin roof and a piano crescendo
synonym...

is blurring out "thinking" from the brain
being stimulated by the minor fractions
of seeing and feeling in the grand sigma ****
of hearing - minor details -
you still need to feel and hear...
closing your eyes: perhaps...
but at least there's that abstract focus of:
"somewhere in the distance" with:
eyes wide open too...

very much akin to my current drinking patterns...
i don't remember the last time i drank
for the pleasure of being drunk...
christmas is here and i have some minor
responsibilities to take care of...
25mg amitriptyline and a biting event
with the naproxen... the whiskey is measured
like a prison tally... if i exceed:
IIII/ IIII/ by more than II...
i have a problem...
anything to curate this insomnia...

only when words are given access...
but i can't see why words would be necessary...
whether it's a stand-off of show-off
Faustian technicality between Chopin
or Liszt... or whether it's the completely
French stand-off between:
the only way to learn to play the piano these
days... is to find an allure of calm,
of stopping time... a delicate fusion
of... arranging a boquet of roses
while wearing sand-paper gloves...
Debussy "contra" Satie...

but this track of Beethoven's?
is it really such a terrible cliché?
top 3 tracks that have left a most definite
imprint in my head -
a cognitive tattoo... thank god for not
wishing for that sort of other branding
akin to a no. 1990869 from that infamous
of places... or... a ditto on my forehead...

- ode an die freude
- la marseillaise
- fife and drum

is this a clinical approach?
i'm almost certain there's no real thinking
in terms of sound when it comes
to composing...
i once had the rare opportunity
to spot a young composer in a cafe in London...
scribbling his...

ut queant laxis
resonare fibris... to be honest, i was jealous
as ever - but not in a way that:
i could be better...
and as i'm pretty god-**** sure...
he wasn't whistling or humming
alongside what he was writting...

braille is where i stashed this jealousy:
UT
⠥⠞
RE
⠗⠑

because trying to figure out the "thinking"
behind musical composition -
on a polyphony scale...
it's hardly a folk song mentality of:
the "easily remembered"...
but... again this can be achieved...
when a complexity unravels itself into
folk "sensibility" -
do i have to car-crash this sentence
into something simpler?

chemistry almost uses this "syllables"
of meaning... He: helium... Li: lithium...

and my what an honest hour!
i can finish a day well spent!
i did this that and the other...
i watched some alpine ski jumping
from engelberg... a polish athelete won:
kamil stoch... i still can't sing
the anthem: mazurek dąbrowski...
so i... felt... 0.001% of a shared cause...
it's a grey foggy distance in the back
of the mind... that can't compete with
someone's patriotism-in-exile
akin to a Czesław Miłosz...
more importantly... Liverpool won
the Fifa World Cup of Clubs playing
against a very tactical Brazilian side...
and you should have seen
the match-up between Flamenco vs. ...
in the copa libertadores...
who was it... besides the point: what a comeback!

needless to say... who are these "people"
who have started to become reckless
in their attempts to sell love?
this delusion of love -
this most abstract person: personna precusor?
for the love of: what's outside...
beside me - what i see and what i can
offer in it being shared...
never this magician's Pharisee act
of: what love is "sleeping" in me...
how my love is but a yawn should it have
to exist... like a tapeworm without
a wall of a small intestine of the host...
what is this love? this "hurting" -
can it ever please escape the orient
and its parasitical feeding via a haiku?

as no claim: "genius"...
that's the problem... the horde had an element
in it... hedwig... some constant that
could never change and remained
in part solipsistic - well...
a paradoxical solipsism...
multiple-personality disorder and...
the placebo effect of solipsism...
but all the other personalities knew of
each other... it's not like each personality
was oblivious to the other...
which undermines the concept of:
there is no conscious effort...
between switching...
which must be a harrowing experience
to pseudo- the whole experience...
narrowing it down to a thespian consciousness
that's only visible to a thespian audience...

how is it in writing? there is no voice involved...
have i reach a polyphony?
evidently there's a common theme running
through this piece...
but... is there a dialectical play in it -
how there's a grand coming "sigma"...
toward the concordant zenith?
if i were to say these words outloud
and have this little monstrosity -
this little demon whisper as the backdrop
in my thought:
i could not achieve a concordant zenith
as such...

i have already faced the unbelievable lie...
that somehow a bilingualism can be treated
as a schizophrenia...
isn't bilingualism, entrenched bilingualism
somehow not... the stated diagnosis?
why can't i solve crosswords
but find sudoku puzzles to be somehow
predictable?
i already have a crossword puzzle in my head!
and it's not based on a network
of the monolingual architecture that
solves crosswords with a thesaurus:
synonyms and antonyms and "insinuations"...

- mind you... did you mention that quote
from that polish neurologist?
'any one who claims you're mad...
are mad themselves'?
after all... isn't it a neurologist's word
over a psychiatrist's?
according to the latter:
my brain is still a chemical spaghetti soup...
my lexicon is a... salad...
might i ask for the meat... then?

- it can drive a man wild... knowing how
blind some people are...
but after a while... you just:
inhale... and release an onomatopoeia
of the most reclusive relief...
a sigh that's not a sigh... AAAAH...
to be able to walk down a street...
and enjoy the weather,
enjoy the passing-conversations...
the passing traffic...
the stench of a major city...
all of this... would be impossible...
if each man was to bump into
a replica of a Galileo (COPERNICUS!)...

what a dull place it would most surely be...
on a whim: entertaining petty grievances...
on the other: the hunger-strike martyrs for
justice... the philanderers, the sycophants
and their post-moralism bribe donors of
exclaimation marks!
or people like me... who chance upon...
an internalised rhetorical seanse vacation
after the day is done...
since... clearly: i do not have enough
time or money for a cork-lined room to
drum out all external noise...
or a listener with a rubber-ear akin to...
that same sort of fellow...

breadcrumbs from the altar...
where that meal is a ceremony of:
fed by the words...
the details inverted...
perhaps once it was charity...
better the charity to lie these days!

until it comes out by itself...
truth? what truth?!
trivia?! regurgitating scientific facts?!
that's it! or making blatant falsifications?!
i'd call it:
if there is a truth - i'll find it tomorrow...
and by truth and tomorrow:
if there's a truth - it's (a) tomorrow...
otherwise i'll face... death...
or perhaps i'll be cheated of it...
should i come across death in my sleep...
i can't imagine the sometimes
referenced obituary:
he died peacefully in his sleep...
that's as about as peaceful as...
when you sometimes wake up from sleep
because you've just had a nightmare...

this life is a nightmare...
let death be my sleep.

My environment raised me to fantasize
and romanticize fairytale plots
Constantly told Everyones special, but if
everyone’s special, is special... not

told violence isn’t the answer, but grown men start wars, told its childish to fully
Manipulate and intimidate at school...
like adult workplaces don’t have bullies

My lack of contentment and resentment
are petty and petulant, so I’ll recant it
but impossible expectations make failure an inevitable feeling as disenchantment

comes from being sold magic and gold dreams were told to chase and harbour
but reality showed the fallacy, cuz the only happy endings are in massage parlours

Cuz maturation, brings lacerations
a mental state knowing only ******* for self exploration, so complications
with my identity caused me exasperation

so my child will learn of the wild waitin
Nothing inhumane, just rationalization
No Unrealistic imagery, or idealistic epiphany, just realizations


Instead of illusions most institutions
that directly rooted, or Alluded
Being intoxicated left toxic hatred,  
I got from the delusive undiluted

Euphoric delusion, an intrusion conducive  
with ecstasy come downs, now habitual
feeling missed opportunities residual
like manifestation of the metaphysical

actually exists, it insists, a ritual
a nagging cyst that sits, subliminal
like a psyches itch, that persists, and only exists, cuz I can’t resist, being miserable

but what is emphatically unequivocal
makes me combatively typical
Like my psychosis births mitosis roaches
that are magically cynical

like an angry lucky charms leprechaun who’s going insane, way passed clinical cuz I’m too myopic to see this topic,
making me neurotic, isn’t the typical

response cuz logic isnt the pinnacle
when trying to ration what is invisible
and take the hypothetically and try to remedy, what’s not theoretically divisible

So I’m left where I began, remaining
Knowing my complaining, is draining
Partially wishing, for the convincing
the world is beautiful, the painting

I use to see when faith in humans
and in destiny, still arresting me
instead of seeing how dark and cold it is, unable to ignore the unpleasantry

life isn’t all jewels and sparkling glitter
Happy thoughts & rainbows  and that
Doesn’t change earths mean maggots
Like jean jackets bedazzled, it’s still crap

love struck... hovering a body... time is probably
the best perspective...
i look at her in her agility and full blossom: naked
and i wince...
if she was anything less than the Eiffel Tower...
god... that summer when i jumped into the deep end
and paid Paris a voyeurism...
if only i had a bicycle to weave the labyrinth...
i've lived in London for most of my life...
travelling into the central forge of: what's happening
always ended up a claustrophobic affair:
emerging from the tube to pinpoints...
on the map... Marble Arch and toward the shisha parlours
on Edgware Rd. with the flat breads
and the balaclava: baklava throwing events...
pop up somewhere in Soho... or Camden...
anything south of the Thames is like...
seeing the coming-and-goings of York...
so little tube... the moles didn't bother with
the south of London... trams thrill the people
associated with Croydon...
i look at her naked body... of course i'm
so drunk that... i'm on my second try for a hard-on...
no... it's not happening...
she's playing the timid girl i'm already lost
to ms. amber stealing my hard-on...
i'm soggy-digestive thoroughly...
but my hands are still hard-on... i close my eyes...
and turn her body into an Atlas...
of braille...
that was my first attempt...
a complete *****-less failure to get what
i paid for...
later she would come back at me with
******* pigtails...
but this Turkish readily... available: giddy-up
sold herself...
this supposed pursuit of happiness...
last article i read was about a girl in prison
who committed suicide:
the line read: why should non-aggressive females
not be put into prison...
so i guess... i'm not guessing...
i'm out... they already turned my brain into
a chemical soup...
we can just cage the males...
anything lawless a woman does is:
minor... a minor scold...
it requires... justice with... pampering...
primal defect of a woman: no character building
mechanisms in place..
the collective: harem-esque sisterhood...
who wouldn't want to play the second fiddle?
or rather... the nativity play...
you're the kid in the shadows...
given a major part: playing the rhythm xylophone...
the idiots play the Jesus Mary & Joseph...
all the idiots have scripted lives...
all the better... there has to be an undercurrent
with what's to be grasped as:
the staging of / for life...
god... no russian orthodox icon...
perhaps some chants of the templars...
no building... all the pretty ones end up...
frothing at their mouths descending into ***-work...
they're the prettiest ones...
not wife material: if the motto of the Englishman
should stick: last time i heard it
i was a teenager...
don't marry a pretty one....
marry a woman no other man might want...
horrible how beauty can decay in its prime...
while all these girls playing glass-house:
all-see-no-touch of only-fans...
well... that's not much fun: i'll be creasing my whole-body
****** one way or another:
whatever this self-imposed... ha! self-imposed:
celibacy coughs up...
***-starved for... 3 years... 4 years... 5 years...
i lost count...
but i'll milk this sacred cow for what's it worth...
the first 120 minutes i was too drunk
but she didn't speak much English...
and... we ended up hugging... kissing...
Romanian words for: freckles... eyelids...
eyes... nose... collarbone...
i'm milking it...
what's the other 30 minute done perfect
with a nymphomaniac... showing off her tongue
while slapping herself with the phallus?
no timid mare: 'ere...
*** that was fun *** that was a revival...
*** where i didn't have to bother
about pleasing her:
since forever... it never worked for me
to please "her":
*** that made me forget a 13 year hang-up...

- how many minutes are there in a year?
"apparently" 525600 of them...
big number... how many are there in...
knit-and-pick... how many are there in...
3... 4... 5.. 4... years..
    2.102e+6.... ****... we're going into
exponentials now...
without the tenderness of hands only
a cyclops can offer... Polyphemus dire moi...

2102400...
    2102400 ÷ 30 = ..
               2102400 ÷  60 = 35040
35040 hours @ £120 per hour:
**** me... i'll need to insert comma breaks
in terms of earning: if i had twice the stamina
of the Spartan 300's enterprise of:
what Henry VIII's failure bore...
she would have earned... £4,204,800...
that's not chasing pillow-fights in calcium mines...
all this... from merely *******...

eh... people have lived through much more:
much worse...
come to think of it...
the Teutonic Knights had a brothel
in their citadel of Marienburg: Malbork Castle...
they also lived through events where
there arrived a concern for
grouping together...
i find no release in this sort of an outlet...
being met...
society is thinning: concept or practice...
i'm not bemoaning the fact:
the placebo of solipsism of either
ha-shem or ha-satan:
how indistinguishable it all seems:
it only requires me to peer at what's
being spectated...

a boy should grow up within the confines
of dogs... should he be struck with...
being a solo-project...
whether by Chinese-State authority or
by the Chernobyl accident that prompted women
to drink iodine...
but as he ages... cats... fickle creatures...
personally... i absolve myself from having
wish to either witness or use...
the leash or muzzle...
as fickle as cats are...
i'm glad to be able to ignore them...

all the best looking girls go into prostitution...
what remains are beached-whales
men pass around with the motto:
marry someone no one will steal...
tha conundrum: keep them locked up in a niqab?
how did a few keep so many
while so many can't keep but a one?
i don't want to understand it...
i want to walk into the sea...
swim toward Norway... and drown...
while wrestling with a storm...

at the supermarket...
i was already walking back to the self-checkout
with a bottle of Pimm's i was owing...
a tease of a bottle of whiskey
and a bottle of Pepsi...
god help me: god help her...
this tiny tween of a... sugar-daddy prospect...
she must have been this years
cherry picking... converse attired...
smooth attired with all her skin...
am i... somehow... justified taking?
she had to meet up with me at the self-checkout...
all toys and sweets:
per juice concentrate...
gummy bears... she looked as much fun as
any sexually legal female might look...
of course she'll follow suite and ****
the next degenerate scooter boyo-fancy...
the west is not worth conquest...
it can be simply undermined with:
what's the current "fad": anti-racist chocolate-chip
hard-ons?

hello walking abortions...
hello living without the gruesome love for winter:
extension of the refrigerator...
i'm not going to invest in mere DNA...
i'll suffer... so no future will be minded...

how the "left" suffers... the ethnic origins and
upkept uniqueness of
baboons... macaques... gorillas...
but "we"... as humans... are somehow
a "together" project... together project
in alliances with the placebo Olympic:
except towing the ultra-liberal white woman...

******* proselytes...
under-miners... covert globalist *****-spunks!
all the best looking ones
go into ****... the remains are... that's
it... remains... father children with a mediocre woman
then relapse into chanced beauty spotting
at architecture...
while... David... the King...
psalm baron... Solomon has as much wisdom as is required
of a man with a harem...
i'm not envious... back then there was no
blue-pill hard-on...
so most of the women fiddled with
make-shift ******...
oh please... i'm not harrowed:
i am: the harrowing!

how did this agony of 16... turn up at the
self-cashier...
with all her *****..
i swear i was only armed with a bottle of a lirre of
Pimm's... a litre of pepsi
and 35cl of ms. amber...
while she synchronised herself
with... gummy bears... excess of sugar:
the height: heist antithesis of **** *******...
such a youngling...
such a "petty" creature to behold...

she was... pure... sugar... pure ripple of
an agony of what tends to be used up...
not by me... but by some...
fortunate: leeching leprosy of "morals"...
but if the ***** will eagerly give...
who am i to complain: "as"? god?#

i see a full moon: i blink... i whine...
i gather up my "toys" for a refreshed concept of:
assault...
it's new... the whole concept of trans-racial
inter-breeding...
how the father figure is best portrayed by
the mulattos...
unless of course he might be absent..
half's a half...
but towing "forward"...
we're the bleaching people genes...
the sandpaper antithesis...
your bi-racialism is my my bilingualism...
look at me! hey pretso!
no hyphen included!

i have a mouth and tongue for an eye...
two eyes that become two mouths
with two tongues...
and a brain that has turned into
a massive impression of....
gauging at... the concern for an ear
and an "inability" to "hear"...
   what's... "silence"?

the late... latest advent of Darwinism....
the macaques vs.
the baboons... monkey contra monkey...
no man: man is: this unified "quest":
she''ll **** anyone:
chocolate chipped honey bear:
p'ooh bear...
thank god i'm not not allowing myselfg
to be breeding...
it's not like my d.n.a was sometho=ing
speZial...
  
the white girls can have all their ****-conteent:
look at them: gobble gobble: the death of winter...
perhaps i'm a man...
and i'd entertain....
lemon ******* Thais...
tirade... her ******* Katakana brigade...

i guess it comes down to:
these woeb ===== web...
women... attempt to teach me... something...
merely.. mandolin ownership is not enough
to forget about the world... forget about i...
here i am... lost to a tide of grievance...
full moon my inquisition
of the tide... leverage my lost "battle" for the lake..
grieve frothing
at what becomes of the swan...
Lomond come... the most pristine sunset.
come to "think" of it... i die... happy..
i live: most waiting.

Happy endings only occur in
massage parlours, fairytales
and Hollywood. Alternatively
we need to accept that loves
conclusions are misleading,
unless the author terminates
the narrative prematurely, by
which case, in