We ghetto rich,
         I'm a Primark star..


I got every piece of original

    Pri… and I've neve bee
marked down in price,

I'm  beautiful....

No need for rich chick flicks..

I own what I got, make the most

         of what I'm given.

Beauty isn't what you got,

                 its what you do with it,

Never looking down always forward.

Because I make the most of what I have,


you work hard, we make do..

   I'm Pre-fabulous...

And its not what you wear,


                       but how you wear it.

the oil of the high grade pollen
coated in sticky honey-like crystals
old school wrap and a vaporizer
instills calm where there had been chaos
oh how the mighty have fallen

offers to go places
live music in an alleyway bar
cocktails till dawn
a rave under a motorway
the Sub Club for legendary libation
and mingle with familiar hazy faces

and yet,
he warms to the four walls of home
the symmetrical wooden rail border
the OCD driven picture placement
the videos in genre specific
alphabetical order

outside the city streets throng
stag-hen crews in costume
tourists off the beaten path
seeking the Water of Life
students drinking the bank of mum and dad dry
mid-week workers letting of class A steam
that for some is clearly too strong

the hordes
of bar ******
pimping their Versace
and Primark combo
any Glasgow bar
where looks could ****

bar telepathy
means he no longer
even has to speak
just have the fiber
to clear the bill

This he calls home.

it's either called: watching that technicolour
masterpiece... bell, book & candle,
kim or kimberley or some other from 1958...
and all those photographs
of the empire state building being
constructed...
without a single bungee jumper
or those suicide nets from the neck and bones
of the sweater shops of Corono alias
Mexico and some third party pardons
for the: better placed bet of
the faking it capitol...
and now i know that sargon of akkad
has welsh roots...
which means absolutely nothing...
it also means:
root i... be the don of man
in the girth of the 'oods!
massive attack's - live with me video:
which is twice better than the prodigy's
slap my ***** up...
namely how ******* up
trajectory hulk and spewing leaves you...
when ***** is done solo...
and when all of whiskey is drank
without an honest remark for patron:
ms. amber...
and there's no vinyl record shop
in the vicinity...
a high street where you only get to buy
mobile phones, trackers,
shoes, cheapshit clotches...
pardon coffees and lazy doughnuts
without ever having ever sniffed
living yeast...
always that packaged dry load of ****...
live with me:
i do hope you never jest at the platonic
offer of dreaming even
a sly measure of it coming true...
nothing i write is allowed to fall onto /
into a pillow...
i can imagine a pillow to be a mouth
to be a guillotine i imagine
sleep to be: the precursor ****** of lingering
death...
that bottle of cider and a shot of whiskers?
if there's anything akin to double-dutch...
there's the double-irish...
which is... ugly h'orange...
oh why so ranging Dublin away from
Boston, massachusetts;
privy... come... let's talk...
why is it that the green in the three colours
if Ireland... even the green looks...
"cheap"? it's not the sort of green of Italy...
and sure as ****...
that orange isn't the red of Italy...
and that orange is oh so much cheaper
than... the house of orange and the sinking -
red light district of amsterdam...

- the pleasure always comes
with the final tilt of the glug and...
what's to be made kosher of a goat...
or a ram...
the levite fiddly-bits of orthodoxy
baronage: when any variant of prayer
ensues...

no, i can be associated with the crazy cat ladies...
i too own two maine **** cats...
one's headlining as being over 10kg in... "size"...
another is teasing 7kg...
and i vacuum the house every, single day...
i'm truly like an adolf ****** when it comes
to the house being free from it ever
being believed to be a house
that entertain petting cats...

i hate fur... two cats you can keep:
but as long as the house, you sweep...
is... bound to a frequence of once a day...
every day...
ecce diem: omni diem...
that's how i will only allow myself
to keep cats, if the house is vacuumed and freed
from fur, every, single, day...
perhaps i'm asthmatic with a jealous nose
that always wants to inquire
the heights of mountains and the pitfalls
of valleys... and clarifying noble waters
of the spring...

and with a 3rd of a worth of a chemistry's
degree... one could almost wish
to be... this sort of willing...
to be a trashman...
and plot the next leibniz move of never
making it to going out...

my tidy... my tidy...
the best jobs with the least amount
of contact with people playing
sycophancy and the crab and tapeworm
roulette / violin...
if that's... obviously an utopian dream
outside of canada... sign me up!

it's still ***** orange to me...
even the green look *****...
just like: what do you call french navy?
certainly not romanian blue...
the swedish yella is not the romanian
gold-tinge primark yellow...
just saying...

not even excuses for bulgarian green
can match with italian green...
austria is no better when it comes
to red...
the germans have a red in their flag...
that... somehow works
with the red and yellow...
which the belgians seem to lack...
even though they share the same colours...

dutch orange is never really orange:
except when it comes to a football match...
by then the irish orange is
aenemic... to say the least...
and the green is pale...
perhaps because it is left to contrast
with orange rather than red...
and only the french match up to "blue"
of the union jack...
but only thanks to the navy teasing purple
of st. andrew's cross flag of:
tease Midlothian!

the cider is 'ere... the scotch is 'ere...
what do i have to complain about?
complain... complain...
no... nothing... really.

Paying hapless homage to your gods
to your demi-gods
to your latter day all saints
With your Primark prayer flags
gloriously wrapped about you
You wander through empty streets
empty High Streets
Towards the stained glass sanctity
of your worship place
Your prayer less
Hedonistic
Playground
High on powders
Pills and potions
Drunk on over priced beer
Shot for shot
for shot
Laughing like madmen
Crying like angels
Dancing like tomorrow will never come
Flashing your white teeth
Trainers
and eye *****
at the moon
Howling
for some kind of salvation
for some kind of future
Angry for the promises broken
marriages and hearts too
Finding time to spend time
on doing nothing
Finding energy to enjoy
what could be your last kiss
what might be your first love
And all the while knowing
That someone let you down

Everything about you and everyone you know
What you had for breakfast and where you plan to go
Who you call and what you say and precisely where you are
Every visit to the doctor, the mileage on your car

The books you like, the food you buy, the bloggers that you read
How much you gave to charity, your attitude to ****
Every contact, every text, every on-line search
The way you dress, the way you walk, the last time you went to church

No none of this is private now; you're an information source
Of interest to the agencies of order, law, and force
It's for the common good - no really! Can't you see?
And this discussion now, it's over; it's about security

And while we're on the subject, someone really oughta
Keep an eye on her next door; at least until we've caught her
And be mindful what you wish for, now thought-crime's here to stay
But hey! It's Britain not North Korea!  Just mind how you go, OK?

Oh you have to hand it to the creeps - they've diligently been sifting
Not through your bins or bank account when ALL your data lifting
They've no need for tricks or subterfuge since you handed them the keys
You let them in unwittingly, and at the time, were pleased

So now you're pinned and wriggling on their glass one-way wall
You've no more secrets hidden 'cos you've given them them all
Privacy is dead and buried, too late now for bereavement
You slaughtered it yourself:  End User Licence Agreement

It's too late too for tin-foil hats, too late to complain
And anyway, how would you? You've forfeited this game
Join the Twitterati? Start a Facebook page?
Tell your mates on WhatsApp?  All adds more padlocks to your cage

P'raps best not to think too much about it; Yes that's the easy call
Lie back and LOL at kittens, watch Gogglebox, but actually think sod all
Yes buy your Funeral Insurance – it's acquired a curious appeal
And accept, why not, the Kardashians might actually be real

With opinions now as changeable as your boxer shorts
Grey and saggy throwaways, masquerading as your thoughts
You got the lot in Primark's sale, with your knickers and your socks
And you feel freer now than ever, inside your tiny airless box

And that's the way we like it; your illusion of control
Costs us little and lets us rule you in body, heart and soul
So make no waves, do not stand out, enjoy your bread and games
Don't try to dodge the system or we'll cast you to the flames

“Nothing to hide, then nothing to fear” is something you've no doubt heard
But those who shout it loudest know best that it's absurd
So peer behind the curtain, examine every single word
   Because you know they've cracked it... yes finally cracked it...
     The polishing to perfection -  to immaculate, flawless, gleaming perfection - of
Every
Single
****

Walking in crowds ,it's like I'm walking through glue and half of them texting on mobiles,it's vexing.
Some solvent will solve it,dissolve them away,
I should have thought of it earlier
but it's been a hell of a day.

Where do they come from,why don't they go and why don't they move,that's what I want to know?they're in Primark and Tesco and eating alfresco,(MacDonalds of course)how coarse can one get?

I should be a reclusive find people elusive and that is my dream until then I shall scream at them,Ladies and Gentlemen clear me a path,I don't want to bath with you just want to pass by you,
just like I'm walking through glue.

Someone told me I was ugly but I should not be worried right, I looked like my ancestors and they got laid  They probably did freaky stuff, bare back in a cave.  But what if I look like there ugly brother   What if I shouldn't bother   But someone said I was a hopeless romantic  Those that mean I will never have romance?   Cause I am on my back hoping I am in a comma and the real me is way more **** and maybe if I work hard enough I wont be this ugly but beauty isn't skin deep, it is locked in the genes and my Mom brought mines at Primark.  Well I guess lust is overrated and I might die a ****** but I can strip someone naked by revealing there emotions  Some one told me I was ugly, and I agreed.

such that you are, a bane of hurt
that to him a rib, a bane of craft rebellious
that i too rebellious
against my creator -
i did indeed take a book
into the forest
like i'd take a slice of glass
into a desert,
and herded horses, eating camomile
flowers, gesticulating,
pouring beer into my hand and
letting them drink it,
watching the ******* sunset
of london like watching a Chav buying
underwear in Primark + Armani = Primani...
the pair of them walked home...
i ripped off flowers from the spring bloom crop
to ease the footing... something resembling
Lavender and indeed camellia: a wedding, no pause -
for their feet treading - the most colourful
garbage littered and not bothered -
just left intact, like the many shades of autumnal auburn
littering the streets come November.

I know you follow TopShop trends
But why not try me for size?
Abandon all your misfit friends
And put on something that suits you best
Some Primark instead of your Armani rest.
We’ll wear it like it’s fashion
This love we share tonight.

So before this London sun ascends
Let me see you under city lights
And as the summer air thickens
Bare your gleaming teeth, your LA smile
Whilst I drink in your grace and guile.
I’ll sip it neat and sweet
This love we share tonight.

declared love, declared shame
for brymbo man living in suburbia.

declared love for mindless blobs
of gold, medieval collections. here.

ah, we discussed the tonsure,
denoting all humility,moved

quickly to primark, all things
underworn. yet there was no

brawn, yesterday. half day

closing.

sbm.

There is always some twit who looks down his nose and thinks that he knows me,I think he knows **** all and the harder he looks the harder he'll fall,
but he is of no consequence to me,I'd tell him he's a **** but you see,I must be polite,I must put up with his **** otherwise I might give him a right hander,the only thing that he's right in, is in knowing nothing, the *****.
Who knows how I tick? not that twot, he hasn't got a clue and wearing a cheap Primark suit he thinks he's Cat Ballou but I just get on with it,take no notice,not a bit,but if he ***** with me I'll slit his throat.
the little ******.

The Native American man
Is combing his hair outside Primark
With his eagle feathers and his pipes and drums
Waiting in a cardboard box
Waiting
For the concrete to disintegrate
Greggs and Marks and Spencers crumble
To the beat of the drums
Waiting
For green to creep across the face of Waterstones
And bilberry bloom at the bus stop
And a moss carpet pad the safety barriers with velvet
Waiting
For the beat of the drums
For those feathers to soar over forest
And the silk of his hair fly free in the wind

People think it's easy
Being on the dole
But it strips you of your dignity
And slowly destroys your soul

It's not all tabs and alcohol
And pub crawls everyday
There's no designer clothes
It's primark all the way

It's farm foods or herons
For your weekly shopping too
Forget your marks and Spencer's
There just to dear for you

Your mates who work are clubbing
And pulling all the lasses
Your stuck at home with four cheap cans
And cups instead of glasses

You smell of pound shop aftershave
You use bic razors too
You wipe your *** on newspaper
When you go to have a poo

So when you say life on benefits
Is really quite a breeze
Walk a mile in my holey shoes
Before you call me please

Peps, here listen, hear me out
yeah I know you're all really doing your best
trouble is, your best isn't good enough

You're making us look like Keystone cops
all this haphazard stasis-cating around like drunk Ruskies
staying up late back early morning, obsessive yet incompetent

Yes, persistent is the key
thing is though, you're just too dumb
some of you think eggs grow on trees
after all there are  egg plants, so surely eggs come from trees
yes! and we all live in a yellow submarine!

Now listen to me, you plebs
Don't you know what 'Royalty' means
do you think its some wishy washy label from Primark
or some honor you can buy at a Car boot sale
No, you pumpkins, it's not and don't mention 1066
or that opinionated zealous fool, Oliver Cromwell

If you don't know it yet, better know now
our Royal Adversary is Simply The Best
this man is as good as you can get
we are talking Exceptional here
we are talking, top drawer, creme de la creme
we are talking, One of a Kind, the Real Deal, yes!

We are the majority, yes..fat lot of good, that has done
you're all as common as muck, ******, ******* twerps
that's all you are.
yadda yadda this, yadda yadda that we are attacking his psyche
it's psychological warfare, it's mental and emotional assaults
it's your mother's ***, you dumdum, the man is laughing at you
Christ! what's with you people, how useless are you!

I know half of you are demented psychos
and the other halves just plain simpletons and sheeps
now the blasted public are beginning to see that,
they are fed up, already!

I tell you now what your ******* problem is
you think we humans are all the same, you think he is on your level
you ***** think he thinks like you, sees like you, reacts like you.
You, yes you, are stupid, does he look stupid to you?
If you say yes, then you're even more stupid than I know

Just be ****** honest with yourselves and face facts
you are just common muck, oiks chewing straws
and the man is Class, quality, top grade, the business
gifted, talented, brave, courageous, exceptional and a ****** 'One of'  
The Man is simply ROYAL, that's nobility for you
and say or write any **** you want, that's the ******* TRUTH

Now, get lost and go continue your nonsense
and don't steal anything on you way out, that's all you're good for!
jingoistic trash, time wasters full of dog's crap.
And you men, if one can call you men, with your floppy tiddlers,
put aside your *****-envy complexes and engage your brains.
( What brains, actually? )

Christianity died and was buried in Salem,
the wise men were missing
two were caught kissing
each other.

I know that if I go to hell
Mother will tell me off
for being very naughty.

The Pope is not available for
Fatwah's on Sunday and so
I'm safe from the
lunatic fringe.

The devil does not work for Primark,
that's a rumour encouraged
by a village in China where
they're all out of work.

Who do I pray to when the ***'s
boiling over?


See what I'm like here after a jigger of strong beer and I can't make my mind do the things that my eyes want to, but it's all down to the mischief of you who I know well and Mother will tell me for that.

Hell's not an inferno it's just the place that the mind goes.

Now,
if I'd been born into a different era and let's say the twenties things might have been clearer, but in the here and the now when the iron's in the fire and the Vicar's in the choir and yes I know all too well that I'm going to hell but only the devil regrets.

things sometimes go lowercase and I've found out that is the case when the prosecution has lost the case and the prisoner goes free.

And the sound of the  shutting door doesn't bother me anymore because I'm a Scientologist and I know  life is so much more than this.

(20 minute poetry)

We are here
stand clear.

One more trip down
the golden strip,

being stripped.

I hide in the recess
regress
to an earlier time

before the underground
prior to the mine which
by the way is the pits.

Nothing but bobble hats
and
girls wearing flats
they could be
Prada or Primark
but it's too dark to tell.

I'm going to hell on the Central line
one more time
I'm going to hell on the Central line

It's warmer
we
must be passing the bank.

St Paul's Cathedral
medieval
Knights of old and
now
it's cold or is that me?

Oh
joy of joy
glee of glee
I can see light at
the end of this funnel

(Such a crowd )
  
a bottleneck
flippin' heck
I didn't see that coming.

Time runs on
runs out
I am about
there

a fanfare
more knights
Bishopsgate
men in tights
but
It's always been
a bit
Robin Hood down here.

Her name is that
Of past hours
From days of power
And magnificence
When marble busts
Were cast
To satisfy
The desire
For eternity.

But this little beauty
Will not end her days
In  lofty halls
With locked and barred doors
The dust settling on her hair
For she will be suspended
Captured and rendered
On all the screens
That can be seen
From phone to
The Internet
And global websites
Printed texts.

Her name is Delphi
Youngest child
Full lipped star
Hair falling long
Over her arms
Eyes dark under
Arched brows
Peachy cheeks
Tanned skin
In the princess dress
She loves the best
From Asda or Primark.

To my lovely Delphi of the dollies love from Grandma xxxxx

The night we first slept together was election night,
the reds against the blues against the yellows against the greens.
We both picked the same colour, I found out,
sipping coffee, scolding tongues at that place on the corner
where you can chuck in some scran while you’re at it.

Here’s a cliché, but true: one thing led to another.
A DiCaprio movie I barely recall, a dreich day
umbrella-sharing as we charged back down Arthur’s Seat.
I wondered if Hibs won, you thought if my hand in your hand
meant we were comfortable, easing ourselves into each other
as if trying on a new pair of boots.

There was ***, but that’s personal.
It was at your place. The sleep.
After it was over, our throats aching with lust, you went
to the bathroom in your pricy Primark knickers,
spine ablaze with light, and I revelled in the deliciousness
of your not-quite-**** body, knew we’d started something,
knocked the first domino down.

In the morning, we’d reached an impasse.
The TV blared out no surprises.
My eyes discovered an unfamiliar ceiling,
you wore an iron-soon shirt, white, nothing else
as the coffee machine spluttered its language.
A one-night thing? I thought so, eyes punctuated
with crooked red hyphens. I didn’t know my toothbrush
would be there in months, my face again in the mirror.

- title -
yeti-jabba
- body -
no jabba-jedi:
no yetti: igloo makers. 502 bad gateway bypass

i knew a band the name of sister machine gun
existed since... the original Mortal Kombat movie
came out in 1995...
i remember buying the WONG album
in the Our-Price: a sublet of ****** Megastores...
you know... a time when men could have
a second outlet... a music store...
now? what's left? football stadiums?!
   it was like going to church back in the day...
you're spend an hour browsing through
the CDs... i really think the vinyl revolution:
the 2nd coming of vinyl happened too late...
if it happened just a bit earlier...
there would still be a HMV / a ****** Megastore
on Oxford Street... instead of what they have
now... some cheap *** shop that probably
sells fake Primark clothing, items under £1...
mobile phone skins... whatever women buy
to hoard... or to simply spend money on:
that isn't food...
                              oh man... the memory of HMV
and ****** on Oxford St... it's another dimension...
but at the time... the music industry wasn't really
focused on reigniting a man's need for vinyl...
liquorice spinning disks...
   if they jumped in early... figured out the market...
coupled the selling of vinyl with... a digital code...
so you could also download the record you just bought...
personally? i'm a man...
there's never too many books in a personal library...
my own library? could shame the public library
of Romford... my record collection?
that too could shame the public library of Romford...
from what i heard...
****** people get paid 40zl for stashing a(n) Ukrainian:
per day... so the fact that there are not currently
over one million Ukrainians in Poland...
that the population of Warsaw has increased by a 5th
in side... follow the money:
people are actually getting paid to hosts these poor souls...
the poor souls are also given an allowance...
i think i once wrote as a joke:
that Orc joke... racial stereotyping Orcs that's running
runs on the internet: they're Africans...
in Middle-Earth... where's Mordor?
east? right... right... the Ural Mountains?
the Mongolian Invasion... are the Orcs "black"?
or... a hybrid of the Mongols and the reinvented people
the Mongols conquered?
who conquered the Mongol onslaught on
Egypt? the Mamluks... what's that famous quote?
the people of the steppe conquered the people
of the steppe... since the Mamluks (Mamelukes....
Mameluks) were slaves of the Caucasian region...
north eastern Europe... blah blah etc.
but we used to have an outlet...
going to a football match these days is a chore...
i sometimes watch it on t.v.: but i can decipher
the chants of the away fans...
on the t.v.: your support! your support!
your support is ******* ****!
  who the **** are you! who the **** are you!
or at Fulham... esp. at Fulham...
  just before the goalkeeper is about to kick the ball:
oooooooh.... you're ****: aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa(s)h!
sizzle ensemble...
what a tiresome day... woke up at 7am...
had a coffee and a sunset...
a cigarette too...
       went into town for another coffee and a burger
egg muffin at McDonald's...
ate the wrap on a bench in the sun...
crunch... crunch...
           when i my grandparents had an Alsatian...
we're feed it egg-shells... sprinkled over meat...
right... i'm a dog now?
woof...             woof...
               sure... no problem...
i'll eat this extra fibre...
                     it truly is a ****** gig... leave the house at 8am...
come back at 8pm... well... 9pm...
pay £10 for fuel... earn? ****... maybe £40?
it's extortion... but... i can be fazed when i'm
in a good moon... i get to watch a football match for
free... and i get literary fuel...
     yeah... trouble this time round...
not that grand... 4 Ipswich supporters bought tickets
to enter the Oxford Stand...
a minor punch-up... i was yawning throughout...
not that i'm boasting... but yawning while the crowd
gets all exited... when the away team score...
turn your back on the home supporters
and smile at the tourists...
         that usually calms them... eye  contact...
chimpanzee ****...
                    and when the home team scores...
turn your back on the tourists... pretend to be crucified
for about a second... smile... just smile...
make eye-contact...
              i should have been born to be a *******
bus driver... back where i was born...
i always wanted to become a bus driver...
        i should have been a bus driver...
**** me... a aiming at becoming a chemistry teacher?
slightly boring... if you told me:
become an English teacher...
   then again... whatever...
time eclipses...
            it's good to be tired: you reach a ****** of relaxation
that's otherwise unavailable...
plus... me... tired? i'm *****...
all those selfies my would-be g/f of a *******:
duck lips... spectacles: hot teacher fantasy...
they worked the first time i came home
and ****** off "suffering" from constipation...
on the throne of thrones... eased up into some cleavage
and *** photographs... then looked at the photographs
she sent me of her face...
yeah... nice... second time...
i had to have a quickie... with Teanna Trump
and Harley Dean... because... lately...
i'm all into that interracial ****...
                     blondes put me off... botox blondes...
fakery blondes... bleached **** and *****...
if she isn't... licked by the sun a little...
the whole world is going full Brazilian: mind you...
i'm tired: but i'm *****...
but there's not chance of me having ***...
i need to let off steam... anyway...
but the first mistake the guys at Our-Price made was
selling me the "wrong" record...
the Mortal Kombat soundtrack... with bands like...
Sister Machine Gun... Type O Negative...
when it came to buying the Batman Forever soundtrack...
no... i didn't ask for a sly... a substitute...
to the CD i originally wanted...
i didn't want any U2...
    that was when i was still playing with figurines
of superheroes on my bedroom floor...
giving them ****** narratives...
well... when you're a boy... there are not smartphones...
not internet... you play with toys...
i didn't need a ******* batman forever soundtrack...
with U2 being invoked...
the Mortal Kombat soundtrack?
that... that was... i have to admit...
an overlord moment of someone seeing me and saying
to themselves: this boy... needs to have his knowledge
of music... expanded...
but with the batman forever?
i was actually after Elliot Goldenthal's
     Fledermausmarschmusik.... that's... what... i... was...
after... to play with my ******* toys...
oddly enough... each time i *******...
i get a whiff... of Khedra's scent...
i ******* into her: by her own permission...
now... hmm... sniff sniff...
             i smell her body through my: "junk"... *****...
get paid come the first few days of April...
i'll follow up with her: so... that... dinner...
and... the night spent in a hotel room... that's on?
otherwise? sure... i don't mind the hour...
i'm not a Duracell bunny...
it's not like there' a magic ultra-violet button akin
to the political commanders having a magic red button
for the nukes: when it comes to hard-ons...
lucky for me: the right sort of demure...
it's a great sort of "fake"... just stand there...
tensing your shoulders... itching to punch your shadow...
by way: punching yourself... fold your hands...
i don't even have to get a *******
by giving fans the "direct" treatment of authority...
just cross your hands... stand sort of proud...
sort of tall...
better have retained my status as a roofer...
thank god i'm only doing this to get non-familial
references...
on the way back from Oxford...
we sort of just... grunted... the least amount
of conversation i ever experienced...
then again: there were no women in the car...
there were only four guys...
         some comment on traffic:
any update on your grandpa?
                     yeah... that wasn't too bad...
the shift...
                          the supervisor was relaxed
texting while driving...
     put the heating on... real high...
then put the cooling real low...
thank **** he turned it off...
   some traffic on the M25 after four cars crashed...
Dan: so, Matt... what are your plans for tonight?
Matt: oh you know, Dan... just chill out...
have a drink or two... when you get to be 35...
clubbing with girls that are 18 is not much fun...
no cultural references that stick...
i can't be mindful of keeping minors in check...
blah blah: and more blah blah on silent mode...
why do people always seem to want to talk
to break the tension?
surely... just shutting up and being content
with oneself: with one's own presence on silent-mode
is enough to satisfy others: yeah, i'm here...
and yeah: i don't have to somehow feel uncomfortable
by something having to talk... right?

shut the **** up...
"promoted" to the shotgun position in the car...
i like silence... i like not talking...
plus? his grandfather is faking it not having
cancer... so... any insight? any new details?
my grandfather died only 2 years ago...
relatable language...
but my grandmother was a *****...
come again? a different sort of language:
i have no sympathy for her...
she made my grandfather die feeling like:
no one cared for him...
           her son? m'ah... "unkhle"... will not leave her
feeling much more than she already invested
in...

what the **** would i need the typical high street for?
more... shoes? more clothes?!
more mobile phones?!
                 you ****** off with the music shops...
i don't need Oxford St. to exist...
it's a bit like finding the Church going extinct
a second time...
            hell... whiskey sells in shady parts of society...
i don't date: i never thought about dating...
after finding the right sort of ****
in a *******...
      i stopped thinking about that bogus dream...
it's great... let's create a funnel of experience...
some will get through: some will not...
totaling society: some crash...
     come burn... come Braun.

.out comes the golden serpent - with hands of dripping copper and honey... sprinkling kosher salt wherever he goes; of course prior to: mr. aenemia and vamp. goes through a rotten stage of: scortched porky pink... it does take a day or two... for the suntan to even itself out.

the joy from a well exerted body
with paid debt for a day's worth
of life...
    laying the foundation of a new shed...
tossing a tonne of gravel...
mixing cement like bread dough:
3:1 parts - sand:cement...
and some water...
        to the consistency of ****** dough...
come the sunset and the skull's
moondance...
   the warming sensation of a newly
acquired suntan: above the elbow:
having rolled up the t-shirt "sleeves":
do i could get that:
mr. romania primark buff look...
rather than a farmer's suntan below
the elbows...
                 as for the mind...
currently pickling in some bourbon...
relaxing...
     not agitating any grand
exploration - come to think of it...
an honest's day of labour:
   of work that can be done -
    all work... beside those sadistic
arbeit macht frei labours...
or work for competition...
work in the fresh air...
      to plough the field...
         to build a house... to set
a foundation for a shed...
to wait for tomorrow... and put
the actual shed up...
                 if in england the house
is a castle:
why so few leave it for the labyrinth
of the garden?
claustophilic chickens...
hardly a castle: more
like a t.v.-zombie
                        chickenshack...
no point being "smart" about it...
there's enough grace in just
being grateful...
for honestly paying the debt for
a day's worth of life:
                to whatever god or devil;
well... i'm going to hardly
pay homage to the sun...
       that said... so much
                 for the heliocentric
"revolution"...
           what has changed?
i don't think much...
the world still goes on in its usual
geocentric theatre mandate...
          who needs to look for aliens
"elsewhere" in that copernican "n.e.w.s."
of aimless direction...
when the aliens are: thankfully!
tiny creepie-crawlies...
                       right here now:
scuttling along to find rotten wood,
shade and the confines of hades...
perhaps... sometime this week...
i'll pay homage to that route i walked
once before... beginning from...
lower bedfords rd (through bedfords park)
out on broxhill road...
then through B175... at pinewood road
(across from orange tree pub)...
through havering county park...
across the river Rom...
and into hainault forest county park...
popping out at A1112... and then either walking
back to collier row... or getting the bus
back...
    one day... this homage will
have to be paid.... but not tomorrow...
some other... sunny day;
so much for the over-inflated
               value of love and ***...
when manual labour in fresh air...
and taking... a pretty long *******
walk will do... just about as much.

Its almost December
and we're old friends
I should see more of you.
You've still to play your favorite song
These problems are not insurmountable

They've closed the down the town
Rows of shops shuttered
It feels like a war zone

If it never rains it pours
The Market isn't the same
and the footfall isn't immense

But if it snows
I meet you on a snow-covered street
and you'd wave a smile
in your Chinese hat and gloves
you got from Primark

Aluminium foil doesn't stop the signal from getting in to disrupt you, they fool you with that claptrap and you keep your mouth shut because you think you're fooling them.

We're being microwaved,
oxygen-starved and carved up
ready for their table
it's all about the signal,
everything is.

And you might think that the end of the World will look like the end of the World, it won't, it'll look like Primark does on Saturday, people falling over themselves to get what they can from the overstocked shelves.

There's thunder coming
and a storm approaching
I'm burying my head in
the sand.