Which takes us on a direct path to:
THE  INCIDENT.
Say you are a normal man—whatever that means—
But say it’s late June of 1993 and you’re laying on the couch,
Scratching your *****, trying to intuit your LDL level
Based on the two bowls of the Old Lady’s Cholesterol Chowder.
The Old Lady-- you can call her Peg or Mrs. Bundy—
Served it up in her special legacy china,
An assortment of recycled tin foil casserole dishes &
Vintage melmac handed down by your mother-in-law.
You are on the couch giving digestion your best shot,
Still scratching your agates when Peg comes
In from the kitchen with your second glass of
Two-buck chuck and a smoking fatty she’s just ignited,
Miraculously without burning the house down.
The TV is on—the TV is always on because
The TV has had no off button since 1984
You are tuned to the CNN evening news &
A report comes on that makes you sit up,
Snap to attention, straight up and take notice:
"WOMAN CUTS OFF HUSBAND'S *****!"
The media shrikes in Atlanta have your attention now,
Your complete attention;
Your eyes are riveted to the telescreen &
Your blood pressure spiking at 240 over 140.
During the previous night of June 23, 1993,
John Wayne Bobbitt arrives at the
Couple's apartment in Manassas, Virginia,
Highly intoxicated after a night of partying.
According to testimony given by Lorena Bobbitt
In a 1994 court hearing, he then rapes her.
Afterwards, Lorena Bobbitt gets out of bed,
Goes to the kitchen for a drink of water.
According to a journal article in the
National Women's Justice & Defense
League of Psychotic Castrating *******,
While in the kitchen she notices,
A carving knife on the counter & "memories of
Past domestic abuse races through her head."
Grabbing the knife, Lorena Bobbitt enters the bedroom
Where John is sleeping & proceeds to
Cut off nearly half his *****,
Half his Johnson,
In this instance aptly named.
So you have some schnook who’s named
After the iconic Hollywood superstar John Wayne . . .
Now understand something, John Wayne—
The ******* Duke of Earl--
Personifies everything alpha male:
Physique, animal magnetism & a pair of
Huge ***** swinging in his chaps as
He sashays across the screen.
In real life he’s a bullfight & cigar aficionado,
A big game hunter and sport fisherman, &
A hard drinking Hemingway hero
Who spends most of his time aboard
A customized WWII U.S. mine sweeper
******* to a pier behind his house in
Newport Harbor, California.
He’s the proverbial man’s man, &
There’s no one like him in America
Until maybe Eastwood or Willis comes along.
There’s a statue of him out in front of
The Orange County Airport that bears his name.
I have a photograph of him hanging in my garage
Next to a Mad-Dog 20-20 poster.
But I digress.
We return to the Bobbitt story because
It gets better, keeps getting crazier.
After assaulting her husband,
Lorena leaves the apartment with the severed *****,
Drives around aimlessly for a short while,
Then rolls down the car window &
Throws the ***** into a field.
Only then does the loony ***** realize
The severity of the incident.
She stops and calls 911.
After an exhaustive search by
Volunteers from the local Humane Society,
The ***** is located, packed in the ice-slurry of
A banana-flavored 7/11 Slurpee, &
Taken to the hospital where half-**** John Bobbitt
Gets a short-arm inspection and treated,
Mostly for shock and awe.
His ***** is later reattached by Drs. James T. Sehn &
David Berman during a nine-and-a-half-hour surgery
Filmed by Ken Burns and broadcast in its entirety by
WGBH Boston, a stunning illustration of
Your tax dollars hard at work
At the National Endowment for the Arts.
An abridged version later becomes the season premier of
"Girls Gone ******* ******, Manassas!"
Lorena goes on Oprah to explain herself.

Lorena Bobbitt ((née Gallo) was born in Ecuador.
Her maiden name, ironically,
Means **** in English.
Sheriff Joe Arpaio in Phoenix had this to say:
“Deport the *****. She may have an INS green card
But there’s no way she had a government permit to
Go around lopping ***** off in Virginia or any other state.
Who does she think she is, Janet Napolitano?”
Napolitano could not be reached for comment.
Shortly after the incident, episodes of "Bobbittmania,"
Or copycat crimes, were reported.
The name Lorena Bobbitt eventually became
Synonymous with ***** removal.
The terms "Bobbitt Punishment" and "Bobbitt Procedure" gained
Social cache with a radical break-away sect of N.O.W.
COPYCAT Catherine Kieu Becker, 48 (Garden Grove P.D.)  
Woman Accused of Cutting Off Husband's *****
Pleads Not Guilty/ VIDEO: Watch Jennifer Gould's Report
KTLA News   10:40 a.m. PST, February 3, 2012 /SANTA ANA, Calif.
"A 48-year-old woman accused of cutting off
Her husband's ***** and putting it
In the garbage disposal has pleaded
Not guilty to all the charges against her.
Catherine Kieu, of Garden Grove,
Was indicted earlier this month on
One felony count of torture &
One felony count of aggravated mayhem.
She also faces a sentencing enhancement for
Practicing surgical medicine without a license."
Sign up for KTLA 5 Breaking News Email Alerts
Comments (130) Add / View comments | Discussion FAQ
Happy627 at 10:35 PM January 18, 2012
"So my x-wife is a violent drunken *****?
Never once did I ever think of hurting her
But now I see I was wrong.
Vengeance's is the true answer & payback is hell.
So basically I should put an M-40
In her *** and light the fuse.
I should be acquitted from any wrong doing
Because she was a violent drunken *****.
Maybe all men should do this to their
Violent wives/girlfriends & teach them a lesson.
Cyanmanta at 1:10 AM January 11, 2012
In response to Doreen Meyer:
"So you're assuming that because he was the victim
He must have done something to deserve it
In some small way?
Typical of convenient feminism:
Assume all female victims are innocent &
Pure as driven snow,
While dismissing all male victims
With the idea that 'he had it coming.'
I wish I could pander shamelessly
To the media for preferential treatment,
But sadly, I am male (or as feminists would say)
The Evil Gender."
Westfield at 5:47 PM Jan.09, 2012
She should get her own show on the ***** channel.
(Bravo). KABC radio's John Phillips & his girlfriend
Nathan Baker would love to watch it."
Sluff it off, take a load off, baby.
Take a load off?
“Take a load off Annie,
Take a load for free;
Take a load off Annie, and
Bom bom bom bom
Bom be bom— & Dddddddddd,
You can put the load right on me.”
Send “The Weight” Ringtone to Your Cell

. . . Snipped, fixed, neutered, gelded,
Emasculated, eunuchized, or castrated?
(Castrating Forceps  (www.alibaba.com/
Showroom/castration-tool.html).
Bobbittized!

So you know you’re looking at two very different styles of dress, here. But precisely what decades? When did that waistline move back down? What details are the defining touches of their era? How long were women actually walking around with bustles on their backsides?

Lydia Edwards’s How to Read a Dress is a detailed, practical, and totally beautiful guide to the history of this particular form of clothing from the 16th to the 20th centuries. It tracks the small changes that pile up over time, gradually ******* until your great-grandmother’s closet looks wildly different than your own. As always, fashion makes for a compelling angle on history—paging through you can see the shifting fortunes of women in the Western world as reflected in the way they got dressed every morning.

Of course, it’ll also ensure that the next lackadaisically costumed period piece you watch gives you agita, but all knowledge has a price.

I spoke to Edwards about how exactly we go about resurrecting the history of an item that’s was typically worn until it fell apart and then recycled for scraps; our conversation has been lightly trimmed and edited for clarity.

The title of the book is How to Read a Dress. What do you mean by “reading” a dress?

Basically what I mean is, when you are looking at a dress in an exhibition or a TV show, reading it in terms of working out where the inspirations or where certain design choices come from. Being able to look at it and recognize key elements. Being able to look at the bodice and say, Oh, the shape of that is 1850s, and the design relates to this part of history, and the patterning comes from here. It’s looking at the dress as an object from the top down and being able to recognize different elements—different historical elements, different design elements, different artistic elements. “Read” is probably the best word to use for that kind of approach, if that makes sense.

It must send you around the bend a little bit, watching costume adaptations where they’re a bit slapdash. The one I think of is the Keira Knightley Pride and Prejudice, which I actually really enjoy, but I know that one’s supposed to have all over the place costuming-wise.

Yeah, it does. I mean, I love the BBC Pride and Prejudice one, because they kept very specifically to a particular era. But I can see what they did with the Keira Knightley one—they were trying to keep it 1790s, when the book was written, as opposed to when it was published. But they’ve got a lot of kind of modern influences in there and they’ve got a lot of influences from 30, 40 years previously, which is interesting to an audience and gives an audience I suppose more frames of reference, more areas to think about and look at. So I can see why they did that. But it does make it more difficult if you’re trying to accurately decode a garment. It’s harder when you’ve got lots of different eras going on there, but it makes it beautiful and interesting for an audience.

The guide spans the 16th to the 20th century. Why start with the 16th century?

Well, partly because it’s where my own interest starts, in terms of my research and the areas I’ve looked at. But more importantly in terms of audience interest, we get a lot of TV shows, a lot of films in recent years—things like The Tudors—that type of era seems to be something that people are interested in. That time is very colorful and very interesting to people.

And also because in terms of thinking about the dress as garment, obviously people wore dresses in medieval times, but in terms of it being something that specifically women wore, distinct from men’s clothes, I really think we start to see that more in the 15th, 16th century onwards.

Where do you go to get the historical information to put together a book like this? What do you use as your source material? Because obviously the thing about clothing is that it has to stand up to a lot of wear and tear and a lot of it doesn’t survive.

This is the other thing about the 16th century stuff—there’s so little surviving. That’s why that chapter was a lot shorter and also that’s why I used a lot of artworks rather than surviving garments, just because they don’t exist in their entirety.

But wherever possible, you go to the garments themselves in museum collections. And then if that’s proving to be difficult, you go to artworks or images, but always bearing in mind the artist will have had their own agenda, so they won’t necessarily be accurate of what people were actually wearing. So then you have to go and look up written source material from the time—say, diaries. I like using letters that people have written to each other over the centuries, describing dress and what they were wearing on a daily basis. Novels can be good, as well.

Also the scholarship that has come before, the secondary sources, works by people like Janet Arnold, Aileen Ribeiro. Really well researched scholarly books where people have used primary sources themselves and put their own interpretation on it can be really, really helpful. Although you take some of it with a pinch of salt, and you put your own interpretation on there, as well.

But always to the dress itself wherever possible.

What are some of the challenges you face, or the constraints on our ability to learn about the history of fashion?

Well, the very practical issue of trying to see garments—some of them I did see here in Australia, but a lot of them were in the States, in Canada, in New Zealand, so it’s hard to physically get there to see them. And often, even when you can get to the museum, garments are out on loan to other exhibitions or other museums. That’s a practical consideration.

But also, especially when I’m talking about using artworks and things, which can be really helpful when you’re researching, but as I’ve said they do come from a place where there’s more interpretations and more agendas. So if someone’s done a portrait and there’s a beautiful 1880s dress in it, that could have been down to the whims of the person who was wearing it, or the artist could have changed significantly the color or style to suit his own taste. Then you have to do extra research on top of that, to make sure that what you are seeing is representative.

It’s a fascinating area. There’s a lot of challenges, but for me, that’s what makes it really exciting as well. But it’s really that question of being able to trust sources and knowing what to use and what not to use in order to make things clear for the audience.

Obviously many of these dresses were very expensive and took a lot of labor and it wasn’t fast fashion—people didn’t just give it away or toss it when it fell out of season. A lot of times, you did was you remade it. When you’re looking at a dress that’s been remade, how do you extract the information that you need as a historian out of it?

I love it when something like that comes up. I’ve got a couple of examples in the book.

Well, it can be quite challenging, because often when you’re first looking at a piece it’s not obvious that it’s been remade. But if you’re lucky enough to look inside it and actually hold it and turn it round different angles, there’ll be things like the placement of a seam, or you’ll see that the waist has been moved up or down according to the fashion. And that’s often obvious when you’re looking inside. You can see the way the skirt’s been attached. Often you can tell if a skirt’s been taken off and then reattached using different pleats, different gatherings; that can give you a hint that it’s then been remade to fit in with a different fashionable ideal.

One of the key ways is fabric. You can often see, especially in early 19th century dresses when they’ve been made of these beautiful 18th century silks and brocades. That’s nice because it’s the first obvious clue that something’s been remade or that an old dress has been completely taken apart and it’s just the fabric that’s been used. I find it particularly interesting when the waist has been moved or the seams have been taken off or re-sewn in a different shape or something like that. It can be subtle but once your knowledge base grows, that’s one of the most fascinating areas that you can look at.

You page through the book and you watch these trends unfold and there are occasional sea changes will happen fairly quickly, like when the Regency style arises. But how much change year-to-year would a woman have seen? How long would it take, just as a woman getting dressed in the morning, to see styles just radically alter? Would you even notice?

Well, this is the thing—I think it’s very easy, when we’re looking back, to imagine that in 1810 you’d be wearing this dress and then all the frills and the frouf would have started to come in the late 1810s and the 1820s, and suddenly you would have had a whole new wardrobe. But obviously, unless you were the very wealthiest women and you had access to dressmakers who had the absolute newest patterns and newest fabrics then no, you wouldn’t have seen a massive change. You wouldn’t have afforded to be able to have the newest things as they came in. You would have maybe remade dresses to make them maybe slightly more in line with a fashion plate that you might have seen, but you wouldn’t have had access to new information and new fashion plates as soon as they came. To be realistic, there would have been very little change on a day to day level.

But I think also, for us now—it’s hard to see it without hindsight, but we feel like we’re fairly fluid in wearing the same kind of styles, but obviously when we look back in 20 years, we’ll look at pictures of us and see greater changes than we’re now aware. Because it happens on a slow pace and it happens on such a subconscious level in some ways.

But actually, yeah, it’s to do with economics, it’s to do with availability. People living in towns where they couldn’t easily get to cities—if you were living in a country town a hundred miles away from London, there’s no way that you would have the resources to see the most recent fashion plates, the most recent ideas that were developing in high society. So it was a very slow process in reality.

If you have a lot of money you can change out your wardrobe quicker and wear the latest styles. And so the wealthiest people, their clothes were what in a lot of case stood the best chance of surviving and being in modern collections. So how do we know what working women would have worn or what middle class women would have worn?

Yeah, this is hard. I do have some more middle class examples, because we’re lucky in that we do have quite a few that have survived, especially in smaller museums and historical collections, where people have had clothes sitting in their attics for years and have donated them, just from normal families over the years.

But, working women, that’s much more difficult. We’re lucky from the 19th century because we have photographic evidence. But really a lot of it will come down to written descriptions, mainly letters, diaries, not necessarily that the people themselves would have kept, but there’s examples of people that worked in cotton mills, for instance, and people that ran the mills and their families and wives and friends who had written accounts of what the women there were wearing. Also newspaper accounts, particularly of people who would go and do charity work and help the poor. They often wrote quite detailed descriptions of the people that they were helping.

But in terms of actual garments, yeah, it’s very difficult. Certainly 18th century and before, it’s really, really hard to get hold of anything that gives you a really good idea of what they wore. But in the 18th century—it’s quite interesting, because then we get examples of separate pieces of clothing worn by the upper classes, like a skirt with a jacket, which was actually a lower middle class style initially and then it became appropriated by the upper classes. And then it became much fancier and trimmed and made in silks and things. So then, we can see the inspiration of the working classes on the upper classes. That’s another way of looking at it, although of course that’s much more problematic.

It’s interesting how in several cases you can see broader historical context, or other stories happening through clothes. Like you point out that the rise of the one-piece dresses is due to the rise of mantua makers, who were women who were less formally trained who were suddenly making clothing. Are there any other interesting stories like that, that you noticed and thought were really fascinating?

There’s a dress in the book that a woman made for her wedding. I think she was living on her own, or she was living with a servant and her mother or something. She made the dress and then turned up to her wedding and traveled quite a long way to get there, and when she arrived, the groom and all the guests weren’t there. There was nobody. So she went away and came back again a week later, and everyone was there. And the reason that no one was there before was that a river had flooded in the direction that they were all coming from. She had obviously no way of finding out about this until after the fact, and we have this beautiful dress that she spent ages making and had obviously gone to a lot of effort to try and work out what the latest styles were, to incorporate it into her wedding dress.

Things like that, I find really interesting, because they talk so much about human and social history as well as fashion history, and the garment is the main way we have of keeping these stories alive and remembering them and looking into the kind of life and world these people lived, who made these garments.

Over the centuries, how does technology affect fashion? Obviously, we think of the industrial revolution as really speeding up the pace of fashion. But are there other moments in the history of fashion where technology shapes what women end up wearing?

One example is where I talk about the Balenciaga dress from the early 1950s—with a bubble hem and a hat and she would have worn these beautiful pump shoes with it—with the introduction of the zipper. Which just made such a huge difference, because it suddenly meant you’d have ease and speed of dressing. It meant that you didn’t have to worry about more complicated ways of fastening a garment. I think the zipper made a massive change and also in terms of dressmaking at home, it was a really quick and simple way that people had of being able to create quite fashionable styles on a budget and with ease and speed at home.

Also, of course, once women’s dress started to become simpler and they did away with the corset and underwear became a lot less complicated, that made dressing a lot easier, that made the introduction of the bias cut and things that sit very closely to the natural body much more widely used and much more fashionable.

I would say the introduction of machine-made lace as well, particularly from the late 19th, early 20th century onwards where it was so fashionable on summer dresses and wedding dresses. It just meant that you could so much more easily add this decadent touch to a garment, because lace would have been so much more expensive before then and so time-consuming to make. I think that made a huge difference in ordinary women being able to attain a kind of luxury in their everyday dress.

That actually makes me think of something else I wanted to ask you, which is you point out in your intro the way we casually use this word “vintage.” I think about that with lace. Lace is described as being a “vintage” touch but it’s very much this question of when, where, who, why—it’s a funny term when you think about it, the way we use it so casually to describe so much.

Oh, yes. It’s crazy. I used to work in a wedding dress shop and I used to make historically inspired wedding dresses and things. And brides used to come in and say, “Oh, I want something vintage.” But they didn’t really know what they meant. Usually what they meant is they wanted something with a bit of lace on it, or with some sort of pearls or beading. I think it’s really inspired by whatever is trending at the time. So, you know, Downton Abbey became vintage. I think ‘50s has always been kind of synonymous with the word vintage. But what it means is huge,

How long will our bewildered heirs
marooned in possessions not theirs
puzzle at disposing of these three
cunning feignings of hard candy in glass-
the striped little pillowlike mock-sweets,
the flared end-twists as of transparent paper?

No clue will be attached, no trace
of the sunny day of their purchase,
at a glittering shop a few doors
up from Harry's Bar, a disappointing place
for all its testaments from Hemingway.
The Grand Canal was also aglitter
while the lesser canals lay in the shade
like snakes, flicking wet tongues
and gliding to green rendezvous.

The immaculate salesgirl, in her aloof
Italian succulence, sized us up,
a middle-aged American couple,
as unserious shoppers who,
still half jet-lagged, would cling to their lire
in the face of any enchanted vase
or ethereal wineglass that might shatter
in the luggage going home.

Yet we wanted something, something small ....
This? No ... How much is ten thousand? Dizzy,
at last we decided. She wrapped
the three glass candies, the cheapest
items in the shop, with a showy care
worthy of crown jewels-tissue,
tape, and tissue again sprang up
beneath her blood-red fingernails,
plus a jack-in-the-box-shaped paper bag
adorned with harlequin lozenges, sad
though she surely was, on her feet waiting
all day for a wild rich Arab, a compulsive Japanese.
Grazie, signor ... grazie, signora ... ciao.

Nor will our thing-weary heirs decipher
the little repair, the reattached triangle
of glass from the paper-imitating end-twist,
its mending a labor of love in the cellar,
by winter light, by the man of the house,
mixing transparent epoxy and rigging
a clever small clamp as if to keep
intact the time that we, alive,
had spent in the feathery bed
at the Europa e Regina.

It's been years and somehow you're back for me
But I've long since moved on and I'm satisfied.
Yes, you were a dream to kiss and yes, you were nice to hug.

I don't need you with your baggy sweat and regrets
I don't want you either like I used to.
I really am fine just being myself;
I'd be happy if I never saw you again.

I just don't feel it anymore in my bones,
My heart doesn't beat for you;
I don't want your hate or benefits.
I never hated you
But Time has changed and taken me
You couldn't keep up with the flow.
So I don't want you to slow me down
I don't want you back in my life
No, I don't want you back in my life.

It's too bad you were left behind
But you're killing yourself to keep up
It doesn't make a difference
No, it really doesn't.
Time doesn't wait for anyone
Time allowed us to drift away
And I'm fine with that
We don't need to be reattached.

I just don't feel it anymore in my bones,
My heart doesn't beat for you;
I don't want your hate or benefits.
I never hated you
But Time has changed and taken me
You couldn't keep up with the flow.
So I don't want you to slow me down
I don't want you back in my life
No, I don't want you back in my life.

During this time I realised
I'm the player, you were the fool
I was lonely when I wanted you.
But it's nice to say that memories stay
And you made me smile and still do.

But I don't need that sparkle in your eyes
I don't want you either like I used to
I'm fine just being myself because you took that away from me.

I just don't feel it anymore in my bones,
My heart doesn't beat for you;
I don't want your hate or benefits.
I never hated you
But Time has changed and taken me
You couldn't keep up with the flow
So I don't want you to slow me down
I don't want you back in my life
No, I don't want you back in my life.

I don't need that sparkle in your eyes
I have oxygen and hope to stay alive
You'll never hold me back like you used to
You won't anchor me to drown.

7th October 2016

matt
did you get my reply? i hope you did, i had written approx. 5, and all of them deleted... i hope i allowed myself a justifiable response with this one:

how about solipsism? solipsism is an elevated term for autism, isn't it? me? personally? i love cats, but they have a tendency to become inexhaustive economists of curiosity... i wasn't implying autism as an insult, i was implying a more crude word, synonymous with solipsism, and there is no shame in that to begin with. i like cats, because i own two, and i'm most content, when i can allow myself the time, to allow them the same time, to be left alone. cat, solo... dog + man + tail waggling + throw a ball... i better post this reply before i allow this reply, to become deleted... with all the prior 5 that have been, and me, having to post the alternative, "revision".

i.e. i rather imagine autism to be in need of having an elevated status of being designated by the term: solipsism... how can i make myself elaborate? point being, i don't want to... i too am confined to a strict vocab. fixation for the purpose of expressing language, that mitigates, bypassing, shrapnel wording of: one category fits all, conjunction words, which, i find, I, to be akin to, when categorised as: AND to begin to confine oneself to, the subsequent rigor of nouns.

i hope this doesn't end, or begin as, an apology... by autistic i was imply solipsist, i wasn't implying the retrograde slur of ******... if there's any god, it's in the disinhibited self of the autist, readily plucked, by... no basis for either a selfish, or a selfless act... i'm over-wording this, but... point being... i needed to settle myself in a posit, above the current cultural norm of the troll... which has nothing to do with autism, or as i like to call it: solipsism, diminished to a slur of: automaton...

i hope you can make lite reading of this... i concede, i attempted to make more than necessary, and conciliatory scribbles... if in any way i redeemed myself, i hope you'll concede to entertaining, accepting my apology.

Jules  22h
My only issue was that your poem seemed to make Autism synonymous with stupid or any other derogatory term. However, seeing as that wasn’t how you meant it, I apologize. I’m a bit defensive as my brother has autism

Mateuš Conrad  22h
that's perfectly understandable, given the circumstances, i am hardly surprised... i'm still here if you want to continue past the initial shock-tactic of testing the waters with me, obviously we can change the subject and not stand, metaphorically: with knives pressed against each others' throats... there i was, thinking i'd reply diving into the subject matter for no, necessary clarification / added depth... but it's the least i can appreciate from your cordial response, as to, at least, appreciate a change in the subject matter, so that, both of us, can return to feeding off a sentiment of: being left, less, uncomfortable; which implies that i have to instigate the question to change the subject matter... hmm... speed-dating-esque trivia... movies, paintings, music... literature... ah... kind of blue, miles davis, my english teacher told me, that if anyone in the classroom didn't own this album by the age they were 30... there was something wrong with them... in my then paranoia, i bought the album, and now own it on vinyl... somehow... i find that there's something more wrong with me, owning it, than not owning it.

Jules  22h
Favorite movie- Mamma Mia, favorite painting- amazing piece by a local artist, music- currently obsessed with the Beatles, favorite book- We all fall down. I’m thoroughly impressed about how reasonable you are being given the circumstances, and after reading a few more of your poems, I can tell you are a good person

Mateuš Conrad  21h
oh come on... mamma mia?! and not something akin to west side story?! who's the local artist? i only access to a London base, and, that requires a networking schedule i'm not going to equip myself with; and i'm hardly surprised by how understanding you are of me, and i do wish to pay more compliments to you, but... i feel that that would overstate me taking liberty in me not incurring an over-simplified stance of my own liberty towards you... remember, i'm one person in writing against a blank, and another person to conjure forth a reply... against a canvas, that is a readied flesh of my own flesh, bone of my own bone, i can see the antagonist in the compounded state of, the sacrosanct state of lingo... i can be a ******* against a blank canvas, but, obviously, when i am to begin with a clarity of an addressee, i cannot consider staging a variation of something, inhospitable, as a Kandinsky-variation to suit myself... Jules, you can never become something akin i treat a blank sparring estate i perform in writing without, something you are already established with, concerns equivalent to my own predisposition being unchanllenged / or, rather, undistrubed. the beatles... i'm trying to find something of a vinyl collector's "beginner's luck"... i'm too into prog. rock music... EP album experiences, akin to: king crimson's debut: in the court of the crimson king... serves me right, for not getting into Mahler... or Eric Dolphy jazz... so i turned the blind eye, and moved toward pagan music... wardruna... hedningarna... in extremo... garmarna... faun... heilung... esp. the last... i have never wished to visit the Faroe Islands more, than, after listening to their music.

Jules  21h
Mammia Mia is my favorite almost solely because of the memories attached to it. You certainly are a unique person

Mateuš Conrad  21h
i agree, i'm a sucker for super trouper and money money money, i'm waiting for a Tina Turner musical, to be honest... don't worry, i've looked into some of your comment sections... i cannot alleviate the blatantly bogus comments that are worth nothing more than an immediacy to make antagonism... i can't, i wish i could, but.... it's either this variant of an outlet, or a punching bag... i'm as unique as you find me to be... but when i just see "demands to conform" to an otherwise unnatural behavior... i don't like behaving in a counter-cordial fashion... you understand me? if there's no need to be bogus, why begin to bother being so? i hope we can remain lodged into partial nuances... and continue this discussion, beside tomorrow, i.e. whenever you feel like to preserve it, which, i hope... you will strip away more of your anonymity... but even if that is to not be the case: i thank you for the compliments... but from having inspected the immediate comments... you are a most tender artifact worth double the inspection's curiosity with a shy eye... and until i take myself to rest, and slumber, i can only leave your with these words... i wish the world was more welcoming than i allow you to believe it to be. if you can ever forgive me, i can only hope you can, by bidding me a goodnight, and welcoming me back into the discussion, within the confines of a tomorrow.

Jules  20h
Goodnight, my hopefully future friend. Poetry is definitely one of the best outlets. I definitely understand that aspect of you

Mateuš Conrad  20h
i hope to entertain you here, once more, and all the future that can be shared between the both of us. let me see you tomorrow, and scrap a beginning of a conversation with you, once more toward a focus of a beginning... and see how many minutes this allows us to entertain an amnesia of: beginning with today... how about that? i'll take to sleep, and hope, to grin... i actually re-read what i wrote: and figured... if i was being all-too despotic in securing pedantry... but then... if you took to complimenting me, i have to compliment you: tender soul... scouting the merger of sight and the hybrid coast... tender petal... why not? who is to obstruct me telling you this? lever... beside the said and into what's thought... tender petal... what a Scouser would call pet, i'd call petal... or... heavily implied: stagnant Bismarck stipend... if it be too much to ask... write me more than under the scrutiny of below the already given minus, of the 10 sentences. come at me as a punching bag... just as an experiment... i want to be the new vanguard... experiment with being uninhibited.

Jules  19h
Even the way you talk is extremely poetic. I appreciate how you took the time to try to talk everything out to prevent us from having any bad blood between, and I see know that you didn’t mean any harm from what you said. Thank you for being so kind about it all. I sincerely hope we can pick up this conversation again tomorrow as I feel we are on the road to a promising friendship. I’d be happy to write more per text, but for the sake of experimentation, I’m intrigued to see if you could try to talk in a little less of a formal dialect

Mateuš Conrad  1h
trying to bypass a formal dialect will be hard, as we're too fresh into our patchwork of setting boundaries, rigid as that might sound, and the current climate, to me, you're a slab of marble, not a statue. this sort of friendship, you're talking about, requires us to keep a modest concern for language, which, awfully, is riddled with diatribe excerpts... how we will transcend this, is, well, concerned with both of us to decide... i'm starting to entertain the fact that you have an autistic brother, since i'm learning to be panicy-picky with my language... i too had an ultra-autistic "friend" back in high-school... and i would constantly retrieve a blank-state response from him, i.e. i was looking at less a person, and more: a labyrinth. how i'll transition into a more informal use of language, i'm unsure how that will take place, Jules, we can't exactly share experiences, we can only avast ourselves, on what will pursue its own noumenon characteristics of stated language. at present, we only share a commonality of language, i'm bewildered by stating something informal... i wish i could, but i'm only allowed an "aggrieved" presence to your wish for: informality, slang, holding-hands type of escapism. i think that, with regards to your wishes, we'll have to settle for a sediments' worth of unravelling, like me, you're too trying to escape the puddle's worth of being immediately "concerned" with the comment section... we'll need to find commonality... from yesterday, i can tell you: i had the beatles faze when i was leaving the years attributed to my teens... then i found it really hard to find new music, outside the realm of bands akin to tool, the neo-progressive rock bands... but i see your point, my language is the sort of formal, that stages a lack of intimacy, but this is an ontological-high-jump, given your reply, and emphasis on friendship... you will have to curate me, moving forward, since i will be unable to moderate how, me, interacting with you, will be adequate to have finally said, something informal, by your standards of scrutiny. time, i will first have to see some of your idioms to change my dialect; i'll begin, i'll tell you where this was written from, Romford, Essex, England.

Jules  1h
If we are to move forward as friends, I have to express my feeling on the autism topic. First off, Autism is a spectrum that ranges from high functioning to low functioning. 30% of people with autism are in fact of average or higher intelligence. Some of the most famous scientists including Albert Einstein were in fact autistic. It is not synonymous with simple or stupid in any way, shape, or form. I dislike that you said your friend seemed to be less of a person because he had autism. However, I understand that you’re misconceptions weren’t meant in a malicious way

Mateuš Conrad  51s
so how can i move forward to establish a less informal dialect? i wasn't focusing on the details of the stated condition, i know that i'm handling something as fragile as an egg in terms of what words i employ, and that i might seem astoudning, in having not contra opinions on the matter beneath the impersonal "facade"... but you were asking about how to make our interaction more uninhibited, if we're going to lecture each other about infringing on delicate matters... i wasn't implying the person in question was less of a person, i was implying he was more of a person, by resembling a labyrinth, i didn't take any personhood from him, i simply reattached it to a metaphor, of elevated complexity, of a labyrinth: i was lost in attaining a mutual comprehension of a shared experience with him... what's so bad about that? i only mentioned something in passing, since your's, was the original "concern"... you asked me how we could continue in a less informal manner... this reply will not answer your original "concerns"... what if i were to say: i'm schizophrenic? what then? you'd lecture me on... all of your knowledge on the matter? if we're all going to interrogate each other... thus... then you have a misconception of schizophrenics... akin to john nash... personally, i don't understand how you'd think i'd be primarily focused on something said: intended to be relegated to: in passing... guess what... i'll send this and...

      BLOCK

               i'm basically rummaging
through porcelain...
  i was ****** off one writing
platform for no reason...
   being ****** off from another
is not on my wish list,
from a very, simple,
lack of reciprocated
       feed of understanding;

   oh i know when i see minor *******,
some liking it to micro-aggression...
i chose a fox as my totem,
learning from a 2015 "debacle":
it looks innocent at first,
    but then spirals out of control;
the more i sieve through
this construct known as humanity,
the more i chose to remain
hidden.
   - and for all the worth
of the tabloid press...
   this is where i'll reign, myself
included.

Was it as easy for you
As it was for me
To drop your defenses
And live our lives out eagerly
The over anxiety from my loves lack of piety
Or better yet how I tried to populate her minds society

With the idea of an image
We both dreamed to consume
The dark goddess
Breathing new life into my futures sullen bedroom
But the way her mind acted as prison guard for what her heart truly wished
This tiger was trapped in a cage of life’s never ending vanquish

And I gave with my heart
My will behind my ideals
Every artery embroidered on my arm slowly splits and spills
The red liquid that we both seemed to hunger
My music and my words that breast-feed this god-forsaken thunder

The concept of time appears to lose all of its meaning
Distances in space are
Disregarding and demeaning
For the depths that I’ve reached
Engulfed in this woman’s shadow
As she gently cut the cord to my everlasting battle

With life
With love
With all of the above
Scapegoats and memories in a field of push and shove
A ****** of myself, the things I can’t control
If love controls my fate, then let my future go

And I wish I could hate you
But I’m too busy trying to relate to
Your brains past events that caused
This corruption of the person we all knew
So true
But now the feeling of fear in your heart
Has single handedly reattached the strings of puppet manipulation to your trembling arms

And I curse the day you realize your heart has no vacancy
Undermining the unmotivated prayer of “God wont you **** me please”
Understand that your art is something to guide you through the thick and of the filling
Of the cup that was once half empty, but now has shattered and is spilling


On the floor, that I lay
Head like a ball of clay
The summer was a time for me to digest all that was on my plate
Music and syllables to describe how I felt when you looked me in the eyes
Still sit in my note books but I no longer ask the reason why

I didn’t know better
From the decomposition that you dealt
The anger, lack of pride and destruction of myself
Left behind, no longer
No time for this distress
I’m moving forward through this desert
On my everlasting quest

With life
With love
With all of the above
Scapegoats and memories in a field of push and shove
A ****** of myself, the things I can’t control
If love controls my fate, then let my future go

looks like someone's dancing in their underwear...
touché - looks like someone's buying pints
of milk in their pyjamas.

night privy, nocturnal India
i get to do the dance over your grave
while your relatives grieve a pointless
grief: just in the same way they grieved
a rotten chestnut, or egg....
maybe this sprout of anti-imagination
might be a floating limb of ambition
to being *simply reattached -  the black keys'
                        lonely boy -
spastic maestro number uno - chillies
and the Chilcot KKK inquiry -
got buff results with the whitey crew -
took out the trash, fed the gerbils,
saved a Latex ****** from the hood...
well... the Kentucky hooded brigade,
fully tent equipped parishioners -
                 and whenever you dress up as sheep
you better barbecue - c k q - what a long shopping list -
   *i've got a love that keeps me waiting!
  ooh oh oh oh!
            i've got a love that keeps me waiting;
                   i'm a lonely boy" -      
                     to cue or to queue -
         a forever question unanswered -
of simply quit... they call it the lack of
solar tattoo pigmentation -
         i treat the argument for god
like i'd treat winning the jackpot in lottery,
    it just has the prefix existential- prior to what's
       being gambled: someone suggested respectability;
                     i guess that's fair enough - otherwise
i call it a fail with potatoes acting as bricks
in Northern Ireland... and a blatant lack
of back-up colonialism....
         that ****** better sprech Anglo
or he's toast.... then came the Voodoo Vindaloo -
screaming: churn out the chillies into chokes! aah!
oh oh or excessive umlaut agitation -
poor tool tummy - when have you experienced
the ****-up in surgical syllables taken
to the butchers for coarse timing
that never coerced?
i danced that dance, angry though,
when they played Pendulum's Tarantula
in a Basildon's night-club - you heard a roar
when spotted an "epileptic"
(both dittoing as said, and ambiguity) weaving a web of
personal space - truly and originally,
not your cup of tea - i'd ensure you as
              respectably assured -
mind the Sundays and the roast beef and
the home office and Yorkshire fundamentalism;
Newcastle? Newcastle is too hedonistic.

Detached, heartless

Cold

Reattached, 'Jah bless'

Bold

Full speed ahead

Clear view

Wipers, windshield

Can't work with the rear view... mirror

I write, **** them dead

Killer

Let them say "Dude, the verse... you murdered it!"

'Ill'er'

But still I... wonder if they got the message

Wonder whether or not they feel 'I'

Whether or not they got what I wrote

Do they think of me as the 'blacksmith' that hit the iron 'while its hot'...

Or not?

Write up a sword, Wordsmith... real thought

Pulling at my mind from both sides

Really taught

In their hearts, will they reserve a spot...

For that which us poets wrote?

Or for the messages they feel we brought...

Forth?

Did we succeed in pointing their moral compass upwards... north?

It would be disappointing if they read, moved on and forgot

For we aim to provoke thought

Intelligence is put to better use when wisdom is sought

Against the odds, we've fought

Expressive vigilance was sold to us... we bought

Free as the winds... set sail our boat

On a sea where storms are rife

We chose to stay afloat

Stay true

So if you're still reading thank you, for giving me a few minutes of your life.

Okay
I know… I know
I know that I hurt her… and she isn’t the first
She wants me and I want her
And this feels different from lust
But I know that I hurt her…
Broken heart reattached?
Can that happen? And if so… Can I stop being so detached?
I’m really not sure, I have tried that before
I don’t see myself getting over this bad habit in a hurry… not that fast
Sadly, not that fast... if I do it will be slow
It’s as a result of everything… The future, the present, the past
Still I know that I’ve hurt her… oh, believe me I know
She doesn’t deserve this, she cares… but she’s not the first girl I happen to have made tear before
But it’s kind of unfair too for me to be stuck in between…
“Are you going to play this macho *******? Do you want to be alone?”… And “Are you going to let me in?”
Sometimes you see, I hurt too… In fact one could say I’m pain prone
But I have my process, which usually involves being alone
It’s just what I’m about
It’s just how I was built
I’m not trying to shut her out, or to haunt her with guilt
I’m emotionally damaged; numb… a lot of nerve endings killed
Understand
It’s not pity I want; it’s in the past see
The milk has already been spilled.

Senses untamed,
  spaces to reign

Bodies that die,
  spirits to fly

By length or by width,
  time is a myth

Dimension aground,
  essence refound

Eyes looking forward,
  eyes looking back

Eyes looking inward,
  soul reattached

All that was spoken,
  providence sings

Grand sublimation,
—last bell to ring

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)

Detached, heartless

Cold

Reattached, 'Jah bless'

Bold

Full speed ahead

Clear view

Wipers, windshield

Can't work with the rear view... mirror

I write, **** them dead

Killer

Let them say "Dude, the verse... you murdered it!"

'Ill'er'

But still I... wonder if they got the message

Wonder whether or not they feel 'I'

Whether or not they got what I wrote

Do they think of me as the 'blacksmith' that hit the iron 'while its hot'...

Or not?

Write up a sword, Wordsmith... real thought

Pulling at my mind from both sides

Really taught

In their hearts, will they reserve a spot...

For that which us poets wrote?

Or for the messages they feel we brought...

Forth?

Did we succeed in pointing their moral compass upwards... north?

It would be disappointing if they read, moved on and forgot

For we aim to provoke thought

Intelligence is put to better use when wisdom is sought

Against the odds, we've fought

Expressive vigilance was sold to us... we bought

Free as the winds... set sail our boat

On a sea where storms are rife

We chose to stay afloat

Stay true

So if you're still reading thank you, for giving me a few minutes of your life.

Now anytime, Time will arrive
With its rusty chains
It will be impossible to enlarge these circles
---
All those intellectual thoughts will be abandoned
No trees nearby
Or I would have picked and reattached all the leaves,
Just to utilize those thoughts
---
It works in a cycle
In every forth time age
I be as I
In every forth time age, time arrives
This time, I'll run away for sure
---
Some are without name
Some are like fragrance
Some are like dew drops
Some are just there
They all have tongue
But no one's speaking
They're just licking wall
---
सह वीर्यं करवावहे (Saha Viryam Karava vahe)
These chants are taught wrong
Scenes are snatched away
After giving eyes
That's why can't find'em
Whoever is there, is deaf
---
It will leak blood
From eyes
From nose
From ears
From tongue
Circle can not be enlarged
All are deaf
I must run away.

I woke up once around midnight in a nightmare that took the form of real life
I saw you standing outside, the past reattached to your ripped shorts and tortured expression.
The truth of that past finally passed our hesitant lips
Every betrayal, was like a gust of wind taking us to our knees without a fight
I watched as every friend we ever knew turned their backs and walked away from us
As if walking away from a nameless headstone in a quiet, forgotten graveyard.
I woke up once around midnight in a nightmare that took the form of real life
It changed everyone we knew
And I've been trying to wake up from the nightmare ever since.

Belle Dame, II

you wonder if you would have looked good
with finger waves in 1922.
it’s pointless to think about,
but it still floats languidly toward you,
one of the frequent gondolas that scratch,
and ****, and drift wandering semite from shore to shore of your skull.

the sun never sets on it, after all.

the other ships,
ancient and moaning,
lean and bow according to waves of a life-heavy sea,
its tides divorced from any semblance of reason,
rhythm  doesn’t lie next to it any longer,
its shape is just an aftertaste now.

your throat is in flames, by the way.
no one took voice this time.
she left of her own accord,
and she’s planned this for weeks,
every gesture, forward motion, and utterance
that would enable her escape from inside you,

this time, it’s pointless scouring the corners of the empire to find her.
you have to remember she’ll come back on her own.
that the harshly lit fluorescent reality will validate her,
or it won’t,
and it’ll reject her like your body is currently doing to the reattached finger you almost lost when you were three.

i need you to pray she makes her boat on time,
and don’t think so much of where she’s going.

I have been wanting
To wash my mouth out with soap
Bathe in arsenic
Shower in ethanol
Let it burn against my skin
I have been trying
To rid myself of every ounce of him
I have been picking at my skin
Pulling at my insecurites
Wondering how anyone
Could ever want someone like this
Worrying if anyone
Will ever want someone like this
Will ever want something that has been broken so many times before
I have reattached my limbs
Too many times to count
My wounds are not visible enough
To ward off admirers
But every word that slips out of my mouth
Is tangled with the weight of story
******* with the lines of a revelation
That I will never be able to fully write
I wonder
If every suffering was glued to my skin
Would you still find me beautiful
If my tattoos were passage to destruction
Would you still want to cross paths
I will never be a blank canvas
I have far too many paint splattered stains to ever be new again
I will never be a clear picture
I will never be art making history
I am only Pompeii in my destruction
In my catalysmic nature
But I am building myself back up
From the ash I've kept inside me
Rooting myself deeper
So I can learn how to stretch my arms out further
So I can learn to trust
I am hopeful
That there is future brighter than past
That salvation
Will be easier to swallow
If it is handed to me
By loving hands.

.within these words is the simple question... i'm a misogynist? i'm a misogynist? i'm such curious as to how i could get away with all of this if i, truly were a woman, but as being a man, i am prescribed the sentient double-knocker of: a ******* mea culpa!

so i spent the afternoon making
two curries...
   by now... cultural appropriatio:
whatever the hell that means
having an arsenal of indian
spices that would scare both
the russians and the h'americans
with their nukes...
but like i said:
i concede:
                 the blue indian cuisine,
i.e. from the Bengal
or the Punjab?
superior to my bland salt &
paper...
although...
when it came to the chicken chettinad?
i'm not here competing
for the white-boy-eat-a-lot-of-chillies
olympics...
one standard red chilli,
four kashimiri dry chillies,
and yes... some standard chilly
powder...
       if i want to burn my tongue:
i'll drink near-to-boiling
water... thanks...
don't know... i sometimes make
so much curry in one afternoon
i'm happy to forget doing
the stereotypical male thing of...
watching the 6 nations rugby,
or the skii jumping competition
from Letho (Finland)...
   it's like... i'm transported back
to Edinburgh,
  doing 12 hours of lab. training
once more...
              hell... no lab. work for me:
but i guess... blue indian cuisine
is the closest thing to a chemistry
experiment, notably an organic
chemistry experiment...
mind you:
   have you ever wondered why
you tend to eat a little bit more
of the sauce...
   if you don't dice the chicken,
move away from dicing chicken
*******, and instead fry (which will
come later)
       whole chicken thighs?
or... marinate them prior to...
          curating them via
                   the method of poaching
them in the sauce?
diced chicken: so bland...
         esp. from the breast....
but the meat... cooked whole...
esp. as a thigh (the best bit of
the chicken, and with the bone
intact? oh god!)...
my few favorite curry though?
the one i made later...
    a... sali murgi...
   (yes, the H is always a surd...
   moor-ghee...
    butter of the moors)...
      with those beautiful sali
crispets...
          on top...
   also... who would have thought:
dried, apricots... in a curry?
oh i don't mind this...
   "cultural appropriation"...
me cooking curry is...
so much more than someone
donning dreads...
and... by the looks of it...
          i might even, slyly,
cook better than some natives...
well i already know that
i can speak a more orthodox english
than some of the natives,
i knew that back in high-school...
  started in class 2B...
moved a year later to class 1B...
(class... tier, same thing)...
a year later i was in class 1A...
and it went like so:
    1A, 1B, 2A, 2B,
              1C... 3A, 3B,
                      1D, 2C...
and no... there was no 4A or 4B...
(it skipped every two numbers
and every two letters)...
so... me worried that i might
not cook better than some
Indian's grandmother?
   not in the least...
              a, woman, cooking?
please... give me a break...
             what's that story:
if she overuses salt...
she's thinking about something...
if she underuses salt
she's fostering ill-will...
she over-cooks the pasta
she wants a divorce...
she under-cooks it...
she wants you to start recreationally
running because you have
a "beer-belly-flab"...
yeah... i'll say it...
WOMEN DO NOT BELONG
IN THE KITCHEN...
        mind you...
i was helped by a standard-bearer
to the antithesis of saying so...
mother dear...
   mother ed gein mother dear
(this better freak some people out)...
ah...
but you know what?
frying the potato sali...
last time i used a *** and a standard
cheese grater for the potato...
ingenius...
however many chemistry
experiments i ever did...
no cliche american high-school
"faux pas"...
          but then...
like men are supposedly unable
to tell the difference
between
burgundy and cordovan...
         the **** is a...
               julienne peeler?
yes... mother dear...
or... grandma dear...
                 any other woman in
"my life"...
   no really... but i always like
to keep the ed gein joker card
in play...
   for breathing space...
             all the other women in my
life were...
    for two worthy exceptions...
the nurse in the hospital
where i was born...
                     birth-mark scared...
thought it was better to
shove suckle of a feeding bottle
into my mouth so hard
that i would suffocate,
and almost die from
a premature heart-attack...
ended up with an.. "enlarged" heart...
last girlfriend...
  now... i don't even want to begin
with that story...
in full agatha christey
alias poirot paranoid-mode...
****** her for 7 hours one night
prior to leaving St. Petersburg...
****** her in the batch while she was
on her period and it was
the first time she told me to put
on a ******,
after she first told me to take it off...
so yeah... the curry was great...
we lated sat together
like jesus mary & st. joseph
watching the t.v.
   ah... China's one child-policy...
back in Europe
i'm a dormant serial killer
and my mother is actually my sister...
and my father is a *******
Anglican priest...
or myth, or ghost,
  counter... "god"...
of me turning to the public stage...
BUMPER STICKER
RETRACTION FROM H'AMERICA...
if he died for "our", "sins"...
why is the mantra still:
  the mea culpa of...
"allowing" him to die on the cross?
so we watched a movie...
book club...
staring...
   jane fonda...
  that guy from miami vice...
that woman from ms. congeniality,
that woman from back to the future
vol. 3,
          that woman from
        father of the bride...
                       and DREYFUS!
fifty shade of grey...
   cameo by e. l. james, walking
the dog?
                         yep...
        anyway... watched that...
prior to, dressed up real fine...
was asked where i was going...
to buy some beer...
   walked to the local for some cider...
had to endure a interlude
with a drunk west ham supporter
talking to the colt cashier about
working in outer east london
but being an arsenal supporter...
the movie though...
book clup...
          so it ends on a:
and they lived happily ever after,
didn't it?
            yeah... it did...
but as i was walking about...
the demographic...
   my "neighbour"...
a single mother who still has her
son living with her -
who should look like he's ageing
but... to me he's still
a stunted cabbage-patch
                       of a 13 year old...
a daughter who sometimes
crashes...
      walking home with
a... "catch"...
                           a man...
                 who i would seriously
make ******* antagonisms of...
elsewhere? in the... vicinity?
similar stories...
                      around here
i'm the jesus, the messiah's
mother and my father,
                 the ghost of st. joseph...
last time i wanted to play roulette...
my mother was visiting
     her parents,
both of them slept at my uncle's
house,
i hosted a birthday party...
                and...
  ended up ******* a black girl
in my room on a chocolate couch...
how's that?
      don't even ask me how
i managed to persuade a thai
    bisexual with cheap polish beer
and jazz...
        done brutally / i.e. realistically
in the garden...
with a my own persistent zenith
of surprise...
the thai surprise...
           of reaching into her *****...
really... sport's bra...
and you just picked her up
   from a park bench lamenting
into the phone drinking beer
at the same time, + the short hair?
really? no... moment of "suspence"
           of... the thai surprise?
there were always the odds:
3:1 - she's a woman...
        or 4:2 - she's... he's she's
                               she's he's a man...
oi! shem?! what's up?
which is it?
(3? mouth, the floral pattern,
and the ***...
                1? choice...
  well... if you've already started
courting?
              there isn't one...
4? how many points of entry
between two men? 4...
   but how many choices?
the... teasing *******
literature and wanting to experiment
or...
   the "homophobe"...
which only applies to...
   ****** taqiyya...
                        or the thai surprise...
oh i'm pretty sure i've met
a few homosexuals in my life,
but all of them had
the courtesy to... dismiss homophobia...
what was "homophobia"
and became "trans-phobia"
was forever some borrowed
from Islam... ****** taqiyya)...                
    
                 oh but reality is brutal
on this level...
                         no... not rosey ****
friends, best buddy psychotic
                  lingering ex-girlfriends...

so i drank one cider,
watched match of the day
for all the premiership highlights...
drank two more ciders...
in between taking
a king's salute of one's
most worthy subject:
    a 10cm length of fudge-like
****...
forgot to *******...
and found myself thinking...
'what if the opening
for david bowie's song
from the man who sold the world,
the width of a circle...
could ever become something
-esque shape of things to come
by audioslave...
that subtle rhythm section...
what if all rhythm sections
of songs could have more
a more subtle air about them,
so that the rhythm section
doesn't have to compete with
the vocals...
   harmony...
                very much unlike
the rhythm guitar of Metallica...
what then?

i'll speak my mea culpa...
but i'll also imagine myself
nailing him to the cross...
and then dry *******
the erected crucifix
                         with him on it...
yes...
    and he might have died,
but i somehow managed to live,
in order to understand,
rather than forget the omni-****
banality for...
    the spec-attache-of-the-wrongly-
reattached-to-the-omni-****
as-stand­ard-the...
                            particular man.

inclined to be on a, "jonestown massacre"
style... motiff?
         please...
                  i'd need to dumb
my language down to a level of
understanding that
could no longer be riddled
with idiosyncracies,
          and, subsequently
become: peppered with rhetoric...

who doesn't,
made of flesh,
borrow a segment from
     idolatory,
of these, of all of all
of the possible days...
                oh.... subtle translation
of the german reality
at the peak of the 19th century...
what was the twilight,
or rather... who were the idols
of that frame of history?
wherever i look now...
i cannot see what twilight
there's is to speak of,
other than via my own
post-mortem...
    and by then...
             i only seem to want to convey:
but i am only making
a snippet of what an status
would perform
otherwise:
full swing wholly engrossed
in idolatry do...

        nibbling...
to better explain metaphysics...
id est:
       as simply as possible...
with a...
                 underlying principle
of metaphor...
   and subsequently:
   a literalism that only dabbles
with ridicule of,
what centers around...
self-worth,
    and self-worth-attainment,
best mitigated by
   a self-deprecating comedy...
         that... is provoked
as a modus operandi...
                by an undermining,
tragico-comic...
         of a... noumenon,
self-excluded:
              deprecating comedy per se.

thus:
   the self, returns to the "self",
returns to "the box"...
               which ends up being...
something almost bearable
to have to endure,
esp. when stacking shelves
in a supermarket.

sign that says stop
intersect forebode,
to wait until clear,
the air,
the fear,
the sky,
eyes, of those tears,
but what if becomes
cannot stop,
throwing pieces
off like they don't
belong and won't
stick around long
enough to be
reattached to rusted
vestige that used to
be human,
now rust stains
down the face,
empty carcass
after the fracas,
of living like there
was no tomorrow,
came
true.


©DWE102013

A curled dead leaf
Softly floated by
And reattached itself
To the tree from whence it had come

Slowly life flowed back
Into the husk of a leaf
And it became green again
And full of life

So to, life returned
To all that had lost it
To the flowers in the meadow
And the creatures of the field

The world was reborn
Death had been abandoned
And in its place
A brave new life

Fists pounding against the
Fateful punching bag of
Wordcraft.
Ink on knuckles.
First morning waking up
Alone; face down in
Her pillow that
Still grasps strands of her hair,

And her scent.
I have anchored smiles to the
Stabs that come
When standing in a moment
Next to her fresh absence, not
Holding her hand.

Now I grin into the
Woman shaped vacuum
That follows me like Peter Pan's
Shadow reattached, and
Put my feet on the floor of this
Museum to our every
Yesterday.

I am a very big boy.
I don't have time for self-pity
And longing.
I'll cry a little. Miss a little.
Tear myself apart with little
Reminders, but no more.

I'll be on my own.
Pick a flower or two along the way,
Just to rest my soul upon
Female skin; as poet and artist
More than man.
My eyes keep moving
Upwards; forwards, looking for
Mountains, hungrily.
There's more to Life
Than Love.

I stand alone, rebuilt, enforced.
Sverre 2.0.
An army of one; with a world of
Reinforcements
Standing by for support
If needed.

Fish in the sea like stars or
Grains of sand.
Let the streets be galleries
Where I can smile back at
Women watching with soft eyes,
Without feeling the least
Bit guilty.

-

I rest my head against the
Punching bag, sweaty and done.
Outside, the winds from the south
Play with trees that sing of
Serenity, solitude, silence and
Soul. Proving that
I belong right here. And that
She once did, but
Doesn't.

two items of interest, that make sense
in an english society these days,
susanna hoff... mm, mm...
             a gal that makes
jerking off a tedium...
                                     what?!
- ****, said it out-loud,
romancing an italian got me
everty, single time,
just the sort of thing that
aged, nearing retirement polish
galls get up to,
spicing up their retirement age.
the exfoliation of the 80s hairstyles
makes a lot of sense with
a niqab thrill for a fake *****....
      she can call it modesty -
i just call it faking latex lucy
with her celluloid -
  pucker that one, *****?
                       yoju know what,
i actually hate living around
these nincompoopss....
                     politics actually made
sense in the victorian era,
not the second Elizabethan era,
ma'am...
          sorry, you cultivated
a generation of window-lickers....
         you'd sooner get more of
these, things,
   if you chopped their limbs off...
they're not even equipped
at flapping,
     imitating wings...
                       let's call it a blockbuster
evening's end by suckling on
the suggestion,
when idi amin cut off
the limbs of his cheating bride
              kay amin -
and, miracle! behold!
             he reattached her feet
to the place where her hands ought to be,
and also reattached her hands
where her feet out to be!
     that, i thought, was a spectacular
caterpillar...
      many memories of fluttering
butterflies came from that image,
   let me assure you!
            duck fat written all over it!
mm... yum!
                 sorry...
i always get the impression that
the english have to write sarcasm to
invite parody.
hmm... maybe it's just me...
perhaps i'm a soloist in guising
the current affairs.
maybe not being black enough
will wake the Zulu in me
to match up to, tailor and suit up
adorning the english youth and
thinking nothing of:
               those limbs aren't 'elping,
are they, if we're really
serious about growing these
gluttonous barons of bloat and carnal
flesh, with an inner narrative
that resides in a scrap-heap dubbed:
Newton... what's the point
of a wasted pint's worth of time?

No doubt some hint had made an attempt to garner my attention long before that day I heard the words escaping from my mouth and leaving a battery acid taste on my tongue , but that did not stop the long parade of colorful words; sufficient to bring back to life ,the paint of an antique horse carousel.
  By the time I began to wind down and run out of expletives , I was exhausted from the sheer weight. attached to each and every word - in servile  ******* -charged with the responsibility of holding back those once set free; only to be snatched back just before emerging into reality.  Most ,fighting and kicking as they were dragged down deep into the dungeons of my soul ,chained to enough weight for keeping in place what I know I could never erase , languishing there until the immediate splice of time when they were reattached , becoming colorful additions to the passing parade.   Leaving that acid taste on my tongue.
   If that taste and a bit of exhaustion - related to  having each word reinstated-
was the cost of each having now been tossed into the center of the ring , from my weary ,dreary  persona. ; having become  uninspired and tired from so long  mired in the quicksand of the hopeful - is the cost then I  am gladly willing to pay. --if for nothing else - to see what they will say.
  Across the room - just outside the ring- my opponent , placid as a painted wall unmoved ,staring in bemused acceptance , ignoring or unable to comprehend the enormity of the moment ,as if to prove some subjective superiority says.....
   "Wow... Do you feel better now?"
   Right then I said; never again ...right then I told myself ...will I be pulled down to drown in emotional hopelessness , or weighed  down by bound words  that should have been released .  Never again putting myself second in a one-person race , so I shook it off ,spat out that bitter taste  - then I packed up everything I could find that was' The Me That I Used to Be "
  Walking out the door (forever) I turned my head and said
   " I DO NOW"

I held you in high regard,
your regard my deepest desire.

I wanted nothing but that spark of approval in your eyes
So I removed mine, blind to your faults,
And broke my bones, reattached them where you pleased,
mutated myself into a response to your needs.

I bent over backwards trying to make myself worthy of you,
worthy of a two second glance, of a slight uptick of lips,
when it struck me,
like a lightning bolt;
an epiphany.

I am not a contortionist.

I am not a mound of clay
to be moulded according to your expectations.

I am not water in a receptacle,
assuming the shape of it,
spreading myself thin or shrinking myself to fit.

I am the sea, the ocean, wild and free
and a little bit tempestuous,
a little bit uncertain,
a little bit blue,
but mostly,
not tamed by you-
not tempered by your desires-
not contained in your claustrophobic boundaries.

No more this simpering shadow of myself,
No more the swallowing of my words, choking on my laughter,
No more this false tittering at your behest,
No more the unravelling of my identity like a spool of thread,
No more the restitching of my being to be your best, not mine.
No more you, anymore,
Only more me.

I fell apart today.
The anchor from which I'd cut away
suddenly reattached, twice as heavy as it had been before.
And I was completely imprisoned,
a heavy weight pulling down on my weary heart.
Like a silent film it hit me,
in jerky flashing, singular grey images;
indiscernible but sad.
A birthday cake.
Shiny smiles reflected from
clear cool sandy beaches.
Warm, cuddles after Christmas dinner.
And these ghosts of us haunt me always
down every familiar street,
every memory, every story, every jewel
adorning the crown that is my life
is haunted with ghosts of us.
Not the us limping, and wounded, and beaten by life,
holding on to those beautiful images.
Eyesight fading, changing at least.
No, the wide-eyed kids who became one that first night
and ignited a fire that burned,
for a quarter century.
A beautiful, perfect, copy-read family.
Nobody forgetting their lines.
And one day I reached out to touch you
And your skin felt cold.   Still soft, but cold.
And I knew immediately that I need to cling
to those beautiful images.
And capture new ones,
sharper and more vibrant
with years of progress, and learning.
Loving and gentle with the images of the past
but steady and strong
against the unforgiving winds of time
from  every direction.
“We built her strong”,
I tell myself.
"We sure ******* did"
Perhaps, we built her too strong
She’ll never sink,
but she’s not fit to sail.
Leave her where she is, to the salt,
and the sea,
and the rust, the ******* rust.
The anchor, still fastened tightly
but choking my heart no more.
Instead holding me fast,
against the current, and the winds,
and the ghosts of us that haunt me
each and every day.

He scrambles to find his words outside her front door, they all spill onto her front porch
She looks at him and all he can say is I don't know
She looks at the ground and says she has to go
He wanders back to his car but she doesn't leave the doorway
She proclaims out into the night "I knew you would run away"
He turns his head around and shuffles his feet on the ground
He's still looking for an answer the likes of which he hasn't found
With a little shake, he speaks back to the surrounding black;
"I thought I forgot my mind in a sack, I left it here and I want it back
It's been oddly dark and I cannot feel my heart, but I need all my parts if I'm ever to start
Maybe after I'm reacquainted with my brain, I can let you in without piggybacking all the pain
If the reattached pieces manage to cooperate, then maybe I'll see you at some later date"

And it wasn’t that I fell out of love.
Every so often the wings of butterflies graze
Against the veins, plucking them to match my heart’s tongue tied tempo
No, I never fell out love.

And it wasn’t that I lost interest.
My mind’s compelled to acknowledge  
The thoughts were he resides, to nervously manage a smile, to sheepishly look away.
No, I never lost interest.

The memories involving him detach from their tree
Fall as the branches try to grasp them, to have them reattached.
His name is on the lips of the wind and I listen as it brushes me aside,
feeling as if not the wind but he who brushes me aside.

With the knowledge of having to refrain from intimately knowing him
I see another path present itself in my wake
And my heart, adventurous at its heart, walks down the unknown.

The new path bears a resemblance so striking
They could be twins.
The butterflies inhabit the area
My mind smiles with the nerves
And yet,
They differ.

The unknown is daunting
A menace
Something to greet with open arms
Only to embrace with a dagger ready to eliminate the threat
And yet
I will take it step by step
Heartbeat by heartbeat.

Two hands on the bars
Right hand leans too far back
Whiskey throttle
Adrenaline ****** hits the fence post
Wheelie by default
Error in the process
Whiskey throttle
Everything realigned
Restart
Reboot
Try again
Power off
Shut down
Switch user
Try again
Sorry no internet connection

Whiskey throttle
Lost control
Can’t contribute to the parade in the front yard
Take the cigarette out of your uncles fingers with dirt engraved under his nails
Light up
Inhale
Breathe out
Repeat
Exhale
Toss out
Whiskey throttle

Grass stained elbows
The most important part
Ligaments reattached
Reassembled
Ensemble of instruments clashing in your ear
But to the ones watching
All they hear is the motor and the birds
You can hear his menacing laugh
Like a unforgettable business deal
Reach arm
Shake hands
Hold tight
Place other hand on top
One more shake
Release
Shame
Mistake
Revenge
Whiskey throttle

My blind date became violent because I took her to Popeyes instead of KFC.
She didn't get her eleven herbs and spices so she beat the hell out of me.
I took her to Popeyes Chicken because Popeyes is cheaper.
She became so violent that I nearly met the Grim Reaper.
She jabbed me in the eye with a fork and crammed a salt shaker up my ****.
When she was done, she'd covered my body with wounds and cut off my nuts.
She actually wanted a second date but I strongly protested.
When she insisted on another date, I had the ***** arrested.
I'm having to pay to have my ***** reattached and for the removal of the salt shaker from my ****.
I'll never go on a blind date again, not only does she become violent, she also looks like Jabba the Hutt.

The ship of Theseus is a paradox of same.
as it goes it changes the parts but keeps the name
one by one the ship is rearranged until all is different so is it the same.
a completely new ship made from new materials only has the name.
but a ship made with both new and old is Theseus in made.
so like the ship of Theseus I feel myself rearrange.  Am I the same?

cells disbarred from their membrane die off get reattached as if one in the same atoms detach and some latch on forever creating the Basin that is me but through bones broken and Longs holding I find it hard to explain and through all these changes if I still deserve my name. Am I the same? Hair grows to be cut high up from the low even the way the eyebrows for different and I can't tell if I'm over reminiscing because I can see in the distance what I used to be but in the ship I can see the current me but when I go to reality I'm washed up on the shore the saying so deep and full of remorse back to the ship and I steer off course in the sales are breaking and the deck is smashing and the rocks are passing tearing the ship apart. There I laid destroy and torn apart both me and my ship are piece of art so I asked cuz I claim and am i the same?

The ship of dontique is a paradox of self as he lives on the parts are change.
slowly he is rearrange rebuild constantly but the structure stays the same and do all these changes he Remains the insane and ask himself does he deserve the name so let the ship speak for itself
am I the same?

The Easter story,
Known by many,
Is the inverse of the fall of biblical Adam and Eve:
What fruit was eaten
Of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil
Was reattached
On that same tree,
When Jesus was crucified,
When Jesus crucified himself,
When the tree crucified Jesus.
Jesus became the new fruit
That uneven bark could not hold for long,
Though, biblically, a tree be the Christian God’s creation,
How can the created
Hold its author?
Yet it was fulfilled
That Jesus, equally human in his Passion,
Bear the creation
That would keep his body,
But free his spirit.
For earth goes back to earth,
But, considering this story,
And that each soul is different,
Might all souls default
To their common origin hereafter?

Every page that I wrote upon
                        scribbling words
                                 syllable features
of the faces I was trying to peel on
                            the pages.

But then I ******* each one up,
           reflections sewn on again.
blunt metaphors reattached
                                    that I had
           been able to remove where

one again back where they began.

All I needed was to remove this
                                 weight hanging
heavy upon my every façade.