ENDNOTES:

(1)  ll. 1-9 are preserved by Diodorus Siculus iii. 66. 3; ll.
     10-21 are extant only in M.
(2)  Dionysus, after his untimely birth from Semele, was sewn
     into the thigh of Zeus.
(3)  sc. Semele.  Zeus is here speaking.
(4)  The reference is apparently to something in the body of the
     hymn, now lost.
(5)  The Greeks feared to name Pluto directly and mentioned him
     by one of many descriptive titles, such as 'Host of Many':
     compare the Christian use of O DIABOLOS or our 'Evil One'.
(6)  Demeter chooses the lowlier seat, supposedly as being more
     suitable to her assumed condition, but really because in her
     sorrow she refuses all comforts.
(7)  An act of communion -- the drinking of the potion here
     described -- was one of the most important pieces of ritual
     in the Eleusinian mysteries, as commemorating the sorrows of
     the goddess.
(8)  Undercutter and Woodcutter are probably popular names (after
     the style of Hesiod's 'Boneless One') for the worm thought
     to be the cause of teething and toothache.
(9)  The list of names is taken -- with five additions -- from
     Hesiod, "Theogony" 349 ff.: for their general significance
     see note on that passage.
(10) Inscriptions show that there was a temple of Apollo
     Delphinius (cp. ii. 495-6) at Cnossus and a Cretan month
     bearing the same name.
(11) sc. that the dolphin was really Apollo.
(12) The epithets are transferred from the god to his altar
     'Overlooking' is especially an epithet of Zeus, as in
     Apollonius Rhodius ii. 1124.
(13) Pliny notices the efficacy of the flesh of a tortoise
     against withcraft.  In "Geoponica" i. 14. 8 the living
     tortoise is prescribed as a charm to preserve vineyards from
     hail.
(14) Hermes makes the cattle walk backwards way, so that they
     seem to be going towards the meadow instead of leaving it
     (cp. l. 345); he himself walks in the normal manner, relying
     on his sandals as a disguise.
(15) Such seems to be the meaning indicated by the context,
     though the verb is taken by Allen and Sikes to mean, 'to be
     like oneself', and so 'to be original'.
(16) Kuhn points out that there is a lacuna here.  In l. 109 the
     borer is described, but the friction of this upon the
     fireblock (to which the phrase 'held firmly' clearly
     belongs) must also have been mentioned.
(17) The cows being on their sides on the ground, Hermes bends
     their heads back towards their flanks and so can reach their
     backbones.
(18) O. Muller thinks the 'hides' were a stalactite formation in
     the 'Cave of Nestor' near Messenian Pylos, -- though the
     cave of Hermes is near the Alpheus (l. 139).  Others suggest
     that actual skins were shown as relics before some cave near
     Triphylian Pylos.
(19) Gemoll explains that Hermes, having offered all the meat as
     sacrifice to the Twelve Gods, remembers that he himself as
     one of them must be content with the savour instead of the
     substance of the sacrifice.  Can it be that by eating he
     would have forfeited the position he claimed as one of the
     Twelve Gods?
(20) Lit. 'thorn-plucker'.
(21) Hermes is ambitious (l. 175), but if he is cast into Hades
     he will have to be content with the leadership of mere
     babies like himself, since those in Hades retain the state
     of growth -- whether childhood or manhood -- in which they
     are at the moment of leaving the upper world.
(22) Literally, 'you have made him sit on the floor', i.e. 'you
     have stolen everything down to his last chair.'
(23) The Thriae, who practised divination by means of pebbles
     (also called THRIAE).  In this hymn they are represented as
     aged maidens (ll. 553-4), but are closely associated with
     bees (ll. 559-563) and possibly are here conceived as having
     human heads and ******* with the bodies and wings of bees.
     See the edition of Allen and Sikes, Appendix III.
(24) Cronos swallowed each of his children the moment that they
     were born, but ultimately was forced to disgorge them.
     Hestia, being the first to be swallowed, was the last to be
     disgorged, and so was at once the first and latest born of
     the children of Cronos.  Cp. Hesiod "Theogony", ll. 495-7.
(25) Mr. Evelyn-White prefers a different order for lines #87-90
     than that preserved in the MSS.  This translation is based
     upon the following sequence: ll. 89,90,87,88. -- DBK.
(26) 'Cattle-earning', because an accepted suitor paid for his
     bride in cattle.
(27) The name Aeneas is here connected with the epithet AIEOS
     (awful): similarly the name Odysseus is derived (in
     "Odyssey" i.62) from ODYSSMAI (I grieve).
(28) Aphrodite extenuates her disgrace by claiming that the race
     of Anchises is almost divine, as is shown in the persons of
     Ganymedes and Tithonus.
(29) So Christ connecting the word with OMOS.  L. and S. give =
     OMOIOS, 'common to all'.
(30) Probably not Etruscans, but the non-Hellenic peoples of
     Thrace and (according to Thucydides) of Lemnos and Athens.
     Cp. Herodotus i. 57; Thucydides iv. 109.
(31) This line appears to be an alternative to ll. 10-11.
(32) The name Pan is here derived from PANTES, 'all'.  Cp.
     Hesiod, "Works and Days" ll. 80-82, "Hymn to Aphrodite" (v)
     l. 198. for the significance of personal names.
(33) Mr. Evelyn-White prefers to switch l. 10 and 11, reading 11
     first then 10. -- DBK.
(34) An extra line is inserted in some MSS. after l. 15. -- DBK.
(35) The epithet is a usual one for birds, cp. Hesiod, "Works and
     Days", l. 210; as applied to Selene it may merely indicate
     her passage, like a bird, through the air, or mean 'far
     flying'.
__
The Homeric Hymns in the Hello Poetry collection are provided by:
Online Medieval and Classical Library.
Source site: http://omacl.org/Hesiod/hymns.html

it only took the gherkin to take modern into modern via pickle, but the cabbage pickled dome of the albert hall opera was lost to foe foe foo dub step pluck the plucker of twang of drop d uncool; ah wait, gherkin acne pimples roughage missing on the cabbage suckled, with the flush into oyster moisture past the sexed up morbid cupping of the five fingers telling pistons from pistons? i said as much about my ******* as i did about her mouth, just now, and i wash it off and wash it down shaking hands rather than kissing my children goodnight excusing the **** talking sweet chock choke goodnights; well, it's hard to be credited with womanising when only "polygamy" with prostitutes suffices; but i'll just tell you... swan lake was too loud thanks to the ballerinas' stomps... hated ballet... god curse i will be cursed with sisyphus' labours... i rather roll that stone than hear ballerinas dance once more!*

let the male cat roam and lay rampage to the night, the she-cat sleeps in, then on the third call for ginger: quarus! quarus! nothing... quarus! it begins to rain... shamanism without the safety-net of psychiatry for post-colonial nations trying behaviourism without anger, with anger sterilised, and certain french thinking of fascination with death and suicide with suicidal thought censored for no reason other than not worked with... well, that better be wellington thick rubber on the phallus when i ask for my money back guarantee nine months later.

She bleeds the fire from her eyes,.
She plucks the stars from her lonely skies,.
Places them in pockets of her soul,.
Forever longing to fill the rust lined holes,.
This systematic destruction of her esteem,.
The end result of the liars' horrible dream,.
She believes her path is lined with coals,.
Burning their mark between her toes,.
Replacements for the stars she takes away,.
That lose their glory the next day,.
Forever seeking out a happy future,.
Ironically pulling out her beautiful sutures,.
Bleeding upon the liars' harvest floor,.
With nothing but hatred and their seed, they return for more,.
She smiles and says it is okay,.
When the one she loves wants her to stay,.
He throws the stars back into the sky,.
As she walks toward the men that lie,.
Once again she will try to believe,.
That she is is all right,.
That these men that take her as a sacrifice,.
And leave her in the bed,.
Sobbing while she looks to the sky,.
And takes down the stars that fill her eyes,...,.,

In the gutter she sits.
It's raining again.
The drain is calling to the bobbing twig.
The twig that she snapped from the sapling.

She's so bored,mummy's at work again.
Now she's sitting in the rain.
Ripples at the flow with her cheap laced up shoes.
Her shoes all stained with salty water residue.
Kicking at the water.
She truly is her mother's daughter.
Stubborn to the rotten core.
Mother's job is not too pleasant.
She's a pheasant plucker.
She always works on rainy days.
Her daughter knows not what she does.
Mummy says it won't be long.
You know she needs the money.

She oughts go home.
But she'll still be alone.
The owl in the tree at roadside suggests she finds a towel.
Great notion, but little lassie can't speak owl.

The sky's wide open now.
It's pouring frown.
Releasing it's stress.
Wet shoes, wet skirt.
Sodden hair, soggy vest.
Supposes she really should go home.
Her hair's just a dripping mess.
Soggy tresses.

Time to go home little girl.
Mummy may be worried.
(c) Livvi

So ****** cold
and yet to hit deep freeze.

We love long Johns,
we love long Johns,
we love foot longs.

Have to use a pair of tweezers
to pull a hair out of
a hot bowl of soup;
when asked 'what are you doing with those,
I answer 'what do you think I'm doing,
they're pluckers,plucker'.

© copyright 2013

All Rights Reserved

Who was it tried to tell you
when the bells were tolling for you
and Quasimodo yelled to warn you
of the fire which was to come?

Distanced angels
displaced devils
kept apart from congregations
were unconscious in the morning
when the ambulances came.

If it comes to anything at all
to show us how the mighty fall
then Jericho would win that prize,

I shut my eyes and go to sleep.

I WAS LOST,I WAS ALONE
           WHEN YOU CAME
     LIKE A  TWINKLING STAR
      INTO MY DARK NIGHTS
       AND I FOUND MYSELF
       AGAIN INTO MY GOOD
              OLD CLONE //

                      
     BUT I WAS NOT THAT LUCKY
         NOT THAT FORTUNATE
             BECAUSE LIFE HAS
          ALWAYS BEEN MURKY
                 AND CRUEL
          WITH ME AND MY FATE /
                
                
BUT NOW I WILL LIVE FULLY
                     BECAUSE
   YOU TAUGHT ME HOW TO BE
                   HAPPY
   MAYBE I WAS NOT YOURS
        OR YOU WERE MINE
  STILL I WILL SAY IT AGAIN
        YOU CHANGED ME//
              
ITS YOUR AURA THAT MADE ME
                     THINK
LIFE IN  NEW WAYS AND LOOKS
ITS  YOUR THOUGHT MADE MY DAYS   THAT IS WHY WHEN I RECOLLECT
                        YOU
         I CAN SEE  MY SOUL
                 THAT SAYS
         JUST LET IT HAPPEN
  JUST LET IT GO AS SHE WISHES /

IF I AM THAT ROSE YOU ARE
              THE PLUCKER
            WHO  DONT JUST
PLUCK BUT  CODDLES THE FLOWER,
MY DEAR MAYBE I AM NOT YOUR
                        LOVE
AND YOU ARE  MY NONE BUT  FOR
                        SURE
WE ARE LIKE SOME MYTHICAL  
        PIGEON AND DOVE//

I WISH ONE DAY I WILL MEET YOU
                        AGAIN
                         WHEN
       I WILL BECOME YOUR PAST ,
             BUT I WILL ALWAYS,
    REMEMBER YOU FOR MUST
THAT DAY IS NOT THAT FAR WHEN
                       YOU AND  
  I WILL BE ONE, AS MARRIAGES ARE  
               MADE IN HEAVEN
NOT HERE ON THIS MUNDANE
                        EARTH/

     PEOPLE  SEE LOVE STORIES  HERE
                    AND THERE
    BUT OUR BOND IS NOT SOMETHING
       ONE WILL  FIND EVER IN THIS
                         WORLD//

    IT WAS NOT YOUR FAULT OR MINE
         ITS OUR FATE THAT DREW
            THAT INDELIBLE LINE
       I PROMISE I WILL VISIT YOU
                     ONE DAY
  WHEN YOU MAY NOT BE MINE
      BUT OF SOME OTHER MAN
YOU WILL HESITATE ,YOU WILL CRY
BELIEVE ME DEAR, I WILL TRY NOT  
                       TO CRY/
    
PAIRS ARE  MADE ABOVE IN THE SKY
                      NOT EARTH
   ITS NOT OUR FAULT BUT THEIR'S
     WHICH KEEPS TELLING THEM
          TO KEEP SAFE THEIR
             MYTHS AND LIES//

    I WISH WE WILL MEET AGAIN
         SOMEWHERE ELSE
            NOT THIS EARTH
   WHERE EXIST NO BARRIERS
      AND NO SUCH BARS/

MAYBE WE WILL NOT BECOME ONE
           HERE ON THIS   EARTH
           BUT  MY DEAR SURELY
   THERE  IN SOME  AFTERWORLD
IT DOES NOT  MATTER  BECAUSE  YOU
                       TOLD ME
       PAIRS ARE MADE IN HEAVEN
                  NOT HERE  ////

Yanked me from my roots as if I were a ****,
he never did know he spilled all my seeds
For I was a flower
and he was a plucker,
I fell to the ground, and into the earth
I shed my former self, this is rebirth.

She is a bouncy dandelion

Dancer of wind

                             Fire

Eternity

Skin like
Ivory
And eyes of
Tea

Plucker of
Strawberries
                      violets
And daisies

Day-star child
                        ( I can see)

World flowers

Peaceful painter of
Simple complexities

And eyes

                little stories

She plucked eyebrows like she was plucking chickens, it was not her true vocation, nine quid an hour and a three week vacation in the summer,
the salon was an add-on to the dental surgery and some patients coming out from there looked like they'd been plucked too.

there was not much else to do in the one horse town, not since the one horse died,
no one had the appetite, not even on the specials night at the local takeaway.

she often thought of dying but her hair looked nice the way it was
and tattooing crossed her mind on more than one occasion
but she never felt the time was right,

thirty five years later
and
I swear
that was her,
the eyebrow plucker
used to be a
'looker'
but look at her now

i'm still trying to trace back a sudoku mistake...
how could i have made it...
it's not exactly the samurai / killer sudoku stratum...
i might not know,
exactly the order of the alphabet...
but at the same time i want to breathe...
so i'll write a little "impromptu"...
which this isn't... it has been festering like a wound
engaged in: giving a banquet to the whole
entourage of gangrene! of course: the ghost limb /
shank! don't be silly... gangrene associated
with the head is either a guillotined bottle-neck...
or... the lesser cousing: amiss...
of what would otherwise resemble:
the jaw that chatters, the hacksaw that bites...
but i made a mistake...
because i had "too much on my mind":
which is pretty much nothing...
i'm starting to question whether: primo...
i am to be qualified as a thinking thing...
and whether or not i'm not, quiet simply...
something empty: a vacuum with a: hello!
my name: if robert - call me bob sticker...
it's not so much a joke as... nothing more, either...
peacocking intelligence is...
the hiearchy structure is still "game"...
the poker is still: R-category...
but i guess i folded...
which is why i wondered as to why a sense
of *****... became a frivolous goosebump
of a sensation where they should be...
instead i found myself with a bulging
monsoon *****...
and this is not even a case of: when transgender
psychology tightens the grip on:
the common good - grammar...
gender neutral pronouns... what about the royal
we and one? we: the entourage...
one as all pronouns present...
i ****** up...
i blame it on the choice of notation...
the narrative should have read
Aa8 Bc9 Cc1 Cc7 Ac5 Aa5 Ca5 Ca7 Ca3 Ca3
on the usual gymnastics of...
but it wasn't working from this...

          A                  B                  C
   x     x     x     8     x     x     x     9     1
a x     x     x     x     x     7     x     x     x
   x     x     1     2     x     x     8     7     3
   6     x     9     x     7     x     x     x     x
b x     x     x     5     3     x     x     x     x
   x     3     x     x     x     x     5     1     2
   x     x     3     x     x     6     x     8     7
c 8     x     7     x     x     1     9     4     x
   1     x     6     x     x     8     3     x     x

why did i go for the Aa1 notation rather than
a A1(1) notation?
after all B8... b6... Bb86... P9 etc.

it's not like i'm bewildering myself
to solve the corona virus... either...
perhaps i'm just, "investigating"...
a small step for man...
one giant leap for mankind... but then that
is not true...

if you still read newspapers...
this is what a pedantic corner of a newpaper looks
like... journalism pumping public
opinion is one thing in the tabloid press...
quiet another, elsewhere...

for better or for worse:
this is the until: we part on... death can have its
mythology and personification with
scythes and a harem of shadows
that would replace the lava lamp for...
one of those atmospheric evenings smoking
marijuana... and telling each other...
how that's supposed to... exemplify *******...
which came prior to one of us trying
out a full-body b.d.s.m. gimp suit...
with a zipper for the genitals to: plucker out...
or some other ingenius monstrosity
of the bedroom...
but none of the prior...
it's not like these were ever... "fetishes" or...
were, even "somehow" driftwood in the unconscious...
seeing how others have explored these
avenues...

i'm not too sure where i went wrong...
call it a distraction call it a weather warning....
call it... just coming out from a stanley kubrick
omnibus - back to back oeuvre binge...
or some whacky said: some other...
friend of a friend...

the other narrative read as follows
Cb7 Ab7 Bc7 Bc3 Cc1 Cc2 Cc6 Cc5 Ab5 Ac5 Bc5 Bc2
Cb9 Cb8 Ca4 Cb4 Cb3 Cb6 Aa7 Ab1 Ab8
Ab2 Ab4 Bb4 Bb8 Bb1 Bb2 Bb6 Bb9 Ba3 Ba5 (Ac6) Ba1
Ca5 Ac2 Aa8 Aa6 Aa3 Aa9 Aa4 Ba4 Bc4 Bc9 Ac9 Ac4

i call this the parallel adventure of the the synonym:
me solving a sudoku puzzle is a bit like...
a bureucrat / civil servant sharpening a pencil...

a frenchman would have, a german would have...
written some existential narrative...
i wrote: why i solved one sudoku puzzle...
but didn't solve another...
because... thinking go in the way...
thinking about nothing -
origins reflexive... and nothing as expansive
as would be allowed via: origins reflective...

habitual preoccupations if not stressors...
one could allow oneself to watch paint dry...
but then one should allow onself to watch ice melt...
otherwise figure out a seat next to Heraclitus next
to a river... or a neat next to Narcissus beside a lake...
or a puddle...
or... a seat next to a stone that isn't a stone
that is a mountain with Sisyphus...
each one will do...

as one is expected to write such *******...
when one's shadow abandons one...
perhaps to even the scores of a diagnosis...
bi-lingual: ******-            evidence!
what force of wanting to keep the would-be
integrated blossom... who... rebelled and said:
i will retain my mother,
my tongue... and my skull...
hence this mongrel: i, i...
or what's the lesser mirror: the water, the glass...
the need for night, for shadow...
for timid time...
and the shared common threshold:
to bounce back from an omni-: in the litany of:
flu-like symptoms -
giving cursor for sponge-like...
lava roasted - poached squid brain burdened
episodes of the hominids... **** similis:
apes clapping and laughing playing backgammon
and confusing it with checkers... and checkers
with chequers...

queries: none applicable: queues? all...
primo cue? qua in quaestio: quo vadis?
a self-proclaimed deconstruction cascade of
the alphabet... none speculated...
trying to be overtly "smart" most anticipated...
a burden in-and-of-itself: stipulated...
a congestion of rhyme...
no couplets yes of everything, else: presented...

de profundis clamere ad te domine;
this is a razor's edge a drowning man would
grip onto... upon the sea...
this lingua mare...
and given this is not some lucky driftwood...
it's enough: to equal both the discomfort
from having written it...
as not having written it.

( either thrown beneath the trodding gods' apathy
and higher, rising, contempt -
or having to squalor in man's pyramids -
myriad grain on a heap -
consort or meander in the dung heap -
the mouthful of maggots -
      in this flesh eat flesh and the ******* of
bone-marrow of a couldron of human intrigue...
either...
          mad-riddled among the gods...
or castrated and shamed among fellow men...
in my cusp: a tenderness of beauty -
an imitation bowl or at least 10 volumes worth
of tablespoons - as that:
a ferocious gulping down of water...
               and at what point is death merely
a translator of the three factions...
                        of the harvest: a perpetual presence
as one would say: one born every minute...
what personification what mythology
      when... one is always oh so busy... ) a lovecraftian
                                                       pre-scriptum...
                                  
   interlude: thomas and timothy take to dancing
in limbo... thomas wears the stilletos...
timothy dons the straitjacket...

          and for lack of a better word...
when the jazz comes on there's no one wearing
corsets - or anyone who has any stoicism
leftovers... no wise-up maxims no other
in-depth and later let's call it life...

       some call it lazy - some call it lounging -
some even dare call it
an ottoman safina in a harem -
because... that better things to kneel on
when there's a required: height difference...
i can't imagine it otherwise...
the jazz comes on and these words
become: a blob of custard imitating bubbles
as it bubbles away...

                      a stoic striptease of language...
some have it in them...
the raw edible parts that become
a steak tartar...
                          red garland anywhere
but here... a miles davis quintet
playing ascenseur pour l'échafaud...
lift to the gallows...

        it has become a terrible, a most terrible
regret of mine:
to be somewhat easy on the eyes
and having a firm belief in education...
too bad this ambitions doesn't
translate into mandarin and back...

not gifted with an a priori outsider status...
i have to compete for...
what my father didn't beat me...
but i do remember that one time
my mother taught my a thing or two
about leather and belt...
but that's a non-contest memory...
you need to be the christ
and the father is asking for you to be crucified
thus becoming the
greenwich mean-time for over 2000 years...

shove a lovecraftian god into the affair...
although i haven't read any of it,
what's the worst that could come out of...
language that will not end up
being scribbled onto a postcard...
or made into a conversation over beer...
it either has to bloat and bamboozle my ergo-ergo
into a pop:
stray bullets... clinging into unwashed
dog hairs dragging along...
sweeping the cemented tiles...

the smell of a wet dog...
    the minor affairs of washing cats...
the screetching and scratches...
biscuit for a moon - a bite into the scythe...
crumbling and slowly melting chocolate...

two engineers came to my house today...
i greeted them with:
i'm sorry... i forgot how to speak...
i can write this: can you take this umbrella
and braille?
         the t.v. was sorted: somewhat...
i'll still have to phone up and deal with
the nitty-gritty woodcrawlers...

              a testament to: how to writer an,
autobiography, any alternative to this...

           i'm going through my jazz phase...
i've had my blues phase...
                   even by my current standards of
laconic - i didn't write anything better...
i just imagine all those autobiographies
that manage to shorten the passing of a year
into a single paragraph...
then allow the ghost, and writer...
to swoon in and scoop up some other
minor detail to throw back into the juggling act
of... a passing of a minute...

chip-on-my-shoulder! that's what "they" call it!
being educated is probably my single most
biggie of a regret...
            should have learned **** outside of school...
it's almost a sin to have loved learning...
but i never learned to be a terrible person...
a con- and that suffix -artist...
which is bad from the get-go...

               here's to drinking and interludes
with a lazy bladder!
   or not drinking and pretending that hours don't
double when everyone else is alseep...
and quadruple when the cats are sleeping...

because these words could somehow become
an event - an informal get-together when
the suits and skeletons are where they should
be: closet bound... but no, again: but no...

some variation of diatribe ensues -
and whenever you get a chance to exfoliate...
to don language like peacock feathers...
like some second to Konrad von Wallenrode -
not the right history...
or not...         tare here: a tier above becoming
better tailored...
improv. sequentials...

smoking  cigarette... feels less... less of anything...
esp. less of anything health related...
when listening to someone... healthily blow
out a tune from a sax or a hornet's needle: a trumpet...
the smoke is just the salt & pepper of
adding to the mystique of a listener...

imitation of writing and painting...
the nervous composition - tapping tapping tapping...
in any case not a frivolous amount
of "something"...

                jackson ******* met...
nikita the cossack... and.... cubism was left to
a fate akin to christine chubbuck -
that infamous myth of the immediacy of death...
when you shoot yourself in the head:
unlike Kafka who prescribed -
stabbing yourself in the heart...
too bad for the urban-myth of the cockroach
dying of starvation when decapitated...

the great injustice:
Kafka asked for his books to be printed
to enlarged scribbles...
they enlarged Bukowski's writing seeing just
how... oh but so little...
i call this: the statement of the nag...
the nagging daughter of a father-in-law
that would never allow...
            circus of words...
they still print books by Kafka by people
who are expected to read braille...
while they print Bukowski's books
expecting his oeuvre to become that of a Dumas...

i'm about this close to catching moths
and sneezing bookmarkrs made from
a dollop of dust... fingerprints and all...

a recurrent "theme"...
akin to: perhaps he's wondering why someone
would walk him into an empty prison
cell... and shooting him in the back of the head...
if he wasn't expecting him to lie
in that cell for a forthnight to come!

to better respect the bass...
whether in guitar form or: that sucker for
the plucker and:
no one was expecting to explain
a bow readied for a cello to him...
so... that's jazz...

                           i'm no better or: not exactly
worse... whatever this is...
i keep an immaculate list of affairs when
it comes to the confines of a living space...
i own two cats but my house doesn't
smell anything related to the scent of their furr...
or their **** or: god forbid the scent of
cat ****... it really doesn't take away from
cat's **** even if the male is castrated...
apparently the pungency of feline male ****
is not related to them owning a pair
of testicles...
i learned that... when i started to *******
by the tender, ripe, age... of being
unable to produce any *****...
so much for the dot dot clues...
                                        spasms of spam...

gregory corso had the voice...
but unlike a bukowski...
he wasn't doing a stoic striptease for:
the most basic forward of minimalism...
the lottery... and what's "better"...
before the mirror and how one would
begin to fashion beards and distinguish
them from a moustache...
the mullet from the comb-over...
and the focus came in the shadow
rather than... the pale ghost of the mirror...
or the lake... before the mirror started
to shine its sheen: snake shedding its skin...
no leftover boots to walk in...

beside the bedtime 20th century ref. -
that there are "too many poets"...
not right now there aren't...
well... there's enough of the rhyming kindred...
but what i'm looking at is...

                what if i had a fine peach ***
to go with the whole: golem affair?
thank god! there's "not enough" of us...
wording misers... but there's plenty of...
dissected body-parts clinging to the mirrors...
i'm content...

one more for the jazz fetish...
     and no more for the otherwise...
the "king" dons dawn as this crown...
and the night for his shawl...

                    in a language that only children
will understand... or borderline with...
the image...
                there are scratchings on
the wood... some believe them to be
the schematic of a future table, or chair...

the interpolation of:
soul as synonym of breath...
                         plato's reincarnation...
it was once upon deemed a lowering
of the "caste" should a man be reborn as a woman...
plato's take on gender dysphoria...
idle words thrown against the wind...

i almost wish i were about to striptease
into a stoic with a marcus "bukowski" aurelius...
but my tongue starts licking
the peacock and...            i have to forget whether
i'm moderately read...
or whether i have read at all...

           come to think of it...
for those that despise doubt...
       i much appreciate this plethora of feeling...
it's almost akin to being in love...
a darker, love...
how can one live with two certainties in life?
one being the impeding death of all mortal
itches... and the other: per se negatio - i.e. negation?

to be in love is to fall in love with
teasing and with doubting...
            to be reminded of it is... a labyrinth
of ecstasy!
             faith and negation are just
extreme certainties...
science the paradigm...
           but doubt... the plethora to
hercules' hydra...
                                      queen of thought
and the mind stuck to a pole...
peddle the wavering quivers of the winds
united...

then again: my words are not needed for the many...
or the better excuse:
insubordinate failure of a man...
reaching a grandfather status and a...
jolly ol' christmas to boot!

children: that one most prized asset of excuse...
to every other subsequent fancy of
events either being: to one's expectation...
or... lacklustre... sodden with grief
to sink into the depths of a watery grave...
of not having met expectations
to have given "it": the original investement in!

we could almost... unanimously ascribe
ourselves to a forgiveable wanton of:
raised in a nunnery... raised in an orphanage...
raised without psychoanalysis
or gender dysphoria to mind...
raised feral...
                            oh me... and my current concern
for a jazz fetish.

So now, after four weeks we can look for a job in any sector or be sanctioned and by sanctioned I don't think they mean like terminated although with this shower in power one never knows.

fukin amazin'
plenty of jobs to fit your face in,
I'd try for
brain surgeon,
chicken plucker
sleeping policeman
or I could be a
dumb waiter,
ha, that'll upset some
bearing in mind that
most waiters are not dumb.

This lot in parliament
don't seem to have a clue.

Filibustered, hanged by a quick quip of the head,
I write this afoot an altar made (your own)
I scab my finger until the tip bleeds down the nail bed.
I plucker the wheat you’ve sown: a soiled painting where the wall is blue.

When I do it, not a thought  is to prevail,
You? You peddle and you complain, sick *******.
Your crosses cover my light. Vexed, I too wail.

Then I run, run, and run no time, no rest to find.
You mean it when you say it, you do. I’d screech!
And quip, quip, quip. A quick prayer sails out your hind.

Whilst I wrote not slacking once dreading the end of you,
The weight of your stare lingered.
To me: a blight disguised in brown behind dead eyes I made my own.
You are alone.

In this hate you give, my God.
I’d worship with haste
but no valour nor truth.