Pneumatic bliss,
dissolution on a solenoid whim,
electrified soul as the tape ejects.

© H V Swan

For her day at the beach
She chose big time
Fun in the sun
And wore dental floss

Not real safe for the top heavy
Too strong a frolic
And she might well crash
Upon the shore like a tsunami

But that was the least
Of her problems this day
For when she bent over
You could see all the way
Down to Florida

Webster was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.

Daffodil bulbs instead of *****
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Tightening its lusts and luxuries.

Donne, I suppose, was such another
Who found no substitute for sense,
To seize and clutch and penetrate;
Expert beyond experience,

He knew the anguish of the marrow
The ague of the skeleton;
No contact possible to flesh
Allayed the fever of the bone.

    .  .   .   .  .

Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye
Is underlined for emphasis;
Uncorseted, her friendly bust
Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.

The couched Brazilian jaguar
Compels the scampering marmoset
With subtle effluence of cat;
Grishkin has a maisonette;

The sleek Brazilian jaguar
Does not in its arboreal gloom
Distil so rank a feline smell
As Grishkin in a drawing-room.

And even the Abstract Entities
Circumambulate her charm;
But our lot crawls between dry ribs
To keep our metaphysics warm.

i'm writing this letter for you.
you in the other room, i hear you through the wall,
talking
to yourself,
telling yourself secrets you never believe.
i have some i'd like to spill,
but every time i try,
the walls soak them up like
white cotton and
black ink.
i'd like you to hear something other than your own voice
and maybe you can hear me when
you read.
you brought me here.
took me with you when you left like
a trinket,
a memento of home,
something to hold in the night when regret is like
a knot of snakes
in your gut.
ibd driving you
to tangle limbs with another;
a facsimile of love
driving me.
i think now it was less love and more addiction.
less love and more stockholm syndrome,
a disorder i cultivated
to have a reason to stay with you, with you,
the most beautiful sledgehammer
i've ever seen.
euphonious dynamite.
you are thumbtacks in my eyes and dry clouds above my desert,
you drop through me like lead:
you are a pneumatic drill and i
am a porcelain doll,
a quail's egg
you shatter me and i know
i never had a chance -
who bets on a dead horse?
who spends all their faith on a pantheon
that rots as they watch.
you desiccate me decimate me and i let you.
you are a world war in the body of a girl,
and i am naught but
cannon fodder
and cotton mouth i read you poetry but the walls swallowed my words
and all you heard was breath
(isn't that enough that should be enough,
a gust of wind
a breeze;
and the spirit is nothing but air,
pneumatic:
cavitied and consecrated.
the walls swallowed its manifestations,
but you
felt my spirit on your skin)
but i am not
enough
you are tire tracks on my abandoned road and you
brought me with you whenever you ran and
never believed me when i told you that
(not every problem can be solved with a map
spread on the dashboard).
you don't care about solutions,  
though,
just avoidance and denial and
distraction,
you treat every vagrant
like god in disguise
you take every hitchhiker into your heart and carry them like tumors,
infirmity is contagious.
a gift the bodies share.
from you i received
an atrial septal defect;
a hole in my heart,
leaking  blood.
from you i received dysthymia and
a martyr complex.
from you i received knowledge:
[one: nobody is strong,
but some have reinforced their bomb shelters
with their own bones.]
[two: a baby doll, baby girl
thick wrists,
sick recurring pain in the form of mirrors,
bathroom stalls and naked form]
[three: a gasmask can't protect you from the poison in your veins.
believe me,
i tried]
[four: the gaps between your bones
will one day be filled
and you will feel whole]
[five: the blue lips of a deep sea diver
should not be idolized.
the only surgeries you perform should be on your own heart
so you wound no one but yourself
when your hands
shake.]
[six: i tried, i promise,
i tried,
i tried]
you are false sermons and i am a believer you are thumbtacks in my eyes and lightning flowers on my back.
when i perform self-surgery,
i will bisect my heart

take it with you when you run
i will stay behind
and speak to the walls.

when i first found about will alexander, i immediately bought three of his books: kaleidoscopic omniscience, compression & purity, the sri lankan loxodrome - i saw the potential, rekindled surrealism - perhaps a second peacock on the stage, as in more peacock of vocabulary, rather than a peacock of historical quanta merging (E. Pound).

i really do distrust this division in what science speaks
and what poverty stricken humanism speaks of -
i distrust it because science sediments itself supposing
humanism the pauper - science and all its immediate solutions,
humanism and all its delayed problems -
the new priests look so innocent - but i'm bothered,
i don't understand their need for awe-on-purpose -
the old priests demanded kneeling and an agonising
penitence - not a concept of predestination, but
this sort of minority report: you've done nothing wrong,
but we'll assume you already have, better than a microchip
implant, the idea, we'll use that, pre everything
limit the pro of everything, and catch you in a fishnet of
omni, it was too much, all in one go, in defence it started
with a mediator impersonal, Cartesian later Spinoza's
substance - partly due to the omni-etc., a shortcut -
the easiest way out - sure, if i went to a progressive school
rather than a catholic school in an Irish neighbourhood of
far-beyond the East End locality, i might have written
you L.S.D. filled poems, instead i start off tipsy working my
way around vocabulary that's adequate - hushing out
all possible onomatopoeia static in crude tongue -
ridicule feeds the beast, ridicule my prime loathing -
criticism well and truly accepted... ridicule feeds the beast -
but i mean, this perpetuated awe of scientists,
modern philosophy anti-Aristotelian does not begin
with awe, but with a ridicule of it, a disgust -
when did humanism ever experience awe? a stranger's
kindness would be a start, but even then there's hardly
any awe in it - it soon fades, scientists have immersed themselves
as prophets of awe's preservation, one picks up
a stone and speaks of a mountain, one draws a circle and
howls out the moon - i don't know how they can fake their
awe with so many certainties - so many facts -
awe reminds me of my first bicycle lesson, attempting
balance, failing, bruising a knee, and awe when
the balance was mastered - very short-lived, then the
drudgery of re-, i distrust scientific awe, primarily because
we're slowly no longer stepping out into the unknown,
we're stopping into knows and denies - not many unknowns
out there - except as in the case of Iraq, and Donald Rumsfeld,
known knows and there are known unknowns -
now... that's awe... i don't know who was keeping check
on this, but that's more mesmerising that explaining
1,000 million years ago... in a nutshell... how long has
this pneumatic drill of Darwinism been pumping custard
into our brain? is this the part where you tell me we're experiencing
the Alaskan day in the summer months or Alaskan night
in the winter months? all this scientific awe-bashing
is no longer vogue, but they keep at it - oh amazing, ah,
stupefying - and all of it just becomes a regurgitation -
someone said in the 16th century that Aristotle was wrong,
the wrong in Aristotle is that he might have been wrong,
but he was still perplexed... we're no longer perplexed creatures,
not so much... well maybe a bit when it comes to social justice,
but it's not like: sigh and a tear in your eye... it's more like:
if a white boy was shot from a private school, the mothers
and fathers would come up to the police officers with guns
in their hands... you can see awe vanishing when the butterfly
feelings flutter away silently... it's now violent awe:
why is this still happening?! huh?! scientific awe is not
a cushion you can fall back on: we have ~100 years to live
(if you're lucky... or unlucky) and we're being told of life
in caves and trees - Darwinism has hijacked history, this is
where science in written form is like an atom bomb, it wipes
away the best part of humanism, that is: to make human
life itemised on the microscopic level - i don't care if you
go to church and **** out alms for the poor and put on
those ruby shoes and walk the yellow-brick road,
you can't relate to Judea 10 a.d. - not to save your life -
in that famous motto *carpe diem - but strained it's not
so much seize the day, but... relate to the days and those
around you who share them: pertineo diebus - or something
like that, imagine, going to a Catholic school and they
don't even have the manners to teach you a bit of Latin slang,
travesty; but that's how it is, we're no longer awe-stricken
in what the scientists are selling us, fair-dos to
the medicine men, shampoo men, cologne men,
but the awe-invoking men are a bit n'ah-ah to me -
given the timescale for one -  i'm a simple man and i want
to enjoy my beer thinking about last Friday,
my life... not the collective origin of life, and whether
i was too hairy back then - you don't need theology to
argue this point, just a little bit of common sense self-respect,
last Friday, not 1,000 million years ago when there was
no Friday, no Sunday, no March, no human imprint -
no: i can touch it, i can feel it, i can see it... i want it.
just like in my dream today - it's rather strange that i dream,
i rarely do, but sometimes i remember one or two -
and all i can say is that - i had the best *** in my life
last night, asleep - yeah, i was ******* in it -
but what bothers me is that it wasn't lucid in terms of
images, but sensations - i can thus say it wasn't completely
impotent in terms of colour, but then again it was -
i'm starting to believe that i'm a blind-man in my dreams,
i ~see sensations rather than actual images in reel -
i can remember leaning against a wall and moving my
tongue in her mouth and my middle-and-ring fingers
into the... what? cliche? anatomic? *****? you choose -
a strange parallelism - we can use the tongue for such
eloquent fragments, and yet reduce it to other atrocities
of equal eloquence - then the whole dream-world changed
and i felt sitting at the tipping point where the sea meets
the beach sands, sitting down awash the waves and her sitting
on me. it's what i felt, i didn't see anything vivid -
but the sensations presented themselves as such -
i associate that with delving into writing in my mother tongue -
email / diacritics "crossword" (un-ditto and apply a
non-misnomer, i.e. give it a proper name, cf. Aristotle).
to finish i guess i might as well write a short critique:
the over-burdening of man with nouns -
as in will alexander's index of the sri lankan...
a few examples: proxima centauri (nearest star to our sun),
hemiopia (loss of vision for one half of the binocular field),
dukkha (buddhist term for suffering),
nystagmus (involuntary jerky movements of the eye),
nosophobia (morbid dread of some particular disease),
telesto umbriel larissa (moons of saturn, uranus
and neptune, respectively),
karina (egyptian demonology, a familiar attached
to a child at birth),
pretas (ghosts) -                                  or as some people say
including Christian Guerrero - 'they're just words...'
oh yes, and words are not the cogs in the machine?
just words... just words?! a banker's bonus is just
an array of... just numbers... why is this nonchalance
to these fundamental units? first they teach us to read
and write an escape the sunny harvests of the fields,
the easy mental but demanding physical life -
after the demanding physical life went our supposed
"ease" mental life changed into a demanding mental
life and an easy physical life... that's the problem with
establishing a suitable vocabulary in yourself, you can
sometimes overdo it, meaning not many people will
understand it, globalisation didn't save us from
the babylon ambition rekindled (whether myth or whatever,
it doesn't matter, read a book literally and you'll end
up realising what could have possibly been mere myth)...
all the above cited words from the index, by god, impressive,
but why would i pain myself to use a word that i'd
have to write an index to? globalisation and words from
Iran - southern coastal to be exact home to afro-iranians -
but locally it's just a ******* shish kebab and nothing more -
or central scotoma (area of the retina that's blind) -
all this vocab wall building is amazing, it really is,
a fortress at Acre - admirable... but then a return to the dull
grey reality of everyday speech - the painful art of poetry
reduced to a personal involvement with certain words -
it's heart-breaking, well, not for me, for Will it must be,
but hey, bought three of his books, that must have counted
for a cheeseburger and a portion of fries at some point
in his life.

Pounding bass.
Sub-sonic strobes.
Synthetic smoke.
Alone on the dance-floor
I was glad to see another
clubbers curves move in rhythm;
Uninhibited by the foot tapping brigade
who watched with intensity.

You edged ever closer
Till our smiles became infectious.
An uncertain bond of understanding,
amid an endless rush of acidic bleeps.
Uncluttered.
Uncrowded.
Mystically shrouded in transient beats,
we strangers come together in unity

Your hips move to the pneumatic bass
as transient hardhouse and
tribal breakbeats embrace,
The foot tappers again resume,
Spontaneous rushes
and some sulphur that is sour to taste.

We may have unzipped and consumed
to electronic tunes,
but the tune remains the same -
Beautiful stranger dream a dream for me
because now all we have between us is
Rain.

The veil lifted
from the mechanical slaughter
of the coastal engineers.

Waves crash in that soft,
whispering hiss. The sound that
is usually betrayed, contorted,
through terabytes of purchased bliss,
of a meditation wrought in sickness.

Freed of employment ties,
I stand at Earth's compromise.
Wavering boundaries broken,
conquered, and regained once more.

Cyclical, cynical, tempered battle.
War-torn property rolls in the throes
of the Moon, endless, gentle
discrepancies between land and sea.

I dip my hand in the brine. Long
written of, rarely encountered
in my daydream, salt unreal on the tongue,
only when spoken.

This roar, the old marginal sea,
it obliterates the pneumatic sounds of the
yellow-coated henchmen of progression.

Slaves, breaking backs to build roads
for the already-fallen pyramids,
already stolen marble coat and golden
spinning top,

we've dug it all out.

And the lighthouse winks. It winks
through the fast shadow of January's afternoon.
No land at the horizon, instead a sheet
of hostile, infertile water, and clouds
to stifle my lungs.

Oh, lighthouse; my childhood's end,
now but a lack of time taken to notice
you. You spindle-spin the light, powerful beacon.

You roll back the decades,
to times of ships and books;
of journeys born and placed
over profit's end.

This journey, this journey now so brief,
once dug by many, once an undertaking,
now one quiet train ride away.

Like a prophet, I strive. I strive
to notice Earth's balm,
the Mother and protector,
of all terrestrial innocence.

Bind me not in gravity, nor in debt.
Instead, let me scale the North Sea's
surface. To join the glamour of the
fairy-lit, tough Norwegian liners,
grey like Scottish shores.

Boundless power, opulent force
in a decaying town. City street lights
stretch up to bring the folk under the
dentistry light.

The groynes will hold this beach
like a girdle, as a holster of sand,
a harness for erosion, whilst the
traffic sounds signal lack of footfall;
mounted failure.

But, for evermore, the waves sing to us.
They sing the truth: that they will remain
long since our passing, long since the stench
of fumes; long since we've given up
on the fall.

With this and lightened body, brought
to betterment through cannabis and
Astral Selves, I turn to my life
and remember it well, as a fraction
of the entire self.

Kiss blown to darkened waters,
the paternal, cooing waves and whispers
of ancient whale, I turn back to the sand dunes
and hardy grassland.

A hotel stands at a distance,
privileged guests with fluorescent luggage,
and half-filled parking spaces,
whilst the Romans still stand in ruin.

That lighthouse weeps its goodbyes,
the sand drags me back in my prints,
knowing me, identifying me – careful police.
They sing, “Oh former tenant, Northern heat,
gentle visitor, help us cleanse your feet!”

Clumsily, I stagger back to my lifetime's
worth of worries. Back to the conglomerate
of blackened, distorted figures, sculptured
rain-soaked children, standing with feet
indiscernible from the globe beneath,

locked out of motion.

To them, I understand their isolation,
their helpless gravity in a heavy world.
To them, I return to artificial light,
where will suffers, where lungs heave,

but for all this I am glad,
of the sweet ocean-side reprieve.

Surrealism gone Awry


Watch, I open my skull on pneumatic hinges,you must have a hungry compulsion to peer inside and see the steamy tomato soup.
There is a certain blasphemy in believing.
See the dictator swill Avalanche in his mouth.
By decree the narcotics language
of surrealism  states, that in the hierarchy of apples
Those closest to the sun murmur the sweetest, and in dreams the diabolical devil is obliged to meet you, but a committee of angels will arrive with Uzis loaded with enthusiasm... In time!

Surrealism is the proprietor
Of flowers fervently whirling like dervishes until... It is a place where I narrate lovers melting like pennies at the sight of each other, where home appliances long for your touch.

My fetish is my imagination, wild, wild imagination extravagant as your birth child,
Gaudy and beautiful like a coach built  Cadillac by Saoutchick.

Where everything utter is true.

Welcome wide eyed wonder
To my simple things,
Fuel injected heart
Needle and thread
Enameled soul made from a French mind
Small animal pelts and bones for superstition
German precision
With the eye of a Xerox machine.
So one emphatically dream
Emphatically live
Emphatically believe everything uttered is true.

When CNN monotony breaks my heart,
children wail for candy at cash registers,
and traffic buzz replaces birdsong,
I flee to my garden to water and ****.

Sanctuary explodes in miniature chorales
soprano buds breaking through cellulose cradles
last waters from a thousand wilting blossoms
sing tenor at their organic wake above the loam
and endless pneumatic streams drip from leaf tips
as they always have and will.

A googolplex of minute carbon dramas occurs
melodious ballads echo relentlessly
like Buddha’s kalapas of soil and light
as pistil and stamen call the fat brown bees.

Equally marvelous are my hands'
deft fingers fueled by arterial rivers
lymph and blood on capillaric freeways
with off-ramps for neighborhoods of dividing cells
built into my DNA,
this machine of loving grace.

Even the leather of my gloves
once lived thick on a bull eating grass
that waved on a prairie where the soil  
let the sun in
drank the rain
and that meticulous ensemble
plays still for the wolf and the eagle.

With the last seed sewn
I sit transfixed by the garden gate
knowing every blossom in every random patch
will arise and pass away like the pointless TV news
and I hear the machinery of this impermanence
crackling like spring frost
when sprouts push through
and Gaia’s eternal trumpets ring.

Piacular restitution suffering joyously
The fallen order of Lilith;
Sunsets secrets scribed defying
Laws pneumatic
A shamanistic seance peacefully
Rousing the foundation of our belief,
Dawns dreaming the fantasy of a seer-
Palpitating asystolic within my chest
The severed hand of God; twilights truth
A stone tablet descrying
My impetuous insubordination
Breathing light upon a black lily
My souls flayed flesh tear stained white
Descending into Hades
Unfathomable regions of despair
As I watch them kneel beside my bed
As if I am prey for those who pray for me
Walking through Persephones garden.



ELEETE J MUIR.

In B and B flop-houses, poems I wrote,
Stuffed into damp pockets, of a Donkey-Jacket coat.
Poems about building-sites and too much beer,
Being far from home, despair and fear.
I read them to comrades, who all nodded their heads,
Then went back to sleep, in one room with eight beds.
I read them to lads, who for the first time,
Sat and listened, to words, their rhythm and rhyme.

Folkestone, Dover, Hastings, Brighton and Hove,
I wrote poems, by the light of a Camping Gaz stove,
Describing MY feelings, MY way of life,
Cut straight to the bone, like a Stanley Craft Knife.
The Channel Tunnel, dumpers and cranes,
Concrete burns, bruises, hangovers. . .shame.
Days without eating, nights full of drinking,
Hours on a Shovel, digging without thinking.

Then along came the books, I started reading at night,
Discovered Jack London, by wind-up torchlight.
I read more and more, captivated by books charms,
As my work-mates pursued , bar-maids down the Kings Arms.

Then one day, McNamara, with his belly full of beer,
Came looking for me, called me a queer.
". . .Reading and writing ??? Its NOT for the likes of us. . ."
I agreed begrudgingly, with this. . .. back-end of a bus.
He helped me gather up, my words and my books,
Into a couple of barrows, like scrap-metal crooks,
And wheeled them over, to where we burned the pallets,
Electric cable(for the copper)and broken slab-laying mallets.
They went on the embers, which began to ignite,
And from my caravan window, I watched them burn through the night.
As they glowed, I felt pity, not anger,
At the ****** ignorance, of this eighteen stone Ganger,
Who believed words were impotent, compared to the fist,
Our lives were mapped out, digging trenches, getting ******.

But the books had given me hope, that life was for living,
Not dying at Sixty, when your body just gives in,
Knees knackered, back broken, knuckles dead with rheumatics,
From working in all weathers, holding hammers, pneumatic.

Days later, on a Porta-Loo, McNamara settled down,
With a copy of ******* and a hard-on to pound.
He never smelled the petrol, mesmerised by *******
And pleasured himself, quickly, across the bottom of his vest.
Sparked up a rollie, relieved and relaxed,
Thinking of Fridays time-sheets to be faxed.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM !!!!!

We heard the explosion, looked to the sky,
Saw Doctor Who 's Tardis go flying by.
But it wasn't a Time Lord, just a burning box,
With a melting Eighteen stone Ganger, still holding his ****.
McNamara, was identified by the fillings in his teeth,
And buried, by the Council, just outside Haywards Heath.
If I hadn't continued writing, McNamaras threats, defied
No-one would know about him, or the way that he died.

Books and words are everything, they lift the mind
and they raise the anchor,
And they let me tell your tale, McNamara. . . .
How you lived and died. . .a ******.

**** it... i'm going to the opera on my borthday!
i'm not working with these ceramic...
herd... erd... whatever the **** they are
with their beautiful hair... wrapped up in napkins:
they should be white!
no! nein! niet! nie!
                           ******* being camel jockeys!
or... like the Bangladeshi... slaves to the Qatari Royal
Family! *******! if you're willing to take it:
take it!

more camel pressure... the **** needs you to investigate
whether it really does... need to take a dump...
******* copper-necks... it actually sounds better
in English than in German... for once! for once!

because of the advent if Islam in Europe,
the northern Crusades are all: hush hush...
   hush: stille mein kind...
not near worth mention!

-------------------------------------------------------­---------

this has truly become a defeating project,
i bit off too much than i could chew...
    even i know this: i've turned into a quasi-novelist:
who will never write any proper dialogue
or for that matter respect the form of a paragraph...

once again, sitting with a whiskey sharpshooter watching
my female Maine **** hunt for little flies
peering into my wardrobe trying to squeeze in...
if it was the male Maine **** he would have had
already jumped into it and coseied himself
on my clothes... while i would curse some other day
that all my clothes have cat fur on them...
i groomed him today... what a sensible little creature...
tail waggling while i cut his nails
   and brushed his coat...

prior to: taking a **** in three turns...
    i don't know: irritable bowel syndrome or something?!
why can't i take one proper **** in a day,
my **** is nagging me...
watching ******* usually helps with
the constipation...
           like today... i've reached that point
in the month where i'm thinking about revisiting Khedra
in the brothel...
look at me... monogomous: even when it comes
to prostitutes... because she really is an amnesia ****:
she made me completely forget Ilona...
i thought i'd never find a **** this good...
     lucky for me... she's even better...

she makes those nymphomaniac sounds when
performing *******: it's a cross between a baby *******
on a *** and someone enjoying a bowl of pasta...
and it really dawned on me... 2nd take on the throne
of thrones i was watching this
video: bootyass girl (201K subscribers) -
the video itself has over 2 millions views... on xvideos.com,
sure... i ****** off... but like i already said:
i'm jerking off without the ******...
                  
   mein gott! what a beached whale!
                visually unappealing... well... up to a point...
3rd take on the throne of thrones and i knew it would
be the last... again: checking the "plumbing"...
but this time: sound on...
    O......                                   oh...
oh... now i get it...
                                she might look like a beached whale...
but turn the sound on... **** me...
men are these supposed visual creatures?!
Beethoven was too, wasn't he?
              no no... if a beached whale of a woman
makes sounds like that during ***...
i.e. she is a polypohny of onomatopoeias
    / an inverted Katakana... i.e. whereas the Samurai
can write MA... they can't write AM... ** but not OH...
  well... that was that... ******* at the thumb shoved
into her mouth while her partner is ******* a leather
couch: by the sound of the "echo" coming from her ****-cheeks...
shhhhhh it... ooze... just managed to squeeze it out...
FINALLY!
    again... no ******... get a hard-on... relax the ****...
don't ask me how i figured this one enigma out...
trial & error... to hell with laxatives...

                      i'm gearing up...

but my day was way more interesting than merely this...
i did wake up at 6am... stayed in bed until 8am
listening to music... because you sometimes have to...
errands...
         sort out a hire for a KANGO...
which is construction industry "slang" for...
    pneumatic drill... jackhammer...
at the hire shop a guy probably younger than me
knew what i was talking about...
     with a glee of approval... his father must have worked
in times when you used to say the word KANGO...
one of those proper ones...
two handed... posted the picture on facebook...
i mean: it's such a neat toy... felt chuffed wheeling it back
home and then on the bus...
   had these two concrete buffs irritation where once
two greenhouses stood... need to get rid of them...
set down drainage... 2 tonnes of soil and grass...
nothing but grass...

     KANGO: i didn't even know it before i checked it out...
the etymology: literally Chinese language...
カンゴ
                   but otherwise in the construction industry
a jackhammer, a pneumatic jackhammer...
what a lovely beast... the best *** i've seen in a while...
made me think of that quote from Full Metal Jacket:
anything by Gunnery Sgt. Hartman -
or that Combichrist song: this is my rifle...
seriously... i don't care what they say:
the Vietnam War had the best soundtrack...
   no other war in the history of man had such a goo...
******* amazing soundtrack...

who wouldn't be happy working a pneumatic drill hammer...
two handed... lifting rock... concrete...
i'm happy... i've already mentioned it:
work ennobles (physical work)...
    a lesson learned when it was taught by the Nazis
to the Polacks in Auschwitz...
what was once arbeit macht frei
has become... arbeit adelt!
                                  simple, no? to learn from once
former conquerors... and to redefine that... "silly"
ol' joke that's particular to German sensibilities...
moving bags of rock from point X to point Y
and then from point Y to point X...
       like they couldn't have turned concentration camps
into something useful... but... them being concentration camps...
seriously... they were lazy at mass ******...
if they were so ******* efficient in other areas of
warfare... they weren't particularly good at their
initial plans...

oh right: that's the ****** sense of humour...
laughing about the Nazis... i almost forget where i'm placed
in this world... all that need for theatre...
to ensure panic was kept under a lid...
     the Mongols were more effective at mass ******...
genocide... hell i bet the Ugandans had a better track
record...

finally! i'm coming the end of my note taking...
it only took me four days and five nights
to get enough drink in my to spew this crap out...

but i'm getting there...
   i don't fear Islam...
             i'm  huge fan of Rumi:
what remains after nothing?
    love is the flame which, when it blazes
consumes everything other than the Beloved.
the lover wields the sword of nothingness,
in order to dispatch all but God:
consider what remains after Nothing;
there remains but God: ll the rest is gone.
Praise to you, O mighty Love,
destroyer of all other "gods"...

    la illaha il Allah... there are not gods but God
(qu'ran 3:62)...
   i wrote that into the back of the book
by Bukowski when i first came across him in Glasgow...
all those years ago...
la illaha il Allah...
    funny side-story... the term God in Maltese?
it's actually Allah...
   i tend to write something akin to: all?! ah!
i'm not Islamophohic... but... i can understand where
arachnophobia comes from:
but Islam isn't a spider...
             i just don't understand the inverted logic
of Muslims bewildered that there is an Islamophobia...
why be surprised?
i'm pretty ******* sure that Russophobia existed
long before Islamophobia...

   but unlike all the other phobias on the list....
these two phobias are... calculated...
they're not irrational...
why? why aren't they irrational?
does a spider think? i'm pretty ******* sure
a Muslim or a Russian is capable of thought...
but does a spider think?
does an elevator think? a constrained space...
that claustrophobia... does a spider think?!
what's the problem?
arachnophobia is a reflexive-phobia...
Islamophobia is a reflective-phobia...
                          
but what's the difference between fearing Russians
and fearing Muslims?
the Russians already know they're the evil genuises
of this world...
it's nothing new...
         Muslims... the ones i'm working with?
are they seriously planning a takeover...
what... with these cabbage-heads?!
   these retards?! these, retards?!
                 yeah... good luck...
you might get a chance to wind the clocks back one
hour come the winter months...
but that's about it...
            half of which never read a verse of Rumi
or Omar Khayyam...
                      
the women look so petilent... dark clad...
you could at least attire them in linen and make the linen
grey... or white...
there was a time when Islam was superiror to Christianity...
those days are long gone... gone with the camel jockeys...
inbreeding is the currency and the joke...
i'll respect the Iranians...
  because... they were Persians prior to the camel jockey
invasion from Arabia...
and the Turks... because... we're sort of related...
Caucasian... or Mongol-esque...
ancient Turks had their runes... and Turks have very edible food...
while Turkish prostitutes **** like there's no
tomorrow...
i need a second Islamic schism: spearheaded by
the Turks...
leave these Arabs with their Pakistani pawns
to play into that caliphate Sunni game...
Islam needs to splinter... there needs to be a second schism...
spearheaded by the Turks...
the Turks teaed as far up as Vienna from what i know...
leave the Saudi princes and their fetishes alone:

god will judge them...
        princes of the pink ponies and blonde ******...
down the Spartan route...
i'm not Islamophobic... i'm like a tapeworm when it comes
to Islam... ooh... this fasting idea... i could use that...
not for religious reasons... like i once explained...
you know what fasting does for me?
increases my concentration...
                               i like fasting...
i like thinking about food... because?! personally?!
thinking about anything beside food is sort
of boring... i like to be closest to the wild animal...
and what does the wild animal ever "think" about
if not food?! or biting off its limps if
it were to be caught in a beaar trap?!

right... right? what about...
a Germpophil?
                        
heil dir im siegerkranz:
what a little unkept "secret"....

strange body: overgrowth of muscle having
muscle removed from the shoulder blade,
Armilius,
                           i miight as well have a crow
perched...
                 muscle movement from that lacking
in the shouder-blade... just above the collr  one...
once i stress its existence.

whiske! whiskey! more whiskey!
the sun illuminating the governance of spring
can't ever overshadow the moon,
come the same season

genügend ist genügend!
     das ist alles!
                    nachweisen-in-dem-pudding.

More towers must yet be built--more towers destroyed--
Great rocks hoisted in air;
And he must seek his bread in high pale sunlight
With gulls about him, and clouds just over his eyes . . .
And so he did not mention his dream of falling
But drank his coffee in silence, and heard in his ears
That horrible whistle of wind, and felt his breath
****** out of him, and saw the tower flash by
And the small tree swell beneath him . . .
He patted his boy on the head, and kissed his wife,
Looked quickly around the room, to remember it,--
And so went out . . .  For once, he forgot his pail.

Something had changed--but it was not the street--
The street was just the same--it was himself.
Puddles flashed in the sun.  In the pawn-shop door
The same old black cat winked green amber eyes;
The butcher stood by his window tying his apron;
The same men walked beside him, smoking pipes,
Reading the morning paper . . .

He would not yield, he thought, and walk more slowly,
As if he knew for certain he walked to death:
But with his usual pace,--deliberate, firm,
Looking about him calmly, watching the world,
Taking his ease . . .  Yet, when he thought again
Of the same dream, now dreamed three separate times,
Always the same, and heard that whistling wind,
And saw the windows flashing upward past him,--
He slowed his pace a little, and thought with horror
How monstrously that small tree ****** to meet him! . . .
He slowed his pace a little and remembered his wife.

Was forty, then, too old for work like this?
Why should it be?  He'd never been afraid--
His eye was sure, his hand was steady . . .
But dreams had meanings.
He walked more slowly, and looked along the roofs,
All built by men, and saw the pale blue sky;
And suddenly he was dizzy with looking at it,
It seemed to whirl and swim,
It seemed the color of terror, of speed, of death . . .
He lowered his eyes to the stones, he walked more slowly;
His thoughts were blown and scattered like leaves;
He thought of the pail . . . Why, then, was it forgotten?
Because he would not need it?

Then, just as he was grouping his thoughts again
About that drug-store corner, under an arc-lamp,
Where first he met the girl whom he would marry,--
That blue-eyed innocent girl, in a soft blouse,--
He waved his hand for signal, and up he went
In the dusty chute that hugged the wall;
Above the tree; from girdered floor to floor;
Above the flattening roofs, until the sea
Lay wide and waved before him . . . And then he stepped
Giddily out, from that security,
To the red rib of iron against the sky,
And walked along it, feeling it sing and tremble;
And looking down one instant, saw the tree
Just as he dreamed it was; and looked away,
And up again, feeling his blood go wild.

He gave the signal; the long girder swung
Closer to him, dropped clanging into place,
Almost pushing him off.  Pneumatic hammers
Began their madhouse clatter, the white-hot rivets
Were tossed from below and deftly caught in pails;
He signalled again, and wiped his mouth, and thought
A place so high in the air should be more quiet.
The tree, far down below, teased at his eyes,
Teased at the corners of them, until he looked,
And felt his body go suddenly small and light;
Felt his brain float off like a dwindling vapor;
And heard a whistle of wind, and saw a tree
Come plunging up to him, and thought to himself,
'By God--I'm done for now, the dream was right . . .'

As I walk through the city, surrounded by concrete, inhaling polluted air
I hear pneumatic drills and sirens, they are violence to the ear
I see people full of stress, scurrying rat-like along dirt-stained paths
I smell fast food and decay, my senses dulled by this toxic smog
The chaos suffocates, oppresses and burdens my breath
I think this is it.
This is us.
This is what we are.

The wicked, they come
In a cerulean dream.
The cellar door opened,
With an opposable thumb.

A disposable past
And no ties in the future,
They live within ******
And die through their caste.

Oh, Ford! They cry out
For all of their blessings.
Oh, Ford! I cry too,
To drown silent doubt.

“Take me to your room.”
She breathes, voice coppered,
She conducts me. Unzips in
One movement, fit to bloom.

“Lenina,” I call,
Eyes blinded by her colour.
In a world so built and grey,
I live only in her sprawl.

We finish, my heart descending.
She nicks her lips to my ear,
Then reminds me thus;
“Ending is better than mending.”

To bed we fall; once, twice, thrice.
Each time I cling longer,
Wrap her in bedsheets,
‘Till she feels our ****** splice.

With no use, she’s gone
To some other embrace.
Some cold shouldered support,
Then to the salon.

She’ll tell all to her friends,
A gaggle of giggles.
And he’ll speak of her,
Like some means to an end.

“Pneumatic,” is she,
He’ll say with no stutter,
“You should have her,” he’ll offer,
Like the fruit from a tree.

No, like meat, like meat,
She is passed around.
Like animals, the Alphas
Bruise, **** and maltreat.

Community. Snake-like,
It moves as if one.
Each person a muscle,
Not separate but a part.

Identity. It blurs,
‘Till I forget the use
Of my name. Push it out,
Repeat in my dreams.

Stability. It comes,
A two-gramme holiday.
A superficial guffaw
That veneers my face.

Oh, Soma! Come take me,
From where I don’t belong.
To where passions are birthed
Far from the hatchery.

To where feelings are heartfelt,
Not found in a pill.
Where waistlines aren’t throttled
By a Malthusian belt.

A savage I am,
In my pursuit for more.
When I long for freedom,
And not another half-gramme.

Gaia, she held us in her womb.
From fish to ape, she mothered too.
Now all that’s left is this soulless gloom
Where man is born only to consume.

Tools of the Patriarchy

Fence pliers, claw hammers, crescent wrenches
Nail sets, c-clamps, wood planes, mitre boxes
Come-alongs, White Mule gloves, ball-peen hammers
Jumper cables, wood planes, mill bstrd files

Plumb bobs, twist bits, cross-cut saws, ripping saws
Tire irons, air compressors, pressure gauges
Brace-and-bits, drawing knives, pneumatic jacks
Cold chisels, clamps, mortar trowels, channel locks

A twelve-hour day plus d*mned low pay, you bet!

And

A work ethic, knowledge, muscles, and sweat

Verbose as the Sky,
Heavy handed I,
Released to the thoughts of the seen.

Pneumatic in-tension,
A flexible mention.
Meaningless,
Emphatic, and
Green.

A block from the office
the city is tearing down an overpass.
Today they're beating the **** out of it
with a pneumatic hammer
the size of a freight train.
Its pounding
in time with my heartbeat
like the worlds largest metronome
suspended from the end of a crane.

Bang – Bang – Bang – Bang

I keep wondering
what’s going to happen
to all those buskers and hookers
who peddle their wares under that bridge.
I'm not seeing it though and
no observation means no poetry.
No poetry means no catharsis, and
my guts are full of hornets.

Bang – Bang – Bang – Bang

It’s the great whisky **** of the spirit,
the all-encompassing lack of passion;
the longing for old friends;
the desire to lean on old habits
the chinks in something resembling old armor.
the crease, the seam, the fold.

Bang – Bang – Bang – Bang

Misfire on eight.
Misfire on eight.
Misfire on eight.
There’s this pain in my head;
behind the left eye
where the secrets live.
driving and grief stricken.
(misfire on eight.)
The headache has no name, but
it sings a song.

Bang – Bang – Bang – Bang

Fugit Fumus dived into a basket
of oysters just to make the ***
the underbelly of transformation
bodes unwise for this colloquial soul
Cloistered Lisa lost her circumspection
when she settled for dystopic Dan
from such a wretched family
with pneumatic drills
they'd rather shutter than amend

Writing,
Drawing and painting.
Woodworking,
Welding and making.
Circuitry,
Electronics and more.
Pneumatic, mechanic, IC chips galore.

***** in the veins,
skewed and torn.
Hangovers battled, and seemingly won...
...as the body grows numb...
...limbs waking in hazy hum.

Roll another,
Tobacco makes its mark—
Lungs defiled,
Body failing,
Cherries burn brightest in the dark.

Lets call some lucky,
That they knew from the start,
Yet I continued hoping,
He would come back and restart.

The years draw on,
The day the pickup drove away,
I screamed for him,
Did he hear? check the review mirror and then accelerate?

Children of my own, a wife, and a home.

5150,
It's waiting....
It's ready, patiently prone.

Context needed,
Needed for concepts to churn
Listen closely.
A decibel past a whisper —
A Truth heard from the urn.

found in Styron's darkness visible... he survived auschwitz... but said adieu to life: by throwing himself down a flight of stairs.

millennial, generation y, huh?!
    also called the:
bearable heaviness of non-being...
   say: survivors of auschwitz,
and apart from Kundera,
i'm fudged into this stealth-culprit
     hangover...
   and when i speak the native tongue
i use double emphasis...
everything suddenly becomes italic...
    gówno... or ****... teutonic: gavron, ja,
ich habbe schtabbe ga ga, magpie on
              a licky-sticky schtaisse:
vroom bog-tie boom boom...
   everntually language is just that:
   magnifique sounds, mein herr,
    be that a cello i hear?
                      nada... mindlessly i too
  feigned a farting brigadier, farting into
       a brass horn: worth a gingerbread /
pumpernickle        marching rhythm.
yes, double emphasis in the native...
kosz (koš)... bin...
    trza błagać... błagać!
        o śmierć... beg for death...
             but hetman cossak said *smerc... and it
sounded altogether better.
   a household argument,
   after prawn-pasta was cooked throughout
an afternoon of general bewilderment:
        a heap of pebbles makes more sense
than the Orion constelation...
              given the mathematical approach
to the situation, and subsequent mapping...
   because they really did drop a bomb on
Hiroshima and Nagasaki...
                and that's why 21st creativity
is trapped in a hamster's routine...
    karaoke is standard...
                         this insissting plagiaristic zeitgeist!
so i said: you really think you conquered
yapan?            jesus, je suis, zeus, yesus, jamaican
                              jah jah *** buck...
      rasta root mon, rasta root.
    battered and bruised...
               someohow this whole dating scene
passed me by...
                     and what happened to me aged
21... is strangely becoming the norm
                       of giving the circumstance:
  i can't remember being of any age, particular.
  the quicker argument would coincide with:
    give me a machinegun, and march me into
a Latvian forest...
                   because, right now, it's
a scenario of being coerced into donning a leash
   or more like a leech,
                         and an afternoon spent
pulverised by a pneumatic tsunami
                     of adverts... calling it a job done,
with a siberian brew: cow juice in
                       tea...
                     liquid werther's original.

I am single - again
And a girl who has needs
So boys I beg you
To follow my lead
I have a mouth
That likes to be kissed
Softy and gently
It's not to be missed
Don't stick your tongue in
Like a pneumatic drill
Or **** on my face
Like a puppy on pills
My lips have nerves
That give me pleasure & pain
They like to be savoured
Not tugged on in vain
And my ******* ... Please don't pummel
It doesn't do much
They react much better
To a sweeter touch
Nor do my *******
Respond to twisting
I am not a radio
This will not make me sing!
A gentle squeeze
Or a kiss or a tickle
Will get you much further
I'm not being fickle
And boys.... I beg you
Now this is the worst ....
My ****** won't bite you
(Forgive my outburst!)
You might like to touch it
Caress it or play
I'm happy to guide you
If you lose your way
It's not just a place
For your **** to settle
Treat it with love and
You'll open my petal
Now, I'm not hard to please
But it's time this was said
And these aren't just my needs
To keep me in bed
For us single lasses
Who you want to impress
We don't care about income
Or the way that you dress
We want some attention
That shows that you care
There is no manual
Of this I'm aware
We're each of us different
But we'll tell you just ask
We'll show you the way
And keep you on task
It's about mutual pleasure
Believe me it works
And if you follow this guide
There'll be more perks
So boys please remember
If you promise me bliss
Be strong - be gentle
And start with a kiss!

(C) Pixievic 2016

Man needs to reconsider his place in the universe. Upon my morning awakening, while enjoying a cup of coffee(another one of man's creations although albeit simply refined and utilized by us), I closed my eyes and heard not the sounds of nature, as one might assume would be the ideal, but the sound of a pneumatic air-pressure nailgun stapling shingles on a roof. Then, in sequence following that in a crescendo of sound I heard the distant lawnmower native to this local urban habitat, feeding on grasses. This was only soon to be followed by the wind-like sound of nearby automobiles slowly passing by. All of this muffling the sounds of the morning flyers (winged creatures of an inferior design unknown to us) presenting their songs, but falling on deaf ears . That's when I realized we are a product and slave of our own creations, when we should be a slave (or close sibling rather) to creations unbeknownst to us.

In the alleyway of sorcerers
and tricksters
One step back, ten deepward
away, away, from sun and lime,

forms, thickened smoke, gone
all the familiar, but fear

an industrial hammer
beating to a pneumatic heart
pulverized, powdered glass

Now lining the string to my kite
soaring, one among the shapes
dotting the kaleidoscope
Retreat!, I can cut.

bangles, once they were
I gave you

Hooded, darkened, enveloped
in hushed hymns and
chimed mutterances
come hands held out of cloaks
that I accept for friendship
cold, as the heartless should be

erased, gone among
the shadows, lost a young soul
tottering at the edge of a cliff
tremor that ripped the heartland
blocks of stone, elevated
icons of hope and love
lining the pathway here
disfigured so beyond repair
even moonlight cannot restore

once a thinker, a poet, a scholar

where peddle the whispered
offerings of an underworld

well: who would have thought that the Chemical
Brothers
       have upped their game when it comes
to creating new music...
  
              some artists just become lost if you're
exploring alternative music...
the moment the algorithm puked up a song suggestion
from NO GEOGRAPHY: got to keep on...
i knew i was in for a treat: from the whole album...

what initially drew me to go to that Walter Sickert
exhibition rather than going to an opera?
the madness of crowds for once...
i've heard too much singing: terrible singing
football stadium singing
   to want to torture myself with opera...
although i love opera...
   but... enough of one of the senses being
exploited...
      
   i've recently found this acronym for a personality
type: the Advocate...
when i was young: an Advocaat was a boy's
every Christmas dream...
        i like staring at faces... and at a football stadium
fulfilling the role of minding crowd safety:
no one can tell you to not look at them...
but these faces move...

       most of the time i'm more interested in
the crowd than in the football match...
          but like me in the London tube...
i just stare at people staring up at pointless
adverts...
i sometimes do to... my favourite tube map
is that of the District Line...
    i've love to get a poster of it...
     i live about a 20 minute's cycle ride from Hornchurch
station...
then again: i always overused the Central Line:
what... with living in Gants Hill all those years...

but i rarely go by a Critic's Choice in either the Saturday
or the Sunday edition of the newspaper:
but i have to say... waldemar januszczak
                                    янущaк (there? less consonants
for you; better?!)
                                   sometimes gets it right...
he most certainly got it right with Walter Sickert...
i was looking for something alternative to Munch...

i was looking for someone who "predated":
was the precursor of Francis Bacon...
    because i could never get into Lucian Freud
because my alternative to Lucian was always going
to be Edward Hopper...

hmm... now that i think of it: poetry of opinions...
why poetry of opinions?
         philosophy attempted dialectics...
                once upon a time...
  but these days opinions are easily spewed without
being undermined: discussed...
the firm foundations of the two camps policy of
"argument": neither side allowing either
to mould each other...
the discussion is entered and left without
anything being achieved on a Socratic level of:
persuasion... or a change of mind...

hence? my poetry of opinions...
            we've got to try... that's a banger of a track...

no... i couldn't expose my ears to my sound...
i needed something visual...
the clarity of silence of an art exhibition:
an art exhibition that you have to pay extra for...
i tried to watch the people in the exhibition,
two girls tried to get my attention...
but the minute i walked in and saw the earliest
out by Sickert i knew i was in for a treat...
the self-portraits threw me into a kaleidoscope
of: this... this reminds me of someone...

Francis Bacon! i love how art just passed down
a certain signature... a technique from
one individual to another...
because it's not like an art school technique:
the school of Florence etc.:
with those pristine paintings...
   the schools disintegrated... individuals emerged...
those pristine paintings were bound to
disappear with the emergence of photography...

they had to... no wonder painters had to make
things a litter bit more "mysterious": blurry:
almost childish like Picasso or van Gogh...
well: elevated childish...
               but none the less:
   nothing like the "photograph" quality of
Renaissance paintings...
the photograph killed off that sort of painting...
why, would anyone bother
to paint like that if you can take a photograph:
it obviously doesn't carry the same
aesthetic "quality": concern...

                     but... let's face it...
distortion worked much better than any sense
of pristine Apollonian architecture of the jawline
or hands: oculus per oculus: eye for an eye:
but more: like for like...
painting is not architecture...
   it's not engineering...

     sure... there might be some basic schematic
involve: Sickert exposed the use of a square
grid from time to time in his paintings...
Francis Bacon most certainly used geometry of some
sort to find his bearings where
otherwise would gush blood / paint / *****...
but it's not cubism... and it's not certainly
anything akin to *******...

but i needed those 40 minutes' worth of walking
around: with a grin on my face...
if i went to an opera i'd probably cry...
i felt like grinning... i wanted my eyes to eat
something... with each blink i was trying to...

obviously i bought a memorandum of the exhibition:
it cost more than the actual ticket
but... as i've found... certain works of art
look: feel... completely different in real life
than if they are replicated and copied into a book...
you can't simply scan an oil painting and get
the same results of impression the painting has...
there's always that 3D aspect of looking
at the same painting from different angles...

i have to say... whoever curated the exhibition
managed to get the lighting wrong...
light from above doesn't always work...
i had to appreciate some of the works looking at then
sideways... i was looking at the lighting...
then at the painting... then at the lighting...
then at the painting... i was almost slow dancing
around them: my feet were performing some
weird version of Tai Chi...

      one of the Camden Town ****** works initially
prompted me: as seen in the critic's choice
article...
i knew something was up... there was that initial
resemblance of giving birth to Francis Bacon...

oh hell no... i wasn't there to pick up a girl...
i was literally: authentically there for the art...
but i'm pretty sure most of the people in that exhibition
weren't there for the art...
body language: if they can't entertain solipsism
for at least 20 minutes... the art works become less
interesting... they're looking around like they're
lost the plot or regret paying the money...
you know the art is not really important...

add a grin to that... freak...

          ah... welcome thoughts...
                 those ought i's and i wills...
                      finally... some peace...
that last shift at the FA cup final among the Liverpool
fans... great people! all northerners are
great people... the southerners have a massive
stick of authority shove up their *****...
    esp. in London: this... celebrated no geography
crowd...

      but i seriously thought i was standing next
to the Big Ben gongs come noon...
my ears felt fuzzy...
      they were the consistency of vibrating static...
a bit like drilling into a concrete slab
with a pneumatic drill...
      peace... just some peace... some paintings...
once upon a time i had ambitions to become
a painter...
       writing's cheaper...
    and... well: it freer to the imagination:
it's more... mandible... jaw-like...
          it makes conversations with random strangers
more entertaining...
you need to have a specific focus to paint
what you already see...
   when i write: i haven't said anything:
most of the time i write without even having
a premeditative thought: well...
there might be something initial...
but the narrative flow-through is hardly
premeditated...
i like to be surprised...
                hell: i'm always surprised!

- but like i was saying to "someone" today...
"someone": maybe that's why mothers and sons
and sons and father and whoever is blood-related
don't get along so well, is because,
nothing ******-related friction...
nothing weird... because because just become
comfortable, boring enough to have to start
breeding a new generation...

i've found that i've become more and more
inquisitive... and if any signs of dementia kick
in... i'll be? in Amsterdam... ingesting
some magic mushrooms...
right now alcohol is hardly debilitating...
or subduing / pacifying me...
it's actually invigorating me...
it's a tonic!

          so i was saying: and i too would love to
watch more foreign language movies:
with subtitles... but for some strange: ******* reason...
this "genius" entertained the idea
that subtitles ought to be placed at the BOTTOM
of the screen!
  not even the Mandarin write from bottom
up!
   they write from up to bottom!

  the vertical line is drawn from the top down...
rather than from the bottom: up...
this "genius" must have been left-handed...
you get such a better focus on what's happening:
if you just moved the subtitles to the top of
the screen: because it's easier to look down
than to look up after reading a text of translation!

it's this little incy-wincy detail that keeps bothering
me...
      there ought to be a revision:
subtitles ought to be replaced with supra-titles...
at the moment we're watching foreign movies
in the format of chemistry, e.g.
        H₂O...

but we should be watching said movies
in the format of mathematics... e.g.
    Pythagorean... c² = a² + b²

let's call ₂ & ² script: irrespectively...
                   and the "algebra" the images before our
eyes... what would be easier?
looking up then looking down...
or... looking down and then... looking up?!

even the Mandarin barons didn't write from
bottom to top...

slow internet connection stresses me out...
well... £20 for 40 minutes' worth of an art exhibition
or... £120... for 1h (wow! the indefinite
article simply disappears... when you write
it like  that)
                     with a *******...

                             that really does depend...
what horse the modern woman is riding on...
i'm going to ride my horse to death
to eat itself...

that's why nudes of artists sort of bore me...
once you'vre ****** in front of a mirror...
nudes... artistic impressions...
bore me...
            i want to paint the mirror that
like the walls: seen more... heard more
than the average culmination of antics
might appease...

                        i want to paint clouds...
i want to paint cauliflowers as clouds...
and clouds as cauliflowers...
  i want to paint mirrors...
i want to paint glass...
                  and i also want to paint
the contortions of ***...
                  i want to paint trains:
i don't want to wait for them...
            i want to paint rain: i don't won't to
adorn an anorak...
                  i want to paint the sewage works...
but i don't want to paint
taking a ****...

   sober up come 10:30am?
              well... i won't be goose-marching...
that's for sure...
      i'll put on my Thespian mask
and just pretend that i haven't drunk 70cl of
whiskey the night before...
i'll sit in the sunshine and bake... sour...
cabbage-head-reach for sanity...
pretend to: juggle earth, the sun and moon.

Symmetry deficits call for chiaroscuro.
Highlight the summits,
and diffuse shadows at the vertex
of cheekbone and mandible.
Colour the apples, rubescent as newborn flesh,
and soften edges for a gentle definition.

If you paint claret from bow to corner
it can create something fuller; induce desire-
Valencia can bleach the blemishes.
Liquid or matte lies in pesky furrows
and rots like carrion in warm weather:
remember to blot excess sebum prior.

Are you pneumatic? Applications can support you-
with enough you can acquire
something ample for a decade.
Look to the lens. It winks;
raise brow in a clean cut, diagonal
from nostril edge: the playful frame apertures admire.

Flash.

Share with friends:
refresh/close/open,
and sigh at affirmations.

He came home to the ordinary sounds of his everyday life. The phone would ring, the teapot would whistle and his parents would talk and argue. He closed his door, discarding his bag to the side and laying down on his bed. He laid there quietly, his computer beeping and blinking with messages from friends, those sincere and those insincere. Reaching out for the **** of his nightstand drawer, he pulled out the music box he received from his grandfather before he passed away. He flipped it over, carefully holding the lid and wound the silver turnkey tight, letting go. The familiar whirling of the mechanism inside came to life and the tone music echoed the room.

As the music played, he took the turnkey out and attached it to the lock on the side, releasing the lid to the hidden jewelry case. He didn’t have any jewelry to store there; he folded up snippets of letters and notes into tiny squares and dabbed them with color on the edges- each color meant for an experience or a person he favored. Purple was for his grandmother who wrote him little notes every two months… while she was in the nursing home. Red was for the girl that waited for him after school every day… before confessing his love for her. She reciprocated that in later years. Blue was for his own private notes of good times and the good things that happened to him… there were seldom few of those. Black was for the bad things he experienced… and it was in full abundance. The whole case looked much like an obsidian beach with rubies, amethysts, and sapphires hidden within. He looked at them one by one and placed the case back afterwards, then placing the music box back on the nightstand. One day, he’d turn the beach into sparkling gems with few obsidian stones buried below.

He placed his hand on the box, feeling the insides run and imagined the whole process. The spindle turned, rotating the cog connected to the metal drum with raised bumps. The thin metal comb came to meet these bumps and each bump struck a harmonized tone. Inside the mechanism, the pneumatic drum turned and hummed along as the gyros twisted the cogs, seemingly indefinitely never ending. To him, they felt young and ripe at the start but grew old and bitter after a while. The keys would slow, his head would ache from the loss of tempo and his heart would resonate with the soon to fade tones.

In that moment of solitude, his eyes would close, his breathing slowed, and his body relaxed into sleep; and one by one the little bumps would cease to exist on the music sheet, simply melding into the flat mundane roll which began its birth.  The roll just turned and turned silently, never touching the flat metal comb or anything else again. It became like any other music box- silently playing with no purpose. It became his life in sleep… silently living with no purpose but to dream.

he* brought me out to the
                                     woodshed

gently opens the back door
but it slams behind us, pneumatic
cylinder busted so it catches my heels
and i slide off the last step
into the gravel and his steel-toes--

he silently brushes through the
prairie drop seed and mexican
feathergrass, nothing but an oil
stained back lumbering amidst the switch
eventide shivelight striking through
the creases in his ears

full of his old tools, horses,
hidden shelves--
and i've gone cold since
we left the house, a
**** frost set out
on my limbs 'cause
i know i done wrong
all the blessed evidence
up and down and that's
before he starts to turn--

ungive.

ungive.