Beneath the surface of the earth,
Beneath the green and sodden turf,
Wendy wombat, supreme digger
Raced to make her tunnels bigger,
Pulling dirt with mighty claws
And toiling hard without a pause

Ensconced within her little pouch,
So small they had no need to crouch,
Her children slept, all warm and dry,
As mud and dirt went flying by,
Quite unaware how nature planned
To lend them all a helping hand

For wombat pouches don't get full
Of dirt and mud as mommies pull,
For mother nature in her wisdom
Looked upon her magic kingdom,
Saw the wombats under ground
And wisely turned their pouches round!

The sun bakes down heavily on a plastic micro planet in Orlando, Florida
where crowded trams drop American bushels of tourists into an alien world.
Quickly fantasy comes alive
through a corporation of disguise.
The workers mask themselves in a drapery of familiar life
-like costumes to charm little children’s hearts.
They smile wildly, carving a clear dimple line on the but of their cheeks. Walt’s Disney World
must have driven every one of America’s circuses out of business.
The flying trapeze is too elegant,
people now want to be strapped in,
buckled up and whipped around
to forcibly experience the true velocity of entertainment.
Even the participant’s attire is geared for this third world oblivion. Neon ***** packs rest like bloated kangaroo pouches
on fat sweaty old lady’s round hips, their plump fingers
holding on to leashed harnesses reined to their child’s small chest.
This is vacation,
strangers of people in massive conglomerations
with confused expressions and burnt faces.
Even the food seems wickedly unnatural,
like an artificial order of burning plastic and sour dough surprise.
Waiting is the enthusiast’s pastime as parades
of anxious voyeurs are captivated by a trance
fixation of lights and whistles.
They line up like schools of lemming,
plunging on rides,
one by one.

This is the place
Where memories are made
And dreams come true

You, my old companion,
I’ve junked three trucks and still I keep you.
Buried five dogs. Raised three children
who are now raising children.
And still I wear you.

You jingle when I walk.
Nails clink in pouches.
The drill in its holster slaps my leg.
The hammer in its clip spanks my ****.
You bristle with screwdrivers, chisel,
big fat pencil, needlenose plier.
You call attention. Random kids
who have never seen a tool belt before
follow me around asking
“What are you doing?”
Then: “Can I help?”

You smell like me (and I, like you).
Leather, fourth decade.
I’ve washed your pouches with saddle soap,
sewn your seams with dental floss.
Now the web of your belt is fraying,
wrapped (silly, I know) with duct tape.

Your pockets fill over time.
Once in a while I remove every tool,
every last ***** and nail.
I hold you upside down and shake.
Sawdust, a dead spider, little strippings
of insulated wire will fall out.
And once, my missing wedding ring.
It had broken. I had taken it to a jeweler
for repair, but when I got there
I couldn’t find it. A year later,
you coughed it up.

When your webbing finally snaps,
when you drop from my waist,
maybe it’s you, old tool belt, I’ll take
to the jeweler for remounting,
for buff and polish. He’ll understand.

hereunder is served some poetry pouches full of love,
dear reader, stir them as you like,
if you wish you may crack them to pour into mouth,
you may smear them on your body
or you may sprinkle them on the ground
and then chant the name of god
with love and enjoyment

1.
the simplicity that rolls down
from the body of the sweet-meat
made by my mother

let it brings light
to our radish-red love-story

to hear or to notice
love
does not need
putting an ear on the wall
of the wall-street journal

the bottle could be filled
from the voice

when you go to fill the bottle
you would see that everywhere
the arrangement of picnic is ready

when i want to take part in that feast
my neighbours would drive me towards
the home  

although i’ve spent all my life
running behind the love

2.
who’s won the muddy-battle
was yesterday’s politics

my addiction is actually to cater
the pouch of love
to develop all vitamins
and all bathrooms

people say you don’t love
the claps of the rats

yet i’ll come down
from the branch of a guava-tree
as a wave-of-shopping-mall
to the lake of your love

now i’ll jump out
from this computer screen
to register a kiss
on your lips

don't miss to applaud
by clapping the hands


3.
the heart is half-sunk
in the window

to some extent
in the lipstick too

on the dinner-plate
there is the feelings of the lord

that means
i’ve to be burnt more
i do agree

i would become
the sculpture of khajuraho

this happenings may have been
the right search for love

on either-side of which  
a green is being worked out
by the nostalgic-cycle

whose colour-texture is very much harappa
which has too many geometric-memories

4.
an undertone is speaking
from within the solitude

now i’m in very much
distress

or i’m in love

i don’t know my love is what-for
may be that’s an arrangement only

so easily are those interactions
stitched with words

strenuous or effortless
in flight
initiated
with seclusion

but when in the sinking of the playfulness
i  write the games of the street-charmers


the birds again and again
pierce the archery

thus becoming ashes
through travelling

in time-gaps still
the audacity to compose poems
on you

5.
is it true love
or i do take it granted
that i’m in love

or i do love to think
that i’m loving

and there is
neither any welcome address
nor any opening song
in my love

my experience with heat of fire
and with burning pain
in the flames of water
is nothing less

6.
in course of burning
i look around

the chilly-plant  in the tob
planted in my won-hand
producing green-chillies

oh-** how sweet they are

it is no chilled-body
that has earned
my life or death

no remarkable mark
is endorsed
on the lotus-leaf

now easily some words
can be written
on you

i don’t know whether
those would be at all
some lines of a poem


7
someone falls in loves
someone makes love
love comes to some another

there is the far-off
whispering

at first she constructs me
then destroys rightly

i notice her
for the first time in six weeks  

the love
that writes
in the footnote of the tennis-ball
a desperate struggle for existence

within our skull
there is the love

or the midnight of the orion

the little squirrel asked now
are you in your seventies
or eighties

those houses with the coating of
the sky the air the light-and-shade
provide me with the presentation of
a wig and
a set of artificial teeth
8.
the love
that touches the hand
in drizzling

the love
that gets lost in the brandishing
grasses

would they want to inform
that the flowers don’t have any skyscraper

in the layers of the flesh and blood
of the detergents
as if  a whole human civilisation has been suffering
from suppressed pain

within it with the dry spell of
anger and cough
the time

had there been no feeding from the love
does the human civilisation stagger

9.
do you think those words
or it’s myself

whatever may you say now
i’ll travel within a great death
to die

rather after my demise i may tell
i’ve informed everyone …look

beneath the large evergreen flower tree
the game of light and shadow continues

beside those simple households
besides a high-head mobile-tower
what else would you like to be

is it a bath in the ganga-river is it a leaf
of the water-lily or it’s a king-cobra  
tell me

i would now make love
with that idea from you

10.
the  apparent golden *** that i thought
to be the underneath of a kadam-tree

in the dim light i can notice that
the stars in the sky are disappearing  

this session of poetry
is coming to an end

now where would i
go

to that little home

the home
a tiny word of 4 letters

within that home
the children are giggling
playing … and making funs

when i entered
with a tri-cycle in hand
for them

i have been perplexed
many old persons are waiting there
to shake hands with me

10.
almost most of my desires  
are very much hurt

to show it publicly
i wrap bandages
around all over my body

i keep on the stage-drama  

in our programme of reading poetry
tea is served twice
current has gone off for three times
for four times the mobiles ring

to pick up love  
some people think about returning back
from today’s dais to the ancient stage
of performing folk-drama

then they are also sympathetic
to my sufferings

12.
everyday
on my way to return home from the school
when my mom took hold of my hands

i could see in my body
the dancing of an unforgettable
aura

even now that mystical halo is walking
on the leaves of the trees
to fulfil my mornings

that wayfaring along the road
is ringing far and far-off

thus taking bath in every day’s  
dust smoke hue and cry

many such love
gradually gets aged

is it true
in the long run
i too
would be the ingredient
of a fairy-tale

just because i love
that paddy field

some time later
she will also become
human

13.
then she will make all of us  
join her walking

those inmost feeling
those memories meditations

the loneliness  and solitude…

sans the touch of the imagination of
a crater…
a creator…

this blunder…
this socially outcast white …

this type of uneven…
and irrelevance…

sume words
when peep in the mind
i surprise to see that
it’s ten to 2 at night

then in the balcony
my father is crying

he always notices some grave-yard men
in front of him

and sheds tears  

14.
after the dry leaves of the winter
fall in innumerable drops
the spring comes

the cover-face of spring means
a note-book of the rain-tree
letting float in the sun-water

and mr harry says that
this question of change
is a major pull

because all the unreal talks
you are delivering one by one

to keep pace with it
the ambulance comes at 10am
with a stale dead-body

in it’s shirt
is written the spelling of myself

i then sat on the grey volume
of the college-campus

in the front
a beggar from the war of waterloo
is passing by

over the dust of myself
with a faster pace
blowing is the thoughts of

ataraxia  
in the air… and air… and air…
    

15.

if your wishes colour silver
then do return back to the x-mass dancing
of the autumn

sound of whose far-off hoof-steps
digging so much soil of
story-weeds

i went into the nail-polish
with the proof of tea-cup
in my hand

there in the midst of lot of snow-flakes
and in the bed soft with the light of the candle
is now that honey-name more tarnished

now the atomic-howling
does not follow the rules of nature

so the rain-tree that seeks a-field-more-sky
with the hope to become king after the sun-rise

so that king is now waiting
in the grocer’s shop
at a stretch  for an hour

16.
does her well-wisher esse then thinks
to escape from the love-making whirl-wind

on the dry branches of the axis power
the new generation of the birds

rather stop a while there silently and listen
which song is hidden in the bronze-buddha

or in the school of the terracotta-horse

i’m now opening the coating
of the night-enamel to read this home

and behind the coo of dove
is smiling

the god of the penalty-kick

17.
sitting on an orange-coloured balcony
in an outsider lane
the green is writing poems
  
better than the face-powder

from this side all long the famine
i’m the priest of the
agro-based civilisation

still-then i think
why so much light of partiality
is on the body of the chrysanthemum

within the monsoon
in collusion with the  hair-band
now thousands of birds are born  

they can hear my
dry straws and twigs

whose hearing is the police
in so depth of the forest

don’t move the
dreadful resorts

one such photograph of the girls
who wakes up in the midnight

speechless…
unmindful …
destruction…

that is you now

i’m then in the spore
of the perfume-bounded body
of match-making

18.

who has lied in the box
made up of the temperature
of god

all on a sudden
there is a hue and cry
in the abdomen of the time
wearing a ***** pajama

actually that has been filtered up
from the voices of rock-songs

the roaming
of a fatigued traveller …

the lies
within their wishes
write my existence

and then run
to buy vegetables
from the station-market

so many lay-offs
come to the body of paper-weight

to listen to all those
is not improper

walking through the traffic-jam
gradually
this home becomes solely my home

one day the golden of
human

then it is i
who is you

and walking through the
monsoon

on either side of the field
it is all autumn

19.
when borrowing the religion of
the night-queen  
i fall in love

then is it real
that our mangos and jack-fruits  
can make the perfumed-soap
vigorously from the light of the
blood-line

i count the bells of the churches
ringing repeatedly

and piercing the image
of your prominent face

rounding through lots of old
the love becomes exhausted

and the love comes back
in the form of college-classes

there are you myself
and so many notes
of the body

Skyscrape city
Land of Construction and Buying Local
I stand here. Metallic red spandex
sweat collecting in my mask.

down the street a band of thieves
bang and clang loudly in The local bar
Not-so-cleverly named: The Tavern
"AYE!" says the largest drunken-est one.
"what cries first when you **** a girl?"
"her Eyes or 'Er heart?"
His filthy men take their guesses.
"Eyes!"
"Heart!"
"WRONG!" says Kane. "'Her Mother"
They all laugh, at the honesty.
Clang their tankards loudly!

These Bandits are a problem.
Some sort of Super Hero needs to bust in there and put an end to this.
which is kind of why the crime rate here is so high.
Because that's not what I do at all.
I'm just a 20-year old man playing dress up.

Monday Morning I call my friend Max
All I say is "Meet me at the mall ASAP"
Before I hang up.
From behind me I hear
"I'm already here, man."
I twist my head up and look around to find Max holding a Nerf gun pointed right at me.
Pop!
"What's The Plan?" he asks.
I kneel down to claim the Nerf dart.
Hold it tightly in my fingers.
"By the end of this day Max,
We're going to be Super Heroes."

We Travel around town searching for the perfect costumes.
First stop: ***** sporting goods.
We buy Mace
Air horns.
Kneepads
Under Armor Spandex, with armor pads!
"Dude! You look like military aqua man!" says Max
in that split second we had the same thought.
"Military."
we stop by the army surplus store:
buy gun holsters,
utility belts, Ammo pouches.
Never bought guns,
We just wanted to look cool.
Max spots a German machete
"Nick."
He glows, holding it, looking up to me.
"Yes." I say.
In a glass case full of various knives and daggers I spy something Precious.
Bladed playing cards.
"They're perfect." I say.
Max looks over my shoulder.
"You don't even know how to throw regular playing cards."
"Shhh, Max, I'm having a moment."
I hand the store owner a magical plastic rectangle
When we're done we Plop our shopping bags down in an alleyway.
it's dark now.
Dark enough to Slip into our New spandex armor.
Click Fasten our leg holsters
we spent our whole day shopping, for this moment.
Max holds out his machete and starts swinging it around.
"Max you don't even know how to wield that thing."
"Like you do."
cheque pants step out the side of a building and haul some trash bags into a nearby dumpster.
Then spots us.
"What're you kids doing!"
"Ahhh!" Jumped max as he lunged at the mans head with his machete.
"MAX!"
It was too late.
blood gushed from The guys skull
He slide down against the wall.
Max backs up slowly. speechless. wide-eyed.
"We Need to tell someone about this. right now."
We'll them a crazy murderer showed up and killed this guy."
"while we were changing?"
into our super hero costumes?"
We'll leave out some details max! We're lying! Let's go!
We Burst out of the Alley towards town.
"QUICK! In here!"
A Sign on the front wall read:
The Tavern
We dashed inside.
Men are laughing loudly, clanging their tankards drunkenly.

Then laughter stops.
Only the faint sound of pub music in the background covering what otherwise would be Crickets.
Eyes all fasten and glare at max and I
Snickers and giggles start poking fun at our outfits.
"Hey Kane, get a look at these queers."
"This ain't no gay bar boys, get a move on"

I finally Piped up through The gum of my throat.
"SOMEONE IS DEAD!
Blood everywhere!
Need..
Call...
Police!"
"Phew! I need to run more."

A Small bald man whispers to Kane
"Boss They must have found her."
Kanes Eyes go wide
"Boys!"
The men slowly rise from their seats and advance
Two of them slide behind us
Blockading the door
Large hands vault us toward the center of the room.
"You told the wrong Bar, boys" Says a bandit.
Quickly, I fumble through my pouches.
Try to whip out a bladed playing card and throw it at one of them.
As I flick, my finger gets sliced
Stings.
The Playing card clangs against the ground as I nurse my finger to my mouth.
they all laugh
"Oh look! he thinks he's some kind of Ninja" Shouts Kane. "HA!"

a bandit grabs my arms, twists them back hoists me up.
Max takes a swing at a bandit
It hits him much like a pillow.
A ***** eyed stare from max looks to the man as he Drives max right in the jaw and sends him sailing to the ground.
His lip bleeding.
Max reaches into his pocket.
fingers clasp firmly.
Closes his eyes.
LAYS LOUDLY THE AIR HORN!
The bandits jump back and cover their ears.
While the bandits hd their ears I escape the grapple.
I drop, reach for my mace,
Jump back
spray him in the eyes.
"MAX!
LETS GO!"
we run towards the door,
Still laying on the Horn.
Kane Stands in the way.
Grinning.
I finger a Playing card in my pocket.
Better get good at this fast.
Wrist flick
It flys through the air
Bee lines straight for him.
Straight in the eyeball!
"AHH!" His hands fly too his face in pain.
His fingers clench the card
He braces readying himself to pull.
We Bust out of there.
Run down the street.

flashing red and blue lights glow from out of the alley.
We peak around the caution taped wall
A cop is searching our wallets,
He Pulls out our I.D's
"Leave our **** Nick, let's go."
"But, My coffee mug!"
"But, cops nick! But our wallets nick! How about our clothes!  Our homework. My machete!"
The cop looks over towards us and we press fast behind the wall.
Max and I look at each other
Nod.
Race off over a brick hill
Around a Tower,
Into a parking garage,
we book it down
flight after flight of staircase into the basement.
Thump against the cement wall.
Gasping for air.
"Max." breath
"Yeah?" breathe
"It happened."

the green and waxy confusion is your cape and covering
topaz wings strum and flutter,
branches snap
beast and bug
geranium and dogwood
woodear spore and wolfsbane
flower and firm hedge
all wear goosebumps:
the whole army of generation, the waft and release
ready to conceive, to love and make root
to spill and ****
daylight, moonlight
well-fed and hungry
west and further west

a brush against your thigh flattens you
climbs your spine like a curse
robes you in purpose
to be and be alone

there you are: croucher, scuttler,
position known only to yourself
subclade of womankind
treasure in your soul
(in purses and pouches;
taking in, taking in)

it is private here and musty
you own your hands, your knees,
the dirt under them both,
the roots beneath that,
everything on the wind and below the blue sky
everything dark, and everything light:
kingdom of your own discovery
shroud and mountain and cache of mystery.

A door far away slides open
an echo of busy house, busy bones on the air.
Something in the oven.
Something in the heart.

What is the voice calling?
Who wants you home, child?
And if home is a warm meal, a bed,
a bath, a glass of milk,
a known touch,
then do you own your skin?

Aren't you small and lonely?
You are not.

the co-pilot, seated on the left, would scowl
the pilot was more amenable to small talk,
on this, our free ride: Miami to San Juan

the brother-in-law gave us a choice,
Puerto Rico or Equator
the ten or so days of our sleeping
on their living-room floor
were fun, the first three days
and he, a Miami airport guy,
offered one of two free flights

having chosen San Juan,
and not caring about the blood-thirsty Bermuda Triangle,
there we were :
in a C-24 cargo plane with its load
of five race horses, well stalled, well fed,
large, leather, hay-full pouches easily
accessible in front of each stall; one in front
and four others; two behind the first
and two others behind these; far
down, in the tail section, sat a man—
his job, caring for the horses

I don't know much about cargo planes
as a matter of fact, it may have been a C-26
but C-24 twirls my eyebrows more—
and I didn't expect it to be so cold up there

soon enough, I found out
we wouldn't arrive in jet-preen time,
perhaps in seven hours, or more

my love, cushion-comfy on the floor
next to the captain, stared, as I did,
to the ever-present, mountainous stars
housed not in mere magnificence but in abstract vision
you will learn much, staring at us,
we both knew we heard
by the briefest glance at each other's eyes

hour after hour fleeted,
my lovey fast asleep, captainside:
the first boom didn't startle
but the horses knew better
soon enough, the yoke started to jump
pilot and co-pilot, 30-year veterans,
tried to reveal only Calm
but the co-pilot started talking to
San Juan—I was to discover we
were, perhaps, forty minutes from the airport
then: neigh-EEEE, the horses
crazied themselves, each kicking
his stall—for, by now,
the one boom had transformed into:
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!--constant BOOMS
and the yoke seemed to fly off
the captain's hands

at one point, as the co-pilot rose,
I could swear he briefly pulled his hair,
as he went behind the cockpit—searching, searching

he found what he was looking for:
a 20-gallon can of fuel—but it could
have been only 10 or 15
my baby was still fast asleep—the horses,
by now, had gone berserk—the caretaker, at the very
end, seemed to be having a spiritual experience,
ready to enter heaven; I may have seen an angel's
hand on the ready


speedily, the co-pilot unwound the cup
of a thermos and handed it to me
I was thinking: they will never find our bodies
and almost dared to awaken lovey;
how she kept on sleeping was a case of
supernal intervention

and lo and behold, the co-pilot placed
a finger on a tiny hole, leading to the fuel tank
and ordered: hold the thermos cup and don't shake—
I'll fill it and you pour the fuel into the hole

there we were:
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!--constant BOOMS
heee-heee-heea—horses
voicing their concern
and with the first cup-full, I didn't spill
a drop—but there were more than two
hundred—perhaps three hundred to go

every time more than 7 drops skipped
the little hole, both the co-pilot and I
deathrattled in nightmares of unclogging vascular tease

we were twenty minutes away,
by this point, and the plane
started to hum
it must have been more than 280 thermos-cup
loads, the little hole accepted—and
perhaps 3 or 4 spilled down

was, perhaps, 3:00 A.M. when we landed
my love started to awake as
the wheels hit the runway

the airport was quite empty
of passengers or, almost, anyone
I wasn't in a great hurry
to tell lovey

mostly, clearly, I remember
us passing the pilot and co-pilot, inside,
after a while, sitting on chairs facing a closed snack bar

such blank looks I've
never seen, before or after;
a crippled fuel gauge pin
almost killed the horses
~~
..Dec. 24,2012..© 2012 Spiros Zafiris
..channeled; spirit Ram; reaching into
the poet's mind
~~

this is how women should spend time with men...
she's lying in a *******...
and she's telling you: with eyes closed...
i'm dancing...
you what?!
you're dancing?! **** me... if you're dancing...
i'm riding a ****** horse to the next Mongolian horde
conquest!
that's how nights should look like...
i get th8s plump ***-*****:
i tell her... i think i dreamed of you...
does it matter?
the one time i tried *******...
i wanted one of the girls to not be there...
this first time i tried getting a *** replacement of
****** i was like: fair ******* enough...
we're both moaning without taking...
i'm talking to the night and constellations...
my shadow: i am the shadow... i have no shadow...
this how men should be allowed to live their lives...
i love the scent of a woman on my body...
she might have ****** a thousand ***** before me...
but?! she's the most eager to kiss me!
she even showcased her legs.. barely shaven...
to me... sure... girl... you might require a shave or too...
i don't mind... your lips are candy-sweet to me...
that's why i perfumed my beard for her...
i wanted her sickly sweet dreaming...
my god.. i love a fattened girl!

the more fat on a girl the more... allowance...
pouches of kisses and disagreeable hands
touching pouches that ought not exist!
the excesses of thighs! my god!
i rub my beard i grind my teeth...
these women are alive!
i need more of them! i need them fattened-up!
more hip frenzy and less school-girl no thigh
ick...
i need them fat... i love a fat girls...
with bulging brown eyes...

thank god i washed myself before the encounter...
i spread enough aftershave onto my beard...
i love the scent of a woman on my body...
it's like the Cologne of Cologne...
i love the scent of unwashed hair...
raven... ****... i would rather sleep with 100 women
than encounter an exploration of consciousness
with a hallucinogenic drug...

**** me... before she ****** off to Romania:
i'm the "BIGGIE"...
great... now i have a nickname in the brothel...
light-*******-fantastic...
i'm "BIGGIE"...
     she closes her eyes and plays the "violin" with
my ******* and chest hair...
****'s sake... "BIGGIE"...
call me BAGPIPE from now on in...
BIGGIE...
                   o.k.: i can stomach that...
i'm BIGGIE.. fair enough... if you want to love as many
as you want to love but not marry: which actually
implies more than one... i can be BIGGIE...
i don't mind... i love prostitutes too much!

.oh, i almost forgot, a post-scriptum as a pre-scriptum... what's the difference between Nero and Caligula? why does the bible defame Nero, and ignore Caligula? Caligula was a psychopathic ***-addict in comparison to Nero... Nero, a troubled soul, an emperor-artist... i could never lay my hands on a critique of Nero... Caligula was much worse, yet the bible doesn't cite him as a spawn of... wasn't Agrippina... who i think she was? Caligula, teased as a child for a nickname with regards to the legionnaire boot... could be worse, could be ****** made fun of his surname... as i was when i was younger, and then much older... but Nero, the fragile soul of a poet... mad, sure... but at least overcome with all, if any, emotional response... aren't those guys at Linux autistic? you know, the ones rebelling against a code of conduct? oh... i see... time to pick on the autistic kids then? fair enough!

oh come on man...
the internet used to be so much fun
a couple of years back...
these alternative journalists
are becoming... droll...
  same ****, different cover,
i'm almost happy i'm not asking
people for money or selling
stuff to viewers...
   i don't like soap opera,
never did, never will,
esp. English soap opera...
****'s so fresh it hit the fan
and the fan is spinning and
the **** is getting coverage by
exfoliating its supposed,
perfumery into the air...
that's done...
    i just like my westerns from
the 1960s...
my sudoku...
  my Jack n Charlie
  (enough of caffeine in pepsi
to leave you riddled),
my Julian Windig -
the moon, the stars,
and all the space, visceral,
but somehow un- breathable
in the gloomy thickness of
the night...
      but... given this whole
charade of the cloak of anonymity...
i can give you my home address...
and i know a decent part
of a reduced forest made into
a park...
  we'll have a few sly slugs
of whiskey downers...
  then we'll face off
burning cigarette stubs on our knuckles
till we reach the soft pouches
of our flesh, and wait for a month
for the skin to grow back...
and we'll talk...
   i'm currently reading
about the Ellie Soutter tragedy...
suicide, aged 18...
prettiest girl in the whole wild world..
snowboarder...
          i'm serious:
you want certain aspects of a DOX?
but my rules...
we go into a forest and
have a drink...
and then we put out the cigarettes
we're smoking on our knuckles...
hell: what's fun if the fun
doesn't invoke a pain?
****'s still stuck to the fan...
i'm getting whiffs of: strawberries,
and Coco Chanel...
   maybe both...
   but then again...
i guess i'm the one with the *****
to propose this meat-ing...
      such a pretty girl:
devoured by the world...
  shame, really...
   and all these girls who cut...
****... you want a tattoo and self-harm
at the same time?
putting out cigarettes onto
your body is the way forward!
am i attempting to inspire
the practice? NO STUPID!
    but i guess we men always
were more willing to... EXPLORE,
variant avenues...
    i can't believe the internet
was fooled by focusing on an introversion
of its content creators...
   but, hell...
i'll post you the address,
then the coordinates to the spot
in the woods i like to frequent
when winter comes...
  a few whiskey slugs and a few
cigarettes later...
  and we'll be... CHUMS...
hé hé!
    Michael Jackson style of that variant:
he said, she said...
  but from what i've seen...
no chance in hell, some mutt,
will take the offer...
                     i only hide:
behind a mirror,
   and with that:
that's hardly hiding to begin with;
but no, i don't like urbanized areas...
throw me into the thickening
darkness of
               a deforested wood
made into a mark...
  and tell me to walk blind...
   it's as if...
                   my pupils dilate outside
of the iris, and consume the sclera.

It’s all laundry and cigarettes

White-knuckle odd jobs

And freezing your *** off, at 7 AM, to

Help your buddy out

Breaking and bleeding, and

Smoking and shirtless, and

Spinning your finger and thumb

Counter-clockwise until the

Resulting ring of fire and fury can

Torch your inhibitions

No one ever restricted you from

Rioting with grace

And through the windshield of your vision,

The streets wake up to the smell of

Alcohol and experience

It’s all rubble in dumpsters, and

Spray paint that swears 

Oaths, to bands and bandages

Singing the praises of 

Stolen promises, their swiftly

Prying minds can’t understand

And you’re standing

In front of the truck

Arms outstretched

Pistons firing air through your

Organs, that vibrate with the

Trepidation of nightmarish resolve

It’s all battlefields and accomplices,

The kid that kicked you down so,

That you’d eat the dirt,

Place your teeth in

Leather pouches,

And taste defeat for decades

You’re pleasantly high on the 

Smoke of your still-burning debt

You’re a supermarket superhero

You’re the queen of the Gasoline Dream

It’s in the way that

Your outline is

Edged out

By your insides, and the

Arms of the chair have become

Wings, that unfurl over

Valleys and oceans, of headstones,

And nursery wards

Tinted windows promise nothing

Regarding secrecy of soul

What would your wisdom teach me

About sentience?

A forgotten poem by Henry Brooke ( Irish Dramatist/Novelist)

Taken from poetrynook.com http://www.poetrynook.com/poem/universal-beauty-book-3-lines-301%C3%B4%C3%A7%C3%B4400

Or cool recess of odoriferous shade,
And fan the peasant in the panting glade;
Or lace the coverture of painted bower,
While from the enamell'd roof the sweet profusions shower.
Here duplicate, the range divides beneath,
Above united in a mantling wreath;
With continuity protracts delight,
Imbrown'd in umbrage of ambiguous night;
Perspicuous the vista charms our eye,
And opens, Janus like, to either sky;
Or stills attention to the feather'd song,
While echo doubles from the warbling throng.

Here, winding to the sun's magnetic ray,
The solar plants adore the lord of day,
With Persian rites idolatrous incline,
And worship towards his consecrated shrine;
By south from east to west obsequious turn,
And moved with sympathetic ardours burn.
To these adverse, the lunar sects dissent,
With convolution of opposed bent;
From west to east by equal influence tend,
And towards the moon's attractive crescence bend;
There, nightly worship with Sidonian zeal,
And queen of heaven Astarte's idol hail.

" O Nature , whom the song aspires to scan!
" O B EAUTY , trod by proud insulting man,
" This boasted tyrant of thy wondrous ball,
" This mighty, haughty, little lord of all;
" This king o'er reason, but this slave to sense,
" Of wisdom careless, but of whim immense;
" Towards T HEE ! incurious, ignorant, profane,
" But of his own, dear, strange, productions vain!
" Then, with this champion let the field be fought,
" And nature's simplest arts 'gainst human wisdom brought:
" Let elegance and bounty here unite —
" There kings beneficent, and courts polite;
" Here nature's wealth — there chymist's golden dreams;
" Her texture here — and there the statesman's schemes;
" Conspicuous here let Sacred Truth appear —
" The courtier's word, and lordling's honour there;
" Here native sweets in boon profusion flow —
" There smells that scented nothing of a beau;
" Let justice here unequal combat wage —
" Nor poise the judgment of the law-learn'd sage;
" Tho' all-proportion'd with exactest skill,
" Yet gay as woman's wish, and various as her will. "

O say, ye pitied, envied, wretched great,
Who veil pernicion with the mask of state!
Whence are those domes that reach the mocking skies,
And vainly emulous of nature rise?
Behold the swain projected o'er the vale!
See slumbering peace his rural eyelids seal;
Earth's flowery lap supports his vacant head;
Beneath his limbs her broider'd garment's spread;
Aloft her elegant pavilion bends,
And living shade of vegetation lends,
With ever propagated bounty blest,
And hospitably spread for every guest:
No tinsel here adorns a taudry woof,
Nor lying wash besmears a varnish'd roof;
With native mode the vivid colours shine,
And heaven's own loom has wrought the weft divine,
Where art veils art; and beauties beauties close,
While central grace diffused throughout the system flows.
The fibres, matchless by expressive line,
Arachne's cable, or aetherial twine,
Continuous, with direct ascension rise,
And lift the trunk, to prop the neighbouring skies.
Collateral tubes with respiration play,
And winding in aerial mazes stray.
These as the woof, while warping, and athwart
The exterior cortical insertions dart
Transverse, with cone of equidistant rays,
Whose geometric form the F ORMING H AND displays.
Recluse, the interior sap and vapour dwells
In nice transparence of minutest cells;
From whence, thro' pores or transmigrating veins
Sublimed the liquid correspondence drains,
Their pithy mansions quit, the neighbouring chuse,
And subtile thro' the adjacent pouches ooze;
Refined, expansive, or regressive pass,
Transmitted thro' the horizontal mass;
Compress'd the lignous fibres now assail,
And entering thence the essential sap exhale;
Or lively with effusive vigour spring,
And form the circle of the annual ring,
The branch implicit of embowering trees,
And foliage whispering to the vernal breeze;
While Zephyr tuned, with gentle cadence blows,
And lull'd to rest consenting eyelids close.
Ah! how unlike those sad imperial beds,
Which care within the gorgeous prison spreads;
Where tedious nights are sunk in sleepless down,
And pillows vainly soft, to ease the thorny crown!

Nor blush thou rose, tho' bashful thy array,
Transplanted chaste within the raptured lay;
Thro' every bush, and warbled spray we sing,
And with the linnet gratulate the spring;
Sweep o'er the lawn, or revel on the plain,
Or gaze the florid, or the fragrant scene;

Oldest thing I ever did see,
Skin a mountain range of
Crumpled/crinkled crepe paper
Peaking in altitudinous pouches
Under his eyes, dragging with
Their weight dewlapp jowls
Down to a waddling,
Flabby neck, eyes camouflaged
Under light, fuzzy swatches of cotton,
Mouth slack and vacant, dribbling.
Hobbling with a stoop, knees bowed,
Back arched at an angle, a
Tilted arrow. He tottered over to me,
Inches, feet, miles, years too young,
Smiled brightly to reveal an empty,
Gummy mouth rimmed with
Birthday cake, pallid arms
Outstretched, head splotched with
A thin, wispy cloud of hair,
Half-full and forgotten baby’s bottle
On the carpet behind him.

How quickly they do grow.

You got her from the tailors
All neatly wrapped in pink tissue
Plenty of pretty dresses
But he did not attend.

The phone calls appeared promising
In the beginning, even excited
But then it was always six o'clock
And inconvenient.

Loving can't be part-time
Need is a regularity
Not a hundred pouches of food
When you promised to be around.

Bluebell smiles in the silver bracelet
A trophy baby for a quiz night
And you can't move on
Because your lighter is broke.

And you can't see in the dark
Because your scared to death
Because no one knows
Bluebell wriggles her toes.

Love Grandma ***

A boy named Jake was so obsessed with finding a different reality where he was truly himself that he created it in his brain and entered it through a doorway while he slept.

He knew he didn't need to knock but thought of it as polite.
The door wasn't answered with an opening, rather
an invite to open.
So the boy opened.

Inside he found himself in a desert. It was almost time for the sun to begin its setting.
He realized that his hand was still on the door **** so he released and then shut the door.
He turned back around.

There was a small house a football fields length away. He could see a well just to the left and a stable holding no animals on the right.
He began walking over.
He was thirsty.
And hungry.
And full of questions.

Arriving at the house he found water in the well.
Cold, dusty water.

Inside the house he found a pantry full of corn, bottled sunflower seeds, and a odd yellow grass wrapped in pouches.
He ate sunflower seeds and walked outside.

There he looked back to where the door is.
Or was.
At first he was alarmed
but then liked the idea.
He was stuck here.
He was free.

He slumped down against the house and began to doze off.

His dreams were filled of memories of this desert. Of growing up in this house and occasionally visiting the town some miles away.
This became his reality.
He was himself.

A man dressed in black approached.
He pretended to sleep.
The man came and went.
There was no food left in the pantry although the yellow grass was still there.
There was no water in the well.

He waited for nothing for days.
He slumped against the wall and fell asleep again.

He awoke to find a new man approaching him, from the direction the other man had came.
The direction of town. DOOR, his conscious screamed. He pushed it aside.

The man came.
He was on a quest for a tower.
He was nice.
Jake grew fond of him.
The man said he would stay, only for a little while.
He was pursuing the Man in Black.
He was pursuing the Dark Tower.
Jake knew the man would stay, however.
And he was happy.
He was *himself.

rich with red passion
deep shades of blue
a girl in love with
the way people speak
and who pouches
rainbows in her room
a little flame
lit up for her love
for this boy
who's miles away
one day
she'll see him:
without her wearing colors
with no barriers of speech
a simple look
a simple hello
he'll be in her reach

The blade runner,

The blade told me to calm down,
Stop seeing red.
That moment lasted momentarily,
The blade ran across me like an ice skate,
On grooves already used before,
Protruding into the skin and floor,
Momentarily,
As we see red.
Then replaced by new cells,
Or related like ice plains,
Like a new day,
Coincidentally.
Scars remained
and like my palms,
Lifelines that tamed the desires
To be,
Famous,
Or aim for the place where I won't wake up tomorrow.
For the moment has passed
And I'm shattered like glass with tiny pieces of blood drop pouches that decimate the surroundings as they fall to the floor,
I'm sure;
I never asked to be the blade runner.

Fall into the melody...
Fall away from the felony...


M̵̧̞̦̪̦͈̖̭̣̃̋͗̈̓́͆̓̈́͌̃̈́ͅḿ̵̢͖̟̩̱̯̦̮̜̘̮̰͎͈͊̿̒̔͐͛̔́̊͋͜ͅ­̠h̵̛͚̦̙̻̙͕̲͈̻̹̃̑͌̊͂͊̇̎̂̐͗̔̕̕̕͠h̵̡̳̹̼̯̙͔̞̯͕̽͑̈́͐͗̈́̀͗̀͒͐̓̚͘̕ͅm̶̟͗̀͐͝­͚͎̲͎̳̳̰̳̤̮ͅͅh̷̨͉̙͚̱͖͔͈͖̼̠̮̟͆̂͗͛͐̽̓̿͊̊̚̚͠͝ę̸̛̘̮̘͔̳̰̟̐͊̑̌̀̓̌̓̽̎̒͘̚­̨͎̯͎̭͎̝h̷̨̪̖͍͚̩̣̼͍̲̲̜̻͒͛̈͐ ̸̨̨̛͙͈̝̦͙̺̪̹̘̫͇͕̩̫͋̐̋̚͠m̵̨̛͔̰̹̬̯̦̥͇̰̺̖͔͆͛̐̆̋̈́͒̈̍̎͗͜h̸̡͇͍̫͈̔͆͗̇͛͜͝­h̵̢̥͇̼̟͙̗̪̺̹̖̞̾͑̈͑̓̍͛̂̍̋̌̚͜h̴̛͖͎̦̳̪͔̮͍̫̯̯̜̱̹̐͑̄̃̉̽̂͒̏͗͝ḩ̷̲̭͈̜͜͝ͅ­̮͖͜h̷̭̥̜̜̙́́̈͛̎̏̃͘͠ȕ̴̙̰͔̞̄ú̴̡̹̮̦̠̐̈́͆͂̀͌̚͜ͅŭ̴͓͙̗̍̑̿̀̽̇̊͑̅͘͘̚͝͠ͅ­̝͔ͅͅu̵̖̰̱̗̬̳͊̇̈́̀̂̿̃͒͛͐̇͐̓͠h̶̡̛̜͉͉̥̻͈͓̱͉̣̀̿̀̊̇̐̈̀̽̈́͗̕̚:̴̛̎̇̂̎́͆̐͐­̢͇̤͕́̅͒͠


Following fine lines
But still, find myself

Lost in the trees
Following these

Rivers of difference
Babbel between

Deliberate peaks
Slivered and scattered ships
  
Littered literates spread
through splattered ṣ̵͗t̴̩͛r̷̲̓ị̵̋p̶͔̑ṡ̶͈

Saying goes:

Man Move Mountains
  Man move ounces
(Tilled forests raise foundries)

Alex Taught to push :
  Immortal as Icarus
Legend so rigorous
Now we all Sisyphus, ****.

(̴͖͝Ď̵̫è̴͉a̵̝͑d̵̝̄ ̶͙͗n̵̞͋ẹ̴̌v̶̡͋ę̵̈́r̸̩̀ ̵̗͝d̸̮͝e̷̳͂a̷̙͊d̶̰̉ ̵̢͝ț̵̿h̶̹̑ê̴̥ ̷̨̿l̷̲̍e̵̘̓g̸͉͑e̴͚̊n̵̜̕ḏ̸͌ ̸͖̿å̶̞c̷̬͐c̷̹̈́o̵̹͐ú̵̩n̶͇͠ṭ̴͋ ̶̹̇f̵̫͋o̴̙͛r̴̮̾ ̴̲͠t̵̫̊h̸͓̾i̷͓͒ś̸͙ ̶̛̣)̶̛̯

Still find people weird...

Times where clowns
Seem see-through.

Where seams of seas
and deeds for these

Grow Seeds from Scenes
My Gurus breathe through.

Winds sweep up
as the Moment pounces

Bullet quick
through Money pouches

Still indigo here too remind that :

We
Is stronger than I

****
is stronger than high

When hearts are aligned
Lead song from the mind

Never seem to last forever
Got em all  waiting for a blast of clever

Listen close :
Hard  to dine and dash in error

Oh god of media ×
just trying to cash in terror

Oh god please raise me up ×
The stairs from Saint to Sinner...

Or was it Sinner to Saint?
Call it trial and error ×

With Mystical p̴̩̀a̶̺̓ḯ̴̦n̸͚͒t̸̪͝
Expert alchemical bearer

I'll be the standard I bear up
Of owning all my moments
This sin that I tear up

Putting my palms feet,
(My hands, words, my deeds)
Towards all souls atoning

Raising grace like the moments laced
God on my tongue, Just
Keeping pace with the aftertaste

I'm a blinded Ace with a savage case
So the doc says hydrate
till the drips replaced

Better stay braced
cause we laying waste ( **** )
Spiky v̵̥̆ḭ̸͆r̵̰̂u̵̙͋š̸̟ covid space (fuuuuck)

Now:

I may pace in place considering vagrant states  
Dey don raised a case to obliterate mental waste

But we ****** up with them Crowley ways to play
Blood, ******, Mag̵͈̕ḯ̸͓k̵̳͠, *** for  days

Corrupted plays....
So far from grace

Figured Paradise Lost
So we prayed through sprays

Blinded by Lazer Raves
While (we) Distract for daze

When The chemical stays
But I called myself a hero,
A chemical Brave...

More like brazen youth
Surrendered
my mind eye and tooth

Question, am I denying truth?
Jesus was I denying you?
Why it takes the loss of a youth
And you saving him for me buy in to ...
The weight of a soul, that's the buy-in foo.

So we:

Mostly Replaced grass with gratitude
Replaced *** with attitude
Replaced mind with knowing you

Looking outside for help
ain't betraying true
We can't know it all
that's just the lay man's


t̸̢̗̞̣̟͕̣̹̭̟̻̬̒̍̒̐͐͛̆̈́̎̅̔̾r̵̺̯̞̩͕̳̘̗̗̗̝͖̯̝̾̒̀͒͆͗͘u̵͔͂̈́̽̐͗̎͐́̉̑̓́̕­̢̢͖͔͍̤t̷̨̛͇̻̙̻̖͔͕̪͍̣̟̜̰̙̉̉̏͗̎̊̀̒͆̊́͋h̷̛̗̙̟̟̠̫̳̦̽̈̀̃̊͋͌͆̀̚͝.̶͍͕̩̘͑­͎

The fuselage must gleam
in a pink Pacific sunset
at 29000 feet
inside, I am brought puffed cellophane pouches of tamarind by attendant ladies and men
and a sanitary case wraps my pillow.

Bangkok’s taxis are driven by a man with bones for a neck on cracked
roads that vanish into blind ways.
Later a child – spying left – pulls me through a curtained door into an ante-room to
sell me cling-wrapped copies of Japanese slasher movies. “Cheap!”
Flies circle a mound of meat spiked to a vending cart -- “special for you.”
A sea of mopeds rumble up the road and chase me between parked cars
Tattered hunks of plastic bag blow past off the beach.

At night gut rot infects the air, and I walk in brown puddled streets.

The tar sky smothers above the neon and the barkers and the *** for $10.  This last part was in the guidebook.

A woman sits, cloaked in a shawl, selling women’s apparel, all arranged on pale and chalky mannequins, angled at attention.
They wear the rouge of the truth-telling jester.
Their mouths are gaping, smiling, lurid, laughing, howling.  Eyes wide, piercing and empty, excited.
They look like me. And I look away.
The woman’s throat moves.  Or does she chuckle?
“For you.”

at what point wasn't it a way to bypass
the editorial scrutiny...
to directly engage with a reading
public...
why did i think this might be: any good?
i guess i only thought:
i need this out and i can't stash it
like a corpse...
into some damp cellar... like a morally
relativistic monstrosity of a sociopaths'
analogy of: "feels"...
   well, no **** Sherlock!
how i made the following reply...
is beyond me:

- believe me... i had more to write but i felt a sense of restraint... i'd like to see what a terse reply would make you focus on... so i'm scrapping the concept of handicap: heads up... now it all depends what you'll be choosey about... or not... because there's plenty in you reply i could quip about... well... then again: is being witty synonymous with being satirical? i'm not for intelligent / condescending humour on my part... personally i love the dryness of sarcasm... but then again: what's to like about the bluntness of nail-heads? just my take on... what exactly not to like about schadenfreude (what's not to like about schadenfreude)... i'd much prefer a humiliation of a leather gimp suit... so it seems: honesty is the best joke in play... there are too many stereotypes in England too... the best one i heard was by my Glaswegian english teacher in school... ahem... how was copper wire invented? two Scots arguing over a penny... like the stereotypical arsenal of deciphering the Jewry run wild in the realm of the gentiles... with the Scots... being our prized asset of: reverse stereotyping... i guess because knowledge of poor Hebrews is either a mystery or taboo... worse still... a mythology... and here i promised myself restraint... yet i'm experiencing something of a writing block and i... most probably found the most surprising alternative outlet... the eroteme lady - ms. query... so there must be nothing concrete about you... well... i too remember being a teenager prior to 2000 on those hotmail chatrooms where the acronym ASL could get you... all hot & bothered... don't take this the wrong way but i've heard that most writers, poet (i'm a chicken scratching doodler at best) reverted to the medium of correspodence... lucky you, "lucky" that i'm testing the waters on you... but don't worry... i've tested the medium with other people and wondered about their stamina... you are starting to gravitate toward psychiatrist status...  it's so strange though... not writing on abstract... blank... rather: inform sender... it's to them... all that *******, romantic or not... about writing for that one person... sure... **** it... write 'em a letter... don't mind about that trippy-*** poem of yours... you know? apologies if you come across as something of a punching bag for sounds... i hope no typos... well typos can be excused... ah these ****** articles about... wait wait... momentary lucidity... i was going to use some of this in my way of combating my writing block... the troubles in the english language... spelling... "approximation" drop the vowels realise: that's how the Hebrews wrote all along... treating their vowels like diacritical markers... the ****?! i feel like i'm being robbed in plain sight... because Copernicus didn't ******* realise jack-****... they pile it up with their Pope and the execution of ******* Galileo...  ugh... it takes some ******* nerve for these days to allow for this ****-centred kindergarten of events in man's... non-evolving history to continue like some: no ******* dodo exctinction ever took place... (agreed... the following are all faux pas... "invigorations") honey? babe? ms. anonymous gender fluid pronoun neutral... what's the informal, best? ms. avatar ms. harleyquinn the world's stupid? what are american stereotypes of europeans? come to think of it... that cookies is too big to take a bite from... you can't exactly base stereotypes having only seen tourists... since a tourist is a stereotype per se... i'd have to go to california... to get a californian stereotype... to georgia for the georgian stereotype...  wait a minute... Costa Rica... "hint hint"? Latino? that wasn't exactly... it was a fork in the road... the Sephardi... you're working from an avatar canvas... you're making allusions to... what i look like and it's like i'm a mesmerising doppelganger of al pacino... is there a chicago accent? i heard a lot of the ****** diaspora was lodged in that *******... i was terrible at accents... almost always a chamaleon... people still ask me where i'm from... so like this one-stand-up comedian in Edinburgh said... when he was quizzed about the geography of his accent... 'you might recognise my accent... it's... educated'... now that's that... isn't it? i could fake you an indian accent if i wanted to... perhaps a german accent too... but i could fake it... by the way... in these parts... biligualism can be treated as schizophrenia... just saying... somehow integration is not fully deserving the status that: not integrating decides... because... not integrating is... "safety first"... the dodo project alliance...  least of all... i've been dying to by a baseball cap with the Cleveland Indians old logo with chief wahoo... so stereotyping americans... it's beyond hard... it's like stereotyping Russian that are not in the vicinity of Moscow... some are probably Mongol remnants... their own idiosyncratic solipsists to their own... i'll take up my bicycle tomorrow and this drunken tirade will most probably fizzle out... i truly couldn't make up giving a toss about what's internalized americana stereotyping... not that i don't care... i just don't know... the currency of the nation sends me years and years of Ed Gein reinterpretations... what am i supposed to "say"? tomorrow i'll be up early and bothered about my bicycle as if it were a horse... but i'll still want to retain gravity with leaving you with this frankness of a reply... lobster-red probably implies if not simply implores: ginger and freckles... i like to think of suntans as serpents shedding skin... i suntan i'm a copperneck... i like the german sound on this... plus... it's readily available as compounded: kupfernacken... what's better? auburn-tease? kastanienbraunecken? i like the joy you feel with what you already prescribed me with.. that i know so little about you... that while i'm prodding you withhold giving me concreteness.... concreteness would allow me... disadvantage me to focus on "things" that are absolutely not necessary... so: i can focus on whether i'm not being pedantic enough and: misspelling...so... what's the stereotype surrounding Alaskan gurls?!

- thanks for being ascribed in getting my "mojo" back...for now...

- What do you mean? I'm surprised this is the shortest message you've sent. I was getting used to your drunk musings. [I say this with a smile but I know you don't like emojis or silly acronyms, and writing out "laugh out loud" sounds ridiculous... after all, you know how important sounds are to me].

- you just asked one of those questions that... is aligned with asking... 'what are you thinking'? the moral 'ought compass waved me a goodbye and if i haven't broken any laws to pursue the sort of freedom of though i currently enjoy... bypassing the need so stress a "freedom" of speech... writing is an extension of thought: not a prompt / invitation to speak... i'm surprised that you scrutinise the length of my replies... and were we to begin with? in the "easily offended" pile-up? well i'm still getting drunk... you're still an avatar mystery... but at least i'm waging a war on prosaic sobriety to boot... i guess i had to come clean at some point... i never write sober... i don't see the point of being: disengaged from the genuine (a longer version of a one word would have sufficed... but i'm lazy about the spelling... while at the same time... there's this critical theory approach done in some of the newspapers about english spelling... let's see if i get it right... dis-in-genius... for starters... disengenous.. horrid... aaah so terrible... dis-less-advantageous... disadvantageous... oh **** me... i wriggled into that one: all sound and proper...why ask me: what do i "mean"? - it's not that i don't like emojis (well, i don't) but... what the hell... there are better hieroglyphs to focus on than chiseled into pyramid stone: own... happy face... the Chinese were doing ******* x-ray gizmo **** at almost the same time... it's a focus loss... don't even get me started that *** = a Parisian hello with tendering the cheeks with... a labyrinth of smooches... my lips are my pouches blah blah blah... you seem to be enjoying my rants... i gather? i don't even know why to bother with an ask (question doesn't even do justice to how i'm framing this)...  you want to write as little as possible to properly excavate me... well no surprise... if light can't bend around corners... i'll have a look: none-the-less... emphasis on the hyphens... this poor down-trodden word could be helped with some "breathing space"; no? i "mean": 霜... shoo-aang... frost... i have dancing skeletons throwing toothpicks at chopsticks pilled up in an area of pine wood... look at this sort of *******... and here we are... cradling one of the old languages with "holes in letters"... to peer through... O now i see... B: otherwise: ha, ha ha ha... what's **** in Chinese? the Greek prized π... but what P & I look like for a farting, mandarin? hey presto: "@"... not even a western concern for "patriarchy" could have complicated: what's already too complicated... a billion people... a wall... that didn't keep out the Mongols from invading... yet a phonetic encoding system that... would topple each and every pyramid... from Giza to the cleaving of South America from Africa that can be staged at some Aztec "miracle"... i am writing (to) you like a bewildered person... because: why wouldn't i otherwise not be? so what do i mean? hmm... what's that holy trinity of statistical terms... mean... meridian... mode? i think i remember correctly... thank god i'm not going to apologise for being drunk... i've heard the stereotypes of drunkards with no future for thirst... the other thirst... the thirst for something beside their own handicap... i'd also duly convert to Islam too... i was cycling past a mosque and heard the most impossible sound of praise that will never escape me... but by the bottle i did: closer to the Jewry i am... contradictory how that is... don't want to stop drinking... uncircumcised... it's a really magical juggling act that's littered with self-deprecating humour interludes... aligned with norse mythologies... grr... **** me... now i'm attempting to "sell" you a makeshift tinder profile sketch... don't know... never will... never used: don't ask...  but i forgive you... for asking me: what does "it" all mean? it means we're for the thrill of it... it makes sense if we're still gagging for it... and we're not exposed to old-age closure cinematic scripts of solo cinema of memory... i like typing because i have itchy fingers... you'd probably like to hear me speak... no? it's exactly 20 minutes past midnight and i have a date with a bagel at 9am tomorrow morning... i still want another injection of truth in me before i do the  lady nox some justice and sleeping with her fiendish daughters... i mean... who does that... wake you up with a hard-on? never mind... i don't even know how to end this "convo": it can't be with a farewell... or an adieu... or a サヨナラ... oh wait... that's "goodbye, forever"... how does one end a half-way between a musing and a real person on the replying end of "things"... i guess like this: NARA... ナラ... short for narazie...  translated from my mutterzunge as: perhaps loosely... for the time being... for now... how else... to end my tirade?!

- So let me get this a bit straight (as straight as a stray arrow, that is): you only write when you're drunk (I'm the luckiest one to be at the listener - or reader in this case - end of your tirades as you call them... I call them musings); you have a fixation with words, even the ones that you don't know how to spell correctly (except maybe in a language I don't know so I can't really tell), you didn't answer why I'm ascribed to getting your mojo back (where did it go?), and you wake up with a hard-on. Got it!

- i've been lodged into a backlog: ******-town sort of: stalling... give me a few hours... although: ever wonder what: giggles sounds like... in the deafness of the night? i do... i want to reply you like so... like now... like this... maybe i will... maybe i will not... i'm gaging to buy one of those cleveland chiefs baseball caps...the grinning siouxsie chieftan....perhaps i want to relearn "how to": take the GRIN... a little bit more... seriously... no? **** it... i'm drinking as it is... i want to reply you in full throttle... straight arrows... and the welsh V of the longbow-men too to boot... chopsticks straighter... "straighter"... i tend to only write when i'm drunk... i abhor sober prosaic intimidation and... all the lies, subsequently...sober people don't get "drunk" on moral relativism of white lies? and i'm born yesterday, no? you openly venture into... a quest of question within the regards... of being... this only.... i almost wanted you to feel this sort of... an alienating increment... of... how i might pile on more detail... they are musings... i don't take them seriously... about as much relax as is a required: necessary.... i have a fixation with words... jurisprudence to me is merely a game of thesaurus ploy-tow... i spell i don't spell... i'm overtly pedantic... i also felt queasy when testing my eyes at an authentic testimony of the "law"  being "exaggerated"... "tested"... "proved"..i must have: lying eyes... no other eyes do see... no? i have a fixation with "things" beside the usage of ***** and strobe lighting...

you have my attention... don't you? you know... the last time i attempted having a conversation... i was too naive...too young... everything "everything" applied itself to being too predictable... i want to love again: but being in love is almost a weakness... i don't feel like being weak... i guess this is where the rekindling of my "mojo" ends... hello cul de sac...

new paragraph... ever hear(d) of the alpha and the omega "man"? i'm pretty sure you heardf of mr. beta... for all the worth of a totality of... man... i'm last... i'd forever be... last... i don't want to be first... i also don't want to be 2bd sniffing **** and crab-meat-... either...

give me the totality... i'll be satisfied with a "question" of
last... hence the expression: omega man...
didn't hey-zeus say?
i'm the alpha and the omega?

i don't write sober, i'n afraid i might lie...
you're not lucky,..
but you're also not... godzilla....

i "somehow" haven't ascribed you with the sort of details of: explanation that would allow you... to satiate yourself with answers... as to how... why... yllu managed to "mojo" probe me back to life? you.. the Faroe Islands to begin with? you know... they have this gimmick... on the Faroe Isles... it's not a gimmick... it's called// i don't know what's it called... skúvoy? but i'm happy to tease when the whales are slaughtered... the the blood comes a running: the lions also... apparently tease with a yawn... look at this word, though: grindadráp....

ever catch the giggle im der nacht? nein? too italian... no? ******* borrowed pollack: the self-depreciating... loan... not load... of bollocking...

don't believe yourself as being the sole recepient of a reply...

you're not lucky... you're just... available...

terribly botherome... isn't, it?

- i thought i'd make this a two tier reply... it would be a shame to reread what i wrote on one of my "escapades"... perhaps this... hanging-over... ha'h... more like hung, drawn & quartered some time to time... but believably sane, pleasantly morose - at evens with masochism... so reclining into a moral trip-up... i probably mentioned grindadráp - since i still have the window open on the phrase i'm familiar with... Sámal Joensen-Mikines... i most probably ended up giggling in the night... god... i'm just skim reading what i wrote... well good to know that i can only the best thing and sober up: simultaneously returning to a more rigid, conventional... formal use of language: that i might suppose i'm in a confessional booth... a welcome mirage for the time being... while i decide to wither away watching the old firm (a derby soccer match between celtic & rangers)... of note... i had this argument with the natives so time ago... the... Celts... but it's the Boston / Glasgow Çeltics... no? you're a girl that likes sounds... i've been following this current discussion that has reached the heights of printed newspapers... citation, sian griffths (gwif-if-if-ififs) education editor: new spelling ROOLS to make english more predictable for pupils... "we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the feelds..." see... i really admired Charlie Bukowski for a while... until he came out as a lazy slob who would require an editor to correct his spelling... there's dyslexia and there's just plain: hash-browns... for all my worth of idiosyncrasy that i wriggle in as i go along, most of which will not find common ground and a cosmopolitan outlet of users... for me, as someone who acquired this tong'u: i've grown fond of how aesthetically messy this toong can become and how readily available this messiness is... even London can become a ****-joke: Loon'dune... in my mutterzunge sounds are more distinct... apart from the graphemes sz, ch, cz, rz (ż) - i'd have to borrow from a Czech a caron to hide a letter or two: š (sz / the equivalent SHarp in english) and č (cz / CHatter respectively)... all these unique sounds... ą, ę, ć, ń, ó, ś, ź - Wombat ł... anyway... i just thought, sobering up... that you'd like to have a certain bulging volume of fudge to return to... before i take another dive into ms. amber and pass another night as w. h. auden wrote: only the hitlers of this world write at night... sure... herr auden... because the day is for watching football and / or cycling.

- à propos: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-L5iefl2QtA

- If you share music can I? I'm sorry that I didn't reply sooner. It's been a **** last week and this week isn't any better yet. I like reading your messages, drunk and sober. When I write in my native language I use the accent over the vowels to emphasize the second-to-last vowel of a word. I love speaking, reading and writing in my native language, though I'm sure that I know much less than you would about languages. Shall we continue talking about sounds? How about sounds in my language? Of course, you have to guess if you haven't already.

- mind you: i had second thoughts about writing this reply... perhaps you can judge for yourself... i'm just not into having double-mystery encounters with an "avatar"... plus i made an emphasis on the point... what music were you not going to share?

sure... but first share your music... i have this thirst for Nick Hornby's high fidelity and being a teenager again... a teenager in love, again...i was probably the most happy-go-anywhere sort of person when i found a vinyl copy of Wardruna's kvitravn in my local HMV... which is: sunrise records and entertainment ltd trading as hmv & fopp.... given i already have the other chapters on cd - copied into mp3... (runaljod - yggdrasil & gap var ginnnunga)...  and given it's so rare to fnd a vinyl of this calibre... that some vinyls comes with an mp3 link... i thought: hell... i'll give this record the proper 3D aura treatment and not listen to it on headphones... or utilise it to "conquer" space... & just walking with it across a market sq. without a plastic bag to stash it in... i might as well have walked with a cat on my shoulder... because... who the hell still buys... well... invests in vinyl? now... coming to the language...second-to-last vowels of  word... you know... you can keep me interested without overplaying this "mystery" game... isn't the use of an avatar enough? i really can't comprehend a language that focuses on second to last vowels... without focusing on vowels: per se... just to reiterate... you didn't share a link to some music... you pitted yourself as American... i can continue being interest without having too many enigmas to sort... i have yet to find a language that only applies accents to, e.g. suppOsE... or maybe i'm just too ignorant to have come across a language that behaves in such a way: unless it's some idiosyncratic variation (of it)... you don't have to remain a complete mystery to me for me to keep engaging... there can be some sort of rooting in reality... otherwise i'll just return to my original purpose of writing: staging myself against a blank canvas and a barrage of sounds that i'll need to "un-spaghetti" into linear streaks.... i'm not going to guess: you'll either tell me or not... i'm currently listening to snake-pit poetry: einar selvik... any one can have a ****** week... for a while i was anticipating you testing whether or not i'd reply not getting a reply from you... and that, somehow, miraculously... i'd continue to creep-up to teasing you again... perhaps that's me dabbling in misnomers... no... you'll need to give me something concrete... i'm already starting to itch with a sensation that i better return to the canvas than keep this conversation... no offence... it's just draining me when something abstract could also be doing: likewise... but it wouldn't end up being a ****-tease... i could possibly create something out of it... not just so more: oh... oh? ** **: what's next?! i know when it becomes a brain-drain... a side project... it has to come with an excuse whereby you'll probably recoil with: but i had a ****** week... granted... but who hasn't...  you could have waited another week until participating in the timeframe of the passing of weeks started to feel good once more... if you only dropped a music suggestion... otherwise... thanks... but... no... this conversation is going nowhere... i think i'm just relocating my writing block elsewhere... all the best: in keeping an aura of mystery... within the realm of avatars and non-accountability... come to think of it... no... this is as fair as i could be.

this supposed "unique" specimen... not really...
i want to focus on what allows me to belong:
beside the unfathomable landmarks
of trees and mountains:
roaming stars that even my demented
grandfather corrected himself on...
satellites... no... roaming stars?!
well... i didn't conjure this **** out of my own
*** for pleasure, either...

back towards... falling asleep while listening
to the Hellraiser soundtrack:
hellbound...
because eerie is how:
i how how: "things"...
i'm so alone at times that it's beyond making
sense: it's about infringing on a god-stature...
status... this omniscient
contradiction that some Elijah bundled up
into... two crows croaked...
the tower of London can entertain 6:
so the king's ******* and the queen's
jewels are left intact...
for the successor to worry about...

we have these conversations but too bad
the girl is playing timid...
and i'm... gargantuan...
the length of a tongue that turns into an eel...
hands like octopus extension...
i could wrap her up in... bubblewrap
and start the puncture pinch-pinch ceremony
of not seeing the bubble float: up-up...

i have a sense of ego like...
a bad l.s.d. trip?!
****-guage-abuse? gauge? sort the ones
for the snoozing zero-toasts
and you have yourself
a new jersey smart: bite-off... not bit... though...

i could never have children:
not because i could never be a good father:
but i'd be a terrible husband...
how do i "know"?
i would never allow myself
to earn the amount:
she'd want to spend...
via solo: i'll spend on ms. cojack amber
and some ******* liquorice vinyl...
and a bicycle...
rubber-teasing: ****-teet-****....
when using the brakes...
when minding my ******* "luck"
on a roundabout with a massive twuck...

plus i'd love to **** more...
i'd love to **** as much more as
the thought-"taboos" discourage me
from doing... so it's a nice adventure: thinking
the next: moral antagonist, antithesis
of "could i"?
central theme? Lo-li-t'ah...
and i'm the second from third removed
uncle of the marquis de sade...
you want... you need... you have to orientate
yourself around the last taboo...
the one that's not associated with...
crispy clean antics of those *******
in their savvy leather gimp suits etc.

"power to the people": *******...
power to who owns what...
i'm starting to conjure up
profanities akin to:
but at least when they owned slaves...
they took care of their slaves...
they wouldn't want a slave to be rotten...
to be despondent...
trouble with freedom is...
my own, self-made... man...
if i were a slave...
i'd learn to bend the rules...
i'd entertain the fantasy of freedom...
while being constrained with...
all the benefactor securities...
i'd be owned but i'd also be:
obligated to a social contract of some sort...

so freely as to nothing be:
so averaging assumptions...
presumptions... so by nothing i unfree myself:
to... sort of quest to: "be"...
while the priestly class held back literacy...
within the timeframe of when
a new literacy emerged... of coding...
so double-up-on-surds... no?

herr gizmo l:)(}{
the realm of the three brackets... )}]...
one literacy replaced the old literacy
but in terms of retaining the old type...
the new type is... not exactly allowing
for movement of... hearts? is, it?
i still have to retain punctuation...
i still need need to perfect it...

but this is not conversational linguinie,
is it?
i stand firm in, stressing:
writing is an extension of thought...
writing is an extension of thought:
it's hardly an invitation to speak...
the past centuries haven't taught us
that literacy is a constraining beast of priests'
fancy?
let me... detail my limbs for you
in stressing this point further:
what good came from the project
of literacy en masse?
graffiti scribbling on brick walls?
out of what beside desperation?

such constraints were employed as
to: the person exercised in completely body:
usage... wouldn't feel like
a ******* hamster of a ******* ferris wheel
when push came to shove...
somehow everything physical became
lesser class: demeaning...
somehow we all turned into *******
fluorescent
      telepathic / telekinetic Chernobyll
monkey sorts...
and the fat "stigmata" is a what?
                  
  this world is gagging for something tragic...
this world is gagging for a world war III...
but... it probably will not...
"advise" itself to experience such a disatrous take
on prospect...
nuance in language can go **** itself...
application of misnomers for added fluidity can:
go **** itself...
you ever come across a choir...
and a great wind...
see a ******* shrink...

don't look at me for inspiration:
perhaps some jokes...
i've been more honest these past two minutes than
i ever was in the passing of a decade...

death the limbo of "sanity"...
esp. when someone memorable has taken off...
who am i left with? "perspectivelly accountable"?
grey-matter fiddle-through middle-man
*******... no?
i'm not sifting through that, murk?
perhaps i'm sieving... sifting... sieving...
sifting... sieving... get a dog! she says, mother, dear...
i tell her: it's legal in Belgium...
her father already cited his complaints...
i'm tired of the ******* optimism...
i'm tired of this "adventure" some cling to when
deciphering "life"...
an overrated statement of too many facts:
that's life...
it's not a ******* frank sinatra:
come as we are... would be: mea culpa...

troublesome sufferings of a tired brain...
too many pop ref. points worth of closure...
i bought a vinyl today...
i walked it down a market place
like it was a puppy...
in a rucksack...

that there's a hope... my mother is crying
this silent agony of truth...
i tell her: it's sensibly legal in the Benelux...
England is ****** by all accounts...
a dog will save me?
i'm becoming rigid... brick-esque...
tide-prone...
moon is the mother of my skies...
i might might what?
fall in love: to fall in love is to allow
oneself to be weak; to be... dependent on
someone: the concept of "other"... no?
recurrrency is pricing on how many times
that's... sensible to try out?
before it fails?

i fall asleep listening to horror movie music...
i'm best coupled to a ******* hyena than
i am to a woman...
to live under a false sense of hope
is a: welcome bypass to otherwisse living
under a truancy of truth...
as the life around me shrinks...
the abounding shadow of me grows...
and not as a patriarch...

oh ****... "i simply, somehow...
just so it happens... fowgot to... encapsulate this
offload whiff a wyme".

no... i felt like writing tonight...
but no...
it must be a "first"...
i've built up a headache...
i'm guessing she's Pakistani...
or thereabouts...
         first she sends me picture
of her in a Sari...
then? she sends me a picture of standing
naked in a shower...
o.k.... o.k. **** me...
you ever watch that 13th warrior movie?
the deity of the cannibals?
the headless...
armless... legless ******* and stomach?
she just sent me that sort of picture...
i'm getting a headache...
i'm feeling dizzy...
wasn't i suppose to be this western
stereotype of a man sending
his post-******* sized comforting
envies?!
headache... headache...
why would a Pakistani girl reach out
to me... and send me...
a picture of her naked torso in a shower...
ugh... what?! what?!
sure... lovely *******... a stomach
that could eat a camel's ****...
what about the thighs?!
i'm getting a headache...
   even i know that a ******* is
disorientating...
               i tried it once: never again...
         i prefer the company of only one
woman... two women is a fidgety toe in tow...
oh sure... sure...
western women are the perverted ones...
the desperate ones...
they're the ones sending all the ****-lick-picks...
becauae: likewise... the Muslim women
don't send you pictures of them
attired in a Niqab... and then...
full torso... naked... while under the shower?!
like i said:
i have a headache...
**** LIKE A GLORIOUS COW DEITY
THAT'S TO BE GLORIFIED BY CANNIBALS!
i have a headache because i'm
feeling frenzied...
i'm... losing my ****...
                  
what a terrible headache...
middle-eastern people are terrible at profiling...
they are terrible at: giving themselves profiles...
**** me... if i were to send a ****-lick-pick
to a girl i'd be X...
but if a Pakistani girl sends me a picture
of her *******... and her torso... and her legs...
standing in a shower... prior to sending me
a picture of her in a hijab?!

all the while reading ZHUANGZI...
this world is a joke...
   ****'s sake...
this girl sent me a picture of herself as
a WENDOL'S DEITY...
you... you know what that spawns in a man?
the darkest of cravings...
such that: with the shadow
of man nibbling on the extremities
of the night...

i'm having this terrible: headache...
my shadow is starting to eat the night...
a woman sent me two pictures...
one with her in attire that would
make her sensible...
then another: reckless...
like i perhaps should be:
doing... sending her a picture of my post-*******
phallus...

but... she sends me a picture of her glorious *******
and torso...
she's standing in the shower...
please... don't wake the WENDOL
in me...
            i don't want the "mother-deity" near me...
ugh... headache...
my... my...
                      i think it's too late...
mea culpa... so much for proclaiming myself
as this lover-boy with a picture of me
kissing a *******...
   no wonder i was going to attract my innermost
perversities...
   the deepest... most scandalous... most: childhood
reigniting types...

              but what's that ******* about
men sending pictures of their phalluses?!
what about women sending pictures of their *******
and their torsos to men?!
oh... wait wait...
not enough men get those pictures?
i'm getting a headache...
i've just received a picture of a WENDOL deity...
******* that fed Genghis Khan
and a torso that gave birth to Xerxes!

i feel like licking a canvas...
of one of Lucian Freud's nudes...
even though: i abhor Lucian Freud...
but the picture this girl sent me:
i want to: i don't know...
lick more than paint...
or paint more than lick...
i don't even know...

sure... chubby on the "rims"...
but those *******...
dangling... dangling like the branches
of a weeping willow...
i want any eroticism to disappear
as i suckle back to seeing the sun last...
i don't know...
chubby on the rims...
i don't mind... but with ******* like that...
i want to retract her ability to
sustain both *** and reproduction
with what's first arousal and later
milking: those glorious "hang-abouts"
of fully glimming fat... pouches...

it's a headache...
                unlike a child: i see a pair of ****...
and i'm like... no ***** in sight...
there's more reason for this pair
to be so apparent than for merely a child
to use...
         headache...
                
terrible idea(s)...
            of course she's not a model type...
that's beside the point...
she's just willing: she's pulling me: tugging at
my invisible noose...
             the fact that she's pretending
is the biggest turn-on...
she's showcasing herself as this moral
Islamic heiress... while in private?!
    degenerate...
                   feeding monsters...
that's... what's most attractive:
the contradiction... the hypocrisy...
the totality: the summation of what it is to be
human! a contradiction!

since? no other animal is a contradiction
as an ontological summation per se...
only man...
but woman... please!
don't wake up in me the deity of the WENDOL!
mind you:
i'm terribly suspect when it comes
to Asian women...
raven... hair...
   i get a headache even more terrible...
than... what might be associated as
racial-proficiency in up-keeping demands
for / of continuity...

Asian women are a slow-burn for me...
as is their thinking...
i could do with German thinking throughout my 20s...
but... upon a "return"?
it's back to sq. 1...
   Tao...
                        
oh all that's Asian and anti-European...
i'm more copper-necked
when it comes to the "romance" with summer...
i abhor summer..
they... seem: so blanched...
yet... so... those **** i want to milk...
create buter from... remotely:
some cheese...

    WENDOL...
                       mein gott... this headache
is getting worse...
i feel a hard-on is pressing me...
it's a first for me...for a girl sending me her ****...
maybe i should think about paiting?
i always liked the idea of painting clouds
of a canvas of demanding: white...

like i once mentioned:
i could see myself as a veterinarian...
and also as a BUTCHER...
but as a surgeon? no... no thank you...
she has a body on display that makes
me "think" of necrophilia...

why? she's exposing double-standards...
i like double-standards...
i also love those clearly encompassed
curvatures of: body...
and esp. via. a woman...
      and since she's Asian?
double points...
        on prior to existential "achievement"...
within this life:
death is merely a rupture
of what's to be preserved: continued...
she might not be a model...
but the fact that she sent me a picture of her
naked?!
                 i could see a thousand pictures
of naked models...
but seeing her... solo?
            i guess i have a hard-on
worth worths' of a thousand years...
            i like the idea of sand
being the improved ruminating
      cull for the description of time.

count?! count?!
beside sand, what's there implied by water?!

Mimesis:  
the deliberate imitation of the behavior of one group of people by another as a factor in social change.*


Somewhere, someone
knows these  colors to be home.
Not only the sandy complexion of the boots,
but the laces slipping and sliding
into loops and over
soft tongues and slowly pulling,
constricting, suffocating.
Even its shape—
the shallow curve of a man’s ankle,
the slow descent to the tips of his toes—
these are the sandy silhouettes and generous hills
recalled from their youth.

Someone, somewhere
admires jagged peaks of pale crested mountains.
The same jagged peaks
they have seen rising and breaking
in the wrinkles of loose fitting fatigues,
and complimented by vests,
spotted with the gentle green pastures
once ruled by their jidd’s sheep.

There are chains of mountains
as wide as chests under Mandarin collars
and just as full of pockets and pouches
as military issued BDU’s—

but this is cheap imitation.
It is a failed mimesis.

walking the concrete pave
i started to feel a bulging softness in my liver,
just the sheer balloonness of it,
not attached to any bone,
it was too much for me,
i had to walk into the greenbelt darkness
to feel the soft pouches of earth
beneath the feet and banish
all livery sentiments of the silken doughy thought,
and in there i said:
with the abolishment of asylums
psychiatry has become evermore bothersome,
imagine if the churches were closed
and priests freely roamed,
not since henry the eight such travesty,
with it, ******-synthesis and very
little psychoanalysis:
because who the hell would diagnose a
child of two with some symptoms accumulative
as a.d.h.d.? where's the: climb a tree
break a leg then tango on with crutches?

My eyes have never had the opportunity to even glare at diamonds.
I’ve never had the experience of tasting water from the cup of life.
The shame of my current status, in a suburban purgatory; where all the houses look the same.
And the town is slowly decaying.
The radio, television and computer spew promises of golden treasures
Dionysian parties.
Lavish, mischievous endeavors.
And never even taking a moment to mull over the choices.
Bentleys soaring through the city nights.
But it’s just in our prayers.
A watch covered in rubies that won’t tell time,
Because it doesn’t matter,
Pricey top shelf alcohols,
Exotic purebred animals,
Paying no mind to the expense.
I have no time to listen to your lustful desires.
We may never be these magnificent stars above…
For our blood isn’t lucky or holy.
Yet we don’t crave extravagance.
But desire that eluding excitement.
Name me king!
And kiss the ring!
I’m just a fool.
It’s all but a dream.
We have unraveled the clandestine riddles.
Rolling pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters,
On our way to the wishing well.
And it’s effortless to distinguish between barren pockets and bursting pouches of dabloons and denarius’.
No nuisance to us we’ve worked for what we have.
The curse of greed, self-indulgence,
Splurging on foolish fixations.
Impaired, decked out
Obliterating the palace.
While keeping their noses in the airs they put on.
Pumpkin carriages at midnight,
Platinum plates for a marvelous feast.
Airplanes, cruise ships.
All we need are the keys.
Ride on the horizon.
We maybe become millionaires, take the money and run
But we don’t need the luxury;
We only yearn for the golden sun.
I’m not an emperor,
Nor a leader.
Just a player in this life,
They call a game.

I wish I could be a book
I could send myself to you
in envelops and postcards
over a laconic lifetime
rungs of ladder climbed
waded through like the push
of legs in the water, over sand
chewing on the words you sent.

We, are a family now,
some privileged in the boundaries
of grandiloquent bags and pouches,
some forgotten in the drawers
before relocations,
versions of a person’s state of mind
over time, we make history books
capturing people in the making
of an indistinct next moment

sometimes we carry our own praises
outsourced by the wits of our writers
like love they did find not in the other
but their own selves, blind still.

Does your reader pause too?
basks in the glory of an empty wall
staring at nothing in particular?
I wish we had will and means
to write ourselves on ourselves
so that we could reach other and do that.

Instead like our creators, we are
dilapidated ruins of yellow bodies,
left to live and die on dirt and air
once they are gone, aren’t you scared
of death?

Seeking Reply
Letter A

Don’t let the medium dry
Moisten This Creation                                   
by ANY MEANS necessary

It’s vulnerable

For This Creation to become pedestal WE MUST :

feed it
off of a capillary bag

mist it
under a dense healthy breath

lead it
to suckle an engorged breast

For
IF WE DO NOT
we risk it becoming husk ;
good only for digs and dust shops.

For This Creation, WE MUST queue

with our blood tapped
and ready

our breeding fluids
our various flows carefully labelled
and in sterile pouches

our donor cards filled out
steady for sacrifice

Keep This Creation wet
and it shall be a beacon
a call to awareness
a beckon of craft for us all
and not some common art-hole
In time THE CREATION SHALL SERVE US

Sequence of words and repetetion,
made of beautiful lines and concentration,
deep thinking makes the sentence to flight,
all is called along and named as rhyme,
in it there are pouches of errors,
makes the expression of fellings that matters,
modified meaning of writing,
belongs to a thing,
sharp and blunt teasing collection of experiance,
it does not have any limitation or resistance,
it is a flow of small nick in mind,
passionate feel it winds,
every time ****** spelling it consists,
anyone can write a rhyme if he break the walls of cyst

The preacher lifts his old hand,
“This is where we are meant to be!” and,
The geese croon overhead as the day turns around,
“Here in the country! A mighty place to be for men so small!” said he,
The preacher, or the carney, the very angry canary,
“Here is where the wind blows and whistles across the fields,
Making waves and currents that show early eidolons in the rye,
And here is where the willow trees make curtains
For mid-afternoon ******* with a sultry sweat on the brow!”

The preacher clenches his pink fist,
“Here is where holy work is done,
And God is surely watching!
Here is where the lilacs create a musk that staggers,
And leaves the devil in bewilderment!
The son of God is in your boot,
He is in the locked gun cabinet,
Which you threw away the key!”

A woman drops to her knees,
And I ask why, in which she replies,
“Of course! Of course! I love him! I hate myself!”

Ay, slow and easy,
Her lips took the scenic route.

God!
The ugly and plain,
With pouches and paunches,
**** a dime a dozen,
Come here to settle in the humid heat,
Of a thousand fields spread eagle across,
The American hot bed.

Yes’a, I thinks,
The boonies,
Is where I should be,
When God comes around.

The preacher points his fat finger,
“Leave the city for the gluttons!
Leave it for the sinners! Leave it for the lazy!
Leave it for the intellects of bygones,
And aggravated souls who are not just,
Content with what God has given us!
Leave it for the hounds! We have only to hear,
The gospel of sweet nature like honey dew,
Or golden sopping molasses!”

The sun came in through the stained windows,
Shooting colors across the pale flat faces,
Of the god-fearing townspeople.

my brain has a priority,
i could endeavour to do a Soviet
sleep experiment,
but, to be frank, my liver can
become knock-out mush.

where else would you find a flag of red, white and brown?
where, if not in the toilet - god, i hate people lying -
it gets on my nerves -
             it's not like we ate the fruit
of Eden and came up with
not knowing anything -
          what became the ultimate
poetic canvas, has, truly, expired
under my watch -
          it just became too much of
a tedium, than a source of inspiration -
   all they ever did was recite
the safety-net passages of a ******
affair - and yes, i do have a memory
of a specific thought, on of them being:
  what will be the last song i'll ever hear...
i started pondering:
              King Crimson's *epitaph?
   or Madonna's material girl? i couldn't choose -
so there i was, sitting on the throne of
thrones reversing the pleasure of ****,
Frank O'Hara was there,
            and my book was there,
apart from the odd typos, it actually
felt pretty good reading some of these poems,
for the first time, a perfect environment to
read my own poems: on a toilet.
                flush!         echoing            flush!
sounds about right...
             sure, i enjoyed them,
but what i did enjoy more was wiping my ***:
hence the title: red, white and brown...
blood from my ****... if this is pain...
sign me up for more...
              that's what i don't understand:
he lied about the lie (you know
who the protagonist of Milton is) -
       we learned to lie -
   people always bemoan toothaches,
now... toothaches i can understand,
no one lies about toothaches -
   but the rest of our bodies?
those ******* molluscs and oysters?
i don't even think they are able to conceive pain...
bones... sure, i get it...
teeth especially... but those soft pouches?
they either harden up, or die off...
people just lie about pain...
they love the crucifixion scene they
want mourners to stabilise them in
their bed-ridden-riddle -
          if i'll tell you it hurts... i'll tell you
why, perhaps i was wiping my *** too
vigorously, proclaiming: now, those
pederasts really know how to write a poem...
    i can't imagine the major organs
succumbing to more pain than the usual
pain someone chooses to attribute them
through abuse... i see death and think:
you're the right odd cheater in giving out
anaesthetics... aren't you?
                  it's when it goes to the bone...
i can imagine pain in bones to be like anything
above the soft-tissues turning into
snails and some child-sadist pouring
salt on snails... or smearing frogs with
lipstick and setting them alight (i have seen this
being done: ******* freak-show,
that's all i thought)...
              as one man said: death comes slowly...
or in all honesty: death comes painlessly -
          but i don't know if the red on the toilet
paper is equivalent of impeding death,
   or merely an optic impediment that i have
no solution to...
         all in all... i rather keep that cranium
canary of mine content with synthetic sleep
than keep my liver toxin-free -
                     sure, i wish i could
experience analytical sleep these days:
  analysis, i.e.: we shipped 10 tonnes of x
                          we shipped 10 tonnes of y,
                          we put into storage 20 tonnes of z...
i know what manual labour is like,
   i mean, roofing isn't exactly doing a manicure...
the whole: doin' it for 20 years argument
doesn't really matter... i have one complete
roof under my belt: Scottish Widows' HQ (St. Paul's
on the Central Line) - and if you think,
for a moment, that i wouldn't rather be up
there, on the roofs, winter thinking about
long ships and the wind, and
summers and jeans and frying ******* -
           then you're sadly mistaken -
    all i have for entertainment these days
is a few women, who have a secure life,
                bake, vacuum, all the 1950s stereotypes,
****, throw 'em in! and in their spare time
write poems... oh sure, me the fiendish brute,
the ogre - the whatever that comes from
a woman's arsenal of - because being puppy-eyed
and sopping, just doesn't do it justice enough...
            in that respect, Philip Augustus (the 2nd)
of the Capetian monarchy was a woman...
  yep, had a ***-change and manipulated
               Henry II, Richard I and John
                          like a woman might in an ****:
three holes... one has to fit to adequate pleasure.
oh soft sweet death... why are you languishing
in the worded furore and taking your time?
this is getting, a little bit... too ridiculous:
all those abstracts of feeling, idealists everywhere...
but never from personal experience:
   and just because you read idealists across the learned
spectrum... doesn't necessarily make you one...
        sometimes you turn into a realist -
and what most people can face up to:
            exhibit a. angry man
exhibit b. pacifist man
                exhibit c. a stick
        exhibit d.                               a riot scene.

Look into my eyes.
Do it.
Look at what you have done against me.
toyed around with me,
created pouches beneath my eyes,
turned the deep, brown color grey,
caused ephemeral moments where all life vanishes from my eyes.

YOU did this,
you caused this pit of hatred inside me
in the sparkle in my eyes.