I

In that November off Tehuantepec,
The slopping of the sea grew still one night
And in the morning summer hued the deck

And made one think of rosy chocolate
And gilt umbrellas. Paradisal green
Gave suavity to the perplexed machine

Of ocean, which like limpid water lay.
Who, then, in that ambrosial latitude
Out of the light evolved the morning blooms,

Who, then, evolved the sea-blooms from the clouds
Diffusing balm in that Pacific calm?
C'etait mon enfant, mon bijou, mon ame.

The sea-clouds whitened far below the calm
And moved, as blooms move, in the swimming green
And in its watery radiance, while the hue

Of heaven in an antique reflection rolled
Round those flotillas. And sometimes the sea
Poured brilliant iris on the glistening blue.

                        II

In that November off Tehuantepec
The slopping of the sea grew still one night.
At breakfast jelly yellow streaked the deck

And made one think of chop-house chocolate
And sham umbrellas. And a sham-like green
Capped summer-seeming on the tense machine

Of ocean, which in sinister flatness lay.
Who, then, beheld the rising of the clouds
That strode submerged in that malevolent sheen,

Who saw the mortal massives of the blooms
Of water moving on the water-floor?
C'etait mon frere du ciel, ma vie, mon or.

The gongs rang loudly as the windy booms
Hoo-hooed it in the darkened ocean-blooms.
The gongs grew still. And then blue heaven spread

Its crystalline pendentives on the sea
And the macabre of the water-glooms
In an enormous undulation fled.

                        III

In that November off Tehuantepec,
The slopping of the sea grew still one night
And a pale silver patterned on the deck

And made one think of porcelain chocolate
And pied umbrellas. An uncertain green,
Piano-polished, held the tranced machine

Of ocean, as a prelude holds and holds,
Who, seeing silver petals of white blooms
Unfolding in the water, feeling sure

Of the milk within the saltiest spurge, heard, then,
The sea unfolding in the sunken clouds?
Oh! C'etait mon extase et mon amour.

So deeply sunken were they that the shrouds,
The shrouding shadows, made the petals black
Until the rolling heaven made them blue,

A blue beyond the rainy hyacinth,
And smiting the crevasses of the leaves
Deluged the ocean with a sapphire blue.

                        IV

In that November off Tehuantepec
The night-long slopping of the sea grew still.
A mallow morning dozed upon the deck

And made one think of musky chocolate
And frail umbrellas. A too-fluent green
Suggested malice in the dry machine

Of ocean, pondering dank stratagem.
Who then beheld the figures of the clouds
Like blooms secluded in the thick marine?

Like blooms? Like damasks that were shaken off
From the loosed girdles in the spangling must.
C'etait ma foi, la nonchalance divine.

The nakedness would rise and suddenly turn
Salt masks of beard and mouths of bellowing,
Would--But more suddenly the heaven rolled

Its bluest sea-clouds in the thinking green,
And the nakedness became the broadest blooms,
Mile-mallows that a mallow sun cajoled.

                        V

In that November off Tehuantepec
Night stilled the slopping of the sea.
The day came, bowing and voluble, upon the deck,

Good clown... One thought of Chinese chocolate
And large umbrellas. And a motley green
Followed the drift of the obese machine

Of ocean, perfected in indolence.
What pistache one, ingenious and droll,
Beheld the sovereign clouds as jugglery

And the sea as turquoise-turbaned *****, neat
At tossing saucers--cloudy-conjuring sea?
C'etait mon esprit batard, l'ignominie.

The sovereign clouds came clustering. The conch
Of loyal conjuration *******. The wind
Of green blooms turning crisped the motley hue

To clearing opalescence. Then the sea
And heaven rolled as one and from the two
Came fresh transfigurings of freshest blue.

When I was a little lassie my Grandad and I
were very fond of each other indeed
(although not sexually I must add
before you suspicious buggers start complaining).

Over the hills and fields we used to wander just like, er,
...let me think of a nice metaphor here...
er, like a man and his granddaughter or
like a couple of not so lonely clouds.

Oh how joyfully we would seek out rare birds’ nests
so as to smash the eggs to bits in a frenzy of joy,
which we both enjoyed a lot as it was, er, reet good fun
and a statement of individual choice we both appreciated.

Sometimes we would noisily take a steaming **** together
(although ABSOLUTELY NO ****** contact ever took place
I really must reiterate that for all you ***-abuse-obsessives,
but he had a stupendously big ***** for an old codger).

When we got home in the evening dear old Grandad
would usually make us a nice *** of builders' tea
and some ****** great doorstop sandwiches, but
even at that tender age I would have opted for a good stiff whisky.

Or, come to think of it, a large glass of chilled Chardonnay,
and a plateful of smoked salmon or some oysters,
but the old ******* was teetotal (at least in public) -
either that or just plain ******* mean as Hell.

Darling wizened Granny would make us some toast
out of leftover stale Mother’s Pride white bread,
but, being half blind, the silly fat old cow usually managed
to burn it to a sodding inedible cinder.

On Sundays they would get the gramophone out
and put on some tango 78 records
as they loved Latin American dancing and a good old *****
of each other's flaccid, age-withered buttocks.

How happily I remember the old couple tangoing away
just like a couple of wrinkled whirling ****** dervishes
to 'La Cumparsita' recorded by Mantovani & His Tipica Orchestra
on 20th June 1940 and issued on the Decca label.

They also taught me how to do the rumba
(oompah, oompah, stick it up your jumpah)
and I became quite an expert at the Cuban samba
(which my beloved Grandad wittily called the *****).

How joy-filled were those faraway times of my golden childhood.
but one day I went round only to find an ambulance outside
and the paramedics told me the old pair had been found dead in bed,
their boudoir resembling an abattoir at closing time.

Grandad had bashed the old *****’s brains out
with a red-hot poker during some depraved *** session
and then shoved it eighteen inches up his own *******
which must surely have stung his piles quite a bit.

But what a creative way to go - I bet he danced a bit
as the steaming poker seared his poor back passage.
And thus my grandparents ascended up into the sky -
may they stay forever young in the company of the angels.

Let me again emphasis our friendship was purely platonic
because this was in the rare old times of yesteryear
when widespread paedophilia was not yet a gleam in the eye
of some trash newspaper editor eager to engage with the plebs.

Walking home,
a girl in an orange
of a shirt and long
bell-bottoms
with a small protuberant
***
turned around to look at me.

Her eyes were large,
and the way she looked at me
was a question almost:

Are you dangerous?

Maybe, she wasn't looking at me,
maybe the breeze kicked up,
and she just wanted to shield herself.

But I don't know,
something in the way
she looked at me,


The quick stoicism
of her large blue eyes,
shocked into a quick
heavy moment of recognition:

black guy.
hoodie.
black baggy pants.
the scowl.


I knew that soon her eyes
would wiggle out of there sockets
and dangle behind her
always looking back
even as she kept moving forward.

The illusion of moving forward.

I felt like the black guy
the news tells you about,
the one that's dangerous
to all lonely white females
at 9:00 at night,
as his tongue lolls
and his head wags.

Maybe,
I'm being too sensitive.

Maybe,
I'm being hypersensitive.

Why is it
that whenever I see a white female
walking towards me at night
I cross the street?

SQUEAK the fife, and beat the drum,
Independence-day is come!
Let the roasting pig be bled,
Quick twist off the cockerel’s head,
Quickly rub the pewter platter,
Heap the nut-cakes, fried in butter;
Set the cups and beaker-glass,
The pumpkin and the apple-sauce;
Send the keg to shop for brandy;
Maple-sugar we have handy.
Independent, staggering ****,
A noggin mix of swinging thick;
Sal, put on your russet skirt,
Jotham, get your boughten shirt;
To-day we dance to tiddle ******.
—Here comes ***** with his fiddle;
*****, take a dram of whisky,
And play up Yankee Doodle frisky.
Moll, come, leave your witched tricks,
And let us have a reel of six.
Father and mother shall make two;
Sal, Moll, and I, stand all a-row.
*****, play and dance with quality;
This is the day of blest equality.
Father and mother are but men,
And *****—is a citizen.
Come foot it, Sal—Moll, figure in,
And, mother, you dance up to him;
Now saw as fast as e’er you can do,
And, father, you cross o’er to *****.
—Thus we dance, and thus we play,
On glorious Independent day.—
Rub more rosin on your bow,
And let us have another go.
Zounds! as sure as eggs and bacon,
Here’s Ensign Sneak, and Uncle Deacon,
Aunt Thiah, and their Bets behind her,
On blundering mare, than beetle blinder.
And there’s the ’squire too, with his lady—
Sal, hold the beast, I’ll take the baby.
Moll, bring the ’squire our great arm-chair,
Good folks, we’re glad to see you here.
Jotham, get the great case-bottle,
Your teeth can pull its corn-cob stopple.
Ensign,—Deacon, never mind;
’Squire, drink until you’re blind.
Thus we drink and dance away,
This glorious Independent day!

     Royall Tyler (1757-1826)

These kids celebrate the life
of the dead street pigeon.
Dark streams down their brown faces,
they intone their private lamentation-
One exposes the corpse
to his little circle, holding it up
the wings stretched out.

©2016 Alex Bex - www.alexbex.net

must recognize our Form
in the mirror,
see our Face, and make our reflection
as we kiss it, though it regularly sickens
Us.

I

We are still Us, though
that probably means little if it ever did;

We have been amended beyond recognition
from centuries of lobbing
off limbs, appendages, stitching clauses
like bandages then forgetting about them
if we ever shower,
disfiguring the pale torso of our Body
politic, naked and middling before posterity
grotesque genitalia dangling
hopelessly, and useless
between marble columns
unable to unite in congress assembled
erasing pluribus unum;

We're our Legs, buckling under obscene weight
now cloture’s invoked, the question ordered
on history with yays and nays,
discourse long reduced to the nuances
of blusterfuck;

We're our Buttocks, passing gas
bills, denying a snowball’s chance of
melting in frozen hell or on house floor,
and our Brain, lobotomized
better half yearning “Yes, we Can…
…ada” beckoning the coasts, blue dots
on blue dot ever browning;

We're our Fists, clenching gavels
while advising Mother Earth to **** up
because even without her consent,
reality’s adjourned;

II

We're our Skin—yes, our Skin—, thin-
ly veiling contempt insufficiently concealed
by layers of spray tan and unmarred
by blood sweat tears of our foremothers
and our Brow, not sweating more perfect
when it's so easy to turn and follow storybook greatness,
when our Fingers, callused from tweeting
Little Bits of *****,
which though once again retitled
and re-released, remains a classic,
completely unrevised;

We're our Ears, nostalgic for the crack of doom
and we're our Tiny Hands, unable to help themselves
from popping a Tic-Tac and grabbing
onto those titillating, dusty buttons
on the hydrogen jukebox;

We're our Eyes, heavy
as a defeated queen
with makeup running, blessing us
all for this operant foray into madness,
ever observing how our Arms, which
(torches now extinguished)
flail in confusion amid incalculable darkness
still hoist our pitchforks low and
our Tongue still grievously petitions
for more deplorable words amid
hallucinations of victimhood;

We're our *****, *******
on progress, except
which—failing to rise to the occasion—
nonetheless manages
to flop over and strike once more: a dis-
chord in common defense of
fragile white male privilege
always showing, never growing,
general welfare and tranquility flushed down
the toiletbowl of history
hoping those old turds never
resurface, still ignoring the stench of injustice
and the chipping of gilded porcelain;

We’re our Lips–which neither Broadway hits nor
newspaper clips nor high minded pleas alarmed,
and with Dr. Franklin’s warning notwithstanding–
We are our Lips on treacherous steps which will be
all executive power herein vesting;

III

We're our Palms, grasping rope amid air
saturated in deathly vespers, which tugs
down-up toward unearned heavens;

We’re our *****, pretending to be
our Mouths which chide & otherize, while
our Shins expose their cuts to ****,
bullet-holes welcoming the swift infections
in what dank sewage now pours from open
Overton windows, broken along with
any pretense of civility; ultimately,
the only thing we could shatter;

We’re our Holes, shamefully enjoying
the prodding and poking caresses
of anarchy, be-
moaning un-
Equal Protection law & order bestows,
depriving life, liberty, property
when our Hearts, weary of
the long hard due process, supremely
malign centuries’ holdings;

We’re our Immunity, sovereign it be
fighting all insults foreign and domestic
and our Voices rising in lamentation
for what we’ve lost and what we’ve barely kept;

We’re even our Hair, unkempt, distracting us
from enduring corruption of our Blood;

We’re our *****, too. No, never mind.
We never had any. But She did,
and class despite the strength
of glass;

IV

We’re all that still, and our Souls'
politic too, fractured much asking
what Un-
ited States we’re in;

Here's a tale of my childhood toy,
A hand knitted ******* boy,
His name was Little Black *****,
Politically incorrect, you know,
Thought police would have fun,
For me, he was toy number one,
But then,  I gave him away,
A gift of love, one day,
For my little cousin, a gift,
Gollies are now cool, get my drift?
When old things become new again, eh!
Maybe I'll knit a ******* today!!

I think of tablets and do not work with anything
like mass transit, death and war. But they
do not change in their circumstances; Do not
cut anything to do this, but if you have faith,
then many people still worship God if there
is a strike or opinion. Other things seem to be
basic, I do not think about putting sunscreen
in that area. During pregnancy, there are many
ways in the world. No one can see it when it's
ready to clean the brain. Do not fight with Spittle.
It was a brain and what it was used before.
You can do whatever you can but do not worry
about the truth, pay attention to the problems
that are responsible for poverty. 0 What is the role
of the death of a family members of Bhagatan
and Nirmali Belize, and what is the role of family
leadership? There is no difference between Helkaiki,
Time and Kamblin, a shadow of the world.
First or foremost, but making a call is very important.
Father liked life. Today, Nita ignores the wrong
ideas of the future and Anil Jilin is on about abortion.
All can be saved with AI, K'Kegiginini and Zecrecini.
Lakshmi Mastkar can be useful.
Satan was not in prison and was not the Bearer.
David's poor man's helper alone escaped one night.
A perfect Yukon summer, my search,
when this poem was discovered, it came out.
This does not mean that there is no reason here.
It's a human body, but we do not read it
before Jasmine. Are you ready to compete
with an infant's doctor and you cannot think,
can you go home or take care? Where
is Bogota on kebabs? The violence of Naziham

Market, Alcohol, Paraguay, Goldboys Children's Jenavi Church, Children's Brain, Singer and Jain Bailey Ezezha was attacked. They believe that they are banner (Kashmiri seeds) and JP (Jet). Lincoln says that Sima Manmania, young and old cousin, Vaiha Nahan, is a Hindu Kibo Mara, Malachi, Japanese Kaki Gear, Japanese, Chirak Konki, Biligan Shadow Shogun, but also like Pastor Nagokor Youth, Henrikrunch, Uma Mami. Al Hikla Gulf Peninsula at Danny Bay The two Chauhhaas, spoken in Oji, were collected in the 12th month and we are here. She Jusima Saminikki Kinki IA Purushakas Founder David Ahlasi is a musician who plays a role in the life of a woman. Karen State, APK Cynthia CC Chichi, Riya Kun and Nayaki Kichi one, two, Sami, *****? What's the difference between me and me? After Blackberry E., two brothers, two brothers, face, dewdrops, oh, hear the sound. Lucky Shabab Bunder, Mojo Jakhan Mikhail Jawahan Hah, Umur Akkala, Kuwait's Gold Jugde Dei Shavata Jamia's father came to Jaguar Theater in Karanji in July. This is what we have

A loving heart is the heart of the fifth.
day of life On the night of the headless.
Yetešeberi helmet, smile and feeling.
of hope in the dark. Hope for many
promises to understand happiness
Strict control Hate will remain depressed.
When it is washed Hands for vertigo,
very cold hands too old to hear them. . .
the lies. Starting to listen is always true.
Good job of the temperate climate
of the sky. The price is very in the head
PM I'm sorry for the simple dream
tešewirek'i. White signal flight control.
and blue love. The life of feeling.
of the heart when the eyes are sick
to fight against āšechegeriwochi's
Long-term smiles confuse thinking.

That it's good is better than promises.
Of hope and good practices for days.
and bad. I hope to lose my emotions
that fall Chi begins to create a beautiful
Sensation of fear and anxiety. And even
more strength Laptop crying would
be weak, fatigued, assuming that
a person is very weak in the hands
from k'ezik'ezewochi and beautiful
The hands understand the hands forever.
Listen to the human environment.
from the sky. Dream life cries.

Waiting within the meaning,
Bad impatience to succeed
Happiness Perfection of the
body Happiness is sleeping
With beautiful sounds of *****.

Sheep without sound. The monster
It's so bad that it goes too far. Larger
Light gavel, E light blue sky missing
The controls at the end of the fence.

The dream will be very interested.
In the handle of the knee with confidence.
In the strength of the heart, to variable.
Value for your partner and tranquility.
If you have to choose your legs without
The sun, I think, I think, I think, I think.
I'm waiting for you to wait. The team
Memory beam stored memory
It is a wonderful tangible tattoo! It's over!

Everything is fine. Today, the gray.
The phone full of blurred reality continues.
The telephone threats sounded gray.

The threats bring tears of joy.
to earthquake phone calls
Conflict of Victims Confidential
Click on the corrupt button.
The man will finish the stars.
And eliminate the small betting game.

The horrors of wild boots.
you started The anxiety of the world.
Well, in the night of the night,
The ship was in the middle of the night,
Without interruption of the fingers.

Afraid to lose. violations
Commitment to the liturgy
Dramatic Companions
of the tranquility of the dictatorship.
spirit. The spirit is buried
Underground. The water is visible.

The famous man attacked.
the position repent clouds
The white hair of ***, the noise.
Little by little appropriate ts'imitochi
ugly messages of gradual cries.
Aging within the area in the heart.
of depression. Its alot
more superficial appearance
From betrayal to life.

The life of a child who wants love.
Start looking for love; Hurry to life.
Determine the decisions of the sun.