Victor D. López (October 11, 2018)

You were born five years before the beginning of the Spanish civil war and
Lived in a modest two-story home in the lower street of Fontan, facing the ocean that
Gifted you its wealth and beauty but also robbed you of your beloved and noblest eldest
Brother, Juan, who was killed while working as a fisherman out to sea at the tender age of 19.

You were a little girl much prone to crying. The neighbors would make you cry just by saying,
"Chora, neniña, chora" [Cry little girl, cry] which instantly produced inconsolable wailing.
At the age of seven or eight you were blinded by an eye Infection. The village doctor
Saved your eyesight, but not before you missed a full year of school.

You never recovered from that lost time. Your impatience and the shame of feeling left behind prevented
You from making up for lost time. Your wounded pride, the shame of not knowing what your friends knew,
Your restlessness and your inability to hold your tongue when you were corrected by your teacher created
A perfect storm that inevitably tossed your diminutive boat towards the rocks.

When still a girl, you saw Franco with his escort leave his yacht in Fontan. With the innocence of a girl
Who would never learn to hold her tongue, you asked a neighbor who was also present, "Who is that Man?"
"The Generalissimo Francisco Franco," she answered and whispered “Say ‘Viva Franco’ when he Passes by.”
With the innocence of a little girl and the arrogance of an incorrigible old soul you screamed, pointing:

"That's the Generalissimo?" followed up loud laughter, "He looks like Tom Thumb!"
A member of his protective detail approached you, raising his machine gun with the apparent intention of
Hitting you with the stock. "Leave her alone!" Franco ordered. "She is just a child — the fault is not hers."
You told that story many times in my presence, always with a smile or laughing out loud.

I don't believe you ever appreciated the possible import of that "feat" of contempt for
Authority. Could that act of derision have played some small part in their later
Coming for your father and taking him prisoner, torturing him for months and eventually
Condemning him to be executed by firing squad in the Plaza de Maria Pita?

He escaped his fate with the help of a fascist officer who freed him as I’ve noted earlier.
Such was his reputation, the power of his ideas and the esteem even of friends who did not share his views.
Such was your innocence or your psychic blind spot that you never realized your possible contribution to
His destruction. Thank God you never connected the possible impact of your words on his downfall.

You adored your dad throughout your life with a passion of which he was most deserving.
He died shortly after the end of the Spanish Civil War. A mother with ten mouths to feed
Needed help. You stepped up in response to her silent, urgent need. At the age of
Eleven you left school for the last time and began working full time.

Children could not legally work in Franco’s Spain. Nevertheless, a cousin who owned a cannery
Took pity on your situation and allowed you to work full-time in his fish cannery factory in Sada.
You earned the same salary as the adult, predominantly women workers and worked better
Than most of them with a dexterity and rapidity that served you well your entire life.

In your free time before work you carried water from the communal fountain to neighbors for a few cents.
You also made trips carrying water on your head for home and with a pail in each hand. This continued after
You began work in Cheche’s cannery. You rose long before sunrise to get the water for
Home and for the local fishermen before they left on their daily fishing trips for their personal water pails.

All of the money you earned went to your mom with great pride that a girl could provide more than the salary of a
Grown woman--at the mere cost of her childhood and education. You also washed clothes for some
Neighbors for a few cents more, with diapers for newborns always free just for the pleasure of being
Allowed to see, hold spend some time with the babies you so dearly loved you whole life through.
When you were old enough to go to the Sunday cinema and dances, you continued the
Same routine and added washing and ironed the Sunday clothes for the young fishermen
Who wanted to look their best for the weekly dances. The money from that third job was your own
To pay for weekly hairdos, the cinema and dance hall entry fee. The rest still went to your mom.

At 16 you wanted to go to emigrate to Buenos Aires to live with an aunt.
Your mom agreed to let you--provided you took your younger sister, Remedios, with you.
You reluctantly agreed. You found you also could not legally work in Buenos Aires as a minor.
So you convincingly lied about your age and got a job as a nurse’s aide at a clinic soon after your arrival.

You washed bedpans, made beds, scrubbed floors and did other similar assigned tasks
To earn enough money to pay the passage for your mom and two youngest brothers,
Sito (José) and Paco (Francisco). Later you got a job as a maid at a hotel in the resort town of
Mar del Plata whose owners loved your passion for taking care of their infant children.

You served as a maid and unpaid babysitter. Between your modest salary and
Tips as a maid you soon earned the rest of the funds needed for your mom’s and brothers’
Passage from Spain. You returned to Buenos Aires and found two rooms you could afford in an
Excellent neighborhood at an old boarding house near the Spanish Consulate in the center of the city.

Afterwards you got a job at a Ponds laboratory as a machine operator of packaging
Machines for Ponds’ beauty products. You made good money and helped to support your
Mom and brothers  while she continued working as hard as she always had in Spain,
No longer selling fish but cleaning a funeral home and washing clothing by hand.

When your brothers were old enough to work, they joined you in supporting your
Mom and getting her to retire from working outside the home.
You lived with your mom in the same home until you married dad years later,
And never lost the bad habit of stubbornly speaking your mind no matter the cost.

Your union tried to force you to register as a Peronista. Once burned twice cautious,
You refused, telling the syndicate you had not escaped one dictator to ally yourself with
Another. They threatened to fire you. When you would not yield, they threatened to
Repatriate you, your mom and brothers back to Spain.

I can’t print your reply here. They finally brought you to the general manager’s office
Demanding he fire you. You demanded a valid reason for their request.
The manager—doubtless at his own peril—refused, saying he had no better worker
Than you and that the union had no cause to demand your dismissal.

After several years of courtship, you and dad married. You had the world well in hand with
Well-paying jobs and strong savings that would allow you to live a very comfortable life.
You seemed incapable of having the children you so longed for. Three years of painful
Treatments allowed you to give me life and we lived three more years in a beautiful apartment.

I have memories from a very tender age and remember that apartment very well. But things changed
When you decided to go into businesses that soon became unsustainable in the runaway inflation and
Economic chaos of the Argentina of the early 1960’s. I remember only too well your extreme sacrifice
And dad’s during that time—A theme for another day, but not for today.

You were the hardest working person I’ve ever known. You were not afraid of any honest
Job no matter how challenging and your restlessness and competitive spirit always made you a
Stellar employee everywhere you worked no matter how hard or challenging the job.
Even at home you could not stand still unless there was someone with whom to chat awhile.

You were a truly great cook thanks in part to learning from the chef of the hotel where you had
Worked in Mar del Plata awhile—a fellow Spaniard of Basque descent who taught you many of his favorite
Dishes—Spanish and Italian specialties. You were always a terribly picky eater. But you
Loved to cook for family and friends—the more the merrier—and for special holidays.

Dad was also a terrific cook, but with a more limited repertoire. I learned to cook
With great joy from both of you at a young age. And, though neither my culinary skills nor
Any aspect of my life can match you or dad, I too am a decent cook and
Love to cook, especially for meals shared with loved ones.

You took great pleasure in introducing my friends to some of your favorite dishes such as
Cazuela de mariscos, paella marinera, caldo Gallego, stews, roasts, and your incomparable
Canelones, ñoquis, orejas, crepes, muñuelos, flan, and the rest of your long culinary repertoire.
In primary and middle school dad picked me up every day for lunch before going to work.

You and he worked the second shift and did not leave for work until around 2:00 p.m.
Many days, dad would bring a carload of classmates with me for lunch.
I remember as if it were yesterday the faces of my Jewish, Chinese, Japanese, German, Irish
And Italian friends when first introduced to octopus, Spanish tortilla, caldo Gallego, and flan.

The same was true during college and law school.  At times our home resembled an
U.N. General Assembly meeting—but always featuring food. You always treated my
Closest friends as if they were your children and a number of them to this day love
You as a second mother though they have not seen you for many years.

You had tremendous passion and affinity for being a mother (a great pity to have just one child).
It made you over-protective. You bought my clothes at an exclusive boutique. I became a
Living doll for someone denied such toys as a young girl. You would not let me out of your sight and
Kept me in a germ-free environment that eventually produced some negative health issues.

My pediatrician told you often “I want to see him with ***** finger nails and scraped knees.”
You dismissed the statement as a joke. You’d take me often to the park and to my
Favorite merry-go-round. But I had not one friend until I was seven or eight and then just one.
I did not have a real circle of friends until I was about 13 years old. Sad.

I was walking and talking up a storm in complete sentences when I was one year old.
You were concerned and took me to my pediatrician who laughed. He showed me a
Keychain and asked, “What is this Danny.” “Those are your car keys” I replied. After a longer
Evaluation he told my mom it was important to encourage and feed my curiosity.

According to you, I was unbearable (some things never change). I asked dad endless questions such as,
“Why is the sun hot? How far are the stars and what are they made of? Why
Can’t I see the reflection of a flashlight pointed at the sky at night? Why don’t airplanes
Have pontoons on top of the wheels so they can land on both water and land? Etc., etc., etc.

He would answer me patiently to the best of his ability and wait for the inevitable follow-ups.
I remember train and bus rides when very young sitting on his lap asking him a thousand Questions.
Unfortunately, when I asked you a question you could not answer, you more often than not made up an answer Rather than simply saying “I don’t know,” or “go ask dad” or even “go to hell you little monster!”

I drove you crazy. Whatever you were doing I wanted to learn to do, whether it was working on the
Sewing machine, knitting, cooking, ironing, or anything else that looked remotely interesting.
I can’t imagine your frustration. Yet you always found only joy in your little boy at all ages.
Such was your enormous love which surrounded me every day of my life and still does.

When you told me a story and I did not like the ending, such as with “Little Red Riding Hood,”
I demanded a better one and would cry interminably if I did not get it. Poor mom. What patience!
Reading or making up a story that little Danny did not approve of could be dangerous.
I remember one day in a movie theater watching the cartoons I loved (and still love).

Donald Duck came out from stage right eating a sandwich. Sitting between you and dad I asked you
For a sandwich. Rather than explaining that the sandwich was not real, that we’d go to dinner after the show
To eat my favorite steak sandwich (as usual), you simply told me that Donald Duck would soon bring me the sandwich. But when the scene changed, Donald Duck came back smacking his lips without the sandwich.

Then all hell broke loose. I wailed at the top of my lungs that Donald Duck had eaten my sandwich.
He had lied to me and not given me the promised sandwich. That was unbearable. There was
No way to console me or make me understand—too late—that Donald Duck was also hungry,
That it was his sandwich, not mine, or that what was on the screen was just a cartoon and not real.

He, Donald Duck, mi favorite Disney character (then and now) hade eaten this little boy’s Sandwich. Such a Betrayal by a loved one was inconceivable and unbearable. You and dad had to drag me out of the theater ranting And crying at the injustice at top volume. The tantrum (extremely rare for me then, less so now) went on for awhile, but all was well again when my beloved Aunt Nieves gave me a ******* with jam and told me Donald had sent it.

So much water under the bridge. Your own memories, like smoke in a soft breeze, have dissipated
Into insubstantial molecules like so many stars in the night sky that paint no coherent picture.
An entire life of vital conversations turned to the whispers of children in a violent tropical storm,
Insubstantial, imperceptible fragments—just a dream that interrupts an eternal nightmare.

That is your life today. Your memory was always prodigious. You knew the name of every person
You ever met, and those of their family members. You could recall entire conversations word for word.
Three years of schooling proved more than sufficient for you to go out into the world, carving your own
Path from the Inhospitable wilderness and learning to read and write at the age of 16.

You would have been a far better lawyer than I and a fiery litigator who would have fought injustice
Wherever you found it and always defended the rights of those who cannot defend themselves,
Especially children who were always your most fervent passion. You sacrificed everything for others,
Always put yourself dead-last, and never asked for anything in return.

You were an excellent dancer and could sing like an angel. Song was your release in times of joy and
In times of pain. You did not drink or smoke or over-indulge in anything. For much of your life your only minor Indulgence was a weekly trip to the beauty parlor—even in Spain where your washing and ironing income
Paid for that. You were never vain in any way, but your self-respect required you to try to look your best.

You loved people and unlike dad who was for the most part shy, you were quite happy in the all-to-infrequent
Role as the life of the party—singing, dressing up as Charlie Chaplin or a newborn for New Year’s Eve parties with Family and close friends. A natural story-teller until dementia robbed you of the ability to articulate your thoughts,
You’d entertain anyone who would listen with anecdotes, stories, jokes and lively conversation.

In short: you were an exceptional person with a large spirit, a mischievous streak, and an enormous heart.
I know I am not objective about you, but any of your surviving friends and family members who knew you
Well will attest to this and more in a nanosecond. You had an incredibly positive, indomitable attitude
That led you to rush in where angels fear to treat not out of foolishness but out of supreme confidence.

Life handed you cartloads of lemons—enough to pickle the most ardent optimist. And you made not just
Lemonade but lemon merengue pie, lemon sorbet, lemon drops, then ground up the rind for sweetest
Rice pudding, flan, fried dough and a dozen other delicacies. And when all the lemons were gone, you sowed the Seeds from which extraordinarily beautiful lemon trees grew with fruit sweeter than grapes, plums, or cherries.

I’ve always said with great pride that you were a far better writer than I. How many excellent novels,
Plays, and poems could you have written with half of my education and three times my workload?
There is no justice in this world. Why does God give bread to those without teeth? Your
Prodigious memory no longer allows you to recognize me. I was the last person you forgot.

But even now when you cannot have a conversation in any language, Sometimes your eyes sparkle, and
You call me “neniño” (my little boy in Galician) and I know that for an instant you are no longer alone.
But too son the light fades and the darkness returns. I can only see you a few hours one day a week.
My life circumstances do not leave me another option. The visits are bitter sweet but I’m grateful for them.

Someday I won’t even have that opportunity to spend a few hours with you. You’ll have no
Monument to mark your passing save in my memory so long as reason remains. An entire
Life of incalculable sacrifice will leave behind only the poorest living legacy of love
In your son who lacks appropriate words to adequately honor your memory, and always will.


*          *          *

The day has come, too son. October 11, 2018. The call came at 3:30 am.
An hour or two after I had fallen asleep. They tried CPR in vain. There will be no more
Opportunities to say, “I Love you,” to caress your hands and face, to softly sing in your ear,
To put cream on your hands, or to hope that this week you might remember me.

No more time to tell you the accomplishments of loved ones, who I saw, what they told me,
Who asked about you this week, or to pray with you, or to ask if you would give me a kiss by putting my
Cheek close to your lips, to feel joy when you graced me with many little kisses in response,
Or tell you “Maybe next time” when as more often than not the case for months you did not respond.

In saying good bye I’d give you the kiss and hug Alice always sent you,
Followed by three more kisses on the forehead from dad (he always gave you three) and one from me.
I’d leave the TV on to a channel with people and no sound and when possible
Wait for you to close your eyes before leaving.

Time has run out. No further extensions are possible. My prayers change from asking God to protect
You and by His Grace allow you to heal a little bit each day to praying that God protect your
Soul and dad’s and that He allow you to rest in peace in His kingdom. I miss you and Dad very much
And will do so as long as God grants me the gift of reason. I never knew what it is to be alone. I do now.

Four years seeing your blinding light reduced to a weak flickering candle in total darkness.
Four years fearing that you might be aware of your situation.
Four years praying that you would not feel pain, sadness or loneliness.
Four years learning to say goodbye. The rest of my life now waiting in the hope of seeing you again.

I love you mom, with all my heart, always and forever.

De-Colonize This Space

Drum circle protests genderplop demands
Indigenous discount store camouflage
We demand persistent stereotypes
Solidarity initiative project

Take back the people’s cultural statues
Ethnographic curatorial practices
Red spray paint fire imperialism
Repatriate the Iphone Starbuck’s cups

And don’t forget the “Hey! Hey! **! **!’
Because we’re, like, artists and stuff, you know?

2. De-Colonize This Space Too

Guns and cholesterol made America great
Fat white boys in discount store camouflage
Duct-tape the Bible and the border wall
We won our freedom with our Kalashnikovs

Fake news back-stabber not a war hero
SecondAmendmentSecondAmendment
Lock her up get ‘em outta here yuge deal
You RINO losers can grab my MAGA

You snowflakes are sissies, you millennials too
But ouch! my heel spurs hurt, oh boo-hoo-hoo!

The feds are making headway
(generously passing out their treats!)
while the whistle blower
and his boon companion
hit the 22nd floor
fiscal plans
are tidily falling into place
and the suits are all busy
chasing their dimes
dancing around the spire
full of wine and cheer
(seems the demand side imbalance
has got everyone doing the same old shimmy!)

they’re all studying their bollinger bands
MACD's, and treasuries
just like the good old days
santali would say
while capitol hill is busy
with its own pleasantries;
repatriate that currency
hold those rates
bring the boys back home!
the affirmations are robust
and filled with glee!

conspiracy thinkers
are busy in their own back rooms
initiating the trade
and building their counter claims
as pork bellies
and soybeans
continue to soar
(looks like eddy and the margin men
are at it again!)

what happened to that bear masquerade anyways?
they really were a band of brothers
colourful clowns
with big painted smiles
ready to lead in any parade
but they met with the resistance
a horned wall
satan’s horsemen riding high
with bags hung heavy
under dark squinting eyes

are we near an end?
the undertakers will say
it's only a blink of an eye
to the thin red line
where risk takers and front men
all jump ship
debt addiction is crippling
and hell breaks loose
when entitlements are out
and towels are thrown in

there’s a center piece here
those pugnacious statesmen
with invigorating tales
have had their place
time to clip them at the limbs
and pull the punch from the bowl
(sobriety has its merits you know!)
let’s head to the commission
and throw darts to the board ~
seems the moral blueprints are fading

stuck pig
injecting
in a tiny house
on a green island
raining
a jungle of
cable
internet a
septic
tank
I run a
maze
grow bananas
wait for delivery
departure
line up
for my plastic
sippy cup
eat
pancakes
stack
Bromantane
for breakfast
nootropics
family
replacement
new tropical
smoothie
maker
prime member
of the Amazon
got to stimulate
my work in the garden
see that
water feature
it’s a duck pond
no it’s
an empty kiddy pool
but on a tree
I’m over it
an antler bromeliad
hunting trophy
a certification
of my triumph
the plot
next to it
my head
in the mail
a miniature guillotine
to repatriate
my body
and tail
still moving

i'm not a "gamer"... i'm a brothel leech...
a gomorrahite...
   this antithesis of safe-space
sodomites...
      gaming: ending with MGS1...
FFVIII... tenchu...
      for the console...
age of empires...
rome: total war...
                           i'll pay an extra 10 quid
to slur an oyster...
on top of 10 quid goes to
the madame... this fat ***** that would look
better in a slaughterhouse...
and that... gimp... turk... "turk"...
of a bodyguard: 5'9"... of something
i'd rather: first: sneeze on...
before piunching it for a sound
a making solids...

i'm not a gamer... but i'm keen pmn narratives...
and i'm willing to provide the diskjockey
sountrack...
either all vomito *****...
or... :wumpscut...
soylent grün...
                               thorns...
bunkertor sieben...
          anita sarkeesian: but...
                 i know when something
becomes just about enough:
       annoying...
if i had children...
             i'd be... but i don't...
so there's no point me venturing to:
the far far away... in... once upon a time
sort of galaxy... and story...

what could possibly be wrong
with: reclaiming a nation a place
for the orthodox in-breeders to secure
the spireweb waiting for the spider?
cousins best... confined...
to Gaza human shields reunion...
i don't mind the brothers ******* the sisters...
contraception: please...
but when cousins are *******
and no contraception is invoked...
anyone? with two months spare...
for liberal lingo...
and... how... the flu was given...
a "season": interlude...

            sooner i choke on blood...
the nation and the diaspora...
sorry... but the 'ebrews aren't the sole depostiory
"grieving party":
forever those not knowing
the snow of cracow... "oops":
yeah... that... "oops"...

        iowa.... is like that,,,
the ukraine of europe: the ukraine
of h'america: iowa?
and albania... the physiognomy of
a ******* plato: the vestern
vegeterians still keep dubbing it: "east"...
east is turkey... it isn't...
mesapotamia... whittle asia...
whittle shrimp ****...
**** cares you get covered in
**** phlegm... no... seriously...
what... sh'sh'shire?!

      keep pushing back the "east" *******...
albanians are practically macedonians
are practically greeks:

ancient greece is the birth of our modern
democracy: say that... pretending to be...
constipated...
east... east of Berlin? east of... Kiev?
east of Warsaw... east of Bucharest...
east of Budapest... i'm pretty sure:
south of Stockholm, Oslo, Helsinki...
dangengham & reddbridge and copenhagen:
not... "too... sure"...

east ******! greenwich mean-time!
part of the club: not part of the club...
**** it... wozz-eVer...
albanians are the sort of east
that the greeks are sort of north...
because...
   being a... greenwich:
**** three ways tends to be...
a bit... "confusing"...
                                                  ­       no?
tabloid press entertainment...
           shoot a lucky 'un from Syria...
go on... heavens only knows why
saudio arabia sits: fat... and harem...
impotent... when it comes to...
sheltering the syrias...
so much for the ummah!
so much for islam!

         *******: pseudo saudi grecoid!
you pseudo-arab
                     turk wash-up monkey!
that lawrence:
better shelved that care for a suntan...
beside...
            pakistani: ummah proud!
three words...

                   khadija **** khuwaylid:
who wrote the first surahs when
everyone treated muhammad as an ******?
he was the illiterate...
she was the older woman...
with an acumen for business...
she was literate... he wasn't...
miracle! a ****** mary birth!

                            *******'s worth of levant crap:
best kept in zoological matters...
you already stole the gods...
i have 'ere...
the crucifixion... i must make that
obsolete: if investigated:
by investing in a pike... running through
at the genesis: **** or pelvis...
hands died...
what of: "n.e.w.s."?!

           i don't game... i don't gamble...
this is plenty;
not enough the nation...
because... the status quo of the diaspora...
no? it has always remained a concern
that was already made available:
what is the intellectual concern
for the nation...
when all intellects: for... nationalism...
have failed...
who is to unhinge: the strict foundations
of 2000 years of the diaspora...
and the yids are not alone...

           who would require a bunch of israeli
farmers of dates and lemons...
when the diaspora of brookyln 'ebrews is:
as it ever was...
or the diaspora of persians...

                  call it a "nation"... i call it...
native russians of cosmopolitan moscow...
rereading the mythology of...
      the kamchatka peninsula...
          eh... what's alaska?
             wet wood to burn...
                                       nation: the cosmopolitan
antics! *******! *******! thrice! the cockerel!

saudi arabia could: saudi arabia should...
given the concept of the ummah...
give... what the syrians deserve...

     but seeing how the saudis treat the syrians
like they're kosovans: remains of the ottomans...
etc.: and the afghans are like...
this in-breeding fetish for understanding
iceland... etc. etc.
      
         simplified bargains of narrative...
              who takes who and what...
who's what and what's who...
        i almost forgot...
it's not repatriation: not really...
when the sundail: proper... isn't moving...
to repatriate within the confines of:
made in china...

                   ten thousand romanian
fruit pickers...
   i was born into a theatre of metallurgy...
soviet: yes...
but cheap soviet iron is better than
cheap-****-*****...
         repetriation of economy... comes first...
then... comes the thought concerning
the "outliers".

My logic
was not a part of belief.

The answer you proffered is
not, what it was
supposed to be.

The question sits like a
butterfly on my chest.

It was a sham exercise
to wipe out the dirt from the eyes.

Life, death and the
unknowing are the failures
of man.

I am ready to repatriate
my end from the noose, for
not accepting the award.

has anyone in their right state of mind ever cared to notice that Norway has: a) a rather monochromatic demography, b) has a population size worthy of royalty (i.e. small) and c) it never bothered to join the union? no, well of course not, soon the Alliance of Feminist West, i'll just cut my ***** off while i'm at it - internalised vocab correctness and a desperate need to join a club that still fights prostitution without sharing a dinner-date bill, because it's clinging to the code of Chivalry - how soon the multi-cultural experiment crumbled, oh sure, they mention the Communist experiment, but they rarely mention this ******* failure... and what a Colossus it was when it hit the ground and shattered like porcelain with gnashing of the teeth and an Indiana Jones whip of a tongue - no one mentioned the a, b or c of Norway... my grandparents are slightly xenophobic too... i guess your grandparents were more so (comes with old age, but yours see their grandchildren more often)... well... if you want, we can send you Auschwitz brick-by-brick and repatriate it in a Essex countryside if you wanna: as Burroughs noted: guards of the camps had to pet a cat for months, before gauging its eyes out to see if they had the stomach for the position, as ever, the ***** were there, but they were wondering about the stomach - now ain't that a fine fine comedy to consider, ol' Sax.

i don't know why they'd hate the Romanians,
having contacts on a building site
i can reap the benefits of such connections,
just today - two cartons of *Benson & Hedges:
that's 200 cigarettes per carton,
a bargain at 30 quid per carton -
elsewhere, extortion, a packet of Benson & Hedges
sold at a supermarket will fetch £9.66 per packet of 20 -
i got mine for 3 quid a pop -
my ten versus their "legal" 3 - not bad, not bad
at all... it's good to have friends in low places...
and believe me, they don't sell the brand in
Romania... so... well, catch a snooze while
i think of nanny and diapers and whether or
not to smoke them and eventually become an acronym
member of some civil police service minding
people's morals - strange to see the message in
English: smoking kills, smokers die younger -
missing the additional: thank ****!
when's the next train leaving? i have a bunch of
sheep that need a pat on the back re-affirmation
of the unshakeable military-industrial /
materialist-atheistic complex - we need these people
here... they need to be fed life as a placebo
with death the only effective component of their life...
but still, there's me, puffing away like some Thai
child at my Benson... good to know a few Romanians
rather than slandering them as donkeys...
you never know when a gypsy will give you a bargain,
a lucky charm and a palm reading to boot -
and believe me, don't use too much toothpaste,
use less, as told to children according to the Brothers Grimm,
a pea-sized amount, if you use more your teeth will
magically stain from the tobacco, you use less...
magic! teeth aren't stained - i haven't seen a dentist
in about three years... well apart from two wisdom teeth
being pulled out... story bite-sized before the injection
of the anaesthetic -
anaesthetist - so what do you like doing, in your spare time?
me - i like to read books.
anaesthetist - what books would you cite?
me - quo vadis.
if an epitome on a grave or my last words... just those two
would do just fine... quo vadis / where are you going?
and Britain (ahem, soon to be Scuba-diving Scots) left
the proposed resurrection of the Roman Empire, thinking
the grannies and grandpas would rekindle the stories they
heard from their grandparents about the zenith of the Victorian age?
no one is invading anyone, enslaving anyone like that anymore,
what the **** are we going to export this time round
when we don't have the redcoats to export?

Sharpening, my thoughts,
into brilliances of fine fabric of
mentations and my walk
/
the snow that goes ink yet
not spilling
its texture that goes
visible
/
as pure dark of a body in place
of the space of my eyelids
when they fall
strong,
being with the Moon out at night
in freezing gardens
all
without clothes
without anyone to repatriate
me home,
turning into one great cigarette mist
with no
death to.

I know those days of the air
smelling like faded
cities of coal
when Sun crosses
the Moon on the sky
and
creates a thermal pressure sandwich
of 12 airs
/
at adoption by stench or fragrance be it
of composters or
birches when no one else sees I throw
away my pedigree
to humans
always
at last and find
myself at night
more than my
conscience could ever ask for,
and though it
goes beyond
prickliness opaque you’d
be favourable with in
terms of the meeting between
that accounting
and your smell or eyes,
it serves

always still,

hunting instinct of
stoicism
that ask for
nothing more
than the fleeing
of false suns
alongside
the cinnamon visage of the Sun

that no plying month will ever ask
for.
More.

The day unveils
it's beautiful bright self
pulling back the curtain of
twilight’s twinkling.

Dark body undressed in favor
of nature's flavor of greens
that I long to savor
as I repatriate her repainted clouds
that cover a light blue complexion.

we drag our feet
yet reach the same destination
i am a radio station
singing lets repatriate
this frozen ice-age
from the alabaster nascency
fingers equate to this
we reprimand the lanterns
to find the shining jewel
that hides within our flesh
yet feelings deflect
our sorrow and antipathy
so remain awake
despite the waves
that must take your place
when we all partake
in this mind-field
of destiny

I'm not flossing,
but I cost men
a certain respect,
got those searching rejects
looking for objects
that might inject
a direct flow
into a system that's
too slow,
so they watch their engines
go too cold.

I'm not a bomb
but I blast holes
in those
violent episodes,
take the illogical
and repurpose it,
making poetry
with logic in it.

I'm not a gun
and I never want to
carry one,
but you'll get shocked
when you're shot
by the thoughts
that blow your mind
and help you carry on
at the same time.

I maybe grandstanding
demanding the handing
of banners back to the past
got citizens bleeding patriotism
cuz that cloth cuts like glass,
those symbols don't last.
After the harshest winds have blasted
flags just flap and go flaccid,
disintegrate brains like hydrochloric acid,
turning people into plastic
action figures that only think
and articulate in a certain way,
do what the corporate dynasties say
as the greedy businessmen repatriate
every cent they ever let us make,
while taking our rights and education away.

Human touch is among
The most mysterious of fragrances
Moving away from the need for a diversion
Towards the need to believe in something worthy
Is already a type of liberation for the psyche
Why do we need so many offerings
To repatriate the missing pieces of a country
And yes you are mistaken but i love you anyway
Despite the smiling faces trapped in shiny frames
Hundreds of names and bodies are taken hostage daily
By ****** midriffs and fatal fitness equipment
Your loose lips can sink my ships any day of the week

.                      MAGAM
                      Palindrome
   Make America Great Again Musk.

   Trump has handed Elon a pack of
    cards which he is about to shuffle
          and then remove the jokers.

     This is going to known as the big
    deal, all hands deck, trUSt all men
   and there’s going to be no dog ears.

  Can Axe The is the name of the game
  royal flush to drain the swamp of the
           dreaded Demon Crat Rats.

  Now that the lady liberties have been
  pushed aside blindfolded and gagged
ban abortion women are Fœtus Factories.

      White houses are for virgins only
        not for homeless or hymenless
      unless those with brush and  pan.
  
Penalize the Irish for voting against you
     remove all the Tech companies and
        repatriate them back to the USA.

   Tell the Stefan Bandero Ukraine Nazis
   and the Israeli Jew Zionist Nazis to go
     and **** themselves, free Palestine.

     One last thing Donny T, would it be
    possible to create a posthumous Elvis
   song from words in his vast repertoire?