I’m rather fond of chocolate cake
I’d like to learn to knit
But I can’t abide Celine Dione
And Celery is ****

I find a book most comforting
And the odd banana split
But I hate celebrity look-a-likes
And Canadian singers
And celery are ****

I’m happiest by the fireside
Some music, I’ll permit
But I grit my teeth at gossipers
And dead ringers
Canadian singers
And Celery are ****

I love the air about my hair
And the grass beneath my feet
But I've never been too keen on wasps
And **** slingers
Dead ringers
Canadian singers
And celery are ****

I’m partial to a cup of tea
With a biscuit next to it
But I’ll never vote conservative
And insect stingers
**** slingers
Dead ringers
Canadian singers
And celery are ****

I like to bake a birthday cake
Or build a Lego kit
There are many things I truly love
But Right wingers
Insect stingers
**** slingers
Dead ringers
Canadian singers
And celery are STILL ****

**

Retailers hope to net profits with the overlapping of holiday seasons.
Thanksgiving is yet to be history; but, out comes the Christmas trimmings.
No big surprise seeing holiday reminders arriving and filling mail box,
comes with pre-season, this early blitz of commercials on tv now the net.

Early arrival of holiday brings bell ringers standing between shopper's exit,
a failure to repeat and repeat donations, brings looks of extreme displeasure.
Each and every time you enter or exit discount, drug, and many retail stores,
shoppers face not only bell ringers; but, 365 days donate at register requests.

Most can't equal billion dollar give aways by Bill and Melinda Gates' circle.
Most work extremely hard and donate but also choose to live on budgets.
I donate and have nothing against charities; but, how much should one give?
Retailers, putting shoppers on the spot, asking for donations upon check out?

Never a pinch penny when it comes to sharing when there's an "actual" need,
generosity is always a personal choice, I let guilt not be my companion in giving.
Multiple donations to canister's of amnesiac holiday bell ringers? Wont happen!
Nothing against legit charities; but, giving until you're broke, you "will" be needy.

Oh how I hate
this time of year,
with the stupid songs
and holiday cheer...
Annoying bell ringers
outside the store,
and the tacky wreaths
hanging on the door.
Cardboard calendars
filled with waxy treats,
ice and snow making
death traps of streets.
Frazzled parents
spending more then they should
on entitled kids
who are far from good.
Fake smiles & wishes
in the "spirit" of it all,
the empty shelves-
the crowds at the mall.
The hour long line
to see Santa the phony
who falsely promises
an x-box or a pony.
Having to gather
with family who annoy,
gifting another cheap
Chinese-made toy.
Fire hazards
strung with tinsel and lights,
tensions leading
to fun Christmas fights!
Secret Santas-
holiday parties for work-
ugly sweaters
making you look like a ****.
The stress of having
an enormous list
and a tiny budget
just makes me ******!
No, nothing seems jolly
or merry or bright...
Oh how I can't wait
till post-Christmas night!

Love you lots,
Despite the pain
Despite the rain
From my eyes
Under blue sunlit skies,
In spite
Waking up
Restless in the night
Were I
An abandoned pup
I cannot lie,
I miss you
Night and day
And I have no clue
What else to say,
My mind in knots
I cannot undo
As I think of you,
Minor relief
Knowing you're alive
But that disbelief
Still lingers
Nine to Five;
Dead ringers
All the pictures
Permanent fixtures
In my head
That I cannot
Dislocate
Until I'm dead,
And for that I wait
Patiently
Fervently,
Though a race
This is not,
It is a surer bet
Than to ever see your face
Again; which I will never forget...

APAD13 - 146 © okpoet

My darling boy,
The real one. The real thing and all.
A figment of my imagination but in my (tiny) self I hold.
You.

There is much awe in my city, my dear, but you are the skyscraper. Much joy in my world, but you are the bubbles, clumsily blown by a three year old.  Much wonder in my life, but you are my eyes when fireworks are set off. There is much music, but you sing a different song, of other lives lived, of sisterhood, of soul mates, of brothers, of lovers. Once again, we are.

It had been so long and on your descent, your landing, your smooth slip through Heathrow’s arrival gates (the home of my memory hidden in its ink)
I felt myself climb
Back into you
In the strongest, yet weakest way
Possible
Now you must rest. Go home to your mother and sleep til you wake.

Those days later
I watched you step out of that car
And as if in swift teamwork, my body was broken and healed at once.
I watched you cascade, so graciously, towards the bell ringers.
The people, your people
Your girls – full of anger, heavy wombs and hurricane.
I whispered, under my breath, ‘thank you, I love you’ and became
Me
You arrived and left without a ******* your arm – because, the truth is, you could never have anyone on your arm
Not even
You

My olive tree
The fruits of my loves labour never lost
A middle aged woman’s warm self among metallic scratches and blips.
A photograph – taken just before
Half of your face
Filling the whole page.

I will write to you
For you
As yours
Daily
And at the end of each I will
Whisper, under my breath, ‘thank you, I love you’

Thank you
I love you
Scorpio x

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I wish the world
banana seats and ***** bars
chariots of childhood
transports to imaginary kingdoms
erasers of boundaries
freedom makers
brother bonders
vehicles of the delegates of peace
a better way.

Bolted to a heavy metal frame of
metallic green with
ape hanger handlebars
the playing cards clothes-pinned in spokes
making siren noises with our mouths
rope-lashed weapons aboard
discovering creeks
woods
forbidden backyards and
never-before-known games with
barn side lumber and pop cans
double-dog daring inedible things
teasing girls
riding to secret clubhouse meetings and
the playground.

I wish the world
our playground
summers of innocence
bottomless wells of laughter
center of the universe
June to September
ages 8 to 18
bean bags and ringers
tether ball - hand and paddle
basketball and baseball and
box hockey
(where it was encouraged
to give children axe handles and
a softball
to beat through holes
in a 2 x 6 board
defending a goal
with their life and
busted knuckles).
We liked it that way.
We lived as legends.

I wish the world
a bike ride with friends
ending at the playground.
For there has never been a bad day
on a banana seat.

a day spent in shades of gray
of Havisham wedding cakes
and once untattered lace
of some eighteen-thousand yesterdays
of both ****** and present hair
and a never-again tie
"not unless you bury me in one"

The year stood at its equinox
  And bluff the North was blowing,
A bleat of lambs came from the flocks,
  Green hardy things were growing;
I met a maid with shining locks
  Where milky kine were lowing.

She wore a kerchief on her neck,
  Her bare arm showed its dimple,
Her apron spread without a speck,
  Her air was frank and simple.

She milked into a wooden pail
  And sang a country ditty,
An innocent fond lovers' tale,
  That was not wise nor witty,
Pathetically rustical,
  Too pointless for the city.

She kept in time without a beat
  As true as church-bell ringers,
Unless she tapped time with her feet,
  Or squeezed it with her fingers;
Her clear unstudied notes were sweet
  As many a practised singer's.

I stood a minute out of sight,
  Stood silent for a minute
To eye the pail, and creamy white
  The frothing milk within it;

To eye the comely milking maid
  Herself so fresh and creamy:
"Good day to you," at last I said;
  She turned her head to see me:
"Good day," she said, with lifted head;
  Her eyes looked soft and dreamy,

And all the while she milked and milked
  The grave cow heavy-laden:
I've seen grand ladies plumed and silked,
  But not a sweeter maiden;

But not a sweeter, fresher maid
  Than this in homely cotton,
Whose pleasant face and silky braid
  I have not yet forgotten.

Seven springs have passed since then, as I
  Count with a sober sorrow;
Seven springs have come and passed me by,
  And spring sets in to-morrow.

I've half a mind to shake myself
  Free just for once from London,
To set my work upon the shelf
  And leave it done or undone;

To run down by the early train,
  Whirl down with shriek and whistle,
And feel the bluff North blow again,
  And mark the sprouting thistle
Set up on waste patch of the lane
  Its green and tender bristle,

And spy the scarce-blown violet banks,
  Crisp primrose leaves and others,
And watch the lambs leap at their pranks
  And **** their patient mothers.

Alas, one point in all my plan
  My serious thoughts demur to:
Seven years have passed for maid and man,
  Seven years have passed for her too;

Perhaps my rose is overblown,
  Not rosy or too rosy;
Perhaps in farm-house of her own
  Some husband keeps her cosey,
Where I should show a face unknown.
  Good by, my wayside posy.

Long time ago, I thought about staying in
An era lost,
Dead and gone,
Despite all the saving and baptisms.

They offered me the chance to lead them, to teach them,
to… to be king.
But my place was here.
So I drank some juice,
Said some words and here I am.

Didn’t seem like it was over though.
I was hitchhiking down a long and lonesome road.
Suddenly,
The skies filled with brimstone and irony,
The ground grew silent and still,
Clocks ticking wound satirically,
The sea drained into nothingness
like some gaping mouth was drinking it,
Dead gods awoke,
and there shined a shiny demon,
In the middle of the road.

He said to me,
“Welcome Moon-and-Star,
Come to me through fire and war.
Come, Legion,
Come and look upon the heart.
Lay down your weapons
And pick up your pen,
It is not too late for my mercy.

Now write the best poem in the world,
or I'll swallow your soul...”

Well, my many faces,
We looked at each other,
And we all said,

Okay.

And we wrote the first thing that came to our heads,
Just so happened to be
The best poem in the world,
It was the best poem in the world.

It went a little like this:

In the beginning, there was one source of light.
It would die and come back every night,
As a woman showing off her thighs
Just a little bit at a time.

In the beginning,
everyone bowed their heads towards the light.
They would dance and eat their friends alive.
We were not happy then,
these were simpler times.

Now we are played,
we’re the moth we’re the flame.
We were aware of the danger,
we could not look away;
my eyes are open.

I forget though
that people are not good to each other,
One on one.
Marx be ******,
The sin is not the totality of certain systems.
Theology be ******,
The sin is not the killing of a god.
People are just not good to each other.

We are afraid
and
We think that hatred means strength.

And so what we need is less brilliance,
what we need is less instruction,
what we need are less poets,
what we need is more beer,
a typist,
more finches.

And now I’m hoping for a poem
That will come to me when I’m asleep.
Because I can’t lie
And so I can’t write.

Our eyes pierce you, demon,
And it occurred to me that we have spent
our whole life
Starting over.

Caught pining for the things that we could’ve been:
We could have been gold diggers
we could have been gunslingers
we could have been a little bigger
we could have been our own ringers
we could have been good writers
we could have been good writers
we could have been good writers

But what we are,
is the silence.
Share with me all your pain.

I won't
Share your love.
I need all your love
Or it’s all for not.

Look what I have found, look what I have found!

Look what I have found, look what I have found!
An artificial light, we come and gather around.
This is why we have lovers and why we have fighters.

This is why the arms race and particle colliders.
Mine is a humble flame, just a little white lighter
And it belongs to me.

And yet
There is a loneliness in this world so great
That you can see it in the slow movements
Of the hands of a clock.
There are people so tired,
So strafed,
So mutilated by love or
No love,
That buying a bargain can of tuna
In a supermarket
Is their greatest victory.

So save me, I can't be saved,
I won't be saved.
I'm a citizen's son,
I don't need no soul.
All the soldiers say,
"It'll be alright,
We may make it through the war
If we make it through the night."
All the people, they say,
"What a lovely day, yeah, we won the war.
May have lost a million men, but we've got a million more."
All the people, they think
That no recall or intervention can work in this place,
That There is no escape.

Look into my eyes and it's easy to see
one and one makes two, two and one makes three,
it was destiny.
Once every hundred thousand years or so
when the sun doth shine
and the moon doth glow and the grass doth grow.

We dance in the thunder
Of collapsing walls and twisting cages.
The great black bellowing,
“I'm a god.
How can you **** a god?
What a grand and intoxicating innocence.
I'm a god.
How can you **** a god?
Shame on you, sweet Legion.”

We screech into the obsidian sheets
that blanket the way-out,
“When the giants of heaven forsake the earth
I shall destroy you for all that you’re worth.
With the bolt of Zeus and our golden throats
I will destroy you and send you afloat.
Whether you pillage the earth or sea
I will destroy you this I guarantee!”

Needless to say,
The beast was stunned.
Whip-crack went his whippy tail,
And the beast was done.
He asked us,
Be you angels?
And we said nay,

We are but men,

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal voice went snicker-snack!
we left Hymn dead, and with His read-head
we went hiking on ahead.

And the peculiar thing is this, my friends:
The poem we wrote on that fateful night,
It didn't actually read anything like this poem!

And the past followed me anyway.
so sure, I could’ve stayed there,
Could’ve been king.
But in my own way,
I am king.

I miss you like maps miss fingers,
Like mikes miss singers,
Like hells bells miss ringers,
Like bringers miss takers,
Like ******* miss fakers,
Like cakes miss bakers,
Like lakes miss boats,
Like bad swimmers miss floats,
Like politicians miss votes,
Like doting parents miss school plays,
Like nymphomaniacs miss lays,
Like hypochondriacs miss prescriptions,
Like ****** misses addictions,
Like carpets miss friction,
Like Billy Bunter misses midnight feasts,
Like the grim reaper misses grief,
Like Henry misses the good fellas,
Like sand sculptures miss umbrellas,
Like Rubix cube devotees miss puzzles,
Like rabid dogs miss muzzles,
Like Van Gough missed his brushes,
Like speed freaks miss rushes,
Like pens miss paper,
Like the Mona Lisa missed Pater,
Like the canvas misses the creator,
Like  the thirsty miss water,
Like the hungry miss food,
Like ***** miss the lewd,
Like the mind misses mood,
Like the tides miss the moon,
Like the sane miss the loons,
Like the dark misses the light,
Like the brave miss the fright,
Like the kite misses the wind.
I miss everything.

Well the nickel beer and
Lemonade has
Already been served

And there is nothing else
That I can recognize
That claims that I am made of
Meat and bone and tissues

Who says I am man?
Who believes that I am
Not God and God alike?
And so than the hypocrites of mind
And man alike will shiver in their
Souls because the realization of their
Clear headed souls will show them
Four years of lost time and tight fitted black pants

The aim
Is beautiful

For it is full
And
FILLED WITH PURPOSE

The real beasts press
Against journalism
All trying to spread their
Highly detailed journalism with
The broken whiskey bottles of their era

In chemistry
Their is magic
And magic is merely
Man on man conflict
Where journalism presses their ink
Onto page
To produce a mere inch
Of their madness and chaos

Let lashing be the whip
Of Joyce's poetry
There once was wisdom
And Dionysus and arguments and nothing
That could spread because reality is neither
Nothing and nothing else because play
Has nothing to do with time

Because the disease of a character manning a mast
Of a man never existed
Plagues the soul of the creator
We are the agents of narcotics and of steel details
That lay to the promise
Of killing with pure reason

And everyone uses a character
For the vehicle for "quotations" is solely
To carry the story for the form of the road
That was repeated for the sake of the "story"

An lo' weighs the film
The man against himself
The U.S.A. taken over by the myth
Where myth
Could not even be defined
By our hollywood intellectuals

And than the death begins
Because youth
Was always so
Fleeting

And our age
Is always wrong
With America

For we think because we
Scream
The higher-ups are
Listening

It is laughable what
Television
Makes for
"Us"

Take the grenade and
Pinch the pin for there
Is only politics and politics is
Spelled out in day one, day two and
Day three and white make-up who
Claims to know nothing...

A regular Dylan carry.

Where are we than?

Who carries the torch?

I can't wait for the cops
To never
Carry me away for
Nothing I've always been
Doing.

And for entertainment and the
Greeks and the campaign trail
The hatred presses for the reasons
Why hate is actively productive for
Money when dealing with the flies
And maggots of Hollywood

Let the un-creative die and writhe and
Sigh with their million dollar wives
Where the rest lay with reality whose
Stones are as thick as the ones first laid

For the break is always near
And where there is nothing else
All you can rely on
Is only but the self

Where there is only night
There is no reason to scream
For the seasons have their turns
And the young have their yearns
But we, yes we...
We have reason for our season
To stretch and to breathe

I got a free hand but I got no broom
They tell me again, but I got no room
There's the check, and I start to swoon
But the taxi's here, and I'll be sleeping soon

A giant being
Where all good
Could be possible
And all finishings
Of the furnishings of

America

Have already been
Accomplished
And lay naked
To be judged
By the pressures of man
Who claim to say
They are the "speaking class"
Who speak

For all the rest

I've got no fingers
Left
And my ringers
Well their minds are on
Television's
Theft

I got no more money
I spent it all
On the freak

And the rest
I saved up
I plan on spending it on
The Geek

Take it from me
The reason to be
Is to keep on the
Breathe
And the scream

Each whisper
Shines through a plate
Of clear crystal screen
And when the happening
Let's go and closes

There will only be the
Sword swallower and
And the goat
That swears
It feels

Oh how time presses where magic
Once where and where we remember
When men were men and women were
The reason to write songs for the empty
Roads show nothing but the dim lit codes

I tell nothing of where I would like to be
For where I've been is nowhere I can see
I've lived enough to trust that life will never be O.K.
And that poet's have died in a life of disarray

Where than do I stand without you?
I pray that no worker hears what I do.
And the detective neither holds a clue
In the English grocery, the line is nill without que

And oh' hero
Who has lived past
The unsurpassable zero

Whose memory and fate
Is never too soon and never too late

Whose tambourine rings
And whose voice will always sing

A poet to die
Whose harmonica's cries
In an eternal sigh

And the laugh of naivety and truth
Where there once
Was possessed youth

The blue eyed son never
Learned the definite definition
Of a human race with a
Solution

There will always be
A Hard Rain

With ourselves
To love and never

To Frame

i'm reaching my own very secondary hell...
this reach into... something of a nieche,
something of an echo chamber...
something of a jettison approach with regards
to almost everything...
the voice in my throat is no longer
necessary... some variation of:
this ethics and this "philosophy" is a bypass:
it's not a bypass...
i might just as well be "saying":
i haven't read a single book in my life...
which implies: i haven't read the required reading
either...
but i have read several books and...
among the contemporaries alongside
the shared breath... i have a library that's pretty
much a graveyard...
i'm hardly mastering some: in vogue...
old ideas come crashing down while
all the others are kept intact...
perhaps as honest as one can be...
i have... read... books... by... dead... people...
will alexander... a california poet is still
alive... i seem to have...
stuck to the living in the medium of cinema...
and music...
yet i still managed to balance it out
with a nostalgia for old cinema...
and old music, german, folk...
but i'm shy when it comes to:
darwinism explains everything right, and "wrong"...
i'm just practically tired
of being the turkey being shoved
darwinistic idea-stuffing down my throat...
i'm tired of darwinism...
long ago... a "philosopher" would be someone
who... overcame past mistakes...
or whatever...
one of my prime past mistakes?
taking a ****** relationship with frivolity...
if i wasn't using a ******:
she implored: don't use it...
god knows how she missed the *******
impediment to begin with...
i'll take contraceptive pills...
impregnation... phone-call...
i'm pregnant... well... you should get an abortion...
what were the chances that she moved
from novosibirsk to st. petersburg...
to edinburgh... that she would: settled for
moving to the outskirts of London and live...
with the parents of her would be:
father of the child...
and the supposed father being "merely" a roofer...
oh i've learned my lessons since being aged: 21...
the only honest **** these days
is with prostitutes... who are oh so careful about
contraception...
we would even talk about it...
since 21 and i'm nearing 34?
how many relationships apart from...
casually picking up a thai-surprise in a park etc.
how many? to be ensnared by:
a lasp in judgement with regards:
the ****** doesn't bother me...
the ******* does... but i can't be rid of it...
how many relationships?
0... i was given the moral scare from that
one... ahem... "relaxed" relationship...
pro-life implying: there's no guarantee...
this is already: a dollop of mustard on a spoon
as dessert if you please...
since 21 though?
it was always going to be a safe bet...
prostitutes...
hardly "*** slaves" as...
the women i know would not wish upon
themselves... a lottery of impregnation...
there could have been so many ways she could
have ensnared me...
pristine John i ain't...
but this period of time... nearing 13 ******* years...
wow...
wow... it tells you something...
because this pro-life contra pro-choice "debate"...
via: so while i *******... that's perfectly alright
in terms of: imagining a genocide with you?
because it's only life...
when coupled to a woman's body...
i don't like this pro-life argument...
not when there's "sensibility" concerning:
how far along?
contraception, yes...
but there has to be some time-reference
with regards... both parties can admit "oops"...
i don't see a point of:
i ******* there's no pro-life argument...
because i should be ******* "on a whim"...
since i... oh! this is the male argument...
i ******* into you... therefore you have something
of me... therefore you must have it...
oh... i see...
because i honestly don't get it...
if we made an honest mistake...
and you want to ******* into frivolity...
by all means... i'm no chain no baron and you're
no serf... matter of fact... this same girl is on
her third marriage... if i was her first and
we were engaged and she was 19 and i was 21
and, honestly... if you lived a life back in 2007...
it was ripe with magic...

but since then... that phonecall and: i'm pregnant...
and we were already beside being engaged prior...
and i was like: what?
it's not you're going to move down to London
from Edinburgh just for my looks...
she didn't say: i'll get it aborted...
i said: you should get an abortion...
a pro-choice man... at 21 and this litany of
excuses: mind one more?
to not have had ***... i proved that...
me and about 9 prostitutes proved that...
when there's a clarity of transaction...
there's no worry about contraception...
those precuations are prime...
the heart is a feeble liar when the *** is free...
imagine...
due for ***... but there's no...
"gifts"... there's no liar of the heart to mind
when... i have no excuses?
this happened 13 years ago!
i should have hoped to be freed from this...
"conundrum"...

scatological... william f. buckley jr. interviewing
allen ginsberg... and this word crops up...
it's somehow the covert expression fundamental
marker...
scatological... there's this avant garde of
poetics and how...
when poetry ascribes less images and...
teases philosophy...
that's no fair game...
but when philosophy employs short-cuts
with metaphor or imagery...
then words are no longer skeletons
and juiceless prunes... or whatever is demanded...

but that's the problem:
i only managed to love once...
or... rather... **** to the zenith of my efforts...
and bypass the goldberger skin-leash too...
because it was never about being satisfied...
but about seeing: satifaction...
and this old chestnut will haunt me
to the point where i will no longer be a chanced
ghost solo... but a ghost in a story...
and i don't mind the future...
i already know that i'm standing
a plateau plough moment of... resurrection...

for my time is no more linear than
the experience of gravity...
but... since i'm not falling...
and i'm either standing, walking, or sitting?
then time is not so much linear...
as it is circular...
after all: i am bound to a ******* carousel, aren't i
or aren't we all?
i was expecting circular time long
before people conjured up:
a pioneering linear "ontology" of time...
time moves "forward" without
the confines of history and within
the confines of technology!

after all: who to better the spoon!
the improved staff! a crutch!
the improved horse... a talking donkey!
but again and again:
why should my life be so precious
as to stand outside the circular nature
of time... to stand, alone...
in the prized linear...
from beginning middle and end...
why so?

of course the baggage and: if anyone, notably,
myself, should engage in any further
intimacy - beside the brothels' delights...
no... the money the clarity of transaction...
there are no flowers... no anniversaries...
i can't remember the last time i bothered
to celebrate my own birthday...
i tried that once...

what's pro-choice again, in terms of man
and responsibility or simply not *******?
13 years and that same cautionary tale...
i knew i wasn't going to make the same mistake
and relax myself into love...
because i don't think a woman should
be left barren with a pro-choice conundrum...
it's as if: you have to force the choice upon her...
otherwise it's called a golden ring...
and there's this whole flamboyant procession
in a church and two otherwise estranged families
come together and there's all this and that and
the other and afterwards the *****-licking
starts and blue and pink and a baby several months
later...

oh right... the argument it's a blessing
and that irish luck of a spontaneity should you...
when all the other couples are left
limping because of one wooden leg
among the four that should stand ***** and:
oh gaw on gaw on gaw on gaw on mrs doyle -esque?

imagine telling a woman: you should get an abortion...
because those contraceptive pills didn't
exactly do the magic...
and a ******* is already a discomfort when
you decided to learn from the Donatelos of
the boogie nights movie set that
peeling it back... for the aesthetics of a circumcision...
a ****** was the last of my worries...
well that's better than allowing a woman
to make that choice herself...
honest to god and st. patrick the gnostic gnat...

obviously i'm paying the moral consequences
of these words...
was it true is it true... it was a telephone call
and i was already busy trying to...
have to bother not... a chemistry degree is
worth as much as a humanities and this
bilingual status is not really anything
if it's not arabic or... otherwise...

why wouldn't i have made precautions in those
years?
if going to a brothel is a way to escape
the impregnation conundrum?
if for the sake of recreational ***...
*** without consequences... tennis ping-pong ***...
if that's what's being sold...
and not the monogomy quack-**** with
a boquet of moral verbiage...
yes... i made that mistake...
but why would i have a moral authority
over a woman's choice... she ghost jerks-me-off...
we perform genocide of ***** into
tissue... flush down the toilet with
crocodiles and we later baptise ourselves
as dove resurrected coming from the shower
having down the no. 1 no. 2 and no. 3
on the throne of thrones?

did i ask for my phallus to make
it into the ***** shortlist?!
i wouldn't think so either...
i'm no model with either a face or a little richard
for that matter...
perhaps men call it heart-break...
while women should call it...
fried-eggs...

a poultry abortion a day...
keeps the ****-of-cuckoldry away...
at least among professionals there's
never that: oh i like like likey...
let's have ourselves impregnated and then
kumbaya ourselves with: shtrong...

'cause if you like it, then you shoulda put a ring on it...

oh... i would have...
but... how does this contraceptive contract work?
'cause if you like it, then you shoulda
sly impregnate yourself or what the hell
am i talking about?!

ce-no-bite...
go figure...
because no ******* is some day-dream victim
of the feminist movement...
the ones that are killed, probably are...
if you had enough time to talk to any of them
without priest of psychiatrist nagging you...
lying naked... talking about a 15 minute quickie...
talk, lips, kisses of the eyelids...
inversion of sculpting a crude block of clay...
god's plagiarism etc. etc.,
is this even a celebration: oh yes it's a celebration
when two parties know the perils
and have contraception as their prime
concern...
not some loved-up happenstance
teenagers...
because wisdom is what supposedly happens
when you make a mistake aged 16 and
later, live to be 69 and utter some
*******-wanking's worth of a maxim!

and by god everyone who hasn't read
a philosophy book... thinks that philosophy
happens in old age... that philosophy is not
fashionable for the young... or the middle-aged...
how, old age, philosophy...
dementia... "wisdom"... it's also called
the optical illusion... or the detriment of youth...
since? at least a portion of the lessons
of life must be learned...
beside the technical relax of technical details...
the old lessons of life persist...
and these are always archetypical...
the archetype never dies...
that's its most demanding access...
to: if i currently had a 13 year old son
named... Isidore...

what? there was a Peaches Geldoff...
Isidore is an old name...

because what's the difference between
a pro-life man and a pro-choice man?
the pro-choice man sentences himself
for sisyphus with the claim of baggage...
i did not have the required
resources to claim a moral responsibility
for what would eventually become
an onomatopoeia of me talking to it...
that would transcend a more sorry
state that a new-born lamb...
that would learn to wipe its own ***...
that would not choke on peanuts...
that would learn to not be gullible...
not entertain friendship with good faith...
that would... at best...
become this shadow of solitude of its
father's own demise...
but i rather rob a woman of this choice...
that allow her to bask in it...
as it would be her, responsibility to undertake
such a choice...
again: if this irish reasoning stands...
this ****** reasoning stands...
me, tissue, toilet, flush + ******* = genocide!
but a woman oh a woman can
stream it! video it! she's shooting blanks!
so... a lapse... not until...
not until... is a ***-shot pregnancy readied?
how much can i own beside
these stones that i stack to fathom
a shadow and not a morality,
nor an architectural feat to overshadow
mountains using pyramids?!
well... among sand dunes you, you just might
figure out this wild dream,
this wild ambition!

i will still persist in lamenting that:
i own a private library that mostly constitutes
of death-ringers...
it's slyly called a necromancy...
they arrive in my lap as former living:
now ascribed to dead on paper...
and the dead that they are...
recoil from the ashes into the skeletons
of words: and they walk among
the living inside the horde that i am...

and as they roll in their ***** graves
to a dance most stupendous...
their eyes burning and their ears pricked
to attention over a raindrop
bound to savour the disgruntled sea...
in both the magnanimous effort
that pouring a liter of water overshadows
the raindrop... or pouring hot oil
and pork scratchings with onions
into a soup...
balloons perhaps pop! but that well-known
sizzle!

a body with the demand of
two shadows' worth of remark...
whether true, or fictional...
better my choice over her "choice"...
and the consequences?
both the realisation of responsibility
as the nagging curse of shying
away from them...
focused on? the lack of material
conventionality for:
the up-coming, better life...

hmm... learning from the past generation?
they managed to work hard
and sight the Maldives...
i? if i didn't travel solo?
would i have seen Paris?
Stockholm... Moscow and St. Petersburg
are not a given...
but perhaps this one last time:
before i go... to the Faroe Islands, one
day i might... i just might...

what gambit assurance?
the moral high-ground of pro-life...
for a child... that would live...
a life worse off than his father or mother?
the life-in-itself "argument"...
as far as i am concerned...
this verbiage should come to its own
conclusion any minute now...

it's almost strange to have to recount
something that's 13 years old...
lucky me, lucky year...
i'm still not convinced as to why
darwinism can be allowed to explain almost
everything in life these days,
esp. when mingling with sociological "issues"
and how everyone should be readied
for rubric testing their bible knowledge
as their knowledge of either Orwell or Huxley...

"philosophy" once the "love" of "wisdom"...
how does trivia come into all of this?
to have to amass an encyclopedic know-of...
i am, also, a trivia focused spew-recycle-machinery...
darwinism around every corner...
there's no scientific fact the public are exposed
to that doesn't have darwinism at its center...
nothing of scientific popularisation
is ever not about darwinism...

not even Einstein... once upon a time...
it has become so overtly: universally applicable...
in psychology... in...
yawn... if it doesn't have a darwinism patent...
it's either part of the dodo project or
an existentialist cul de sac...
and my god, this momentum...
oh it's certainly not wrong...
but it's always so right: so many times...

come to think of it...
i probably haven't read any books to begin with...
i shouldn't have...
all the ones that i have read...
are never going to be in vogue...
they were in vogue... 50 years ago...
60 years ago...
they're not in vogue now...
they might as well start yelling at me:
pretentious literary ***!
should have abandoned us in high-school!

oh right... there's till the living Knausård...
come to think of it...
who the hell discovered Stendhal in high-school
if it wasn't me?
come to think of it...
i took that ****** bus no. 86 every morning...
and i can only remember seeing myself
read...
back of the bus and that Montgomery boycot?
didn't really help...
the loudest always went to the back
of the bus... took some neo-**** blonde scalps
with them for ***** and screetching licks...
and... just ahead... a silence of reading
Taoist maxims...

nice to know... that i'm still able to write
such explosive spew...
counter inhibited and "thinking"...
this like any other...
mildly exagerrated with a whiskey stew;
rummaging and rummaging
over a brain-pickling!

1.13.

Let me get
high
So I can
sing
to you
the blues

Crush up
poison petals
of small town
sunflowers

Shoot up
on toxic
threats
These are
the promises
of small town
regrets

Last time
I overdosed
I was became
president of
Club 27

Contraband upsells
*** seduced kills
Been craving
the bitter
temptations
Got caught
a few times
stealing
prescriptions
To trade
for cheap
trills
I was getting
my fix on
the worlds
crazy pills

Smashing mirrors
mirrors on
the wall
Who’s the
fairest
*****
of them all?

These are the
lies that lie
between you
and I
I wanna be
your girl
Just don’t give
me a name

Call me nothing
at all

I seek and
I see
a blind
humanity
Pulling the
trigger
on
overpriced
Silver bullets
Dead ringers
with
no dreams
they can say
they had
on
there own
Taking out
loans to get
you to sleep
when your all
alone

All your
secrets
I see
In the crack
of my looking
glass

Everyday
I get
more and
more
outta place
Trying to
maintain
my social
rank
Trying to
afford these
sinister
ways

Maybe just
maybe
one day
I’ll be a
good woman
I’ll learn to
behave

....No man is an island, entire of itself...any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee

No man an island
yet we stand with brand
in hand, waiting
to set set alight all bridges
as we make our stand
for ourselves
over our fellow man.

We stand and watch as
killers ****, then
turn the channel
seeking the next
momentary thrill.

Less and less we involve
ourselves with others
in a meaningful way
we are more likely
to be engaged in
digital play
as we die
a little more
each solitary day

If it sounds
like I am preaching
it is because  I am

More to myself
than others
but then again
perhaps I am reaching
to you and others like
to those who understand

the carillion is a ringing
that, the sounds of bells
are stealing up upon us
as we ignore calamity to play,
tetris and zombie clan

"All mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated.**

we the poets of consciousness,  
are the translators ....
of the thoughtless thoughts
and long lost creeds

we are the heart that cries
as this world bleeds
from razors cuts
by the many thousands,

we are the recorders of the deeds
both small and large
important an seemingly insignificant.

scribes and libraians we be both
noting written word and oral oath
we partake, we give to all
but at our best we are the accord
of action and thought, deed and word

so that we reflect upon
ourseleves and others
the joy, the hate,
the hurt, the succour
the wonderment and ease,
the love and loving care
we make the hard easier to bear
we make the horrible, we make crazy
we have the ability to make the hard person care
those in despair hope...those at the end of themself
reach once more for the dangling rope

we are the fabric, the paper
on which this world is printed
we are the old gold coin
and the newly minted

we are islands with bridges between
we are understanding,
between commoner and queen

we are those who stand ready
to extinguish harmful flame
yet we are those to set hearts alight
we are those who call others
away from the game
and into the heart of the heart
into cognizant frames

we are listeners
and bell ringers both
we refine the languages
we create the quotes

we are the fresh morning
we are the new start....

I hurried...

a hooded scrape
of epaulette through
rhododendron corridors
an exit to the brace.

All tradition is mine
so I threw her a peace sign
that caught in the ivy

both long-tooth
and way-tied

I walked....

a slow Nantucket sleigh ride
to the field where she waited,
tall,
sheep- skinned in her cuneiform

We talked..

Met, smoking by the ringers net
sequestered in the biscuit verge.

Too long into the bison grass
of Pompeii afternoons, is how

We slept

Your Youth. Your Time. Your placed Investiture
So did these Ringers let your Throne announce
With fresh commentary spring your Boys pure
And clasp their Spirits for Victory enhance
Now there's the Go! Humbled yet so Pronounced
To apply Punctuations for your Team's End
Which the Lion roars their Thoughtful Doubts bounce
And Mark every Tariff they could Append
When most Nations laugh, they Green in Despair
Why his Coloured Mane kept whipping the Waves
Perhaps Leisure, his fleeting Vice repair
Kept hard-earned Fortiments from Woes and Slaves.
Still on still, these Songs by Splashes carry
Another Batch-of-Stamps; To Home they tarry.

I miss you like maps miss fingers,
Like mikes miss singers,
Like bells miss ringers,
Like cakes miss bakers,
Like lakes miss boats,
Like bad swimmers miss floats,
Like politicians miss votes,
Like doting parents miss school plays,
Like nymphomaniacs miss lays,
Like necrophiliacs  miss graves,
Like hypochondriacs miss prescriptions,
Like ****** misses addictions,
Like carpets miss friction,
Like Billy Bunter misses midnight feasts,
Like the grim reaper misses grief,
Like Henry misses the goodfellas,
Like sand sculptures miss umbrellas,
Like Rubix cube devotees miss puzzles,
Like rabid dogs miss muzzles,
Like Van Gough missed his brushes,
Like speed freaks miss rushes,
Like pens miss paper,
Like the Mona Lisa missed Pater,
Like the canvas misses the creator,
Like how the thirsty miss water,
Like the hungry miss food,
Like ***** miss the lewd,
Like the mind misses mood,
Like the tides miss the moon,
Like the sane miss the loons,
Like the dark misses the light,
Like the brave miss the fright,
Like the kite misses the wind.
Like a phone misses a ring
Like every misses thing.

POETS AND SINGERS AND DANCERS AND BELL RINGERS

ARE IN MY HOUSE TONIGHT, I PARTY WITH ANGELS

AND ALL I EAT IS BAGLES, AND THAT MAKES ME FEEL SO DIVINE

I WENT TO THE POETRY SLAM, WITH VOICES IN MY HEAD SAYING POETRY IS FOR GEEKS

BUT I AM A GOOD PARTY POET, WHERE EVERY POEM

EXPLAINS HOW I WANNA PARTY HARDY WON’T STARDY

MOVE IT ON UP, MOVE IT ON UP

AND SHOW US HOW TO HAVE FUN

AND TONIGHT THERE WAS A POET BLASTER WHO HATED POETS

SHOOTING AT ANYONE GOING OUT FOR SMOKES

YOU SEE WE HAD TO DESIGN A WEAPON TO **** POETS

AND MINE WAS TOO EXTREME, FOR THEM

YOU SEE, I DEVELOPED CANNON ***** AND 1 BILLION AMMO HERE AND 1 BILLION AMMO THERE

AND BULLETS, AND LOADS OF OTHER STUFF AND POINTED IT AT THE POET READING

AND BLASTED HIS HEAD OFF, SORT OF WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME TONIGHT

MY OLD MATES, SAYING, IS BRIAN INTO WRITING POEMS AND THEN THEY SAY POEMS ARE BORING

AND I SAY, NO MATE NO, YOUR BORING, SURE I AM DISABLED, BUT IT DOESN’T STOP ME FROM WRITING A GREAT POEM THOUGH

DISABLE DISABLE I MIGHT BE A BIT DISABLED, IT’S NOT MY STYLE TO NOT JOT IT DOWN, YEAH IN A POEM YA SEE

I HAD COKE TO DRINK AS WELL AS A PACKET OF CARAMELISED ONION AND SOUR CREAM CHIPS, ****** AWESOME DUDES

I AM DISABLED, TOO DISABLED, FOR THE GOING TO BED MEN OR KIDS OR LADIES

I DON’T WIN VERY MUCH, BUT THE ORGANISER REALLY LIKES MY WORK

I PARTY LIKE I GET HEADACHES FROM CHAMPAGNE, THE PURE ALCOHOL DOES WEIRD THINGS TO THE BRAIN

AND MY FAVE, THE SCHITZOPHRENIC MACARENA, IT GOES LIKE THIS

1 2 3 4 DO THE SCHITZOPHRENIC, FROM THE FIRST DIAGNOSIS TO MY CURRNT SITUATION

AND NOW, WITH MEDICATION, I CAN BE REFORMED, OH YEAH MATE YEAH, I AM SCHITZOPHRENIC

AND FLY BURGERS ARE GOOD ENOUGH TO EAT, FLY BURGERS ARE SUCH A TASTY TREAT

JUST CATCH A BLOWIE BETWEEN TWO BUTTERED BUNS, ADD SOME LETTUCE AND TOMATO AND HAVE SO MUCH FUN

YOU SEE MY POEMS TALK, ABOUT HASPPINESS FOR A GREAT PARTY, HAPPINESS FOR GREAT ART

AND HAPPINESS FOR THE OLD SMELLY MAN WHO FARTS, WHILE HE PLAYS AND BEATS ME AT DARTS

MOVING ON UP, MOVING ON UP MOVING ON UP, MAKING AN EGG SIT RIGHT IN THE CUP

THEN WENT OVER TO PAT HIS PUP, AS HE ENJOYS MOVING ON UP

i knew i wasn't going to give the experience enough justice
by writing about it: immediately after having just...
experienced it.. i was already tired from the shift
and i only managed to come home around 2am,
but i wrote something preliminary to keep the "bank
account" of memory intact, below an overdraft
of forgetfulness - i had to write something telegraphically...
i woke up today around 11am after staying up
until 4am... i truly didn't do the event enough justice...

after all... it's not everyday that a man gets to write
about having a *******...
   i passed the Rubicon (as it were)...
                  i needed to quench all my jealousies...
this one was a big one...
   massive...
                    that's how you quench jealousies...
this one friend of mine started: fwend...
bragging that he was in a ******* once...
i believed him... my downfall... i became jealous...
i know him: sickly sprout of a guy...
  did he? didn't he? it didn't matter by then... or now...
that's the thing with the spirit of man:
whether true or not...
i had to find a way to compete with
                        the claim...

so i was coming back from a shift... slightly tired...
but not too tired...
   i was actually going after just one girl...
i took about enough money for an hour...
     circled round the brothel in my usual way...
since i quit smoking i was only drinking brandy
and pepsi... thinking about the Firth of Forth
geographic bearings and how it's impossible
to reach the same distinct: east is east...
west is west... north... south in London...
even if you're standing before the Thames...
don't know... Edinburgh is that much different
to London: probably because of the Firth of Forth
or perhaps that's a southerner talking about
living in the north... that's what i really loved
about living in Edinburgh... i knew where east was...
i knew where the north was...

London is confusing: geographically...
   it's a ******* Behemoth of a city...
           i find that... i have this Bermuda Triangle
compass in my head when i'm in London...
the world seems to implode...
   i'm standing in the 9th circle of Hell and everything's
spinning out of control...
because there's so much momentum concerning
London: the whole world is here...
no wonder i don't know where east is...
      at least in Edinburgh you have pointers...
the Firth of Forth... Glasgow to your "left"
when walking toward Prince's Street...
          so many bridges: but no river...
   i.e. bridges because during the black plague
the ingenious architects built on top of the infested
quarters... so the city rose up... hence the bridges...

of course i became jealous...
   there's no better remedy for jealousy other than to...
imitate... let's see... what the hell this "badge of honour"
is all about...
i.e. to sleep with two women at the same time...
i wasn't planning... walking around the brothel
i was actually thinking: will i be too tired to get
a hard-on? i'm not taking any ******* pills...
i knew a guy from high-school once...
troubled... but lovely... Ryan... he could have been
the next big footballer...
  but he succumbed to ingesting ****** early on...
all that teenage lust from the girls got to him...
last time i saw him: he had that aura of being
hyped up about nothing...
   precursor of being: left-over... disused...
dropping ****** pills... probably doing some other
drugs because... outside of the school environment...
he wasn't pulling his weight along...
the environment became open and there
was no access to freely available pedestrian looking
girls in school uniforms...
i'm not doing that ****: i thought...
            no... *** is an act of reciprocation...
i don't have a ***** for a *****...
   this doesn't work on automatic foundations
of... see a naked body: get aroused...
no! if i had a switch, say: squeeze my testicles hard enough
and i get an *******...
**** me... women talk about moods...
i have moods too... i'm either aroused or i'm not...
depends on the totality of a woman...

if it were as simple as seeing a naked body...
in the flesh... well... it's different when you're doing a solo
project to ease a **** out of your ****
on the throne of thrones...
but in real life interaction... you can't just expect
a naked body... coupled with Picasso's cubism et al.
brigade to give you a runner...
plus... i needed to take a ****...

  some Asians were playing supermarket car park
cricket late into the night...
how happy they must have been...
while i was... prowling... gearing up...

i knew that if i had a ****-issues... i'd be having
******* issue... ****! little Richard:
where on god's almighty earth did you leave
your hard-on batteries?!
why can't you be more: switch-on / switch-off?
why will you not succumb to
the easy-pathway of ingesting some chemicals:
fear of repercussions for "under-performing"?
to hell with that...

it works both ways... i might be in the mood...
the moon is almost full...
i feel a werewolf sitting on my shoulder...
nibbling it... i was expecting a crow biting my ear...
but i need to be in a "mood"...
  i can't do: it's raining therefore i'm thinking
of the many hues of blue mingling with
purple and green...

    i didn't ask for a *******...
     there were two prostitutes sitting gauging
their eyes out... i chose one...
but this other one... this party girl was gearing up...
and she was like: he said to me twice now...
thrice i can't take... i only chose one...
but she was not having any of it...
can i just have this one?
    apparently no... i had to take both of them...
because the one that was pretending to
be this bleached blonde wanted to be in on
the "action"...

            i thought about the jihadis...
yeah... you and those 72 virgins...
how about 72 prostitutes...
               boyo... you have another thing
coming...
                  it's hard... i'm not saying it's easy...
******* two women at once...
it's confusing... getting a blow-job while
at the same time ******* on some *******...
you try your hardest to keep a hard-on...
******* on *******... pretending to be a toddler...
while... all the while... you're getting ****** off...
it makes no sense...
   why? well... when you're getting ****** off
you want to communicate eye-contact...
but... you're disengaged from it by *******
a 2nd girl's *******...
so it's like...   x = z but y ≠ z...
    
       that's why i hate *******...
                what society sells...
my best resolve concerning a *******?
it's not what people who have perfected it
have imagined... reality is a tender little *****...
what's best about a *******?

you snuggle up to one girl, the one you like...
she performs a hand-job on you...
you kiss her face, her neck...
you sometimes interlude her with eye-contact...
she knows you're digging her...
she's pretty... tameable...
        
she's jerking your off... while the other girl?
she's cameo... she was the one instigating this
interaction... she's the party girl...
she's the one tickling your *******...
she's the one you're about to use her cleavage
for imitation of ****..
   she's the one about to take a shower
after you ******* full sprout...
******* duck-lips... botox etc.,

                 she's the one who initiated the *******...
i was only after the one i fancied...
how do i know? after we finished...
the one i ******* onto...
and myself... she took a shower...
i also took a shower... she sprayed me with her
perfumes...
i took a shower... dressed up...
the one i fancied... while i was dressing...
she
stood behind me... like a vampire...
body-size-difference...
she started massaging my back and shoulders...

two girls... self-evident competition...
the one i liked gave me the most ingenious
hand-job... i smoke a cigarette and managed
a hard-on...
             i liked her eyes... her eyes told me everything...
i was the supposed good-mad-man...
party girl wanted a piece...
duck-lips unattractive...

i was put off by their song choices...
i was thinking:
kid loco - rattlesnake rattle (she's my lover)
wax tailor - ungodly fruit
boozoo bajau - keep going...

    if i had a harem of women i'd first have to
educate them in what music is best
ingested when having ***..

   of the two? the part girl that suggested
we have a *******? competing interests...
again: wrong choice of music...
after *** she started rummaging through my rucksack...
like a teenager...
   she found... a few things... most notably
Ovid's ****** Poems...
she asked me... oh, **** me... not this again:
are you German?!

what is it with people having this skewed
physiognomy of entertaining me as
a ******* Deutsche?!
i don't mind... i find it kind of beneficial...
but... if there's this superstition about whites
being unable to tell the difference
between Somalis and Kenyans...
like **** we can't... imbeciles... like **** we can't!

in an interlude between ******* on *******
and getting a a *******... sorry...
threesomes might be a zenith...
but... there are no third person involvement...
i can't accommodate two women at once...
if i'm getting ****** off i'd like
a blinding eye-contact...

   i smoked a cigarette and got an immediate
hard-on on... readied for a hand-job
and a tickling of the *******...
however threesomes go...
i found the best "position"...
no... it's not about what ******* sells...
first time... find yourself best served...
one of the women is more willing than the other...
best scenario?
you cuddle up to the girl giving you a hand-job...
you kiss her *******... you kiss her cheeks...
her neck...
while the other girl looks on... as you hide your
face into the face of the girl doing the deed...
you get to implode voyeurism...
one's doing X...
the other is looking at you:

          O)

                    or )O...

   because you're cuddling up to the one
that's jerking you off... half of your face is "missing"...
but you're looking at her...
while she's tickling your *****...
half of your face lost in the girl you like...
you wanted to be alone... pristine *******...
but she was the one who wanted a party and a *******...

you wait before asking her to provide her *******
for a makeshift ******...
the girl jerking you off is still her most
tender self... eyes of doe...
the ******?
              i wasn't asking for a *******...
good... that i spend my hard earned money
on this... to hell with spending it on material:
immaterial byproducts of hush... oops...

a ******* only makes sense when
one of the girls is jerking you off while the second
girl is watching you being ****** off...
teasing your *****... then come the ****** providing
her ***** as a substitute ******...
eye-contact... i don't believe one can have
a persuasive ******* being
occupied by... a duality of oral ***...
receiving oral *** while giving oral ***...

it's so much better to find a balance of...
voyeurism...
one girl is jerking you off while the other is watching you...
eyes eat eyes...

oculus edo oculus - eye eat eye...
that's how eroticism works... at least...
that's what i've fathomed from finding Ovid...

mind you: ******* oversells certain theatrics...
no... it's not true... reality is a different game
to what's practised in this kind of theatre...
i've already mentioned it...
sometimes i want to please others...
but sometimes i want to please myself...
it's "fluid"...
                  to hell with the precursor needs of
outliers that homosexuals are...
                        if they are to be proud and i'm
to be shamed, no wonder my sometimes stretching
the hard-on "problem"...
but... no little wonder: how a little bit of cognac
and a drag of a cigarette can make due resolves...

threesomes... best scenario?
the one that you liked... the one you wanted to ****
solo... is giving you a hand-job...
while you're snuggling up to her
like some Norman Bates...
****'s freaky anyway... since there are three in a room...
and the one that instigated the *******
is peering into your eyes
like Aetos Kaukasios... the eagle eating Prometheus'
liver... she's the one rummaging through
your rucksack looking for...
sure as **** she wasn't looking for a book
by Ovid... she's the teenage girl that's unable
to find meaningful eye-contact during ***...
she has the fun-girl-sour look in her face...
   she can't be serious during ***... she has done too much
botox implants into her already duck-duck lips...

the one i wanted already knew that the one
who instigated this profanity just wanted...
she was the one so desperate to get ******...
i mean: becoming intimate is one thing...
couldn't we just have fooled around?
rather than stressing a belt and notches?!

i sometimes feel like a woman when i'm *******...
i just want to ease into oozing
with... when a spider ****** an octopus...

if that could happen to you, or me...
nothing was ever left as a reminder to be unlike
any prior man...
all we have are reminder of how it is: to be a man...
are we not to inherit what
it is, that all that is: is to allow ousrelves
to be human?

i tease... i watch these men coupled within
their subordinate selves...
shackled... oh too trying...
  rings on their ringers...
               tiresome, tired-breeds...
men who have never managed to range
into a reach of galloping on a horses' hind!
my god... men who have never had a *******...
it's a bit like relocating a voyeurism...
one jerks you off while another looks on...
and what is she good for?
tickling your *****...
   using her cleavage as a makeshift ******...
she's not welcome...

because the one you want to be with is
already: gauging your eyes out...
Solomon's harem: Autumn...
          the envy of Muhammad...
                                
prior: disorientating getting a blow-job
while ******* on *******...

Jonathan.

Stay out of trouble,
rebuttal,
probably gonna **** if we cuddle.
I smoked one too many singles someone pack a double.
Twenty ringers ain't fun for the lungs but they gatta be done,
someone pack another for the girl we gettin **** done.
Not, just chillin n smokin ***.
Smokin marijuana, you wanna do it or not?
Settle in, its not like its a ****** rock,
yeah she has one in the pocket but that **** would make you pop.
See for us it be okay,
take it and we sway,
have another popper and we feel it fade a way.
It comes back and it's great,
numb to the face and cant complain,
run with the flow, now whats my name,
I had to get it, I had it, now I'm insane.
Now you, scared you wont like the truth,
you like it as much as the youth,
but you wont let nothing diffuse the situation,
love n hate will make a mess,
your selfish habits wont have it so **** it just take a rest.
You figure that I'll just bewilder the thought of you as a villain but you can just call her a killer cause she gon keep up with the killin.
Wanna **** round with a beast, its only your head.
Better keep up with the girl or get back n rest while she pull ahead. Yeah, now she only smokin on the best,
she been nursing a mind to **** us all up n go to bed.
See we ready, come n get me,
hell, we been it all along.
You say you're not convinced, she says you should tag along.

Smoking his cigarette, a gold signet ring upon his finger
a complete antithesis to the other dead-ringers,
lips pursed, sipping at his golden liquor
in his eyes dancing excitement does flicker

diagnosed with cancer, he's re-living every dream in his head
for on the eighth day of this month he will be dead -
out and about, picking up ladies at the age of forty
days from kicking the bucket yet his libido still naughty

waking up on the sixth day with the first hangover in 10 years
the bloated pain distracting him from his fears -

no kids, divorced, a total loser
living the life of a player and a scheming user

alas, he'll never feel the wind upon his face
never again have the chance to experience love, hatred, anger or even disgrace
never see the kids he didn't have
never again able to make a decision - be it good or bad

and now sitting alone in his apartment as the eighth day looms
he burns the money in his wallet, exhales their fumes

"I'm... so sorry..."

his signet ring stained, still uncannily gold

attached to a finger now lifeless, stiff, cold.

Standing
In a ring
You pray

Overhead
Bells are ringing
Gladly

You obey the rhythm
That you have created
Listening
Watching

The leader
Reorders the movement
You respond
With precision

You rise and fall
Are stretched
And returned

You remain
Fixated
Grounded

Silently you work
Communicating
Subliminally

Sending messages
Above the treetops
Across the town

Tidings
Of hope
Alarums
Of communion

You are
A little known group

Operatives
Of ancient tradition

A community
Of enthusiasts

A family
Of bell ringers

I pick my nose
With all my fingers
And all my toes.

I sniff a rose:
The aroma lingers:
I pick my nose.

Calcium grows
My thingamajingers
And all my toes.

A horseshoe throws
A bunch of ringers:
I pick my nose.

The north wind blows
A flock of wingers
And all my toes.

A sewer sews
With several Singers:
I pick my nose
And all my toes.

I’ve had this feeling, ongoing for a couple of years, or more
Like the relentless moped rider who mounts the pathway outside your door,
Risking his life without a helmet on,
And others may too soon be gone,
As though its his mission to break you down and irritate,
Mind and body debate, until my shell accepts defeat,


It’s easy to make excuses when you feel this way, they say,
But I beat myself up, day after day,
If I sleep too late or hide away, exhausted, unable to concentrate,
The guilt pulls in my gut, like the church-bell ringers tug, slow, robust,


Without question, prescription or doctors review,
I take the mind numbing pill just to get through,
There’s no need for appointments or long waiting queues,
It’s ready and waiting with the supermarket crew,
among other essential survival tools to accrue,


I’ve fought so hard to come off this drug,
I’ve reduced the dose, though it’s not enough,
I’m shamefully addicted, though the GP insists they’re not addictive,
If only I could have predicted,
Without my fix I’m resticted, spaced out, blurry eyed, inflicted,


Out of this darkness I see lots of light,
I’ve allowed myself time and space to get it right,
holistically and patiently, I’ve learned is key,
Though the shame of depression will never leave me,
It’s an unattractive weakness, but it wouldn’t stop my attraction to you,
It’s my own insecurities that I need to break through

i was clay that turned soft in your hands
you were the creator that taught me to stand
you sculpted my mind
ran ringers down my spine
you created something when i was nothing
and when you leave for something new
i will stand here waiting for you
because i am just a little clay girl
who has your signature in her skull