the women of the past keep
phoning.
there was another yesterday
arrived from out of
state.
she wanted to see
me.
I told her
"no."

I don't want to see
them,
I won't see them.
it would be
awkward
gruesome and
useless.

I know some people who can
watch the same movie
more than
once.

not me.
once I know the
plot
once I know the
ending
whether it's happy or
unhappy or
just plain
dumb,
then

for me
that movie is
finished
forever
and that's why
I refuse
to let
any of my
old movies play
over and over again
for
years.

When the engine rattled itself to a stop he opened the driver’s door letting the damp afternoon displace the snug of travel. He was home after a long day watching the half hours pass and his students come and go. And now they had gone until next year leaving cards and little gifts.
 
The cats appeared. The pigeons flapped woodenly. A dog barked down the lane. The post van passed.
 
The house from the yard was gaunt and cold in its terracotta red. Only the adjacent cottage with its backdoor, bottles filling the window ledges, and tiled roof, seemed to invite him in. It was not his house, but temporarily his home. He loved to wander into the garden and approach the house from the front, purposefully. He would then take in the disordered flowerbeds and the encroaching apple trees where his cats played tag falling in spectacular fashion through the branches. He liked to stand back from the house and see it entire, its fine chimneys, the 16C brickwork, the grey-shuttered living room, and his bedroom studio from whose window he could stretch out and touch the elderberries.
 
Inside, the storage heaters giving out a provisional warmth, he left the lights be and placed the kettle on the stove, laid out on the scrubbed table a tea ***, milk jug, a china mug, a cake tin, On the wall, above the vast fireplace, hung a painting of the fields beyond the house dusty in a harvest sunset, the stubble crackling under foot, under his sockless sandals, walking, walking as he so often felt compelled to do, criss-crossing the unploughed fields of the chalk escarpment.
 
Now a week before St Lucy’s Day he sat in Tim’s chair and watched the night unmask itself, the twilight owl glimmer past the window, a cat on his knee, a cat on the window ledge, porcelain-still.
 
He let his thoughts steal themselves across the table to an empty chair, imagining her holding a mug in both hands, her long graceful legs crossed under her flowing skirt. When she lay in bed she crossed her legs, lying on her back like the pre-Raphaelite model she had shown him once, Ruskin’s ****** wife, Effie. ‘I was in a pub with some friends and I looked out of the window and there he was, painting the church walls’, she said musingly, ‘I knew I would marry him’. He was older of course; with a warm voice that brought forth a childhood in the 1930s spent at a private schools, a wartime naval career (still in his teens), then Oxford and the Slade. He owned nothing except a bag of necessary clothes, his paints of course and an ever-present portfolio of sketches. Tim lived simply and could (and did) work anywhere. Then there was Alison, then a passion that nearly drowned him before her Quaker family took him to themselves, adoring his quiet grace, his love of music, his ability to cook, to make and mend, to garden like a God.
 
Sitting in her husband’s chair he constantly replayed his first meeting with her. Out in the yard, they had arrived together, it was Palm Sunday and returning from Mass he gave her his palm as a greeting. He loved her smile, her awkwardness, her passion for the violin, and her beautiful children. He felt he had always known her, known her in another life . . . then she had touched his hand as he ascended the kitchen stairs in her London home, and he was lost in guilt.
 
Tonight he would eat mackerel with vicious mustard and a colcannon of vegetables. He would imagine he was Tim alone after a day in his studio, take himself upstairs to his bedroom space where on his drawing board lay this work for solo violin, his Tapisserie, seven studies and Chaconne. For her of course; of the previous summer in Pembrokeshire; of a moment in the early morning sailing gently across Dale sound, the water glass-like and the reflections, the intense mirroring of light on water  . . . so these studies became mirrors too, palindromes in fact.
 
The cats slept on his sagging quilted bed where he knew she had often slept, where he often felt her presence as he woke in the early hours to sit at his desk with tea to drag his music little by little into sense and reason.
 
When Jenny came she slept fitfully, in this bed, in his arms, always worried by her fear of rejection, always hoping he would never let her go, envelope her with love she had never had, leave his music be, be with her totally, rest with her, own her, take her outside into the night and make love to her under the apple trees. She had suggested it once and he had looked at her curiously, as though he couldn’t fathom why bed was not sufficient unto itself, why the gentleness he always felt with her had to become hurt and discomfort.
 
He had acquired a drawing board because Elizabeth Lutyens had one in her studio, a very large one, at which she stood to compose. He liked pushing sketches and manuscript paper around into different configurations. He would write the same passage in different rhythmical values, different transpositions, and compare and contrast. After a few hours his hearing became so acute that he rarely had to go downstairs to check a phrase at the piano.
 
Later, when he was too tired to stand he would go into the cold sitting room, light some candles, wrap himself in a blanket and read. He would make coffee and write to Jenny, telling her the minutiae of the place she loved to come to but didn’t understand. She loved the natural world of this remote corner of Essex. Even in winter he would find her walking the field paths in skirt and t-shirt insensible of the cold, in sandals, even bare feet, oblivious of the mud. He would guide her home and wash her with a gentleness that first would arouse her, then send her to sleep. He knew she was still repairing herself.
 
One evening, after a concert he had conducted, Jenny and Alison found themselves at the same table in the bar. Jenny had grasped his hand, drawing it onto her lap, suddenly knowing that in Alison’s presence he was not hers. And that night, after phoning her sister to say she would not be home, she had pulled herself to him, her mass of chestnut hair flowing across her shoulders and down his chest as she kissed his hands and his arms, those moving appendages she had watched as he had stood in front of this student orchestra playing the score she had played, once, before this passion had taken hold. At those first rehearsals she had blushed deeply whenever he spoke to her, always encouraging, gentle with her, wondering at her gauche but wondrous beauty, her pear-shaped green eyes, her small hands.
 
He threw the cats out into the chill December air. He closed the door, extinguished the lights and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. In bed, in the sheer darkness of this Ember night, the house creaked like an old sailing ship moored in a tide race. For a few moments he lay examining the soundscape, listening for anything new and different. With the nearest occupied house a good mile away there had been scares, heart-thumping moments when at three in the morning a knock at the door and people in the yard shouting. He carried Tim’s shotgun downstairs turning on every light he could find on the way, shouting bravely ‘Who’s there?’. Flinging open the door, there was nothing, no one. A disorientated blackbird sang from the lower garden . . .

He turned his head into the pillow and settled into mind-images of an afternoon in Dr Marling’s house in Booth Bay. In his little bedroom he had listened to the bell buoy clanging too and fro out in the sea mist, the steady swish, swash of the tide turning above the mussled beach.

Static. All I hear is static.
And the mumbles of your game.
Always playing that stupid game
As if you couldn't function without it.

I don't want to hear about it.
It doesn't interest me in the least.
(Mostly because I have no idea what you're saying)

I wouldn't have a problem with it,
Except for the fact that you only half listen.
You only have respond too.
Saying 'Yeah's and 'Okay's as if it can apply to everything.

I can only try so much until eventually
All you hear is static.
Static and the sounds of football.

Its as if
A solemn oath
To reminiscence
Had memories
Had dreams
Are you tired of me yet?
It just seems
A luxury given
Fluffed pillows
Explaining the simplicity of slumber
Had a memory
Your a dream
Are you gone from me yet?
It was fact
Actuality
Nirvana upon purple hills
Had memories
Haunted dreams
Are you done with me yet?
It was peaceful
A gloomy rainy day
A solemn oath
A luxury given
Fluffed pillows
Nirvana upon purple hills
Delicious night
Filled by yellow pills
Are you high off me yet?
Its as if
You were a memory
Within a dream
A haunted nightmare
So it seemed
Stuck in limbo
Or purgatory
No longer deserving your glory
Naive
Gentle
Kisses
Sweet and simple
Sent me flying high
Are you tired of me yet?
Leave me to runaway
I'm Wilson
Castaway
I am gone from you yet..
Nirvana on purple hills
Fought the fray
Are you done with me yet?
Roaming
To home im phoning
Airplanes
Night walkers
Street and sweet talkers
Getting high off me yet?

I’m thinking about you today. Hard not to, the specialness of it all. Today you’re putting up of an exhibition. Some artists call it a show, but you’re quite consistent in not calling it that. I admire that of you, being consistent.
 
I was thinking today about your kindness. You phoned me as soon as the children had gone to school, making time to call before you left. I know you were drinking your start-of-the-day coffee, but it was a kind thought all the same, phoning me. You knew I was upset. Upset with myself, as I often am. It’s this being alone. Not so much as a cat to keep me company. Just my work, the reading I do, my thoughts of you, those letters I write, and my attempts at poetry.
 
During the last few days I’ve tried to write directly of what I’ve observed, not felt, observed. Like those wonderful Chinese poets of old describing in just a few characters the wonder of the seen rather than the speculation of the felt, avoiding all emotion and fantasy. I try to write in a way that holds to the ambiguity and spread of meanings the poems those ancient Chinese composed.
 
It’s winter-time. Yesterday we were expecting the first snowfall of winter, and it arrived late in the night making the morning darkness mysteriously different, changing the indistinctness of distant trees to become a web of silver lines, in the no-wind snow resting on branches, clinging to boughs and trunks.  I stood in the pre-dawn park in wonder at it all, holding each moment to myself, in the cold breath-stopping air. I thought of one of the Chinese snow poems I know and some of those different ways it has been translated. Here are three:
 
A thousand mountains without a bird
Ten thousand miles with no trace of man.
A boat. An old man in a straw raincoat.
Alone in the snow, fishing in the freezing river.
 
A thousand peaks: no more birds in flight.
Ten thousand paths: all trace of people gone.
In a lone boat, rain cloak and a hat of reeds
An old man’s fishing the cold river snow.
 
Sur mille montagnes, aucun vol d’oiseau
Sure dix mille sentiers, nulle trace d’homme
Barque solitaire: sous son manteaux de paille
Un vielliard pêche, du figé, la neige.
 
So beautiful, arresting, different. It holds the title River Snow and the poet is the Tang Dynasty philosopher and essayist Lui Zongyuan.  My snow poem First Fall, written last night as the snow fell on the wet street outside, as you were falling through my thoughts, softly, but not onto a wet street, but a distant garden we know and love, but have yet to see in winter’s whiteness.
 
And now today you’re driving to a distant location to hang your work of paper, silk and linen, full of expectation, every contingency and plan in place to enable the work to make its mark in a location you know, where people may recognize your name and will come to say warm words of encouragement, maybe a little praise. And at the end of the week when the exhibition opens I’ll be there, trying to be invisible, taking photographs if I can of you and your admirers and supporters, and thinking (myself) how wonderful you are, your lovely smile lighting up the gallery, being welcoming, beautiful always.
 
Only today you’re further away from me than ever. Around coffee time I miss your quiet explorative ‘it’s me , like a mouse on the telephone. The inflections of those words questioning the appropriateness of the call, meaning ‘Are you busy? Am I interrupting?’ It may take me a little while to ‘come to’, but interruption? Never, just the sheer joy that it’s you colouring the moment.
 
I think of the landscape you’ll be driving through. I’m imagining the snow-sky clearing and becoming a faint blue with the sun’s brightness clarifying those wold lands, those gentle folds of fields between parallelograms of woodland standing stark under the large skies and promulgating the long views gradually, gradually stretching towards the sea coast.
 
I like to imagine you are singing your way through the choruses of Bach’s B Minor Mass, but in reality it’s probably the Be Good Tanyas or Billy Joel playing on the CD player. Such a relief probably after those silent journeys with me. I usually relent on the homeward leg, but I crave silence when I’m a passenger, and I’m now always a passenger, so I crave silence for my thoughts, such as they are.
 
While you are being the emerging artist – but probably on your way homeward - I have taken myself down to my city’s gallery and to an exhibition I’ve already seen. I have a task I’ve been promising myself to undertake: copying an exhibit. I arrive an hour before the gallery closes. I leave my bicycle behind the foyer desk. There are more staff about than visitors. It’s gloriously empty, but the young twenty-somethings invigilating the spaces group themselves strategically near adjoining rooms so they can talk (loudly) to each other. It’s Facebook chat, barely Twitter nonsense. I have to block it all out to focus on the four pages and a P.S of a sculptor’s letter to a critical friend. The sculptor is writing from springtime Cornwall on 6 March 1951. The critical friend will open the letter the next day (when there were 3 deliveries a day) and the Royal Mail invariably arrived on time. He’ll pick it up from his doormat before breakfast in grimy Leeds, though the leafy part near Roundhay Park. The sculptor begins by saying:
 
It is so difficult to find words to convey ideas!
 
In this so efficient Cambria typeface that introductory sentence loses so much of the muscle and flow of the human hand. Written boldly in black ink, and so full of purpose, I read it a month ago, a photocopy in a display case, and knew I had to capture it. And it’s here entire in my note book, on my desk, carefully copied, to share with you my darling, my kind friend, the young woman I hold dear, admire so much, become faint with longing for when, as she crosses that gallery where she has been hanging her work (in my imagination), I am caught as so often by her graceful steps and turn.
 
I don’t feel any difference of intent in or of mood when I paint (or carve) realistically, or when I make abstract carvings. It all feels the same – the same happiness and pain, the same joy in a line, a form, a colour – the same feeling at the end, The two ways of working flow into each other without effort  . . .
 
Outside my warm studio the snow has retreated east and I’ve opened the window to hear the Cathedral bells practising away, the city on a Tuesday night free of revellers, the clubs closed, the pubs quiet. In this building everyone has gone home except this obsessive musician who stays late to write to the woman he adores, who thinks a day is not a day lived without a letter to her at least, a poem if possible.
 
I’d quietly hoped to be with you tonight, but you must have something arranged as I suggested twice I might come, and you said it wasn’t necessary. But I have this letter, and something to write about. Alas, no poem. My muse is having the evening off and I am gently reconciled to the possibility of a few words on the telephone before bed.

The kid could throw, he really could throw

Scouts were watching back in high school

Arm like a rocket and vision like an owl

Smart too, had all the tools

He could pick apart a defense

He just knew what he could do

But he could throw, the kid could throw

He wasn't coached, the kid just knew

He was fourteen when first spotted

Junior ball in  Eastern Michigan

Throwing footballs, Setting records,

Just to break them all again

His mind was agile like his feet

He just knew how plays should go

He was gonna knock them dead in college

He was a sure thing for the show

He made the coaches look amazing

They never, ever  called a play

He'd run the team alone while playing

He knew just what he had  to say

Three perfect years in highschool

Undefeated every year

State champions...why naturally

The kid just had no fear

He was a leader with that football

He was a man amongst the boys

He sure could pick apart a defense

He broke 'em up like little toys

In third year scouts were knocking

Every college from the East

Full rides without a question

The schools all wanted this young beast

He settled on a team with promise

He knew he could help them win it all

The scouts and coaches stood in awe as

The **** kid could throw that ball

He kept his marks up to the level

That he needed to stay around

He wrote up plays instead of homework

Some in the air, some on the ground

The kid could throw the ****** football

The NFL already knew

He'd already broken most school records

The scouts just knew what he could do

It took two years to make a bowl game

On TV beneath the lights

The country knew of the boy wonder

And they would see it Sunday night

The one thing without question

Was the rocket they called his arm

The coaches built a line around him

They would keep him safe from harm

In third year he decided

He was turning pro that year

The pro scouts all knew of him

The price to get him would be dear

Deals were made through out the summer

Teams were phoning every day

The school was upset he was leaving

The league knew he was set to play

Two first round picks and a reciever

Went to Detroit for his rights

The Lions had the chance to grab him

But the Texans had him in their sights

The Texans proudly took him

He was gonna lead them all the way

The way that this kid threw a football

In Texas they sang "Happy Day"

Our father who are't in heaven

Hallowed be thy name

We lay this boy to rest before us

Before he even played a game

A celebration in a men's club

The boy had come so ****** far

When shots were fired in the crowd there

Two gunmen drove by in a car

He had the world in his possession

Man the kid could throw, really throw

But, fate had chose a different story

How good he was we'll never know

Another dark day in this dismal old place
Snow clouds were moving in fast
The sky was so dark, and the wind had a chill
This was a storm that was sure gonna last

At Cy's, The Old Pawn Shop was empty except
For Cy and the stores old dog Gruff
The storm was en route and Cy figured that this
Was a good time to go through the stuff

Years of memories, years of tall tales
They were all on the shelves in this store
There was all sorts of jewellery, tvs and clothes
And in the back was at least 40 years more

The door opened sharp and the bell startled Cy
He was checking the watches and clocks
A young man came in, dressed all in black
Cy said "push hard or the **** thing don't lock"

The young man was tall, about six two I'd say
Cy had never seen him before in his life
He'd said "Sir, I've an offer, you can take or can leave"
"And it's the best one you've had all your life"

Cy looked at the man, intrigued though he was
He said "Sit, and I'll put on some tea"
He went to the door, checked the oncoming storm
And then he put the sign up..."BE BACK AT 3"

They sat and they talked, and they laughed as the wind
Blew the snow up against the front door
Cy pulled out some books, went and made some more tea
Then the man left and left Cy in the store.

Later that night, under cover of darkness
The man came on back with a truck
Cy opened up, and with Gruff by his side
They watched as the man quickly loaded the truck

Two days had passed, and the whole town was white
The storm closed the town for a day
The streets were a mess and the schools were all closed
And the kids had the day off to play

On the third day, the town, woke up almost as one
With people phoning up Cy's by the score
For as they all left for work, there all wrapped up in brown
Was a box, sitting by their front doors

Jim, was the first, opened his box outside
Saw the watch that he pawned with Old Cy
Gianni, and Mike, and others as well
Received items they'd pawned by  and by

In total you see, almost 200 folks
Opened boxes paid off that dark night
Christmas was early for folks in the town
Given by a young man, who'd done right

Cy gave the names of the people he knew
Even though it was against the Pawn shop man's creed
He'd loaned out the money in interest free loans
To these folks that he knew were in need

About  five thirty that day, the young man returned
Cy and old Gruff were waiting inside
They spoke how his stunt was a universal success
And at this, they both laughed till they cried

The man rose from his seat, shook Cy by the hand
Cy asked "Why did you come here?"
The man answered "I'm here after my Mum"
"Her names Mary, and I heard she serves beer"

Scared,  to let the words die, he hid, amid the languid luxuries of solitary structuring, lavished of the jaded and anguished lines, for lines melodrama, of the deviled days, of state, of mind, in fate, in kind, of the nether commas, devoid in honest ignorance of written words, dying on the caterpillars, cocooned, in all that's assumed, lost, in metamorphosis, never knowing this, is a dream, within a dream, of hope, clinging with stinging fingertips, ears ringing in the ripplits of a synesthesic pulse of visual signals, subliminally sounding the sirens, of solidarity, in the silent screams, of the sun rising, writhing in wanton seduction of my functions laying the heartened words of dead birds, falling from the sky, hardened in sloven cries, to justify, the means, tapping out on the screens, of a misnomer, a loner, in a coma, phoning you from the corner to warn ya, of the storm, in words prone to patience, in imaginit immaculance of the limitless limits, of livid lovers loving each-others lullabies, lolly-gagging in the illegibility, of our lucidity in the pity of leveled lofts, lovely-ly, levitating in elevating thought, fraught with passionate poetry, of ghostly words, blurred in the debilitating reasoning of reasonable reason, seasonally.

Mute mobile feelings,
Tracing blue lights of handhelds,
New ways to miss love.

You’re probably wondering why I’m phoning you.
It’s a hello call.
Not exactly.
You’re having a lesbian baby.
No, but I am single again.
Don’t tell me you dumped that man woman.
Mary was the love of my life.
She was a brute, she would give tarzan a run for his money.
Never mind that, do you remember when I was finding myself.
Remember it well, I was entering, you said, I think I’m a lesbian.
I know, it was bad timing, but you taught me a lot.
So I did, my Cv now reads, think you’re straight, I’ll change that.
How would you like to do it again.
Okay, you’re beginning to worry me now.
No, I realise you can turn people, you have a gift.
What do you want to turn into.
I want to be a straight lesbian, sort of.
I would love to help, but I’m in a relationship.
That’s okay, I can wait a week or two.
That’s quite funny, see, only lesbians could make jokes like that.
I know, I think you can relesbianise me.
Are you on drugs or something.
No, I liked being in bed with you, you never done anything for me, but I appreciated the effort.
Gee thanks, I’ll update my Cv. Think you're straight, I’ll change that, you’ll be a lesbian tomorrow, with straight tendencies.
See, that’s what I like about you, you’re never bitter. You did say it was a battle to get me into bed, now I’m offering myself on a plate.
I appreciate that, but how does this make you a reborn lesbian.
That’s simple, I won't enjoy it with you, then I’ll realise what I’m missing.
Do you mean you’ll fake it.
Yes, but you won’t know.
I won’t.
No, I’ll dress provocatively and make all the usual noises.
I knew this would happen someday, the twilight zone would come along and take me away to a place where fairies would serenade me with
tea and biscuits. Okay, just realised, thats an old folks home.
Okay girl, let’s get faking.

I bought an interocitor and put it in my phone
Now I'm getting messages from galaxies unknown

Klaatu said Gort is broken down and waiting for some parts
From beyond the outer limits, not found on any charts

The Borg said they'll assimilate, 'tis futile to resist
The Thing said it would vegetate upon my groc'ry list

Teenagers from outer space we're in the Twilight Zone
The Blob said it could split in half to make itself a clone

The Robinsons still lost in space, forevermore to roam
Outer space invading soon, and ET phoning home

Arrakis said the planet Earth must meet the Guild's demands
Or Dune would send its giant worms to eat Saharan sands

For fear we'll be invaded and my body snatched away
And all the dreadful thoughts I've had, it's time for me to say

I've put my cosmic calls on hold because, for what it's worth,
I'm getting all the flack I need from good old planet Earth.

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Mute mobile feelings,
Tracing blue lights of handhelds,
New ways to miss love.

They met while still in high school

Most likely to succeed

They had big plans for college

They were on their way indeed

She dropped out while a junior

He continued to the end

She left to have their baby

Their plans, they must ammend

They married down at city hall

Their parents did not know

He wore an old, ill fitting suit

In her dress, she did not show

But here she was, six months along

Their perfect world was done

They were not sure how they would get by

With the addition of their son

He was trained to be an architect

But he started sweeping floor

Interviews were hard to get

Unless you knew the name upon the door

She got a job in retail

Working afternoons each day

It wasn't what they planned on

But they needed her small pay

They had a small apartment

More a garret than a pad

But, in the area they wanted

It was the cheapest that they had

Two years went by and another child

Had increased their home to four

He was working as an architect

And was no longer sweeping floors

Since college though, he'd had a curse

A devil you might think

For to keep himself under control

He was sneaking nightly drinks

As pressure grew and deadlines loomed

His drinking did increase

He was now a junior partner

At the firm of Flint and Meece

He was fighting with his wife alot

The kids were just more stress

But, he bottled up his problems

And he chose not to address

The fact that they were fighting

He was drinking every night

And when she called him on it

They would end up in a fight

He was going in hung over

Some days, he just stayed home

And when they called him from the office

He would not pick up the phone

One day though he went over

the line out there in space

When the wife and he were fighting

He hit her in the face

He didn't know just what to do

He went down for a drink

He needed time to decompress

He needed time to think

She called in sick for her next shift

She stayed home for two weeks

She stayed home till the bruise was gone

And the swelling from her cheeks

His drinking kept evolving

He was hiding it no more

Plans were being made at work

To take his name off of the door

He'd shown up drunk for meeting

His plans were never in on time

They offered him assistance

He refused..there lies the crime

The kids withdrew and feared him

They'd rather eat with friends instead

They'd only come home after dinner

When it was time to go to bed

Another fight ensued at home

When they fired him at last

He beat his wife up so bad this time

She ended up inside a cast

Her arm was badly broken

Charges she refused to lay

But the cops who came to see them

Chose to lay them anyway

This was her chance to make a move on

She packed the kids up late at night

While he was in his jail cell

She booked them all on a late flight

Her family would take them

She would move them to the west

She would start her life without him

It would be for the best

When he got out and found her gone

He sat down, had a few

He didn't have a family,

He had no idea what to do

Instead of phoning to her folks

To see if they'd arrived

He went on a ***** ******

Which most would not survive

He drank from when he broke the day

Most times, well after four

Then he'd drink until he would pass out

And would spend the night there on the floor

He reached the point of no return

When the sherrif came one day

He said "It's time for you to leave this house"

"Unless the taxes, you can pay"

He'd let things slide, and had no funds

His world was on the brink

But, instead of fixing things on up

He went looking for a drink

He spent some time in missions

Trying to find work he could do

But, when he would only get rejected

He turned to devil's brew

His reputation sullied

There was no work in his field

He tried to find work elsewhere

He would see what things would yield

He got jobs working labouring

Warehouses, car washes and such

But, when he kept on missing shifts

And was still drinking as a crutch

He got kicked out of the missions

He refused to toe the line

He would rather be out drinking

******* on some cheap *** wine

He was living by the train tracks

In the cedars, in the woods

He was sleeping in a sleeping bag

He was existing as he could

His drink of choice was anything

That would make his pain just go

He was drinking aqua velva

And in a pinch he drink sterno

The devil had his soul tight

He was on his way to hell

If his life was a big boxing match

This was his final bell

He had the world at his command

A family, and career

But, when alcohol took him over

He lost all that was dear

He'd climbed on up the  mountain

Worked his way up to the peak

But, his body was not strong enough

When the devil chose to speak

His wife and kids, they did ok

Their lives had turned the page

His kids soon did forget him

He was from a different age

They found him in the park one night

When the volunteers came round

They brought food to the homeless

He was dead there on the ground

His body had just given up

His liver had just quit

He died there in the bushes

This kind of end...a perfect fit

He had no wallet with him

All his secrets, they were hid

But they found inside his pocket

A picture of his kids

He died alone and helpless

At the bottom, not the top

He did not have the where withall

Or strength of self to stop

He may have died with nothing

Maybe, he died full of guilt

But, the world in which he left us

Was a world that he had built.
.

I don't know if it's the whiskey or the cigarettes or the one night stands or the phony lovers phoning you for self affirmation that they too - can **** like a professional star on a cheap website.

I don't know if everything I've ever been told was only a regurgitation of everything someone else has ever been told. If we all function solely through heresy and political agendas.

Blood stains on freshly lit cigarettes, they say those'll **** you - but I'm already dead inside.

Starve myself because the scale hates me
                       because the models in the magazines are what my lover fancies
                        because every photograph I've seen within the past several years were of girls resembling holocaust victims - who most likely suffered in the same way that most of those victims have. But only in the sense that, they themselves were the German Nazis malnourishing their Jewish bodies of food.


How awful it must feel, to embody both the **** and the Jewish girl. But I've never actually read Anne Frank's memoir - so what the **** do I know.

If I were skinnier, if I were prettier, if I were smarter, if I read more non fiction and russian literature - if I listened to radio talk shows about politics and found scifi equally as enjoyable as I find raunchy cult classics that make up the subculture stereotype.

       Would I then, capture your attention?


I've already lost my own, truthfully. But everything is only temporary anyways.

Remember when life was delivered

from milk right on down to your meat

There'd be people  out delivering groceries

At least two on every side street

If you neglected to pick up an item

Just phone up and talk to the store

A delivery boy would soon bring it

You don't get this service no more

Each house had a door for deliveries

Your milk, cheese and eggs would all fit

If you call up today and said "tab it"

The person you're phoning would ****

Ice was delivered in wagons

Horses pulled them around every town

But, today ony fast food is delivered

And delivery horses aren't  found

Every morning when you'd get your paper

It was delivered as well by a kid

You could smell the fresh bread in the morning

with the glass bottles of milk with gold lids

Remember when life was delivered

It was all a much simpler time

Back when customer service was special

No it's gone and that's just a crime

humorously ludicrous.

the lunar rock flickering
& all that
co$mic glitter
pulsating
almost saying
I should return to the
wretched place
whence I came.

phoning home.

captivated
the moon's only reflecting
radiation from the sun
& some of those ancients
thought that ball of gaseous hell
was god himself.

I am now these clouds
of heaven chemicals &
other toxic emissions &
I am in awe of all of this.

there was an epic in the sky
& unfortunately I am limitied by
a lack of understanding of the
technical jargon.
the sad fact is to me
real ideology is not possible
& nothing but impractical knowledge.

.... and I don't follow.

I'm afraid

I don't follow

The game was on again on Friday
We've been players in the game
Sometimes we were the  winners
And others...hey, it's just a game!

The players have all lined up
there are five out on the field
Let's see if someone scores tonight
And which one of them will yield

Three guys lined up and facing
Two women opposing them
All were ready, set to go
Let's get started then

White sweater, jeans
The first to move
It looks like we'll see a pass
But, from here his jeans are baggy
5 yard loss for baggy ***!

The women laughed and smiled
They were on defence right  from the start
The guys would have to send their best
If they were gonna win their hearts

Red workshirt, chinos, ballcap
Makes his way and gets quite far
He's armed with two tequilas
He doesn't see their longnecks on the bar

They laughed and drank his offer
He made some progress
second down
He makes off to his buddies
It's left up to their friend in brown

He ventures out to the jukebox
Finds something upbeat
for a dance
But chino's turned right on his heels
He's called an audible....second chance

He reaches out to both the girls
He gets their before his friend
If he fumbles this, his game is done
He won't be here at the end

We've seen this game a thousand times
Every week at every club
The players..always different
But the game's the same and there's the rub

Back to our five players
The man in brown got blocked before
He even made it to the girls
But, he barely made it to the floor

Red workshop wins this time folks
It looks like he won't go home alone
But, the girls have got another play
and it involves phoning home

The sudden ring's resounding
It shakes the bar and stops the man
Because while they were out dancing
He saw the rings on both their hands

Like I said, the game is always
going on ...with newer rules
It's amazing how married women
Make the men all  look like fools

Always in the background
He doesn't think it's fair
No one really knows him
They don't know that he's there
But soon they will all know him
The world will know his name
He will share with them his message
They will remember that he came
At work he's just a number
They ignore him at school
Wearing plastic Buddy Holly glasses
But, not the kind that's cool
He's determined in his mission
They'll remember him for sure
Like those that went before him
He'll shake this place right to it's core
A shadow in his movements
No one really knows his face
Not many recognize him
By either name or face
But, once this day is over
The world will know his name
He'll make sure he ends up famous
The world will know he came
At work and school...invisible
Like a picture you don't see
But once he spreads his message
"They'll all remember me!"
Four months or so preparing
Making plans and making lists
All things are in order
There is nothing that he's missed
He heads to school that morning
Just a little after eight
He doesn't get there early
He plans on being late
He enters with two backpacks
Then he chains and locks the door
Before he sends his message
He chain locks five doors more
There's no one to disturb him
To distract him from his way
Today he'll become famous
Today will be his day
He heads into the mens room,
Leaves the empty backpack there
Now the doors are locked tight
The truth will come to bear
He opens up the other
And takes the contents out
Once he builds and loads these weapons
They will know what he's about
He heads up to the office
Takes his list out to be sure
Then he fires off the weapon
Blowing holes into the door
It's the first line of his message
"HI....it's me ...I'm Here!"
The staff just stand there startled
"It's okay...the end is near!"
He herds them down the hallway
Past the classes to the gym
Around the school the word is out
They will remember him
He opens up a classroom
Sprays his message there inside
They won't find out till later
From the burst....nine kids died
There's screaming in the hallway
Kids are running from the class
He turns and mows five more down
"They forgot their school hall pass!"
He gathered up three more here
Moved along and shot two more
Then he came up to a classroom
And he opened up the door
The students here were cowering
In the corner, by the wall
He was smiling at them sickly
He was having quite a ball
He went over to the window
Saw the cop cars all arrive
By the time that he was finished
They would not all leave alive
He knew kids would have cell phones
And they'd be phoning right away
They'd call the cops, their parents
But today, would be his day
His Buddy Holly glasses
looked askew upon his face
But he didn't care about them
And he put them back in place
He took them to the gym now
He'd already chained the doors
There would not be any windows
On his way he shot three more
News crews arrived directly
They already knew his name
They'd all tweaked on to his message
They didn't like his game
Phone calls from survivors
Told the police who he was
they didn't know his reason
They didn't know his cause
They went to his apartment
Found the note there on the wall
"Today, you'll know about me..
I'm gonna **** them all"
The SWAT team broke the first door down
And they went from room to room
They hurried out survivors
Past the ones who met their doom
Before they chose to venture
Down the hall into the gym
They had to find a method
To try and contact him
They knew that he had others
He could use as barricades
And they wanted them out safely
Before they tried a full out raid
So they called on one kids cell phone
Got him on the phone to tell
The reason for this slaughter
The reason for this hell
"No one here remembers me"
"I'm a zero, I do not count"
"Before the day is over"
"The numbers, they will mount"
"I'm a cipher in the background"
"I'm the one that no one sees"
"But before today is finished"
"You will remember me"
It was obvious to the SWAT team
He had chosen "Death by Cop"
As a way to spread his message
They would have to make him stop
They kept him on the phone to talk
While they worked in through the roof
He would find out from a snipers gun
His was not the only truth
A small hole in the ceiling
Gave the line of site required
And it only took five seconds
Before the snipers gun was fired
It hit him in the forehead
Threw him back against the wall
And as he slid down floorward
They burst in from the hall
That day he left his message
People would not forget his name
And it's ten years after
And they still all know his name
Outside there is no statue
They built a fountain there instead
On the floor in cobalt tile
Are the names of all the dead
His message reached the world that day
He murdered twenty two
They all know all about him
He got what he set out to do.
It's sad we know the shooters
Victims names to us are lost
So, please forget this young mans message
And remember what it cost.

I'd made the call and waited
About an hour passed and then
The doorbell broke the silence
I started breathing once again
I answered, staring blankly
There were two men and a girl
I let all three make entry
I was now part of their world
The tall man, dark and weathered
Said "we must first check you out"
And they left the girl just standing
And the two men moved about
They went  upstairs and then came back
Both nodding, not a word
Then they proceeded to the basement
Where not a sound was heard
On their  return they looked at me
Tall man spoke once more
"Your place is clean, it's only you?
There isn't any more?"
I told him no, it was only me
I could hear my heartbeat now
I'd crossed into another world
One that the law would not allow
You see I'd phoned a number
I saw it in the papers ads
I was feeling kind of lonely
And I was feeling kind of sad
The first time that I phoned it
Yes, I had to call again
The first time that I phoned it
I couldn't talk...and then
I hung it up and thought a bit
I dialed and heard the ring
when they answered I just mumbled
And I could barely say a thing
They could tell I'd never done this
Phone for company at night
I didn't know the etiquette
I didn't ask them right
This time, though they cut off the call
and I thought that was end
I would have to call another number
If I was to be paying for a "friend"
I poured a drink to calm my nerves
Then the doorbell rang you know
I'd just blown through one whole hour
I was still feeling rather low
Now, back to this groups entry
They read the rules and I agreed
She was not the most attractive
But, she was the one who'd fill my need
The men both left, they took the cash
I had to pay them  in advance
I just stood there with this woman
Wanting just to do the dance
She smiled at me demurely
Asked me what I called to do
Did my needs stray from the normal
Or did I only want to *****?
I blushed and said, "I'm normal"
"My wife is out of town"
"I really don't know how to ask this"
She smiled and kneeled down
She took her t-shirt off at first
And she put it on the chair
But first, she folded it
and she ran her fingers through her hair
Delicate, not street weary
Her face now showed her age
This was some body's young daughter
She was acting on this stage
She grabbed my belt, and then my pants
And she told me to sit back
My heart was beating louder now
I was starting to lose track
Of  the entire situation
Phoning up and buying her
It was just another purchase
She just kneeled there so demure
I thought about my wife now
What she'd do and if she'd leave
I would have to lie forever
My dear wife I'd deceive
The girl looked up as if to say
Hey bud we're on the clock
And as much as mind was backing out
My **** was like a rock
I thought of things to **** the urge
Like baseball and old hags
Of women peddling on the street
All smelly and in rags
But as my mind wanted out
My body wanted more
I couldn't shut the blood flow
I was going to have this *****
The act took only minutes
She barely touched me...and I blew
"You can tell you'd never done this:
"It's so obvious, you're new"
She went to use the bathroom
Clean herself and call her ride
And while she did this process
A part of me just died
I'd broken down my marriage
Destroyed it in one act
I went against my wedding vows
How would I now react?
I'd have to keep the secret
My wife knows I'm crap at that
she'd only have to look at me
and then sir, that was that
How would I explain the missing money
where'd four hundred dollars go
I could not tell her what happened
But still, I'm sure she'd know
the guilt would surely **** me
I would not get through the year
She would be a grieving widow
I knew that I would die of fear
Now, sitting down I poured a drink
And emptied out my head
Now I'd played it out inside my mind
And now, I'm off to bed
I never made the phone call
They never showed up at my house
I just played it out inside  my brain
You see, I'm really quite the mouse
I would fantasize it happened
Knowing I'd never phone at all
For the end was too **** scary
And I shuffled down the hall.

End of Drama

Mom
It’s elder sister’s sobbing voice
The face was swollen and reddish
It made me sad
What’s that speech
What will happen to you
When we die
In near future
To where you run away
Tell the truth
Dad seemed annoyed
He beat her
For the first time
Sister started moaning
I can’t wake up early
To prepare his lunch
She muttered
Dad smiled
With a sarcastic look
I saw him phoning
To someone
I’ll have my lunch from outside
I saw her husband
Stroking her head gently
The situation changed
Laughing and happiness
We all looked at the couple
Leaving home together
Embracing each other
Like a newly married couple
Sunil Algama November 15, 2013

Lunch was done, decisons made

the table cleared, the bill was paid

Final words were spoken

And none more truer than..

Have your people call my people

And we'll do this again.

They went back to the office

And they thought, hey he was right

I'll have my people call his people

And we'll hit the bar tonight

Funny how a line like that

Can set one's mindset soaring

Sitting down and making plans

It sure broke up the boring

Afteroon ahead, that each of them could see

But going out again that night

Well, then they would be free

Wives at home, while they were out

Drinking, flirting...what the hey

The ony question left now

Was which of them would pay?

But as one's folk called the others

And the plans were carved in stone

They would finish out their day

And then they would head home

They'd have "my people call your people"

And plan a meeting late

They would do it on the sly

It would be their watergate

But, people being people

Their plans were overheard

By a coniving young new intern

And she wrote down every word

Since she was one of the people

She started making calls

Phoning every number of every wife

This woman sure had *****

She told them how "the people"

planned to go out after work

How their family type duties

Each one had planned to shirk

So these people called their people

And made plans of their own

They would keep it all a secret

Until the men got home

Men forget that wives have people

And that their people kind of rule

When the men all try to hide stuff

By doing stuff that isn't cool

The men, all smug and smiling

Thinking of the fun to ahead

Would walk on in their house

And stay until the kids were all in bed

Then their people would start calling

Making sure the lie was told

About that late night meeting

At a bar where beer was cold

But, that coniving young new intern

Making calls to all the wives

Had laid out every detail

Had ruined all their lives

As each man sat for dinner

Thinking of what the night would bring

At each house, just 5 minutes in

Every phone would ring

It was her people calling people

Telling each wife where to meet

They would have to leave the husbands

And they would not be so discreet

For their people all called people

And the men's plans all were blown

As the women went out drinking

And left the men at home

So next time when your people

Call and plan things on the side

Make sure your intern isn't there

Or else your plans are fried

I'll have my people phone your people

And we'll get together soon

But in order that we pull it off

We'll have to leave at noon.

i love how after 70cl of whiskey my
metabolism is up  and running -
i know, egoistical  self-indulgent crap,
but it works! i get to say *******
to 99 people and  say: come on in
to 1 - but that doesn't even
matter, given the circumstance
of the 1 being a schizophrenic;
but hey! i grew a beard
after all, being post-25 years of age,
so a fully grow Amazon on my cheeks
and chin, a welcome reminder of:
the Aztecs played football too,
but it was more like
****** of San Francisco mixed
with golf mixed with netball
mixed with the ailing N.H.S.
chanting: god save our bed-******* queen,
god save our precious artefacts from
Hindustan. and Gobi the cabby from
new Delhi -
god save our... a round of pints for the lot
of us! way-hey! charging into crusades with
a jaguar export from Germany under
the slogan: Vein Diesel biceps-flexed:
too fast, and two of each:
that'll be a pistachio - say it as meaning
lime green, go on - oi! ******!
who's that Russian  hooligan with pistaccio?!
one keg-pouch over here must have minded
the safety-belt limit
prior to a heart-attack and you're giving me
all Abba lip-sarge and surging...
    gimme gimme a man at half time...
two pints and a burger in and i'll be
juicing up a saxophone for a crescendo better than
this one...
well... it was lovely to meet you, send my
best regards to your mother, a sincerely;
i swear to god, when i'm done, the only
person you'll be phoning will be your mother.

We were frolicking through the streets, amusing ourselves
with what was noting less than bliss.

"Points mean prizes my friends,

"Knock the door go on,
"You do it man,

As they walk up to the door one is smiling the other of a
nervous disposition, "relax man,  they discuss the doorbell
or the policeman knock?
The knock is better louder of course attention grabbing
but then other neighbours will hear its echo and curiosity
will awaken them to phones and regrettably police.

The door bell is rang, but not a murmur so repeatedly
they tap it until luminosity awakens and words of
profanity dripped out like a leaky tap. "Dam,
Looking at each other, as hallway lights emerged and
footsteps danced down the stairs a melody of F's P's
and a kaleidoscope of others painted the air.

If I had a swear jar on this house I 'd be a rich man,
as he unlocks the many bolts. "Not a trusting man I see,
The door takes an age to open as we wait eagerly and
then he grinds it open slower than a snail in a race
with a bullet we start to get frustrated.

"Foot meet door, door meet foot,

As the door releases back and the chain is deprived of
its clasping the gentlemen is thrown back not with a
racket but more like slow motion. Then he hits the floor
Like china thrown from a fourth storey balcony.
Then there is silence, "Check his pulse man,
As one of them linger over him listening to what
ever sign of life is left and then like he was reanimated
from the dead he lunges forward and grabs a clump of
hair. One laughs while the other one screams in a girly
kind of shrike. Composing himself quickly, one swift
five knuckle plant and again the gentlemen is out cold.

"You scream like a girl man,
"Did you see that, it was like one of those zombie flicks,
"Ye right, your just a wetter ma man,

As they stood over the man, now joined by his hysterical wife.
Luckily they always carried a roll of duck tape, you never know
when this will come in handy. As the other wrapped it tightly
around her thin lined lips, and the storm became a drizzle of
crying murmurers. Looking at each other knowing that this only
works in the dark they thought of ways to awaken the sleeping
beauty?

"I'll punch him, "Really that got us here in the first place,
Pondering on thoughts one skipped into the adjacent room,
"Dude what are you six,  A silence of embarrassment lingered
as into the kitchen he rummaged through the cupboards like a
homeless dog in the litter bin. Looking in the fridge he found
what was needed.
"What ya going to do rub it under his nose that kipper stinks,
"Some thing like that,

He unwraps it gagging at the odour that perforates the air,
"How can you eat this it smells like a prostitutes well used bits,
The woman smirks in a half terrorized quarter amused mumble.
As he nears his prey fish wrapped in a hand towel, whiffing it
below his nostrils. This isn't working the thought, "F#ck it,
Raising his arm up in the air he slaps the unconscious gent clear
in the chops. He stutters awake in confusion wandering what
was happening then in realization he speaks in ferocity.

"What the hell you doing my house, violating our residency,

"Now that's we like the feisty ones,

An edged smile greets the bound hostages, then the rules are
read out, "Are we listening, the untapped swear tin is about
to release a tirade of profanity on both so they bind his mouth
with what is needed (Shut Um Up Duck Tape) [tm] then silence
is blessed on there ears and they begin quickly to explain the
happenings they find themselves in.

"Why you slumbered we went through your thinks,
"Madam that was quiet a section we found in the bedroom,
"Sir are we on the limp list, there are tablets for that,

"Rules stick to them and maybe you'll survive,
"Not and a lot of bad things can happen,

1. Try to alert anyone they and you die.
2. If you try to escape we have family members addresses
we will hunt them and end them with no hesitation.
3. Have fun as your life depends on it, be imaginative.
4. We have rid the house of any and all knives and blades
5. creativity is the master of invention, you understand.

As the old guy rumbles on trying to speak, he un-tapes
his mouth and listens to his frustrated rabbling's.

"How we know you'll not just **** us,
"This isn't our first or 26th no 27th in fact rodeo.
"There were six of us unfortunately there have been
winners and losers on both sides,
"We are but three lonely shepherds now,
"Three I only see two?
"Our friend is outside guarding the entertainment value
of this diverting fun tonight,

And then without words he said two his playthings,
"You have to the count of 100 to hide to do what must be done
make your peace fight or die its your choice,

They untapped there mouths as to not be muffled of sound
easier to hear on the ear if there crying in fear, and with that
the gentleman gives a capture a five knuckle tap.

"Good shot, and good on you, now run dead man walking,

They both scarpered hand in hand, love will **** you the
other man thought as he watched them run like rabbits.
1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10.................100,
You wouldn't believe it but a hundred seconds takes
quite a long time in the aspect of what were doing.

They at first play games as stomping upon the laminated floor,
so many had ran when they had done this, Idiots. but these
two never flinched, hats off to there courage. Then tactic No2,
we know where you are, were going to come to play with your
insides with our loving blades they like to penetrate you deeply.

As wandering feet did walk on the cold floor they heard the
scurrying of ill footsteps, "we have a rat scampering beneath
our very feet, Both with smiles lingered on the basement footsteps
and slowly descended as what was waiting clambered around in
aimless wondering. Both thought it was the lonely cowering wife.
Not as once thought as the swear box in the darkness gave birth
to profanities and in the midst of our arrival he was weeping like
a new born child. Our knifes were his voice as blood silenced it.

We wiped the memories of his last lingering moments from
the existence of his blade, this fool thought he had strength but
in the end it bled out faster than others before him.
But wait a moment what about the one that blubbered her
fear in a cascade of tears where was she hiding?
"I can smell your fear it sweetens the air,
Both separated to find and cull the last of this herd.

"Please don't hurt me,
"I'm all alone,

He snuck through the hall way hearing here speech in the
darkened bedroom. His knife drawn, to plunge into its
awaiting pray. heading towards the cupboard he thinks
the prey is getting easier these days. "Found you, as
he opens it wide to find a tape recording on repeated play
and a note saying heel *****.... A confused look on his face
till blood seeped silently down his face. In rage he swipes
missing her by millimetres, then she says one final word.
"These are $500 shoes, and gouges it deeply into his throat.

Screaming in gargled silence, his last sight was her giving him
the finger and her foot gently crushing his throat. She got her
manicured fingers and gently grabbed her neck, cracking the
stress out with each crunch.
"There were three little pigs now there are two...
"Oink, Oink, she giggled in nervous thought.

He stood on the stairs shouting in a lulled voice his partners
name, but with no echo of voices he knew that the game was a
foot and another of his clan had paid the ultimate price.
So the husband with all his voice was a lamb to the slaughter
but the wife, the quiet ones are always the ones to look out for.

He was more cautious now that only the two of them breathed,
they were both the prey but who would be the winner of this contest?
he looked upon the box emptied earlier in haste, the gun?
looking inside a note was penned in scribbled in quickened haste.
"If your reading this well done you found only one of my guns,
"BANG,

He jumped back in embarrassment, he looked around in case the
other was lingering in silence behind him. But no one was there
to his pride and ego he sighed out loud. now was the time to seek
the prize, the hunt was needed as in the next room he found the
still warm but deceased comrade with the heel still in his neck.
"That is so not your colour my man,
He thought there isn't many places to hide in this house, yes it
was larger than the pervious ones but that was half the fun or
was It half there down fall?

She crept within the walls this house was of the cotton days,
hiding those needing escape, through the mirror she saw him
wanting nothing more than to end his life.. but she had no
weapon, or was that a false thought as there were the old swords
Sitting ideal in the loft. They were still sharp as she had found out
not but a few months ago. Paper cut my ****... it needed six stitches
but that had now healed as she subconsciously ****** her finger.

He was getting agitated at the aspect that he maybe next,
but brushing aside that thought he went into the mode of hunter,
seeing if odours of perfume lingered in the air but noting greeted
senses except the smell of blood festering on the air.

"Come out and play I haven't got all night to linger in this place,

She could hear fear in his voice he tried to hide it beneath his manly
fasard that was crumbling like a weather worn cliff on the presapace
of collapse. She was a very varied woman that they didn't know,
fear had collapsed her in the first moments but now that had faded
like a sunset, she was a ventriloquist by trade in her youth quite the
entertainer. But she was retired and welcomed the rest, but no time
was there to catch a breath let alone to breathe.

He was starting to think, he should count his loses and leave.
then he heard voices but not from one spot but other places in
the house. Unbeknown to him there was an intercom system
and she was throwing her voices though out the house.
"Who is that , what do you want, How could there be more
than one? There was only two he thought, were  they wrong when
they entered this house? A lone wolf that needed the blood before
his blood was spilt.

She was happy that she took out one with her skills, now it was
the other two players turns she was going to quarter back slap the
hell out of this final invader of her sanity. But how could she play
him? Her husband was dead, she knew that for a fact they were bragging it through out there gloating verses. This was her moment
to show who the wolf was and that they were the sheep herded to
the optimistic place of the final ****, her or them.

She saw him silent and still, she had never seen him this weak, but
this was his chance to save her skin, she found fishing wire, and a
pardon the pun, a broom you know where that went to keep him
stable and up right. The intercom crackled she played his voice
over and over again she used to drive him crazy with he
impersonations of him, it always brought a laugh but the were silent now.

"Come on think I'm dead you cant **** anger you child of
pathetic consequence,  

He feverishly thought of moments past was he dead?
they had gutted him like a fish, how could this be.
Phoning the cover outside he said this was his play and
if It ended he was exiting stage left. One final voice spoke
that he knew the rules if he was to exit then he was to end
his existence, there were rules for a reason.

She was had it planned the recorder the fish wire and that broom,
saying her apologies to her dearly departed but it wasn't anything
strange those toys upstairs weren't only hers you know.
Calling over the intercom, "Lets party you, swear box was
blessed with over a hundred coins the tirade of vocal words she
expelled on the air waves. He recognized that expel of vocabulary
as that person he ended not so few hours ago and confusion ignited
on his features to what the hell was going on in this place.

Stepping in palpitating haste he descended in slow motion, not
with the vigour of what was replayed earlier in the night.
"I killed you once old man I'll do it again,
But fear was expelled this time not courage of the **** like before,
He took played his fingers on the wall to find the switch.
No longer did it enlighten the surroundings, he was in darkness,
and then before him he stood, but he cant stand he had gutted him
and no one comes back from that.

"Who says I'm dead, your just a poor excuse for a mummies boy
go on cry ya little...,

Then in haste he lunged at the oldd man, not thinking straight.
fear and anger eclipsed ratinal thought as he sang his blade into
his skull. Cold eyes stared back, then he realized It was a trap,
He felt it but it was not as he thought he would have felt his
skin screamed out in tears of crimson. A sword was visual
through the front and back of his own self. He swore at her
knowing his time was moments away. she spoke from the dark,

"Its not this that's going to **** you, remember what you found
in the bedroom,

"Oh come on lady just plunge the blade in again I cant move,

But she didn't listen  as she bludgeoned his face with it, different features greeted with each impact till his features were just blooded and
he no longer moved anymore. Her face was a collage of blood from
those she had ended, holding her husband in her arms stroking his
remaining hair. Kissing him on the head she gently put him down.
Opening the porch door she spoke out, "I have ended this playtime
I am the queen of this house, the others are still, static you going to
end me now?

"Rules are rules I'm sorry but I must leave you now,
"Congratulations for winning your life,
"Sorry you lost whoever pasted in the game,
"Know if they had walked out they would have been dead,
"Rules are rules,

There was silence, then on the doorstep she rested her bloodied hands
on her knees and tears of fear, of courage poured out.
She was the winner of this even though she felt totally lost.
Sirens were heard in the distance and she just sat there still....

i have found myself frozen by the cold moments of my life
living a circle of repeat cold
no spring on the horizon
i spend my days dreaming up a flurry of wishes
each more liberating than the next
giving my heart wings of gold to soar
soar so high i disappeared on the horizon
i created near perfect scenarios to live in my head
accompanied by a near perfect partner
the only man to ever call be beautiful
a man that i can make blush by just phoning
an aspiration no-one knew except me

my eyes have seen much
him i still have to see
my heart have seen
what a sight to remember

I remember phoning my best friend
crying into the phone
My entire core collapsing in on itself
I was sobbing words into the phone
They felt like shards of glass coming out of my mouth

"****, I have never cared about anyone
I have never ******* cared about anyone but my ******* self
All I ever do is pity my ******* self
I do not matter
What the ****"

You told me what I wanted to hear
That I mattered and all that
or thats what I could remember as the champagne bubbles clouded my thoughts.

I hung up, not knowing if I had finished the conversation or not
I focused ******* the steps as I stumbled my way up the stairs.
Collapsing in front of my dresser
Wanting something
I knew what I wanted at the time
I wanted a blade
Anything
Anything to take my ******* self hate away
The horrible words I had thrown

I layed with my head on the cold tile floor
cold metal blade in my hand
four new Scarlett marks on my thigh and ivory tear stains on my cheek.

This is the way we were -

on meeting
I decided
I would build up some arm muscle
so that I would be able to squish your head inside of a coconut
or simply bash you with a coconut
or at least witness a coconut fall
and see you trip over that coconut
as if it were a banana peel

our fated meeting
that feeling
was horrific

I met you again
thought
a coconut attack is rather harsh
all you needed was a wee personality fix
a douse of hail
similar to a drenching in cold water
but harder
your skull was thick
you were headstrong
and I hadn't gotten around to weakening it
with those coconuts

and that destined meeting
was little better
than our first greeting

and encore
I witnessed a sweet you
the one that gave candy to a child
and passed by those kittens in a box

and it was fleeting
your kindness,
I considered you cheating

and then you showed up
who knows why
when you thought I was upset
I swear you only wanted to comfort me
for no good reason
because a movie isn't worth it
yet my heart
for you
was changing like the season

and it was leaving
that stored up bucket I had of
seething

and my first step in your direction
was when I learned
that you hadn't liked that candy anyways
when I learned
you spent hours phoning your acquaintances
before you resigned to calling the pet center

*

and somewhere along
I forgot my hate
you became a fountain
instead of a well

by that far along
our love wasn't matched
yours had grown strong
mine just hatched

now I could say
with truth
that I love you
it's just that
it's rough that
I can no longer catch you

The possibilities of logic and hope
***** by liars and theives
Nature's reproach
The likelihood of making it to that house on a hill
Is unlikely when reality gives no real options
It demands you sacrifice everything you got just to survive
Potential unfulfilled an existence contrived
Life is the most engineered of games
An array of chess moves with the same conclusions
Babies having babies believing they can be good mothers
Prisonors phoning home in hopes of reaching their kids from behind that glass
Disillusions won't allow them to see the forest past the trees
And with instability neither with their seeds
Pictures are worth a thousand words
But if genocide is all these babies see
What else do you think they gon' grow up to be

I conjured with my very hands.
Rays to tear the Sun from this land.

I conjured with my train of thought.
Witnesses to scorn the blocks.

I conjured with my weary soul.
Ravens to gore upon their demonic bones.

I conjured with my mute like voice.
Solders, halos shining radiantly with a crimson gold hue.

Whom of you knew that life is more than just what we see
Through lost time in the lost minds of the lost trines meaning

I am believing there are more in the minds of the man

I am believing in Divine corner slabs.

I am believing that the heathen has control of the world so torn
Until Holiness kicks in their doors.

Lost in a Mind
In a Land
In a man

Where time spans don't exist
Think about a hat that can't fit
But you still squeeze it on

Depicted as a hazard
Flabergasted
Drug Addict

Surprised he ain't in an attic
Dam nab it
Flow is drastic

Like a flood
Taking out the lives of the lost
Are we lost?

Flowing thru subconscious
thoughts


Rawr from the tundras Michael is a monsta'
Spittin heat
Eating pasta
Words are like that, coming from a mobsta'

Bats breaking necks
No naggin
Know that I ain't dense
It is hard to get out my adolescence

Mind still on herb and finding Truth in existence

Pitiful poem
Sipping on chrome
E.T. is still in need of phoning home

All dogs need a bone
Need to bone
All dogs need a bone
Need to bone


I've...
Lost my brain...
Lost my game...

Lost in strange sights...

Dismantled...

I just might...

Stuck in torment...

Cannot move...

Thoughts seem eternally gloomed...
Doomed to a recession.
Lost in the inception.
Is there a redemption?
Repentance.
Thirst from women 'cause its pleasurable

Need my play- that audible

Hear me scream; need audible sound waves to come out my brainwaves.


What is lower than dirt?
It's I alone
rock bottom and I think that I might just go off the poem
and find my way home
please I need to be the be
and the be has I so let us go holmes.

I've lost my mental
black teeth who cares about my dental

* treat a ***** like a rental*
if she a Bentley I keep her for a week, then move from my GT continental
I set my soul on finding truth
where is, who needs proof?
I tried to break the bars raise the roof
a left the scene, gone, aloof
moved with the wind but still sat still
killed myself
brought me to the deep darkened will
of the uncovered man that I have found
in this land
hi son of sam
I am high
son of am


**Use your mental

It is essential

Get on the mic

**** em good

They call you daddy don't mean to be disrespectful

Not being neglectful just choosing words

If bird was the word and the word was on shurm

Learn prophecy confirmed to the date times unturned

Pretty, I'm pretty.
Sparkles my name used to be tiny dancer.
The bouncer loved me.
But the guys paid money.
I lived with one.
He made me insane.
He said I was used up and would be nothing again.
The bouncer knew until he cared no more.
Another guy came in again and again.
Smiling, stuff I couldn't fucken stand.
I decided I would end my life that night.
That other guy always ask me out.
This time I said yes.
Knowing I was ending my life that night.
I was fine.
Out we went. Home I came.
Pour myself a bath and saw the straight razor.
Started to use it on my wrists.
Door bell rings.
**** he forgot his hat.
He said he had a great night.
With my towel wrap another me and my hands behind my back he reached for a hug and never looked back.
Bathroom bound again.
My ex came home and found me in the bathroom.
He was so ****** about the mess.
You know me bleeding everywhere.
He phoned 911.
Off I went.
After I was stitched up.  
And made a ran for the door....out of the ward.
Back I went. I was sent downstairs in the cold unfinished basement to heal.
Buddie kept on phoning me.
I finally got the call.
He said whats going on haven't heard from you in a week.
Strange thing is my jacket on the back had blood on it the night I drop you off.
Told him my story and we were packed up within two days.
We went home as he put it.

Wah would I have never to see her again
Wah did I do to her  bleeding heart once then
Wah was it I did and yet did not too say so well
Wah was it and who's cast under who's casted spells
Wah baits and switches me quick in such which-eries
Wah was it unexpectedly now and then again again
Wah a pet up set up upset and talking is cheaper
Wah and phoning is phony for nothing dear
Wah more is dear more than riding her
Wah heart in arms eyes and all
Wah woman woman woe
Wah woe pony quake
Wah ride or earth
Wah shatters
Wah Q
              U
                  A
                       K      S
                           E

My heart tries its best to be numb*... and my heart already  
is with the staged foresight of the future,
spending the next 50 years with you binged on Netflix -
in front of the t.v., sure, carry on with the smooth talkers,
but it ends up being a farce when
the English *** jokes come up on the menu -
oyster - ha ha! - stiff - ha! - third ******! -
ooh ha ha belly rumbling - why is it that men always seek
adventure and women always seek domesticity?
even in writing, esp. in writing, women
aim for domestic writing, men aim at
adventurous writing - I DON'T CARE...
you can add a # if you like, you won't be
able to dial a specific number with it -
# a word and we're all be phoning a non-existent
person - because half a billion people used
that word in 5 minutes while choking on a pizza -
women forget they were ***** once upon time,
daddy issues fudged the gateway toward
endemic closure statements (yes, it was intended
as closures, but pluralism was changed into
closure statements) - the debilitating positive
discrimination that men do science and that women
do humanity, you ever hear the bias that women
write grand essays on the existential absurd?
daddy rocked himself to death on the rocks chasing
and chastising Moby ****'oh...
told a joke, was reprimanded and subsequently dieted
himself to death. what a ******* adventure that was...
a thousand Ethiopians ate breakfast and thought
it was a theme-park away from their ritual starvation.
you think i'd get **** in prison with my
butter tongue talk? i think i'd talk my way out
and become an English prof. like Le Saux -
i can believe the graphemes (æ / œ) taking the route
of divorce encouraged the barbarian invitation to encode sounds
in Latin, with divorce being granted, as a result
of vowel diacritical marks being used -
but what's surprising is that Latin has no consonant
grapheme - which doesn't explain diacritical marks
on consonants, sure enough cutting apart æ / œ
would generate the A with acute, grave, breve,
caron / háček (haachek / haczek / haczyk - fish hook)
and the E with double acute, double grave, inverted breve,
cedilla - but there's no logical reason why
diacritical marks be added to consonants since there
is no consonant grapheme in Latin - only a vowel grapheme /
Siamese notation - unless there was a marriage
with the *** Priest - and what the northerners blessed
as consonant softening as in Fjørdé - right hand h, left hand h -
claps to applause or catches to curb excesses of sound
and later surds - but there is no grapheme in the realm
of consonants in Latin to appropriate diacritics to any consonant,
thus said: consonants are definite sounds (the, as too the article)
while vowels are indefinite sounds (a, as too the article) -
i guess it's called: follow-up suite... if applied to the Siamese
twins of the vowels a & e, e & o, then too readily applied
where necessary - so even though the Roman Empire
was considered conquered and fallen... look at the ingenuity
of accommodating its conquerors into using its
phonetic encoding (the alpha beta - religiously cited as
the αλφœμεγα).

Goodbyes are the hardest part
Seeing you walk towards the door
I can feel my heart beat in my ears

You are one step from the door
Everything in me wants to yell
Stop please don't leave me

Silently I scream
I knew that even you stayed
Life would never be the same

Your love left long before you did
For months you were just phoning it in
Your love for me was nothing but fabricated

It’s a dystopian gloom and doom saga...
Also you may notice I’m still crusading for Littlehampton to feature on the world stage.

(and btw… I do know that US presidents only get
to have two terms of office… But, like most world leaders…
we never let the truth get in the way of a good story).

You know what’s coming doncha?
It’s not the end of the world (yet) but…
slowly and, as with all evolutionary stuff,
things are changing - and I for one… Well, I’ve had enough!
But you do know what’s coming doncha?

Like a glacier melts and the oceans rise.
and the maps change shape and,
unfortunately, also each country’s size.
The scary cry goes out…
‘we’ll have to move to higher ground’.
And it ain’t just Shoreham, Worthing or LA
(that’s Littlehampton) It’s EVERY worldwide coastal town!
You know what’s coming don’tcha

Yeh!…It’s official folks - Littlehampton IS a world class coastal town!

On another but very related matter - Social media…
That’s developing apace. cyber chatter! Not face 2 face!
It helps spell the future for the whole human race.
We can chat, chew the fat and generally carry on communication.
with pretty much everyone in every first world nation.
Of course - You can see what’s coming can’tcha?

Even Boris’s next election win and Trump’s 3rd term
could be voted for on-line. Press one for a **** - 2 for a clone…
And evil dictatorial leaders can be rubbed out by drone…
Now you just might think that’s fine,
but the terrorists will lash back - (back/slash, the swine)
and come stalking down your street…
with machetes and suicide vests - real ones this time -
looking for your hatch, your subterranean retreat…
Cos we won’t be living on it but below the street!
You can see what’s coming can’tcha?

Yeh, we’ll be, underground, overground (Stop it!)
yeh… under that dryer, higher ground
and still be in be touch and on the ball so,
with food & stuff grown by hydroponics (naughty).
padded out by UBER drone delivered Just Eats.
We ARE preparing for Armageddon.
Drone warfare will also cure the need for extermination
nation on nation skirmishes… Just Sweet!
So you do know what’s coming don’tcha?

Yep… cast your mind way forward a decade or two…
There’ll be Amazon drones dropping goods for you;
the things you want  - your culinary needs
Dry Goods… rice, noodles, seeds.
Spices (for the very rich) - and freeze dried veg
and, if you are really wealthy, and for you life’s not on the edge
the city’s centralised, homogenised cooking crews
The takeaway kings… the Just Eats & the Deliveroos.
They’ll still be at it!
And you can see what’s coming can’tcha?

You might think that’s a good thing yeah,
well maybe! But, if we all start living underground…
to get away from the blizzards and the scorching wind(s).
The Summer Hot hot… The winter Not not - yeh sub zero,
that’ll be the only way to stay in touch
no more roaming… (that’ll still be extra).
Just as well because the latest proliferating virus
makes messaging just as popular as face to face or phoning.
And you do know what’s coming don’tcha?

Things are going to be SOooo... different in our not so Brave New World…
Talk about alternative. We’ll ALL be ‘Underground’…
but not because we’re ‘Hip’ or Hippy… Or even happy…
but, because above ground just ain’t where you’ll want to live.
and then… The doubters will shape up…
A toss is suddenly something they’ll rapidly give!
NOW…you DO know it’s coming don’tcha?

You’re gonna need Armour for Armageddon!