humans paint the galaxies;
stars poured by the gods
on a piece of dark, endless canvas.
the nature talks about freckles and moles on a maiden's skin
and how interesting connecting dots into intricate shapes is.

humans boast about love.
all the mediocre melodies to woo, cupid unleashing arrows,
and the cries written on minor scale;
blacks and whites of the piano.
the unexplainable look on one's eyes.
things they left unrecorded though—
ones the studio of the universe releases an album of:
motorbike roars as a boy speeds through countless others
that are deemed insignificant,
compared to the thought of his mom waiting at home.

for centuries and more centuries,
the poets go on about emptiness.
the caging abyss, they said,
of sadness. a dark place.
but seasons whisper the stark difference
of breeze nibbling on your skin
and of the dropping temperature of winter
harshly piercing your senses like knives.

dancers waltz to the moonlight,
reenacting silent screams and insanity.
but withering flowers' petals got themselves caught up in a game of tag with their own kin.

it's funny how humans talk about the comparison (as i am doing right now)
of the art we make and the art that is already there before us.
when the universe tries again and again to teach us
what kind of little majestic things we are, what kind of little majestic things surround us.

*(must say, we're quite dumb. unable to understand.)

I remember Rosalie, my grandmother
not a rose but a worn thorn among flowers
saying it was the doctor who killed him.
"It was no accident!" she screamed.
"They feed him poison because they
thought he was a head case."
I stood there, in the middle of
a perfect suburb that I didn't live in.
Clean sidewalks and quiet streets,
Jaybirds trading tunes with Hummingbirds.
My mom, saying nothing.

Building was something he loved
a bicycle pieced together from the
parts of a thousand different things,
a homemade coffee machine
that looked like a robot,
a model of the titanic as big as
a queen sized bed.

A great person once speculated that,
maybe
death comes to you in whatever form
you want it to, and I like to think
that it came to him in the form of
a giant Lego castle, opening up to let
him in and welcome him as their new king.
I hope his death came to him in Lego's,
because it came to me in the form of
a 2,000 foot plummet.

"Your dad died."
My mom said that two days
before Christmas break back in 2004
She'd just picked me up from school.
That day in P.E. I'd had hard rocks thrown at me
for being a minority
and my English teacher heckled me
because I supported gay marriage.
I'd spilled milk all over my uniform.
and I'd lost the money I've been saving for two months.
Now my mind went back to all of that,
as I thought I had misheard her.
I said nothing and she repeated it
"Your dad died."
I heard the sound of crackling in my ears
from my theory of hearing a mistake breaking.

the indifference on her face was
astonishing, but not unsurprising.
They'd be divorced alas
their past mistakes had sparked friction.
I had only seen him 6 times in
the last 6 years
and she was full of more hate
and false compassion than actual love.
then, and even now, I know
this isn't feeling like home.

The cause had been an accidental overdose.
Meds for his maniac, million mile thoughts,
and painkillers for his broken arms.
Mix'em and you've got
the worst kind of elixir.
The poisoned apple had been bitten,
and the curtain had fallen.
crying was reserved
for mental breakdowns,
when the weight of the two
vultures that sat on my shoulders
had grown to great
and my own mind had eaten too much of me.
And that is why I didn't shed
tears until much later,
the day i saw a 10-second video
recorded by him.
Reenacting the scene of a musical,
he held on to a random street pole
and spun and once done

said

"Hey, Jasmin. Hey, sweetheart"

Beep
end of recording.

How that single moment changed me
is difficult to describe
hearing those words,still
now ringing in my ears like a maddening tinnitus
I think made me realize that,
no matter what I'm
doing
saying
writing
Can't shun the world.
I can't seek refuge in the clouds,
never letting my feet touch the ground
I can't shut down when life turns into
a baseball hat and hits me over the head.
that moment , that day,
boot camp had turned into war.
My conscription had arrived
and instead of running, I took it.

now
I am crackled glass
that refuses to shatter
the reflections on the possibilities
of reaching that point where I don't hate.
Everything helped me carry on.
You can find beauty in the most terrible things;
you just have to squint.

I

Crested by the infamous gown
during a tribute                            to all digestible,
                                                     ­  sentient,
                                           grown strips of light
            playing splatter off the sockets
                                                         ­      of fishermen birds,
                                     who can no longer ignore all
                                     the puppy dogs and kitty cats canned
                                                          ­               in squeeze tubes.

Now every corner of this landscape--a puzzle-piece room
                                           designed to think in shades
                                           and seasonal plume dances.

The usual beautiful* late evening
has become clotted with hip hop Down's Syndrome
mixed with jazz Dual-Personality Disorder.

                                                   Vampire Hades' skull evacuated of ****** power,
                                                          ­      a scene of literal watercolor
                                                    wh­ere moods collage with paper rings

                   on their stubby tongues. An unfixed saturation,
                                                     ­         clean oils
                                                            ­   split
                                                           ­    like the parting of hair

                        Alice's pirate boy, her beauty is parched of tomorrow,
                                                       ­ a wolf for a blood-red moon
                 that works like a farmer
                          to      
                                                              th­e                       water.

                            Let us all that are wild
              quote the stormy truth that                          shifts the particles in space
                                             "It is all in the direction a flower grows,
                     educating a sea of doubtful faces--to the cruelty of nature
                                      Close the brutal mind,
                                                           ­       unless your eyes are flame-proof, Alice."

--It is yours to consume
but it is relatively us that belongs to the consequences--

                                                 ­  Churning coffee water,
                                            reenacting romantic bloodshed
                                    to addicts in attics
                                                          ­  --jostling war heroes
                                               back to this side of the looking glass.
--coming back to their tempest
                          of cremated breaths--a den with no one
                                                             ­   to sing with.
        Sad Alice,
   always sad Alice--mud on her face from             the Dead Sea's end
      of immortality           because Death is albino.


II

  
The top of the day,
                                                            ­              negative space
  has a dying voice        as it lies under the boot
                                       of the night sky  
                                                           ­      watching stars.
                                              "Simply tomorrow is right there
                                                above the mortals," Sweet Alice
                                                speaks, "To the many heavens
                                                      its­ overpopulating the fields."

       The earth needs its cotton blankets.
   Fresh air accents symptoms --dancing on slick gravel
  at 10:18 at night with a pale, pompous view of someone else's Paris.

Crocodile roads spit up by patterned archipelago drags,
updating the scream, "think more about going off the edge of hair and the last number
after twenty shots                         of anesthesia." The culture of Spanish sun denial devolves
         the fig tree
     novel delights.
99% of the fear that saturates the throats of people is a blonde tumor.
1% of the love is too passionate to contain the fires of field cotton.


III

         end of immortality
accepts her                 trying to escape her pirate boy
              but tones of nostalgia prevents the revival--a war with God, herself,

                                                       ­                 trying to escape looping Paradiso,
factory vents malfunctioning forth
                   the guts of Inferno.                     Purgartorio  plots on
                                                              ­          erased continents
                                                      ­   rolled down lamp shades/ everything is useful,
             waste nothing.

Republics spawned in damp pits stamp bargains on trust
     ringing each solo anthem as one: I saved you,
                                                            ­  feeble beast.
                                                          ­    I saved you,
                                                            ­  dear lonely and you didn't care.
                                                           ­    I reserved us both
                                                            ­  and you cast me back
                                                            ­  into Dante's imagination.
                                                    ­          I saved you,
                                                            ­  you feeble child
                                                           ­   and you burned
                                                              me­ with your
                                                              wo­rld.

     Weaving Alice, calm Alice lies in a dingy on the river Styx,
                                  cobwebs fit to her feet like rank shoes
           she gave her children when they were born malnourished
                                        ---starved of insurance money, mouths agape
for the silk heart of their father--an image of a moth in the shape of a human pelvis
                                                      with­ alligator mouths on the wing tips. They shared
                                      --Alice and him--those wings like scribbles tied together on chalkboards
                                                     ­                                 
                               ­                                       --places to venture--

Your Wonderlandia, she spells, a wasp's nest
                                  of combs
                                          in a hive locked
                              in with the others--concave atlas skies.

            Alice smiles with inebriated
   country boys
                          tossing comrades in the natural flow.
             Richly blonde Alice, admires the impression
                        of the night
                  once charred dreams,
                                               now volcanic forests.
              She glides on a dingy
              across the luscious joy
                             --lubricated veins in atheist's beliefs
                                 don't get lost here, just new places to venture.

Beneath malicious eternity, on the River Styx
                                                            ­        
               the boy she adores
                                    all of a sudden, she steals his hat,
looks into his double-barrel eyes,
                                       sees how sad
             she makes herself                  --like a mother tired of brushing
                                                                ­ her daughter's hair, looming tears
                                                           ­                                         extend beyond widows
                                                          ­                                          to the water.

                      The pirate boy says
            his friend isn't far up the river--she cries through her hand.

                               Hopeful Alice prays, smiling, hoping everyone goes to Wonderlandia.
                                             The pirate boy never finds his friend
                                              but keeps his promise
             and takes her away from Euphoria
                                                        ­       --the cranium loss still fresh.

We ate chicken sandwiches, mine
no bun, at a table with an 80's
geometric design on top of two silver
metal legs with our legs
intertwined. I tried
to draw a comic on the wrapper,
but you kept making me laugh
by reenacting the conversation
we had with the lady at the register
who gave us the wrong change,
but using a baby's voice instead.
The boy mopping the floors wished
desperately that we would leave, but
you looked so cute with ketchup
on your lip and I really, really
didn't want you to drop me off.
There was an Adele song
on the radio that we've heard for the second
time, but you sound more like
a forgotten track to a John Hughes film--
a little heavy, a little messed up, a whammy
bar progression with blonde hair
who wore jeans and had a really cool car.
I'd like to kiss you like Molly Ringwald
does Judd Nelson in that movie
we talked the whole way through as it played
on Netflix. I'd like to wear you
like a bad haircut; something no one else
understands but I pull off effortlessly.
You feel effortless to me. So refill
my take-out cup with five different sodas,
make a scene as we leave the restaurant,
my hand laced up in yours, and let me drink
you in as I pretend we aren't driving
back home just yet.

this ripple effect leaves justice hanging
in and out of balance,
cycles expanding, contracting, repeating, reenacting
those atrocities which should never be seen.
how is it so that one man knows
all that which we suppose
a fallacy.
yet still an idea grows, lingers, equilibrium the trigger
to test the faith of those ginger.
perhaps they will prevail,
perhaps we will prevail.
the ripples never cease until dawn's dusk is unleashed.

Here I go
          Again
Smiling
          *So wide
An involuntary
Pure reaction
To the thought

          Of

You

Surroundings fade

I am fully submerged
          in Images and Dreams
Wholly immersed
          in Conversations and Schemes
Completely entrenched
          in Wondering
                    What this
                              All
                              
                                        Means

I am here
       Smiling
Again
          Right now
In these moments
Reenacting
A lifetime

          With

You

So far gone

Transcended to a parallel reality
I could dwell here
          In my make believe
Make a life here
          For you and me
Stay forever here
          Lost
                    Inside
                    
                              My fantasy

Awakened
          Now
Smiling
          Still
Filled with
Excitement
And Love

          For

You

©Tina Thompson

I remember a distant memory of how the rain and I don't get along. I would sit there playing with my matchbox/hot wheels track rug. I didn't have much growing up in terms of kids to play with until k was in school. But everyday I would play in that rug at night and it was such an escape from reality, the current playing video games. I could immerse myself for hours coming up with different scenarios for each one of my cars, I had quite the collection. My imagination was the best thing I could have asked for growing up. It was all I had to get away from adults and to fill my time. I wasn't allowed to watch tv or play video games except on the weekends and even then like kids in the 90s I was told to hang outside until the street lights came on. I would always dread coming back inside. As a kid you should feel safe in your home.It would often rain as far back as I could remember. Inside I felt safe from the outside but inside was a different beast. I place I couldn't run from, I felt all alone with no one to protect me. I am at the mercy of the people I were surrounded by. I don't remember doing anything wrong yet always finding myself to be a product of my environment. Unsupervised I remember the days of growing up watching horror films at a young age. I vaguely remember how that affected me when I started going to school with more kids and being on the playground. I was always causing trouble at school, reenacting the scenes or words I've experienced in those movies. Always getting calls home and getting in trouble. I wish I knew any better but was never really told right from wrong, real or fake. I figured out most of life in my own, a very sheltered hermit of a child with little to know social skills. Even though most of these things were out of my control or understanding I was relentlessly punished. I could see the look in my mothers eye she never knew what to do with me, no one did. It was always an outside source chiming in and performing disciplinary action, that's what I thought it was, until I grew up. Cold showers and the rain. The       thought of rain  I've always loved the sound, but the taste and feel would always put me in discomfort. I would hold out my hand to catch the drops but they always worked against me. Each drop sending a painful memory to that which I've suppressed many years ago. On each cloudy and stormy night I pray each and every one of you have an umbrella.
To shield your eyes from having to see the sky weep. To protect you...but if you don't open your umbrella it would lie there idly at the mercy of distance and your reach, or the will to hide from which you were afraid.

I understand this may be a bit to process but rest assured I've grown stronger and smarter from these experiences
.
On the death bed of the man who did this to me he called me. He wanted nothing more than to come to terms with his death and his past mistakes. Never to hold a grudge or seek revenge, all is forgiven.

I'm still choking on the ashes of your disappointment,
And I'm still reenacting scenes from the grave,
And I wish I could take a step into your mind
To fathom what firing synapses are urging you to consider

What do you think about on late nights?
Do you think about airports and silent drives?
Do you think about beautiful lakes and perfect heartache?

I've been digging graves for every single "I love you"
And I'm running out of eulogies

Sounds like sunshine,
On a gasoline rainbow,
And throwing rocks in the lake,
While reenacting that scene,
From the 50s movie you saw last week,
Where some 20-something doll face,
Spins about with her hands in the sky,
Giggling in a daisy field,
In god-knows-where,
While Mr Might-be-right,
Watches from the hood of his rusty pick up truck,
Inhaling tobacco fumes like there's no tomorrow


*Lovely

klatka: or cage -
don't ask me about the etymology.

czesław śpiewa, or: the prodigal son returns from
his hiatus in Denmark - talks accented slavic
and can't mustard the danish either - hello applause
of the mediocre crowd! intelligence? on the *bruk!
(threshold).
                  just enough distance
between you and me and a sniff our a cinnamon stick
being sizzled. i'd love to love women like richard
burton -
   but i'd prefer women to liked to
be women loved by richard burton:
if that makes sense -
            the story goes that since wwii
women embraced enough feminism
to drive all the manual labour to china -
and in fluster were cited as shouting:
come back! come back! no to be, honey....
which is why men of a certain age
turn to reenacting the battle of hastings
of 1066... Darwinism has created
a historiology dynamic: rather than a historical
dynamic - oh sure, there's a logic (wording)
behind it, but we're not really writing history
these days, we're writing something
that attributes history of expression,
but is nonetheless merely celeb culture.
i see more body-parts in my cognitive
reflection that in my ****** reflexion -
             the ego is my right hand (since i am
right-handed), and so and so forth.
                   we've moved beyond history
and what sort of environment is needed to
write history: incompetence, sadism,
patriarchy, Versailles, an Ottoman harem -
generally speaking, strife;
the only thing that keeps us thinking of
a merciful god are the elements we're exposed to,
and on water we strive, and by water drowned.
        we haven't got that,
we have d.n.a. augmentation and for those
that are actually creationists in robotics -
de-humanoid: never have we become so
dehumanised by being cultured and educated -
i find more humanity in an unread scaffolder
than i dare to poke and pierce the yoke of
a librarian's gusto -
               apparently a fifth of 10 to 12 year old girls
have never experienced concentrating
         on encoded sounds -
and even more never managed to
               ballerina twirl an R into an Я:
Narcissus kept them barren with wasted hours
in-front of the mirror.
i have absolutely no idea (other than the accent-diversity
argument) why the Anglos never applied
"punctuation" / diacritical marks to the encoding -
but as Darwinism teaches us:
  even the bible doesn't state why snakes
don't have eyelids, let alone limbs:
i think that not having eyelids is more of an agony
that slithering across the platitudes -
mind you: cats are serpents in disguise:
and they a pair of eyelids: hence that nausea of endless
sleep.
         sroka = magpie. some words really do sound
better in other languages...
                       they really do.
30 years on this earth and i've never bedded an English
or a Polish lass...
       African (tick), Russian (tick), Ukrainian (tick),
                    half-Indian (tick),
                           Thai (tick), Bulagrian (tick)...
****, i'm not picky -
i'll **** anything that moves; oh well, thank-****
that confession is over: or that's how i rationalise
the hot-air of conspiracy theories, and only believe
in things that really scare me;
and yes: you can be a really ******* on paper
after a drink or two, but as Adellè said:
                                       write not a word sober!
i mean, is sober literature even acceptable in that
Venetian banquet of fakery & blossoming?
     it just means you got tired of living
and started to chisel epitaphs on gravestones -
       if i wasn't in some ways impaired to do
what i used to do: i wouldn't have descended into
the Tartarus of Heidegger, and kept myself
afloat in the Hades of Stendhal and Dumas:
reasons all pointing toward posterity and
the love of weekend escapades to Stockholm Paris:
my my... Paris... or of what once was:
                                                          ci­rca 2004,
on the steps of Montemartre: **** you Heraclitus!
  which is the point: as man of individuated
surrounding we're but rivers, elongating and despairing
apart - but once in a century a man comes and
applies a transcendental overthrow of commoners such
me and Heraclitus: where there's no talk of a river
or the flux: instead the sea and the turbulence of
a tsunami, akin to Napoleon, ******, J.C.
all they said was universally true to all of them,
**** it, stampede!
          and it came to such blows of lost conscience and
massed mind virus: i really do care to say
    that such individuals (if we are to embrace
what's become a Cartesian dichotomy rather than
a duality, which is the case) are viruses:
collective manias: a Sydenham's syndrome
                                              (née st. Vitus' dance).
my interests in all of this?
    etymology is the wording of archeology when unearthing
plainer, dumber: etymology = archeology.
sure, there's the fashionable vocabulary,
there's also the standard Oxford vocabulary,
   then there's the cool kid slang something -
and then there's the individuation of vocabulary
toward idiosyncratic endeavours: on the palette:
a character study.
                   most people are familiar with
the archaic, like they're familiar with the magical -
but etymology really is archeology on paper -
     and the clear cut-off points? runes and
the Rosetta stone -
      i even find it believable that they're trying to
make Greek dodo (extinct) - if not for the Cyrillic script
i fear it would be so:
heh, half of infinity (∞) is ascribed to α (alpha):
if one follows less puncture dotting and more orchestral
   waving of a harry pooter wand
and the incantation: abraham **** dabble
(snoop in the b.c.) / abracadabra - case in the law courts
vs. the easter bunny: i'm starting to suspect
  there's a cliche involved with a magician
and a top-hat... the pyramids were feasible,
Auschwitz was ****** feasible:
the hanging gardens of Babylon? insane
(have a building where a garden is above the heavens?!):
oh look, here come the three "wise" (magi) men from the east!
            and all those known deviations from beer:
ale to the west (stale non-carbonated liquid cereal)
while mead (meed) to the east - or miód pitny
          (mew'd p'eat'nee - ee hollowed out) / drinkable honey.
                          or as i once said to her:
you try to bring me down: i'm going to do the trick
of pulling the tablecloth from a table with chandelier-like
preciousness of china or crystal: and fail to pull
that tablecloth neatly off the table: a bull
in a chinashop, me.
  - are we really still trying to sterilise ourselves
with the "sanity" of the sort of language english teachers
taught us in the first place? really?
well... as a poet i can't be considered a "respectable"
citizen... unless i have a rich husband and i'm a woman...
feminism, premature depression, chinese industrialisation,
         i would be accepted as a "respectable" citizen
if i wrote poetry on the side, but primarily
    had my lil' richard made into a patent for a *****
or decided to be a merchant selling all things
excluding the Quran: perhaps toothbrushes or bow-ties?
yep, Judas spilled the salt (whoever thought
that actual white meant we learned to do the Pavlov
trick, and everything tasted better and
no one wanted to snorkel at the great barrier reef
of what would be an acid trip otherwise) -
         i just find the new testament poetics exhausted,
everyone in the west knows this,
which is why all protestant nations decided
to read the nag hammadi library: literally.
well sure - this is the second coming, he's been coming
back since the year of the discovery of the library
(1945 a.d.) -
                          but i'm not buying it...
only because there's that undercurrent in the background,
that requires a little more patience with reading
    (a faux pas these days) and no chastity to be
redeemed when praying, if praying at all.

I cant wait to show
My contempt of court
Contemplated much more
Thank lord
The latter was chosen
I swear to him
My swears wont be as
Offensive
As the unmentioned
Alternative
Of this present contemption

My hand told lies
Like prosthetics
As it handled the bible
Like an oath
It would take
If it weren’t for the one nation
Under god
Underdog
Dodging the law
Of the land
Biting the hand
That feeds him

Hunger strikes
Like a match
Thirsty for air
The explosion of emptiness
Fills the stomach
The feels
Become more ill with each filling
Like mercury deposits
Positioned
From molar drilling

A mouthful of ailments
Spewed across the room
For the judges consumption
But the cancerous banter
Spread like foreign bodies
And the jury took injury

The whole world
Agrees
You’re the most hated
Alive
The “not for long” followed
Like the gavel
As it swallowed the courtrooms
Silence
A sentence of death was relayed
Without a period
Of contemplation
As my great contempt
Of court
Is overshadowed
By the ******
Committed by a jury of my peers
Reenacting
The passion of Judas
While I’m crucified
In the name of my father
By men who shoot
The messenger

Remember me at my worst
And my best
Will always inspire
Death is not as bad
If you can give a few truths
Before you expire

I see what I think;
slanted views
assumed
guessed
Wrong.

My eyes perceive
how I feel
when things
aren't real.

Thoughts run wild
depleting
decreasing
diminishing
my view of me.

I feel ...
uncomfortable
unwanted
unknown.

I think I am wrong
so I look again
revisiting
reviewing
reenacting.

Tainted eyes
fooled me again.

I am ...
wonderful
welcoming
warm.

I believe in me.

there might have been perhaps two other New Year's Eve
to match this years,
of these only one was actually magically youthful,
between 2004 coming to 2005 or perhaps it
was 2005 coming to the year 2006...
i was still studying at Edinburgh (Promis, Alicia),
that's when Promis lost her virginity
to me after Hogmanay, becoming irresistible...
seeing Fiona slobber me...
at the same time "drink me, eat me"...
**** drink to puncture her virginity while
Alicia was left cold, Lebanese reading that book:
The Hours... leftover in the communal room...

i didn't have any fun with these girls that time round...
what i had fun with was... my flatmate...

with Tristan from Bristol,
running around the streets breaking car side-mirrors
reenacting scenes fro Fight Club...
Bruce decided to become this middle-aged
man aged 18...
he bought a "bucket" of golf clubs...
one night we took them out...
we took out some golf clubs...
a few golf *****... and a few glasses...
we stood in the middle of the street...
pretending to... AIM... at... ha ha.. AIM...
we missed all the golf *****...
but! we managed to hit all the glasses!
it was... spectacular...
we were golfing in the proper Scottish sense
of the origin of golf...
       we had golf-clubs... we had golf-*****...
but we weren't hitting golf-***** with golf-clubs...
we were using golf-clubs... to... aim at imaginary
pint-glasses... sitting on top of...
shot-glasses... or... perhaps the reverse...

then that one terrible one circa 2003 or 2002...
going back to Poland, back then trying to romance
Katie (Kasie) - being invited to a house party...
being surrounded by teenagers hornier than me...
small-town mentality of getting hitched-early
and i was having trouble to breathe and find out
anything about whether i was already
the foreigner that still spoke his native tongue,
smoke, ****** music,
   the past part of the house party was helping with
the preparations with the host i only met that
evening...

this other New Year's Eve i was sitting alone
in my grandparent's house... alone in the kitchen...
both of my grandparents decided to go to bed early...
i watched the fireworks alone and felt
a solid stone of melancholy: a reflective sadness that
is not some reflex-depress or deflect-impress...

before today i promised myself change my habits,
how i would change everything,
quit smoking or at least cut down: i would most certainly
not smoke in the morning and on an empty stomach,
i would cut down on the heavy bourbon or whiskey
*****... why?
  heavy ***** has ****** up my digestive system a little...
irritable bowel movements and...
sometimes the inability to take a **** in one go...
rather... having in splintered...
   in sections... well... easily prone to sometimes vomiting
or rather: needing to ***** to feel at easy...
that was three days ago...

      i just wanted to stop feeling the also hightened
blood pressure...
             these "headaches" that weren't headaches but sort
of pulsations... as if my brain was dehydrated,
spinning, almost feeling death-tickling...
squeezing of the throat...
i told myself that i would stop drinking the heavy
duty liquids even if that meant i would have more sleepless
nights... well... new year's resolutions begin
two days before a new year's eve...
but the old ways have to come around for just one
last time on new year's eve and then:
with the intended plans...

    prior to the 30th... on the 29th i said to myself:
promise me this you-i, you will follow-through...
so i drank four ciders, took some generic painkillers
to ease me sleep and hey presto...
perhaps not a healthy 8 hour lapse into the Land
of Nod - but at least i woke up relaxed at 10am...
i had 5 hours spare until the shift would start
at the London Stadium...
                       i ate enough food smoked a cigarette
starting puking... right... you're not taking an cigarettes
to the shift... on my way there these
high-pressure "headaches" kicked in...
again i thought i was constipated but i had already
taken a shift before leaving...
no... these were not high-pressure "headaches"
anymore... excitement was kicking...
    i was again promoted to a supervisor: **** it...
here's me taking care of the east-wing with 15 stewards
under me...
i was excited... why? West Ham fans have the worst
reputation of all the clubs in the Premier League...
27 arrests in the season 2021/22...
i was excited... i was expecting something to happen...
i had 4 stewards on their ****** shifts...

in the middle of the match where West Ham was losing
to Brentford 2 - nil, Martin on gate 141 started gesticulating
with his hands in the middle of the second half...
i walk over... he tells me something is going on...
i look up... oh ****... about 12 guys, some of these guys
were fathers who brought their little boys along...
haggling with punches and grabbing and ferocious
tongues, children crying... a woman in the audience
starts glaring at me with hysteria and screaming
at me: do something! do something!
        calmly i turn on the radio and communicate
to Head Control: Control, this is Papa 2.3 -
i need a response team to be at gate 141 immediately!
the woman is still screaming,
the situation is escalating.... the children are even more
distraught, the blokes are more ferocious
(and the funny thing is, it's West Ham fans
fighting West Ham fans and not Brentford fans...
because the team is close to relegation
and i guess one fan knows better than another
fan about how to turn the situation can be
overturned) -
                           so as the pitch-side manager
Joe once said about contacting Head Control:
'i try getting through to them, they ignore me...'
well... i go at the radio again...
    'Control! this is Papa 2.3 - i need a response team
at gate 141 of the Billy Bonds stand! turn your cameras
onto what's happening! the situation is escalating!'
hey presto... persistence paid off...
    in about 20 seconds about 10 bouncers (SIA licensed)
rush in and break up the crowd... take some guys out,
comfort the children... i'm just happy the hysterical
woman is not looking at me eyes of scorn as if i'm
some impotent radio-holder...

the shift finishes at around 10:30pm...
   i still manage to catch the tube to Gants Hill and the 66 bus
to Romford, the petrol station near the police station
is still open so i buy three ciders...
    get home just after 12am, drink two ciders smoke two
cigarettes, take some painkillers and try to sleep...
oh ****... oh right... no chance of that happening...
i'm already sweating from alcohol withdraw...
cider can't replace bourbon or whiskey...
                   but excitement turns into post-panic control:
the situation was contained...
but that's not why i couldn't fall asleep...
i tried to... maybe i did for about 30 minutes in between
listening to Heilung's album Futha...
   i must have snoozed off for about 20 to 30 minutes
maybe less... turning side to side...
                                       but i knew that there wouldn't
be any point given i finished drinking the cider at
around 1:10am and i had to get up at 6am...
               to eat some porridge, shower, get dressed...
which i did... weird... ever see a fly casually flying
in a kitchen during December? heat makes flies crazy
during flight... in the "cold" of December (13 degrees Celsius
is cold for December... i experienced about
a week of promising,, authentic cold and snow
a week or two ago) - now this stinking damp and mediocre
cold... ate the porridge standing up contemplating
the lazy flight of the fly... so big... so juicy...
thank god it was one of those black ones and not
those green-belly that **** out dormant larva so quickly
the larva that turn to maggots so quickly...
black flies don't have that capacity...
because black flies... well... you associate black flies
with pestering cows... ergo? they feed off ****...
the blue-belly flies feed off dead meat... cat food...

6am wake up, wash, get dressed, and *******
to Putney Bridge for a 9am shift starts at Cavern Cottage:
Fulham vs. Southampton... New Year's Eve...
i have done a shift on Boxing Day last year...
double pay... but doing a Boxing Day shift is not the same
as... doing a New Year's Eve shift...
      it's like that W. H. Auden quote about
New Year's Eve:

the only way to spend New Year's Eve is
either quietly with friends or in a brothel.
otherwise when the evening ends and people pair off,
someone is bound to be left in tears.

ha! i have a third option!
    
so on my way to Putney Bridge, since the Elizabeth
Line is on strike until the 2nd of January...
****... this complicates my travel in London a little...
i can't take the simple option of taking the 103
bus to Romford Station and head to Paddington
and then a short walk from one Paddington (train)
station to the Paddington (tube) station and
like... 6 stations from Paddington to Putney Bridge
(Stamford Bridge, if you're interested?
that's at Fulham Common, or Broadway,
one of the two) - i could have complicated matters
by taking a longer walk from Hammersmith...
but i like walking through Bishop's Park...
as i was once reminded by one co-worker...
that's where Gregory Peck meets the priests
who gets killed in the film Omen...
it's a beautiful park: it's right next to the Thames...
so the route changes... i have to get the 103
bus to the A12 and then get on the 66 bus to
Newbury Park... then the central line to
Holborn, then the Piccadilly Line to Earl's
Court and then the District Line to Putney Bridge...
i truly tried all the alternatives...
e.g. central line to Oxford Circus -
Victoria line to Victoria and the district line
to Putney B.
     or... central line to Notting Hill Gate and
district line to ditto B....
     but i found that... there's too much walking
involved...
          the shortest route is the one i found out...
sure... it's a bit long changing at Holborn...
but changing at Earl's Court is the shortest...
plus Earl's Court is the interchange
between Edgware Rd, Richmond, Wimbledon,
Upminster and Ealing Broadway...
and the station is almost open air... so sickly sweet
underwear drying in the underground
during the Blitz sort of sensation association
with waiting...

                          ah... well... i managed to get in
to the sign in area for the shift early, i was probably the first,
said hello to the owner of the company,
who's name i always forget... an imposing figure...
former-military... but i still forget his name...
Scott... Scott... hello hello... i didn't shake his hand
this time round because i'm not left-handed
and i noticed he was holding a cigarette in his right...
signed in...
   ooh... the grand comedy of being early...
some perks come with that...
between Putney Green and Putney Bridge i realised
that my halting my drinking and elevation
of insomnia left me without any of those
high-blood pressure headaches... no excitement...
not this time round...
               i was cool as a cucumber...
i didn't feel any constipation... but then after signing
in... ooh... that porridge really helped...
as did that ****** chicken, sweetcorn mayo and
salad sandwich and Monster watermelon drink
did too... sign in at 9am... shift starts at 10am...
irritable bowel-movements...
    the staff toilets sub-standards... i tell someone:
if anyone asks... i'm going to the public toilets
in Bishop's Park... but there are toilets for staff?
you see the cubicles mate? cubicles without doors...
i'm not here to ****... i'm here to take a dump!

fidgety i'm walking back to Bishop's Park...
i enter the toilets... i enter the toilets... then the cubicle...
i peer in... wow! no animals were (yet) here!
the toilet seat is clean! it's left down!
there's toilet paper! there's a coat hanger!
wow! wow! am i just about to "******" as if seeing my
favourite ****-star from when i was 15?!
i take my coat off and all the elements of accreditation,
high-viz. and stadium passport...
undo my shirt a little at the collar and sleeves...
undo my zipper and clip pull down my trousers
down sit down and: PHOO! i **** out both
a gold nugget of firm shirt and a subsequent
waterfall of the looser stuff... my god...
i know that i'm supposed to find some sort of relief
in *******... this... this is better than *******...
ejaculations happen in private...
this is inverted *******: taking a **** in a public
toilet is more of a relief than ******* in private...
after all... it's pretty much the same, isn't?
i might not be looking someone in the eyes...
my member might not be in someone else's body...
but... Bishop's Park was organising their annual
run around the park for jogging enthusiasts...
i was already done when this one jogger ran
into a cubicle next to the one i was sitting in
finishing off my "taking a ****" counting time
solving a Mahjong... when i start to hear him puking...
i just took the most glorious Hiroshima ****
and here's next to me separated by a flimsy screen
that can't sort of discriminate the existence of sounds...

we waited for the shift to start for so long...
Stephanie pulled out... i saw her at West Ham and she asked me
whether i'd be with her in the Bishop's Park...
she turned in sick... so... i was back with Toni...
on the Hammersmith end of the stadium...
well... Thames-side and Hammersmith end...
i just implored her for a favour... i'm tired Toni...
can you put me on the outermost position...
last time i curated this position the weather was beautiful...
i spotted the bridge after Putney Bridge and
i thought: oh... the Kew Bridge...
what a glorious sight... but no...
the bridge that comes after Putney Bridge is
the Hammersmith Bridge... but that's when the weather
was good...
i just didn't want to work with Mark...
    citation needed: 'with my 12 years of experience
as a steward...'                      the ****-joke of the profession...
it was barely a year since i worked this job
and i was already supervising and yet he...
yeah...                               i can understand flies...
more than these busy-bodies of deluded semi-half A.I.
projects of hurt humans...
Francis Bacon paintings are grotesquely beautiful...
but this? this is reality-par-excellence...
interacting with it is: this incomplete human sort
of a joke... that can become a sly group-think of
being comfortable with a specified discomfort...

so i asked her... stand me there... next to ol' Father Thames
and let me admire that bridge i'm not sure about...
so she did...
     what i wasn't actually expecting was the weather...
i took the ******* position...
but as i soon learned... the best position...
the wind came with the rain and the rain came with
the wind...
                      there was this dog-walker with 4 dogs
with one being a terrier ADHD prone spaniel...
running rampage as if having seeing the godhead
of Anubis...
                      
          i was directing Southampton fans to the Putney
stand to avoid the Hammersmith stand...
just talking... hello, how are you, good afternoon...
smile... more smile... choke on a ******* biscuit
and a peppermint...
                   old men telling you: you're not getting paid
enough... lovely weather, oh... not as lovely as if...
it might be staged in the dark...

more about Mark with Lyndon and Toni...
pestering three women Chill (that middle-aged Turkish
woman... oh names... apples: Melanie... Nile? pears?
verbs?!) talk gets lost... on details...
joking about jumping the tide-out Thames...
i was just looking at how crows scared the seagulls...
one swan swimming alone...
metal-pickers in the mud...
                         i'm not myopic or the antagonism
of myopia... L.S. Lowry's stick-paintings...
                                 sure as **** metal-pickers...
in the mud i noticed what i first thought was a treasure
chest... turns out it was an old computer disk...
what was that even called if it wasn't a monitor?

oh and the weather truly broke me...
the rain came at an angle...
i smarted myself up by asking for a second... water resilient
jacket to put... i wasn't going to put on a flimsy potato-starch
pancho...
but that didn't stop my trousers getting soaked...
then once the rain stopped and the wind resumed:
getting dry... then once the rain came back getting soaked again...
but my socks were already soaked beyond getting dry...
walking the pavement in wet socks in leather shoes
is like... skinning an alive pig...

soaked feet.... although my upper body was kept warm...
talking with Toni about the proper attire for
winter... waterproof overalls... from Sports Direct...
and combat shoes: Magnums, used by police officers
and the army and all manner of security forces...
she asked for a cigarette, i gave her one,
she wasn't expecting a Camel... we walked...
looking each other in the eyes and subsequently
at each other's shoes...
in that instance she told me about her life...
she was living with her father and her stepmother...
how he biological mother kicked her out...
i just forgot which of her "mothers" was
the bipolar one... oh, right... her stepmother...
so i inquired about her stepmother's bipolar disorder...
so is that like manic depression?
no? split personality disorder? what's that like?
are all her personalities integrated or are they,
each to their own, loose canons?!

but there were these other two girls... Naomi...
who looked like a more pristine version of Will Smith's
wife... Jada Smith... i was... looking at Jada Smith...
with more hair... a nose piercing and a piercing
like a freckle where my moustache would cover it:
to the side... two kids... living in Richmond...
totally irresistible... this is how i always wanted
to spend my New Year's Eve... stoically...
at first in a gradation of pain...
pain from feat turning into the flayed beast
revealing nothing but bone, prone to accepting
the elements...

           this other girl... nice... cannibal looking teeth...
bound to braces... plump in the face... wearing a beany hat...
also mingling with Mark, the negate,
she touching him teasingly... once ***** was mentioned
i gave her some advice... oh... but you do know that
the only way to drink ***** is to drink it frozen, right?
so it resemble a sickly sick syrup... no ice, no mixer...
at best a chaser... she peered at me as if i belonged to
an ethnicity of a people that knew how to drink the ****
stuff... quizzical eyes... i forgot to tell her about
spending some time with the Russians:
being myself of a Slavic origin: ABSOLUT VANILLA...

i already knew it was the sort of New Year's Eve i was waiting
for when the shift was coming to a closure...
i was back in position admiring the Thames...
admiring the fading dark Green of Hammersmith Bridge
when the supporters were walking out...
one recognised me saying: so, you're been here,
all along? pretty much...
more passed and i just started spewing the casual:
have a good night, safe journey home,
and then the seemingly comical:
happy new year!

                 happy new year echo!
happy new year! happy new year!
            this precautionary tale of when Gandalf inquired of
poor Frodo: will it be?!
what? a happy new year?!
am i wishing a happy new year to you in advance
hoping, or perhaps wishing, or perhaps knowing:
that it might be... a happy new year?!
the phrase itself is about as meaningful or... meaningless
as licking a post-stamp and sticking it to
a postcard... wishing or not wishing: a "you"
to be "here"... no?!

                                   how about... happy new year
could be replaced with: MAYBE NEXT YEAR...
i.e. when i and you, are still alive...
we'll see each other again... i think that just might be
the summit of what happiness entices mortal creatures
such as ourselves to, from time to time: actually: believe!

the shift ended, i was soaked from feet down...
the trip back from Putney Bridge back to Romford was
sort of... giving CPR to octopi and walking on borrowed
legs... and less than sleepy eyes...
i got off at Gants Hill... ordered a spicy chicken burger
and three hot wings... gulped them down...
went into a Tesco Express... bought myself
a 70cl bottle of Jim Beam, a bottle of Pepsi...
3 cider bottles...
                     got home... said hello to my parents...
sorry... i'm ******* off... climbed into bed...
pretended to sleep, or rather, relaxed with naked feet
under the bed-sheets from them not being soaked...
"woke up" after about 2 fours... hours...
greeted them... sorry... i'm not into St. Sylvester's
celebration...
but i sat down with them...
as i have done for the past two or three years...

Jools Holland's Hootenanny has become sort of:
10pm ITV news in the household come this time of year...
what wouldn't i do without it...
Cat Burn's song Go... i never heard of it until then...
i ate some traditional tripe broth...
to warm the stomach up...
i hanged the bottle of Jim Beam and the bottles of cider
on the garden fence before coming home...
i was going to pick them up later...
to drink... well... at least half...
but it was so worthwhile to be so physically exhausted...
wow! these notes i wrote about that month
last year where i spent almost spent £1000 of prostitutes
and in the meantime lost two of my greatest
lovers... of 30 minutes' worth...
i.e. Khadra and Mona... who... the Madame of the brothel
told me would never return...

we watched the ******* spectacle of the fireworks...
wow! great! crowd!
i just retorted... if i were the people between
Westminster Bridge and the Embankment Bridge...
seeing the fireworks... i'd save up on t.v. memory...
i'd record the collective spectacle...
but got before the massive wheel
and stand there and stare... oh... but look...
who what or when Londoners? Chinese tourism...
the inescapable flu: chick or flex pork chop infections
but no rats and flies are the wholesome friends?!
standing there... with technology spread-out *******
third-eye non-experience...
the technology saw it first...
                                ugly humans non-humans
robots seem lovelier...
                    
                     that's how i learned about Cat Burn's song Go
thinking: didn't Ed Sheeran write this?!
doesn't matter...
once this supposedly spectacular night ended
when i heated up my feet and regained some flesh
in them...
                  i started drinking with my usual standard
of toxicity... looking through old notes...
ooh! an unfinished joint! wow! i had a premonition!
i will not want to go to a brothel i will not want
to go to a depressing house-party...
i will want to go inward...
into myself and starve anything already established...
i think i must have met about 3 girlfriends
tonight... possible...

now i'll finish a bottle of 70cl of bourbon by myself
while writing and smoke that joint...
finally! a new diet of music!

and the odl rekindling of an alliance....
perhaps placing conkers might put off spiders
from aligning a household with a disapproval for housing
spiders... but flies... that's a different matter;
i'm going to smoke this joint
and dream my hazardous of this years first and last
breaths.

where is that ******* fly...
i hope it's still alive while i'm alive... if i swallow it in
the night... i'll pretend to be a Pontus Pilate...

no other New Year's Eve has been so benevolent to me...
i was fudge packed between commuters not trying to
entertain the fireworks on the Thames...
me? go home...
       tired old young man....
                         why are there suspicions of me:
by simply being punctual as having any sort of association
with any nation's army?!
i like sunsets... i like sunrises... i adore the aloofness
of the aloneness that's: otherwise missing
in the claustrophobia of interaction with the other...
WOJSKO...
                        
            this has certainly been the best New Year's Eve
to meet all others...
before me stand's King Lear and Lot's Wife...
i wonder... who is... the Pillar of Sugar?!
Sugar = Salt + Water... no?!
so who is... the pillar of Sugar?!

   ah... ha: hermeneutics contra etymology!
          there's only one history for me...
   that being etymology: the origin of words from words:
to use words is not to use anything beyond words themselves...
which excludes my original assumptions that
letters or geometric shapes akin to letters or vice versa
could ever be utilised...
verba ex verba - non verba ex figura, numerus vel littera:
verba ex et enim verba!
meaning for meaning...
not meaning borrowed from either the associated
or dissociation...
or dissociation and a(n) association...

   well... it just so happens that i have... something of a...
half-wit... canvas of artificial-intelligence
to work with... it's basic intelligence...
                           just what i need.

People say I won't succeed
Or go anywhere in life
With no high school diploma
Buti like to think about how
One day
They’re all going to be working a desk job
9-5
Every day
Working their life's away
Miserable ******* robots
But i’m going to be writing,
I'm going to be signing books left and right and
People
All over the world
Will want to be me
They will want to be me
You
Will want to be me
Because I have no limits
I have no regrets
I will never
Have any regrets
And I don’t need a stupid piece of paper
With my name on it that tells me
“Congrats you’re successfully fit to this robotic society
You’ve survived four years of pointless
Quadratic formulas
And reenacting hamlet
For a group of classmates
That are secretly judging you
For that little hair that’s out of place”

I don’t want that type of success
If it can even be considered success at all
Earning 8 dollars and 50 cents an hour
Sweating over a desk
Wearing a suit that’s wedging into places
Suits shouldn’t be
I want
FREEDOM
I want to stay up till 2am writing a new poem that everybody’s going to love
I want to go to quote on quote
“Work”
Wearing pajamas
Or maybe nothing at all
Because writing will be my work
And at first it probably won’t make me much money
But it’ll definitely make me happy and shouldn’t
That be all that ******* matters
When you’re choosing your career?
Why does little pieces of green paper
Define what you will be doing for the rest of your life
Why take orders from somebody else and
Take note of things that make no sense
All day every day
If that’s not what gets your motor running

I will succeed with the pencil in my hand
And the passion in my heart
I will succeed and you
You will be a robot

Who gave you permission to kiss me?
I froze and didn't react
That was not confirmation that I wanted you to continue,
Let alone even begin.
What on earth were thinking when you leaned forward.
Turning my face to the side was not me being shy, that was me rejecting you!
But I guess you couldn't take no for an answer and you settled with leaning in instead.
How dare you take advantage of my lips?
I had no reflex action to your lustful behaviour.
I froze in complete disbelief and even with no slight movement from my lips you continued on like you were reenacting a scene from love and basketball.
You need help.

i came forget what i'm used to doing...
   what's the problem with wiping
your *** in a meticulous fashion?
it used to be something,
other than watching youtube political
commentaries...
and that's when, you little ****,
dried up on the missed focus
of ingenuity...
it used to be an atypical Sunday
after-affair of the day,
read the editorial, and then the news section...
******, tell that **** reading
a Monday's worth of the Daily Telegraph
on the Auschwitz-like crammed tube
carriages on the London tube
during rush hour...
       at least the Yids traveled across
fresh air... ******* Londoner *******
sardines, crammed into their sweat air-borne
virus cringe... like watching pigs die...
but a sometime of a Sunday came,
and i recanted my old efforts
of being informed...
    who needs to watch these videos
habitually... read a newspaper...
i basically skim all the article from Monday
to Friday anyway, look at the pretty pictures...
but some Saturday, but esp. Sunday?
newspapers become holy...
no, really, there's no other word for it...
the sunday times? on a Sunday?
entertainment of the day...
the article about
         anders behring breivik...
  entitle: a neo-**** attacks with bomb,
gun... and film,
by sarah baxter...
              no rhetorical dialectic point
to consider, for my part,
although...
        if he thinks he's the Knights Templar...
guess who "thinks" he's
the Knight Hospitaller...
   guess what?
          Crusades into Lithuania...
the grand battle of the newly wed
Polacks to Christianity and Rome...
and the Teutonic knights...
my story... not yours...
my inheritance... not yours...
        perhaps why the map of Islamic
terrorism is so much akin
to the map of the bubonic plague?
us Polacks have come to exist in a shared
romance of history from the middle-ages...
we're both been crusaded again...
maybe that's why!
oh... really... **** me!
i... never saw it coming!

  shame my half Egyptian half Iraniaan
friend (father the former, mother the latter)
saw differently...
  too bad...
which means i'm off circuit of playing
happy birthday on the guitar for
other... 22 x 1 day wankers....
       what?!

and now it really become entertaining...
lao che's song blasting into my ears,
about some, komtur...
   a rank in the teutonic order...
       and i finish the Breivik article...
past the editorial, the news review
articles...
   on the same page...

   (a) the GRIP of populism:
it's not the refuge of old white male racists,
Trump and Brexit have plenty of young
and affluent supporters,
  and they're here to stay. Roger Eatwell
and Matthew Goodwin demolish myths
peddled by comfortable elites

(a nutritionist and a successful gambler,
sassy read, it ought to be)

and...

  (b) taming the madness of queen Freddie:
walkouts, a *** scandal and the specter
of Harry Potter taking the lead role:
the new biopic of the band has been
struck by thunderbolts and lightning
for years, reports Tony Allen-Mills...

****, decisions decisions... done!
i'll read the article about the ****** first,
speaking into his grave:
don't you think the gays these days have
become... tame? marriage and all,
and so much in lacking the avenues of
former hedonism... or rather: fun?!
yes, the buggery-artist article first,
since i already covered an overt political
dilemma...

and then onto the main show...
plus i'd be two shakes more down with
the whiskey and mixer...
       how many orders of the crusaders
were there?

i'm asking... ha ha...
because i started to think...
is it more, pathetic to think you're
someone in preserving a culture...
or is it more pathetic to "be"  someone
you're not... like acting...
like Mickey Rourke playing
Hyperion...

     frankly? don't know where
the circus begins, or ends!

now... this is going to be... fun!

we have the Knights Templar sorted,
clearly...
then we have the
   Knights Hospitaller sorted... ahem...
by you know who...
so we're missing...
Order of the Holy Sepulcher...
Order of Saint Lazarus...
Order of Aviz...
Order of St. James of Altopascio,
Order of the St. Michael of the Wing,
Order of Calatrava,
    Order of the Holy Ghost,
"   (ditto the rest)           Aubrac
   "                        Santiago
   "          Alcantara
            "         Mountjoy
"      Teutonic Knights
Hospitallers of Saint Thomas
              of Canterbury at Acre          
"                       Monfragüe
  " Sant Jordi d'Alfama
Livonian Brothers of the Sword
Order of Dobrzyń:
     now that's an interesting one...
Militia of the Faith of Jesus Christ
Military Order of Monreal
Knights of the Cross with the Red Star
" the Faith and Peace
Militia of Jesus Christ
"                Blessed ****** Mary
  " Saint Mary of Spain
"       Montesa
"            Dragon (Dracula, Ottoman Turks
  scenario)
"     St. Maurice
      and some others, associated with
a king named: Alfons -
which in ****** language transliterates as...
****!

oh sure, i get it,
it's infantile... that's why i'm not an actor
in a game of reenacting famous
battles, at some medieval fetish fest
for wearing armor...
but the mere thought?
concerning.... (does squiggly lines
with his hands like a madman) this?
give me the right music...
and merely thinking about, all of this?
certainly more fun to entertain
than being fed, *******,
coming from a screen in a movie theater...
who would have thought...
seemingly... sterile words...
elevated to chess pieces
                when properly agitated.

i can understand why someone would
deem this mindset... infantile...
but... the sand truth being?

that film: three Lions... yeah...
those terrorists? not exactly smart,
where they?
  how the **** this one guy managed
to pull off that attack?
English jihad warriors unite...
but please, please... think it through,
yeah?
  it's like... the dumber you get
the dumber the whole message becomes...
this one guy did a *******
bomb attack... and then a shooting range...
probably practiced with paint-*****...
it's not funny, because it's not
supposed to be funny...
if some sunday times editorial columnist
want to see a movie about
Breivik, and she's named Sarah Baxter...
Jihadi dumb-***** should write
Breivik, endless letters of inspiration
and hope for advice...
    ONE man did, what several dip-*****
couldn't... talk about resolve...

anyway... yeah... Sacha Baron Cohen should
have played Freddie Merc...
perfect resemblance, after Borat...
now for that other article...
the grip of populism...
another drink...
the Highlander soundtrack and a jogging
tickle cackling at:
those ******* Jihadi wannabes -
wolf pack! wolf pack!
******* retards.

oh this beats gorging on political commentary
videos from youtube...
the right music,
and a sunday edition of the times...
it's like Chinese new year...
fireworks, dragons and ****!

The Red Carpet was adorned with Stars dressed to the Heavens

Bejeweled with Dior the smell was effervescent

We took to stare at our wishes come to life

Reenacting our worlds pains and struggles

If perfection were to be a thing this was where it was happening


Oh how I always personally wished

A passion to pursue in the big bowl of fish

Little Orphan Annie now tatted with the sun

Mediocre just will not do

Then family and life began as they often choose to


Raised in the Church

many a village of People

Never losing hope but whoa along the way

My dignity sanity and dreams all the same

God Blessed and Thankfully my mercy my babies

Now on two failed marriages and a train wreck resume

My Children also wonder what happened to me

Ill save the story as you may already know



I have lived a great life always doing as told

Deep deep inside secrets I will hold

\Back to the carpet and the first Dell I received

Working at a job where it turned real queer /

I was a technician yeah Cable Girl is a thing

I rocked of course wearing my 1st ring

The purchase of the Dell and the Highway to the World

Holy ***%%   did my head take a nose diving swirl

^^^Inverted

Psych wards and pill or were they potions for pain

In the Dell mirror everyone knew my ****%$# name

I now became an addict again but not the same

Literally smoking in the mirror of heaven hell life and pain


I quoted Jim Carrey and that **** Truman Show

Was it a warning now the  f^ck if I know!!

End of marriage two now on its way
Still my mercy and grace tatted on my right forearm
Jason Maraz so it never goes away
I wont give up
Its not something I do
Just a **** ton of unanswered and *** do I dos


NOW here is the kicker hold on to your ticker!!

What if I was a star to some reality type life

Never knowing I was doing anything but living right?

Would there be a hero ..... is where I get stuck

I am quite a bada$$ no need I am my own luck?


So as you all know I do not watch much TV

As my kids will tell you fast asleep I will be

I love Nicole Kidman and of course Aquaman

So off to the living room and popcorn in hand


That day it got weirder you see

Oddly that reflection was looking into me

Yeah I know shell relax....take another pill

But **** got crazier even and still!!!!

It is like my brain did a huge back flip in my head

I have no idea just *** have I been dead?


Countless conversations over 20 plus years..........

Things started falling in place

Like *** am I doing here

Too many levels to this Crazy life

Which reality is the less strife


On a pink scrunchie day

This Crazy Train had enough

I am  a panda....YOUR my WHO?????

Holy FU%%%%% ENOUGH



Princess of Darkness now lets add that too

Watched by the world

Here take them ******* and your sparkly shoes

So off to Thelma and bottle of Fireball

That is it FCU%$ this I cant take no more!!


We talked about the day we smoke some grass

I told her I saw some **** today on puff puff pass

Imma skip today that was my forward pass
\
/
I woke in a tub of ***** and shame

to my oldest to collect me oh how that pain

All the years I tried to save them from this

I saw my oldest disgusted
and i knew
He was ******!!

As I type this I cry for me and my children

What ifs still fly and now no identity

Maybe God still has a plan for me?????


Christmas upon us and I wont lie

I see a pink scrunchie in my head is that too a lie??


My DNA and odd bank accounts.............


You can keep it all count me out......


My Christmas wish in case and before I die

Is to know if that man does talk to Fish

He has been through my whole life ..... isnt that a hitch???

I am back at St. Mikes sooooooo many years ago
We all were the BEST as all of you KNOW

In the All American City
I now prove to you Jesus is real and witty!!

adorned with my Hat given to me by my 2nd son
and the name Mierk and I love me a nerd??

That is hotter than any red carpet!!

At the end of the day yall do what do

Gods got my back and now my front too!!


I stand firm beaten mangled forked most times at the tounge
Shaking and Roaring his will will never be undone

Thankful even more still 3 days till his birth

Merry Christmas You filthy Animals ;)
for
What that's all worth


I love you all <3

you call me again today.
it’s Wednesday at seven-o-clock,
my phone displays signs of battery drainage
because my life is equally burnt out, it blinks
for every second that we mull over details,
life’s silly intricacies that we dissect in delight,
like your terrible boomer boss Trevor, or
the bad banh mi you bought for lunch,
sometimes the person i’ll text next,
or my 2nd degree burn from the hot steamer.
i come over next, and we walk to Type Books,
buying more fiction than we can create.
you stop us at Tecumseh for A&W burgers,
because you watched a fun commercial on Youtube.
we go back to yours and watch period dramas,
everything about us is child-like. we huddle,
covered under a wool blanket, like the grandparents
in ***** Wonka, i stand up and perform a one woman
show reenacting a scene from Shrek, i go home.
i call you again tomorrow

yesterday starts my car and bang bang bang
gets out and the tyre is flat as flat

so the recovery comes and says heck
the spring has broke and gone through
the tyre and i cannot move it from here
with just my van

and my baby is due any day now
in time for the holidays so i shall

ring for help

help comes all in orange visibilty and
a confident air to take the car efficiently

how lucky i am it did not break on the road
yet by the gate where good things happen

with birds and visitors

later i imagine it happening while driving

reenacting verbally
BANG BANG BANG

there was a storm at eight when the tv signal
went off

early rain
to clear later
a mld and blustery day