you have entered the realm of life after separation.
gone are the daisies she tucked behind your ears. it’s autumn now.
you are getting older. your boots are heavy and your chest is heavier.
you were given something gleaming, but it isn’t yours,
anymore. you seethe in your own ache.
this is your first silver october. the blushing leaves have gone greyscale,
like an i love lucy rerun. they evoke a stab of grief between your lungs.
you have to rewrite the story of your life now,
go forward knowing that everything after will be somehow
lesser than her. no person will reach into you the way she did.
you are a lost girl. resignation is all you have left,
resignation and streets bitter with dead leaves, streets where you run and shout
a silent prayer of loss.

but then:
but then.

you are reciting a poem for a room of people and your words
belong to your body now. a deep glow has fallen over everything,
right onto a girl you’ve only seen once before.
front row. face open. taking in what you are saying,
your retrospective sorrow, with a particular kind of attentiveness
you have needed all along.
everyone is listening, but she is hearing you.
in that moment, when you are raw and earnest,
you think that perhaps there’s something different about
this one. how even when you are done, she still seems to be
hearing all the words you cannot say.

and then:
and then.

spring is thrusting its way out of cold dirt
and you are twisting and breathing and this girl,
this girl, she is one million ******* shades of red. all you can do is
look at her without turning away, as if you could do such a thing
even if you tried. maybe this is how rembrandt felt
when painting night watch.
full of thick, rich burning too immense for language to hold.
this girl, this girl in the midst of life after. this girl so good
she’s put meaning back into the messy coming of spring.

you have learned not to trust. not to believe.
to love with a window open, a hand on the door,
in case of incineration, ready to run.
but this girl, says your heart,
says the peachy light bleeding onto her lips and nose,
this girl is not like those who came before her.
you’ve been a stranger to yourself for so long, but this girl
is reintroducing the two of you, rubbing you raw with longing.
do you understand, you want to say to her,
how stunning you are.
standing there like that. in your sincerity and laughter, as it weren’t
breath snatching to witness. as if it were commonplace,
unexceptional. as if you weren’t the tenderest work of art.

do you.

or that worth of gimp, the hotted sauced out
cradle of predatory amusement              banked on,
                        i have the notes,
mind you, you're clearly laden
with khaki material,
to mind the blackshirts of the SS,
a Vandal epiphany -
                 less khaki juice
and more blackcurrants -
                  or so the motto stands,
asserting brief and all that thought
of tomorrow.
                   all i'll add with this
vague blunt alcohol ridden self?
the vampirism of the abandoned trill
of the R...
                   that's the Vlad-blatant
abandonment of the trilling of the R -
and the competent disregard for
linguistic laws...
                 until tomorrow,
until i find my sobering-up manicure
and in rewrite the notes i've made
when inspired...
                      and i have made them...
it's all about me being nicknamed
a Viking for my tolerance to drink
you under the table, and dabble with nods,
or the blatant hiding of the tetragrammaton
with ghee (said gee) and otherwise,
                  (Indian butter) -
or dhal - or quiet simply daal / dāl:
against the aesthetics, ouch.
     again in French: je t'aime: ř - adding zero
hour to the said: sharpening the shrapnel -
                       jaded temp. / jay temp. /
                  j-j ****** or the rue flu.
oh it's there, in the notes,
as i benign the thought: unfit today,
payday tomorrow.
wait... i might have a sober moment tonight...
         encapsulate that with a question
about Iran, and a quasi-stop in conversation...
        or counting the strokes in a handwritten
variation:
              Yen ( ¥‎) = 4
                      pound (£) = 2
    matchsticks...
                             elsewhere also matchsticks:
º (red)
                = R E D (3, 4, 2) matchsticks,
                 º (
writing is termed another variant of arithmetic,
the total is 7, for one ideogram) -
             the sigma for red
   is 9, but divided by three means
        the European model falls 4 short
of optical indigestion.
     ř (caron) - caron of the missing z -
         not the variant of caron s and c with z:
czekam (i'm waiting), or szukam (i'm looking),
English has this pronoun priority
                   to be included in every phrase,
or what provides the British Empire fabric:
            how a-  (indefinite)
     and the-    (definite) articulation secures
pronouns with excess modifications
  as already apparent conjunction modifications
worthy of exegesis into the exotic / excess.
there are 7 pages worth of notes,
   but i have three quarters worth of whiskey to
drink... give me an Andy Warhol moment
suggesting: in the future, people
will have only 15 minutes worth of rechargeable
         infrastructure; hence the pending /
ongoing / will return to in a minute.
reintroducing the trilled R vogue:
    is a bit like incubating a vampiric
in English,
                    rzekomo (apparently so)
       řekomo -
                         variant of: as already stratified.
               still, the trilling of the R
is so out of fashion in English it's necessarily
a vampirism qualm -
                   never nearer the French hark
when the R summarises a rolling effect -
      by imperial standards charred.
howe then to resemble a trill?
           r̭ ?
                   or wave akin to wavering
                       (ñ) that's necessary above an r?
i need the trill represented!
    for thrill a better word -
                  or 0 and the minded gambit.
as said caron the missing H...
       twins in
                 Y or three-dimensional space,
and W
              of trigonometric absorption...
waves hunny, waves...
                          and three dimensional space
and rabbis... honey cluedo pooh bear...
i still need to find the trilled r!
**** me, the trilled r! virgulilla:
or thus said, a patent otherwise.
        yet again a ******* Yeti,
    counting matchsticks in Japan
   rather than in Iowa...
             cos it really ******* mattered
given the knots -
       and other reminders...
         yen, or Jenny,
      v. p o u n d
            (2 1 2 2 2);
          ś (acute) half-missing caron
      inc. grave v. š (caron)
             or the Sean Connery effect -
e.g. środa (wednesday) or škodaª
             (insert a H or a Z)
           for pronunciation
                        of the Czech car manufacturer,
already the Tetragrammaton descends:
   ªwhat a shame, it's such a shame.
       Mishter Bondè:
                                tequila sunrise?
ney - ney shaken nor shackled to a shtir (
šush it, and wise up, mš. moneypenny).
    just say Sharon and write Šaron:
dimples!
                         or how to paint a Kabbalistic
anatomy of the mouth to slow variation
between ś (acute) / no consonants will ever
acquire a gràve - necessary: the e isn't said
accenting / syllable scalpelling cutting up...
but still the coran s (š - to mention
ch in cheap, and šiš kebabs too).
variation of cutting up the caron into
acute and grave?
      ś: the tongue is primarily squeezed by the psyche /
breath and the mouth rekindles eating a lemon
tightening it's juiced up and juices the tongue
to sting with missing saliva -
š? primarily a serpent's hush -
  the mouth hollows out -
         the breath enters a so does a pufferfish:
antics of hollowed out mouth follow suite,
the diamond or double L

       bone                                    soul
               L muscle                            L teeth
  tendon                               tongue

synonyms and Γ apart -
                                 of the LL, or ΓL
                    or LΓ or ΓΓ.
                      the diamond diadem -
assertion of bone: whether caprais or
   cousin in the mandible family...
    is a tongue a muscle?
            still the Kabbalistic anatomy dynamic...
  the kinned appearance of H or the
variant of bone...
     or?
              a-
                     (+)
                              -theism,
it doesn't mean that God doesn't exist,
it just means that God has no logical attachment
to man's sprechen,
            the omni- can be rightfully disregarded
in that rubric consolidated within
categorisation of: lazy...
      a- (i.e. without)  
                            theology,
              ­       or our abhorrent freedoms of will,
nurtured by a universal lack:
       atheism contemplates talk of god
without a contradictory circumstance of the
human endeavour to find itself a *******
     lacklustre of comparative Raphaelite
                 illustration...
                           always the favourite,
aren't they, the crucified ones, rather than
those enthroned? aren't they? so why are the
Japanese asking about their ****** culture?
over-sexualised west?
let's ask Yokote,
   let's ask Takeshi,
let's ask Masahiro,
             sure... you can ask me:
  i prefered prostitutes because i actually
knew i was using my phallus rather than representing
a ******* identity of some egocentrism
regarding the skyscraper -
                     and the last girlfriend i had?
i wouldn't wish her to be a companion of
any kind of a Mongolian invader as part
of a horde... i had an argument with her
and was so unhappy i actually wished i was dead...
          jerking off never seemed so holy
as when encountering this woman who
stood by the motto: life is ****...
           but i guess money does that to you.
**** me! i never expected to be so Japanese in
my outlook;
tragic, i know, but what can you do,
    you unlock the floodgates of feminism
and you think that lions will start to provide for
the household? then you aren't lionesses; obviously;
or reluctantly so:
           i find the 21st century is withstanding
  any kind of revision, given the 20th century's
revisions aren't working
        for any worthy necessitation of reciprocated
stipend.

i'm going to tell you a pathetic truth
i'm getting over you,
and i feel guilty for it

i feel guilty for acknowledging the sprouting feelings
for another man
who is nothing like you
and it feels so nice, i feel like i should be ashamed of it
i can feel myself changing,
like the phases of the moon
hiding the side of my face i called my good side
because it was the cheek you kissed
when we began and ended

i always thought i was lucky, you know
if i even got to feel this way once
and you were my once
and i had decided it was enough
and we ended
i had decided it was enough

the mere thought of experiencing this again
restarting
reintroducing
refalling
however many times it takes to get it right
twists my heart up

because i wanted to get it right the first time
and with you

and i'm starting to care less
and that feels wrong
which might make no sense
because this is probably good and supposed to happen

but i don't think i can take having something so good again
and not being sure i get to keep it this time

because what if it doesn't work out
and even scarier,
what if it does

Cotton is truly King ,--from Blue Ridge to Southern border , creator of fortune ,  remedy to pain and struggle  ,  dividing---  pitting neighbor against neighbor ,  market afire funding Sheriffs and  constable , alive and rampant among elderly , teenager , public official ......
King Cotton reintroducing malignant , corruption , nay from yesteryear at mercy of whip and chain ,slave and sharecropper ,  but to the gun , homelessness and the horror of merciless addiction....................

It was unexpected
A twist in my life's course and fate
To find myself entangled with her charm

She was just there
A meek, strong willed, little, i sometime even think tiny, coloured-haired girl
Who one had to see beyond bridges and brick walls
To get to know the woman inside that's so much larger than life

She had a wit beyond words
Who first captured me with her thoughts of black and yellow striped camels
Out of the blue
As thoughts to lull to sleep

She had a heart more than a mother's
Who had every inch of concern for the people around her
From whom i had the best time being taken cared of

I took my chances,
Broke hearts and friendships, even...
But I knew she was worth it.

I was blessed to be hers,
To be given the chance for her to be called mine.
To wake up beside her
To have her as the last person to hold before slumber
And the first to lay eyes on as, or even before, the sun sheds light on us
All bundled up in fluffy sheets
Cuddled in each others arms
Like nothing else mattered (and nothing did)

But despite all the happiness
Despite knowing I had something perfect,
I made mistakes.
Pushed her away
Lost the only best friend I ever knew
And most painful of all
Broke a fragile heart that does not deserve this pain i inflicted

Now that my world has turned 360 over
I have lost myself, found out what really matters
Figured out that one of the biggest mistake I have done, has actually been committed early on in this life of mine.
I lost her.
But I am taking my chances again.
I will find her,
Do everything all over again if I have to
Just to be with her again.
If it means reintroducing myself,
Like that very first day I shook hands with her.
Even if it means making her fall for me all over again,
Like how she did that night she accepted me as hers
If I have to let all the stars fall
Like how it did that one night we were just lying on our backs, side by side each other... As if we owned the world (And i know for a moment there, we did)
I will.
I will gather them up, make them light up her night sky
Just to have all the wishes I can buy
To ask for her
Over and over again.

I will just be here.
I will fight the good fight.
Silently, miles away.
For you are all worth it.

cŵn annwn:

     k-hhhh-n anne-wyn-

sue me,
the Welsh sometimes
hark

   like a smoker of
tobacco harks up
some excess phlegm

after a momentary lapse
into coughing -

harking -
   senile and bogus
English - and that spaghetti
h'american ęglish -

love by insult -
then again, not really:
love by teasing -

reign from above,
reign from below -
meeting in the middle
hinging on the letters -

not sure whether it's a K for the c -
or whether i'm invited to
use the Roman sigma -
the Gauls' cedilla -

         çŵn -

    ah, the Greeks, and their
orthographic aesthetics -
in the trinity of sigma -

                  ςŵν     αννłν -

i'm still for enforcing
the reintroducing the grapheme
into the Polish concept of
its pompous orthography
for the less literate
graffiti "artists"...

                and there are...
rz, cz, sz, ch    exceptions...
æ & œ...
   Adam & Eve,
    Orpheus & Eurydice -

  just to make it "easier" -
      the language could do with
some aesthetic
      improvements -
given it's so concerned
with orthography -

  and that's what you might
notice about the Polacks -
zero interest in metaphysics -
always the sort of
people concerned with
orthography...

no wonder Nietzsche called
us the equivalent
of the French, among the Slavs;

nice compliment.

/imagine! reintroducing the rolling effect, or the trill, or the rattle-snake, or the maracas... or sisyphus, to the english tongue, concentrated within R... or what became a tongue-numbing experience, so far, past the french, god-awful, hark, bound to a grapheme RH... woe of the rodent... wodent roe... king RA... queen RHO... imagine! what a trip... to imagine the english titillated by a letter, that can function as an act of: the trill! meßmo! language? a play-thing... i don't adhere to a being, that's being obedient to it... i, own, it... the rest can regress to graffiti art, or signature reiteration./

baguettes?
***** please,
it's all about
sour-crust dough
of the slavs,
or the italian
         ciabatta;
unfortunetly
i had a cliché
moment,
   drinking red
wine, eating cheese
and soaking up sober
with a balancing act on
   baguettes,
    at a sunset,
beneath the eiffel tower...
shame, shame,
shame...
         then again
there was that talk
with a gay guy about
nabokov...
         that was fun...
and about 8 lonely
women huddled into
a stonehenge prism of
secracy...
  just east of my gaze...
**** it, whatever,
as long as the shveedish
reiterate pop music
   i'm all groovy.

I Don’t Care


I don’t care if Rishi SUNak becomes

prime minister and global warming

worsens causing mass meltdowns,

flooding the world and reintroducing

                 The ice age.


   I don’t care if Jimmy Saville is

re-incarnated and he gets his old

        job back at the BBC.


  I don’t care if Mother Theresa’s

ashes are auctioned at Sotheby’s

         to the lowest bidder.


I don’t care is Kim Jong-Un, Xi

and Vladimir Putin have the pull

straws to decide whether London

New York or Tel Aviv should be

        first to get the news.