a girl ends up saying:
'oh god, i miss my blonde hair',
a boy?
'oh god i miss Duran Duran.'
meeting you... with a view to a ****...
i want to stay up all night drinking
warm whiskey reminiscent of the
1980s;
honesty, just today a "nice Jewish boy"
with vanilla *** while
she got all the kinks out with
******* S & M to knock a few budgies
about in her leather knickers...
nice Jewish boy goes home vanilla intact;
i end up calling up the fire brigade
even though i should be calling Freud the popsicle
joystick friendly St. Paul, an ice-cream vendor
akin to Rasputin;
i know, comedians made fortunes from what
poets failed to compute, namely punctuation;
Eddie Izzard is a colon for each comma:
like zui quan - no, no, wait... there's more!
and it's worth an ingredients list of said hopes for
sat on ****(,) forking the blob bits concerning argument
about ******* girth salt and pepper
on sausages! my excuse? the carry
on movies and zui quan meaning drunk boxing...
i.e. you pretend to be a tarantula that bit itself
by accident and pretended to be disorientated
but in fact focused like Hemingway on narration
after a cocktail of death in the afternoon
(absinthe mixed with champagne)...
but did i tell you that pine is almost like anise?
rub it into your hands after ******* in an alley
and it becomes the nearest approximate of anise.

that's it! i've had, enough!
english existentialism is crude, too crude
for my liking -
  it's a comic book script -
and a ****** mess -
  it obliterated history, it obliterated
yesterday, and sure as ****:
it will obliterate tomorrow -
my turn: to obliterate today.
the english, i find: really don't like reading -
unlike the russians -
i read it once: the russians read,
as if their life depended on it...
while europe was expressing its fine
details and sorrow:
the english were in a sleepy state
of blakean lullaby...
   yes: but at least the icelandic people:
are not ****** pompous about
their natural borders beginning
with S and ending in E;
   i mean, it's no wonder sometimes -
given the current climate of digested
literature,
       i'm sure there are no mature readers
in england, or at least: i've never met
one! adults reading harry potter without
any sort of shame,
      the lunatics will lead the blind,
and young with old souls will dupe
the young with... young souls...
just like the old play games with the young:
the most unusual perk of being old:
fake it... and then turn into
a eclair surprise of sucker-punching
  a youth, while performing a zui quan
punch...
   absolutely no existentialism,
everything's so ******* egalitarian...
when it's not,
   ants in your pants
        your shoes are on fire...
double-faced liars...
     i mean... the only existential points
of interest in english existentialism are?
somewhere along the line of
evolutionary "chronology" -
   and the big bang...
i still love the interplay of these four
words:
          bang (a) ******* hole...
cat's out of the bag, can't him back in,
ask schrödinger to bring a few boxes
from the store house...
  in the meantime, we'll also build
a cardboard box castle we'll call home,
then put everything on social media
and then you can have what i already
suggested:
  people living in the already present
glass houses, reached a new zenith:
       glass people, living in glass houses.
the english have no existentialism,
  they got the bore-ism,
    much cartoon fakery and all that
techno whizz kid jazz...
    no wait... there's one good example of
"existentialism" -
but it's treated like a footnote...
  even though it's in a collection of works
that also includes camus & marcus aurelius...
william hazlitt's: on the pleasure of hating;
and to be honest? that's about it.
i'm just bored of: this is not objective
enough... what, so detach myself from
subjectivity and argue like a psychopath?
that's what you're implying!
i can say with calm 2 + 2 = 4...
but if i have to say some complex
arithmetic... i will either brood over it,
pensive... but at the same time:
i know i am prone to some sort of frustration!
but at least both can be deemed healthy
reactions...
     now ask for the psychopathic maxim,
yes? what is it?
   apathy breeds no pathology...
see, psychopaths are oblivious to emotions,
they have cool arguments,
  if you mentioned a "necessary"
distinction between subjectivity being
"negative" and objectivity being "positive",
they'd reply: i can't tell the difference:
oh, you mean the thrill of argument / act?
i can't give that away.
the germans had existentialism,
   the norwegians have it, the swedes had it
with ingmar bergman,
the poles had it with krzysztof kieślowski,
the russians had it, heavens!
even the french had it!
esp. given that we're still trapped in
the caveman existentialism extending from
darwinism...
   i'm not a caveman... i go to a cafe and drink
coffee, i'm tired of hearing this biological
history ******* without civilisation...
there's a reasonable cut-off point,
   there are reasons why you cut off pieces
and live in the present...
esp., oh boy... a video like this,
entitled: why women pass up good guys for
players...
honey, that "question" just flew past my head,
can't think why, nor will i,
  i've seen a few prostitutes to wonder
about a "why";
          mind you... upon that fabled plateau
of the ovarian desert: party's up...
guy's - make sure you've seen an
actual ******* first: it'll ease the blow
with regards to what you'll be settling with;
now, that doesn't get plainer english
as that.

God loves, sustains
and protects
all of His devotees
regardless of the
name chosen
to praise Him

inside my global prayer wheel
all the names of God
are humming

I am Allah, I am Jesus
I am Krishna, I am Buddha
I am Jehova, I am Jah,
I am Durga, I am Ahura Mazda
I am Quan Yin, I am Mother Mary,
I am Lakshmi, I am Shiva, I am Brahma
I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am....
...................You

I was doing research in Hubei
Where they executed Yu,
That deity soldier glorified
By Buddhists, Taoists too,
I sat perusing manuscripts
That dated from the Ming,
And came across a reference
About Yu’s finger ring.

A ring of gold so broad that it
Would fit a peasant’s wrist,
For Guan Yu was a mighty man
His ring, an amethyst,
Set round with groups of diamonds
It was lost the day, they said,
That Sun Quan had ordered them
To lop off Guan Yu’s head.

They lost it for a thousand years
It turned up with the Ming,
Was lost again in battle with
That mighty force, the Qing,
I’d heard it round the market place
A whisper, now and then,
That ring, it might have surfaced
In the village of Maicheng.

I scoured the streets and alleyways
For signs of old antiques,
Researching as I went, I walked
Around the town for weeks,
I found a backstreet corner shop
One night, and open late,
Run by a dodgy Chinaman
A total reprobate.

He had links to the Triads, they
Would come into the shop,
A shifty group of gangsters with
Their stolen goods to pop,
From where I sat with manuscripts
Up on the second floor,
I’d look straight down the staircase
Watch them come in through the door.

One day they brought in a bundle
******* in a burlap sack,
Threw it down on the counter, said:
‘What do you make of that?’
Fang Zhang then opened the parcel and
He pulled out a giant hand,
The flesh the texture of leather with
A monstrous golden band.

The ring was almost immoveable
The hand, with fingers spread,
Could grasp a maiden around the waist
Or crush a warrior’s head,
I held my breath as the Triad tried
To disengage the thing,
And all the while the diamonds flashed
On that massive golden ring.

Fang Zhang paid over a block of notes
That looked more like a brick,
There must have been a million Yuan
From what I saw of it,
The Triad left and I caught my breath
Fang Zhang had pulled it off,
He threw the hand in a ******* bin
And then I left the shop.

He hid the ring as I walked on through
I had to get some air,
I’d caught a glimpse of a famous ring,
A thing I couldn’t share,
They’d say it didn’t exist, that I
Was dreaming, if I tried,
They thought that it had been lost to view
The day that Yu had died.

I went back down the following day
The Police were there in force,
They stood out front and barred the way
From normal *******,
They told me through an interpreter
Of the ****** of Fang Zhang,
His face was black, for around his neck
Was a massive, ringless hand!

David Lewis Paget

(Pronunciation: Guan Yu - Gwon you
Hubei - Who - bay; Sun Quan - Sun Chu-arn
Qing - Ching; Maicheng - My - cheng
Fang Zhang - Fang Shjang (soft J))

I can't hold this in i have to let this go,
the feelin inside stays, wit me an grows an grows,
can I live with a lie .an not live the truth
do i pay with distance memorys,
the sin that was never mine to begin ,
the past were i tryed to leave it ,
but name huge past forever not lost
" SO **** U GRANDFATHER ,
for R past so sweetly given ,
people like me make your life have some given an meanin ,
put thanks u won't get from me, all i can say is this ,
"******* U **** AN ****** DIE "

remember the melding
of gilmore and bing
the springfield gates
and desmond ring

remember the trojans
and fools in the pack
sea fair jeans
and corkscrew flat

remember the cabin
and *****’s garage
the gary point dunes
and moncton mirage

remember the warehouse
the water logged seats
tin foil caps
and simple retreats

remember the cave
and turn on the cut
emery’s mini
and hamilton’s hut

remember the burger
and shake in the air
bubs in the back
with little despair

remember the valley
and 66 ford
burgundy lips
and samworth’s chord

remember the plainsman
a 7 inch log
the ***** old frenchmen
and bore-*** hog

remember the javelin
and mushay’s wheels
beaumont’s baggie
and jennifer beals

remember tough charlie
tossing brad rand
the belyae roundhouse
and beer in the sand

remember park polo
and scaling of firs
sleeping in rafters
at 8 bucks per

remember the mayflower
and brothers von grant
the max air follies
and chivalrous rant

remember the flipper
the floyd and the clap
banana boat sunday
and pemberton trap

remember the purples
the rasp in the street
the oliver jokers
and shady retreat

remember the gators
and brick house café
a flash in the pan
and crib cult stay

remember the church
and talbs on the bridge
goofy’s memoirs
and cypress ridge

remember smaldino
whom perry cut short
***** and a ****
and moria’s port

remember the zuker
and gilligan’s isle
the pep chew bust
and 8 tooth smile

remember the action
at blundell and one
the nauseous fumes
and pump house run

remember the canyon
and rock on the cliff
a tourniquet bind
that kept us adrift

remember lake skaha
and jvc tunes
the j bain query
and peach fest goons

remember the irons
and broad entry beads
the alexander boys
we must pay heed

remember the gates
the 12 hole stare
the hospital bed
and ky affair

remember the farmhouse
an open air deck
the john deere tractor
and cowboy neck

remember the wheat field
and jimmy crack corn
the burlington plaza
and fraser street ****

remember the pincers
and wee ***** white
the concubine fractures
and strong overbite

remember the carving
portrayed at the scene
the billy goat battles
a young man’s dream

remember lord brezhnev
and moby the ****
the second beach sun
and paper bag trick

remember the screening
the silver light show
banshee boots
and phipps’s throw

remember the epic
and baby oil block
trash can brassieres
and window rock

remember the law
jack rabbit in may
an 8 track mix
on alpine way

remember the dunes
a pig on the spit
the underarm hair
and corn bull-****

remember old frankie
and bursey head post
the koa leaves
and tiki shore host

remember b taupin
the lyrics he left
cold muddy waters
an odd treble clef

remember street regent
the trips in the night
the trailer park cap
and lightheart fight

remember kits causeway
mortimer and beaks
jk's cabin
and muscle bound freaks

remember glen cheesy
and billy the less
the frozen puke patties
and borkum mess

remember the catfish
and pickerel rock
the emerald meadows
and rainbow dock

remember port dover
with fish on a stick
wayne in a bunker
holding his ****

remember the ironside
limes in a tree
the usc campus
came with a fee

remember the duster
an arrow in heart
the frog man bug
that would not start

remember the zimmer
the ram air hood
a family wagon
with panels of wood

remember peace portal
the 33 back
the power built drive
and dangerous tack

remember the reds
the blues and the greens
the furry point island
and country book scene

remember the springs
and i 95
a lone state trooper
with blood in his eye

remember may’s cabin
and stuff in between
the frame and the picture
and morning snow scene

remember the boss
with a 302 scoop
the diamond tuft console
and back seat coupe

remember ioco
the **** and the spit
the skid road race
and hurst floor kit

remember the shore
and tents in the park
a campfire roast
and kerosene bark

remember the hooger’s
kit kat club
the colvin’s and setter’s
a man called bub

remember the creature
with silk strand hair
and afternoon flask
with little despair

remember quilchena
and robbie the mac
the rice stead box
and tap on the back

remember miss williams
a pilgrim’s salute
the fairmont sister
with all of her loot

remember port ludlow
a scotman on dock
the everett street bridge
and single leg sock

remember the masters
and all of the roar
the faldo follies
at norman’s door

remember jeff samson
tied in a tree
the robertson fastback
with white leather seats

remember the balance
and pulling of 4's
the moncton warehouse
and hollywood ******

remember the hospice
with carter in wear
the power of gospel
and magic in prayer

remember the mini
counting the crows
aberdeen villa
where all of it grows

remember the ballroom
the battle of bands
the buccaneer bikers
and front row stands

remember the steely
and 50 odd pulls
the crook in the cranny
and pilsner bulls

remember the mustang
tb paul
the ****** shack sergeant
was missing a ball

remember dear kevin
head first in the pool
a sheik in a minefield
and ****** gas fool

remember the rumble
and bats in the night
an old lady screaming
to a young man’s delight

remember cliff olsen
that sick little ****
who will be in shackles
on lucifer’s truck

remember the bumpers
and cutting in line
the mice on the ****
and bo in the pine

remember the law
stabbing the corn
a bucket of ammo
and mekong horn

remember s boras
the piercing of yes
the color line paper
sikosie at rest

remember the pinto
and seven road plants
mother’s fine pizza
a trial lawyer’s rant

remember the kennedys
with ***** painted black
a pond in the shadows
where monty looked back

remember von husen
the sea to sky test
a farm hands daughter
was one of the best

remember mr pither
and mao sae tung
helena the cougar
and egg foo young

remember the cinder
and frances road bake
***** the whitehead
would make no mistake

remember the quan
and mental mix
the java hut sister
with pixy sticks

remember j rosie
banging his head
in a moment of dr
we thought he was dead

remember the hammer
discussions caught short
siddrich and roger
and monty’s abort

remember 6 nations
and KOA
the pool hall fight
when everyone stayed

remember the skinners
and tommy the med
the lost tough china
and bubs in the shed

remember the doobies
zeppelin and cars
floyd and the *****
and shankar’s sitar

remember old dustys
the blue and red chair
the cypress hill caves
and mullet cut hair

remember the promise
and vows that we made
on the 2 road stairs
in goodman’s brigade

remember those moments
and handle with care
for the garamond stamp
will always be there…

Here's one for all the suicidally depressed people.
First of all, if you're thinking about ending it,
Please know that I love you, and I really hope you don't
I've been there too, and sometimes all it takes is
One more day to think before you decide that it
Really isn't worth it... BUT: if you've thought long and hard
About it, and you decide to follow through: be creative.

Don't just say "goodbye cruel world" and swallow a
Bottle of sleeping pills, or slit your wrists in
The bathtub, so that your landlord finds you
A week later after wondering about the smell.
Instead, rent an exhibition space in a trendy art district,
Hire a PR team, and pour your investments into,
A highly publicized event, that will be billed as
"The Performance Art Piece of the Century".

Don't worry about how you'll afford it, either.
You can easily take out several loans from
Various banks and payday lenders,
Max out your credit card, bounce cheques etc. etc.
It's not like you'll ever have to repay them.
Once you follow through, you'll default by default!
Then, well, that's their problem, huh?
Meh, serves those greedy ****** right for
Crashing the whole **** global economy
every few years, like they seem to like to do.

Instead of a suicide note, write a manifesto,
Complete with a detailed statement of purpose,
Instructions for preserving your work, and
An incisive aesthetic critique which decries  
"The subversion of artistic autonomy by
The market society", and the uninspired
Throwaway commodity form
That art has become as a result.
Blame Andy Warhol, people will get it.

Then, when the big day comes, and
You're surrounded by those pretentious
Clove smoking, soy latte sipping, Prius driving,
Tofu eating, turtleneck wearing, Soho art district types,
Get a gun and put a canvas behind your head, so
That when you pull the trigger, it splatters an
Aleatoric masterpiece that even ******* would fawn over.
Now, for maximal effect, you're gonna wanna use
Hollow tips, dum-dums, or buckshot in a sawed-off.
If you really wanted to play on the chance operations thing,
You could line the cylinder of a revolver with both
Full metal slugs and hollow tips, so that there's an
Equal chance of the shot creating
a controlled burst or wide array splatter, but
These are just suggestions, It's your art, you decide

This spectacle would make headlines, for sure.
Then, instead of being just another statistic,
To be neatly lumped into a sheet of numbers,  
Stuffed into a folder, and quickly forgotten,
You'll be remembered for generations to come
As that tragic visionary, whose passion was so
Uncompromising, and whose artistic integrity,
Was so utterly unyielding, that you were
Even willing to give your life for it.

Now, one last point of contention, to
Add a bit of weight to the argument:
You remember Thich Quan Duc?
He was the monk who set himself
Ablaze, during the Vietnam War,
In an act of protest. Of course you do.

Nobody knew him the day before,
Except maybe his fellow monks, but
Now his image is immortalized, and
Immediately recognizable decades later, as
The picture that defined a generation.

...but,

Do you remember the man, who was
Fed up with his dead end job, and one
Day finally decided to end it all?
Which one? Who's that? Exactly.
Now, perhaps I've made my point.

Just a thought...

after writing this poem
out of a trance
was hypnotized by your tongue--
the words dripping off
like a wolf eying its prey.

     You smile, confident.

Your mischievous eyes dance
with mine,
we wink like serpents.
The sound of our heartbeats
pierce each other's third eye
as we approach,
our brains separated
by seconds
our noses a quick inch apart--
our thoughts are spiritually carnal.
We move like Zui Quan**
and we touch like the wind
tickling every crevice of our skin.
Our lips shotgun smoke--
I want to breathe poetry
inside of you.

My first thought was you

after writing this poem
out of a trance
was hypnotized by your tongue--
the words dripping off
like a wolf eying its prey....

Acabe de recordar l'última vegada que em vas mirar,
vas tancar ràpidament els ulls i vas baixar el cap..
Sabies que en aquell moment vas canviar la meua percepció del daurat clar apagat per una de completa felicitat? Que la teua veu exclamant baixet "Quins ulls!" encara evoca partícules també daurades que resplandeixen i giren suaument?

Que per primera vegada els colors no intenten amuntegar-se dins i davant meua quan m'atrapen els teus ulls?
Que quedant-me ahí no hi ha una sola tonalitat que gose immiscuir-se o privar-me d’ells?
Que no sé com es pinta perdre's a la teua mirada?
Que no em perd a propòsit, però que cada vegada més em trobe desfent-me de brúixoles i mapes?
Que desitjaria no saber llegir altres estrelles que em pogueren guiar?
*Que tu ets el meu únic sol i que d'on s'exhala la teua llum és on vull estar..

Orange, pink sunrise came over dawn's moss green hill
soon a thousand birds all singing to the sun
orchid flower, soft butterfly touching down
paper petals white, float emerald lily pond
Quan Yin, in her stillness
looking on

To the earth and sky
we all belong
to water and fire
moon, stars, sun
with all elements
we are one

When we feel our
true connection to all
then we are finally home

if ted berrigan's
sonnet xv
   isn't a testimony to me
venturing to say:
keep the paragraph
custard away from us...
if ted berrigan isn't
an optometrist...
     then i'm vague,
blind... my eyes aren't
playing hands
  in a pub throwing darts...
because i have to say:
fiction is wholly linear........................................................
..­.................................................................­..........................
......................................­.......................................................
now i really appreciate what you're
doing... as every smart-*** does
laughing: thanks for the *****!
but... no.
          i've been prescribed
a celibacy where i yank and call
for Beelzebub!
    veal in a veil of sodden trademarks....
and once it was all about
making poetry jazz, but they
made it too obvious by reciting
their poems to jazz... only one
improv gets away... and lives
in this town...
and ol' teddy was in on it...
but i'd like to return to the tornado,
the crazy-eyes of reading poetry,
up
down
up
down
right
left
backwards
forwards
it's total freedom man...
a bee flies past
my neighbour's dog
walk in the garden looking
for the bark and the night...
i'm getting ******
and i'm thinking about
getting ****** with
the Jim Morrison tourists
who come to his grave
at père lachaise - funnily enough
i was there, once...
and once will do it for me:
i need the vampirism of
distortion, tackling imagination
with memory...
but seriously, why are all the competent
men of our age, lodging
thought into the brain?
that the brain somehow emulates
thinking...
there's also another gym opening,
turning brain (fat) into bicep (muscle)
by doing crosswords religiously
and all other mensa crap-a-*******-too
on the didgeridoo... qua quan quank...
for some reason i hear a didgeridoo
i only hear q... and testicles in a
wrench...
             but it really is optometry with
ted berrigan... in his sonnet vx...
up
down
up
down
              i.e. in joe brainard's college its white arrow
does not point to william carlos william.
   he is not in it, the hungry head doctor.
   what is in it is sixteen ripped pictures
of marilyn monroe, her white teeth white-
washed...
  so it has to either be optometry or gymnastics...
because i swear i just did a cartwheel there...
up
down
up
down
             and it's done with such force...
like a pigeon talking cuckoo...
    and then the hope that the dust does settle
down, and our modern narcissist
  steers away from looking into the darwinistic
mirror and incorporates other animalistic
traits into defining his sole possession...
     i'd like to see man imitating man,
rather than create this chasm of:
    like jacob unto god, so god unto jacob,
but given we're dealing with realism:
like man unto ant, so ant unto man...
           and you really can't say you'll turn
myopic reading poetry...
   painting, in words, not mere graffiti...
if like me: you get tired of colour
  and feel no need to experiment with
colour emphasis high on l.s.d.
   well: you're coming to the party of miserable
sods, with Dante at the fore.
      and if i really did mind the Geneva convention
on punctuation, i wouldn't full stop
and refresh with an
and...                               conjunctions don't
belong at the fore, nor at the back...
    but here's to heresy in the secular realm!
but seriously: why say thought resides in the brain?
and that we need more brain-power?
      brain-strain, ice-cream stashed as quickly
as a turkey might say girball in between that
cocky-glug-glug while being forcefed / stuffed...
  and would you believe it: it still won't
sit on a dusty mantle-piece... but glittering like
oil and gold... on something as intrinsic
         as an impermanent table of pilgrims.
male turkeys yes: where once there was a larynx
there now hangs a angry-red *******.
but you really can't say that poetry
can strain your eyes, you can't say
the writing is claustrophobic,
   that it really does strain the eyes in
paragraph litany...
       then it's at least that...
written like advert 1 and advert 2 by the side
of the road, two miles apart, on
giant billboards... albeit without
the fancy writing or the fancy colour...
but it's there alright.

Two birds flying in the sky,
fly, fly high.
To stars sparkling in the night,
sparkle, sparkle bright.
Two diamonds in the ground,
dazzle, dazzle for life.
Two colors, one red one blue,
show your pride!
All hail the mighty hue!
Two hearts, two beats, a different song.
Two minds, two  precious minds...
But just as the sun rises, it must set. Just as the day starts, it must have an end. Two young children, humble souls they were. A star in their mother's sky. Their memories will never leave us, and we shall never forget. Bud and Quan will never die.

Dedication , strength , and  perseverance is what we were told
"To help create productive members of society through the youth we will mold"
They would P.T us and "smoke us" and then after that during the winter they would ask , "Are you still cold?"
I trained and kept quite most of the time
The academy help set for me a paradigm
The seconds felt like days the days then turned to months and by then it was gone
I miss the days from talking to the others or to listening to "outside music" like "Hit the Quan"
The main factor that drove me to the highest rank was proving everyone wrong
It made me ready for the uncertainty and strong
I knew I could do it and I still can I knew this all along

There is a bridge to heaven
in our garden
Quan Yin and Ganesh
guard the entrance
in my dreams I wander
across the bridge
aerial sliver of silver
floating in the moonlight

Sunrise cherry blossom petals
swirl and dance at the compassionate,
adorable feet of the Goddess Kuan Yin

Smiling temples hang like lanterns
from dragon faced cliffs
drifting gently through
pastel terraced clouds

"Merciful Mother
how do we dare to
measure the immeasurable
or calibrate the infinite?
Mortal minds cannot
calculate what is
divinely incomprehensible."

Emerald eyes flash in the
mesmerizing, stormy mist
of Maya

Quan Yin's snow lily hands
wipe away our suffering
soothe our furrowed, fevered brows
Her words fall into pining hearts:

"The body is a temple
you are a projection of love.

Love the Earth, love the air
love the water, love the fire.

Love the part of self that is of the ethers."

She completed all of her karma
Nirvana to be her new home
So compassionate was her dharma
That she vowed not to leave us alone

She saw human kind as her charges
Stayed to free all from suffering and fear
The promise of Quan Yin enlarges
To love all and dry every tear

The great chant will make us take notice
Her compassion and love in full bloom
“Hail the Jewel in the Lotus”
“Om Mani Padme Hum”

© Victor Fuhrman