The prowler entered wordlessly
into our back yard.
On padded feet he crept along,
finding an open door.
Like a thief in the dark of night.
silent , unobserved.
Up the stairs the intruder came,
I was taken unawares.
The prowler pushed the bedroom door
open just a crack.
He saw me snoring peacefully and
plotted his attack.
The prowler leapt upon my chest
A little ball of fur.
I'd wondered where our cat had been-
You never know for sure.

Midnight prowler
                                will you open this door?
                              let me in, let me explore
       the concealed chambers beneath this conscious floor
let me borrow some of your dreamdust
                                                       ­                and sprinkle it in my eyes
                                                            ­          therein let me stay confined
then I
fall  and br  e  ak
and         s      c               a         t          t         e                 r
far                                                            ­              and                                                ­                         wide
                                               when this becomes a nightmare
                                                       ­              i
                                                               ­      t
                                                               ­      u
                                                               ­     m
                                                          ­          b
                                                     ­               l
                                                ­                    e
                                           ­                         t
                                      ­                              h
                                 ­                                   r
                            ­                                        o
                       ­                                             u
                  ­                                                   g
                                                               ­      h
                                                               ­       t
                                                        ­              h
                                                 ­                     e
                                          ­                           s
                                                               ­     k
                                                          ­          y
i wake up with a start, with my true love lying beside
as i see his peaceful face, i realize  
i’ve been dreaming…and everything in my world is alright!                    
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
17.09.2012

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish

Perspiration coats skin
That stays invisible in the black of the night.
Rain hums an erratic but steady melody,
Leaving rhythm-keeping to the bodies;
Burnt with lust that consumed them
Quicker than rain can douse spirits,
Knowing they downed spirits in a whirl of confusion.
Throats burned, and tongues searched for answers
To questions she didn't recall asking.
Retracing memories' footsteps back...
Back to the bar where his charm set a flame that,
Ironically, made her wetter than the rain-soaked coat
That he took from her, whilst offering his own.
She remembers now.
Walking, talking, thinking away the rain,
Until his soft lips were upon hers and she resisted nothing.
Pushing, pulling, each other into a niche
That will hide their encounter from the wrong kinds of eyes.
A moment after the darkness swallows them whole
Does the predator devour its prey.
It is a prowler, always stalking the scent of pheromones,
Always leaving behind ruins.

By: David W. Clare

Bangkok summer fun
I'm running wild
Chasing shadows for a while in the sultry Asian sun
Hello Kitty! She slaps my face, my face in just for fun...

Can't sit down, it's just not allowed
The more you move the more you're away from the crowd

(C) In perpetuity all rights reserved
(P) FilmNoirWorks

The shadow in the dark
The stranger in the night
Footsteps in the grass
Dew disturbed

Wishing, praying,
I am his prey
Hiding and hoping
That he, the predator,
Does not find my naive den

Like a body in a tomb,
I wait for sunlight
To pierce the night
And free me from the darkness

Time is fluid
When you're afraid
Hours are minutes
As you count your blessings
And not your seconds

Does he mean me harm?
Or is he imagined?

The Chicago Tribune called it,
“The Affair of the Decade!”
Everyone’s mothers called it,
“Another tragic heartbreak”.
When the coroner wiped his hands,
He predicted a sensation,
And so did every uniformed man
Sitting in the po-lice station.

In a cold Illinois motel,
A man in a suit smiles.
He was twenty years in,
A detective for the city.
Oh, that smile he’ll smile,
But gone is his laughter,
Along with his pity,
For tonight, tonight,
He would shoot up the city.

Regina combed her blonde hair,
And took the lift down to the lobby.
The pale-skinned princess,
That woman’s body…
How many fell for her
Remains quite a mystery.
We watch,
Ladies and gentlemen,
We watch,
As her dress moves in the breeze.
Like a dandelion in the dark,
She rides the carriage
Into the park.

The detective stood alone,
A cut-out cornerstone.
He was no longer nervous,
He looked like a statue,
And the ******-white snow
Fell quietly to his shoes.
In the moonlight, she came.
He spoke her name.
In the moonlight, she walked.
But when he spoke, she stopped.

“Regina, Regina,
Please reconsider.
Without you,
The nighttime is darker,
The cold air much thinner.
Without you,
The wind becomes sour,
The daylight so bitter.
Regina, Regina,
It’s just a few days…
Say yes,
And in the morning,
We’ll be far from this place!”

But that Regina, Regina,
She let him down easy:
“Your job is to spy,
To live in the quiet.
You’re a prowler,
You were born to sneak,
And I will proceed,
But do not follow me.”
And we watch,
Ladies and gentlemen,
We watch,
As she turns on a dime,
Leaving our detective behind.
A poor, tortured soul,
He smiles that smile,
And in an act of desperation,
Pulls out his frosted .45.
For Regina,
He aimed, and
For Regina,
He fired.

In the heart of Chicago,
Be it snowfall or in heat,
No one can be spared
When a man is in defeat.
T’will be the foggy air,
The hot metal, and
The echo of the gun
That will help us remember
The night that we watched,
Ladies and gentlemen,
We watched…
We watched...
The snow, and how
It lost its innocence that night.
And poor Regina, and how
Her yellow dress blended into the sight.
The detective, and how
He would step into the street,
Killing everyone he’d meet.
Twenty men dead,
Now the asphalt is sticky,
And the blood spilled is gritty-
For tonight, tonight,
The detective shot up the city.

The coroner wiped his hands,
And predicted a sensation,
And so did every uniformed man
Sitting in the po-lice station.

My waking time
in the narrowest part of the creek
chases spots in the shadows
a streak between bushes
thirsty tongue lapping green opal
cautious cotton on the fallen leaves
the priceless prowler in the morn mist
or in the dusk
the graceful glory
in the hinterland of my heart.

Keep Pat and Chris in, we need them to be shy boys



2 of the coolest kids in school were suddenly locked in a basement
By a hooded bandit, who wants them killed, and nobody can save them
Except for shy boys Brendan and Brian, but because they were shy boys
They prefer to play together in Brian's room, and forgetting about the silly fact
That Pat and Chris were being held captive in a basement
Their parents were worried, but Brian and Brendan didn't care
All they wanted to do is play little shy boys games and let Pat and Chris suffer
Pat yelled out, come on Brian, be a little cool kid, and save your mate Pat
I will like you forever, and ever forever to come
But of course Brian didn't believe in that sort of tripe and said to Brendan
Do you think we should save Pat and Chris, buddy and Brendan said, no Brian
Let, them suffer, you see those two think nobody will capture them
No, Brian you aren't like them, no dude, be a little cool kid, and stay with me
I will show you how to be a real cool kid, and we will much around forever, dude
Brian said, yes, I aren't like Pat and Chris, they are two Christiana who believe
That God will save them, well, where is their God now, yes this is sweet revenge
Pat and Chris are my two little shy boys, keep them there, Charnwood murderer
Brian and Brendan went outside at night to find where Peter Buchanan
Lived so they can have some fun and on their way, Brian and Brendan
Ran into a prowler and ran as hard as they could to get away
While Brian and Brendan got back home before he caught them
The prowler said the next day at the mall, treat Brian and Brendan like shy boys
As long as we have Pat and Chris, that is all worth while
And Pat and Chris were screaming so loud they can be heard from the other side
Of the world and beyond, and Chris was yelling, let me go you ****** punk
Or I will get my fiat free, and whack it straight through your fucken head
And Pat said, I will bash you up, mr kidnapper, and he said, come on Chris and Pat
Treat Brian and Brendan like two little cool kids, you 2 aren't like us anymore
Treat them like cool kids or you will be ******* here forever
And Chris was gagged and buried alive in a coffin, but Pat was free
Because he promised to treat Brian and Brendan like 2 cool kids
But he will still tease then a little, so Pat went to Brian and Brendan's house
And teased them by saying, you kids no nothing about the world
You go about thinking you are better, but your ****
But your still cool kids. So don't stray away, you are 2 cool kids
I will never let harm get in your way, cause you are both cool kids
Chris was being buried, and Pat told Brian because Brian teaeed Pat
Then a young hooded man came around and ******* Brian and Pat
And then locked them both in a cage together, while Brendan
Was being buried alive with Chris, and Brian and Pat, are now victims
Of this kidnapping that was planned to get Pat and Brian together
And the man yelled, ding **** the kid's are dead
We have Brian and Par with us, the kids are dead
But who gives a ****, so ding ****, Brian and Pat are dead
With Brendan and Chris, oh yeah they are so dead to us
Brian and Pat were struggling saying to each other, why have you snatched us
We are your cool kids, and we are cool kids, your a ****, mate
And now, Brendan, Chris, Brian and Pat dead
The world is free of the cool kids, let the vonerable run
****** *******

The bedrock underlying much of Manhattan is a mica schist known as Manhattan schist.  Schist is foliated or layered in appearance. Quartz sparkles, micas, and amphiboles are primary minerals in schist. A melted rock, just like the city resting above, it too, a famous melting *** of humanity.

This one poem too, composed from pieces of other poems,
folded in layers of many others that melted together,
in harmonious discordancy

<~>

this glorious grime,
this delicious dirt,
stuff of my blood,
genes of my children's children inheritance,
of thee I sing,
in thee I revel,
of thee, I am composed

the city I love,
where I was born,
schooled and fooled in,
by many a woman

the city where I named
and raised my children

will probably die in
this city, and when
I am long forgot,
my name never uttered,
    who, will think of me?
Perhaps,
whenever someone says,
"he was such a rascal"

these tales I took,
some or all,
from beneath my skin,
where city streets grit,
was injected beneath my skin
and came with the title,
City Boy

so today, on a reborn street,
near tall towers no more,
I rest upon reconstituted speckled curbstone,
the city's lowered down ledges,
the city's lowered down-town boundaries,
constantly redrawn,  
but nonetheless, always rebuilt from their own
regenerated stony compost,
and the typical NY passersby doesn't even notice
a man, head in hands,
unsilently weeping, thinking that:

We lose or throw away so much we should have kept,
We keep so much we should have thrown away

street prowler, heart growler,
Art Deco lampposts,
the mountain range of east seventy second street,
begs the bagger's question,
each post
begging each other,
"from whence will come my inspiration?"

licked the stubbled sidewalks,
fell down into their living caverned cracks,
light needed, needy softly heated,
orange and green pizza neon signs,
saying here,
if you see upon what be,
these are your city's homeland colors of veracity

perhaps
NYC was model precursor
for our internet presumed-to-be-alive-but-who-can-say-for-sure
model for the world today,
where I know not my apartment's neighbors name,
yet carry his second child
in my arms,
when the fire alarm
summons us all to flee
to street safety...
and still only
"know" his child's first name,
and his father,
as Apt. #16D

all this exponential signage
of this NYC boy grousing,
are his defrocked muses him annoying,
with a serenading blizzard
of one trick pony repetitions,
their coronets trumpeting his unmasking,
*making this essay, his revelations,
a product of their harmonious discordancy

She delivers
guacamole
from an old
beater cop
car daily.

Dead head-
lamps and
missing
hub caps.

Spinning
from café
to deli to
restaurant
with tubs
of her dip.

Recently split,
her old man
left her for a
road worker—
one of the
ones who
flag you.

Now she’s
alone with
just her
avocados
and this
old B&W
prowler.

I am the night owl
flapping its wings
stealthily through your dreams
with a soft  feathery touch
    you may remember
       you once imagined
like the figure at the end
    of the corridor
    whose face always remains
    in the shadow

I am the sower of images
   growing from the dark
touching your mind gently
tapping at forbidden doors
   closed to the brighter hours

I am the prowler of twilight thoughts
that lend shapes
     to your hopes
     and fears and desires
living their lives
     in between

I am the night owl
that shudders
    and folds its wings quietly
when the sun rises
    always too soon
patiently waiting again
until the day is done

* *

Is it just a loose porch board
that creaks just outside my door?
Is it just the howling wind
that creaks outside and nothing more?

Can I trust these sweat-soaked sheets
to keep a midnight prowler at bay?
Can I trust my frozen feet
to safely carry me away?

Is my room, cloaked in gloom,
inhabited by solely me?
Light, I assume, would only exhume
the tenants of my dirtless tomb.

I shall not be prey, I then decide,
I shall not fall to just any beast!
I'm not a feast... not their's at least...
The worms... perhaps, but them I don't mind.

"You're not getting me!" I scream,
I grab the the gun and run to the shed.
I turn and bolt the door and my hands
shake as I load an ounce of lead.

"I'm not yours to have!" I cry
My vision now becoming blurred
click
"It is I who shall have the final word!"

Throughout an empty forest, a single shot is heard.

Why hold he hilt of your swords as if
poised
to strike, to blow
To live in that anticipation is a faulty life

man
upon the precipice of greatness will always turn
always falter
for the hand upon the hilt holds tighter then it's counterpart feathering the treaty

The brand upon your hat shows nothing but the fact that you
man
are among the masked
shown is your ideals of what goodness is but hidden is your role
are you significant
as each man must be
or are you no man at all
are you but a child playing the only game you know?

You are a prowler nonetheless
in the corridors of someones mind you
crowd their visage with your own
you
who favors the sword to the treaty you
are one of the decisions given power
to create more
or to **** it off with a rise of your hand

There is a tale that you've always heard.
The story about the sun falling in love with the moon.
But here is a new legend
About the light-sent and the darkness-purged.

She was the daughter of the sun.
And he was the son of the moon.
She was morning's princess.
Beautiful as she holds the world's luminations in her eyes.
While he; he was night's prowler.
Quiet as his domain was the darkness.

As such as the sun and the moon,
They were destined for each other.
But such as Fate's ironies and games,
Their love was inevitably impossible.
They only catch glimpses of each other
At every dusk and every dawn.
But that wasn't enough for the purged.

While she was calm and silent with her primmed smile,
Shining the earth,
He was tired of being lonely
Wallowing in the unmoving darkness.

One night, he called up to Fate.

I don't want to be alone anymore! I can't stand this eternal void alone!

As he shouted, the sent heard and listened.
Her smile widened but her eyes were clouded with tears.
The earth was shrouded in clouds and storms.

Then Fate smiled and told the purged:

  How are you so lonely when you were never alone? You were always with your brethren.

Fate spoke as Fate showed him the stars.

  The light-sent always shone bright, even if she was truly alone. She brought light to the world without a doubt.

He became silent.

The time where him and her would see each other came.
And when he saw her clouded eyes,
He disappeared.
She waited for him to come back,
Yet he waited for her to leave.
When she gave up and left, only was the time he came back.

The next twilight came,
And he readied himself to see her.
But she never appeared.
Because she already left.

The next day, that time approached again.
They both showed up
But they didn't look at each other.
He knew she was there.
And she knew he was there too.
Always at dusk and dawn, they came.
But never again did they catch a glimpse of each other.

*never again

It's too much of a threat
It's a constant fret
It ***** my head
It always comes back
(And I laugh)

It drives me to scolding showers
And toilet seat scours
All for me to holler
The name of the new prowler

Recognizable from the rest
You're taking it all away
Killing me day by day
I'll burn any stronghold that stands

I'll make sure all words are clear
To make those red-matter strands
Pull and tear of all your flesh
And of all your gloom

I left my intended destination
And didn't have anywhere to really be for a few hours
So I drove aimlessly
Parked my car, paid the meter
And walked aimlessly
It's funny the things you notice when your world seems to be ending
Like how busy the east side is no matter the time of day
I wished I lived down here
Because the eery quiet of the north side just reminds me that I'm alone
Even when I'm not
See the east side may be boisterous but
At least it's not hiding anything
That prowler that's hiding in the back alley, he knows his limits, he knows your scream can be heard anywhere
But on the north side people ignore screams because its just so quiet and they rather the screams die off
This morning I could've screamed
I wanted to throw up, just die off
In that 10 minutes I wanted to just end
Then I got in my car and drove to the east side
So much life
When one ends another begins

Doing things for a friendship

You see I remember being in a room for 20 minutes as well as when I was in that room, I was threatened in there, I mean I was threatened with death threats, I was only 6, then my family wanted a better life for me and they took me to  the local showground for the annual show, and also we went on camping trips, not quite Brady bunch style, it was just family outings, learning about how to fend for ourselves, yes, life is so much better relaxing in a tent in the New South Wales bush, yes I say I was a real family person, yes, you can't keep me away oh no, but one dude was so jealous of our close Knit family we have, they want to crash right in, you see there was just one bloke, who had one mum two dads, but the dad he lived with was an old stick in the mud, yes, and he loved him to bits, but to me, you see, he was just a big brother to me, he was never a friend no more, in fact sometimes when I went through life, I felt there was a prowler after me, and he kept on being big brother, and said, you better not go out with those men, they're bad news, oh yes, they are, yes they are, when u heard that, I thought what a loser and I started to dress like them, with my motörhead singlet and my jeans with holes in the knees, yes, u felt really, really cool, this mate wasn't cool, no he wasn't cool at all, but he thought I didn't want the young dude look, but he didn't, I did, because I wanted to be a normal young dude, to have fun listening to heavy metal like alice cooper, poison, and AC/DC and even Twisted sister too, and that music was so cool, I wanted to be cool and have fun with my friends girlfriend and I had fun with her, and since then people asked me over to stay with them and I felt I was being kidnapped, because every time I wanted to leave, they said shut up little young dude as well as giving me **** in the pubs, but really, mate  at the time, I was unaware of what friends should do, you see all my life I am doing things for a friendship, oh well, it's all over now

Life is a prowler in the night
It steals from you and scares you
so you cannot sleep or breath when
you know that it is there

it was a year of peter bjorn and john with what later became an advert - what meant Olympic integrity, when R.E.M. didn't sell it's the end of the world (as we know it) to Microsoft... because it would just mean another mansion of 22 toilets and 16 bedrooms, rather than the standard bog where the ****-dolphins laughed along with Dr. Susie...

i remember the night well...
we met some producer looking for the school playground
of gimmicks in a bar in the plush part of
moving the Afro-Carribeans out of Hackney into
Havering, so that the Olympics "legacy" could be
established with a mirror pristine look for
that locals never ever would resemble: the Japanese
pensioners and the tourists: harr she! squat *******!
squat! squat in the workplace, squat at home!
we ended up at a party where i was
wearing a t-shirt with the iron cross,
gott min uns, she was Finnish, we started snogging,
out came the prowler t.v. presenter looking for
more ***... miquita oliver was there,
and so was simon amstell (the prowl hi
i already mentioned), as we were leaving bloc party
arrived when one of our accomplices was all giddy
like a tour-fan-****... we went to the producer's
pad... ******* for the Hitchcock blonde using it to
start a conversation... you upstairs in the attic
shivering on a massive bean bag...
cuddles... shivers... cuddles...
now your children are ready to go to school...
can't blame me for nostalgia... i can't blame myself
for not keeping a wife and tax revenue or life insurance...
spending the night there, breaking up
when the sun rose... so much for high school sweet hearts...
it's true... the hipsters thought i was a hipster **** that
one time... i'm laughing about it now...
but thankfully the song i mentioned had no
ethical superiority surrounding it...
thankfully this memory will not be worth much,
it's like a bunch of Romanians selling shoes at
a Polish open-air market... peter bjorn and john's
young folks crept up at the heels of uninspired people...
well, even the monetary fund or the tribal fund of
sticking together, breach of justice, to eradicate tribalism
give it alcoholism without expression...
keep the monetary tact in line with piranha...
well... it's part of a homebase advert from now on...
so it means there's no emotional commitment to be leveraged
for any other purpose than a purpose per se, which ends
on the last dot.

There is a look that you used to get in your eyes which I cannot to this day quite accurately describe. It was the night prowler, passing by the downstairs window, peeking in. Evaluating the locks. Evaluating the distance between the front door and the valuables.

I made it so easy to get in. I kept the windows open, and my eyes shut. I kept the doors unlocked.

When you touched me, you went away. I was not a woman, I was the chemicals responding in your brain. Ironically, for a burglar, you hated any part of me which suggested that I was something of great value. You hated the individuality tattooed to my skin. What is a womans body if it does not look like the last woman's body you used to touch and go away from? You hated the reminder that we are not all the same, and we do not exist to release chemicals in your brain.

I colored my hair red. Like wine. Like the lipstick you said looked "too heavy." I inked roses into my ribcage and between my ******* and I kept you at a safe distance, that is to say, too far away to ever touch me again.

The windows are locked.
The doors are deadbolted.
I moved homes, I moved cities.
You'll never get close enough to give me that look;
You'll never taste wine, or feel the ends of my hair between your fingertips while we watch a movie.
You'll never trace the shapes of roses.

You

Will never see me

Again.

As often is the case…the “word” that beckoned came at dawn,
and, as the slave this made of me…I rose to heed its call.
The early morn intruder that aroused me from my sleep
was begging for appeasement from the room just down the hall.

Self rebuked and chastised for the many times I’d lain
and disregarded - recklessly - the little voice I’d heard,
I stumbled down the hallway, and I slid into my chair,
then cracked my knuckles wide awake, and pounded out the word.

The uninvited word…that found its way into my head.
The alphabetic prowler who’d intruded on my dream.
The tiny bunch of letters that would disrespect my sleep,
and join - without permission - my creative writing team.

Ordinary? Yes! But tiny universes dwell
in certain words and phrases we all use from day to day.
And…as a poet…I’m inclined to meld these little bits
to cast the clear and simple “desperate truths” I mean to say.

Every language has them. They are common…and routine.
They’re easy to pronounce…and understood by one and all.     
And I will always ply my trade in verse with “simple terms,”
to forge my gems of wisdom, in the room just down the hall.

You give me a bad feeling.
An Image of you runs through my brain
When your away,
Your face locked in my head
I can’t escape
Barely holding through the grey.

Moments fade to snapshots
Finger tips, kisses
To finger prints
And smudged lipstick
Days  spent in your car,
To now not knowing where the f** You are.
NIghts making you meals,
Laughing at reels
Making deals
Now, Phone calls and texts
Now even fade.
turned to now nothing,
Not even hey?
Im supposed to be your girl
Not feel alone in this world


Is it Just a game of who has the upper hand,
That ritual wont last
A dumb game to play,
When your grown and have already marked the pace,I know what i want,
No need to back and forth
Catch and chase
Days of waste.
Grey even fades.

A ghost, my home
Where’d you go?
That’s what makes me look for your crown.
It must be crooked, lost, somewhere,
It must be found.
I know i can turn this around, i say.
But really,
I pray.

The unknown,
The prowler at night
He seeks
He seethes
He bleeds for what he needs

My lion, my prince,
But The leo leads your days
The teeth are near
camouflage gear
claws are here  

You fade away,
Into the night,
turned days..
His hunger
He basks
He prowls
He escapes.

She dreams
She listens
She escapes
Starry nights
Headphones
And reminisce.
Long silences
Deep breaths
Hums from my heart
Into the earth
Without speaking a word.

Hoping you feel me
With your feet
If I vibrate loud enough,
I know youll feel it.
Through the smoke
I hope, It doesnt fleet.
Where is he?
Thoughts start to create,
Could he,
Would he,
Not her..

My heart
Slam beat
My mind,
Tries to delete.
When your are away,
And the image of you
Loops in my brain.
Like a broken record
On display
The once symphony
Now is only a screech.

A feeling i can’t describe.
Want to run and cry,
Hide,
sometimes die
Jump out of this window and maybe fly.

Maybe for a day..
I can disspear into the thin air.
But tomorrow,
It might all be great

My fate,
I can’t escape
Can’t mold it
like clay


K.c 9/5/2023

Curdled in its darkly *****
Cries its tears, so sorrowful tune
The age so tangled in its ruinous mane
Skin as pale as the horrid moon

A chromescape of blacks and whites
Silvers and grays
Still and quiet as the gaze of death
Suffocated, dehydrated daze
A blurry maze

This drouth of life
Its unbearable home
Prowler, creature, beast of strife
The past engraved in its grayful eyes
An everlasting ex-humanity

Crawling, scratching
Screaming for the living water
Howling the pains of a thousand wounds
Praying in vain for hope and rapture
And the soothing soon

i'm an old Romantic at times, i never keep up with the modern
times: from time to time - or rather: pretty much
all the time...
         give me a quote by Aramis from the Three Musketeers
regarding a woman's hands...
how the best hands do not show any protruding veins
on them... or rather: as he described it using his own hands
he lifted them up... the veins disappeared...
the hands of a priest...
    or even the easily infatuated Julien Sorel from Stendhal's
the Scarlet and the Black...
      breaking himself over little signs of affection...
after all... what prompted me to try to start courting
   Jeminah? she rested her elbow on my leg after we were
driving back from a shift at Fulham...
that's all it took...
            can you imagine if a car full of sewage workers
were coming back from a shift and one of them
rested his elbow on the other guy's leg? a bit weird...
but that's the dynamic of men working with women...
there are perpetual love interests at hand...
it feels like being back in a high school playground
sometimes...
     over excited? moi... just saying...
                 great with friends... but when it comes to
colleagues... not so great...
i checked my other bank account today: phew...
so the money did come through...
     well... that's me seeing Khedra very soon...
she's getting impatient... even i can tell by the length
of my ***** hair: since i haven't shaved since the last time
i saw her... and i'll need to get that sorted...
she sent me two pictures of herself in daylight...
without make-up... she looks even more pretty au naturel,
fresher: less wax prone... like mineral water...
she looks: Turkish and not Persian...
     so... well... we're not going to be exchanging
taking selfies: i remember a time when there was a time
when people would take pictures of people...
gathered together, or just alone... it wouldn't descend
into this: i need to take a picture of myself...
so what did i send her... women love cats...
   some... doesn't matter... i donned the Maine ****
sleeping in my bed with a green beanie:
massive grin on its face... i sent her that...
i was trying to convey a sense of warmth...
    how animals trust me... the transfer is through...
once these shifts are over and i have a week's worth of
break i'll visit her... give myself a proper wash-up /
wash-down... trim my public hair... turn up a boy
of on par with glanz (the German pronunciation
of the Z... tss)
           but i'm not... like today...
we were going to Oxford... we pick up this girl:
my neighbour's daughter who got me this job...
she's late... she's sleepy... she asks whether she can rest
her head on my shoulder... she does... snoozes off
for about half an hour...
            we do our shift... *******...
the same girl that had my love interest fired... Jeminah...
you know how girls are...
scratching biting little ******* from time to time...
after all the drama Jeminah's friend Alisa quit...
apparently the hours worked were not worth the money
earned... but it all came down to Jeminah's
son being friend with Alisa's son and...
   i stepped in revealing two lies... maybe even three...
because it got to the point that the boys' friendship
would be dissolved because of their mothers' drama...
anyway... on our way back... all's good... alles güt...
    but my neighbour's daughter is sitting next to me...
she finally drops semi-dead... she cuddles up to me...
head starts resting on my shoulder...
after a while it completely falls onto my chest...
i was going to say... why not take a kip on my legs?!
and that's the thing... she's on me
  and... it only took Jeminah's resting elbow on my leg
for me to make moves...
home-made wine, banana loaf...
wanting her dog to lick the burn wounds off of my
knuckles until i bled... flowers on Valentine's day...
reading about her son's poem back to him...
blah blah...
but in this scenario... i felt nothing...
she's not exactly an unattractive girl but...
   when you don't feel anything... obviously it's all
a bunch of crap...
i'm the ******* joke of the whole team...
apart from the nickname Daddy...
   o.k.: o.k.: it's warm... we haven't started the shift yet...
i had three buttons on my shirt undone...
yeah... i have a hairy chest... and a hair torso in general...
Johnny ******* Bravo...
             i get it... but at the same time:
i want to be as much obvious to the dynamics of
women as possible...
like i once said: i love women...
   which doesn't translate into: i want to understand women...
but they're not unicorns... mythical creatures...
but i have worked in an exclusively male environment...
well... the construction industry has changed a little
since... the only women on site were the girls
working the canteen... but even then... mostly guys:
even in the canteen... because? men cook better...
at least i should ******* know since my grandmother's
Sunday roast chicken is a curse of chicken *******
coming out so dry i would always think:
chalk?! or cheese?!
             i introduced my mother to the Indian cuisine...
i perfected the curry... by any stretch of the imagination
of European standards of cooking this cuisine...
but in this sort of scenario...
    fine line... fine line...
               because as men aren't we so of expected...
we end being more care-givers and protectors than women...
a shoulder to cry on... or... like in this scenario:
to fall asleep on... i'm glad she sunk onto my chest
and didn't call further down the body...
i could hear her breathing heavily into my shirt...
well yeah... because when i put on cologne...
i pray my beard... my neck and my shirt...
and cologne is best accented when worn with
prolonged expose to air, sun and... a little bit of sweat...
oh no no... not when it's ******* in your face
like a whiff of ammonia!
and certain fabrics behave differently with regards
to how cologne is stored...
       again: i have no problem working with women...
but... there was bound to be some ******
tension on the ******* horizon...
    i love this word, i write it... but i know i'm going
to be eating some letters... surds...
inevitable... or... rather... not eating some letters...
changing the vowels around...
   IN-EH-V'EH-TABL'
                
         Johnny ******* Bravo... Daddy... cute...
   cute... but do i need it?
               i really hope these women don't find out
that i'm a night prowler... that i go to shady parts
of London and look for *** in brothels...
      because... oh hey... he looks like the boy next door...
shirts whiter than snow...
ironed... trousers ironed... pristine hygiene...
smelling good... well yeah...
   that's why i have exclusive rights to **** a Khedra
without a ******...
and there's no mention of possibly catching Syphilis...
even said: and i'd trust a ******* with my life:
hell... i'd entrust this one with taking it...
she said two things:
   (1) even if you ******* into me,
           i won't get pregnant... and...
(2) a ****** will not protect you against any STDs...
personal hygiene...
    well yeah... wash your hands regularly...
your body... if you have ******* pull it back
and wash the parts that will be exposed and engaged
in ***...
   it's that ******* simple...
               cleanliness ought to be considered
an 8th virtue...
   or perhaps even the 1st...
sorry...
  but... cleanliness?!
that's above: chastity, temperance, charity,
         diligence, kindness, patience and humility;
all those come after...
after you ensure you find yourself agreeable
with the sensibility of not being... repelling...
                a clean man is a chaste man,
he's also a temperate man...
              he actually can be charitable...
he is diligent... blah blah...
                       that's the cruelty of this world...
the affection and love you want to give to someone:
outright rejects it... the opposite of you who're attracted
to: call it mental health "issues"
call it self-sabotage... i'm was so willing to move
past my past mistakes...
   as a man i thought i'd be the one talking about
my past relationships... turns out... women talk
about them more...
what the **** am i? a steward and a psychologist
all bundled up into one?!
i know more stuff about the people i work
with than they know a month's worth of me...
like today... i was explaining to this dyslexic
coworker... is **** an offensive term?
what if you were to attach a hyphen to the word:
treating it like a prefix?
    English is sometimes lazy...
you say and write: couldn't instead of writing
and saying: could not... you don't say Afghanistani:
you say: an Afghan...
            i don't call Jews Jews:
Hebs: short for Hebrews
or Yids: short for Yiddish speaking folk...
  i followed up: why is everyone so ******* sensitive...
why are we walking on egg-shells?!
shh... shh... don't make a sound...
    ****** is supposedly offensive in H'america...
to be perfectly honest... if anything is to be deemed offensive:
Pole is... ****** is a term that those
spaghetti-monstrosities and pizza jugglers
of the American-Italian consortium can get
one foreign word: right... outside of the realm of:
cappuccino... paparazzi! ******* sing-along *******...
oh this guy spotted me...
when i mentioned the dynamics of English like
i wasn't an Englishman...

a bit like... on the Niger river i came across
a giggle... but the giggle's name started
with N and was strangled by vowel catcher of: err...

it's that ****** simple...
all the wars can happen... proxy... authentic or otherwise...
but this world is harsh... i wanted to love someone
whom i became: enthralled by...
REJECTED!
                   it's not like she was offering
anything more than a headache...
perhaps she figured out that she was sparing me...
but... this current approach?!
by my neighbour's daughter...
           falling asleep sniffing her dreams out
from my shirt...
slobbering on my chest...
         but... but... i can't return this affection...
that's what's so heartbreaking...
   not with Khedra "on the side"...
           i mean: Khedra is a bombshell by comparison...
she might be a *******...
but she's a ******* bombshell...
again: more Turkish than Persian when
she's not wearing any make-up...

             i'm always happiest when i leave
my coworkers behind...
again: are we working?
          today i tended to the disabled spectators...
the joke ran along the lines of:
my partner said this to X and he said it back
to me: oh yeah... all i have to worry about is...
them running onto the pitch...
                sometimes i just get tired of English humour...
it's funny... but it's hardly inventive...
it's sort of blatant... like sarcasm...
                     i find it painful to laugh...
then again: laughter is painful to begin with...
i find more relief in the blissful agony of tears...
when i hear a beautiful piece of music...
that's when i truly relax...
besides that: i'm either tense or paranoid or
both...
                  
   let's face it... between the religious crowd...
with their Bibles and their Qurans...
what's the secular crowd like?
   they too have their "bibles"... 1984...
        Brave New World...
two books... that ever, could ever come:
into existence... i'm sort of bored talking to these people:
these: adherents of... oh wow...
the pristine idea! let's follow up on with it...
aren't we? we wanted it to be true for so long
we didn't even require Soviet propagandists to
undermine western Western Civilization...
if it can be called: at best that...

i wish i wrote something in more interesting times...
mind you: she acts like sje isn't:
but she's a victim of ****...
i'm the shoulder, the chest...
she gets to fall back on...
                       life's is never truly written:
it's lived first... then... somehow,
down the line... shrapnel is echoing....
                      i've been waiting to take a ****
for about 5 hours... not i'm farting
like barking mad dog...
                             what violins for the fiddles
of that's this supposed life.