I met Netanya
at the rail station

it was January and cold
and she was dressed up
in the blue overcoat
and headscarf

and I was
in my combat style
overcoat and hat

you made it ok?
I said

yes he asked
where I was going
and I said
for a walk to get him
out of my head
she said

we got tickets
and boarded a train
and off we went
to Brighton
the carriage was crowded
but we seemed alone
or so it felt to me

will he imagine you
going to Brighton?

no he won't think anything
too busy watching TV
and drinking his beer
she said

she held my hand
and talked of her kids
and her father
who wasn't well
and looking forward
to meeting you
she added

I looked at her
as she spoke
her hair dark and curled
her eyes bright as stars

we made it to Brighton
and got off the train
and walked down
to the seafront
hand in hand

the sky dark
stars
moon
and lights from shops
and pier

and somewhere
out there
I thought
another life
another world
buzzes on

while here we walked on
along the seafront
taking in the scene
the smell of salt
and sound of sea
crashing on the shore

and her hand small
warm in mine
and the sense
of life going on around
and I feeling
(oh)so fine.

On the prom, in chairs of similar design
actors, support artists and crew.
Chatted in between takes as the sun shone
around the The Cafe' television set.
In a seaside town they each came together
that day it was unsettled weather.

The atmosphere was friendly nobody left out
congenial conversation not forced.
That created the mood for a great shoot
as a new comedy series was made.
On the seafront with a train ride there
passers by were everywhere.

Actors were also rehearsing another scene
under a canopy while it rained.
Fascinated I watched and laughed as well
feeling part of that moment.
In this privileged spot to observe first hand
by the sea close to the sand.
The Foureyed Poet.

The RICKARD'S coach arrived at the seafront the sight of the sea and waves and seagulls in flight and sounds of sea and gulls and waves on shore and Janice waited in the coach seat beside Benedict both gazing out at the view listening to the gospellers talking about the day and the plans ahead and one of them with one eye said not to wander off but to stay with the group and before we get off the coach make sure you are with someone it's easy to get lost on your own so stay with some one all day or a group of others he said his voice a drone to Benedict who looked at the sea and the gulls and also there is a fairground to visit One Eye said but stay with a person and do not wander off with anyone you do not know and the rides are paid for so no need to pay any money out he said the children on the coach buzzed like bees with excitement but Benedict sat and watched the beach the families the ice cream van the fish and chip shop the shop selling buckets and spades and whirly things that go around and around in the wind and so on but before we leave the coach we need to say a prayer and thank God for this day and for the weather and the sunshine and for the gospel church members who paid towards this day out for you One Eye said there was a silence and lowering of heads and closing of eyes and One Eye said a prayer and was ended with a loud AMEN which echoed the coach and maybe along the beach Benedict  waited until the the kids got off the coach one by one then he and Janice moved down the aisle as One Eye and another gospeller counted them off Janice straightened her red beret and Benedict followed her out onto the seafront pavement and sniffed the air and listened to the sounds of sea and gulls stay together a gospeller said to them we will Janice said excitedly taking hold of Benedict’s hand and squeezing it where can we go? she asked the fairground rides are over there the gospeller said pointing over to the side and we will meet for lunch at one pm meet here I’ve told the others and we will keep an eye out for you ok Janice said Benedict and she walked towards the fairground where there was a loud sound of machines going around and voices and screams and laughter and shouts they went in and walked around the various rides and stalls and Benedict said where shall we start? I don't know Janice said there is so much to go on and do but Benedict had his eye on the motorbike rides where small motorbikes could be ridden around a circular track I’m going on that he said looks a bit scary Janice said releasing his hand wait here for me then or ride on something else less scary he told her no I’ll stay with you she said and followed him onto the side of the track where a man was organizing the rides and kids want to ride on the back or on your own? the man said to Janice who looked uncertain I’ll ride behind him she told the man and climbed on the back of the motorbike Benedict was sitting on she put her arms around Benedict’s waist and held on tight then they were off around the track and at a given speed and around and around they went Benedict over taking other kids on motorbikes and now and then being overtaken by others then it was over and the time set finished and they got off and went on a number of other rides and stalls and kept together until it was nearly one pm and a gospeller said got to meet for lunch now and they followed the other kids back to the coach and waited until all had arrived and then they set off for a restaurant where a meal had been organised by the gospel church in advance and they all sat down and Benedict and Janice sat in two seats together and Janice said that was good I haven't enjoyed myself so much in years  and that motorbike ride was scary but I did enjoyed it after all and Benedict let her talk because she was good at it and he watched her how her red beret moved as she turned or shook her head in her excitement and her eyes bright as stars and her hands clapped and her fingers moved and he just listened smiling and nodding and he said maybe we can sit on the beach after lunch or go in the sea and paddle and see if there are any ***** or dead fish left by the tide O she said will there be? and will the ***** bite? and I best go to the loo as I think I’ll wee myself with excitement other wise and she walked across to one of the gospellers and asked and they pointed to a door at the back and Benedict watched her go and listened to the other kids and people around talking and laughing and thought of home in London and wondered what his mother was doing and should he take her back a gift out of the money she gave him if there was a shop that sold things he could buy he would if he could find something he thought she might like just as Janice returned a waitress brought the meals around and laid them on the table in front of them fish and chips O good Janice  said I like them I wonder if they caught the fish around here in this sea do you think they did Benny? do you? I expect so Benedict said although he didn't know and hadn't thought of where the fish had come from apart from the sea some place he liked it when she asked him questions as if he knew everything when he knew he didn't but it made him feel good and he looked at her and felt happy her being there with her red beret and fair hair and she like him was eight years old or more and she living with her gran and he not knowing what happened to her mum and dad and never asked thinking it best not to ask and he living with his parents and sister and brother in London and so different from the seaside with the sounds and smells so different and fresh and she talked of the beach and maybe paddling if they went in the sea he with her in case she slipped in and drowned and she didn't want to do that and of course he would he said and they ate the fish and chips and he looked out at the sea over the way and sensed her near him and was enjoying the seaside day.

I hadn't been there in ages, hadn't visited, I had no reason to
But then the Covid virus struck and Dublin where I was working was put into quarantine
I wasn't allowed to go up there anymore to work,
And I had no computer at home and no broadband/ WiFi at the time
So they sent me down to the Old Town
It was nice driving down the motorway, it was Autumn and the leaves they were all changing colour
The different shades of red, brown green and yellow
With the sun shining on the mountains and on the bay
It felt almost like I was going on my holidays,
The Old Town it had changed so much, there were all these new buildings,
Retail parks on the outskirts, hotels, new schools, civic buildings... coffee shops
It was lovely and clean and tidy
Like those living there were really proud of it,
The old town I'd known it was there also, in the background, a bit dusty now
There was the big old gothic church my Dad used take us to, to Mass some Sundays
There was the Port and the big ships along the Quay
There was the secondary school I was meant to go to... had we stayed...it looked old, a bit dilapidated now
I wondered was it still being used as a school,
In the Main Street there were still old names of shops that I recognized
The shoe shop where my Mom used buy us shoes
The chemist where my brother got his glasses... the Bakery
The cinema where we seen our first movie "The Magnificent Seven", it was all done up now... all different...
In the office things were... well...weird! ghostly!
A big modern office and some days I was the only one there, just me all on my own
Was like something out of a Sci-fi movie
Other days maybe two or three might come in to join me
All the others of course, they were all working from home,
Often I'd find my mind just filling with old memories and nostalgia...
I could hear the old ghosts calling, calling me to go back
I knew... I knew I had to go back there
Back to where it had all begun for me
The little seaside village where I was born.

So going home I took the coastal road not the motorway
Just the sight of the headland and the blue mountains sloping down to the sea
With the lighthouse there at the end
Just seeing them again gave me an old feeling of my father, my Dad
And then the village itself, the seafront... all the colourfully painted shops,
Sweet shops & novelty shops, the amusement arcade, pubs and hotels and B&B's  (Bed and Breakfasts)
After being away for nearly fifty years, it still looked...it still looked pretty much the same, was hard to believe
I stopped my car and went into a little supermarket shop to get a sandwich for the next day
As I looked around, I seen these two mature ladies there, they were around my own age
I thought to myself 'I might have gone to school with you once many years ago, one of you might even have been my wife had we stayed here and not moved away
I might have lived a more normal, a different life'
But then I thought 'Life is never that simple, is it'.
Outside I decided to go for a walk, to look around and reminisce.

There was the path, the pavement I used go to school on with my brothers
It was like returning to the scene of a crime
How I used to dread going to school sometimes
There was a teacher, a lady teacher that used scare me a lot, she terrified me so
I remember I got sick in class on several occasions
She put me outside once sitting on an upturned bin
I can still remember sitting there on that bin in the sun, feeling so lost and that I was a really bad boy, wishing I was home
I remember I used to get hives, itches on my skin
My Mom used keep me at home
She was afraid, she thought I'd give them to the other kids
I missed the addition and subtraction tables at school because of this
To this day I still don't know what 7 + 5 is, instead I bring it to 10, I know 5 is 3 + 2, so I say 7 + 3 is 10 and 2 is 12
And I know all the doubles, 7 + 6 is 6 + 6 is 12 and 1 is 13, funny that
How I used to dread going to school
Until that was... until one day I did well at something and I received some praise
Then things seemed to change after that, I wasn't as bothered anymore, I think then I realized I was doing better than some of the others in my class and that seemed to make a difference
I remembered sitting beside pretty little girls who used have lovely pink pencil cases with lots of fancy colourful things
Whereas me I barely had a pencil, a rubber (eraser) and a ruler
They were strange lovely creatures, the Girls with their lovely long hair and their cute little faces...
I remembered walking home on my own, with my little schoolbag on my back with all my books in it
It was such a beautiful place, the view with the beach and the sea and the faraway blue mountains
And yet, I used to worry about so many things
It's like even then it was all about...all about survival...
There was the big Chapel on the hill
Once before the Summer holidays they were looking for altar boys and someone put my name forward
Then on the first morning back to school after the Summer holidays
The teacher said you better get down to the church right away, like fast!! you're on the altar this morning !!!
I was terrified, I didn't know what I had to do, no one told me anything
So there I was on my own kneeling on this cold hard marble altar and it was hurting my knees something terrible
And the priest he's talking about God and the Devil and Evil or Hell or whatever
And all these people, the whole congregation their all staring up at us
And I'm petrified, and I started to get faint and nauseas
The priest had to stop the Mass
I can't remember if I got sick or passed out
I was so embarrassed and thought afterwards I was such a terrible bad person, I knew it'd be all around the school the story.

I walked on...our house was gone, knocked down, where there used to be three houses together attached, now there was only the end house
Our house used to be the middle house
It didn't look right now, the symmetry looked all wrong
It was like there was two missing teeth
Why did they have to knock it down ? I wondered. It saddened me a bit...

At another house I stopped, this used to have a shop, a small shop,  the shop was no longer there
This was my Best Friend's house, all the days we used to play football together in the back garden
Kicking the ball to each other
With our jumpers/ sweaters as goalposts
The first to score ten would win the game
I...I usually won
I always found you easy to read, it's like you only ran in straight lines,
I think you were a bit in awe of me for some reason
Maybe you wouldn't have been my friend if you'd beaten me
How did we become friends anyway, I wondered
I suppose coming home from school
We lived on the same road and were in the same class, we'd have met each other
I had two older brothers whereas you were the oldest
So our families would have had a different dynamic
I remember you had a delightfully silly younger brother
I remember your Mom, she was very pretty, she was a lot younger than my Mom
You used bring me in and give me a meal sometimes, we'd all sit and watch TV
There was a different feeling when I was in your house...a different atmosphere
But when your Dad would come home, he was a bit scary
And I knew it was then time for me to go home
You'd wonder afterwards what the lovely Mom saw in the scary Dad, adults they were a bit peculiar.

We were inseparable in those days, many mornings you'd hear the knock on the door
And the familiar greeting
"Hello Mrs B---, Is G---- in, is he coming out to play?"
We were always playing soccer up the garden
Or down on the beach, going out for miles to meet the tide, catching *****, looking under  stones to see what we might find
I remember we were very entrepreneurial
In the Summer we used collect returnable glass mineral bottles, Orange and Lemonade and Coca Cola
And we'd bring them back to the shop and get money back for them
And then we'd have a royal feast, we'd buy bottles of Orange and bags of crisps and ice cream pops and chocolate bars,
Remember all the different Ice pops there used to be, Choc Ices and Brunches and Orange splits, 99's... Ice cream cones
Chocolate bars, Smarties and Malteasers, Milky Bars and Milky Ways, Dairy Milk chocolate bars, fruit gums and Love hearts with little love messages written on them
We used hang around the amusement arcade, play the slot machines, maybe help some old lady collect her winnings, she might give us a tip
There was the bumper cars and the swingboats and music playing all the time on the jukeboxes
It was the seventies (the 70's) and glam rock was all the rage
Marc Bolan and T-Rex, and Slade and The Sweet and a million others
So many great songs, we couldn't wait to grow up and become one of those amazing creatures we saw on the telly
I'd never lived since as intensely as I did back then,
We'd stay out till late
We were like young hustlers going around,
It seemed the days they were never long enough, all the things we got up to,
We'd Caddy in the local golf course
And retrieve lost ***** from the ditches...
Heh! Remember... remember that time... the Brennan sisters, we were up one day near the school
There was building work going on
And there was this big high mound of clay
So we climbed to the top to take in the view
And then the two Brennan sisters came over
They lived nearby
They were in our class at school, we knew them only to see
They were smiling and laughing and giggling
They beckoned for us to come and follow them
We went wondering what was going on here
They led us back to their house, I think their parents must have been out
One of them came up to us and smiled
And then she pulled down her pants and showed it to us in all its wonderful glorious splendour
It was amazing... incredible... such a sight
Her beautiful...her splendid... her lovely... bare Bottom!
I remember thinking it was like a lovely ripe pear
One of Life's great mysteries had just been unveiled
And her there with this huge impish grin,
When we were going home we promised each other we'd not tell anyone, our parents, not even the priest in confession
About that great vision we'd just witnessed
It was the height of naughtiness
Yea! Those were the days...

I wondered, 'Whatever became of you Old Friend ?
I looked you up online but couldn't find your name anywhere, couldn't find anything about you
Were you even still alive ?
50 years was a long time, I'd barely made it this far myself, and I had a lot of scars to show for it
I thought rather amusingly that I should knock on your door
Maybe you were still living there,
But what was I hoping to find ? I wondered...
"Whose at the door ?", a woman's Voice inside might say,
"Just... just some crazy guy talking about 50 years ago" her dutiful husband would reply
That's probably how it would go
I felt like I was Rip Van Winkle awakening after being asleep for 100 years or in my case 50 years
What did I hope to find
What did I hope to see, an old man now just like myself
And I bet you'd tell me your opinions on the government and the economy
And how the village had changed over the years and how other old schoolmates of ours had got on in life
But No! that's not what I wanted to hear or see
I wanted to see you there again just like you were as a little kid
Your lovely youthful face smiling back at me
And you'd say, "I'll get the ball and we'll have a game, the first to ten wins"
This was what I was looking for, this was what I wanted to hear.

We were very close, were going to grow up together, go to the same schools...college
We'd always be friends
We'd meet all the trials of life together....
I hope Life worked out well for you, my friend
In a way...in a way I almost didn't want to know
If I learned you did well in Life I'd probably only get jealous
I'd start to think I was better than you and that I should have had those things you had
Life, this world it makes enemies of us all... eventually
It divides, is all about competing and comparing... and beating (I suppose).

I still remember that last night before I left forever
We were down on the beach, it was twilight, the tide was coming in... the waves slowly advancing
Just like in life I had no power to stop it, to change things,
I had no say, I didn't want to go and leave you Old Friend
No! I didn't want to go....

Thank you...thank you for being my friend, for being there
For all the time you gave me, I hope I didn't hurt you in any way.

I have a photograph, one solitary old black and white photo of the two of us
We're sitting on a barrel in our back garden on either side of my Dad whose in the middle
You look a bit uncertain, unsure of yourself, probably lost in the dynamic of my family,
I look at you and I think
"Whatever happened to you.... Beautiful Friend, whatever became of you"
And then I look at myself as well, and I think, I whisper
"Whatever became of me as well".

There The Cafe stood where once it was bare
a new monument in Weston Super Mare.
Why was it not placed in this location before
it would create tourism more.
The Cafe on the promenade not a listed grade
not open for any public trade.

Like it had always been part of local tradition
sitting in that strategic position.
Tourists trying hard to get in there for tea
the menu even looked good to me.
Others were desperate for the fancy loo
it was a TV set they hadn't a clue.

On the long wide seafront it's no real
though has that old Cafe appeal.
With a feel it's been there since the ark
it's Cyril's the place is a lark.
A hub of comical characters as they interact
the central point of fun in fact.

But the series has now been wrapped
evermore will the site be mapped.
Sadly The Cafe will be packed away
knowing it may return one day.

I know it will rise again.

The Foureyed Poet.

That last time in Brighton
Back in 1980 was a dead

Lost. The old haunts seemed
Changed, the restaurants

Closed or changed hands,
The seafront less friendly,

Less romantic, the glamour
Gone, all high dreams spent.

Pity really we ever went.
But we did, you at least,

Trying to bring it back to life
That old love, that closeness,

That cold-night rush-to-coast
By train romance, that last

Time just memory, being put
To rest, I guess. Even that crap

Hotel had closed down where
We made love on those *****

Weekends, where one midday,
We unconcerned about that

Office block across the way,
With office workers, maybe

Spying, as we had *** that day.
Yes, the last time in Brighton

Was a lost cause; even the sad
Photographs we had taken there

Showed the dead love in faces
And eyes. The clicking camera,
Someone once said, never lies.

I'm watching an old Soviet movie
one without English subtitles
the whole day it hasn't stopped raining
the opening shots are of a foggy

seafront, a lone figure walking
a guy on a bicycle holding a puppy
riding past someone leaning on the corner
of a house in which the light

suddenly comes on & a couple appear
later on, a budding romance
between two holidaymakers in this, the Crimea
slow-paced, this movie reminds

me of an Aki Kaurismaki
& I want to share it with the world
& muse on how the Crimea
saw Pushkin, Chekhov, Mayakovsky

amongst others visiting it's shores
the whole day it hasn't stopped raining
& I don't know if I feel even more English
now or Russian or whether it's all just a trick

What steps he took, after losing his edge
Cocky **** running wild in days, never slept
Took drugs, took women, took men
Never slept again

What cliffs she admired, after seeing the edge
Tormented in fuzzy daydream childhood afternoons
She came down and stayed for days
An obsession with time to the point of stasis

I think I'm losing my edge
He thinks he's dead again
She lost the bed again

A faceless man was sat on a bench by the seafront
Hood high, said goodbye
Told me his missed the old style, wants more
Told him I was tired and this is whorish
What vines are these, that bound my ankles
and I was screaming into vacuums, grand clocks, strange houses
Safe houses that become embers
Magic men, shaman, shaggy hair, danced there

To use words in multiple places, placing clues
A whole story, absolute, read it backwards, forewords
iTunes shuffle function, on the poetry of the soul
(if it exists)
But he lost his edge again

Yes he went to Africa, saw the face of God and the Devil, unification
Iboga, uneasy stomach, vomited and killed them all
Watched the world burn, and children dance
Bluebell Lucy on arrival, back home
Taunted the skies, saved the proletariat
Grew wild roots and sang, some seraph

Admittedly not an architect, or a poet or *******
How many people have made these allusions
Sold drugs, killed men, ran home, all there, ghost of government
Hedgerows grew wild, were noticed and cut down
Still praise beatitude, Ginsberg, love-made, Kerouac, still plays

She was Hannah and she was Malcolm, also Marvin
He was them too, all the same, transcendental self-infatuation
Peach trees, coloured blinds, ashy scattered floorboards
Burnt home, music playing, popular culture
All free-form even with formality
A stream of conscious way of life
Outlook unsure

He thought he lost his edge
Turns out s/he never had it

Squawks of terror from
mother and child,
a scene never making Hitchcock's
final cut. Competing gulls flap,
swoop,
kamikazi dive bomb
for fallen fried clams. Boardwalkers smeared
in cocktail sauce and blue cotton candy
sweet and sticky. Shrills sounding,
"kitta-wa-aaakee, kitta-wa-aaakee"
as wings slap in spun sugary goo.
She is tarred and feathered.
Gull down! Gull down!
Weekend warriors in Atlantic City
never saw it coming.

The sea wind whips westward
and ocean regurgitates all matter
of gunk. Tampons, syringes, punctured
floaties in shapes of ducks and dragons,
it is ever there
in the gleaming reflection of casinos,
for homeless veterans
to scavenge upon.

Even wounded gulls eat better.

Even in the train it is cold.

Netanya snuggles closer to me,
her eyes searching me,
her hand clutching mine.

Had a job getting out,
she says.

Does he know
where you are going?

No, I just said
I was going out.

Was he suspicious.

Who cares?
She breathes out,
her breath like smoke;
it fills our area
of the carriage.

Why Brighton?

I like it there;
it reminds me
of my childhood.

She lays her head
on my shoulder,
her hand holding mine;
warmth moving
through mine.

Outside it is dark;
evening sky menacing.

How are things?

We rowed,
we always row.

I look at her hair
on my shoulder,
dark, wavy.

Won't going out
for so long
make things worse?

I hope so;
I hope he moves out,
hope he moves away.

What about the kids?

They'll understand,
kids do;
they like you.

I look out
at the passing view,
lights in the distance
from passing
villages or towns,
trees swimming past.

We arrive at Brighton rail station,
get out the train
and walk into the town
hand in hand.

We must come here
and stay the weekend.

When?

When we can.

I look at her beside me.
She's serious.

What would he say?

He'll say nothing.

He thinks it's just
a mid-life crisis
and I’ll get over it.

We walk down
to the seafront;
the wind and cold
biting at us.

The sea's rough.

I like it rough,
I like to sense
nature's power,
she says,
snuggling
close to me.

We go into a shelter
and sit down
in the semi-dark.

We kiss and embrace.

No one is about.

It seems far
from my usual world,
kind of surreal.

Her lips are on mine.

Feel her pulse.

Her living through me
and I through her;
I feel along her back,
feeling the smooth coat
she is wearing;
my fingers sensing
and imaging
what ever is beneath.

We sit there
for what seems hours,
kissing, holding,
looking out
at the rough sea.

Was I being
someone else
or was I just
being me?

The coach capsized and spilled its freight,
a glut of rabid reprobates,
who swarm towards a sea of lights
and fill their cups with harbour nights.

We do not heed the lighthouse glare,
or match the fortune-teller's stare.
We storm the cliffs as if to pillage
the gift shops of this seaside village.

We mill around a restaurant's doors
and nip at hot dogs with our claws.
Stockpiling rock up by the stick,
whilst wearing hats marked 'Kiss Me Quick'.  

Because we cannot hear their cries
for whispered arcade lullabies,
the gulls will dance above the tide
and mock sandcastle suicides.

The distant fort once planted proud,
clings to the hillside like a shroud.
Its craggy face a last dissuasion,
against the sea's saline invasion.

Perhaps the Ferris wheel's arc,  
can count each dawn against the dark.
A spotlight shone upon each heart,
as we rehearse our weathered parts.

Pastime play or parlor show,
we forget the lines we ought to know
and stumble on with blind devotion,
to pour our years into the ocean.

And yet! We catch the child's smile,
projected on a seafront mile.
His mirth casts doubt upon the claim,
that each new act concludes the same.

The beach begins and ends each dance,
each interval a second chance  
to wake the youth we put to sleep
and cast the hourglass into the deep.

The empress of the lighthouse
can see for years and nautical miles
and she can never be lost at sea.

The empress of the lighthouse
could save every sailor who smiles,
but she doesn't.

The empress of the lighthouse
is empress only of a house
when she leaves the light off.

The empress of the lighthouse
got tired of waiting for ships to come in,
so she doused the light in her seafront tower.

Now everyone she loves
and everyone who loves her
*will forever be lost at sea.

"SNOGGO And The Giant Sea Beast" (Another Egregious SNOGGO Adventure)

written by
Edna Sweetlove
on behalf of
the one and only
SNOGGO*


  The shore lay peaceful in the warmth of the sun, a seemingly idyllic picture. The beach was completely empty even though it was high summer. The whole town was void of visitors: usually at this time of the year it was crawling with tourists: fat white slobs ready to absorb maximum sunshine and sunburn before going back to the city with their ugly kids, back to their humdrum and drab lives of sedentary drudge. But not today, today they were nowhere to be ******* seen.

  Glum shopkeepers stared glumly out at the glum, empty streets, knowing they faced ruin unless the terror which had engulfed their town and which would bring calamity to their traditional summer occupation of fleecing the tourists could be sorted out. And only I, the wonderfully brave and intrepid SNOGGO, could save the town.  They knew it and I knew it. It was an established fact. Q.E.D.

  As I drove my specially designed truck down the main street to the seafront, people cheered, calling out 'God bless you, dearest, gallant SNOGGO' as I went by.  I was so ******* proud that everyone knew who the great SNOGGO was. I cautiously inched onto the sands as people watched from behind their curtains, hoping against hope that I would be able to save them from looming disaster. I motored down to the water's edge and carefully turned the vehicle round so that its rear pointed out to sea.  The tarpaulin on the back of the specially constructed SNOGGOMOBILE flapped in the wind. What was under the tarpaulin?

  I dragged a steamer trunk from under the tarpaulin, opened it and hauled out the stinking carcase of Geoffrey, my neighbour's Rottweiler who had inexplicably gone missing last week.  Or it may have been Gerald, Geoffrey's twin brother.  Next I hauled Gerald's corpse out of the trunk (or it may have been Geoffrey's, the two mutts were identical and repellent in death, just as they had been identical and repellent in life).  The pong was something awful.  Nearly gagging with the rancid and stomach-churning stench, I dragged the two dead dogs down to the shoreline and, grabbing each by its hind legs, hurled them out to sea as far as my mighty strength would permit.  About five yards, as it happened.

  I returned to the SNOGGOMOBILE and drew back the tarpaulin to reveal what lay underneath; my secret weapon, whose secret only I knew. I made my preparations carefully but rapidly; I knew I had no more than five or six minutes’ leeway. And sure enough, after precisely five and a half minutes, I heard the sound I was expecting and I saw the sight I was expecting.

  The mighty fin of the dreadful fish cut through the water with a dreadful whoosh.  And Geoffrey disappeared beneath the waves (or it might have been Gerald, who cares).  The other dog would be next: such a mighty shark as the one enjoying dog tartare in the bay would not be sated by a single Rotweiler.

  I climbed onto the back of the SNOGGOMOBILE, and leaped gracefully into the seat behind my secret weapon.  I aimed quickly at the focal point of the blood-stained thrashing waters, pressed the red button (marked "Fire" for ease of reference) and WHAM!, what a Hell of a big bang, and off went my thermo-nuclear torpedo, whizzing down the beach and SPLASH! into the water, then WALLOP! as it hit the shark amidships and BOOM! as it went off, blowing the shark into ******* smithereens.  Myriad bits of shark (mixed with bits of Geoffrey and Gerald) rained down on the beach; how fortunate that I had thought to put up my extra-size golf-umbrella (complete with colourful SNOGGO logo) to deal with this eventuality and no lumps hit me.

  The enormous shark (wittily nicknamed “that ******* great ******* shark” by the locals) which had terrorised the entire coast for some time, gobbling up paddling kiddies whole, chewing off the limbs of dozens of swimmers, and generally being a major pain the ****, was no more. It was mincemeat. The whole promenade was alive with cheering townsfolk, as I smiled in happiness and pride at my wonderful achievement. They started singing my favourite song: “We love SNOGGO, SNOGGO the brave” which brought ******* tears to my eyes.

  Now SNOGGO's reward beckoned: ten thousand lovely wallet-warmers (plus expenses) plus a night of unbridled lust with the mayor's buxom wife Shirley and his sister Deidre too, as previously arranged. Yes, SNOGGO the famous shark killer (and ******* fan) had killed yet another predator of the deep stone ******* dead.

THE END
~~~~~~~~

for him a.k.a Rembrandt, a fellow poet & love of my life-

I think of you in the conservatory
of the Little Harp Inn, on the seafront
is this where you came too
is this the place you meant
in your poems when you spoke
in them of  the ‘ glass tearooms’?
a ginger waiter brings a couple
their tea. Outside, a thunderstorm is raging
suddenly, there sounds a cry:
‘’ Look, the roof is leaking!’’
& bright lightning again splits the sky
just like love, striking
Everyone laughs in wonder
& an old lady walks by in pink
outside, without an umbrella
in this, Clevedon in the summer

Brighton on the seafront is shining like a silver dollar in the sun
And she is dancing to the rhythm of the seagulls and imaginary bass drums
It is winter, should be colder but the gentle breeze is warm
All around her is her own hair like the breakers of some pre-raphaelite storm
I see Bassie Gracie, Brighton by the sea, hey Gracie
She plays reggae, she plays ska, she plays jazz,
she loves them all, hey Gracie

I am walking back along the sea front, back the way we've come
The sun's kiss grows weaker and I miss her but that doesn’t get me down
For the rhythm of her baselines entwine the ripped fabric of my mind
And every time I see those breakers I'll remember that pre-raphaelite storm
I saw Bassie Gracie, Brighton by the sea, hey Gracie
She plays reggae, she plays ska, she plays jazz,
she loves them all, hey Gracie

Patrick (Lucky Stars) O'Hara set his disabled grandson up on the old horse's back. Contrary to his moniker Paddy was anything but. His luck had run out. His son had just died of leukemia, and his grandson was now fatherless. His "daughter-in-law" had run off long ago. Couldn't handle having such a disabled son, and a sick husband. Paddy had never liked her anyway.

Patty looked at the child's wizened body. The cruelty of scoliosis. The doctors said it would cost vast thousands of dollars to straighten Bobby O'Hara's spine. Money Paddy absolutely did not have.

His sad gaze shifted from the boy to the horse he was sitting upon. Oh what a magnificent creature you were, 8 Ball! His own retired racehorse. What was once a stone black coat was now mottled with white. The figure eight shaped blaze on his forehead had given him his name. Not to mention the way he took off at the Starting Gate. As if someone had goosed him with a cue stick! And he bounced off the turns in the track as if he had a spin on him that was absolutely deadly. 8 Ball loved to run! He was unbeaten in every race that he entered. A real Dark Horse. With no particular lineage whatsoever. 8 ball just had Talent. And the track owners hated it. Most races were rigged. And Paddy O'Hara didn't play the game.

So they set up a race. With a big race horse named Red Rodger. This horse was also unbeaten, and had a promising future. But Red Roger's jockey was told to lay his horse down... Right in front of 8-Ball. So lay down he did. Killing Red Rodger and severely injuring 8-Ball. There was a lot of speculation about the race. Especially how the jockey riding Red Rodger had jumped from the horse just before the accident happened. He said his foot had slipped the stirrup. No one could prove otherwise. So red Rodger was dead, and 8-ball was very effectively out of the game.

8-Ball, being a sweet natured horse, stood stolidly as a little boy patted his withers. He looked back at him with his gentle dark chocolate eyes and nickered with what Paddy could have sworn was tenderness...

He heard a frustrated whinny behind him. Looking back he saw what he expected. The F-tch was back.

Lady Genevieve Summerfield-Fitch looked down her long nose at Paddy. Astride the most magnificent jumper O'Hara had ever seen.

Gentleman Jim was an astonishing animal. The dappled grey of rainclouds on a milk white sky... and his lines were flawless. Not to mention his lineage. His dam was Proud Nelly, and his sire was none other than Seafront View. And The Gent was as good as his name. He wasn't hare- brained like some horses which became ******. This was a well-tempered, almost intellectual horse. He worked WITH his rider. Practically thinking his way through a course. And it was no surprise that Gent won more awards than you could shake a club at!

But Gentleman Jim's rider was anything but his counterpart. She owned him, but she was no lady...

All of a sudden Paddy's gaze shifted again... this time in the far distance to take in an apparition. A small blonde girl... hair the length of her knees! Running like the Hound of the Baskervilles was after her! She closed the distance between them so rapidly O'Hara was almost dumbfounded!

"I... must... buy... your horse", the child panted.

"He's not for sale..."

Suddenly Paddy saw who the youngster was running from. Back in the middle distance was an ugly bald-headed creep. The spider's web tattooed over the left side of his face was enough to change Paddy's mind... he'd give the girl TomTom, though. He was a good, swift horse....

... then, before he knew what happened, his grandson was sitting on a chair by the stables and Blondie was astride 8-Ball!

"Hey! That horse is old and LAME!

"Not anymore." The blonde girl said simply. She pressed something hard into his palm. "And he's now mine".

As 8-Ball wheeled around to go out the gate something... happened. Was it O'Hara's imagination? The Ball's coat got darker! And shiny! His "game" leg seemed to... straighten...

When he made it out to the trail with his small rider he bunched up his flanks and took off Like a bat out of HELL!

The young blonde girl's long hair streamed out behind her like a sail as she took on the seat of a hockey... PERFECT FORM!

Paddy looked down at the hard object the girl had pressed into his hand. It was a classically cut emerald, dark as the hills of Kentucky. And bigger than any Paddy had ever seen...

Just in the Offing

So much we miss just beyond mortal wit we truly walk paths of life but the sailing skies how inviting we
Miss because it involves more than just the central part of our cares and existence it takes dreaming
Believing and forsaking the very thing that has us captured we are possessed but not possessing that
Something that holds us fast it becomes trying showing it’s not for us but we persist there is a man
That owned a seafront home day after he sat for hours and did nothing but gaze out to sea don’t get
Me wrong he could go anywhere in this world and did but the one trip he needed the trip of discovery
He never took he never looked into the unseen into the real the face the movement the essentiality of
Twilight the irreversible gleaming the power that is unsettling but it settles all things                                                                                            
The mundane the rudimentary flows out and away when we call to this life giving force it takes men and
Women who are adequate then it empties out the waste the unnecessary like spring without the
Blooming it would be spring but not the spring we know and love why settle for thistles alone demand
The glory of the flower a super structure resides all around but you remain impoverished you were
Made as a gift but you bowed down and inwardly you have reduced the rays that are lying dormant    
You’re still born your vibrancy your life giving force has been dulled that it creates only a lack of interest
All is needed is ignite the soul that holy part that infused glory the tidings that all ache to see and hear in
A land of waste the derelict who forgot to be bright the guest that never wears out his or her welcome
They are real they have the goods of two worlds they tirelessly stretch themselves to be of value for
Others truly we pass this way but once we can be a fiery wheel or an empty cloud that promises but
Gives lifeless effort when magnetic qualities are called for be a dream extender with just the smallest
Impetus you can fan the flame of another to greatness you are the only one given this assignment if you
neglect this blessed right you will bring two lives down like a kite less sky clear or gray what a story has
Been missed when it was too have been pronounced grandeur now mediocrity that lifts and inspires
none this is the cost of life lived unto ourselves

When a poem speak in confidence
That is how I am as I walk the street of Brooklyn

me, a poem of mystery, a bite senility though
in my sensate world:

I know ones pride, can over shadow them
Never ride ones pride.  Especially when the
price of victory is high but so are the rewards.

Did our former leader congratulate the new President?

Maybe I missed his speech,
pride is born in the heart
Ego is born in the mind
today is November 10th 2020:

My job can be so frustrating at times,
during these times of uncertainty

I have to push on daily,
to have a joyful moment,
at the work place
Give thank in all circumstances,
but I will never uttered those words
That is was God work:
it was because of my inner fears.
That led me to stay as long
as I did at the seafront:

The world feels lighter these days,
Satan power is lessening,
Death has lost its sting ( 1 Corinthians 15:55

For the first time in this country
A black female is the vice president of America
And what bring a smile on my face,
She attend the same college as my younger daughter
Howard University.. Thumps up !

When I was a teenager,
I went swimming late one night
In the cold water down the harbor Road,
A poem was created that night, little did I knew
Here I am rehashing those memories…..
A happy mood clouds our judgement
Words, words, images and the truth
Michael might not remember, but I remember,

The city lights and the whispering of the wind:
My shivering slender body was a poem inside and out:
When my poems speak in confidence,  I walk, the walk
In the street of Brooklyn..

Sometimes lying in my bed I close my eyes and imagine myself back there again
Back in my old childhood room, in my old childhood bed
I can see the green nightlight shining on the wall
See the dark outlines of the wardrobe and the dressing table
The moonlight coming in through the window
From the street below I hear a lone car passing
You can hear it coming, then arriving, then gradually fading away into the distance
Then the silence returns
I lie there in the quiet
Then suddenly…suddenly I find myself…I find myself rising
Like out of my body, rising up toward the ceiling
I can look back down and see my physical body still lying there on the bed
Then I turn and I fly right out the window
Suddenly I’m outside and I’m free
It’s dark now, a world devoid of colours, a world transformed, a World of shadows
With the big moon shining over the bay
The flowers in the front, their petals closed…drooping
Their all sleeping now, grown colourless in the pale moonlight
I fly over the shrubs and the flowers, fly over the wall and the front gate
The coast road it is so quiet now, not a sound of a car
Or sight of any soul out walking
It’s late…
So ghostly in the quiet, the outline of the other houses along the street
Just like faces sleeping
I fly over the road and over the sea wall, down the steps to the beach
All the sand and the little shells and stones
And the big rocks just standing there so still and so quiet
Almost like their watching me or waiting on me
As if…as if questioning
I look over at the big mountains of the headland in the far distance sloping down toward the sea
Their great big dark outlines dotted with little lights from all the isolated farms and villages
And there at the very end, the lighthouse, it’s red light winking back at me at intervals
All under a beautiful star laden sky
It’s wonderful, magical looking !  It reminds me of Christmas…the lights at Christmastime.

I fly over the big rocks and the rock pools
Wow! Look now, the sea!  The tide!! The tide is coming in
Like a huge…great army moving stealthily under cover of darkness
Stretching the whole way as far as you can see
Inching its way along, the water filling the little grooves in the sand
Wow!  Just looking at it, watching it, it’s awesome! It’s mesmerising!!
Soon it’ll be joining the rock pools
It’ll be like an army pouring into a city
The water level will rise slowly
And all the sea creatures will start to come out, the *****, the eels and the fish
It’ll all come alive.

So I fly over the silent standing rocks and the strand and the tide that’s coming in heading up toward the village
I pass an open stretch of beach with hardly any rocks
This is where the young families would come
The mothers with their little children to swim and play
But it’s so quiet now…so quiet and desolate…lonely looking
Now the children have all gone
Now there’s only the memory…the echo
Yea! Now there’s only the sound of the ghost children playing, splashing about
Their excited voices still ringing in the air…somewhere
Once as a child I walked these same beaches
I knew every rock
But strangely I can hardly remember myself now
That child I once was
I feel somehow that he left me…left me a long time ago
Old friend we knew each other once, why has your memory faded away from me
Have I changed so much
Do you not know me now or trust me
Am I too scary for you to look at or talk to
Have I sided too much with this world, a world that once used scare and pain you so
You and I, we have wandered far from our old toys
Were forced to play more different grown up games
Had to adopt many guises, wear many different masks
All those things I had to do and those different people I had to become
Just to survive here
Yea! This world it blew us onto many a strange shore,
And now, returning…like an old man from the sea
Weathered and half broken, still with little of any worth to show
Tell me…tell me you haven’t left me…left us
That you haven't abandoned us
Take us with you, we’d rather go with you than stay in this…this empty place
With you there was always wonder, there was always magic…every day
It was always more fun when you were around
…we miss you, where did you go Old Friend ?

I fly on, there’s the old swimming pool
All quiet now, hushed, silent, not a sound
So ghostly, no laughter, no splashing about, no shouts of delight
The night how it offers a contrast to the day
This ghostly world of stillness and of quiet
Of shadows and memories and lost things
And I like a ghost just wandering here
The daylight world remembered from afar as the dead might remember the living.

I fly on over the swimming pool
Now I see the village itself, the street lights and the lights from the pubs still open
A few people out walking along the seafront
Husbands and wives perhaps…young lovers
Y’know I can remember this beach thronged with sunbathers in the summertime
All the colour and the noises
I can…I can remember the wild days, the stormy seas lashing the shore
Remember the high winds buffeting the house at night
I can remember the high tides when the sea would come right up to the steps
Would swamp all the big rocks
All you could see was this huge massive blanket of just blue sea everywhere
And in the Winter time I can remember the snow on the rocks
The snow over everything, so white and clean and fresh, all fresh in the frosty air
And I remember the tranquil Summer evenings, the waves gently lapping up against the shore
Lulling you off to some sweet dream...or dreams faraway.

When I was young I didn’t know what this world was and why I was here
And now, I still don’t know, I’m none the wiser
But wherever I go, I know there’ll always be the sea…
It’s a part of me…these memories, these things I’ve seen
Wherever I find myself, in the heart of a grey city or out in the green countryside
There’ll always be that…that seaside village
Yea! There’ll always be the sea.
I grew up in a seaside village…a seaside village
One time long ago.

You know we flew once?
Standing, watching the seafront
And we lept together
Caught on the wind a feather.

We spread our arms, flapped and whistled,
(I still remember how my neck hair bristled.)

We swooped close to the water to catch the sea spray,
While drenching your yellow matted hay.

And then back up again, into the gale,
To be thrown in whichever direction it did prevail.

The gulls cackled and laughed as we floundered in the air,
The secret to flying is not one they’ll share.

Your acidic eyes told me the secret was a lie,
All the gulls told you was to live and not die.

But when I landed you were no more,
And I was left standing on the shore.

I knew she was Scandinavian
With those plaits in her flaxen hair,
And her eyes were such a brilliant blue
They were quite beyond compare,
I’d watch her make her way to the beach
Down the stony clifftop way,
But didn’t know she was waiting for him
Till I saw them come that day.

I doubt if she understood our tongue
Though trapped on an English shore,
I’d greet her as I’d greet anyone
With a wave and a smile, for sure,
But she’d bow her head, and hurry away
Determined we shouldn’t meet,
I little knew where her secret lay
Though I’d pass her along the street.

She seemed to live in a cottage that
Had been tumbling down for years,
Up on a tuft of poverty grass
That time had dismayed, and cursed,
Her clothes, designed in a northern clime
Must have been hand-sewn with twine,
The colours faded, the patterns run
But to me, she was more than fine.

I watched her all through the Autumn as
She wandered along the beach,
She always stopped at the same old spot
Where the rocks had formed a breach,
The waves would part as they hit the rocks
And a plume sprayed in the air,
Forming a mist of droplets that would
Glisten, all through her hair.

Then winter came in a fury with
Its grey and its fretful skies,
And storms were lashing the seafront
Keeping us home, those who were wise,
But she still ventured abroad some days
Though the wind would take her breath,
And make her stagger along the path
Till I thought she’d catch her death.

Something drove her along that path
For she seemed to be obsessed,
The days were dark, you could barely see,
You’d think that those rocks were blessed,
She’d come back up in an hour or so
With her clothes so soaked and wet,
That once I called, and she came right in,
The first time that we’d met.

She couldn’t answer my questions though,
She spoke in a foreign tongue,
One that was heard in northern climes
Back when the world was young,
And when she dried, she walked away
But pointed out to the sea,
And mouthed a single word, a name,
‘Brynjar’, it had seemed to me.

That night a terrible storm began,
A storm like I’d never seen,
With dense black rolling thunder clouds
That lightning lit, between,
I watched as she wandered out once more
And I looked down to the shore
And noticed a strange old sailing ship
Like I’d seen in a book, before.

The prow was high, and a dragon’s head
Stared snarling out through the hail,
A huge square sail was fluttering,
Torn in the raging gale,
And at the prow a warrior, who
Clung onto an oar and spar,
While from the shore, a sudden scream
Had cut through the air, ‘Brynjar!’

The ship was swept on the jagged rocks
That had formed a solid breach,
And shattered, as it had broken its back,
To spill its men on the beach,
But Brynjar, lost on the self-same rocks
Caused her to scream, at last,
Just as that scene had faded out
A long lost scene from the past.

I never once saw that girl again,
It’s now that I think I know,
How desperate things return sometimes
In a sort of afterglow,
For Brynjar’s ship was a Dragon ship
From a thousand years before,
Whose Viking crew came for who knows who,
Trapped on the English shore.

David Lewis Paget

that was the night we went downtown and I snuck to the bathroom
to take off my underwear,
only to come back and shove the small knot of fabric deep into the pocket of your jeans.
the pink mesh ones with the lace trim.
I liked the way you looked at me.
in a way that conveyed your understanding.
that we shared this little secret among the throngs of people that surrounded us.
through the infinite noise and slush of cider filled cups,
the jostling bodies, the whistle of the wind along the seafront.
amidst all this,
still this one
silent
and simple exchange was shared.

how delicious are memories such as this
when recalled on nights like these.

On this gentle seafront I stand
Waiting
I don't know why
I don't know what I feel
I'm staring at the ocean

Calming
I feel the wind
Calming
I can breath
Calming

I like this place
I'm starting to feel something
I feel so alive here
My chest starts aching
But then
I hear their voices
The ones that helped me through so much
The ones that kept me here through all these years
Chasing away my fears and making me see light in windowless rooms

First it's the blue one
I used to be her but now I'm someone else
She smiles at me and holds out her hand
I take it
Smiling more then I ever have before
Ever
I look behind us again and what I see makes my heart feel like exploding
In the best possible way
I see them all

The white one
the grey one
the red one
the black one
the brown one
the green one
the purple one
the ones of no colour
and the ones of many

All of them smiling at me and I can feel myself about to cry

in the best possible way

But right here

The blue one is next to me

And she's my favourite

Under the Bridge, along the Promenade: we
walked with words trickling through our
waxy lips. Where the Seafront was all silk.
Where the Waxwings, sealed wax tips,
lumbered about the Empyrean yonder:
splayed upon a Canvas
of Sapphire and Azure.
Before the Starry Night has come.
Before we reached the Shore only to
Digress.
    "Liebe verleiht Flügel,"
I heard, or read in a Book.
The Streets are crimson rust;
The Spectators in Sanitariums watched
drab passersby. They shambled and
coughed admixt the crowded room, only
to find the Peristyle vacant and dead.
A Mantic Women, cards of dread,
stands on the corner; our
eyes catched, and She speaks:
    "Wo bist du?"
        "Wo bist du?"
            Louder and fists shaking:
    "Wo bist du?"
The buildings doddered, filled with
Cuscuta.
In Montauk, where we met, now withered,
covered in snow, I stood - my comportment
unsteady. Flashing in the distance I see
Point Light - Captain Kidd musing with his
Money Ponds - an Angel guiding wonderous
blights - The Recognitions, blimey,
Mr. Gaddis has gone blind - The Faustian
apotheosis abound -
The Streets are crimson rust
filled with dread.
Smelling of Jack-by-the-hedge -
I'm walking...
Noctivagant aura permeates -
Mich.

From the seafront to the portal,
I am surrounded by mountains.
From the portal to the housings,
I am surrounded by mountains.
From the housing to the Parade square,
I am surrounded by mountains.
From the Parade square to the mesh hall,
I am surrounded by mountains.
From the mesh hall to the laundry room,
I am surrounded by mountains.
From the laundry room to the barracks,
I am surrounded by mountains.
From the Barracks to the medic room,
I am surrounded by mountains.
From the medic room to the regimental police boot,
I am surrounded by mountains.
From the regimental police boot where all the RPs salute,
I am surrounded by mountains.
The entire military base and personnel's within it,
We are surrounded by mountains.

Footprints in the sand.


It’s quiet now; it’s not like it was last night.
All the hangovers are asleep, they have never seen the morning light.
They are dreaming of last night’s fires
And drinking away the days before,
As I sit here upon my rock contemplating the world…


The sea is calm, the wind is quiet; there are birds flying in the sky.
In the distance I can see an oil tanker, slowly floating by.
There are no people here to catch the sun rise,
So I can happily wait until it arrives;
So peacefully I write…


I have my blanket, my picnic breakfast and a vision so wide;
It goes on for miles in every direction
And this picture is illuminated by the dawns early light.
I can see beyond the sand and on past the lifeguard tower;
There is nobody here that needs saving and nobody to guard a life.


As the cliffs remain after years of waves,
All around me I can see the seafront.
I can see the next town over; there are only a few lights on
And I can see the approaching morning sun…
It is hidden behind the man-made buildings, but soon it will rise
And I alone shall be a witness to its beauty
And still I continue to write…


As the pages become clearer with every passing minute,
Eventually I create a full stop, as I have reached the finish;
But my words do not seem complete, so I get to my feet to think.
I turn my back towards the horizon and I speak into the wind…


You have blessed me this day, for all the noise has been taken away.
All thoughts are being quiet; I have a place I can drift again.
So I thank you for your company and all you have given to me;
It is sad to know that my dreams are only ever,
Pebble’s thrown away into the sea.


Reclaim what is yours and wash away all our damage;
We have walked upon your sand enough.
Take it all back into the sea,
For we can no longer stand by and watch
And continue to walk here;
We have already walked here too much.


Take back what is yours, for it was never ours to keep.
This rock I sat upon has been waiting to speak,
For a thousand years, it has helped us to stand tall,
While people use it as a stepping stone,
To get to a place where we can be at one with the world;
But this stone is the shape of you, for you are made of the Earth
And I am just a visitor…you were here first.


I never did find my peace and quiet,
But I felt at ease as the beach went back to the sea.
I rose to my feet to make a change
And not one footprint in the sand did I leave.


(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.

because all the narratives are slipping...
once upon a time...
once upon.... there was a time...
and people had their lives...
huddled: bonded...
spoke to the fire...
teased a shadow drunk on a night-out
not returning with a one-night-stand
****-budy...
teased a shadow drunk:
for a handshake that would
become a classical: greek... wrestling...
the advent of judo...
sort of... hey there!
         i'm bored of the lies...
             i'm actually more than merely
bored: i'm numbed...
here's to! fishing for: the last covenant
of nazis...
just today...
i was watching the odessa file... 1974...
jo(h)n voi(gh)t...
                             even though...
****... this... **** that...
a people so... "conquered":
brought together...
                 what speaking of land...
to be conquered...
             yes: fishing for nazis...
scouting for them too...
the diaspora finally congregated...
i have to... feed into feeling...
an itch of...
the bother... should...
the words of: Balaam the Diviner...
              i guess i am a "diviner"...
i sentence each word with:
please! spare... this land this...
whatever it might be...
    of which i am... "exiled" from...
i keep the mothertongue in the shadow...
rhaspodic...
         we had affairs in the shadows:
when we wrote...
not much fun... when all the rotting
woodworks are busying themselves
with evixction notices for the:
karaluchy - cockroaches...
              
   two or three words:
   the original advent for the pursuit
of life... hell... that almost feels like
feeding ten piglets!

the black lives protests were just
an interlude...
the attack in reading with three dead:
you keep a libyan hound
on a leash for long enough...
collateral damage...
     of the union to oust Gaddafi...
i would never be a fan of anyone...
so... gifted in exfoliation of attire...
but then again:
fishing for nazis... without...
their... signature... hugo boss...
uniforms...
          who dressed these "neos"
in forgetable... attire?
   uncorked a bottle of champagne
when figuring out...
the new innovation of what was
once: the radio...

i.e. make them... wear...
forgetable... attire...
       some grey suit...
     but... of course the but!
   they can't succumb to the eccentricity
of... wearing the same ****...
over and over again:
the trick would still be played...
that they might...
for themselves: of course...
and have the clothes washed
and primed for re-use...
like back in school...

                  i could swear to have clicked
on my usual ctrl + c / + p...
wikipedia.com...
   for the ц: not being on the keyboard...
by "magic fingers" and all the more
a "magic will"... redirected to...
russlandjournal.de/en/...
    
          ah... "surds"... "signs"...
      like...                 the g-nome...
                           the g-nostic...
                                  otherwise: some variation
of... diaGnostics...
                             my own little...
bless the veil of inconvenience...

my little escapism: well it's fresh...
it's not a newspapers' opinion column...
when journalism was something
noble...
          it's fresh and it's...
how did i abandon finishing Dicken's
   the Pickwick Papers?
                      to have to glue the ridge...
that page turning skeleton...
it is... after all...
an edition from the 19th century...
i want to finish it...
but i dare say... if i did...
the binding would not retain its:
intactness...

                  so... are we still
scouting and fishing for nazis?
the romanced old baddies?
      the ones that would... somehow...
agitate the arab world post 1945
in shady dealings...
how... the diaspora would finally
congregate...
and a people could be robbed
of their land...
an israel...

        but the... diaspora didn't...
"finally" congregate... a sceptical bunch
of kippah kaddish qabbalah scientists...
ibn saud and the myth of the dajjal...
by god: the arabs would never drink...
impossible... camel jockeys that they:
were... are...
so... sugar-frenzy!  
                 they do like their sweets...
and sexed-up juices of trickle
phlegm from the harem of harems of:
****** olives and ******...
                      grapes...

            hell... wouldn't it be just nice...
to see someone... donning a ******* with
pride... for... open-range practice?
but these's days...
it's all a game of... so... who's who?

arab playboys or new-money beijing
shrimp whittle-wichard squirt: a squint
on the altar of lemon-C... some minor
vitamin deity...

                  narratives: all shrapnel...
    all existential "complications"...
have... honest to "god"...
become... constipations...
and the best of these are in england...
what with the school of...
that aesthetic...
  aesthetic-of-curating-hierarchical-norms-/-standards-/-expectations...
i was looking for a word...
a german hyphenated centipede was born...

etiquette!
what was a "complication" came to be easily
served as... a constipation...
oh... and i've had my fair share of
those: wild adventures of Mr. Turdy...

was once: a not once upon a time: je(t)ц(t)цeit:
or the concept of abolishing a theory of gravity
and the great devauliton of a van gogh painting...
classical verbiage...
word salad of misnomers...
if they were only misnomers...

candly floss of stripped nuances...
the elder: a democrat...
"social distancing"
or the... grand revisionism /
revival of the feng shui...

igorant moi...
   feng shui: a geomancy...
...........................................
.........­...........................................
.................................
...............................­........
......................................................
.­..........................................

        (my my! and that is!
a schematic for...
a loitering... paragraph)...

   who among the porcelain folk...
tinged with...
       is to speak of chiromancy...
or... to treat the stars and their
constellations...
with... impertinent questions...
to salvage some sort of a remaining
whole: that some man lived...
that some man...
would be...

a zen parody... a zen anything:
anyone: anywhere...

      to proscribe a tao placebo:
is to live a taoist sickness...
to live "anything" and an "anytime"...
to be so conflated with the confines
of an immediacy: a heideggerian: dasein...
that there's a "there"...
sein... there are more connotations
being excavated from
the etymological "term": unwavering noun...
concerning being: a space...
a coordinate...
than there's... wild dreams!
annotations to subscribe to
a temporal fatalism... by that...
indeed... time...
                  fall of the: and gathered
knee of amen...

                bridal coup:
this.. laced fake sellers' poignancy...
the brightest of minds...
and the darkest of tongues...

i came to this posit: inquiring...
my last... salvaged futility...
and it had to become apparent...
i had to find myself:
unable to leisure...
for the eventuality of all eventualities...
the supper of languid:

the mushroom hijacked the brain
of ape...
              parody...
the tree imitated serpet in shedding
its core... of bark...
the elevation of answers...
via... the 1960s psychadelic
experimentation phaze...
              + + + +....
                                we had to...
acknowledge the gemini:
clone... and the brain subjected to...
the pickling jar...

            why wouldn't i partner
up with... the death closure dynamics...
verbiage...
yes... yes... because...
the sober are the sane:
no sight of dolly the prodded:
proud matriarch fo miles around!
b'ah b'ah...
   i sell my consonants
with an ambiguity of vowels...
every... chance... i... get...
to have to: and i have to...
divinate the tetragrammaton...
in the "H" the vowel-catcher...
phoneticism of the god of words...
and in the beginning...
easy "thing" to desecrate...
the hierogylphs...

   the 'ebrew god wouldn't...
desecrate... the roman alphabet...
wouldn't... desecrate the phonetic
encoding of the greeks...
cul de sac of "adventure"!
             i hear...
the litany of the gods of the conquering
hebrews!
the 'ebrew god... didn't...
conquer and...
the egyptian hieroglyphs... were...
conquered...
                  canninites... canine bark-alongs...
dog-whisperers...
            
the hebrew conquered...
           cuneiform...
                  scribble fancies of arabs...
the revenge of Keturah
the mother of Khadījah
this... inbreeding of violence...
old sway old...
                   new sway new...

             what cave... when working with...
sand?
i **** on it: perhaps...
there might arrive a castle...
i blow on it...
   sand come... sand go...
or... sand go... sand come...

the dehydrated mind is everyone's
new norm:
because: the cpllective said so?
never the sanity of the mandarins...
lie on top of of lie...
cherry-topped-up-with-lies...
but still...
a "forward vector"...

                but the hebrews...
couldn't erase the roman alphabet...
or the greek alphabet...
they... managed to hide the runes...
they best hid the glagolitic script...
but what good did that?
when the greek solved a revival of
the glagolitic script and served
up a palette for cyrillic?

ergo? the hebrew god failed...
the fate of the hebrew people...
with the 20th century...
as a zenith...
was also their nadir...
          the god of the word:
of phonetic encoding...
you can't... somehow...
stage a fake war...
when... the roman alphabet was
to be used... in computer: code...
encoding...
you can't... erase this progress!

  you couldn't with a hierogylphic owl...
so much... teasing...
did... the mandarin: your god:
your sanctity saviour: of what?
god of "gods" blush... shy away...
the hebrew phonetic letters...
posisted against the mandarin
octopus?
what is it? crude bollocking:
and a shard...
          a truly... ripe... "prophecy"...
solomon's harem
the envy of a newly bred...
muhammad...

          i asked the willow...
why it had to gimmicj wilting...
with a Y... as it always turbned...
not the willow... the oak...
sure as ****: not the birch of pine...
to leisure... aging...
by... leusuring a loss of...
skin... leather...

  easy target practice for the god
of the hebrews...
              somehow...
the numbers were also concerned...
for all the love of hiding your vowels...
like they might be
diacritical markers of "accent"...

          hello: pseudo-sand peoples...
4 (ה)...
                  that's as best as i can arrive
at...
kippah... kaddish... qabbalah and lot...
a people: a country...
not worth invading...
a... diaspora... a people...
not worth displacing back:
into a congregation of:
"nationhood"...
if only... israel...
and there came...
the paupers of the vatican...

   i guess... i guess:
i'm not guessing... the returns policy
of that... parody of a clan...

a diet of diatribe...
  how can the hebrew alphabet claim...
superiority...
over the roman or the greek...
alphabet...
     "alphabet": phonetic encoding...
when... the greek moved into the theoretical
constants of science...
and roman... remained: instilled...
    for "phonetic" questions...
  
hebrew: proto-writing...
        i would wait... for hebrew to fail...
when being... dashed...
forged... upon the wave...
crashing onto the caverns of seafront
mandarin!

            to retain some of these letters:
as numbers...
is enough...
            but sorry no sorry...
        ktav ashuri...
   the hebrew god... jealous and proud...
the norse gods... bended their knee...
and became invisibly: doubly apparent...
from Runes unto Rome....
finally! a phonetic encoding system...
that... the hebrews...
couldn't perfect:
or find themselves ar superior odds to...

40 years became 2000 years...
a slow decay i.q. lesson
culminating in the denotated rubric of:
auschwitz... sorry... sorry told...
you can't... treat...
the proto-italian perfection...
like it's some... *******...
hieroglyphic! like it some...
proto-borrowed... syriac / cuneiform!
sand-****** kippah-u.f.o.!

savvy? no savvy? we can have
this argument going... on and on!
it's not like...
  i have care for the crude...
it's not like people are going
to return to the cafe or subject...
they'd hope... themselves
to a live maggot and concert...

you can't... you can't...
perfect what's already perfect
in latin with hebrew...
the music! the music!
     a cul de sac war project of ******* whipping!
which is all the need for
a circumcision!
added
of a worth of a niqab!
...
   i'm starting to think that... the kippah...
is a side-project for...
investing in solar-panels...
honest to god: no joke...
it's like the hebrews are being bribed...
and bribed: auschwitz nutz truez...

     because... the hebrew phonetic encoding...
system of x-ray letters...
can... will... somehow...
get rid of the latin...
   they couldn't get rid of the greek...
when greek became cyrillic...
useful idiots... and a laughing god.

my former respect has become...
a... shambo: a ****-pit...
shambles: exact!

         i always hoped to... keep my...
pretty.... toes... to the last.

Solo cello echoing in seine river.

He whispers: haven’t you forgotten

that poem I used to read it for you?

She replies: autumn leaves never forgot
Count on our days when we were happy lovers

Cello tears up to season changes
Melody shoot into memories
She penetrated the cello strings to collect
Autumn fall leaves and prays for him

Memories are fettered. Likewise
the autumn new falling leaves
Float through seafront sunrise.
(Orange-red, shine touches)

Solo cello echoing in seine river.
He whispers, she remains silence. 

Seductions of images pies high