We walk the smoke-thick winter street of sweet 'n' sour aromas
amongst a throng of oriental shaded faces (such gentle souls)
who crowd  little pushcarts selling scallion pancakes.
Overhead, red talismanic paper lanterns bob, enticing us
to the tap of percussive chopsticks.

We sit in awe; snack on duck-tongue; roast pigs hang
glistening; fat-fresh, ready to fry.
Waiters wheel trolleys piled high with steaming shrimp noodles
past tables of golden oranges and watermelon seeds.
Our Chinese chef prepares shredded pork in garlic sauce.

He smiles and says:
"More guests means more happiness."

I carry a white noodle bowl,
carefully up to my chin.
I smile as my nose catches,
the steam so grey and thin.

I set the bowl down gently,
Because it was too hot.
and take this time to ponder,
The noodles I have got.

A small carrot captain,
rides his vessel south.
But the spoony seas are violent,
and bring him to my mouth.

Legions of green sprouts,
are armed and at the ready.
But their base was built on broth,
and therefore is unsteady.

A scallion sergeant paces,
He’s timid and afraid.
And hopelessly fell in love with,
A mushroom mermaid.

The brothy land changes,
As beef enters the scene.
And to the broccoli scouts,
this meat is only mean.

Finally the egg,
who knows he’s the best.
Will wander around the edges,
till he decides to rest.

The dinner’s duty done
I tilt the ocean east
And drain the sea of veggies
into the belly of the beast

I take the styrofoam bowl.
And poke a hole in its side.
The bowl is now found empty
All my friends have died.

Easy answer to a simple problem
Raise my hands and scratch the **** thing
But then again, why should I have to?
Why must I immediately raise my hands to scratch my itchy nose?

Is it because the itch is caused by a parasitic alien?
Hellbent in destroying my body by tickling my prickly nose hairs?
And thus if I scratch my nose I would rid myself of said parasite?
No no no, the idea of such a thing is of the utmost absurdity

The most logical answer is that I must rid myself of discomfort
Discomfort: Quite a word indeed to one that lives well
Where I can sit comfortably on a couch in an air conditioned house
And I can still find something that causes discomfort

Perhaps after I rid myself of this infernal discomfort
I shall go to the kitchen and make myself a lovely roast
With some scallion potatoes on the side with green beans
And then rub uncomfortably on the chair because my ******* itches

well... there's pindar...
    a great biographic entry,
when alexander the great sacked
thebes, pindar's was the only
home standing...
          that's great... but where's
the evidence that he, actually wrote
anything?
      that's a bit like stating that
descartes: really wanted to prove
he existed...
              no he didn't...
                  he didn't care to allow
thought to precipitate into being...
he already started working
on it being elevated to a god...
   but come on... running a poetry
website and withholding
   pindar's poems?
               i have a grand "metaphor"
to counter with that...
         it really was a day of constipation,
   i had to drink about half a litre of *****,
and a warm bottle of beer (ugh...
   that's doubly worse than the way
they drink ***** in england... warm... shots...
i find that warm beer is doubly carbonated)
and then finish the day off with some bourbon...
i did say i was constipated, didn't i?
    there are usually three tiers to the affair...
first one, fair enough, it's a whale or a squid
   about to plop into the pipeline...
the third phase is a bit like: not yet! not yet!
    tier two and three are shy *******...
   you have to wriggle a little bit to get them talking...
it almost seems like some army interrogation tactic,
but i'm not dealing with some taliban fighter...
i'm dealing with my own ***...
                      it's only past midnight that i get
the whole bulge out...
        like i'm some baker that a maine **** cat
makes fetish of, joining me in the toilet
and lying on the windowsill...
       cat ****? that's three times as rank,
human **** seems chocolate to animals...
                        but i am trying to take poetry
seriously...
               i just sat through half-an-hour of
grueling efforts to extract that remnant of last night's
egg-fried rice (yes, with scallion)...
                  but as it feels... i could have
just dashed a tablespoon of chilli powder into my ****...
     i'd rather chop a hundred onions and regard that
as tears forced by sitting with a girl watching
a rom-com than feel this dash of chilli powder up
my a-hole; because that's what it exactly feels like...
   it almost feels like the harambe injustice...
   last time i checked gorillas were vegans...
         unless it wasn't going to be a tarzan story...
no? it wasn't? oh well... there goes the dream!
yet they still have pindar listed on the poetryfoundation.org
website... and there are no poems enclosed!
            it could be great to have read
a snippet of his curriculum vitae...
           the curriculum mortis belongs to too many people,
and the essence gets lost in the tornado of history...
               then again... i know the difference between
    a .jpeg        and a .pdf
        but what's the real difference between
                        a .net     a      .org          and a .com?
           tiers? just tiers? like the national agenda of a .pl
and a .co.uk?
                                 well, there is the sunday times
newspaper... 15 year olds on sugar daddy websites...
           and how sergeant blackman was
  convicted of warcrimes... when he was a trained
killer... some said that people akin to moses couldn't
fit into our modern society...
                           neither could albert camus...
               it might still be considered an existentialist
movement... but it's definetly moved beyond absurdism.

Rusted, thrown
                          Brown
onto the walls of
                          Subsequent
                         ­ Possession
We feel, blindly
Our tips rubbing plaster
and soliloquy. Dodging             meandering
                          despair from
torridly ambitioningly mild forms
of lower-
                          Back
                          A­rch.
You scallion, you
                          You
and yours.
                          Those shoes

nebulous mercury, or old neb as friendly namesome, was a longtime salty marner.

one day he was seasonally easing along with the flotsam and jetsons

when there appeared before his worn and weary orbs a macabre confoundment,

the vastly ghastly countenance of a slithering slimy see servant,

a critter that rose from the sea and had to hunch over so as not to break the sky,

the kind of monstrosity you only see in miffs.

he began to wrap his protuberances and testicles around the clig as to make repast. 

ohh, dreadful tingers draggled forlorn! 

shunned and electrolytical he was, old neb, awash in gloombulches and grovel gullies.

but then old neb snapped to! "Not my chipper clig you don't!" he charged allowed as he fingled forth in fury!

the battle eschewed in the stub of legends. old neb will ever be memorial for what he did that day.

to this very day, indeed up to this very moment right now, even chipper cligs flying scallion bones cut him a big bertha,

such is the perspective they feel for him

no hobo, but a ****** chum.

In a crocus bag, I remembered home.

The familiar flush of a Saturday’s work
we would fry some green plantains
and head to town.
Women with long, billowy skirts and red handkerchiefs wrapped around their heads line the street.
Some pumpkin, cho-cho, a bag of pimento seeds
carrots, Irish potatoes, scallion and a piece of thyme are bought
The threaded lines of blood, sweat and tears
bring home a bowl.

When there is no water to fill our basins and buckets,
we get up before the roosters.
To bathe, drink, wash, live
the assorted empty plastic containers get acquainted in the bag
on their way to the pipe.

A tablespoon of sugar for my fever grass tea
The zinc fence that cut a portal on my leg
A sip of Saturday’s soup
A container for other containers.

i don't really question the existence of god;
i also read
a very pop poem by a maya angelou -
the phenomenal woman -
what's great about pop poetry:
unlike pop music - yes...
these are the lyrics and also:
thank god there is no music to accompany
it...
i might just like it...
   then again: Wagner... a rarity -
in that he also wrote the libretto for the operas...
perhaps that's why the music feels
a tad bit as an indigestion -
         heavy on the germanic side...
but pop poetry: well...
it's for people who probably wouldn't
want to experience a democracy
of the whole "affair"...
who's a jack spicer or an al purdy in this:
teasing of leashes to tug at
the greatest number of acolytes -
           words although once: written
with a blood of pigeons - this diluted
ink from flight -
                     and on some variation
of flimsy paper -
           maya angelou doesn't resonate
with me like: hell...
even walt whitman doesn't resonate
with me... what resonates with me
is the english...
tongue of many abodes:
i feel sluggish and shy to have to burrow in
this tongue for:
no reasons really given...
i'm not running off to claim a reading
of louis zukofsky or a delmore schwarz...
i like how the hebrews can retain
status of missing the stereotype galore
of: become lumber-mill owners having
started off selling toothpicks...
   i don't question the existence of god in as
much: i am a fiction nugget in what's
already an apparent: loss of sensibility -
that i imagine a grave and the shallow warmth
of a shadow marrying itself to night:
how the shadow has married itself
to the sea of night and how i have:
only bare minimum inclinations for the project
with a thought: here and there...
i have come to distrust the faculty of
memory: in that... i am also purely
unimaginative...
   i couldn't conjure you a Dumbo even if i tried...
content on the restraints given:
i do imagine myself in two ways:
a breaking of the neck when falling
on the gallows...
or turning into a pickled cucumber stashed
away in some obscurity... like a prison cell:
even though i have done nothing so wrong
as to give me justification for enduring
such squalor...
but that's that... in a prison cell
i can imagine myself staging a coup d'etat of
lying back and watching a memory cinema
like "something new"...

jude law: the third day...
the music hones in on the project -
alias? the wicker man...
so nothing new: but a welcome reinvention...
i'm just wondering whether or not
demdyke stair provided the music...
probably not...
            it's the wicker man through and
through...

  as i sometimes digest culture:
i can find a canvas to meet an outlet and
it's hardly a critique:
oh i'm not that rich to hold
a sensible job at a newspaper
where i am paid to watch television
and make critique of it...
                would i?
                what a formidable platitude
of expectations...
  
             why don't i question the existence
of god: teasing at a gnosticism... perhaps...
at judaic phoneticism: obviously...
but no...
some ruth Ginsberg dies...
a supreme judge...
i have had one notable experience
of man made law: a revision of thou
shall not steal in my life...
i was a witness of a theft...
   i was on the team of the grieved party...
a witness accuser -

      we were walking a car pulled up
my fwend's phone was ripped from
his hands: i asked for the number plates
to be noted...
they were... due process was furthered
and i was summoned to look
at mugshots...
i summoned the little gremlin to court...
the incident happened in the night
but for lack of imagination:
my memory is furnace -

               in his (the gremlins') defence
a photograph was used to debase my assurance
from leaving pristine confrontation
against the use of a mugshot...
the year was: when england won
the ashes...
     the defence presented a photograph:
and argument: can you recognise this face -
the picture was dated:
in the days when photographs still
had a vivid neon crayon of red
imprinted on them: as i pointed out -
two years from now i hope to be sporting
a missing chin... i.e. a beard...

i don't think there was any weight to
my argument...
after all: the injured party didn't recognise
the mugshot - i did...
i don't actually know whether
the drive-by phone-jacker was convicted...
it's beside the point:

gravity - an unquestionable law...
gravity and death -
     the film moon starring sam rockwell:
and there i was thinking that
clones would only be used to further
the projects of centaurs and caesars...
i was so ******* wrong...
the soul destroying project of:
only one authenticity left to deal with...
this clone is a machine deposit...
it's not a would be: futuristic project
to keep death at bay...
anyway...

    i am sooner to find myself in
the "supreme court" of a law that states
itself paramount and unbiased -
adjective adjective adjectives...
       that sort of law i can stand...
   but to come across... nuances...
man's inhibitions...
man's jurisprudence jargon of synonyms
to lessen the blow:
something less hoisin comforting
in a marinade and: peppery / itchy /
sneeze conjurer...

          i will sooner come across a law
of a deity: like gravity - mortality
is itself a bundle of tenure possibilities /
day-dreams -
i will sooner come across that:
yes... deism and that's because...
a theist would want gravity to be bulldozered
for an interlude in miracles...
but i will sooner come across
these laws...
than... confined to a court...
have to stand sober and marionette-esque
pretty to specify all the plethoras
of nuance... that man ordeals himself
with...
i.e. a theft is not a theft when...
the third party recognises the culprit
but the injured party doesn't...
at least that's what it felt like from
my experience: i didn't hear a follow up
on the passing of judgement -

           well... at this point i am not surprised
that everything i write has a tinge
of juvenilia - it's the same base project
of 1 + 1 = 2 and: god exists or doesn't...
i'm so far beside myself:
the demiurge as a bad joke for the greek
polytheists -
       is or isn't: question or no question:
fundamentally fudge-packing
and custard goo ruining a smile -
best looking toward those serious
orthodox closures from the russians
on the topic...

  arbeit macht frei: would be a question
imposed by the workaholics -
which is never a never real question...
to write toward a tongue that
will never be spoken that only eyes
will decipher...
i never read what i write...
as i write what i see i automate
on the basic principle of: extending
beyond the friction of the digits -
fugazi *******!
fugazi jackson *******...
a half smoked cigarette in my lips
starting to draw ms. amber's wetting -
nothing like smoking tobacco
via a soaked filter stinking of
                       maple syrup of a bourbon...

but that the topic remains:
the laws of men and all of man's nuances...
at least there was something akin
to keeping sanity with:
all are equal before death
and a ledge...
             aren't all... equal?
      all are equal before death:
death the court jester of the versailles
of heavens...
   death the joker death cry me a clown...
cry me ****** frictions that
can become an eternal smile!
death no bomb death the joke
death of deaths and death's ashore
sunbathing on the tide
of the Styx with imitation of Thames...

      evelyn waugh's gilbert pinfold's ordeal...
pushed to the limits of
a stress membrane being breached:
a claustrophobia of any and all ego projects:
akin to egoism -
my metaphor for the schizoid "adventure":
or what it was first:
a promising future via bilingualism...

but that man has these laws...
his own graces and his own demises -
the hindering bias for:
money juggling and monkey rendering
the concept of honest work:
in the service sector can there be
an authenticity of work?
with all the loitering and keeping up
appearances "in between"...

i bellow with a mule's agony of a last
breathable breath to source
the vanity of cyclopses -
   i no longer can hear anything for
the worth of these letters and these words
just automate themselves:
i see auroras of a congestion that
allows me to escape this poorly lit
night sky...
a moonless night promenade...

                i hyperventilate with
a purpose to only pursue a vanity that's
the least: that it doesn't rhyme and
propose a fire for the invitation
of stressor memory bundles...
my little corner of impatience becomes:
a penitent proof of...
worthless unimaginative spell-binding...
but at the same time i am lost
should i come across a formal lingo...

                       a language of translation
or a language of: feral and honest locality -
that which has to be preserved for
some ulterior this that and the other...
it's no surprise that charles dickens
isn't celebrated on the continent...
should he be?
   i'd like for him to be celebrated:
don pickwick...
                
               just how man passes laws...
this jury on the possible
irregularities of the heavenly spheres...
the arthritis of the glue
that stands firmest when
the moon swallows a shower
of meteors...
gobbles them down with
a pauper's glee...
              that there must be a dinosaur
graveyard and: no-brainer explanation
for the meteor -
how an why this meteor that
killed off the dinosaurs hasn't
been romanticised and given a name...

hell: call a ***** a ***** a screwdriver
a camel jockey...
even if the name for earth:
is this same blunt: earth...
that the moon is still a bland scythe...
bleeding gums murphy...
but it would be nice to have a name
for such an event -
Mr. Oppenheimer -
the meteor that killed off the dinosaurs...
how's that?
there's a mt. everest...
there's a name for a turtle of a rock
that's Ayrs in How-Stray-La-La....
             i can call an atom a proton a neutron
and an electron...
there's hydrogen and there's helium...
i can give names to:
even though my authentic
materialistic atheism sensibility doesn't permit
me like some vanguard vegan / jacobin
mention... Kronos or Hyperion...

          **** for thought:
big bang... is pristine in it being:
so uninviting to resonate with:
well... it does... all murders of the modern...
i'd like to call the meteor that killed
off the dinosaurs and ushered in
the advent of the spider monkeys:
the **** simils and the **** sepia and
the **** sapiens as...
  
same old same old variation
of caucasian in mishaps -
  some grandfather mandarin -
some father mongol -
   some turk of a son...
           whittle ******* of brides that's
part Viennese pastry
   and part London gluttonies of the broken
bones pie...

i'm here for the party: are you here
for the party? we're here for the party!
i couldn't imagine myself as anything
more than an extension
of the primo party project:
eating the culinary half-oyster of an
egg that's a poultry-abortion...
i love it!
   i love it so much i scramble it...
i poach it... i soft and hard boil it...
i even add a scallion from time to time...
i'm here for the party...
here's to... still using language that
never bothered to settle down to tow
a mute... buttonz of galore...

                well... it could have helped
to conjure up a parthenon of sorts...
a get-together of imaginary side projects -
but the modern sensible man
this highly elevated man wrestling
with some also unseen
microscopic and tuning his worth
to an argument for: more more more...
i'm actually devastated by this new guise
of atheistically prone materialistic
sensibility: a word salad or just
some forever golgotha custard come about
from crushing bones...

i was sensible once... when i knew of
joseph stalin: the little georgian that
hijacked the russians...
or adolph ******: the austrian that
hijacked the germans...
  i was sensible once...
this is no time to be sensible...
this is a time to be: wholly pointless and
incessant!
why wait?!

of yesterday. It’s stuck in
the plasterboards and sung
as a lost chord. I rehearse every line
at night when I can’t sleep. I can’t turn
down the volume to the sick beat.

I can’t get my head out
of the billowing clouds. I wear
my pain as a shroud. I weep
lightning rods the size of stallions. But
it's shrunk my brain down to a bulb
of a scallion.

I can’t get my head out
of the front door. It’s swelled the size
of a piano. None can know that feeding it
every day has made it grow.

I'm not against the middle class
Several schools I like
Often not ****, but steady
Prayers for Steve and Mike

We need more beautiful buildings
Train stations, fewer guns
I'm not against the middle class
I'm Taipei 101

Charlotte my awakening
But awakening takes time
I play the long term game
Cranberry juice with lime

I like Asian soups
Hot ***, scallion bread
If my love were in my arms
And I in my bed!

             Jesus bled.