The climb to the top of the rock is arduous.
Moss serves as a grip for hands
And ice for feet.
A low branch is like a rope for support,
Until it breaks.
Thistles and blackberries stretch out
To offer help,
But they can be uprooted, or become
The girl who flew across the country
To be with the boy who looks away
Whenever she smiles at him.

From the tip, the view is
The vantage point of a star
Gazing from space in all directions,
Where even the closest discernible landmark
Feels a few thousand miles away,
But you want it so desperately closer

That you jump.

Trust the rain that only falls enough that it sees fit.
Trust the fire that keeps fighting as long as there is fuel.
Trust the wind that whips your eyes,
Drying them and making you cry for rehydration,
For the water that roars all around you,
That splashes over your head
And lets you sink,
Freely and completely.

I have returned
Although I must,
To this glittering bowl of dust
I had to,

In this so similar form
The jackals recognize my shade
In the dark, they watch and stalk,
My moon to daylight sun

The seasons of my change.
The pupae without
Awaiting for grand mals
Or some winged departure
Of my light

Expecting me to fall...

But seasons stir with lightfoot
Pages turned,
Between the numbers in all that
Man's made
Hands knocking hours
Ticking seconds
Minutes crawling
Under every door

Like a shadow unnoticed underfoot
Moments walk on wires
As life watches from below
Or is it vice versa?
The Circe du foils
The urchins that we drown to be
Voila! Not much ventured
In the rings and side shows
We spectacles
Of flesh
Fallen and fearing
The feelings

Of just before
Steps
(Beyond)
If catlike careful some nimble beast

I must be
To return from the place
That once birthed and attempted
****** the unlearned me
I am too
American in the humidity
The parasitic biting
The heat

I'm a stranger in strange islands
Beautiful mystique
Of superstitious super strength
The beliefs become aswang legends
Come true life
The slaughtered pig as sacrifice

I vomited and **** out
My inner being
Waters of life projected out
The length of tongue and the depth
Of insides
Gushing out
Even through my tears
And delirium...
Possessed as tho' a lever had been pulled
To reverse what flowed in
The nutrients
The rehydration of excretions
Sucker punched to spew

And thru the pain I knew
The swine and its smug snorting laughter
And the old ones in the villages
Living among their own dead
In the trees and sands and sea
Their jealousy of City boy me
The threat I must be
Fearful of what I might ****
Tho I dare not and have not
Done
Unto
As they have now done to he
I have karmic grace
To make them mine,

But what and why would I want
Such long gone then and agains
Or rage against
In revenge?
At my beautiful motherland
The face of my race
The home of my blood

I keep my silence as their defeat
Render them
As a breeze through palm trees and hiss of sea
Rumors of the weather
Food poisoning

Tempers edge the need
for your anvil head to break.

The way back from work saw
Lowry people scrape the pavement.
Dog-leg drags of shuffle, of make-up slide,
mixing flea-skin sweat with pollen rub
into a tincture of stench.

This is image that I do not want

I have
half a mind to **** but I
cannot be bothered, the other ,a
a monologue of delirious ramblings
some" French kings versus
squadron mottos" thing...
and , in truth, I am not sure what
it's going on about.

I am indoors, windows open, curtains closed
naked from the waist down, feeding the freedom
of sprawl- but this is mistake of gargantuan order
a cosmic, foolish, schoolboy- error of judgement.

The sofa is leather.

My scar tangled manners are reports of my standing
an amateur tanners spewed stew of expletives.
In a half-arsed way it seems  
I am to remain

part of the furniture

I search for shorts.. long shorts, short longs, whatever,
my legs and **** seek the solace of cloth.

On the canal a coot needs oiling
what feels like 20 minutes of incessant jar is
tapping with my rationale
Testing my love for all things feathered.

Something needs to give.

I am a Gobi taste of sandal straps and
in dire need of irrigation/ rehydration
I have waited way too long for liquid...
Don't get me wrong, this isn't some test
of deprivation- this is heat swung laziness
that is all it is..nothing more
nothing less..

And so..

We will get it tonight
You cannot pull isobars this far apart to
not have them break..
And that ogrish flat-top is thugging
the harbour side rents..

Ah yes...

"Après moi le deluge"

Seems to make sense, now

unlike a texan:
                        with my acquired english
sensibility:
        clear blue skies?
                in july?
not the best idea...
                  
    i worked through three different
rehydration
      procedures
                   accompanied by
drinking heavily in the night...

1. water, and squash, water...
   2. 30 strawberries
   followed up with 2 glasses of milk
(pristine **** followed
  on the throne of thrones)
3. watermelon, herbie hancock,
  squash, water...

what the hell is so good
about a pristine blue sky hanging
over you, with a suffocating
impetus?

    do i look like an arab?
or a kenyan?

                           but sure, sure...
she... she can bask in it,
   come copper skin...
                          then there's that other
pristine porcelain, vampiric example
of i'm only happy when it rains...

that: sweet, aromatic kitchen
                                of autumnal rot,
        that very particular aphrodísiac,
only replicated
   to the same standard,
in deep continental hearth -
               in a pine forest....
                         looking for
                                  honey fungus.

I dodged a bullet,
but the near miss rings in my ears,
broken glass scattered around my feet,
and y.o.u...
lingering when I close my eyes,
on my clothes,
and in every beer bottle
I will ever drink from, now
my mouth dry but resisting rehydration,
until I shrivel up, skin brittle and cracked,
organs s.h.u.t.t.i.n.g.d.o.w.n...
I dodged a bullet, fired by your gun,
but I shall still die by your indirect hand...