I feel so tired,
I feel so lost.
Give my heart time to defrost.
I'm on the edge,
I've broken down.
I'll never get back up,
I'm going to drown.
We're left to think of an escape
As if the cut is a minor scrape.
Where do we find a cure?
I know people care,
I'm sure.
And if those were the last things I ever heard,
would you care to reword?
What if I was gone tomorrow?
Would you drink to drown your sorrows?
Those last words, what a shame.
Aren't you to blame?
If I can't find my way
If my path has gone astray,
Then whose to say I'll get out safe.
Hidden from my gaze
their words ring in a haze.
"We're here to help,
We're here to save.
Drop the knife,
Please be brave.
Please drop the gun,
They haven't won.
We want the best,
We want a smile.
You know that thing's been gone a while."
Just tell me it's alright,
Only for tonight.
My way out has been delayed,
Honestly I'm afraid.
Who's going to save me now?
And if those were the last things I ever heard,
Would you care to reword?
What if I was gone tomorrow?
Would you drink to drown your sorrows?
Those last words,
What a shame.
Aren't you to blame?
Aren't you to blame?
What a shame.
I'm gonna be gone tomorrow,
Please don't hold your sorrow.
Those last words were just a game.
Maybe you won,
Maybe you're to blame.

Love me like I am no longer broken bones in a working body
Find that I am still whole yet divided
Forgive me for never loving myself
This dream I have still projects itself
Knitting the sky together with plea agreements
Begging for you to finally see me clearly
The rain is gone and we are still here
Broken bones heal and I am still alive
But know that I am trying
Trying to be better than me
Working at building a future out of hand grenade pins
Pulled from mistakes thrown out of my life

I exist in a space somewhere between complacency and sheer panic,
With the very tangible happiness just beyond my reach.
And as my fingers yearn, outstretched and writhing, my mind wonders why bother, let go.
The fact is:
Happiness, though it may be real, was never meant for me.

Freedom through proclivity. Self-deserved justice through self-acquired progess.
A self-spiraling abundance of connections to, via and between vital elation, development and integration.
A conquest throughout, a victory that which for itself exists to be.

Social - Integral - Communal - Public – Mutual:
As the original, so too the other,
As the other, so too the original.
Within its self-proclaimed evidence;

The brilliance thereof
And within brilliance,
As brilliance,
Through brilliance,
For brilliance,

Occurs just brilliance.

Making babysteps in human knowledge
Feeling fluttering in my ribcage
Helping to a brighter world
Possibilities unfurl

Teams of scientist roaming the web
The tide of progess flows and ebbs
Just to play my own small part
Brings me gladness in my heart.

Seeing how discorery works
The sweat and tears that ****
Struggling to be very thorough
Not to introvertly burrow

Meeting great minds giving talks
Learning how to walk the walk
I'm thriving in my favorite field
Like an orange slowly peeled.

Drama queen dreams
have been restructured
by good therapy

which has exposed
how close I was
to practicing popping.

Stabilizers expected
to shorten the time
between hurt and healing.

She said a week
or 2 is enough
time to try again.

Scared straight sane
by the threat
of a prescription

and the visual
of the structure
of my categories.

Troubled by realizations
of not loving them all
as much as some others.

I say "I Love You"
more to them
than some family

hear it from me.
Loved, they should Be.
Revision in progess.

It is my work
since it takes much
longer to sink in.

Real love is constant.
I've experienced pain
then emotionally reneged

when a higher love
was due and within
my giving power.

Make a decision,
she said. I am
reading the lines

instead of marking
my dreams between them.
I flip closing pages

while a tilted can
revives a life, once,
wilted in my hands.

only last night, having reach my fill of ms. amber bathing in a ginger ale jacuzzi - chasing a choir boy castrato cat waking me four times i had to utter in frustration (which i later noted): mortality is such an insufficient measure of things... i would be ****** if i didn't make a quick ode to Ovid's ****** poems... to truly appreciate performing oral *** on a woman? i suggest you first appreciate eating oysters... not oysters: no, having performed oral ***, looking at the moon in the quicksilver sheen to see your face all slobbered... an appreciation of eating oysters, is most certainly, a precursor to performing oral *** on a woman... beside:

wenn alles weisheit wurden zu kommen auf Indien -
if all wisdom were to come from India,

needless to say - these ancients still treat
greece as some sort of ongoing "experiment" -
that nothing, absolutely nothing:
is viable -
they might as well call it the still to progess
into a foundation state of affairs -
the west is seen as fickle -
a thought it not so much entrenched
and passed on, as it is made vogue one
generation - disappearing for some time:
before reappearing...

no proverbs ever came from the west:
nothing akin to:
besser ein spatz im ihr hand -
als ein taube auf ihr dach -
i just like how it sounds in german...
the original reads:
lepiej wróbel w ręce - niż gołąb na dachu
(better a sparrow in your hand,
than a dove upon your roof)...

legit. proverb: hold the simpler joys
in your hand, closest to you,
that look up and think that a dove
upon your roof will bring peace to
your household...

as long as everyone under the roof
has simple and "immediate" joys in hand
close to the heart...
peace is not tempted by spotting
a dove on your roof...

here's another one... and i was looking and
i was looking and i was looking
and i thought i couldn't find some,
some sort of alternative...
if only Ted Bundy went down this route...
then again... if he did...
he would have started jerking off
to fine art... the detail of the tongues,
the ***** and the ability to filter
out what is happening outside the erotica...
what?
i will drill this example in...
every, single, time:
Bronzino's venus, cupid, folly and time...

perhaps i am that old,
before free internet *******...
some of us had the ***** and the rose cheeks
to walk into a newsagent and pick
up a pornomag...

well... "*****" - more like...
sculptor's digest... or...
**** subject pages for that lesson
you'd love to take at school
where you could paint a ****...
oh hell: paint all the flowers in the world...
flower: covert: female genitals...
all the flowers in the world...
but not the torso and the mystery
of the bellybutton
nor the cow-sacks of Surabhi...
after all... they started multiplying in number
and you couldn't, after a while,
tell apart what it was about them...
peach on the front,
peach on the back...
and what would a hindu know of
the tetragrammaton?
when H... is a surd in their language?

i tried almost everything...
but upon my final discovery...
hell... it just started making sense...
glory-hole... the dreaded lesbian genre...
once in a brothel i was asked if
i wanted 2 hours with her,
or an hour with her and her friend,
i replied: i still don't know what i'm
going to do with you...
i don't live by the motto:
the world is divided into men
who have slept with two women
and a the men who haven't...

give me two legs of chicken...
i'll know what to do...
a woman can multitask...
after all... if a muslim gets 72 virgins...
a woman is guaranteed her
3 greyhounds... one for each 'ole!
'ere comes the charging bull...

der wesheit auf Indien:
nothing reflexive about it -
just enough to ease you into a mirror
of non-reflection:
i.e. something to destroy the self
with and incorporate -
a billionth part of yourself...
wisdom worthy of meditation -
but not exactly stretching
into a labyrinth of thought -
call it all you like:
clumsy thinking,
spaghetti alleys and cul de sacs,
the labyrinth -
why complicate life, which is already
complicated, by complicating thought?
after all: what is thought?
the first question of the θ-moral?
the th'ought i?

oh don't get me wrong...
that an elephant shouldn't exactly pair
up to a rabbit in the kama sutra:
spot on...

even i became tired of the meat-market...
after a while i just felt like a butcher
looking at cuts of meat...
cam-girls: i don't remember paying...
the genres... god... i probably looked
at 5 in total...
hello exotica... ebony...
glory-hole... ****...
the horrid affair of the extremes -
lars von trier nymphomaniac
confessions type of genres...
hell... i even tried ******...
but still: the meat-market...

well no point looking for alternatives
in the islamic world...
unless you are really ***** for
eyes in the kneeling position
while looking to and from the heavens
of a catholic confessional booth...

some variant of softcore ****:
latex whole body suits...
girls in gimp suits with a zipper
for a genital opening...

but still the meat market...
****? only to laugh at the farts...
but still... the meat-market...
and still the all pervading sense of voyeurism!
that's not enough, it wasn't enough to begin with,
then i'd come across articles
in legit. newspapers (the times)
about how women tend to watch
more violent *******...

for a while i entertained the no-man's land
affair with girls ******* videos...
**** became a little bit weird
when i turned that upside down
and focused on: pregnant women
*******...
and... i just borrowed something from
a 1976 novel by Michael Crichton:
eaters of the dead -
better known as the Wendol in the film
the 13th warrior -
where the diety was a pregnant woman...
i played into that fantasy...
which coincided with the time
i ****** off ******* for 2 hours
and imagined:
well... i guess... ******* are off limits
to men when a woman has a baby...
and she's actually breastfeeding...
i couldn't imagine this fantasy to live
beyond that date of conception
through to having finished breastfeeding
a child... but... for a while...
i gave careful attention...
to what it would be like...
with a lactating woman...

that was the zenith of my exploration...
eh... *** parties? filmed in those shabby
intz intz horrid dance music scenes?
n'ah... i wanted something more...
more... archetypical...
something teasing the forbidden...
but not forbidden as such...
something akin to:
having to convince her to **** while
on her period, in a bath,
wearing a ******: to ease, the, cramps!

ugh... czech house party *** scenes...
or those scenes from prague,
the inverted glory-holes...
what you see are cubicles
of women's legs sticking out...
again:
too much imagination already given...
none of this was akin to
Bronzino's venus, cupid, folly and time...
everything was moving,
i was nothing more than a ******,
always the 5th wheel of the wagon...
somehow, yeah, "somehow" necessary...
even if a woman was ******* 3 at the same time,
there was the fourth... watching...
via the 5th one: filming...

hyper-geometry of a triangle...

what was essentially missing?
accents of eroticism - subtlety -
to have an image in your mind - quiet static -
and to allow your imagination to seep in...
all the other western alternatives
were nothing but meat-markets / slaughterhouses...
none of your imagination could seep in...
not even with the first pornomags
of my teen years...
protruding ******* like the eyes
of judge doom from: who framed roget rabbit...
which always begged the question...
very much akin to the question
posed by Milan Kundera in:
the unbearable lightness of being...
**** with your eyes closed...
or your eyes open?

the sensuality of worms and all those
murky beings: primordial *** -
eyes closed -

      eyes open? the seemingly anti-sensual
inconvenience of mammalian
reproduction - with no pain upon giving
birth: what pleasure upon reaching an ******?
asked the wind of a savannah to its inhabitants.

Islam still wasn't helping -
i could never understand how a woman's eyes
were the most ****** aspect of a woman's body...
perhaps her hands...
well if you have hands like i have...
what you have in your pants isn't exactly
an ego-trip... you're holding a sparrow...
she's holding a bulging ribcage of an albatros!
you can hold a basketball with one hand...
and she is... a knuckle short of your four...
why wouldn't a woman's hands be the most
****** aspect of her body...
after all... a non-discriminatory plateau:
all are the hands of a a geisha...

geisha... islamic eroticism still isn't working...
hair... hair...
a lot of people complain if they have
a fly / a hair in their soup when served
in a restaurant... jokes on me...
i have a beard and the hairs of the beard
are the same consistency of ***** hair...
so i basically have ***** on my face...
ha ha...
why hair? what's so ****** about hair?
what if i tell you that as women age...
almost all of them decide for the pixie girl look -
and what if i told you that...
ifindwomenwithshorthairintheiryouththezenithoferotica?
ag­ain... islam isn't helping...


.a thing of genuine beauty, is always predicated upon transcendent value of inquiry... to transcend the common, daily, human squabbles... it becomes areligous... while daily human squabbles continue, what has been lost, is an item of transcendence, it was never to be a focus of some "parasitical" sycophancy of tourism... there's nothing to be celebrated, and... nothing much to be awed by either.

well, what did the ottoman turks
do to the hagia sophia?
they converted it,
but they weren't philistines
to the point,
   or say, a bunch rabid mongols
from the 13th century
in Bagdad...
                      like:
                     and why didn't
the nazis not destroy certain valuable
cultural cruxes?
   that picture of st. paul's cathedral
during the blitz...
  yes, the english might think
it was a symbol of defiance...
but i'm pretty ******* sure
that if one luftwaffe bomber dropped
something on st. paul's,
they'd return home and be
shot by a firing squad...
            they might have been
nazis... but they weren't philistines...
even the ottomans...
süleymaniye was so jealous
of the byzantine building
that he had to commission the construction
of a building to match-up
to the hagia sophia in some
way...
           again:
                  prank call buddha...
tell him they're also
tearing down idols in northern europe
with their phallus cult
           of the large wooden
***** carved from a tree.
what's that?        you yell'ah?
i mean: in the heyday
   of scandinavian black metal...
varg vikernes... 'nuf' said.

_________
a

my eyes are flashlights
my face a mess
of beauty standards
and hidden rage

i am a building
many people at the same
good evil none
all for different fame

i breathe co2
i drink gasoline in a cup
my skin is rough concrete
wires all the way up

i speak in machines
scream drills and hammers
i am all noise, chaos
what comfort is there in silence?

i dress in fake nature
plastic bags hold my pride
i take the control
but never once do i command

i am the cancer
on earth's lung
i am the darkness
tainting all black

i am what they call progess
but i am what prevents us from it
i am a mess of glass
and conctrete all in one

i may seem pretty and kind
creating opportunities all around
i build your home
just to tear the real one apart

and deep in the night
between the flashes and chaos
one may be able
to see a kind of nature
that it is still out of my graspe
but as selfish as i am
i blind you with my light
preventing you to fall
from a far-away love

do not look away
no, do not look at what truly is beautiful

because if you do
if you see how the water flows
or how the sun shines
or even feel the grass

you might forget me—
you should resent me
you must break me—
just so you can go back

By: Cedric McClester

Forget the EPA
That’s so yesterday
In time we’ll have to pay
But who cares anyway
They used to work for you and me
But not anymore don’t cha see
We have a President
Who’s hell-bent and won’t repent

Forget the CDC
Looking out for you and me
Cos they are in a rut
With their budget cut
There’s little they can do
To protect me and you
They can’t detect the latest flu
Like they used to do

Forget the DOJ
Who won’t point the way
Towards an enlightened government
Civil rights have all been spent
Now the ACLU’s out of the loop
And the fox oversees the chicken coop
They’ve been set up to fail
And progess is off the rail

Are you listening to me
What about the CPB
There’s no protection anymore
Like we used to have before
If we get ripped off  then so what
Consumer protection we haven’t got
And that’s not what will make us great
Despite the slogan he may state



Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2017.  All rights reserved

I believe many people would say that nighttime is not their best time ~
because when the sun sets, our upsets and regrets progess;
our interests are shown from beneath the surface--
but from the surface, you won't learn this,
because my nonsense makes your contents look non-violent,
so we digress beneath the mess
by putting on a mask to disguise our lies.
But for me, I find it's the day ~
because by the time I reach midday,
my face hides and I put on a play
in hopes the night will fade away,
and then my mind will walk astray
in fear my thoughts will stay this way,
but then my surface will still decay.
And then I find the truth behind--
that you and I are not so different ~
because when the sun rises
it reveals what's common inside us,
but for some reason we hide this
and put on our disguises.
Honestly, it cures my insanity--
it pleases me, to find people like me ~
because, truth me told,
we are not so different, you and I ~
because by the time the day reaches noon,
we all know night will be here soon,
and another day will be haunted by night's nihility,
so to reach our comfortablity,
we hide behind a mask and please the lie--
the lie we find so common inside,
because we think it will keep us alive--
but the truth is ~ it's dead, alright?

are you sure that we're supposed
to be buried in earth,
earth the closest we resemble
as ash...
             are you sure?
just wondering, because i've
just stopped looking through
my grandfather's rea ding glasses...
and what i saw through them...
was akin to having your eyes
open, underwater...
perhaps this whole one-size-fits-all
coffin packaging is great
to cut corners and run the treadmill...
hell, floating murk
of cremation on the Ganges...
if the druids were to be stirred...
the eyes of man,
  ought to be buried in the sea
or lake or river...
    the other body parts?!
dunno...
            because that would rob
me of the authenticity
of where I'd like my eyes to be buried...
or rather dropped into...
apart from the eyes and the brain...
i guess the druids would prefer
the modernised version of events,
given the progess of science...
    donor flesh...
               even the heart doesn't
exactly fit a burial worthy of
the earth... you could in earnest
bury a heart of a wild animal,
when performing a burial rite...
      but there's something
comical about the inverted necrophilia,
a higher tier of hue...
there is a dead man,
but a part of him is still living,
in another...
    hence my sour taste in,
peace be upon him, Christopher Hitchens'
atheism, banking on genes,
and an eternity solely via genes...
genes are but atoms...
      i see...
                 a heart of my calibre
beating for 10 more years in
a foreign body...
                and all this...
with the exausted poetic eucharist
of Christianity...
and before the techno-tenticle
explores...
         a complete inversion
of necrophilia...
         a subtleness of life...
         and the endless possibilities therein...
at least by cremation:
nothing is sacred, all is elemental...
not this, from dust you came,
but unto wax you shall return...
    Madame Tussauds *** doll
precursors, and a stag night joke
about ******* a helium sheep...
with all due respect,
peace be upon him,
there are more avenues to eternity,
than in the immediate sense,
atomist, procreation and the passing on
of genes...
           unless you are of course
a modern day Portuguese ****
with the no. 7 roy-al white...
less about prostitutes tier C,
   certainly not tier B (strippers and
the sugg'ah daddy teasers)...
    no, we're talking Gattaca ******...
tier A... surrogates.

I wonder if its wrong to hide my pain with all this laughing
Often when I'm smiling I'm truly only masking
The way i want to hurt myself for what I feel I'm lacking
No control of these emotions which are all just overlapping
And so clearly overflowing
Maybe all this pain is just sign for me, showing
That I can't forgive myself for the self harm i committed knowing
That it slow my progess down and keep me from ever growing
I was a liar and an addict
Went from "happy days" to static
It was only a matter of seconds for me to develop a habit
I've tried to move on, almost every day in fact
But I'll hate myself till the end for this devilish little pact
That I made with a pipe that scorched my soul black
I will always be this creature that can't ever escape it's past

/i couldn't stomach the burden of a perfect german, hence this, algorithmusdeutsch... then again, like the Marovigian might have said: german is perfect, in making mistakes pretending to sound intellectual, barely clinging to a razorblade, suffice to say: when drowning... but at least german, a cushion, and a pristine canvas to dig trenches, blush a zeppelin warhead plop into London cement... and then mind the Bavarian whittle shittenholen... enz... must be enz, und plu- arable... namely remnants of a day, and an unfinished crossword puzzle...                  
        
           vorher narzissus,
   schattensuchende
    klatschen ein gla-ß-ee,
und entstehen
     ein gehockt krähe-
lauren,
          sheutod...
      carboxylic açid

and all things germanic...
slingshot into elder saxon
and back into
cosmopolitan *******,
a timid fungus like a tongue
hiding in a pyramid of
   signatures in bones from
within the grave;

   hard to imagine
that it took a ******* hog snout
to become a botanical
Sherlock 'olmes...

       as ever,
   the Cockney Surd...
namely 'aching,
   which translates itself
outside of the local 'appenings...
   odd: the laugh is yet
to be perfected.

- playing the xylophone
   at the nativity play -

       schatten, schatten
  werfen on ein(e) mauer...

occupational hazard,
  like the saxon N
    in between vowels to avoid
a tongue numbing spiral,
an eye rather than a eye...
gambled through two faces:
a 6 and a 2...

lost coordination with
the poly- prefix germanic
of: the the the (point),
id est -
post scriptum:
   I'll ensure that tongue of
theirs will become a *******
saxophone,
than a timid wrigglingua testimony
of a tapeworm...

   came the pillar of Atlas
and the Zeno talltale of
Achilles and the tortoise,
before the mile became a kilometer,
subsequently
       a metre, centi-, milli-...

and 0 = the perfect divisor
     "number":

  far cry from the Kantian negation
made compact, like
everything Kantian, per se,
compact packaging,
******* tourist he would have been,
if first he left the routine,
and then Königsberg...

          last time I checked though,
I have my A through to Z...
   0 isn't exactly a number if not
a doughnut tale of a squashed
omicron...

    pity they managed to undermine
words... funny...
from words came the icon...
    oddly enough painters are
in the confines of the same asylum
criteria of desperation...

colours are apparently a tier above
words... oddly enough...
words can conjure images,
colours... a look at them being
expressed, and they thought
cubism was bad....

    ******* are all other the place...
and if they are not contemplating
punctuation marks,  
they should be showing syllables,
and if they're not even doing that,
we'll,  my friend: diacritical
marks are the highest asking...
I'd love to see a truly punctuated
painting...

   a painting is one thing:
but the work in progess to accompany
the harsh censorship of
the artistic masochism,
    is quiet another...
a painting is hardly going to be
utilised into a chair...

          sollte ihre spiegelung
   verlassen du,
     als geieraustern: innereien...
schauen ihre schatten...

as ever, within each language,
at least a few letters spare,
namely the remnants
of a once great monopoly
and power broking priesthood,

that ****** aesthetic of
epsilon and eta...
      remains of the day and
the castrato singalong
     remnants of Greek in:
the sigh in dentistry...
   prior to the sleep and the wisdom
teeth being pulled out,
asking
       the anaesthetician: quo vadis?

- because they never actually tell
you, to take treat antidepressants
akin to amitryptyline as if they're
sleeping pills...
              just before bedtime...

    a ******* knockout to boot,
and my joy at a ***** popsicle...
because I would never think
about drinking with someone,
and that misery of conversation,
or the current, generic,
exasperating poetic maroons
   without a Defoe in sight...

and word that became flesh
that became an image...
           such the poverty of language,
but words, but words they bellow
like cretins who never
saw a cow being towed into
a slaughterhouse, bellowing
a torturous epiphany too late...

orange that didn't become an Ibizian
freshly squeezed hangover cure,
and more an O'Hara opinion,
     so more to the point:
words, just words they say...

   hope to high hell and the gates
of Tartarus that I never ask such
people for directions...
   namely they'd speak that
  right is "right"
    or the upper tier of
Copernican ronin...
       flimsy ******* luck,
coming across this cult
      of aluminum wrapped
  on their heads:
           humanity reboots.

this isn't even my lowest ebb -
          walking into a shed, sitting down,
and smoking four cigarettes -
repenting for today's -
                                 on no account
of a promise - a buckle nonetheless -
for an hour just sitting there
waiting for the sun to go down without
actually seeing it...
picking up a wasp nest killer spray...
picking up a bottle of white spirit...
picking up a hammer...
             picking up a bunch of other
chemicals...
              hell: where's that kilogram of salt?
it's nothing new -
it's hardly pitiable -
                       there's no matrix of thought
behind it -
where there was once a labyrinth all
that has remained is some sawn-off-bits of
wood... some shrapnel in a puddle...
      my favorite: conversations with
an old "friend"... he's here lingering talking
in a language my shadow can clearly
hear and clearly understand...
        today is not a good day: no day is...
but clearly not today...
       today i discovered grey hairs just above
my beard: i knew i had two grey hairs
in my beard - but i never thought i'd have
grey hairs...
clogged up tupsy-turvy of "feelz"...
            unless this turtle of a heart will ease
out: just one more emotionally stunted rhythm...
for  whatever that might have been...
this heart will most certainly not father...
      there's just this bothersome interlude -
a romance of pain that could come from
a cocktail...
        in the end a summation -
                         life is, as such... worth living...
but only up to the point
of the certainty of dying -
        i can't imagine being old and dying
peacefully in my sleep...
         i'd call that being robbed of the most precious
artifact this world has to offer...
                that precious aeon of The Passing...
why would it all be necessarily morbid...
taboo... that somehow all thinking can
deviate from this monstrosity of reflection...
it has clearly been a mundane day -
                finding my first greys wasn't
spectacular enough... spring is coming...
and elizabeth II is still queen of england...
                        probably the two best reasons
to be alive...
    otherwise, what? faking it...
                                or "not getting it right"?
maiming myself into a vegetable state?
                  i have to visit him from time to time...
it's not he's going anywhere...
and i'm getting to him: one poppy-seed shuffle
of the knees at a time: per day, per week
month or year...
            i'll have to face something beside
the ignoble fact of mortality -
                i'll have to face that "other" question...
because such events probably only
happen on a whim - in that horror circus
of the mundane - the better part of a necessarily
forgotten day...
this has to become a sterile point of observation...
otherwise it will be hard to imagine:
what happens to the body under
the "protection" of a coroner...
               or a butcher... or: well a lion or a pack
of wolves i can imagine...
it would immediately turn into mana...
  rather than some scribbling on a page for stats...
or... worse: the doubly butchered
cut of beef - once by the butcher...
   second by someone who cooks it: well done...
mind you - i didn't cook dinner today...
there's an oddity when not dealing
with the process of cooking something raw...
and making it: cooked...
whether meat, vegetable - root or fruit...
instead dealing a portion of turkey *******
for two cats...
                    everything has an eerie contentment
of being left undisturbed...
the current pandemic is just background
noise -
          here's to looking for a moment and
a space to sacrifice an unwilling willingness -
dream big: it can only get better -
i hardly think i have the required capacity
to dream to begin with...

/
               in some scenarios there is a distinct
line between the north of england
and the south of england...
but not so much when it comes
to east england and west england...
unless in london: clearly there's an east
london - as there's a west london...
     but it's an island...
            there's clearly a south-east in poland...
the ****-show poor buggers' home:
nearing ukraine...
  but north? that's the goldmine of the window
to the world: access to the sea...
this, the, "bigger picture"...
                        west germany and east germany...
with berlin and warsaw being in the east...
pockets of bribes and other, sediments...  
                                                                       /

if it's not precious... then it is... precarious...
then again: perhaps both...
here's to not wearing face-masks or panic buying...
of the latter event...
            well... i was only really looking
for flour... sugar... and tomato puree...
reminder:
something from yesterday -
still not old enough to give me the ***** when it
comes to: sitting on one's laurel leaves...

two names that skip way way over me...
roger stone... isn't that, that film director?
lee rigby - well... there's not much in the name...
but the title: fusilier...
i just see him as part of the queen guard...
on parade... playing a ******* trumpet...
fusilier lee rigby...
     more like: lee rigby - the trumpeteer...

roger stone... i think of... oliver stone...
coming back from insomnia news reels...
is... roger stone equivalent to...
alastair cambell... well...
if it isn't a joseph goebbels...
it's that guy...
by "that" i am implying...
alastair cambell...
when the left in politics had someskin,
some bones in the matter of minding marrow;

for holy ****'s and ****'s sake!
the madonna over 'ere!
bow... look out! scouting for knighthood...
no... not really...i was... i woozy woz...
how many supermarkets did i visit?
5... i was looking for... tomato purée...
sugar... and plain flour...
i don't mind the eggs...
but i should mind...
the flour is "missing"...
the sugar... somewhat...
i have the yeast and i'll just bake
or fry up mexican / indian flat breads...

all the chicken did a runner...
the turkey for the cats is... once again:"missing"...
the shelves are empty and all that remains is the brute beef...
****, stake and parlour... but i was making...
tatar chebureki...
and of course yogurt cucumber shredded...
with tzatziki infused spices...
the raw ore of cuisine was missingalmost everywhere...

the sugar and the flour...
no one was looking for salt...
or the vinegar or the oil...
i'll be stocking up on whiskey in the impeding hours...
well... days... i have over 200 x 8 - worth ofcigarettes...
but enough of that sort of..."lepzig" / lowry...

i was still scouting for flour...
i've stashed enough self-raising flour to never bother buying...
baking powder...
but even if it comes to thickening a sauce...
all out on the plain flour...
(you'd still be better off with cornflour...
or an egg yoke when it comes to soups)...

it's good to know that people know what's gold
in terms of crude details of shopping...
milk and all the dairy products are of no concern...
nor are the fresh vegetables or fruits...
let's talk about seasonal eating habits...
strawberries come in june... etc.
now, let me become truly honest...
i've been walking around in a vacuum of spring...
the scents and all those otheradditives...
floral patterns... walking like a peacock...
armed with a baboon's *** for a joke
and an ***** spine for comforts...
peacock... when all this... this...
rife propagandist tool-shed of "news"comes apparent...

suffocating... no new war:
       grinding the metal for a new rifle...
and a bullet with some nutritional additionsof shrapnel...
bite the curb bite the ****-up...
it's not like i've been waiting for the haitus of
the whole bread & circus affair...
i'm just starting to stock up on essentials...
well... "lake of fire": whiskey...
i am most welcome at the summit:
a wayne stastic dies from an overdose
of prescription drugs...
he's not married to a pornographic "stature"...
case... and jealousy doesn't simply suffocate him...

cool jimmy day'ohs... sure... it's true...
the winnings of a "winner" and the losses of a "loser" -
st. thanatos or mother death can curate the rest...
i am hardly about to win...
then again: what's there to be lost...
when the "prefigurations"of a scooped mortality are,
already...
pre-positioned... pre-supposed...
           elemental...                            

                      well... that was clearly a fathomable
yesterday... the balloon as metaphor
for the vitality of life has slowly been...
easing out a wet whizz blurp of vibrating lips...
it's going to be anything more than...
the inaccessible life...

                couch rug and chair accommodating...
kettle roof walls and coffee... also accommodating...
             but otherwise... an inaccessible "life"...

cohorts of marching meaning
              and all this life's due of "adventure"...
even as some priestly clad serpetine of:
the once fabbled metaphorical shepherds...
even by the grace of making progess to establish
an attention span for a summary
of "hobby" -
                                  the crushing depths of
air by one solo, endeavour...
   to breathe is a bit like drowning...
                to drown i imagine...
agony aunt of the tabloids to boot:
        is a bit like reinventing life's
forgone principles of: expanding attention
spans...

                        as ever: life in the adjacent...
hyperbolic "non-entity"...
            king of the vermin rattling shadows
of toes and insomnia glaring vivid screams of
blank white pixel paper screens...
huddling and... hardly with a check-mate
crescendo of: a litany of anecdotes...

               the kindly expected: non-mover
essential progress of: ex-instance...
out of... this and any other...
                  otherwise the sort of angst that
a pensioner would gladly succumb to...
in writing...
               to collect his affairs with life...
   but always too early: or never...
this sort of affair that's spewed from...
a splintered tongue and all those teeth lead
to rot... exegesis...

                      this body once had an ample
of limbs to create a canvas of vitality...
with these bones...
                 that these bones were once life...
now: leftover antique signature that
lives within the permutations...
this little crevice of intactness...

                                what a bundle of joy(s)!