You looked stunning,
all dolled up,
dressed to to the hilt
at dinner tonight.
Your dress fit you
stunningly,
it left nothing to
my imagination.

It's the thought
of tasting you
that created such
an intense appetite with me,
not your pretty little toes
all painted pink
that makes me hungry.

And though I like your toes,
I thought you should know,
I love something pinker better.
It is the ultimate meal,
gives me
the sweetest-satisfaction.
You?

The grass flickers, as the
Wind pushes it down, in
A gentle but determined
Motion, sweeping upwards to
Swirl the blue-grey clouds
Around the radio tower, before
Dissipating into the milky
Sky, which at this moment
Is the lightest shade of
Blue, an open innocent shade
Of blue, like an angelic birthday
Cake, the pinker clouds, whose
Graceful tendrils embrace the
Air, and dancing twirl across the
Peaceful summer skyscape

Down below them, the
Emerald stalks of corn stand,
Silent sentinels, awaiting the
Coming of the dawn, they too
Feel the pushing of the wind, but
Brush it off, over their shoulders,
And continue their silent watching
On the sloping sides of the hill, the
Growling pines, resplendent in their
Glimmering needles, reflect the fading
Light, off the clouds, as the sun sinks,
Beneath the horizon, and I watch them
Silently on my bike, the only thing
I can hear, is the swish of the wind,
And the hum and whirring of the
Pedals, as my bike and I, we glide up
The hill, and down the hill, and
Around the posts that are meant
To keep the cars from disturbing, this
Peaceful walking path

A while later, we crest a hill, now
Having past the town, I see the work
Of the persistent wind, the clouds
Now whipped into a curling wave,
Of pink and blue-black, spilling
Over the horizon, behind the red-roofed
Country houses, which are strangely
Reminiscent of those old, red, barns
Which would sit abandoned in
Fields of perpetual wheat, and,
Through the turning of the seasons,
Would rot away into timbers, with
No one left to remember, what
They were, or why they remain

Now we have ridden in a loop, my
Bike clicks as I change gears, to
Crest a hill and coast down, at high
Speed, between the guard rails and
The road, with the wind kicking
Up behind me and whisking an
Upcoming tree in to a fluttery
Flurry of leaves and branches, while
Below a stream cuts a field, and,
Skirting a pen, passes by a pinto
Pony, I think it was, that was just
Standing there, as we rode past,
Onto the cobblestones and around
A bend, the group splits, some going
A different route, but I want to come
Back the way I came, and I ride
Beside the highway, listening to
The chirp of the crickets and the
Hum of the wheels against the
Cold, pavement, while up the hill
The verdant pines bob their bows,
Up and down, waving, waving,
The crashing blue-black wave has
Rolled, on past the tower now, it
Is crashing down over the silent
Sentinels, and I watch quietly as
The wind rolls down the hill, and
Whirls some leaves, making the
Grass flicker in the setting sun.

little ***** being,
the petals that swathe you are pinker than mine
and your nectar is sweeter too. you
deserve to have a name
that matches
your melanin – pure as infant’s skin, not
human
but better than.

touch, con tact
con fide in me, tell me mere tallies,

count my worth in touched
virtual buttons, pulled virtual
triggers of emoticonic
urgency
emerging as a wish, a want, a will

to make or take or fake a known
point,
hidden in my bag.

abstruse obscurity, arcane, esoteric, recherché

y'knowaht ai mean?

click, think fast.
Past last learned truthz in everlasting shame games,
swallowing whole
guiling lies left to stumble entertwined
entertained public minds dulled
by constant rub, that mobs
force squeeking
gears of grace, to make while
grinding balance points, tipping the wheel

of time as imagined by sailors on opined currents
swept by winds of geistic hinting hid,
to see, know to pay attention.

Jeffry Epstein was a hoo-min, can you imagine…
calling him friend?
And having no clue?

Linguistics, Style and Writing in the 21st Century -

with Steven Pinker, relating an email,
{received prior to Oct. 28, 2015 YouTubing}
"It is important
to approach the subject from a variety of strategies,
including mental health assistance but also
from a law enforcement perspective"…

translated as:
"We should consult a psychiatrist about this man, but
we may, also, have to
inform the police."
man, not subject, understand… the translation

who was that man {the subject,
I assume, was the deed which a man mutually known
was known for doing}

I think Epstein. Hm, a sick seed… sprouts out,
first the blade,
then the ear,
then the full corn in the ear…

then I think, Krause, a colleague… can I be sued
for thinking I can imagine…

worse can I imagine knowing what
is mutually known, there is a guilt game
that needs linguistical magic
meanings to be hidden in
abstruse obscurity, arcane, esoteric, recherché

ways and means of keeping the plebes entertained.

"It is important
to approach the subject from a variety of strategies."

-- or as I continue imagining being a knower, we could
arrange with other knowers
to
**** him, and thus the guile goes un detected…

check with the lawyers, no incriminating emails…

"It is important
to approach the subject from a variety of strategies…"

In 2007, when Epstein was first indicted for procuring a minor for prostitution,
Pinker "provided his expertise on language" 
for Epstein's defense,
according to The New York Times.
Pinker offered his services for free and,
he told the Times,
at the request of his friend,
Havard law professor
Alan Dershowitz—who has himself been
 accused of sexually assaulting minors trafficked by Epstein,
which he denies.

From <https://www.vice.com/en/article/g5pn87/free-speech-crusader-steven-pinker-blocking-anyone-mentioning-his­-epstein-ties>

I miss the beautiful sadness.
The tears tasted like cream,
Fears turned me pale.
A quiet sadness.

I was so pretty,
Smaller every second,
Floating away in tenderness.
A whisper,
Then silence.
What more could I ask for?

And now I’m more.
Taking up more space,
Filling more holes.
I’m too much.

Now this..
ugly sadness.
One where I grow
instead of shrink.
My face is pinker,
My stomach splits at the seems,
tears taste like *****.

If I go,
It will not be a whimper,
But a scream.
Rawly honest,
and rancid.

Still,
I think I’d rather be
a beautiful lie.

Come closer
by all means come closer where in a blink
pools fix and widen into trackless lakes
your eyes unflinching against my own
forcing mine to yield to look's vortex power
I sink lengthways on to beached magnificence
fearing no fences bind this brimming shore
desiring all of your cresting feistiness

we close in privacy like a whispered prayer
I stoop to overhear furled head to head
the feather of your cheek ticked pinker
confession spilling loosely off shoulders
flowing undressed like some burlesque fantail
and I found myself buoyed up on thin air
shocked by the vapour in essential oils
so lavishly luxurious their condensing iniquity
I could only try to endure your body heat
by closing my own eyes for a moment
but out of focus pours into a concentrate

the control over hands gives me false hope
but I find a clearing of purity overwhelms me
caught helpless in all I add to mire seeping cruel
your lifeline lips offering a hint of moist buoyancy
then sinking a ship of plumped up poison
purple as inky clouds penetrating my mind
the slim tip of your tongue elusively unkind
flickering like a searching candle in a cave
dripping in irregular beats an anti-doting
to form rivulets which in their mystical midst
surround a fresh discovered vale to defile

I feel it's formation in an archway of neck
the undercurrents freed into giving way
you suspend on the bridge an apex and deck
my firmly held happiness into crowning cries
overflowing from the safety of inner recesses
the excesses needing knee breeches on both sides
to wade through a drowning press of paradise
in on the outstretched reach of a relentless tide

yet gorgeous is its precipitous edging test
with bouts of engorged selfishness
I hear your eager call in urge
return
from compliance into shambolic demands
until I am summoned to a trembling portal
biting on its handles like a moon crazed wolf
wanting to escape but in awe of its might
that it will capsize and spring open floodgates

plunging me back into dizzy abandonment's past
to the captivating idea of a last biting grasp
at your sweep-me-up voluptuous swoon
so tight on my heart we both go swimming
from intakes of breath into open eyes again
loving the saltpetre of a spa bath drop descent
into rapids extinguishing hot pulsating harm
which taunts and scolds me to calm the claim
for more days of dangerous vain tainted venom
held at bay
held aloft
by your pressure
bandage
arms

And so, with him, the marble body of Apollo would not be so easily outdone.
Look how Hephaestus' muscle-clad arms would not surrender,
    nor would his.
Look how Dionysus would weep at the acid in his vineyard veins,
    eyelids struck with Zeus's violet lightning,
And so the blood in which Ares bathes drips down the fault lines in his chalky palms,
    lips pinker than the silk of a woman, smoother than Eros's thighs, feet bruised like Heracles's would have been.
Our modern day Paris, gorgeosity incarnate,
    even in that livid instant of death.

Enveloped in the warmth of wet skin
Salty fingertips grasping onto sticky arms, legs
Hair hot with amber and vanilla
Cheeks pink, lips pinker
Stolen air is sweeter
Sweeter breath is stolen
Part, slide, gasp and shudder
Breathe, breathe, breathe,
Melt.

Dream I
We are underneath a treehouse.
He pulls the cord
to raise the platform on which we stand
and I splinter my hands
gripping cedar as we swing against gravity
stomach lurching in the heights.
He chortles
as I beg to be let down again.

Dream II
We are in bed,
yet I feel lonelier than if he were
a million miles away, or under another's sheets
and I grimace
as he tells me not to speak -
that my voice annoys him
even when my whispers, my caresses
are merely my love incarnate.

Dream III
We are in a bar without walls.
He smiles, dances on the bar top
backlit by a blue mirror and bottles
with a dark-haired wisp of a girl in white
and she isn't me.
No, I was unexpected.
I say hello and his smile disappears.
This observation spears my guts, as
he pretends not to hear.
I order a drink and pretend I never tried.

Dream IV
He leaps and gestures and goads,
poking fun and inspiring deepest belly laughs
and I should be blissful
but he flits from table to table
always passing mine.
Saving his jokes and witticisms
though I can think of a billion replies
better than everyone else's.
I turn to our mutual friend
who shrugs and lets it slide
saying this happens all the time.
Apparently, I am an audience
now considered too cheap
to buy.

I Wake...*

The television flickers.
His heads lolls onto my shoulder
and his longshank of a leg twitches.
I want to weep or *****, so
I move and
his arm tightens around me.
I want to shake him, when
his lips that are even softer, pinker than mine
uplift at the edge, and
part to whisper,
"Stay."

Each night I fear I have lost him forever
        and each day I wake to find he loves me still.

What will it take to convince me in the dark
        of what I, in the daylight, know by heart?

Welcome to Cathytown where the grass is always pinker.
Where the moon and the sun fall in love and where everything's better when everyones together.
I had a heart to heart with my mum today, I was angry that.. She didn't understand me, I was afraid that she didn't love me and that it was my own fault.
She told me I couldn't be anymore wrong, that she shouts at me so I can grow, she's ******* me because...
Well, no one else is..
Not in Cathytown.

She said I have to grow up eventually, and see that the world isn't as sensitive as I'm going to be.
She said she loves me so much her heart hurts every time I stay out til midnight after every row and argument but she can't reach out because I'm too hurt to let her in.
She said I was born perfect, two eyes, two hands, two legs, perfectly healthy. So it hurts her when I say I'm not beautiful, not good enough.

Cathytown... Where dreams come true in a blink of an eye,
Cathytown, where friendship is forever
And true love can blossom and *** isn't as important as intimate conversations.

Please let me stay in Cathytown...
Where I can watch disneychannel and drink tea and make others happy by just being me..
I know I get sad sometimes,
But staying strong is my anthem
I know I get dramatic and weird and over emotional
... But hey, that's just me.

49°f on the sunrise, wind in your sails
the coast all calm, my mouth all red
"you want this?" you say, and i kiss you
quick and sunken, teeth like graves
with every inscription an old treaty
international law between the lines
of our coexistence; it is: definition
and redefinition of forces
peaceful conflict, maybe
content desolation

i say to you shining, i say "of course"
i am: the golden boy with a fog on his heart
you are: slimy, so sweet, a snail full of kisses
dismantling the borders of my skin like
a needle, a bug, pure irrationality;
but the sea-breeze sobers
and i know i will be fine
in the stability of your hands
and the love story of your fists

and when i breathe into the sand
i can feel my bruises swell
my scars flutter
the sky burns grey and my thighs
ever pinker; my lips ever more split
and now you hold me like the tide
and i come home with you smiling
52°f on the morn, salt on my face
and i know, i know i will be fine

The dust of denial does finally settle,  
the sound of my heartbeat is metal on metal.
The river of sorrow runs dreadfully dry
the beat of my drum is a withered old sigh.

You breathe life to my body and love to my mind,
if god is in heaven this must be a sign.  
The more I take out, the more I will crumble
grab me when I fall, catch me when I stumble.

You smell just like roses, you ***** like one too,
when I look out the window all I see is you.
It’s real like the sun and it burns just as hot,
to hurt or to leave you, well, that I could not.

Love in the winter, spring, summer and fall,
your body and mind of you I want all.
There’s fish in the sea but I’m hook, line and sinker,
you get even cuter when your cheeks turn pinker.  

My body’s a letter the postage is love,
Dear Bette, I love you, won’t you be my dove.
P.S. you’re so pretty and wonderful too.
P.P.S. please know what I am saying is true.

In rain I’m your cover, in snow I’m your gloves,
if you’re cold then I want to warm you up with love.                                                            ­                                                              
I’­m here to protect you through the lonely night
‘cause you give me white wings so I can take flight.

You are so special you don’t understand,
I just want to stay here and hold on your hand.                                                            ­                                                                 ­                   
I’m down in the shafts, for love I’m a miner,
forever I’m stuck, 'cause it only gets finer.

I am here and I am strong,
my heart beats louder than a gong.                                                            ­                                                                 ­               
I want to hold you in my arms
and keep you from all the harm.

Bette, oh Bette I hope you can see,
your eyes and your body do hypnotise me.                                                              ­                                                                 ­           
You leave me so speechless, I can’t catch a breath,
when I am in your arms, I don’t fear death.

You make me so happy, it’s quite plain to see,
your lips are my drug they intoxicate me.                                                              ­                                                                 ­     
My life is a canvass for you to create,
how many ways can I tell you, you’re great.

You are my Bette for the world to see
you’re my hearts protector to watch over me.
My beautiful kitten if you purr for me,
I’ll give you my heart since you have the key.

Your name is Bette and now I can see
that life starts and ends with you and with me.                                                              ­                                                        
I want you forever, know I am here to stay,
if ever I lost you, I would lose my way.

I love you, I love you, I love you, I do
did I say that I love? Well you know it's true.                                                            ­                                                                 ­       
Worries and doubts of those I have none,
you are my moon, my stars and my sun.

i've said this once before, and i'll say it again: i don't buy into dreams, i find them a bit ******, b-movie versions of reality, but sometimes, just sometimes, just before i tap the snooze honey and talk myself into: wake up early, wake up early, wake up early, tomorrow it's going to be california sunny (which it now is), i get a dream, and not some *******-riddling dream, a dream where i am lying next to a staircase and reciting poetry - there was a yesterday? - and i can clearly remember one line from the poem:

  the best verse i ever composed,
  was the verse i spoke -
     and never bothered to write down -
the poetry that belongs solely to ανέμοί -
the deity of the winds,
and of souls -
     of those who reside a tier above
hades, in his ***** - anemoi -
   and yes, diacritical entry points
for the english reside with i and j -
as is worth noting:
   there's a buddhist maxim of concern
with respect to the modern greeks
(let me keep you up to date) -
that famed mirror of *beryl -
   stop polishing the ****** mirror,
you will not see much clearer,
stop polishing that ****** mirror,
wash your face instead, slap it even,
punch it till you bruise your knuckles -
by polishing that mirror too much,
you'll end up as the madman
xerxes of persia, demanding the sea
an allegiance and sub. obedience by
whipping it! we're not talking culinary
inventions of whipping cream,
or heating milk for a cappuccino froth!
if the english are going to be this *******
lazy with their abstinence of applying
diacritical indicators to ease the pain
of dyslexics with pseudo-chinese
  clarifying syllables - why should you?
you? the greeks, why spoil the beauty
of the already ready alpha-beta -
    you're perfecting something that's already
perfect -
        look at the trojan eve - look toward
the roman adam -
stark ****** naked; the greeks seem
to be donning five pairs of socks,
two pairs of trousers, six shirts, seven
pairs of underwear, gloves, and a burqa
to top it all off!
**** it, let's do what the english have
done: return to nature, embracing naturalism,
nudism, whatever the hell you want
to call this nightmare.

as any book review inquires -
  a book there is, how language began,
by a fella who learned some amazonian
language, a daniel everett -
who claims counter-claims vs. chomsky
and pinker -
  who says - citation, please!
he maintains that mental disorders do
not support the notion of a language *****,
for (he argues) there are no language-specific
disorders...
  
          yup... apart from dyslexia,
i guess that means: you can't count from 0
to 100, or give me a 3 x 4 answer,
nothing language specific about that.

ah blimmin' heck, i can't believe that i turn
into this jeckyll ******* when i had two
sharpshooters -
    well... **** happens.

then comes a video including douglas murray,
sometimes you need a pompous english
*** to speak a little -
   jaw-dropping moments of perfected
sophistry -
         which the english are only capable
of, which they invoked by inventing
the american / australian accents -
covert mechanisms -
   don't invite diacritical distinctions
(which, by the way, pivot on the chinese
having not letters, but syllables -
hence the mongols in crimea,
   hence the mongols tickling cracow,
as the myth of the trumpeter goes
in the hejnał mariacki - heynow -
   st. mary's trumpet call) -
shim shiminy shiminy shim shoom
         ask for favours of off a broom...
   tipsy turvy -
        and what do you call a sikh on a construction
site? sinjit you 'av a brick on yir turban;
never feels right, him with a turban,
me with a hardhat, i'm guessing he's
praying that if a brick falls,
     it will bounce right off the cushion.

there was something else...
ah! the other type of intellectual, the quirky one,
i.e. david graeter talking about
money, and how adam smith was wrong
in speculation, and how you don't
find the most primitive societies engaging
in 1 x cow = 40 x chicken...
    i still don't understand why there is
haggling in marrakech bazaars -
    or how 1 x cow ≠ 40 x chicken
  but 40 x chicken + a wife for my son...
intellectual pomp vs. intellectual quirk -
can't decide -
         and money is a fascinating concept,
nietzsche was nearing the prospect,
but the much anticipated "transvaluation
of all values": well... to be honest?
   that's just a one word book: money...
but here comes the biblical fiasco -
          oculus namque oculus -
  auge für ein auge -
        simply, eye for an eye -
which bewilders me, given usury -
     interest rates, the supposed "pricelessness"
of certain artworks...
        it's way past jurisprudence -
    that meaning has morphed into
a banality, nay, an abomination of economic
ethics...
          the phrase no longer applies so much
to a jurisprudence regard of affairs -
   the term has become more and more
economical.

The wind nips at my cheeks
Making them pinker
Than I had intended
Making me look more alive
Than I had hoped
Making me wish I was in the ground
Fake pink lips, fake pink blouse,
Real pale skin
Where everyone, for so long,
Has said I should be.

you are the stain on my skin,
the “i’m sorry” cuts bandage

& pinker than a girl’s insides
we have the ballad of crying

my feet in front of yours: it is
a contagious fever, our sobs

built upon lapses of euphoria
you give me reasons to come

my senses, my fingers are on
strings to not wring my neck

northern pinnacle you have &
gallop around my heart-lines

this is just where you belong:
on & in me through my finale.

It's not too bad
to crave the feeling
of falling
in love
and act upon the
symptoms of such a drug

It's a natural high
a chemical imbalance
that paints the world
a pinker hue
at the end of the day
it's easier
to fall
than to defy gravity
and get back up

i-squished-words-like-chewing-gum-between-my-teeth-hoping-that-i could-blow-a-bubble-bigger-than-my-head-and-more-impressive-than-­my-face-and-then-you-looked-in-my-direction-just-as-my-breath-his­sed-between-my-lips-and-you-couldn't-see-me-just-my-swelling-beac­h-ball-of-jumbled-words-for-one-quarter-second-before-they-burst-­and-stuck-all-over-my-skin-and-i-flushed-pinker-than-bubble-gum-a­nd-i'll-choke-on-every-word-before-i-ever-have-to-see-you-again

A dash pink sugar
Now don't get
so ******

Let's have
a smashing
time

We need to crash
we are tired
Her blush the new posh
A brush_ up
_course to blush
The---- binge
He is
developing
quite
pink-tinge  (.
for her

The dark pink TV
The Park and recreation
Meeting place
face to face purr--facto
Someone gets
fired bravo
New replacement
Now, please whip
Comfy cream on me
Wild cherries
She's hired+++
Now set the table
all queries
In legally kiss print
pink big %
Ms. Weatherspoon
So ****** hush
High cheekbones
No, I sir not to be
disturbed
We need them
punishment
phones$$$

The money disturbed
The chief of the
lagoon not to be
Judged by Judy
She is not born with
the senior discounts
citizen spoon let's give
her points--

Pinker what
a man looker
Overly taken
from her blush
The thinker

Of Zen
Oh When?
Henrietta Hen
Way to yellow
We need them
The founder
The Cheaters
make the best
Fellow
The baby white blush
flounder
The blusher
smile no rush

((Red Flush))
wine
The blusher cheats
She Takes
All my lover
Pink shirts Valentines

The Blush
The good eats
The pink apple
Martini computer

Resse Illegally
pink
Mentor all cheeks
in college
Reddening
of her face
He gave
her Rose pink
-smart as the
wits
That blusher
Record hits
corsage

The Blush pale
deranged
My friend could
hardly faint
Greenwich the
Big City pink
witch
her cheeks broomstick
So Miami Vice
Village People
YMCA
the check Hollywood LA
he ain't getting
Any wiser
Quack Peking Duck
Pavillion NJ
The high
society girl
colors to swirl

Turn/go/pink
Stop/red/City bar
The blusher drink
Who would cheat
over the most
expensive
star
The player all layers
Of the cheater cake
convincer

My shy producer
Outblushed by
the pusher
The blusher, please
don't push her
The poem in her room
Those copycats
Pink feathers
Robin Redbreast
Gathers
The blusher cheats
Were are the Mothers?
Those edible beats
What a love crush
embarrassment

Remember
where we
came from
ladies of
the parliament_

tomorrow I'll have to see you again

and act like what you've said didn't leave wounds with scar tissue pinker than my cheeks when our eyes meet

I'll act like I didn't go on a drunken rant tonight alone in my living room about how you make me feel like love will never reach me

I'll act like I never do look forward to seeing your face everyday, and felt like Im missing something when I don't

oh, let's be as blunt as you are,

I'll act like I'm trying not to impress you anymore.

you act so humble and meek, despite being ~fearless~ enough to speak your mind to me

you act like neither my body or mind is captivating, and this isn't arrogance, just me finding the confidence in attempt to shield myself from your ignorance

you act as if it's no big deal that I'm one of your only female friends who doesn't put on a show for every guy she meets, full of anything but genuine theatrics

I keep that **** on the stage, where it belongs for both of us.

I mean, acting is what we both do best, right?

O’ watch for a spindly ****
of a boy, with freckles
scattered like ants! With
timid face splattered with sins
and grins alike, he’ll dance.
Round dawn and night he’ll go
till eyes grow wide with fog.

Down his belt swings, tight and old,
his laughs creep long like silver snakes
birthed from mountain spring.
Yes, this youth of sparrow-chatter
had naked apolline humor, though
quietly when morning spread past his reigns
Dionysian he was in bearer pinker treads.

O’ know him you may as the flitting
shadows that wrap your eyes in sleep,
But test his temper! Bleat and ba
and call him friend!
And know, as bushes are coloured
with flower and thorn,
no dream is sum nor ample
lacking the seventh young prince of discord.

Inside of an hour
We hollowed out a bottle
With nervous haste
She;
A shade pinker in the face
******* on her teeth
Eyes as wide as Jupiter's moons
Orbiting the room
Singing of lost love
Longing to be found
Among the evidently lost
With no hesitation, I inhale
A sufficient lungful
Of ash and apprehension
And whisper with confident uncertainty
I think I love you

There's something about walking away... Head held high and you sigh as your tears have been dried and the colourful in your cheeks and lips gets pinker. Nobody could have told you what to do because they aren't you. And what once felt so right and perfect now is clearer and less of a blur. If you had kept going the picture would only have been a smudge on the wall of your room, causing the drywall to crack and then grey. It's the colour of those hours blocked out to exert energy then crash as if you've just had the emotions ****** out of your fingers and toes. Maybe it would have been remedied with some growing or a little water and sun. But boys need more than water and sun to bloom. The soil was just too authoritarian and your wise words were in a language all to unfamiliar and confusing to decode. But for him, nothing could be done if it wasn't for him. So you kiss that hand goodbye and simultaneously let go as it is ****** away. And as you are walking away, you are walking into a cool breeze and a sunny day with a brisk sun and soft grass and happy voices ready to welcome you in the distance. And it is less walking away than walking to something brand new. You're being welcomed.

yes, i lived a life, but it wasn't a life of that much spectacular; but it certainly felt as good as squeezing out a warm ****.

is this some of cipher i'm supposed to
understand,
   what i mean by that is:
           alpha males, betas, omegas...
    while lo! and behold...
                           a ******* *tiger mother...
a cougar...
         so i'm the *** that's good at
                                                  spelling?
ne­ver mind, whiskey's flowing
     the delirium is over and,
   i'm finally appreciating the pedantic
bits of the sunday times newspaper...
and it's wednesday?
                roland white has now
become my favourite journalist...
       i have to give to niall ferguson
too... primarily because
   i too watched a youtube video on
                    steven pinker...
          but dr. pangloss aside:
                 **** me was voltaire neurotic
about african *****... not richards
(that is).
            honestly though...
               a newspaper only makes sense
if it's published on a sunday...
              the rest of the days it's just
        sensationalism, if anything:
                    so much happened,
               but we still only managed to cover
a decimal point...
                   as a young man (it would appear)
i learned to be an old ****
     (which means luck, in another
language)...
          drunk like a ***,
                          lived like a spider,
                 and was really good
   at teaching infant cats:
                       not to take a **** in his bed
ever again... qat qaeda can kiss my ***:
     muchas gracias...
                 but i still have to make
  a concession point...
                   whoever bred maine *****?
   a mighty fine job
                   turning the feline into
                       a kanine... clingy buggers.
- but yet, journalism only makes
sense on a sunday...
                                   the rest of the week
it's a refrigerator toying with
                  humming, or bee noise.

Signals from,
the inside, see, we,
may see those now, we
may wish we could not or
wish we knew the harm,
in knowing good and evil at
this
level of the myelination of the whole,

enchilada,
absolutely, PBS F'EVER, STREAM IT ALL

fund
funding
fundamentals, ah,
it's a be yo to the full thing, be the jew
at the table, boyo,
who thinks I think you are italian.
*** upside my head,

I said, I know what this is, that is the
missed re lease…

secret documents, in 2021, those exist
in paper based and ritual/music based
funda-mentalism
tolerant
encorporation of various tasks and taskers,
givers and takers, ******* and wipers then scoopers,

family cultures re-emerge from these huge, old piles
of petrified bullshat stories that turned into this,

as anticipated, says the mercenary, aware of the time
as expected, says the visionary aware of the seed
as needed, says the broken everything

fundamentally, words fix leaks in reality.
Nothing gets in,
nothing is never anything in here, these lines, this opera.

Oh, lord yes, that fat lady does sing.
Here, she sing
like them birds when the helicopters fly to Yuma,

so the few, proud brave volunteers to take the oath,
that is repeated ever after. Semper fi.
They can learn to fly in deserts, just like those ones,
where them warring spirits is loosed in them stupid boys.

It is, yes, ******-right, war, is good for nothing. Is the lesson,
if you finished the course.
that is the lesson.
of course… deep
re-morse ..--. - .- FTA - hey, I remembered something qcqcqc

-------------------------------
the curtain drops, like in real life.
Boom.
where there was no wall, there is no window,
no opening see, see me

blinking as the houselights flicker, if this were
steampunkset,
no, high school auditorium
our miss brooks set ourmissbruksit, big smile,
on TV
oh, that kid,
that kid that loved Our Miss Brooks, on TV, he
trained Rambo in the movies, that's one badass archetype.

'sing it now, I'm so proud
to be allowed to disavow my allegiance to the flag…

That I make insiders see my tablecloth, where wine
and all the de-sacredizing fluids, bacon fat and ***** of pigs,
shall have flowed, by now you know,
-- you saw that very table cloth, clean, on Jeffy Epstein's table,
-- you did not take the bait that Pinker's joker let him swallow,
sorry smart guy, you and Krause, jeffy scored on you dudes
made you stink.

you can just see it, the evilist thing you can ever imagine,
the desecration of
the star spangled banner, re
PRESENT, HARMS!

------------ zoomzoomzoom cameras in every window
lookin through the curtain

guaging our re
action, give it spin… this almost pure reaction to
Eric Weinstein 2 and 11, safe bets,

but, you gotta know this one guy I knew, who never knew
he knew a jew, and he lived next door to mister levy.

This guy believed jews were white.
I like that guy, he comes by, we talk, he knows
about the book
and how he is in it as himself
and he's ikeh with that.
-------
Yeah, I never had the time to learn anything,
until I found one day, I found one day, I did have time

for everything.

it was a theory, as the discoverer's disciples declare,
an absolute
aha, the sound of the first positive thing that ever mattered,
and a negative one that mattered too at that
ping nada

not exaspiration, not inspiration

nada never was so none of this, save this is
so something else
after the initial

matter anti matter manifests from never was

phtt phtt phit wait
ah, time to feel the wisdom take beauty to prove the point,
nothing to fear,
once you know

happiness you can joyfully live with 24/7

that is the target, not nothing.

if journalists weren't
           the whiney ******* to begin with...
   do i even have to provide
         a copyright infringement
                on a citing emily dickinson?
  just asking,
       because i wondered upon
seeing primary school pupils
             being taught: phalanx formation,
or the old tale of Noah:
        hand in hand...
hand upon hand to give a vote...
                i'm past thinking
about the hindu gods acting as
the gods: who taught people to tie
their shoelaces, subsequently
     pushing them into a sprint,
        that never resulted
                   into a gallop of a mustang...
well **** me,
      if that **** runs on a
            photosynthesis
                                  shortscript
that's grass and not a birch tree...
                                                    hug it.
i just see: eating dwarfs...
                  but it's not that,
a sunday supplement of a newspaper,
****, gott'ah have a cohort...
             magazine (i.e.) -
         i'm walking through a mirror labyrinth,
a minotaur to own my own:
   of what doesn't really regard
   scribbling graffiti...
                  but on a serious note...
     why is there a bother for trans-
trans-gender?
                      with every book review
i've read,
             it's a man reviewing a man's
book, e.g. john carey on steven pinker...
and there's
                   jackie annesley
on laura freeman...
          once "this" gets solved
it's going to become funny
watching inter-****** sporting
events, outside the realm of
tennis and curling...
                   without a thespian
attitude of: faking it.
   the modern age is seriously
epitomised by a woman giving
birth to a siamese twin...
      it's like which part do i ****
             and which head do i talk to?
you can't exactly fake it,
when boys read boy books,
and women read, girl books...
   oh look... a diminutive counter
to a martini: whatever the bartender
knows & does... without the shacken part...
       trigger ******* happy
from here on in...
                    or ear on a dog leash /
     fishing line...
                 ****... shay... shayken...
shacking or shackles?
                         shaking...
    but where's shay?
                             shay i, or should you,
answer that, question?
  must be a fantasy of a french speaking
princess with blonde hair
   and ***** hairs dyed blue...
      and a man with ****** hair:
otherwise known these days:
    bearded man: look at me - i'm dancing
naked!
                  well,
that's without the kangaroo hop or kick
attending to dr. pangloss...
   as read on the no. 86 bus
each morning in circa genesis of 21st
century.
          missing diacritical marks
is disorientating,
      but there's no chance of applying them
to english...
      because there are too many
particular instances when
they could be applied,
         subsequently there would be
no universal impetus for use...
              perhaps: archetypal
                                     familiarities?
arch and no arc...
                   i make an oath toward
YHWH...
                         gay ******* all day,
and i mean that in the "archaic"
                 substance / meaning of: gay.
hunk of a back, or hunchback?
   this is becoming
quantum physics ****...
                   c, k, q...
                          you look at it:
and it's a sound with the cipher C...
then you look away
   and it's a de-cipher that constitutes
K & Q...
                   buy hey...
              it's worth being a tourist
once in a while, not minding
this observation.

There are things crawling on the ceiling in August
There are bellies heaving in and out

There are faces  pinker than fingernails in August
There are gods and the dying

I am standing in the hallway in August
I am not a god


You liken me to the inside of drawers in August
You shut me and
You line me with  plastic  fabrics

You fill me with silverware and
You disarrange
[.     With courage. ]

I want you to see the diamonds strewn across my forehead,
Glossy in light of a sweet, pink sun
And her sweeter, pinker kisses
Upon our faces.
I want you to feel my heat -
Scorching, burning, scalding -
As fingers dance (slowly) atop
Summer-brushed skin
And trip over moles.
I want you to know that roses caress my cheeks
As your hands fumble for a fragile jaw
In and amongst the thorns.

I want you to cure me. Call me
Lovesick
And my stomach will agree.
July fever is fleeting so
Can we make our bed
In linen daisies?
Let the wind carry whatever we wish to hear
Like Chinese whispers?
Can we dream under a bruised sky,
Waiting for pale rays to come
Cradled by white clouds
Hurdling hungry fists?

I think that’s what the doctor prescribed.

The rain falls slowly,
Tap tap tapping against my window.
A mug of coffee in my hand,
A warm fire to sit by,
A book held in my other,
Lee Maracle, I think.
A blanket draped around my shoulders,
My dog napping nearby.
Contentment,
Peace,
Feelings I haven't felt before,
Slowly swirl inside me.

Tired, but not sleepy,
Totally relaxed,
I move into the kitchen,
My book and coffee still in hand.
I stare out the window,
As the rain makes the whole world more vibrant.
The grass and trees are greener,
The blooming flowers pinker,
Calm, content,
A sigh escapes my lips.
Today is a good day.
Feeling better.