You're my Sweet Pea Princess
Who weaves flowers of every kind
Into a chain or a necklace
Of soft, satin petals
My Sweet Pea Princess
You are my daily inspiration
And you often inspire
My every latest poem
I love you with all my heart
My Sweet Pea Princess
Who will sometimes
Play with pompom *****
Or some kind of kitty toy
I love you so much, darling girl
And always enjoy our feline kisses
Exchanged between our faces
Your soft, furry head against my cheek
Or butted up against my forehead
You're my Sweet Pea Princess
And I love you dearly

*~Marian~

I can’t remember what I said right before…

I kissed you.

I think I was wearing your blue and orange hat,
the one with the pompom
(You look ridiculous in it).

I’m sure you thought I was cute when I
took it off your head
and clicked up the sidewalk backwards as I put it on.
I probably thought I was giving you ****-eyes.

I thought you’d think I was crazy when I showed up at your door
and rang your doorbell,
(like eight times)
at 4:37 AM.

But I just wanted a kiss I could remember—
one I could accept my diploma with.
Not a face-full of beard
and a blurry hint at what color your eyes
might have been
when I…
               took
                         a step
                                     back.

I wanted to kick off my black Frye boots
that made me taller than you on the hill.
I wanted to shave that beard
to see your face for the first time.

7:30PM, October 9, 2015, 65*F, 10mph breeze, 5% humidity (somehow 10% where I was sitting), 50.0001% chance of rain, dark, cold, late, loud...I think that's enough. Alright! Spoiler alert, Birkston High won the game. If you simply have ears you've known that for a while (many of us who were at the game don't). All the people in Grenfolkshire were there, so there were some empty bleachers, but the Student section was full and lively, and did I say loud, because LOUD....! My ears were ringing (at a B8 note, for the musically overcurious people) for three days straight. I think it was a healthcare tactic, dare I say it. All those figurehead townspeople were there as well, like Mayor Arnofold Plattersbury with his orange jumpsuit, waving a pompom in the air like he just didn't care. Really, he didn't-I got whacked in the head with it eleven times. Recently, after taking a recent poll on the recent event, it was found that only about 35% of people really knew what happened, a number that has declined, recently. This very well is contributed to 1.) most of the people are there for the free food and don't exactly major in football 2.) teenagers are highly social creatures 3.) a bunch of hands in the air and six foot tall mammoths standing on the bleachers will tend to block the view of the people who are five foot small. The freshmen had a real problem on their heads. Nevertheless, the Wildcats found themselves with the bell for another year, whether they knew it or not. The Panthers found themselves nose-in-the-dirt, tail-dragging, while we found ourselves filing out like a herd of wild penguins onto the field.

left cup runneth over/

right cup half empty/

if I add my left cup size to my right cup size what will I get/ DD + D = DDD/I've never been great at math/but this is no/miscalculation/

I am 36 DD confined to a 36 D bra/

(D)Disgorges over the underwire/

D--you flaccid beach ball/I wish I could reinflate you/part my mouth around your ******/and/
breathe/

no one can tell/unless I wear a tight bodice/then/you are/obnoxiously evident/

I am afraid of introducing you to my future boyfriend/will he still want to undress me/will he still want to make love to me/

will he still want to touch you/

you/

sea urch/in/the palm of my hand/

even I am hesitant to hold you close to me/

you/

strangulated bagpipe/

moulting pompom/ B-O-O-B/
what's that spell/
what's that spel/
what's that spe/
what's that sp/
what's that s/
what's that/

what is that/

what/

who are you/

you/

waning gibbous/

my metaphors wane, also/it turns out there are only so many euphemisms that can be assigned to an/ill-proportioned breast/

itsy bitsy titsy/

you make me/

sad/

you/

teardrop defying the laws of gravity/

or/
is it the laws of gravity that defy the teardrop/so that it never falls into/
place/

I've noticed only/beautiful/things/
fall/

shooting stars/

autumn/

my left *****

i hate technology, its automated typo system, i write one thing and then it starts playing hide & seek with me... i rarely make mistakes, but this a.i. automated typo system makes me look stupid, or neurotic in the least, i hate this automatic typo signification as if i am teaching someone!*

i love that drinking wins over writing sometimes,
like this strange neo-left asking me to top it all off
with my communist grandfather living under stalin
completely in agreement with them girlies weeping
when he stank the dog off the grave in terms of bio-tech
completion; he wouldn't be dear to the left epitaph,
he'd be like voltaire & the priest: given the devil
in the sickbed there was not time to choose enemies...
he'd be branded a ****... worded... the worst kind...
a pseudo pacifist of some sort... couple economy
and atheism and you get a darwinian exclusion
where the ants aren't oblivious to lions but exclude them
for their species so well organised, god can take
the hangover route and make the "self" less sellable;...
(economy of a species and darwinism
demands communism - exclusive economisation;
not inclusive economisation...
that's some sort of theological branch
of personification where man minds spider above
another man, etc.)...
there's no self included, esp. a (")self(") worth selling...
which means exactly that (the opposite of now)...
NO TOURISM INTO THE REALM
OF CELEBRITY LITERATURE...
WHICH IS ONLY BIOGRAPHIES....
GET YER **** OUT GIRLS!
YOU'LL WRITE A BOOK SOMETIME!
god this culture is barren, and to think i dressed up
in uniform for school listening to jethro tull once...
this ain't the same country...
it sold out to the arabs... charles iii
is a ******* traitor!
traitor!
charless the iii is john ii... character assasination
you like you did with diana...
diana's revenge... yeah i believe you
were wearing silk straps of safety and the
driver survived and the parapazzi blinded the driver:
one thing about jealousy... it has dwarf legs.
they pass into the political realm they do....
easier come easier to take on in politics...
economic migrants (we'll see about that,
your philanthrophy just took to faking flight
via an invisible magic carpet flapping its trims)...
i told you once that democracy is like inverse voyeurism...
mark the x on paper, ***** an ****** into jugs for
pale ale... excess carbonation... it turns all fizzy...
the geese marched into winter...
the swans marched right into a royal edict...
the neo carta was never crafted...
but i got the hang of the diacritic marks...
i was walking drinking a belgian cider...
C DER.... in belgian french there's an accent,
stress the c, makes the vowel missing...
cídre - not really acute i, but an acute c...
c         dr. dre, i.e. dre, c dre...
it's the acute stressor of c that makes the vowel
disappear... not that a vowel can actually
become acute... vowels like women wear
mascarra to look pretty, the consonants are
serviced for a complexity... via hebrew original...
c                        dre
not
               si                        ahem...               dre.
in passes on the pompom for expected pomp -
i can't believe it took a bottle of belgian cider
to get that across.
oh sure they can hang me... by the snout...
for i won't be able to march into a field of truffles...
but hey... big snout worthy... never mind
trying to wear leather shoes given the hannibal
treatment for tacky snakeshoe leather.
most say that difficult literature is literature unread...
there's no other difficulty in literature...
difficult literature is simply unread, that's why
it's difficult... simple literature trickles down as easy as water...
and that's why it's easily managed by what
the chinese done already, having no hollywood and
damning india's bollywood... their phoneticism
is lodged in ideograms... pictograms...
european phoneticism is lodged in a skin to number,
B akin to 8, e.g., we get rich owning ovens
televisisions and satellites... but we also own
watiers and cooks who are mechanised...
and have no richness of thought...
who cares if beijing is clouded in smog?
we have 15 more years of carbon emission to wait for
before our idealism is profitable!
ah but the arab girls will migrate to london every year
between may and august... i should be so lucky lucky
australian girl pop lucky with them shopping
in only one hot spot, a grieving egyptian's legoland
of tacky known as harrods!

Today, I’m well.
Yes.
Good.
I’m good,
I should say.
God?
God, no!
Good God!
Good.
Up-welling of wellness.
Bow tied:
A bow-tie-kind-of-day day.

Sun furtive.
Won’t be long.
Shouldn’t expect she’ll be long.
Yes, she.
Ephemeral.  
Resplendent.
Sheer she-ness.
Just a Walkers crisp of a bit longer.

It is possible, I might add,
She’ll appear a fraction different
To what one can reasonably be expected to remember.

Good!
I’m good.
That is how it is said, in these parts, isn’t it?
Are you good?
Are you…
Competent?
Up to the task, I mean.
Fit to fly.
Work-ready.
Which sort?  
Wearing odd socks, again.
Accentuate the good.
Try to.
Left and right; or the other way around:
Right and left.  
Or could be both… fancy that!
Cream and chocolate, hey, superb!


Today is a wooly-hat-kind-of-a-day day, is it not?
Prepare for the worst and hope for the best.
Lest there be gales.
What? No! Disaster!
Now, wouldn’t that be…
Wouldn’t that scupper things?  Do you think not?

I love my wooly hat.  
He’s got a name, you know.
Ru-pert.
Stitched with love.
Pompom-topped.
So warm, it is.
Ready for jaunts.
With Rupert.
Up Horsenden Hill.
Too hot, soon.
Best to toss it in the bushes.

                        -------


Perhaps I am under-dressed?
Am I?
Hard to know.
I’ll wear my bow tie again.
Yes, I’ll wear my bow tie when, that is to say, Assuming
The rules permit it.

God permits us
To revel a bit. Kick back.
Do you think God likes to laugh?
God, grant me the gift to laugh.  

                        -------

Oh,
Now,
Did you hear that?
Heating broken,
Not a peep.
Closed valve cylinder, limited warranty,
Manual unfathomable.

But,
No viable option.
‘Northfields Community Library Welcomes You.’
The toilets better be warm!

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      <p><em>the title? it just means i took a ****.... and it felt as good as ultra<br>homosexuality via transgender... or... whatever.</em><br><br>   <strong>why is         ęś      easier to pronounce than           eś...<br>                  or                      ęs?           in bracket?<br>         well... it had to be kept in bracket...<br>                                    the counter optional was simply e.</strong><br><br>the main point of this poem?<br>    i really don't know...<br>           i just like the way the word sounds /<br>                                 <em>sings</em>, to encounter <br>  my appreciation for it having a relevant counter<br>                                expression.<br>             i can't believe i just wrote: i took a ****<br>                                   in the most eloquent way possible...<br>seriously... it was a fudge hard expression of ****...<br>                    i think i started sneezing, or coughing<br>   while <em>liberating</em> this piece of ****...<br>            it probably resembled something akin to *******;<br>it's like i wanted some, and then said:<br>                        why is taking a **** so pleasurable?!<br>can i hasve some more?<br>       in all honesty?<br> the russians can't beat the expression -<br>                                                   <em>wysrałem się</em> -<br>i.e.: i just took a ****.<br>           at this point, the russian language is pompom...<br>boring...<br>                                             ­     it's just...            <em>dangling</em>...<br>                        like a yoyo...<br>                                                        t­ong... tong... tong...<br>i can't believe i found a source of <em>infectious</em> laughter...<br>    hence i know my <em>muse</em>... and her cat's name?<br>                   <em>kickers</em>...<br>                                           i know my muse....<br>   i knew my muse since she was 14 / 13 / 12...<br>             i.e. i don't really remember the day it was: love at first sight.<br>and that was in the year 2004...<br>                                 she's still a secret to most if not all people,<br>and will remain so... <br>                             but not to her elder sister...<br>                    hmm...<br>                            ­                       what a gratifying thought:<br>it's like memorising certain things in my life<br>                      as if in a crucible of pretence: that they didn't.</p>

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the title? it just means i took a ****.... and it felt as good as ultra
homosexuality via transgender... or... whatever.

   why is         ęś      easier to pronounce than           eś...
                  or                      ęs?           in bracket?
         well... it had to be kept in bracket...
                                    the counter optional was simply e.

the main point of this poem?
    i really don't know...
           i just like the way the word sounds /
                                 *sings, to encounter
  my appreciation for it having a relevant counter
                                expression.
             i can't believe i just wrote: i took a ****
                                   in the most eloquent way possible...
seriously... it was a fudge hard expression of ****...
                    i think i started sneezing, or coughing
   while liberating this piece of ****...
            it probably resembled something akin to *******;
it's like i wanted some, and then said:
                        why is taking a **** so pleasurable?!
can i hasve some more?
       in all honesty?
the russians can't beat the expression -
                                                   wysrałem się -
i.e.: i just took a ****.
           at this point, the russian language is pompom...
boring...
                                             ­     it's just...            dangling...
                        like a yoyo...
                                                        t­ong... tong... tong...
i can't believe i found a source of infectious laughter...
    hence i know my muse... and her cat's name?
                   kickers...
                                           i know my muse....
   i knew my muse since she was 14 / 13 / 12...
             i.e. i don't really remember the day it was: love at first sight.
and that was in the year 2004...
                                 she's still a secret to most if not all people,
and will remain so...
                             but not to her elder sister...
                    hmm...
                            ­                       what a gratifying thought:
it's like memorising certain things in my life
                      as if in a crucible of pretence: that they didn't.

ooh, but when you mention cultural violence,
go right at the core with schismatic Islam
of Iran, you suddenly encounter a ******* turtle-shell
in the west, the west just says:
we can sacrifice a few slugs rampant in their
drunken wisdom - we can have a bomb in
Paris... a London pompom craze for
Venetian voodoo opening and closing the gateway
to hell immediate... we just can't have
a freedom of language! we can't have freedom
of language! we can master freedom of speech,
**** yeah! we can master that for sure...
but we're sorta boggled up when we see writing
and can't differentiate freedom of language
from freedom of speech... esp. given the internet,
it's mind-boggling, we're talking the theory
of relativity here? i'm with the schismatics of Iran
on this one... i'm no Homer... but i can sniff
a dog's ******* of appreciation for licking
them / saying them that is in full: concerto,
rather than some: mm, i'm loving it
                                                child molestation:
i swear! is swear! Cabaret Voltaire made me do it!
they told me to rationalise them into eloquent speech...
**** knows who the clown is... you bring him along?
so, what, the, ****, is, he, doing, in, our audience?!
might as well asked the whole of Kremlin to
bring their ****** shooting croons to intercept a
bogus Basildon ***-text to smoke out the paedophiles
of Westminster doing a river dance...
but you know... you know... i've seen only three
ballets... but you know what i'd really love to see?
(pork snout humph snigger)... ballerinas doing the
**** goose march... HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!
i swear you could just tickle those feet up in the
air fluttering like butterflies to do, just that.

i don't even know what this is, this is...
some guys rate girls on a scale of 1 to through to 10...
they mention the "friend zone"...
erm... what about the.... ahem: "dad zone"?
i've just experienced the "dad zone"...
sorry, what?! exactly...
i sort of feel bad writing about this,
but i'm not going to pile **** on this girl...
3 days of a stomach cramps and what
the **** happened to me...
lies with coworkers... blah blah: sneaky
******* whatever(s)...
forget the heart: make it stone...
follow your gut... your guts...
no... tomorrow her son is going to eat
a mango curry... i have two ripe mangoes...
i'm not going to eat them...
he's not having chicken nuggets...
merely chicken nuggets on my watch...
yeah... this is the "dad zone"...
whatever dating lingo is left available...
i'm in love with her...
bonus? she's older than me...
so... chances are... she might die at the same time
as me...
and **** me... she's ginger...
that whiskey sort auburn burning light...
by alternative to the Bible text of a...
"woman dressed in the sun"...
which part of the sun? sunrise, sunset or full
noon glare blonde? i prefer
the sunset sort of highlights... of hair...
how simple was that?
an issue of trust... sure, i said... i'll be doing some
night cycling... like that r.e.m. song:
but that's about night swimming...
you, serciously, you're not familiar with
the movie: Sunset Boulevard?!
you're kidding me?, right?!
she opened a corker, i rolled a cigarette,
then a second... remarked... oh... looks like not out
of practice... a perfect rollie...
what were we drinking? ****** pseudo-champagne...
we have a date for tomorrow...
i'm bringing my homemade stuff...
20 minutes before texts...
i replied: i'll be 20 minutes from where you'll be...
you're going to be walking your dog?
as i came up she thought that i'd be
shy... cycle pass... that she could simply
get away with a wave...
woman... you're not getting off that easy...
so i cycled back and walked with her to her
home... we talked...
her dog Woody was... ahem...
a complete and utter pervert...
kept licking my ears...
but then again... he licked off the scabs on
my knuckles clear off...
i lied... a white lie...
is anyone ever expected to say:
yeah, i put out cigarettes on my knuckles,
it's a ******* thrill i''m urged to
sometimes partake in...
no... i was making pizza... d'uh...
i'm not even thinking about ******* her...
i'm thinking about her son...
Fredrick, Freddy, we talked about school...
about spelling... i read a poem he wrote out-loud...
i admired his and his mum's construction
of a world war II bomb bunker...
he told me about learning about war poetry...
so, world war I stuff, all the poppy fields etc.?
at the age of 9 he was instructed to learn about autism...
i told him...         read a little about
SOLIPSISM... i even wrote it on a piece of
paper for him...
from the age of 7... through to the age of 9...
wow! your handwriting ... it's exponential!
she said, what's that?
he corrected her... i reiterated... it's not linear...
it just exploded!
he complained about writing by joining
letters... but he said: joining words...
letters, Freddy... yeah... but look how we've
been doing writing over the past 30 years...
QWERTY... we're typing...
no one really deciphers handwriting...
the dog? licked my ears and the wounds on
my left hand's knuckles right off: clean...
i bled for a while...
if this is modern dating: i still smell of dog licks...
i better go up to my two maine *****
and inquire whether i might,
somehow, still pass off as human...
well obviously tomorrow i will be better attired...
hell: if it comes to ironing a shirt...
the rest of the "office" can *******...
i'll take my chances... if she's this supposed mad *****...
you don't even know where i'm coming
from... ha... ha ha...
i'm nice... i'll play nice...
but then... no... Matt... Matthew... don't do that
crap of taunting for seeking attention
and male-authoritaraship - authoritariship?
what the ****?! 5 google search results...
and i come up? o.k., o.k. i know it's a spelling
mistake... author-i...
           **** it...

what a magnificent date... in her own home...
with her dog, with her son...
we shook hands while parting...
hello "dad zone".. i'm not here for ***...
if i want ***... i can just go ******* to a brothel...

she even texted me...
you forgot your hat...
oh... right... the one i found at a bus stop...
with the pompom...
    Woody (her dog) in between licking my
ears and the scabs on my knuckles was
desperate to bite, bite... bite at it:
Gemma wants to keep it! keep it!
dog "sign language" or something...

i was watching her watching the tongue of the dog,
he licked and licked t my scabs,
then got to drinking my blood...

yeah, i forgot my pompom hat....
i told her: you keep it, i found it originally,
it must have a mind of it own:
like that cap in Harry Potter... the one that
allocates upcoming students to their
designated house...

******* "dad zone"...
point being... i don't mind...
what has his spelling examination:
he's up in the highest tier...
fuchsia related...
some hue more subtle...

it's very similar... what?
going to a brothel or going to a single mum
household...
she's complaining tht there are not enough
books in her house...
Freddy, see you tomorrow...
guess what's on the ready:
Stendhal's the Crimson & the Black,
some Dostoyevsky,
Salinger? Huxley... Sartre?
Kerouac? Aesop? Dickens? Hesse?!

she's mad, sure, who wouldn't be,
if she's raising a boy on her own...
we're done ******* around,
i'm thinking... this boy... right...
i read a poem he wrote aged 8 out-loud...
i wanted to implore him:
please, don't become doing what i do:
it doesn't pay... it never did
it never will...
people want artistry for free
to begin with, to ever begin with it...
unless it's manufactured
superficial crap....

         i don't actually know what a friend,
eh? "friend" zone implies...
sure, i have a choice...
single mothers or prostitutes...
there are no friends in between...
i'm also ******* serious...
every time your ******* dog starts licking
my ears and my scabs...
when your child shows me homework:
AUTISM... what?!
sorry, what?!             you heard
about solipsism?!

the school pressured you to learn
spanish?                why? bully them back!
learn German...
German has a similar grammatical structure
to English... ich sehen du: i see you!
im Deutsche ist akin im Englisch...

      i'm outright in the dad zone...
and guess what... i want to be here...
i can play the ancient Roman game... is it a "game"?
is it?! i want to love this woman...
i want to grow old with her...
hell... i willl do my utmost to do just that!

i'm looking forward for her trying my homemade
wine tomorrow... what an auburn ginger burn
on the heart... i'm sitting singing along
to pop music... for ****'s sake...
clean bandit & mabel - tick tock...

                  no!              no!                ****!
             it's already happening!
no, wait, it has already happened!

                                                       ****'s sake!

the **** just happened last night?
oh, right, 1 litre of whiskey,
documented with an emptying bottle
and a clock...
   and the silliest thing a person could
do, was take a "selfie" with
a hat + pompom pulled over his eyes...
but i seem to remember something
else...
   while i was cooking stuffed peppers
today...
what the hell was it?
  ah, right... now i remember...
listening to i'm shipping up to boston
by the dropstick murphys,
and continually punching my face
for about 10 minutes...
while also in the silent movie way of
singing along to the song...
         who does that?! does what?
punch themselves in the face?
well... some people learn a martial art,
i'm a cheapo,
     i practice on myself,
if i can withstand my own punch in
the face, any other poker will have
a harder time to punch me out...
then again, there was the ireland vs. wales
match today, and i was trying
to jinx it, meaning: i wanted the paddies
to win... and win, they did;
  and it would appear i'm more irish
in terms of literary adventure than most,
i've have the james joyce oeuvre
under my belt...
           which is a bit like having finished
that ponce proust...
       i'm actually dreading reading
that book of his, and to be frank,
   i'd probably get off more reading
the small print of some terms & conditions
on a contract,
  or do the rain-man
                 and read a phonebook;
sometimes all you need in hell is a book,
there's no need for hellfire.

p.s. by the way, who made sisyphus roll
the rock up that hill?
was there some sort of guardian
        whipping him to repeat this
futile action? why didn't he sit by the rock
and contemplate it,
   becoming the architect of a cognitive
labyrinth?

Our mother
Who does art at seven
Mallowed by thy game
Thy ring tone comes
Thy shall'st have fun
On earth, by the River Severn
Give us this day
Our daily words said
And forgive us our faux pas
As we forgive those
That faux pas against us
Lead us not into isolation
And deliver us some weevils
For thine is the string pompom
The flower, and short story
For ever, and never
Ah Bisto!
by Jemia