i despise being pigeon-holed.
seeing myself through the circular looking glass
having one singular personality trait
based solely on my physicalities and class.

cute.
that's my descriptor
has been since I was a child
but I would walk miles to escape that word.

i am as multi-faceted as a kaleidoscope
i need no rope from another to pull myself
from the ashes of my failures

do not question my abilities because I have the eyes of a doe
or the body of woman.

i can move mountains with my hands and create worlds with my fingertips
hours of song can escape my lips
riddles and mathematic equations lay not in my hips
but in my mind.

i despise being pidgeon-holed
for my worth does not equate to my weight
and the space I'm allotted on this Earth does not count my appearance as a deciding factor
my strength as a human being does not relate to my gender
so you need not distract her
for she has goals ranging up to the sky
and down to the bottom of the sea
I am a woman and I will be free
of being pidgeon-holed.

Some days  yu know, mi just don't andastan
How a man can do di tings him do, an see himself a man.

Him seh  dat god give im good sense a will and a soul
to know right ting  fram wrang  ting, to know pit from pothole.

But im covet an steal an shed blood
like a beast. Then im walk inna church
and pray god give im peace.

Is a human condition  an a weakness a flesh
Is flaw in im naycha, a thorn in him breast.

But we human creecha, ought betta than best.
Ought draw a distinction from fish and from fowl.
Ought rise above avarice , greed and the rest.

But sometime I feel sure  that the writing on wall.
will  come to fruition and mankind will fall.

Is a small part of hu-man sunk deep in we core
what comes up and sprout wings and carry us shore.

Is that thing there, part spirit, part will, part divine.
What pull us  from struction then skitter, then soar.

Then beat wings in hubris  like Icarus lore.

Her crinkled eyes show lines of feigned contentment,
Veiling the gritted resignation within.

Every proverbial step taken was always slightly off
So little that it wasn't noticeable at the time,
Though it took her to an unintended destination.
Never understanding why she would exude so much of herself
And never obtain what she wanted.
Going over past steps ad nauseam, wondering where she faltered.
At which point did she start in the wrong direction
How can she get back
Should she even try
When it's unknown if anything will be left
Aside from an abandoned piece of herself
If she were to return.

You can't go backwards in life
But who says you can't circle back?

i'm a pidgeon.
there is some
bread.
I am going
to throw it over
my head.

then I will
toss it down
my throat.
gulp.
I do not need
to chew.

it is good
bread.
there is some
more bread
over there.
I will eat
it.

oh no!
a little boy is
chasing me.

it's okay.
there is more bread
over here.

Spinning and spinning
Six little circles
Flushing a life down the drain

Naught but a smidgen of straining, my pidgeon,
A blurr to the vision, euphoric, no pain    

My brain,
Will just shut down
I’ll get
Out of this town
The rain
Gonna pour down and wash me away

Whirling and twirling
My heart in the middle
Graphing the pathway to get the right spin
Crisp calculation, the subtle equation
Causing elation, at last cashing-in

Your brain,
Will just shut down
You'll get
Out of this town
The rain
Gonna pour down and wash you away
  
You must be THIS tall to ride this ride
It’s your human RIGHT to a nice
     suicide
This celestial plane, ...and all of it’s
     strife
We can help you jump past it,
It’s YOUR ******* life!
It’s all in your hands.
You know what to do.
Now is the time
To become the late YOU

Your brain
Will just shut down
You'll get
Out of this town
The rain
Gonna pour down and wash you away
  

My paradigm’s shifting
The veil is lifting
What was I thinking
My heart rate is sinking
And something is stinking
My consciousness shrinking
And what is that ringing
Do I hear choirs singing?
-
Julijonas
Fancy yourself the angel-reaper?
Julijonas Urbonas
Aren't you your brother’s keeper?

Is this just a "what-if", ...for fun?

O Julijonas
Julijonas Urbonas

…What have you done?

Soaring above the field
the pidgeon saw the world revealed
but by its own flight it was betrayed
for that pidgeon was made of clay

Floating like a summer's cloud
my love for her was high and proud
yet my heart was chipped one day
for my heart was made of clay

Beauty can't always be entrusted
to the potters hand
so build your beauty from something
that can withstand
more than the lovers arrow
at least
til the morrow

The date, time and weather didn't matter,
The amount of letters delivered that morning was a blip,
One minute it was just me,
Then, it was me and you.
POW! Just like that,
And all of a sudden, it felt like i'd never lived,
I mean, not really lived,
Until you crept into my heart,
And kick started it.
How the hell was i survivng before?,
Existing, that's it, just,
Breathing in and out,
Being carried along with all the others,
Monotonous, Pidgeon-like, lemings.......

North America: Hornets buzz in a stinky green
         dumpster
Pidgeon's feet clasp the edge of a skyscraper
          rooftop

South America: Moonlight in the jungle ---- rain
          pats a thick, fleshy leaf ---- a yellow eyed
          panther slowly blinks once

Asia: Edge of the desert ---- a boiling mirage
          scorpion skitters across dry, cracking soil

North America: Wyoming high plains ---- cool
          gusts ---- hulking, brown bison chews grass

Africa: Wrinkly old woman in a hospital gown
         squeezes the cot's cold metal bars, then feels
         nothing, squints at the florescent light above,
         then sees nothing, listens to the drone of
         medical machines ---- silence

Europe: A  child is born in the sterile light
        of the delivery room, naked, slimy, sobbing

    
                                    *--- Burlington, VT, 2013

A politician with a radio
and a fridge with a ****

as he spoke pidgin
and dapper the reason

that captured a signal
but stayed the season

'twas a gowan too
in stead brown hair

as a bride in favor  
yet deposed his table

though a granita now
will disguise his inference

yet detest his deference
in ridge there a pidgeon

flew his message away
and pearly was his religion

The early garden
brings a deeper peace
than any I have known
no sound but wind on leaves
no neighbours barking dog,
for even he must sleep,
his daily yappings not begun
new air, fresh and clean
whispers soft among the green
a drowsy yawning background hum
a space to sip one’s tea
and taste the morning yet to come

"You're crying again..."
"Am i?? ... sorry..."
"Stop saying sorry..."
"But i am..."
"Well don't be.. you don't need to be..... here, take this.."
"What is it?..."
"Vallium... "
"What? like .. like the Pidgeon film??"
"No you idiot that's Valliant.. this is Vallium... like the drug that stops you from shaking"
"I'm not shakein.. looks at my hands oh look.. i am, look at my hands ... ****"
"i know sighs you're whole body is shaking, i might put you in the bath with the washing, half an hour and you'd have even the whites clean"
"shut up that's not... spills drink while taking a sip true.."
"really?? take your drugs you ******.."
"you're a terrible doctor"
"good thing i'm not a doctor then.."
smiles
...
...
"Here have a tissue..."
"What for??"
"You're crying again..."

Outside And Inside

Outside a pigeon eats my crumbs.
We call him Walter
Inside hairy news continues.
Warm and numb,
I rustle up the casserole
To fill this hungry tummy hole:
Seoul, the polls…
Shall we succumb?
Shall they?
He wants to have it his way.  Is he playing?
You may ask, “Which he?”
There are so many he’s,
So many ****** he’s.
Walter pigeon loves his crumbs.
The lovely pecking beak becomes him.
He, so carefree, eating of necessity,
Unaware of death or of his iridescent beauty.
Me?
I carry on with poetry
While radio debates the possibility
Of war, annihilation,
Which or any winning nation,
Madly grinning dictators,
Bad, head spinning leaders…
Glad I’m cooking,
Looking out the window
At my Walter
Eating crumbs.

Walter Pidgeon (September 23, 1897 – September 25, 1984) was a Hollywood actor who starred in many films.

Outside And Inside 9.5.2017
Our Times, Our Culture II;
Arlene Corwin

Responding to the sunny afternoon,
curtains, breathe in and out of the room,
for a moment I lay, I rest my eyes
and listen to neighbours DIY,
and children's voices lifting stream
playing on joy giving trampoline,  
indistinct not much clearer,
are voices somewhat nearer
which, discuss matters of no alarm,
laughter adds to its charm.
Even trains pass at a slower pace,
like the breeze, without clouds to chase.
A magpie's chatter, doves return coo,
and a wood pidgeon joins in too.
Dreamily, creep reminiscences.
Times, difficult to dismiss,
all the ways, perhaps I would
have changed prospects, if I could
have sorted things, when I should.
Still it's not bad, nor is it good.
I just turn away, and let them fall
the past cannot be changed at all,
dismissing them, behind closed eyes.
De stress, maximised,
my negative thoughts, who cares.
Feeling so relaxed, is for me rare,
a difference todays sun had made,
and it's one I so gladly take.

Afternoon  
21st April 2020    Michael C Crowder @scorsby

the beautiful boy


the beautiful boy,           now.   a memory
wagging a tail

forced to sell
   weeds
                                  listening to a stale
noise,

        in a tin can.


I HAVE a 2-day pass to Wendy-

fork
with. no expectation.


BREASTfeeding.  the. nine-month old in a hot bench whilst people walk bye.
      facetattooos- and excitacy with the ****** firmly plugged in.

drifting away
driftin away

I am dying

I am dying literally, I.    feel the pulse fading.
1 2. 3.  4 5. 6 7. 8



pidgeon jesus,  Muhammad ****** my ***, buddha lives in LA,

cut out my heart;
ventricles
blues
.

I have no one

I have. NO ONE.       NO ******* ONE.
BUT A SVEN in Norway;

blackened by the bite of a hand.


recluse,
no more.  forgotten. my last name is EARNest

I DONT' care anymore.  idon't care anymore. I gave up,
I moved. 50 degrees south,

I'm drunk,
I'm high. I 'm a nobody

just someone who wanted to ******* LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE


I feel the breeze

I've been watching you
apes head with up-do crochet braids
troglodyte  
noxious slurry of galactic form
terminus *****
fitting into a girdle
into a straight jacket
into a girdle
showing off your chastity belt with thumb screws
that hangs down to the knees
like after birth
and strangles by an ironclad umbilicus contract
yet never pure enough
like peroxide teeth  
a screaming lady without the hot sauce
canary class in a bush of flies

happy happy happy is your dreary halo nausea

slip and slide in the Pidgeon put
already bought your ticket to forget
a diabetes queen dreaming fountains of blood
licking the sugar off a powdered donut
with your flatulent tongue
stretched and hung out like gutted shoes
rolling arctic brown
a breathing hull
cold like a Christians crotch

happy happy happy is your dreary halo nausea

she looks for a penny oracle
in jelly bean *******
with a ponderous faith
of paper house souls hugging abstracts
blinking pig iron eyeballs like snarling dogs
and privates
shaped muscle waisted
that beats itself black and blue
shrieking you touch it you bought it
hook line and sinker
with a sign
marked commitment and of no use  
fire exit only
but dont use the stairs

you're a mental case because you know
if I loved like you
I'd **** myself

happy happy happy is your dreary halo nausea

go go
toad

pidgeon scratched paper in red ink

neon slipper
agua

black ****** bamboozled

blessings

for the in rest
in  a setting

give it all back

fools good
for the furnish

why don't you
scam

  easy tiger
easier timer  it's a good slam
slam it down

down in chimney holes

laugh after

You liked the song
I should have guessed
Hidden like pidgeon forums tangled with the rest
You care for blues
Carved in the hearts
Barbed wire wrestled babes held searching for their arts
You like me tall
I like you small
Mangy hair tattoos and strong attitude akin to those who suffer as if they hold nothing dear to lose
I know
all this
You hear me honest
You caused this distant feeling dreadful
tonic
I needed one to line my back
You were to be grown attached
Though a stalker I have never been, you make me think on this again
Perhaps this changed in the mention
I will leave now
If you wish, alone
I fear not the pain of losing this soul
I've never known
You can seem
I can shout
You will wish to leave before this clouted storm runs it's course
I will be torn
Though hidden from in Athena's gaze
Of this
I know, but wish you not

a numerical revision to
my original proposition:

IVX:LC:DM / O:IZEGS:b:Γ:BP

there was and is only one glaring
mistake: concerning the genesis of
4 via G:
and how could i be so blind
but i guess i did that on purpose
because at least that makes sense
if mistakes are made on purpose
for the secondary purpose
of being able to make the correction:

H: or perhaps how one scribbles
the number depending on the handwritten
form rather than the universal
digital:  

    ||
       |
                  which is h in a "Copernican"
concern for direction where
is this supposed north or south or west
in outerspace?
                
perhaps even /|
                         |

                 so one leg short
and the arm askew... or just h from H
and even that is ingenius how
the uppercase letters are different to
lowercase letters
and perhaps there's something primitive
in Cyrillic when some letters
are the same upper- as lowercase

         Вв
                 Гг     Дд
     Жж         Ии
             well... pretty much all the letters...
and how much of Cyrillic is Latin lazy
in mainting the rigid upper- to lowercase transition
unless it is Greek: in its original aesthetic...
where you will not find the uppercase to be like
the lowercase lettering...

ah but there are exceptions:
     Ι ι, Κ κ
                   almost with Ι ι
   if it weren't for the near invisible littlest of tails
on the lowercase iota: that the Latin men made
more pronunciated with the dot hovering above...
but there are also

   Ο ο: but the omicron is perfect like that
and not much can be done about that...
       then there are the twins:

    Τ τ : Ι ι
                 subtle variations: notably the lick of
a slick tail...
                         T is t but τ is a question of
the Latin cross and Anthony's cross:
    also the Russian orthodox cross and how W
when was worn borne
when paths of G the gamma crossed paths
with Lucifer and Wah became Łajba:
    why'bah...

             Χ χ, Ψ ψ can be excluded...

                 the subtleties of the digital handwritten
imprint are obvious to see... if you can be myopic
enough...
so the correction will stand and i will borrow
from Greek:

IVX:LC:DM / O:IZE:μ:S:b:Γ:BP
  
   depending on how you see letters morph
into numbers and don't tell me that
God of the Semites didn't play the role of
both Olympian and the Titan by descending
to this world with word: letters:
to make hieroglyphs more tangible and
gave them the X-ray skeletal treatment
but imagine if the Chinese were the basis
and focus of the history of the plight of the Hebrews
imagine
what use the Hebrew god would be
when facing the unshakeable tenents
of the matchstick men who con conjured up

      树: tree: also called affrirmation: sh'u...
what good would Hebrew be against that form
of encoding?
well the Hebrews can boast
their script against the ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs
but at the same time the Chinese were burrowing
with more skeletons than could emerge
when combining Greek, Latin, Hebrew or the Runes...

   and something natural happened
in the Orient when the Japanese decided
to create an alphabet that was not so heavily riddled
with memorising meanings
instead focusing on sounds...
how the Kanji was abandoned and two: not one!
two writing systems emerged!
the Katakana and the Hiragana!

             now it feels impossible to know
which would suit the:
%: that's a concept of a philosopher's stone...
i might add:
touch a 10 with a 0.1 and somehow arrive at 100...
but there were 9 digits
in the Roman numerals
I V X
C M D L:
why did i count 9 to begin with:
so basically 2... 3... letters or numbers short
but that wasn't some impossible strcuture
or care to bypass..
          
           the map of the London underground is still
still flaring me up...
i don't know why i might lay its claims on
me... but it does:
if i were to measure the distance from
Covent Garden to Leicester Sq
envision the sq mile then
go to the stretches of Morden,
Epping, Hainualt
hell: Ruslip doesn't ring a bell: never been there:
it's like i am the ego situated in London
and London is the mother-womb
and outside not having a driving license is
equivalent to being either decapitated
hung and quartered or being
an imbecile or lift off of wit
and some other jargon... like you might
be both: retarted and a half-capacity
the Igor that was Frankenstein's first proper experiment
and the monster: the Igor Towing?

but the map of London: that of the underground
is just that:
it's microscopic cone shaped:
the stations of most interest are mostly
enlarged in terms of distance apart:
noted by the Circle Line...
then as London: as the London expanse...
does expand...
the topographic detail is looser...
since the distance between stations is greater
but for the guarantee of navigation
the inner circle of "hell" retains its
microscopic elementality
you are basically peering at a detail being
blown up then being allowed
to retain its insignificance of the detail:
if i were to draw the map...

oh jeez: Gunther von Hagens looks gluttonous
and almost a Bond villain...
but i'm not here making cheap jokes
i wish i had the stomach to go and see his
exposition of dead body mantras of
muscle bone and sinew...

how did i bestow myself with a dis-conount
of the numerals:
i was sure almpost two hours: what felt like hours:
in a field of thought
the ego-mines...
these abrupt stations of electric
pognant reminders
in a field of the eternity of thoought
the hellish escapade of ego
and it's not like Nietzsche the failed pianist
turned angry philosopher set aside
all difference and heard the world war II cresdcendo...
i thought i counted 9 roman numerals:
instead i have the beast of the earth with 7 heads
like the numbers or the count of Hills
in Rome...
i would never believe this man
could be domesticated
so Reyla would say 40 years later
with Marquis de Sade as Dumas' D'Artangnegnome...
dyslexic in French
would never learn it
will never learn it
**** the French
Arab conquest justified!
vowel to soda poodles!
you ******* French!

Jeroean van Veen...
imagine if Chopin or Liszt left such
explosive notebooks:
but dear you and me:
read Nietzsche:
but then listen to his music...
     heldenklage, NMW 2...
that's how you study philosophy
by reading Nietzsche first
thirst
then with air
breathe the rain in
and say Music is Music
and why did Thomas Mann reference
a mad pianist...
because how could Chopin or Liszt
write anything intellectually
ethno centric...
like the pan-Germanism of Nietzsche...
long before the collective
the individual soloist
with music forgotten
by words enlarged

                      Nietzsche the Pianist
not the philosopher of youth
but words from the heavenly abode of
the angelic choir like
a headache with God dispatched to earth
like Ulysses and the Sirens
and God there: with his rebellious Angels
on a boat
with me able to hear
alone
while they roared with each row row
row of the boat!
and i in heaven became the human kind ear
and the rebellious angels helped me to escape
the heavenly ordeal of castrated
**** and mouth suckling beings
like children and angels pristine...
get me out of heaven!
those voices shouldn't sing!
Satan: get me behind you a fifth oar!
Satan! yohore!
              
read Nietzsche then read Thomas Mann...
then Nietzsche in a second tongue:
be born or learn bilingualism...
like a skill compare philosophy cf. to mathematics
and then fuse the two via
linguistics
and forget the dogmas of religion
and psychiatry... forget the soft touch
of the harsh scematics
of the division of soul
like there's this autopsy equivalent to body in
vivo in vitro in esse...
that's where i think i am...

       then listen to some of Nietzsche's piano compositions
and how delicate he was
before the Wagner Oyster Cult...
measure of guilt and how does
man overcome music?
it's the Counter Reformation all over...
if one cannot overcome God
even with God is Dead: !
then with Death and God: ?

                       i ask... how can man overcome
music: when man overcame
the mop with a steamer
dishwasher
without hands
and soap...
and television with a fireplace
or a neon aquarium... flashing lights... blah blah...
vampire... i think she's 14 years old
and sinking into my psyche like a butter soaked
sponge all warm and oozy like you mid coitus...

and i can't believe i would ever allow
Nabokov out of his butterflies and ****** reminiscence
hyper-metaphor of Imperial Russia
where we us Pollacks
weren't 5th Generation Napoleon Romance
and Charlemagne...
because what Angevins didn't rule the most part
of France
from Norse Sagas
via Denmark and later Normandy
the fabble of Rolo and Lothar Ragnarouke...
and i'm supposed to imagine England:
as Enoch Powell might have envisioned
Brazil:
Brazil should be the envy of England
if multi-culturalism failed
under globalism
and emerged multi-racialism:
Colombian **** and Brazilian ghetto
****
is trans-racial:the future is copper necked
in the guise of whites bleaching out the blacks...
and whites bleaching out the dark Raj *******
and sort of keeping the Arab Spring
woke
enough for a Medittarranean Winter
in autumnal gold colours
and the future is post-racial
but Brazil is not post-national
Brazilians love Brazil
these feminist hybrid Communist:
i love being a ****
i love being a **** and the supposed
SLANDER LORD PEDOHPILE...
i love spying on these FAT PINK RATS
and oh my red is actually ORANGE:
i have a spy in the other realm
i have the fox
the crow
and magpie
and robin
and the earthworm
to spy on serpents...


hmm... a train of ******* stars...
best to look down
there's an alter gravity in play
and me thinks:
pidgeon...
pidgin...
             i said: if ego cogito ego sum is
to be reversed:
we must as the id...
           id est cogitans ergo est non id cogitans...
jeez! that was a barricade
of proper grammar juggle...
my brain froze a bit like
the brain of the ptotagonist of Mad Men
Season 1 Episode 1... a handsome man...
a former veteran...
purple heart veteran
now working the menial job
in an advert office...
kolt! i stangled krauts younger than you!
a learning of PTSD...
so just having two lives
is the best way to reconnect with life...
the war ahoy and the thrill the numbing conquest:
reconcile with the lonely wife\
and two kids...

                   i sometimes don't to get up:
but that's only because i have to sort
out my dreams:
when i dream of Martin
full and healthy
i am connected to him not being Brain Dead...
and i know...
Edie was so heartless
and not showing me any concern for my problems
she compared my problems to
a game of baseball...
i lost it upon the second pedohpile insinuation...
then i finally lost it
when she said: but you've been only working
a full time job for only 6 months:
i was working... part time because i didn't
the money: poets are not pub landlords...
what?!
bull finally saw red...
                red to be have!            *******!
*******! *******! stabbed your 100x times
more when i was saying: *******!

i love you: x0

you’re all wine and horses. parasols on stilts in a squall of calm.
you lurch like a pidgeon at a love note. cooped in your wide arches.
I’ve seen you sleep through the rapture of your own demise
to capture the spark of your rascal for harvest.
you gloom if it’s pretty. but you never know the difference.
that’s why we met on a hill full of holes.

“ wells “
they call ‘em ‘round here.
but they never
answer.

and that’s got you spooked.

Like I don’t know.