We walked around the
park and came across a sweet
garden of flowers

All trimmed so lovely
not a bud out of place and the
sun shone happily

Was there we saw a
wishing pond full of silver
gold and bronze money

So we made a wish
Plonk plonk plonk is what we heard
as the coins lie still

Jennifer was near
by , watering the new buds
Butteflies fluttered

there ivory wings
whispering sweet lyrics to
birds flying in sky

We came across a
monkey , he ****** to its cage
Dean said its hungry

It was colour of
midnight , full of gentleness
Contentment for sure

Dean pulled a twig of
leaves off a tall plant for the
monkey , who I thought

had smiled in its own
animal way , but all of
a sudden two girl

monkeys colour of
a rising sun tried to rule
the roast , so dean gave

them some leaves too , but
they seemed adamant to pinch
the males food , we did

have a giggle and
told the girl monkeys to shoo
They just ignored us

We saw elephants
Skin like a hundred years old
Eyes like big diamonds

One seven foot tall
Jennifer flew by smiling
sprinkling sunlight

upon there hay , we
saw a monkey eat a fly
It picked off its wings

threw them to the ground
and ate its body ,it was
a fascinating

moment, Flight never
to be lowered only to be
born again to life

Oh I loved the big
leopard she was amazing
Her fur so unique

Her temperament so
kind so loving so happy
Man as been her friend

It was a lovely
day and Jennifer enjoyed
herself too , she sang

a song making the
sun giggle so much , its teeth
fell upon warm earth

leaving sparkles in
ponds and glistens upon cars
and smiles in clouds

We all drank ice cold
water and ate some chips and
a panini with

cheese and tomato!
We drove home feeling happy
And the sky was too

So you know that strange feeling you get, the one where it feels like you're different from them.
You're a green tulip in a field of yellows, but they all see in black and white.
You decide to go with it, because Different is bad. Same is good.
Same, they say, is what gets you somewhere.
Same, I think, isn't fun at all.
It's gray, dull, a ticking clock in an empty room. Time wastes away, and nothing is done.
Same stands over you with a bat, and 'plonk' when Different tries to talk to you. Same wears the same suit and tie every day, never changing.
Different likes colors and scarves and sandals and beanies and fur coats and tattoos.
Same likes to talk about the weather, while Different doesn't talk; she was interrupted too much.
Different likes to sit down and think, and think, and dream. She sits longing for more Different's, the ones with fur coats and tattoos. Same chases them down with his bat and 'plonk' they become like Same, with suits and bats.

A winds whistle from your eye’s view’s
An open mind or something new.
Open hearted, open toe shoed,
A place to go to greet the blue.

The shifting sands surround your sandals.
The sun shimmers, unsure, awaiting.
The sea wanders all hues of blue.

So you step, and sense a ripple.
You stop.
You step and sense a ripple,
But this time know that sand is fickle
And time is ticking quicker quick,
The sand beneath you growing slick
And tilting till you lose your height
And tumble down
the sandy
bank.

Plonk

You see some toes,
feet, some ankles,
knees,
hips,
torso.
A sand crusted face, a gentle smile
A strong hand.
You stand together, arm in arm.
There’s a sense of calm .

Now you know,
However quick the sands may shift
Whatever distance you may drift.
Your hearts forever intertwine,
When you face the sands of time.

I had an Indian Fakir come
To stay, from Uttar Pradesh,
I was doing a friend a favour,
I don’t, as a rule, have guests,
I couldn’t make out a single word
He said, and so my friend
Provided a written commentary
To guide me, in the end.

It seems he was naming my furniture
It’s something that they do,
In places that are incongruous
Like the depths of Kalamazoo,
And he wanted to give them English names
So he asked my friend’s advice,
In case I couldn’t pronounce them,
Well, at least the thought was nice.

My armchair became Albert
And my settee Gunga Din,
I suppose he thought it would be okay
As it was from Kipling.
The tallboy was called Gerald
And the wardrobe, simply Joe,
The polished table Cheryl
And the kitchen one was Flo.

I’m glad that he wrote them down because
I can’t remember names,
Just that the bed was Susan
And the kitchen sink was James,
Some of them were portentous like
Ignatius, for the desk,
While each of the kitchen chairs was given
A name that ends with -este.

Celeste, Impreste, Doneste and Geste
And then of course, Ingeste,
I couldn’t remember which was which,
My friend was not impressed.
We bade farewell to the Fakir
And the Wardrobe flapped its doors,
And rumbled out a ‘Goodbye my friend’
From between its mighty jaws.

Then voices rose in a chorus from
Each part of my tidy home,
The names had given them each a voice,
It was rowdier than Rome,
The voices were accusatory
Trying to lay some guilt,
And Susan said of the Wardrobe, Joe,
‘He’s looking up my quilt!’

‘How could I help it,’ Joe replied,
‘I’m at the foot of the bed,
You’re flashing me with your silken sheets,
It’s doing in my head!’
While Albert grumbled in voice so deep,
‘Do I have to be a chair?
Each time you plonk on my tender seat
I’m gasping out for air!’

Then the kitchen chairs were out of place
And James was choked with suds,
The carpet, name of Emily
Was sick of traipsing mud.
It seemed that the polished table top
Was scratched, and she was mad,
The desk disliked my keyboard so
To each, I answered ‘Sad!’

‘You’re going to have to get along
I won’t put up with this,
Until that Fakir came along
This house was perfect bliss.’
I did away with their English names,
Replaced them with Chinese,
But they couldn’t speak a word of it
So I brought them to their knees!

And peace returned to Grissom Place
Just as I thought it would,
I made it plain to Wardrobe Joe
‘You’re just a lump of wood.’
While Susan smooths her quilt right down
And tucks her sheets right in,
And James just blubs, he’s full of suds
As I nap on Gunga Din!

David Lewis Paget

Fine wine, your line of perfection, profile absorbed
Within the printed page, taking you away
I want to say “Stop and listen”, the minutes ticking away
To nothingness, we won’t replace, they are lost

Fine wine, spilled onto the page, blood red; it disgorges
Its ruby glow, seeping into page after page
You leap to save the page, now wet and unreadable
Looking annoyed in the process, what a pity

Fine wine, these minutes are ones to remember with irritation
Cursing the red stain instead of the intrusion as welcome to
The monotony of the dirge, Groundhog Day of stale breath
A profound chapter not worth reading; close the book on it all!!

Fine wine, legacy of a long held sameness, dawdling the
Hedgerows, cutting the quality of what could be into what isn’t
And so on and so forth, dragging feet and knuckles; skin
Peeling its life away scuffed and failing, our souls drowned

Fine wine, secretly savage, blood red, vibrant and exotic
Or bored, buried in the sand dunes, beige and baron, your bottle of plonk
Oasis a mirage, a delirium to reality, a pretence to soften the blow
Life or existence with a hint of amaretto warmth to keep afloat

Hunkered down we pass the plonk
We can see Madame and pay
We shake her hand and thank her
San fairy ann she'll say

Sergeant copped a blighty
He'll be on his way
He's thanking god almighty
San fairy ann I say

It's hard enough to smile through this
When folks get blown up every day
But all the while the whizz-bangs miss
San fairy ann we say

Ingrid stares
at the sea
the wild waves
the seagulls

we've come down
on the coach
from London
organised
by the church
of gospel
worshippers

what are those?
she asks me

they're seagulls

do they bite?

I don't know
want ice cream?

her brown eyes
gaze at me

no money
she tells me

I’ve got some
I tell her

is there lunch?
she asks me

I think so
there's money
from the church
for us kids
from poor homes
I tell her

her brown hair
is pinned back
by steel grips

she smiles wide
her rather
mild buckteeth
beam at me

fish and chips?
she asks me

I guess so

can I be
your girl friend
for the day?

want ice cream?

O yes please
she utters

I go get
2 ice creams
from a van
parked near by

what you want?
the guy asks

2 ice creams
with choc flakes

I watch him
fill 2 cones
with ice cream
then plonk in
2 choc flakes

I walk back
to Ingrid
here you are
I tell her

she takes one
and we walk
on the beach
in the sand
8 year olds
hand in hand.

All we are,
delightfully lost.
Is that all it is?
Heading feet-first into sunsets.
Whirlwinds.
We crash, grab,
forget to blink,
rely on breath alone.
Here words tumble in a torrent,
recycle in your mouth
and back out again.
Clichés cannot die.
On a loop,
a worn-down yo-yo.
I roll them out for you
on a goldenrod carpet,
you skip across them
as though they are red-hot coals.

What set you off
like a sparkler in the night?
The sea brings us love,
vice versa.
Waves like mounds of sugar
embrace your torso
in a way I can only dream of.
Camera exhausted
under the weight of today,
puddles of polaroids,
enough to smother the floor.
I smell snapdragons,
candy fizzing
on both of our tongues.
Soaked.

Fade to black.
Your language
is blossom
slinking into my ears.
Wet sand
slips in a mustard waterfall
through our fingers
and I trip over my T’s and P’s.
I’ll keep your smile
locked in my pocket
for black-cloud days.

A triplet of cartwheels,
sticky palms
and panting as if
you’ve run a marathon.
Give it a go…
I try and collapse,
a soppy sprawled mess
gawping at the sky,
before blue eyes
smash into mine
and I fall again.
Dripping.

In-between seconds.
Flaccid strands of hair,
frizzled spaghetti
clings to your neck.
The blonde grenade
I keep writing,
cannot control
but adore to see explode,
catch the thirteen
or more little fragments
of you,
keep them ‘til next time.

When you leave
I can follow your footprints,
mementos back home,
tread where you stood
and exuded light.
We sit cross-legged,
water dribbling over our toes.
I memorise your heartbeat,
you plonk your head
on my shoulder.
Minutes wash away.
Stop the clock.

the night in turmoil
a bumble jumble fumble
of croaks, hoo hoo, purrs, stridulous chirping

then a sudden cringe, ******!,
shush shush
hush, gurgling creek,
hush, whiffled leaves

clippety-cloppety
clippety-cloppety
clok clok clok

a schwing, zing, zip
and a plunk
and a plonk
in a whoosh
and then a scrunche scrunche
and

clok clok clok
clippety-cloppety
clippety-cloppety

silence burbles

tick tock tick tock

shh, shh,
listen:

a sluggy chugalug
and a fuzz of tiny tunes:
a yelp, a eep

stilness

a purr a buzz
putt putt putt
slowly back in motion
the burbles, whiffs, croaks,
the stridulous bumble jumble
of a crickety night

There are lots of topper things I adore on earth,
like cats, the moon and drunken mirth
or talking, the sea and a well buttered bun,
nights drawing in or long days in the sun.
Another thing I really like is having a shower in the morning,
it’s the perfect antidote to my just awoke yawning,
the aqua blast helps remove the yearning for more bed
the watery goodness bringing vitality to my head,
the soapy woosh invigorates and vamooses my alarm’s mesh,
I exit the bathroom feeling fantastically fresh
and when I’m sat on the bus to work I think “ohh, someone smells splendidly,
oh wait a minute, yeah, it’s me!
Now although I adore gliding into employment with the fragrance of roses
I don’t always heed my cleanliness craving after dozes,
If I’ve had a alcohol drenched Sunday with lots of venturing out
my wanting for a pre work bathe goes up the spout,
sometimes I’ll awake on Monday after a drunken slumber
and feel like I’ve been covered in a ton of lumber,
and think “right it’s either get up now and scrub myself clean
or hit snooze and have another 15”
as even musing on that is making what little energy I have sap
I pull the quilt tighter and take the nap,
the tiny jot of rest doesn’t even touch the side
and before I know I’m at the bus stop awaiting a ride,
I get on and sit down still knackered as hell
and think, “what is that that stale vino smell?
Ohh I bet someone unfortunate was sat here before me,
one of those who has to choose tween getting drunk and having their tea,
someone who everyday has to have more than a few,
then the penny drops, “Jesus Si that odour is coming from you!”
I’m weary, languid, my body is sore,
and because I didn’t shower I’ve got Pound Shop wine coming out of my pores
yeah 4 for tenner cheap plonk is great to toast the end of the paid employment week
but after 24 hours without a cleanse  it pongs pretty bleak,
I’ve got eau de toillete of rotten grape reek.
I hum like I’ve slept in a pre Herculean task Stables Of Aegean that’s been dosed in a dregs of wine pump,
or stench like a on the streets Oliver Twist spliced with a wino Stig Of The Dump.
The bus pulls up to work and before I head in I think I’ll grab something greasy to eat,
ohh, congealed fat mixed with a day on the beers stink, your mates’ nostrils are in for a treat.
I slob to my desk like the unbathed thing I feel
And ponder, “that shower later better be the real deal.”
But, I don’t always rue not having a shower on a Monday because sometimes it means I don’t have the aroma of a stale wine scene,
sometimes uncleansed has me feeling serene!
I remember one unshowered Monday as I’d seen you on the Sunday I smelt of that perfume you always wear,
cos as you’re huggy and tactile it was on my clothes, some of it was even in what was left of my hair,
and as that scent reminded me of you what swirled around me was your awesome breeze,
suffice to say that day of employment passed with ease,
as whenever I got bored of pretending to look at that work thing on Excel
i’d get a hint of your fragrance and my thoughts would propel
with,
your easy wisdom and penchant for a chats
how you like Amaretto and how you love cats,
how you help out animals when they’re feeling brittle
with the tender coo of a Dr Doolittle.
You can take a piece of junk that was discarded at leisure,
decorate it with aplomb and turn it into a treasure,
you’re a burst of energy, a buzzing sprite,
a pleasure to be around, a total delight,
you’re interested in the world, and quantum theory,
talking to you is never dreary,
you bounce around the pub fabulously gassing with the many folk you see,
opening conversations with your splendid key,
**** you seem as popular as me!
Ahh, your joyful demeanour and fantastic soar,
how could anyone fail to hear your wonderful caw;
Emma every time I see you I like you more!
And on those your perfume days when I do get home, hit the shower and feel cleanliness envelop my face
I think, “you know for a ***** day you turned out pretty ace!”!

Forced into action
False starts of recognition
Badly ascribed motives
And motivational speakers dying by the boat load
Trying to make a quick buck
From the wisdom of the cosmos
As if it wasn't freely available to anyone who will listen
Blistering lips and burnt fingers
**** bliss and listerine
Coughing up your anatomy
In a cacophany of coffee drops and cheap plonk
Like the company of even cheaper politicians
Civil servants serving their civil selves
While Santa's elves run the workshop
For pig slops and platitudes
It's so easy to short change people with no change
But big hearts and some semblance of social conscience
Who want to see their fellow man succeed
While greed drives more powerful men to darker ends
The soul corrupted green and crispy
Neatly pressed and folded in a money clip
While the trip of a lifetime waits in a little black bag
But who's keeping score
How can you when the game is so confusing
Quietly excusing themselves from the sidelines are the ones making the money on the whole **** thing
It's rigged, you should know this
Quit while you're ahead

So. You lit up our world
like the trajectory of a blazing comet
and landed in the middle of our lives,
plonk. Just like that.
We’re talking here of a little supernova,
and a whole, dazzling, new dimension.
Yes, you were smiling, crying,
shamelessly dependent and incandescent,
lighting up the world with love,
while saying, in effect,
don’t worry, I’m the future now,
what isn’t written yet is here with me.
Well, you didn’t actually say those words,
because you’re only ten months old,
but that’s the essence, really,
of your arrival in the terrestrial
and your trajectory from the stars.

Mike T Minehan

The Artist and a bottle

Saw him at the supermarket,
had seen him before
when he was a child, he bought two litre bottles
of plonk,
told him to buy a better quality wine,
he didn’t listen to me.
I shared a table with him and
a painter in the park,
they sat there drinking didn’t offer me any.
The artist, disturbed by our silence  
got up and began painting a tree,
red trunk, black leaves and something yellow in between,
I thought of the Belgian flag;
winter dark place, windy many canals, but the beer was good.
The artist, now famous, sold his tree moved
away and said deep things to magazines about art.
My childhood friend died; cancer it was said, but it could have
been the cheap wine.

My friends embarrassing moment.
Some people's minds whirl around all the time to make things fine
It's getting stranger all the time
It's getting stranger all the time
I sat in a suit drinking some soup with a partner of mine
As if I would be commiting a sort of crime
If I wore jeans and a T'shirt with I am trying to be different written on it ;I hope you do not mind ;
I heard the manager call the police and they said" tell him he is walking a very thin line"
Now just leave and we will be sending you in the post the attire you should be wearing if you travel and want to sit and dine"
Patronised enough I looked in the mirror of the restaurant and realised I was naked all the time and the other people did'nt like to say but your ***** is in my eye line
I was a victim of a criminal that had stripped me of my identity I find
I did a few selfies with a bottle of plonk two waiters and some spaghetti some banana custard and a piece of ham then my friend came back from the toilet and we swiftly left as he whilst peeing spilled some over the bowl and was too embarrassed so felt nothing left but to incline to leave.

it's rare, very rare that i have dream,
but sometimes it does happen,
a dolphin's nose-dive into the literal,
into the unknown, into the peaceful,
i never try to dream, but sometimes
punching a beehive reflects reality.

the content?
a cliche dream, very much a circumstance
of teenage despair,
hapless teens surrounded by the horror,
not out of vanity i will claim
the words: i am the horror.
a group of them, to my count
they number spelling out the word
S-A-N-I-T-Y (six then)
with the letters etched onto their foreheads,
i find one of the teens banging his
head on a metal door chanting some
obscure variation of a Buddhist mantra,
i am but a thick smog
   and a certainty of dasein -
a dasein of lost care and a gravity of
feeling entertained pulverising the vision...
it's a question of photon energy
in total darkness... a foxtrot sense of
spontaneity: out of nothing, out of sleep:
dreams... and given the adventure into
harnessed natural energy,
how they captured the wind with don Quixote
among cyclopean giants and wind-farms:
surely a day will come when
lightning will be harnessed, some future
Prometheus will bring down once more,
for too long lightning was ignored as engaging
our elemental techno, shrouded by a god -
what titan if not an Ōrāmetheus (oora'h me-theology /
imploring a hostile universe to think like a god:
the definition of being titan,
caged in the reality of Titus Andronicus) -
then how to harness lightning:
    the greatest favour for mankind,
   upon the altar of what's offered by either
world-by-chance or a gambling-deity;
petulence? that too; after all the world was created
out of petulence... given so many exact figurines
in mathematics, akin to the perpetual spiral of π,
all constants in science came from a petulant
argument for anything at all... a slight deviation
of the pristine Brahman's nonchalance
                 in what rhetoric could be overheard
prior to the rhetoric actual.
   then onto the reality check... can you really
read a newspaper these days seriously and not after
a whiskey-sharpshooter?
  can you live on these isles and not pretend to be
Philip Augustus playing off Scotland, Wales, England
and Ireland against each other like Henry II
John and Richard I?
                you probably can't...
                             you're either going to
gain some sense via Longshanks or the Confessor
into the dynamism... and if only Elizabeth was young
i'd say what Ali G said: bright-knockout-pokers
and edible ******* to boot...
                     but granny ****? n'ah mate, ****
that ****... i'm waiting on Charlie Chappers
              like a weasel, I R.
    but you can't read newspapers sober these days,
or what's called the 'the old get richer and the young get
poorer', the housing market... twentysomethings are
growing angry... a retired banker's daughter
is in puffy-fit frenzy of: ooh! grr!
   send in Mary 'blazin' Poppins!
                                     but it's always good to borrow
from genius... an exquisite part from *girls aloud
song the show -
            should'a known, should'a cared
should'a hung around the kitchen in my underwear
                                                                  acting like a lady
you should'a made me, oh
should'a jumped a little higher
should'a fluttered my mascara like a butterfly
instead of being lazy, that would have saved me,
and that's hardly a blue oyster gay bar sorta tune...
gay bars are weird, you end up walking in there
   and snogging some Brazilian, high on the atmosphere
    and *****; and yes,
  pop has that infectious tendency for creating
universal appeal... pop is ******* when all
other genres are *** (no one admits to it, or finds himself
boasting about it)... and find me a poncy geek
greedy with salivating overly toward tendencies of listening
to prog rock within a mile-radius from when you hear
the prelude and the postlude... because that isn't
exactly as chorus.
      in china three generations live under one roof...
in western society - should'a thrown less
                                                 teenage tantrums...
     well, isn't it humbling to actually have parents?
        cool kid, dar she blows! plonk...
timber!  if the Jews said in Poland prior to 1939
    your streets, our tenements...
   a lot of Arabs are saying of London: your streets,
our tenements... but then it could also be the nuo-rich
Russians too...                and boy... look how
the far right arose in the 20th century... here we go again.

Home made, completely all home made
I bet you cannot tell.
The label tells it all that I have designed
and looks good enough to sell.

I started tinkering around with ideas
what can I produce from my vine?
I  can grow all sorts you know so I
will see what I can make into wine.

I have fruit in all colours and every shape
to the delicate little ruby cherry
to to most sophisticated shiny grape
and every possible home grown berry.

I have trees laden with the rich sweet
bouncy good old English plums
to the good old fashioned stone in the middle
dark red and sometimes purple damsons.

I can get my hands on nectarines, peaches
apricots galore, apricots and sweet peas
Of course Mother Nature is responsible not me
and of course the clever little bumble bees.

Well they all get mashed up
and placed in my home made vat
the aroma spreads for miles
led by next doors nosy cat.

The time you leave it matters a good deal
I like to leave the wine a good length of time
Then you know you have a decent brew
and produce quite a cheeky little wine.

Of course if you want the sparkle
it is not that much work or trouble
Want a fizz to blow the cork sky high
Make you see double with the bubble?

Add extra yeast or at least that's what I do
oh yes you are left with quite a fantastic beast
spread it on toast and float on the surface
looks disgusting and it will be a frothy yeast.

But whatever the weather whatever the tide
you are sure to have sometime to decant
Whether it will make the neighbours talk
you have produced something significant.

Pour them a drop of the old plonk
bottoms up, see you soon and good old cheers
Its fantastic this home made brewing idea
the best home made brew in years.

Have I been here before,
Under the limes?
The brush sweeps sighs
Behind me, wooden footfalls echo
Into the density of crushed
Red velvet seating.

Plinkerty-plank-plonk,
Boney tendrils find a drunk man
Blundering his way home,
Gone midnight, wet and sorry.
The audience having left, amused
But ultimately dissatisfied.

The limes ghost across the blackened stage.
The black piano grins, then laughs,
A breathless wind across the strings at last,
For I have left the building.

Don't feel well
Abela
turns in bed
eyes closing
too much wine

cheap old plonk
I tell her

don't like wine

did last night

need a bowl

don't have one
use the bog

she rushes
to the bog
and vomits

I sit down
have a smoke
listening

that waitress
who served us
yesterday
fancies me

Abela
shouts to me
I don't care
about her
I feel ill
need to rest

she vomits
once again

you go out
take that tour
she tells me

not going
without you

I can't go
not today
she comes back
with a bowl
I found this
in the bog
got to sleep

so she creeps
into bed
with the bowl

the waitress
did not have
a cute ***
not like my
Abela
when she's well
or unwell.

Miss Pinkie
opens her door
and smiles.

I see you brought
some wine,
good boy;
go through
to the lounge.

She takes
the bottle of plonk from me
and I go through
and sit
on the white sofa.

She's playing
the Delius LP
I bought her.

The lounge smells
of perfume
and a touch of *****.

She comes in
with two glasses of wine
and puts them
on the coffee table.

How are you?

Not bad, not good.

Somewhere in between?

Guess so.

She sits down next to me;
her left hand touches my knee;
she's starting early.

I like places in between.

I guess you do.

You know I do.
She smiles;
her dimples explode.

I see you've put on Delius.

Yes, he's good.

Like me.

Hardly, my boy, hardly.
Her hand
moves up my thigh.

I pick up my glass
and sip.

Her hand reaches
my in between
and I almost choke
on the wine.

Are you multi-tasking?

No,
just sipping my wine.

She's nineteen years
my senior;
she's like a poor man's
Marie Antoinette
in looks.

She picks up her glass
and gulps the wine down.

That's how one drinks wine;
do you think the Romans
sipped wine?

I gulp down my wine;
feel light-headed;
put down the glass.

On here
or in my bed?

Don't mind.

Indecision
shows indifference.

I smell her perfume;
it engulfs me.

Her hand resumes
its search of paradise;
her red-nailed fingers
reach home;
my pecker stirs
like a woken snake.

Here is best.

Thought so,
she says.

She removes
her lower garments,
I look away;
too much
of a good thing
kind of philosophy.

Delius plays on,
but I prefer Mahler
alongside
****** activity,
he has more passion,
more sensuality.

She lays back.

I lower
my lower garments.

Her phone rings,
rattles on
the nearby shelf.

She gets up
and waddles
to the phone
and answers.

Hello, how are you?

No, I’m ok.

Can't make it tonight
I’m a bit *******.

Tomorrow?
Yes, should be fine.

Bye-bye.

I sit there,
watching
her plump backside;
Delius has ended
and so have I.

A sense
of disappointment
and a big
warm sigh.

ALWAYS THE SAME DREAM

"PING!" goes the microwave.
"PING!" goes the yet-again-Internet.

The Lady of Shallot
deletes Lancelot

from her facebook
friends.

She pokes Tennyson but Tennyson
doesn't like to be poked.

The world and its shadows
stream through her BT provider.

A post informs her that
"Popty Ping!" is Welsh

for microwave.
She clicks Like.

Doesn't remember when she
last interfaced with the real

world
the big bad world

that huffs and puffs
outside the frosted glass.

She posts a new status:
"Agoraphobics are people too!"

What was Tennyson thinking of?
She didn't ask to be created!

A woman made from "words
words...words. . .words!"

"The curse has come upon me!"
She has run out of Lil-Lets.

"Chop shallots & simmer
lightly in butter, then. . ."

the Youtube video
instructs her.

She finishes yet another
bottle of cheap plonk.

It's so hard to be
a fictional character

in a modern world
that's gone digital.

She thinks of Googling herself
but then thinks twice of it.

She falls asleep on the couch.

The cat perches on top of her head.

In her dream she is
forever floating...floating

"On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky"

It's always the same dream.

ALWAYS THE SAME DREAM

"PING!" goes the microwave.
"PING!" goes the yet-again-Internet.

The Lady of Shallot
deletes Lancelot

from her facebook
friends.

She pokes Tennyson but Tennyson
doesn't like to be poked.

The world and its shadows
stream through her BT provider.

A post informs her that
"Popty Ping!" is Welsh

for microwave.
She clicks Like.

Doesn't remember when she
last interfaced with the real

world
the big bad world

that huffs and puffs
outside the frosted glass.

She posts a new status:
"Agoraphobics are people too!"

What was Tennyson thinking of?
She didn't ask to be created!

A woman made from "words
words...words. . .words!"

"The curse has come upon me!"
She has run out of Lil-Lets.

"Chop shallots & simmer
lightly in butter, then. . ."

the Youtube video
instructs her.

She finishes yet another
bottle of cheap plonk.

It's so hard to be
a fictional character

in a modern world
that's gone digital.

She thinks of Googling herself
but then thinks twice of it.

She falls asleep on the couch.

The cat perches on top of her head.

In her dream she is
always floating...floating

"On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky"

It's always the same dream.

Wallace Stevens
Wazzup?
With the widows and the maidens?
The name
dropping
the distancing vocabulary that
we scurry to look up
look up
train our eyes
train.
If I came into your office, in downtown
Hartford a city
I knew framed - as my father grew up in
Wethersfield always said
be careful –
downtown Hartford is
not a good place to be alone.
So I saunter, prink, and
perambulate
plonk myself
past your receptionist.
A widow?
And she’d holler:
-Mr. Wallace I asked her to stop!
And your desk which you requested almost 15 years ago
already looks out of date in too heavy oak is
caught between us, a horizontal surface filled
with paper.
There will be one sentence.
And one exclamatory remark.
-Wallace, you’re only human -  you put your pants on
one leg at a time.
-No!
he says, jumping up from his desk,
-Watch!
He undoes his belt, he drops his trousers
he steps out of them –
He steps out one leg at a time.
BUT
Wallace Stevens, god bless him,
arranges his pants carefully on the floor of the
Hartford Accident
and
Indemnity Company
just so.
And grinning,
hops into both puddled legs
at the same time.
Then bends over and hoists the waistband
the belt dangling
in triumph.
Lesson learned.
Learned, schooled like
St. Ursule with her radishes
Just another lady
Just another confabulist
Just another story.

The water trickles slowly out of the faucet.
Plink plonk
Raindrops leaping to their deaths.
And I fear that when the last one falls,
Nothing will remain of me.

ALWAYS THE SAME DREAM

"PING!" goes the microwave.
"PING!" goes the yet-again-Internet.

The Lady of Shallot
deletes Lancelot

from her facebook
friends.

She pokes Tennyson but Tennyson
doesn't like to be poked.

The world and its shadows
stream through her BT provider.

A post informs her that
"Popty Ping!" is Welsh

for microwave.
She clicks Like.

Doesn't remember when she
last interfaced with the real

world
the big bad world

that huffs and puffs
outside the frosted glass.

She posts a new status:
"Agoraphobics are people too!"

What was Tennyson thinking of?
She didn't ask to be created!

A woman made from "words
words...words. . .words!"

"The curse has come upon me!"
She has run out of Lil-Lets.

"Chop shallots & simmer
lightly in butter, then. . ."

the Youtube video
instructs her.

She finishes yet another
bottle of cheap plonk.

It's so hard to be
a fictional character

in a modern world
that's gone digital.

She thinks of Googling herself
but then thinks twice of it.

She falls asleep on the couch.

The cat perches on top of her head.

In her dream she is
forever floating...floating

"On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky"

It's always the same dream.

Groggy Poggy burp and watch the girls run
Groggy winter mornings
Porgy weeps and moans
plonk plonk plonk he yawns
a hiccup here and a hiccup there
****** by far by a pint too many
at bad Bob's bar.
Burppppp!!!
now his day a     blue palaver
oooh poor Porgy                        oooh all groggy

                             mr Hangover

         go back to bed and try again tomorrow.

i've had this massive falling out with my father today,
he came back from work: roofing... but he's getting
old so he's not harrowed with production...
he's more into taking care of details... he's more a technician
than anything...
so we've been doing up the garden for the past
month or so... i did all the groundwork...
levelled the area for him to now fiddle about with
60 x 90cm? 30 x 90cm? whichever slabs...
right... so i made him this steak salad for lunch...
and i was readying myself to make dinner...
roast chicken, chips... asparagus and quickly poached
leftover pepper (from the lunch) -
then again: i poach vegetables quickly... all...
   i like to eat vegetables likes i might bite into roast
chicken bones... i like the crunch...
     so he took off his commuter clothes
        dressed himself pretty in his: i'm going into the garden
to do some work with the slabs... sure sure...
i stuff the chicken with some lemons
and address the ******* by feeling under the skin
and lodging knobs of butter underneath...
hell... the oven is warm... you have 40 minutes...
the chips (FWECH FWIES) came in 20 minutes
down the countdown...
  i take the chicken out: because it has to rest...
you have 10 minutes...
o.k. o.k. he replies like a Joe Pesci / Leo Getz
from Lethal Weapon... but not really...
               this is me reimagining "things"...
   i lose my temper come the 20 minute mark...
i start employing onomatopoeias
                   for the sound of hammer strikes in between
oath words akin to: kurva: which are... less oath words...
nothing blasphemous here... oaths! oaths!
**** **** **** this happened! to reiterate!
the excuse came back: i'm not coming
because i have wet cement...
          wet cement?! i have a pretty hot chicken
and pretty hot fries and pretty hot asparagus waiting!
what's cement?! ******* liquid nitrogen?!
we argued: of course we argued...
that's how we show our love for each other...
in the end i had to call my mother who is visiting
a dentist and her mother back in Poland
because her number 1 fell out while
biting into a bun... ha ha... not on bone:
but on a bun... teeth are funny...
              i must have had 3 dreams exclusively
about teeth... hey! Freud! why do i dream
about teeth?!
     metaphor my **** up your ******* sprinkled
*** you 19th century "ground-breaker"...

see... i'm a man that gets drunk from anger...
ebrius ex ira...
   i kept telling him: you want to eat ****?!
there's an aesthetic about eating something!
there's a ******* aesthetic...
i'm tall... 6ft2... but i have a very short temper...
my temper comes in at 5ft1...
those ******* hammer blows to the slabs
to level then: plonk plonk plonk...
i'm sitting there waiting as the chicken cools
and the chips get crispier...

alright fool! keep harrowing!
arbeit macht frei! ******* arbeit macht frei!

then he comes in and while about to move
the chicken from the baking tray
to the cutting boat he pounces at me with some
random comment... i spill the chicken juices
on the floor and start cleaning...
ooh... you're spreading it all over the kitchen...
like you ******* clean the house...
don't worry...

     i plate everything up and then he imagines himself
as: ooh... maybe i need more sand...
that's it... i SNAP...
    my mother has this mysterious Zodiac-narrative
in her head... she's a Pisces...
i'm a Taurus... my father is an Aries...
she usually says something along the lines of:
i'm the fishes swimming between two horned
men...
yeah... but it wasn't Aries that ***** Europa...
was it?!

i reiterated to him: you don't eat food
to stuff yourself... forget what Socrates said:
what did he say?
oh: some people eat to live...
while others eat to live...
no! you're not feral! you're no werewolf!
so he grabbed a slice of multi-oat... ****... what does
it matter... oats... rye... sunflower seed loaf
and a slice of cheese...
i had to call my mother in Poland because
by then my "cool" was completely lost...
talked to mother...
listen... he said i've been drinking...
"i'm supposedly drunk": SEPLENIE...
a term for: mixing vowels with consonants...
akin to slurring...
    
   listen... i just did three days solid...
this is my day off... i'm relaxing... some of my faculties
will follow up with me on: SLOW MODE...
but he doesn't get it... i feel exasperated:
this is my ultimate insult...
what's my ultimate insult?! you won't break bread
with me, i.e. you will not eat with me...
not ******* western secular restaurant *******...
i mean: sit next to me: Asian style...
eat with me... yes? no?!

so i call her and tell her this exasperated...
he comes back... with his *******: SAND...
and i tell him: mother called...
pet names?! they call each other beaks...
dziób... dziób dziób...
beaks of birds...

so when he came back with his *******: SAND...
i told him... mother just called..
call her back...
ah... the English double-face came back
out... we were arguing just 10 minutes ago...
but while talking to his woman:
my mother... all ******* butterflies and lilies!
no wonder i prefer prostitutes...
i couldn't keep a woman...
i remember this: it wasn't an itch...
this numbing ******* sensation of people
not familial to me using my things...
Nintendo console... that was a big
give-away... i sort of liked the limp-**** sensation
overpowering my entire body...
it wasn't an erectile dysfunction: i was only 8...
but something invisible was
nibbling at me... something communist-esque...

i can't pin-point it to any foreseeable detail
of interest for a spectator...
it's personal... it's truly personal...
it's not an itch... it's not a harrowing:
it's a oyster-numbing sensation...
i best associate with oysters being digested...
hey... that's the best i can do...
it's a feeling best associated with
oysters being digested...

     oysters dipped in acid...
of the stomach...
ha... i don't haffe an exoskeleton...
yet i keep hydrochloric acid contained in my gut!

point being: i had a little retrospective moment...
father said he was bullied when he was younger
because he was raised by a surrogate grandfather
and his father was drunk who used to lie about on
park benches...

no... that's not true: according to my maternal
grandfather... he was a drunk... for sure...
but when work was required: he worked...
ahem... ahem... let me clear my ******* throat:
M'AH BODY M'AH CHOICE... no?
don't you ******* throw dry foetuses at
me, woman! when you're not being a, woman!

also: my body... my choice!
         i'll drink in my spare time to excesses you
can't handle... and i will...
and then when i sober up i'll trickle the money
i've earned to the prostitutes...
because?!
i bring neither peace or war to this pact
of: we're peer pressured into a shared existence...
are we?
no!

           you want to know something...
i'm here for the lyrics of a King Crimson song...
i'm hardly coming with either sword
or a quill... i come with a question mark:
dot dot dot ? hello...

             i come with chaos...
i come with questions... i come with what's
worthy: and as man ought to know from the beginning:
there's only the question-worthiness that's
ever to be allowed... that i have to peer into
this democracy en masse... this... "democracy":
this water of man...
from ***** to the hollowing crowd...

quench! i strike myself to tease feeling bones
in my spirit: somewhat lost...
no war... no peace...
just the revolving circle of interests
and expertise!
                       can't we be satiated by simply that?!

learn my ancient tongue of nacht and nothing!
believe me how belittling some if not most
of you have become... herded little creatures
with thoughts as if screams!
with thoughts as if screams!
           with dreams nothing more than
reinterpretations of drowning!
with dreams nothing more than
reinterpretations of drowning!
                     dearest labour of the god existent
or non-existent... save me from these
silenced lambs!

Life’s a very busy thing
And rushes by so fast,
And since inertia rules this world
It cannot help but last.  

Transactions plonk the daylight hours,
And revels blot the dark.
There is a grimy window near
That looks on a glum park.

My autumn leaves a trace
of cravings.
How nice
      to watch them plonk
                their bubbly blues.
There bitter
            meets the nagging,
Namely,
Grey collides
            with crimson spleen
                      of sour overdues.
                      
I treat them all
As seasonal and timely.
It's cool to feel
      what is corrupt
        in their shallow kinds.
There nastiest are marked
between the lines of mildly
            put regrets
                  as looming shades
Of glasses oozing wine.

It all has been at least concerning
But never even eaten me
a while.
To me
     there's no such thing
                              as tables turning.
To you
    it may as well seem only
             a breath of wind.

BREAKFAST AT TILLY'S

clink of spoon against cup
coffee bubbling up
baby's laughter

the smell of sound...the sound of smell
morning waking up
the kitchen

memory creates
an echo of you
ties you to this time

daughter & dolly
plonk themselves in front of me
"We are feeling very much loved...thank you!"

ALWAYS THE SAME DREAM

"PING!" goes the microwave.
"PING!" goes the yet-again-Internet.

The Lady of Shallot
deletes Lancelot

from her facebook
friends.

She pokes Tennyson but Tennyson
doesn't like to be poked.

The world and its shadows
stream through her BT provider.

A post informs her that
"Popty Ping!" is Welsh

for microwave.
She clicks Like.

Doesn't remember when she
last interfaced with the real

world
the big bad world

that huffs and puffs
outside the frosted glass.

She posts a new status:
"Agoraphobics are people too!"

What was Tennyson thinking of?
She didn't ask to be created!

A woman made from "words
words...words. . .words!"

"The curse has come upon me!"
She has run out of Lil-Lets.

"Chop shallots & simmer
lightly in butter, then. . ."

the Youtube video
instructs her.

She finishes yet another
bottle of cheap plonk.

It's so hard to be
a fictional character

in a modern world
that's gone digital.

She thinks of Googling herself
but then thinks twice of it.

She falls asleep on the couch.

The cat perches on top of her head.

In her dream she is
forever floating...floating

"On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky"

It's always the same dream.

Cats are mystical  creatures.
Their moods are rangeful;
when its hot they plonk themselves
on your lap,
when its cold they sleep all day
Do they think it be better in the night?
And of course if you are afraid of them
they instinctively sit next to you
hoping you unlearn your fear !
A cat can never be a cliche
they are too cunning
its up to us humans
second guessing them.