hey! i don't mind the dodo! i don't have some neuroticism encompassing vitriol to continue: but sure as ****, you do. what happens when the white ladies die off? **** a monkey?! i accept my fate, like you accept your being bound to heavenly graces of continuum inexhausted with death being a lost concept of compensation... it only takes 2 generations to revise the piglet race... so... where's the competing element of nervosity? really? really?! existential blackmail?! is this how low it has to be grounded in? look at me, do i look like i actually give, a ****?! maybe you do, but this existential blackmail in the anglophone world of puritanical darwinism is not for more... i already find it hard raising jerking off in this world, let alone a pair of tadpoles... honest to god, it's already hard raising a pristine jerking off, let alone a pair of children.

i'm still trying to figure out this existential anglophone
blackmail... it's been bothering me for
ages... i simply can't fathom it...
i really can't stop seeing it as an existential blackmail...
that i somehow need to reproduce...
   that i'm somehow needed, my genes are speaking
to the darwinistic affection
of keeping "form"... can i just say that i don't
get it?! can i just cite that
darwinism has a negative impetus strategy for
invoking existentialism?
    can i just say that darwinism belongs on
the isles, and existentialism
belongs on the continent, and that the two never
are allowed to mingle?
no? so why do i feel blackmailed
into "needing" to reproduce?
besides the point, i never intended,
i was one of the one child state policy of china,
we were always the weirdos -
but the english have half a wits' worth
of understanding of existentialism,
they kept **** *******
darwinism, sorry, but they did...
an ex-girlfriend's father once asked
me: what are the famous poles?
i forgot to reply...
copernicus, marie curie,
          chopin?
   no, doesn't ring a bell in your
paddy sodden brain? **** me,
i'm always late when it comes to
insulting someone, it usually takes me
years upon years to reply an insult...
which makes everything a really bad joke.
but i hate how english existentialism
took off,
   just as bad as my late reaction to
an insult's worth of joke...
     existentialism & darwinism do not exactly
mingle...
        come on, you have to be kidding me...
when it comes to english existentialism
(covert darwinism): i am being blackmailed...
i am literally being blackmailed into
some form of apartheid...
some sort of quasi: apartheid...
no, i'm not equipping myself
with misnomer tactics -
         i'm being blackmailed to: "continue"
my "species"...
  last time i checked,
i couldn't give two ***** of concern
for *queen sheeba's prophecy
of the world being populated by
the copper skinned peoples...
i.e. cuprum populus...
                 somehow darwinism,
existentialism and populism and the general
of competition, have created a toxic affair
of: a complete lack of competing energisation;
sure! the jews will win their "prize"
of recanting their jewel prize of ten diadem
rules...
     among the choccies and the copper skins;
don't you think the jews look a bit
odd, a bit out of place, given that they're
so white, in the middle east?
         oh right, no i remember:
stating the obvious huh? is now considered
a hate speech;
so the fact that the jews returned to the middle
east: kinda bleached, is not, "a bit" weird?
can i have those magic mushrooms now?

walking into smoke shop,
hoping to find a girl named
Expectations. hoping she'll
have legs, eyes, all the usual
contrived sights. careful, con-
trolled tiny burns. no one's
blowing up the bridges.
no one is trying for attention.
hoping to catch it strutting like
a Bird of Paradise. strutting
isolated, too lazed to clear the
grounds. too lazed to give too
much of a **** for attraction.
lips broken by the winter wind,
lonesome travelling with
Expectations aside. she's waiting.
hoping. to rise, to strive, to arrive
at finality. and then onward. and
then **** Expectations after.
gripping hands, mine alone,
forcing friction to dry qualm'd
sweats. to remove embarrassment
of inaction in inexperienced persons.
citing her, citing everything
foreseen and predict'd. all in
hopes at removing consequence,
but Expectations' voice threw tog-
ether a string of words unbecoming
of her vocabulary. they were unbe-
coming for a girl in that place of society.

walking out, rebuffing time and ad-
vances. fighting this mortal fight for
invincibility. to be of highland descent.
amending to Expectations on the side.
amending for waste of sacred days. lights
cast where darkness was. and these thoughts
enlightened by Son of Vonnegut on his
northward journey for Nirvana.
spitting blood, searching for immortality.
******* Expectations. *******
up life in the blood-lust. throwing a second
pair of shoes in the trash. waiting to ask
questions of persons un-wanting when questions
unwanted ask'd by persons of a cloud'd past.
and the infection is in the heart, is in the soul,
is in the lungs. with each words' passing from
putrid mouth, with each word infect'd in entirety.
pushing into the world meaningless
****. these un-embodied words are only a
passing lip-service, and have never relfect'd -
never realized - on the recant'd lives they've
run thru. nor the current running. recanting,
redacting, refracting - a disease of distraction.
Expectations lurking by ruined road.
that chance to rise, to strive, never
let her more than some inch of give.

holding prejudices, clinging with
desperation. held by throat.
sacrificial lamb found through
re-imaged scapegoat. watching
hours fleet, awaiting death
of muscles strength. awaiting
ravenous claws at pit's bottom.
Expectations peeking through
slit'd fingers, avoiding direct
contact of vision. learn-
ing to forget promises.
her eyes shine hazel.
learning of life, roots grind the ground
as scapegoat - throat released - gnarls hair
in fingers. feet force avalanche of scree
falling in eyes of ones attached ravenous claws.

silent with-holdings. Expectations
with hand over heart. spitting blood,
and whoa. something's not right.
Expectations *******, partial nakedness
and truth of truth. tears of mud caked
mountains. weighing down, and stare
never longer leaves the ground. and
blood turn'd stone, spitting worlds
with creationist vigor. making some-
thing for sake of nothing and feet
fall to repetitive rhythms. Expectations
falling, Expectations *******,
Expectations' hazel-stained eyes.

They say it's a free world and I have the freedom to speak my mind.
I see people on television recanting their lines, reporter's at the door and offenders peeping through the blinds.

If speech is free then why do I have to pay?
When someone takes offense to the words I say.

Now this doesn't sound like freedom to me....more like selective or should I say controlled

shutting my voice down like a person on hold....

When I say what I feel, it becomes a problem.  
Funny thing is......resigning or being fired appears to solve them.

Why is it insubordination when i'm using my right that is freely given.....not by man, but the One who has risen.

Although, they are free to say whatever they please.....
meanwhile...am I really supposed to smile and say "cheese?" ......when I feel like spewing a few obscenities.

I've been given a write up and I have a meeting with H.R.....
They are only referred to by letters because no one knows who they are.

My Facebook has offended many and my Twitter too.....let's not mention Tumblr ....that's a bit much to chew...

Where the Hell is the freedom of speech I'm entitled to?

No freedom online, offline, not even while I'm standing in line.
Some female telling me off because I said something about her behind.

She was fine, but had on see through .....I'm checking her out...because you know how guys do.

Now my freedom of speech is put on delay, because I can't express what my mind really wants to say:

Lovely lady your looking good with more cake than a baker, skin brown like bronze....precious for sure....I don't mind your company...I'm not expecting anything more.  You display a touch of cool....thumbs up like the Fonz.....

I want to take you home and shine you up like chrome.  I'm on my Macaulay Caulkin....I have you home alone.

The teller says "Hello sir and is that all?" snapped out of my fantasy and sadly disgusted.

When they say freedom of speech those words can't be trusted.

I've learned that nothing is free when it comes to man....although freedom can be purchased, so allow the money to secretly fall into my hands.

"Freedom of speech.....It's not really free at all."

Idyllic sensations of fingertips gliding across unspoiled flesh

Kisses fill in the gaps left by words unspoken

Bright eyes meet and exchange heavy glances of infatuation

Souls clinging to the inexperienced adoration, praying it stays fresh

The luxury of hearts yet to be broken

Blooming lust like budding carnations

Petals flittering about in cold springtime sun

Flippant and apathetic about what the future holds

Never expecting to be crushed under the boot of a world-weary passerby

Despite pressure to crumble apart, the petals cling together until their lives together are done

The heavy feeling of eyes cast upon young lovers, bystanders recanting the most terrible scolds

Are no match for star-crossed lovers, too entangled in emotions to be pulled apart by outside forces, and too far gone to say goodbye.

expect digression, misspelling,
self-formed words. and for this
to be a long one, therefore not
worth reading.

ten hours, but of awakening for
twenty or so. drinking wine from
bottle to gauge consumption, but
also because that's how one
should show how much of a classy
mother-****** they are. drinking
and re-reading, the prior being
some kinda sin for a writer.
   of Hemginway:
      'Write drunk, edit sober.'
rules worth breaking and many
a lack of luck permeates. and
this one writes for you. canvas-
flapped this loss of arm. that's
a prior reference, by the way.
he was ruined of them; ruined
a curse propagation brought him.
to rise and wage however a
******* could, yet that however
brought an end in entirety. and
after a summer sweating, and
after a once and always absol-
ution of this winter madness.
    (the only cure has ever been
          isolation and deprecation)
always fleet-footed in the stressed
moments of the everyday. and
writing here, writing of this the
last few pages, expressioned in
particular voice. recanting
never these sacred art, defending
never the choices made nor whims
of soul or vessel. and breaking, and
influenced - to cite the adjective of
'inspired' - this phonetic will ounces
out restrained. restrained. next line.

at first
youre okay with it.
push off, men;
the grog swigs sweet.
swimming, seasick
sloshing from can
to canteen
                you should have stayed on shore
                not left it.

she saw your slurring
through white-tailed eyes.
her top popped off
with the crack and rush
you know.
you gulped it down.
our only resistance
residue from cans
coming in drops
                we
                should
                n­ot
                have
                done
                that­
leaving in puddles
soaking your socks
                you should have peeled off the wet
                not stand in it.

she saw your recanting
through chopped-onion eyes.
her thoughts popped off
with the snap and blush
you wish you didnt know
you swallowed a howl.
her only insistence
how could you
                you should have stopped her.

at last
youre only okay with it.
*******, man;
the sounds sting, screech.
fiending, seasoned
coughing up mistakes
and headaches
you should have eaten lunch
not imbibed it.

we never want to see
our child die before us
and we still pray to precede them
after seeing them die many times
                *
you've died right before my eyes
too many times for me to count

God knows i wasn't prepared this time
to see that glazed look in your eyes
with lids that i couldn't close
as they slammed upon tears that fell like stone

crashing upon brittle locks
that shattered like illusions installed
to protect my little girl from a ******
weakened by a familiar predator
that God knew long before
we ever joined to color by numbers

each recanting of you being pushed down
then smothered by the dead weight of ****
started a death rattle so pronounced
that i reached out to leave with you

God knows we will make it through this
as you psychologically pass from me once again
to mourn aside a grave marked for this event
on the eve of the sunrise of your empowerment.

My mind is extraordinary,
It has the power to erase history,
I cannot remember that time at the park,
I cannot recall what you said in the dark.
 
Perhaps it is my choice,
To forget your annoying voice,
Recanting the past is completely unnecessary,
When you live in the present, you’ve no burdens to carry.

My insecurities often scream louder
than the little voice inside of me.
Broadcasting and blasting out of stylish speakers
for all the boys and girls to see.
I've been held down,
by demons with travelling cloaks,
woven with invisible tapestry
clutched about their throats.
So to remove the words
I have so carefully purged
out my enigmatic system,
the ones caught and stuck inside my chest
with unusual strength and mysticism.
I took my hand,
jammed it deep down through my mouth
gagged on my fore fingers a second longer
in order to drag them out.
The vile words,
drowning in biled verse,
I drug them out through dreary space
and hung them with my shirts
I aired out days before.
The score of the fight
lies not in the aired out and forgotten,
but in the formations of tones
and phonetic clones
tangled in my web of rotten
sceptical insinuations.
Indelible infractions,
and taking back my sinful actions
are recanting hate, dispelling fate
burning holes within my reactions.
They've altered my vision,
long blurring scenes of scattered days
glass nails shattered in iron blenders
banishing frantic forays.

I've found it easier, less chaotic
to accept instances where I've felt at home.
I've come to enjoy devilish voices when I've lost it
because at least then, I'm not alone.

See the sky,
it's burning green,
Recanting the tale of the eyesore,
It's invading the skyline.
A newly created tower of Babel,
where none can speak our mother tongue.
Some won't listen anyway.
The authorities,
those powers that be,
painted my skyline,
with a blaze of green,
and somewhat sickly yellow.

Jeopardized my locality,
Played. a dodgy game of risk.
Community spirit evaporates,
as big fish businesses,
digest all the little fish,
Within in the happy village,
a.k.a metropolis.

It's happening everywhere you see.
Through powdered eyes scratched,
Itchy and dry,
by construction,
big builders,
the pus,
the toxic grip.
The scourge on the skyline,

Stolen my space,
obliterating garden view.
If the choice were mine,
I'd dress the
sky with decadence,
with stars,
not stripes of colour ,
Give the council options,
Give them half a chance,
they'll build upon our forest hills.
(C) Livvi

When it's over
And you have
All but moved on
You change my plans.

Recanting every word
And every bruise.

Your tune changes
Faster than the song ends
And I am caught
Like a fly in your web.

Here's to our familiar suffering.
Let it begin again.

cotton candy kites clinging to an infinite sea of allusions
temperament changes are frequent forecast and gravity is the only thing standing between me melting like the wax on Icarus' wings.
i am standing too close to the sun.
a star.
a super nova.
how many more **** times am going to have to tell myself that i deserve better than the women i typically swear by?
i'm always eager to pick up the pieces someone left behind.
expunged memories caught in a loop.
feurdian repetition ,
as if it were a competition,
a race to figure who can lose their sanity first.
i do not believe that people who are "in love" are sane.
i do not believe people who aren't are either.
i am not bias
i just think everyone is a little bit crazy sometimes.
bet you thought this would all make sense by now?
that my imagery would make a reappearance and you'd be able to comprehend the vast intel my spoken heart has to offer.
well sorry to disappoint.
this poem is morphing into a rant.
i am not here to crowd please anymore than i am here to shove my pencil up your...
ear.
i have a hard time giving you my heart because it'd just look like i was handing a ******* hand spun cliche.
the women i have dated have their own gravitational pull
and i'd be lying if i told you i didn't believe a single one of them belonged in my galaxy forever, you see
for i am just a comet.
i get trapped for a while, spun around,
doomed to kiss the surface of anything that crosses my path

these words I know to be true.
we are but stars
shining quite different,
yet somehow the same.
where were you?
last night.
when I was calling your name.
and who am I to blame?
for this constant torture,
this particular pain.
my heart, does not follow
a transparent weather vein.
I know these notions to be true.
for this is my world,
and through me, you'll see,
a whole new shade of blue.
brighter than any sky,
yet still saddening,
still maddening.
I often refrain from recanting
my time with you.
each day praying, I'd become
someone new.
this queer life style
is the safest thing I could find.
and I sure hope you don't mind,
the fact that I bind.
you COULD certainly win me over
because YOU KNOW that I'm about
as lucky as a three leaf clover,
and about as melodramatic
as day-time television.
but then,
I guess it would be to assume
that I've grown quite fond of you.
and I don't know...
maybe you'll find this charming.
or  maybe not.
it's just a thought.
I'm just throwing this out there.
with these last few seconds,
to spare.
I bid you adieu with some confusion. if this lust is truly an allusion,
just like the colour of the sky.
I'd like to remain idle near by.
to see what might come of this.
how we might change and grow,
with this.
for I speak these words in truce.
let us forfeit our sanity together.
it might not be so bad to let myself be here,
to be present
with you
these words I know to be true.

why does the ontological study of beings,
boil down to the pathological study
of being, most notably,
in the anglophone world?
  in heidegger's terminology that's also
said with the zesty succinct
         reiteration via:
     why does the ontological study of beings
not belong to (a) being, but, rather,
(that) it belongs to the pathos of: beings in being -
i.e. man is born not born at all,
unless he becomes many men,
  and dies as: a single man...
   it just feels like the apparently
"useful idiots" are scarcely recognised -
          a study of ontology in an anglophone
world is an appropriation of
pathology - a pseudo-hypochondria -
a hypochondria associated with:
  ensuring that there's a biology a chemical
or a physical answer for any said
predicament, other than the simplest one
of all:
      having explored the world in
anthropological terms, returning to
the world that originated anthropological
study of "alien" cultures,
  the culture that the anglophone people
have returned to, has in turn become more
alien than the supposedly "alien" -
   has become the more riddled with tribalism
than the supposedly "tribal" -
    it was probably fun to watch the explosion,
but watching the implosion is like
satan's voyeurism of ****-naked adam
in the garden... mate... better get a move on...
it might be poison in the short run,
but once you survive ingesting a fruit
that bears no cohesive systematisation of
what's good versus what's evil,
well, let me tell you,
  the only siamese of an and you will hear
of being spoken as being unable to
un-differentiate or integrate good from evil,
and treat it as: and that's good, and that's evil,
and that's good & evil...
      is a woman, your entry point boy'o...
beyond good and evil = either / or...
        but then i split second magic
john - sometimes i sit down expecting a ****
and then i just hear a waterfall of ammoniac
lemonade...
  the anglophone world doesn't study
ontology,
        and even if it did,
it would study it via a pathology -
              the logic of being is its pathos -
the logic of being is its pathos -
  repeating this is to not imply
a profoundness, merely to illustrate
an unravelling:
     to subtract actual conversations by
shielding yourselves with biological terms
and chemical insignia and then
blowing everything up out of
                         toasting bread and spreading
jam and butter over the **** thing?
         if only the supposed public
intellectual could provide a dualism,
rather than a dichotomy - that all that's being
said is not mere for: show.
              casually, like the french casually
swap wives...
rather than like the english have to
make a spectacle out of: an idea...
you need a pulpit rather than a napkin,
a script rather than a fork,
an audience rather than a glass of wine...
etc. etc.,
                   i'm nearing gauging my eyes
out when the overwhelming ideas
never materialise into everyday talking...
but remain on stage,
and then the anglophone world will really
look crude...
   there's a maxim:
the russians rely on their existence via
reading...
   a russian that doesn't read: is a dead russian...
seems the anglophone world
is dead already...
                           sure:
you'll survive the great tolstoy epic of
reading the advert: nike - do it.
                   the anglophone world is
riddled with talking, overcome by defending
speaking the hell the **** said with
the cinematic triumph of: gone with the ****...
enter: the germanic burp...
   and some say: it's actually polite to slurp
chicken soup in japan...
                        with those **** fine
egg-noodles... yummy! almost a cougar
feeling, but never quiet the warmth in
that shly prosthetic juggling act of
pharma and... wouldn't you call that
predatory behaviour,
   i.e. alexandra shulman and 'arry styles?
mmm... guess it's a men's club chew-chew-chub;
blubber whale, ******* in and through,
and to think...
the woman that broke the hearts
of millions of teenage girls...
     different date-babies from the time
of the drooling stones.
there's absolutely nothing ontological
about the anglophone world...
              in that it's either comedy,
or it's pathology...
                   i'm wrestling this german out of
my head, but unlike a woman,
i have about 50+ "fetuses" in my head,
and they're all talking in the agora -
          a woman might have ten helpless
tadpoles in her womb,
   i have 50+ in my "womb" and none of them
are giving a rest... payback time for
being stuck in faking human for 9 months
stage, which lasts for about 9 years
post mortem...
                 ontology translates in english
as pathology...
   and the reason that ontology translates
in english as pathology,
is that the anglophone world deems itself
to be reverent in being unapologetic -
           pristine, clean,
   like the nazis, but unlike the nazis in
their "prized possession of darwinism" against
ethical huguenots...
        more against historical recanting
the father's sins: in the name of the father
and of the son, and of the holy spirit...
sound familiar?
                            there are no greater
"nazis" in the anglophone world than those
you stress "******" via ethnicity,
   but so blatantly discredit a historical
connectivity of: **** versus consent...
          1966 is in no way related, apparently
to other aspirations...
               apparently: there's a magical
cut-off point...
                           we live in times when
the topic of ethnicity is made titanic,
while the topic of history is dwarfed...
             how the two are unrelated is beyond
me...
                i know this is shrapnel,
   for the same reason that like you,
i too am disorientated to cling to a silver surfer's
worth of a trustworthy vector that i can
coordinate with...
       the dominant narrative of pure
biology has been replaced by the dominance
of a pristine history...
                             once more
that eternal line in the anglophone world:
it is a common mantra -
more against historical recanting for
the father's sins: in the name of the father
and of the son, and of the holy spirit...
i will not lay claim to my father's sins...
  in the name of the father, and of the son,
and other the holy spirit;
hey... we're in this together,
   you've always said so: let's grind this
mule out into a fine paste of bone and marrow
and slouch toward golgotha.

I watched everything I loved about you dissolve,
Sitting alone through time while my flesh did crawl,
Of all things in this world left sacred,
I suffered your recanting without such merit,
I despise everything that you've since done,
And what hurts more is what I've become,
Suffice it to say, I am no more,
You've naught for me, decayed, you adorn.

these words I know to be true.
we are but stars
shining quite different,
yet somehow the same.
where were you?
last night.
when I was calling your name.
and who am I to blame?
for this constant torture,
this particular pain.
my heart, does not follow
a transparent weather vein.
I know these notions to be true.
for this is my world,
and through me, you'll see,
a whole new shade of blue.
brighter than any sky,
yet still saddening,
still maddening.
I often refrain from recanting
my time with you.
each day praying, I'd become
someone new.
this queer life style
is the safest thing I could find.
and I sure hope you don't mind,
the fact that I bind.
you COULD certainly win me over
because YOU KNOW that I'm about
as lucky as a three leaf clover,
and about as melodramatic
as day-time television.
but then,
I guess it would be to assume
that I've grown quite fond of you.
and I don't know...
maybe you'll find this charming.
or  maybe not.
it's just a thought.
I'm just throwing this out there.
with these last few seconds,
to spare.
I bid you adieu with some confusion. if this lust is truly an allusion,
just like the colour of the sky.
I'd like to remain idle near by.
to see what might come of this.
how we might change and grow,
with this.
for I speak these words in truce.
let us forfeit our sanity together.
it might not be so bad to let myself be here,
to be present
with you
these words I know to be true.

To my dearest darling Joe

I had to let you know of fun that we have had on our latest holiday, I know you would get such a kick out of the tales we have to tell.  

It was a last minute all inclusive deal, we set out with Sue and Steve for some late autumn sun to Zante the Greek island of fun.

Oh Joe I cannot tell you the colour of the seas,  so clear so blue I can't do them justice, if you could see a picture it may be a start but in theses seas you can see to the bottom and the sand is  white and dark.  

No seaweed in sight nor turtles too, it's too late this time of year but olive trees and lemon, lime, oranges and grapefruit are everywhere and handy for a bite, that's right I put my hand up and plucked an orange from the tree, oh Joe your mouth would explode, it tasted so divine.

The people are oh so friendly and they make it very clear that the sun in the sky is unusual at this time of year.

We hired a car and drove into the mountains and dropped down to a port, hired a boat and they took us to shipwreck cove, where some years ago a boat had shipwrecked and it's cargo cleared the sea, we swam and dived in the clear blue sea underneath clear blue sky, oh and some people were tightroping across the ravine, I'm afraid I didn't have the courage to join them in the sky but I lied down and watched them heroically cross from end to end.

We've eaten traditional food and drank traditional ***** and used the traditional loos, do you remember the ones in the south of France that mum and I refused to use, we'll these were exactly the same. We've laughed and cried recanting tales of days goneby.

It really has been delightful a holiday to remember, one I wish I could tell you all about, I know you would sit and laugh with me as I retell the fabulous holiday we have had to catch some sun on the Greek island of fun, Zante.

I love you Joe **

an occulted mass kicking at light gone
a moment ago, as if in a sooty stomach,
maleficent enough to deliver the unborn.
cries that vent down a lengthening
hallway--abandoned to what forces open
an original wakefulness.
the way knowing you becomes a cryptic
comorbidity, a walk of shame every morning--
a slathered nausea, too smooth for sickness.
tons of traumatized flesh recanting vulnerability,
(mostly yours) long after a bed became a
one-sided argument.
seasons regard you with braindead gossip: 'is that
her again, she still exists--she always thinks
something's off, it's the landfill of personal stuff she
compulsively goes through. '
a nonstop pause for Jane, her yoyoing edge--a highly
inconspicuous center of attention, captured in photos
superficially waving off the fuss.
a hyperalert shutdown, Cinderella's carriage to pumpkin
developing acne vulgaris, sloppily tripping with eyes
caked on her.
angsty & unrestorable disconnects--daring selectees to
root out a fantastic despiser.
tender years designating the world as an apologist.
a chronic sense of entitlement winks out, already 
elsewhere--as if nothing ever happens.
then happens all at once, a fluorescently lit bathroom
unsparing an in-your-face ugliness.

Authors Quote: "Trust in His power" he said, I was lost like doubting Thomas
displaced in a moment of doubt and erased from all of certainty

Questions unanswered for so long plagued at my senses
if only I had a crystal ball, then I'd know for sure
Dreams that never had a chance skirt my dis-satisfaction
steam opened by the pressure of my two hopeless hands

"Trust in His power" he repeated while recanting the bible
if only I had Faith the size of a mustard seed then
I'd grow tall and secure just like the Sequoia tree  
on a snow packed mountain, soaked to the bone with TRUST

Years of not understanding the simple truths of Him
if only He hadn't picked a cankerous mole like me
"Everyone should be proud to be called son and daughter"
this is what he said, then He whispered, " Come to me !"

it's not akin to a wine connoisseur
                                    making samples...
   air?
          and the antithesis
of the suffocation arrived at by
producing parisian perfumes?
air!
        there is no undertone of hay
in this essex air...
   it's actually its most
             highly valued facet...
mmm...
         no, not dried wheat,
                                      hay...
the **** you make bed while having
wild countryside italian *****
films...
             i have,
absolutely 0 knowledge surrounding
this affair...
           but the scent (if any)
of flowers is numbing,
  in that: such visual creatures -
   even if they had the scent of a fern,
they'd be thespian given their
already pretty appearance...
    a bit like a ******* in amsterdam's
red light district...
   prior to: pretty to look like,
that village bicycle...
          but even prettier to half-eat -
only gulping down oysters comes
near...
    imagine! eating something alive
that's half-caste
       in allowing us, a composition
of life!
           almost like a ******...
                              who goes there?
ah... slobbermouth...
           a mouth so well oiled that
it might have been in a trough
           filled with nothing but, butter!
ever eat a flower
  to ever eat a ****, less dry and more
wet?
   to loo... to loo... to lubricate
                            the entry point?
pretended tiny **** *******
my first ******...
   i have to admit:
               that foil of excess skin
you had to pierce?
                              i could have been
circumcised...
               see...
          i have two protruding veins on
my phallus entwined to bind
the ******* to me...
        a bit like... ****...
                       the staff of hermes...
july, essex, hay...
                   not exactly pears
& stairs of other cockney rhymes
involving apples...
                                                        *******...
zygfryd de löwe:
                          loo-w'eh -
   no lo' behold no leo, just:
                                the evident umlaut.
no...
               i'm pretty sure i'm
less a political animal, and more an ******
animal...
                 but it's not like:
cheap erotica...
                 it's more metaphor and less
imagery of the basis objects
     surrounding the acts in Ovid's eye
                                                   of "concern"...

ah!
    that's teasing necrophilia preparing
buthered beef, pork, or chicken...
                             in replica on a canvas of
a woman's body...
                because how can it not be
intact, cooking raw meat,
   or eating tartare steak,
              and then not touching:
      a heaving mass
                                   of warm... mmm...
thigh...
                               toe...
             knee...
                                 hair... perfume!
                                       gushing blood-orange
lips...
                   cradles of the collar bone...
the sigh of eyebrows...
                     seashells of the ear...
                        a haunting sappho recanting...
and all but the hand of
   a woman...
                as if rembrandt's
                                             face of god,
                            in belshazzar's feast.