Dearest reader,


My name is Margot Dylan and I am no longer a ******.

I stared at Dianne staring at Frieda Bentley, as she dragged on a Camel Blue and as I dragged my pen across my notepad. I sketched her figure as she walked closer to Frieda, dropping her cigarette on the ground. Frieda smiled at Dianne, as she stepped and twisted her shoe on the smoldering carcass.

And they looked at each other. Not like how normal people look at each other. And Dianne smiled. A smile that was not like any smile Dylan ever gave me.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, with ******* slipping to my collarbone. The ******* tapping belonged to a girl. The girl's name was Thora, a brunette that smelled like bubblegum and 'don't go'. Thora had something in common with Dianne: They both recently came out as gay. Unlike me, both family reactions were fairly positive. In fact, so positive that-What are you drawing?

"Margot?"

I paused, looked at Thora, and looked back at Dianne or Dylan Dunham. "That girl," I pointed in their general direction, as Dianne kissed Frieda on the forehead. Thora followed my finger in time for the kiss on the lips, "the ironic one."

Thora Nelson, daughter of Cameron Nelson and the deceased Geraldine Nelson, looked at my chin and asked, "Who is she?"

Thora's cotton-candy-blues met my puddles of mud, as I looked away, putting my notepad in my backpack. Before I zipped, I grabbed the lime green marker sleeping next to my pack of index cards. My teeth squeezed the leaf colored cap off, as I pulled out the fetus, smelling the aroma of non-toxic afterbirth.

I asked if she wanted a tattoo and she shrugged, "Oh no, you mean I get to choose whether you touch me or not?"

Lightly pressing the fiber tip to her arm, I glanced up at her and shrugged a bony shoulder, "Her name is Dylan Dunham. Well, it's actually Dianne. It's complicated. I used to call her Dylan. She used to call me Margot."

"But your name still is Margot," Thora informed as her eyes followed the acid-green ink trail.

"Some people change, some people don't," I said, with the cap held between my teeth.

I painted her arm in lime hope, by the soda machines. My eyes focused on her pores that I imagined swallowed dirt and bacteria from the side of my palm. I could feel Thora disarm me with her eyes, after I had disarmed her with my words. Her heartbeat echoed inside my grasp.

"I didn't know I was dating Leonardo DaVinci," the words flowing from her mouth.

"I am gay and Italian, so it's not like I was doing a terrific job of hiding it from you," I muttered as I finished and held her pale forearm and bracelet cuffed hand a foot from her face, "Look: it's us underneath a tree."

Turning and wrinkling her nose, she adjusted, moving her head back and forth. " Oh wow. Wow, wow, wow. Meta. So meta. So abstract. Brilliant in its simplicity, deconstructing the concept of natural complexity-"

"Shut up-"

"The tree looks like an umbrella. And we look like we have canes-"

"Those are our fishing poles. In that world, we are fishermen. Fisherwomen. Fishergals-"

"And my **** is too big and your ***** are too small and our smiles aren't big enough-well, at least mine isn't, I can't speak on your behalf," she finished.

Grabbing her arm, I looked at my masterpiece, looked at her, looked at it again, and looked at her again as her smile grew with every glance. "Well, I can see how it'd be up to debate, and you're right: very, very meta. But you do have a big ****, and I'm not one to sacrifice accuracy. Speaking of accuracy: as I look at this green ****, I realized I hit the mark by dating you. Honestly, your **** may have its own zip code..And...I'd like to be in its area? Please stop me."

Her chin touched her knee, as she doubled over, laughing. I played with her hair, wrapping her bangs around my fingers. As my hands were enveloped by her dark hair, I found a scar on her crown. I imagined Thora's milky-white fingers scrubbing through shampooed locks, trembling across the zig and zag of removed glass.

I imagined Thora Nelson, of Cameron Nelson and the deceased Geraldine Nelson, hearing sirens instead of water hitting the tiles. Her slumping to the floor, as lather and water runs down her face, each tear a memory of being dragged out of a steel ribcage, onto broken glass jungle pavement. It was too easy yet too difficult to imagine her staring at the steaming showerhead. It was too easy yet too difficult to imagine her reaching towards a metallic carcass growing in flames.

Her hand grabbed my leg and I saw her for what might have been the first time.

"Hey you. Listen. Are you listening?"

I nodded.

"I'm in love with you, Margot Dylan. Like, really in love. To the point to where I feel like I'm in a Jennifer Aniston rom-com. It's disgusting."

I didn't know what happened between my exploration of her hair and her pale face studying mine, but, before I knew it, my blood shook and barbed wire nerves orbited around pieces of my body.

The ricochet of a soda can smacking the mouth of the machine sounded. Time was either too fast or too slow, as I looked at Thora's cheap mascara eyes and chapped, soft pink lips. She was the type of girl that could make someone happy not to believe in god.

"And I love you. To the point to where I'd refuse Hogwarts because of not being able see you during the school year."

"How sweet, I know how badly you wanted to get into Ravenclaw," she smiled.

"Sacrifices must be made in the name of love, you know. And it ***** because you're not even my type," I admitted.

"Oh, how tragic. And what is your type, if I may ask?"

"You may, thank you. And the falling in love type," I'm an idiot.

"Could you be anymore cheesy?"

"Mozzarella."

She stopped and looked at me, "Hey, but really, I'm in love with you. It's real."

"I love you, too."

Her eyes were speckled,"You really love me, Margot Dylan? Because I'll believe you."

I leaned in, softly placed my hands on her cheeks, breathing the word, "Yes." I alternated between staring at her mouth and her eyes, as her lids began to drop.  My lips started to dab hers and soon grab, as if soft hooks grew out of and connected our flesh. I found the corner of her mouth, the summit of her cheek, and each crease in her lips. Nine or ninety seconds past before I stopped, pulled away, and looked into her eyes. "Hogwarts is overrated anyway," I lied. She laughed.

Her face was red, as she looked down while covering her face, "Don't look at me, I'm a dork. I'm being a loser. I'm infected."

"It's okay. You can be my infected dork and we can be losers together," my voice was a rasp.

"It really isn't. You see, my face always becomes extraordinarily red after I kiss or am kissed by someone, especially by someone beautiful. And it doesn't help that I've never been kissed by someone I love. And I've never kissed a girl before and I'm really glad you were the first, so there. Gah," her hands fenced her face,"I'm just going to hide behind these hands, don't mind me."

I was in love, "For how long?"

"Probably forever, I don't know. Or until the next installment of American Horror Story, I haven't made up my mind yet."

We heard Ms. Calloway scold Dianne about smoking on school grounds. I looked at Thora and the bell rang. Her hands slowly dropped, as everyone started to move in blurs. Bodies gaining more and more distance. Inches became miles. Feet grew into light-years, and, before I knew it, Thora kissed my cheek and said, "I hope I see you later, okay?"

My hand had something in it. My fingers unfurled and revealed high school origami. My name was on it, with a heart or a ****-I'm the artist in the relationship. I began pulling on *****, the tips of my fingers breaking the paper safe. So delicate must have been her mysterious movements.

I opened it.




A pebble flew from my hand and blipped off her bedroom window. Funny thing about bedroom windows, they look the same at 12:03 am. Or maybe they look a little different when the person you love is behind the glass, as you do an eighties-film-esque pebble throw. Before my next pebble hit the pane, her bedroom light came on.

Navy blue curtains disappeared to the sides as Thora came to the window and rubbed her eyes. A second later, she was gone as I imagined her sneaking past her father's bedroom, quietly down the stairs, and through the foyer. As I imagined this, I could hear the front door being unlocked and creaking open. I walked towards the porch and a yellow glow escaped with a silhouette living in it.

Thora's left hand is burnt, but I don't mind and I don't think I ever will. She held my hand as we walked through the threshold. At first I was nervous when I saw her father in the living room, but I instantly realized that he was passed out, as my eyes found empty beer cans sleeping beside him and around him.

"It's not like this every night," she whispered, "he just has trouble with certain months."

Thora tucks her toes when standing in place. When we were walking up stairs, I knew she would be embarrassed if I looked at her toes, so I kept my eyes on the second floor. I don't understand why she feels this way, though. She has very nice feet, and that's coming from someone who thinks feet are gross.

We walked past punched in doors adjacent to perfect picture frames. Her mother was a beautiful woman.

As we approached Thora's sticker-clad door, she turned to me and whispered, "You're about to enter the only place in the world I feel safe. So, please don't break my heart in it and please use a coaster."

My thumb kissed her smooth burn, as I took my first steps into her bedroom. The light-switch flicked and her room illuminated. There were movie posters hugging the walls, pinned to a bulletin board were pictures of lost people and found memories. She looked at me and whispered, "I don't know how to keep people."

We stood before the side of her bed and I looked at her smile, "You sure you want to do this?" Thora nodded and I reached towards her thighs to lift the bottom of her shirt. Lifting it over her head, I looked at her porcelain figure clad in black *******. I tossed the grey shirt onto her bed.

My eyes swam from her belly button to her *******. My fingers approached and stopped until she said it was okay. Tracing her curves, scars, and stretch marks, she pet my fingers. Thora glanced at my hands on her ******* and then at me, cooing, "I'm sorry."

My hands slid to her sides, "Sorry for what?"

She shrugged, "I don't know," her eyes spilling, "Sorry for this," she motioned at her torso as she stared at her bulletin board and then at me before looking away again, "I want to be perfect. I want to be perfect for you."

"Oh no, no, no," I asked for her hand and then placed it over my left breast, "Can't you feel how beautiful you are?"




Her arm was under my ******* and her hand was on my rib, occasionally running her fingertips across the bumps. She slept with her leg wrapped around mine, staying as close as she could to me. I looked at her, in her slumber, and left a faint, burgundy stain on her forehead. I reached towards our shins and pulled the black cover over our fused bodies.

I feel like I have been in a coma for seventeen years and I've just woken up. If I could, I'd stretch this moment over centuries and use it to smother wars. This relationship probably won't last past my senior year, but that's okay. It truly is.

In this moment, Thora Nelson is the love of my life, and, in ways I don't understand yet, that is the most beautiful thing in the world.



May the sun set in our eyes forever,


Margot Dylan

The rumbling motorcycle pulled in
The Cowboy entered the luncheonette
And Doctor Boss was sitting there waiting
They licked their lips, shook hands and that was it
This is the Legend of The Cowboy and Doctor Boss
Two stones untouched by complacent moss
Together they made a deal
His satin suit and His Cuban heeled boots
This is how it began

Doctor Boss was a respected physician
Shaved, shampooed and conditioned
Wore a stethoscope, had tongue depressors in jars
The Doctor had a gold tooth and fancy cars
But he was crooked as the day was long
Had no regards for right and wrong
Just as long as he was making a buck
He had connections to the cartel down in Mexico
And they lined his pockets with rising dough

Back in 1955 he was peddling dope in med school
Made the junkies line up and the women drool
Until he was challenged to a switchblade duel
Got his right ring finger sliced off and throw into a pool
He turned around and killed that man
Slashed him in the face and punctured his gut
He packed his trunk and headed north and ran
Darted toward the Jersey Horizon
On the way he picked up gun and a phony medical license

You would think a ****** would weigh on a man’s conscience
But not the Doc his mind was on motel options
He got a room and went to a local hole in the wall
A smoky, run down biker bar
“Dewar’s and water” said a pretty little thing
Boss looked at her, downed his drink and suffered whiskey sting
“Hey there beautiful, what’s your name?” “Lillian” she said
“What’s yours?” “Well, Lillian that’s not important but I’ll tell you what is”
“I got a motel room all to myself and I need some company”

Paper thin walls and a moaning women
The mattress squeaks as the vacancy signs flashing
The next morning Lillian awoke
Just to see The Boss had hit the road
She got dressed and went on her way
The motel bill remained unpaid
She wished he would have stayed awhile
But he was miles away by then
And starting a new life
This was the origin of Doctor boss
Wayward bound and identity lost
How a boy became a man
From check ups to drug trafficking now
This is how it all began

Now The Cowboy thought life was a game
A wild child that wouldn’t be tamed
He lived his life against the grain
Behind his aviators was repressed pain
He never knew his dear old dad
And his mother, run over by a drunken cab
Broken home launching pad
The kid went mad and hopped on his bike
He began his quest to quench his thirst for an exciting life

He raced and robbed from Cali to Michigan
He broke every law from Dallas to Vermont and back again
Until the day when he wasn’t fast enough
They tackled him down and put him in cuffs
He was charged and sentenced to five years in Cook County
An extensive criminal record by the age of twenty
But as soon as he was behind bars he busted out before anyone knew
Off to continue his life of debauchery
Of freedom and existential ecstasy

He was an escaped convict with a bounty on his head
The warden of Cook County didn’t want him alive but dead
But The Cowboy went on his merry way, making deals and getting laid
Getting ******, kicking *** and taking names
He was just looking for a good time
He was searching for a new trail to ride
All he wanted to do was live
Do everything in the world there was to do
To him every day brought something new

On a faithful day, The Cowboy came to Hacketts
The city where Doctor Boss opened up his practice
The tired traveler went to go get drunk
Over in the corner of the bar he was slumped
The Doc strolled in and everyone paid their respects
But there was something The Cowboy didn’t get
“Why are they kissing the ring of this nine fingered quack?”
He pulled out a knife on The Doc and a bottle went smash!
Over the poor Cowboy’s head and he blacked out

“Now, son I know that’s not how you say hello”
“And you seem to be a nice young fellow”
“So how bout I cut you a break”
“And we’ll go over to my office and I’ll clean up these scrapes”
The Cowboy agreed and got to his feet
They walked to Boss’s office just down the street
And The Doc sewed up his head
“Say, boy where you from I never seen you around here”
“It doesn’t matter you three piece suite wearing queer”

Doctor Boss chucked then pushed The Cowboy down by the throat
Pulled out his gun ,“I can **** you now but I won’t”
“No, you’re gonna do me a favor you little ****”
The Cowboy couldn’t breathe but Boss wouldn’t quit
“I got a package that needs to go to Georgia”
“If you take it there , they’ll be four grand waiting here for ya”
Now how could The Cowboy resist such an adventure?
Not to mention the grip Doctor Boss had on his Adam’s apple
He let him go and began to cackle

“Now around here, I run things”
“I’m free to do as I please”
The Cowboy was amazed at this man, he was right
He owned a gun and  got involved in a bar fight
Could this man be in the mob?
“Boy, you can call me Doctor Boss”
“Well Doc, they call me The Cowboy”
“So tell me, where am I going?

Doc Boss loaded up The Cowboy’s bike
With Mexican white powdered dynamite
“Now that’s four kilos, you got there”
“You get the money and bring it back here”
“You got it Boss, I’ll be back by Tuesday night”
And off went The Cowboy out of sight
The Doc new he could trust him
He had that look in his eye the he did those years ago
The one when you yearn to search for the unknown

This was the origin of The Cowboy and Doctor Boss
They paid no attention to consequence or cost
They saw themselves in each other
Just trying to reach one height after another
Cowboy respected a man so free
And Boss saw his prodigy
Together they became filthy rich
They shook hands and that was it

Do not wash my hair
dress me up
or close my eyes
I am what I am
a husk, a shell discarded
and turning up at my own funeral in a bow tie
all shampooed and combed hair
with my eyes shut as if napping through it all
would never be my idea of acceptable.

Our cafe speaks in vowels and screams in consonants.
Hipsters sing asexual love music, or goodbyes
They claim the sun hurts their eyes

    And so, if chemistry's wet, shampooed hair
Breaks the cold, white-white windows
Musicians slam as if they know-know-know,
and know-it-all, up there, playing their songs.

    Old "Steward", highly-paid employee, on break
for a drink--says, "In the 30s we got none,
needed none."
He wants to mend the windows, send them home,
and get back to work.
But he is caught in sweltering heat

    Their heat.
rosing on every person's cheek
when they turn their heads,

    and observe chemical ties.
These mates speak better syllables

Transferring action lit by dim candlelight
Forming sentences by the wind
A tall tale underneath painted purple bed sheets
Mysteries of life and the gatekeeper's lazy hand

A transference of love through the page
Bringing images by words and meter
Peter tempting Gabriel two times or more
Contracts ripped in half by two lover's quarrel

Necessary are these hours
Staring far into the stars
Nodding not into sleep, for
That
Is too easy

I nod for the scent of freshly shampooed wet hair
Or the glance of the eye downward from shyness
A tell that all is not stable, though both are quite able
To take what they will if they wanted if they could

An annoyance
Like the ***** of a finger on a rose petal
Ironic
Like stubbing one's toe
On your recently bought golden toilet bowl

Fresh are you, fruit of the Mid west
The snow in your hair never melts
Consequence beseeches you, fair angel
My heart is but a spool of yarn, fallen and tangled

Quick, in first gear
To the rear go the spears
Holy water pipes and
Misinformed volcanoes are but a wish
To see destruction
On what we familial souls
Claiming belief in what we love

What does one need other then
A room with a key and lock?
These men and women who flock
To shiny office and cloud piercing cathedrals
Are mere coffins ***** and metal

Lost in flight
Reaching for a moon that does not wish
To house us

Another night passes.
The dawn is quick to rise.
Mornings moon disappears
From sight behind the trees
And the marble fountain made
For the phantom of petty monarchy.

And though the phrase
Is spoken in a nightingales song
Does not mean that a razor doth hide
Underneath the tip of the
Very same tongue

ten minutes to write.

score the music,

melancholic
the repetitive phrase,
but
I refuse it.

instead I bathtub splash
hard soft rockin' roll,
the boon dog now soaking,
quizzes my sanity
what does he know?

Score the life times.

five minutes to write.
trite crumpled,
hook-shot into the trash,
but trite costly,
one minute of a lifetime,
scared, sacred, but scored by
ruts, grooves, ex personas in my life,
the black markers of my insane
pushed under the water,
drowned by music.

One minute to write.

Poem:
a good start to the day,
please pass the soap,
shampooed the trash out of my life,
the rest, now to start.

Your reader quakes like a ready reactor
Steady burn an incalculable factor
On your mark, we approach the next chapter

A quiet pen, without ambition
Keeps each plan from happy fruition
And pressure mounts, some new type of fission

Carve yourself out a space in time
Mark it well so it’s easy to find
History don’t repeat, but rhymes:

Solicitudes concede to style
Somebody just filed suit for libel
One more murmur to add to the pile

To be a made man is to be man-made
And so you dull your colors down a shade
The arsonists took over the fire brigade

Step outside of your burning home
Pavement stand, dial your phone
Ask whomever if We are Rome

The receiver will no doubt laugh a little
That is, if she caught the preceding riddle
Somewhere Nero bows the fiddle

Tell me something, if you please
About the world pregnant virgins see
Oblivious to a state emergency

A noble fourth, our D’Artangan
Has the sharpened instinct of a jealous man
Oh, you know him? And you’re a fan?

He’s wants a girl who drinks whisky and gin
Musket holstered, what a sin
Somebody asks, “What shape’s he in?”

One assumes he’s kind of tame
A lion, yes, but with a shampooed mane
He don’t play *****, but he plays the game

Shoes on, button up, wipe your glasses
Time to shake up contented masses
Donde hay educación, no hay distinción de clases

For the longest time
I did everything by myself.
Only dividing myself by one.

Before us,
I would hear only but the rustling of leaves
against my heel.

I never thought of the word “Hello”
as a lightning rod before,
waiting for a spark.

Without you,
I only saw the gaps between my hands as just
empty spaces.

I believe we were always waiting to be added.
X’s looking to be found.
One thing leading to another.

When I was just one,
enough was always just enough.
I never saw the sky as something the sun swallowed.

I never saw dead-ends
as a place to find each other.
But a gathering for the lost.

When we collided
We were everything at once.
Multiplying what we both had.

We would step upon the autumn leaves
and bring about igniting cannon *****
brushing against our soles.

We were a sun shower
Clear enough to see but
ravenous amongst the painted orange clouds.

I never knew my hands could be filled
with your shampooed hair
against the thicket of my palms

After our showers we heard waterfalls
Before it was just water against my skin
falling into place

Before our silence
I heard our hearts beating.

During everything
I learned nothing.

Along the way,
I was complete.

articles like this really **** me off...
my father is a subscriber to The Times...
personally? i think that Monday ought to be treated
at a media / journalistic sabbath...
nothing ever happens on a Sunday:
what's there to write about on a Monday:
for a Monday... all the newspaper editions
are always the slimmest on a Monday...
it's like... take a hike, won't you?
the best day to read a newspaper, most definitely
a Sunday... it comes with all the cultural reviews
some recipes... a culmination of a week
or even a month... the news review and
the editorial comment sections are best on
a Sunday... why not print anything on a Monday?!
- and it's always on a Sunday that
i find all the juicy bits... the one day in the week
but the current month... bad timing...
either i watch the FA cup / the six nations
or i read a newspaper / the newspaper magazine
while drinking two bottles of 8.2% cider....
well, sure... with beer when you raise the game
to Carlsberg's Special ******* Brew that
comes in at 9%: it's an ugly affair... you start
squirming asking yourself: are you *******
a lemon?! but "alas"... it's cider... so it's almost like
drinking ****-poor diluted wine...
but it makes some agonising articles:
mostly written by women... a tad bit... more...
bearable...
         mainstream media is out of touch...
someone has already said it, someone is already
saying it: someone else will say it later on...
oh i'm big on the female-centric pieces of
the newspaper: forget all that objective journalism,
cold, hard, male: give me the facts and... *******...
no no... as a reader i'm also a weaver...
i like to spin a counter narrative in my head...
The Sunday Times STYLE magazine...
   Dolly Alderton speaks to a rising star in
pop music... a Self Esteem - formerly known
as Rebecca Lucy Taylor... oh, right...
so like Prince... or Michael Jackson:
the guy formerly known to be black? cool cool...
you can check her out...
music sort of akin to spoken word poetry:
whatever the hell that means... no, not Kate Tempest
style... again: spoken word poetry?
oh, right, i'm more into composition than
performance so this is: written word poetry...
fair enough...
   i'll sooner be found dead than performing my word
in the current climate... 'said a poopy word!
cancel him!' no thank you,
i still have a head ******* on this neck
on these shoulders... i'll wait for the jazz to calm
the **** down... i'll probably be an irrelevant
relic by then, hopefully mummified like
Lenin... you never know...
hmm... Rotherham-born... 35...
and what are the chances that...
you know... Rotherham... Pakistani grooming-gangs...
only yesterday my company employed
20+ Pakistani zombies that probably sprouted
out of cousin-on-cousin *******...
dull... zoned-out... glassy eyed *****...
what are the chances?
they looked... well... less sinister more murky...
slimy...no... not slim i.e. slimmy... slime-e...
slimey... i know, it should be written slimey
and not slimy... which sort of implies slimmy: slimming...
no no... so of how you'd write: smiley...
slimey... makes sense...
i'll just verbatim the headline...
(she really looks like a Marilyn Monroe doppelganger,
voluptuous, vivacious, all the required va va voom
of a woman)
   MEN ARE REALLY SCARED OF ME...
last time i checked... there's this ****** proverb
that states... fear has large eyes...
guess what... only yesterday i saw those large eyes
of fear when the four of us were outnumbered
by about 30+ screaming chanting taunting drunk
teenagers / football hooligans at a match...
i must have been squinting or something...
in this profession (of stewarding) i hear a lot of macho
bravado about smacking some...
very much aligned to the narrative borrowed
from the film: Rise of the Foot Soldier...
Essex gangland... blah blah br'uh...
                                       o.k. we get it: you have an erecticle
dysfunction, need to compensate by going
to the gym to increase your muscle mass...
modern films... hell...
they used to be great... up to the point where
they made it adamant that they were also
advertisement flicks... zooming in on products...
worn by characters in a no-plot scenario...
usually watches, electronic products...
food brands, restaurants...
it's like capitalism selling itself to capitalism...
what a hyper-inflated word...
which word? capitalism... i mean... i was born
in a former Soviet satellite state...
n'ah... it wasn't so bad... "my" people sort
of went along with the Russian influence:
when the art of metallurgy was still in "fashion"
in Eastern Europe, but it's not like we took
the Bolsheviks that much seriously than "we" did
the Nazis... after all: funny fact:
it took **** Germany AND Soviet Russian
to conquer Poland than it took **** Germany
to conquer France... Napoleon must have been
turning in his grave...
    i don't think men are scared of women...
personally i like to think of them as timid little
creatures that... OVER-ESTIMATE
their worth, confidence,
                              looks, worth...
                availability... as a man that knows how
to cook, as a man that does all the house chores...
and all the man *******...
oh, right, today... one of my cats did a ****-poor
job at taking a ****...
she managed to plough out two blobs from the "cuvette"
and leave them sitting pretty on
the matt beside the "cuvette"...  
   yes yes, i know, it's a misnomer... read some Wittgenstein...
i'm thinking in ****** while writing in
English... the word is originally French...
blah blah... i lied to little Freddy / Reinhart about
the origins of the word haemorrhage -
one of the words for his school spelling exams...
i said: oh... that's Latin... i'm kicking myself
over the etymological falsity i passed down on to him...
yes: it's Greek...
from HAIMA - blood (noun) &
                         RHEGNUNAI - burst (verb)...
so then i lifted her up and sniffer her...
oh jeez! Louise! **** this ****... i'm not having some
stinking cat walking about my house...
meow meow... ******* horror movie meow...
well you should have taken a **** better!
scratching, a proper bite at the hand!
into the shower with you! washed her from all the
stink... petulant little **** of a cat that she
was she managed to come across as penitent
when i shampooed her and the water was running
down her spine... ha ha...
so much for a maine ****... more like a rat now...
wrapped her up in a blanket put her
on my lap and watched about 20 minutes
of Liverpool's struggle with Birmingham City in
the FA cup...
                  then ****** off on my bicycle for some
whiskey and turkey stakes for the cats to eat...
wait... didn't i once feed Quorus a fish eye,
while filleting a trout? oh yeah... i did...
that was fun to watch... i sometimes catch mosquitos
by the legs and feed them too...
- do men can possibly fear women?
plainly, on the outright? i very much doubt it,
like Bane said in that opening scene from
Christopher Nolan's Batman movie:
this is no time for fear, doctor... that comes later...
how women have churned out a complete
lack of perception misguiding initial attraction
for fear... it's like they have no clue about how
men behave... when they're attracted
to women... "unconscious" curiosity is not
a fear... a woman is still somewhat abstract...
hell: to me she's forever an abstract...
i don't have the practicality of a man that might
gamble, take the plunge...
impregnate one...             last time i heard
it was considered a bad idea for a man to be
present at child-birth... women should take care
of women's "issues"...
ooh... i'm scared of a woman
but not a ******* tiger? logic paradox...
i'm scared of a puddle but not the raging sea!
how did women conjure up this
invulnerability? too many boy bands in the 90s...
too many male feminists?!
- and then the Sarah Everard ******...
men are scared of women... BOMBAST egoism...
no, not scared... just a case of men
scrutinising: is this going to be worthy?
tying the knot... getting up at 5am, coming back
home at 8am and getting nothing
5 pieces of sushi to eat... the house in a turmoil,
the kids growing up feral...
is it... worth merely the looks?!
the looks, right now? i mean... she's going to
be a ******* granny in about 20 years
if she's already a single mum aged 39...
is it going to be worth it?
or... if she's in her 20s... what's her boredom
spectrum, does she need to be on a ferris-wheel
all the ******* time or can she take an hour
of reading beside a fireplace and the deafening silence...
can she handle Mistress Death?
has she been to a funeral? has one of her grandparents
died?!
right...                    yeah.... scared of a woman
because of her good looks...
                scared akin to: what are the chances
she's going to go on a cosmopolitan safari
of **** given the current influx of black walking
****** of migrants on dingy boats...
what are the chances of her becoming a liability
rather than a partner?!

- - - - - - interlude - - - - - - -

****, where was i? oh man, i really love listening
to garbage... no, not literally...
the band... stupid girl, i'm only happy when it rains,
#1 crush, dog new tricks...
i never thought i'd find a recipe for
pasta and smoked salmon... lucky me...
so ******* simple... onion, sour cream,
some tomato(s), two tablespoons of capers,
lemon juice... pepper... chilly flakes...
preferably the Korean ones that also act like
turmeric - i.e. they colour the food...
smoked salmon added at the last minute...
some slices reserved for garnish to make
the dish look more appealing... and obviously
dill... to be honest: a lot of dill...
what did i watch? Beijing Winter Olympics...
why are they so racist?! joke... seriously
that's a joke... why are, why oh, oh my god why
are the winter olympics so racist?!
no winters in Africa?! maybe?!
no ******* snow... what are they going to
do... surfing on the dunes of Sahara?!
ha ha... it's untouchable! i love it!
but what i don't love... why didn't all the countries
simply, outright, boycott Ch-ch-ch-I-n'ah?!
why indulge them as if nothing *******
happened for the past 2 years...
i mean... the Soviets were boycotted back
in the day when people had... ***** for brains
and brains for *****... but these days?
even the **** are ******* labradors lapping up
any attention going their way... ******* silly *****...

plus, the Olympics per se...
there was always equality when it came to sports...
not popular sports like rugby,
football or boxing, i give you that...
sports for rich men and silly little ***** to drool
over status...
but real sports... unattractive sports,
unpopular sports...
we're not going to have a pay gap debate
when it comes to professional tennis...
women only have to play a maximum of 3 sets...
men? 5 sets... how long did that Australia Open
final take, to get finished? close to 6 hours?
right...
     what wage gap?
well, at least in the Olympics a man has
to run a marathon... a woman runs what? half of it?
no no... ***** is running the ******* marathon...
hundred metres? she's running the hundred metres...
obviously she's going to be slower...
that's not my problem... but even saying that...
i enjoy female tennis more than the men's...
i don't know... they moan more?!
or perhaps my generation, the millennials
produced 2 of the 3 greatest players in: whenever...
so... maybe it just a got a bit ******* boring...

oh, but i'll be boycotting the current Olympic
games in Beijing... it's not progressive enough,
there are not enough... what's that ******* acronym...
B.C.I.W. - black, coloured, indigenous, women...
i don't know what the state of the current
alphabet soup of acronyms from H'america is at...
****! **** ****! pump snow to Africa!
get some ice! let's get a bobsleigh team going!
******* Wankees and their currency
of current rotten ideas!

ha ha: it's already served to me on a silver platter...
all i have to do is drink a little and stew and spew...

sure, it's only going to be a soft boycott,
i just watch those games,
pointless... thanks for the pandemic,
no thank you, otherwise...
i sort of feel sorry for the athletes being so compliant
with the narrative...

oi! Ummah! where's you suicide squad from
Saudi Arabia's elite breaking into
the concentration camps where
the Uyghurs are being sentenced to unspeakable
horrors? oh sure... attack the West while
seeking proselytes, but don't care about
your existing Muslim community...
i see a third breaking apart of Islam...
i don't know why i see it... but this will not be
along the lines of the Sunni and Shiah...
this might actually involve the Turks...
i see the Turks as a third, separate,
branch of Islam: even if they're not already that,
where are your little ****-pants blow-themselves-up
rather than fight, fighting for your Ummah
in Ch-ch-ch-I-n'ah?!
                                   oh right, nowhere to be found...
too busy kiddy-fiddling English girls
in Rotherham!
      ******* degenerates!
i'm fuming at the teeth: and they have the *******
audacity to lecture me about, principle?
racists too... they think very little of the Chinese...
as Muslims... the "master religion"
the "master race"... ******* camel-jockeys...
the whole entire rest of them!

- the temperature in the house dropped to 17 degrees...
ooh, a bit chilly... wrote my father's invoice,
took out the garbage, ****... forgot to take out
the dwindling yellow tulips, will do, next week...
received an email that i passed my NVQ for role
as steward... well great... pressed play on
the thermostat... waited as i did all of that...
oh my my... it's getting hot... ran up to my bedroom
to turn it off... it read... 18 degrees...
wow! wow! imagine what one degrees Celsius makes...
i never thought... well: i never thought that
could be possible...

- - - - - - - - end of interlude - - - - - - - - - - -

i must have finished writing about the previous
article, since, i took time for an interlude of...
what was already stated...
                           this second article... i have to begin
with a rubric, oh yeah, it's sourced:
   ONS, UN, relate.org...

rubric, i.e. a list and it's as follows (leaving the approximation
words aside):
1. 1 in 7 people in the UK living alone by 2039
1. 61% of single women say they are single-happy
  compared with 49% of men
            (men, if they lie, are good at it,
   good enough to become serial killers;
    but women? they are compulsive,
which does't necessarily translate as them being
                       good at it; they're usually not -
they're spastic-fantastic sort of clumsy, at it)
3. 1 in 6 of British people believe in the concept
   of "the one"...
4. 10% of Brits enjoy the **** to the ****
with the chicken; 13% in the wake of the fine fine
MADE IN CHINA whatever-it-was don't
feel ready for intimacy...

               oh sure... the hypochondriacs have
finally been found... i was wondering why they /
where they disappeared to... but now they're in plain
sight... with their secular makeshift niqqabs...
i like this transparency... it's good for an apparent
"schizophrenic" to start to feel more comfortable
in his skin... then again: thank you China...
i can now clearly see the neurotics and the hypochondriacs...
the little people on the spectrum of the asylum...
no... the micro-aggression crowd...
no... not the raving lunatics...
the cult of the moon crowd...
the ones speaking to their shadows... taking
selfies of their shadows... haunting graveyard type
of crowd... thank you... i can see the mice...

5. 25% think they are out of bedroom practice, antics...
well, d'uh... 8% are more open to same-*** relationships...

  yeah, i was thinking that... maybe it would be easier
dating a man... but he'd have to be Greek...
and be learned in... classical thought from ancient
times when pederasts where accepted
like modern Pakistan freely welcomes paedophiles
as long as they do it to English girls... that sort of, "thing"...

i abhor the western concept of dating...
i might have been on a date once...
yeah... i was on a date once...
we went to an art gallery,
to the cinema, to a restaurant...
then we started dating, we were in high school...

after that? i was already ******* her
when she asked me to take her to a sea-food restaurant
for clams, oysters and mussels...

dating... oh, right... that one speed-dating event
that made me look like an ***...
dating... is that like... the Chelsea flower show?
you know... where you go to see flowers
but can't pluck any for a bouquette
to take home? it must be like that...
i wouldn't know... ****** off to the brothel
early... found a stone in the shape of a heart
on the pavement once...
called it my own... never looked back...

   just to make sure... i treat oath words very much
akin to superlatives - i know they're not superlatives,
but in the sense of keeping a modern
narrative... they're pretty much akin to being
treated as such, as, i dare say,
punctuation marks without actually being punctuation
markers... they allow for a flow of ideas,
for a flow of a narrative...

cuntish ******* filth if you ask me:
but i do wash my teeth on a regular basis
and i do eat healthily...

6. 1 in 10 Brits is burned-out by dating...
   & dating apps...
                                       don't know... never used
any... i'm still archaic in that i still have
a Facebook account...

7. 71% of men feel a pressure to be in relationships
compared to 58% of women...

as the list goes on... am i, supposed to feel, surprised?!

8. a 16% increase in those living alone...
9. 1 in 6 between the ages of 45 & 64 live alone
10. 48% of "singletons" (women) feel a pressure
to find a partner based off of their social
relationships... men work, together...
******* socialising... ******* with the banter...
the chit-chat... what are we doing,
where are we doing it, how long will it take?
base... women do all that private revelry *******...

11. women are more likely so say that a relationship
is unsatisfactory...  
              well... yeah... look sharp, Sherlock!
Watson's coming! ******* plonkers for plumbers!

12. there are three other facts, but they are
citing **** without numbers...
so... i'm not going to bother... based on feels...   yawn...
it's much easier to just recite lyrics from
the Garbage song: Stupid Girl...
you pretend you're high,
you're pretend you're bored,
pretend you're everything,
just to be adored...
and what you need, is what you get...
don't believe in fear...
don't believe in faith,
don't believe in anything,
that, you can't break...
stupid girl... stupid girl..
all you've had you've wasted...

oh, my god, is it my job to warn them off?!
HE will ask: and how ws your life...
i've lived with cats enough time to know:
and HE will ask... never mind: it be be a SHE...
and IT will ask... and ask... are you
awake... as if... implying: do you think you're dead?!

the rest of the article...
the pinnacles of female freedom...
i'm not going to cite them they're disgusting....
she goes through *******
cosmic concepts and premonitions that
are less grounded in the sands of Arabia
by a horses' hoof than a camel "toe"...

these wankers want to come up north and
dictate the ******* rules...
dictate this... change my ******* mind!
******* plop of a soppy **** that you..
quasi-***** seem to be...
kiddy-fiddlers... you soppy losers...
cousin-*******... camel-jockeys...
weak... quasi-men...
men... sort of...

          i'm not going to go through her article...
she's a sorry *** loser
by the standards expected of men...
no sorry... kind ***...
men band together....
  all as one... or none: to begin with!
and you women, think,  "think"...
you can somehow infiltrate our ranks...
what? you gonna bake me a bannana loaf
worth of loaf..
with all the pecan / walnut "trimmings"...
girl... you're having a ******* laugh...

i'm not reading through this *******...
you want me to bite someone's neck?
no one has yet seen how feral i can could become...
at the job...  i could just roll my eyes back
declaring nothing but sclera...
again: why are women even involved
in this sort of *******?!
why?! are?! you? *******!! here!! ypu,
******* useless, *****?!

i'm here to pick up a fight...
but here you are, pretending to be
a ******* grandma... and that's your excuse...
*****, i hope you get your head sorted,
get punched.... silly ******* cucnt...
oh right... my excuse among the football
hooligans... i'm i woman!
don't touch me! i'n your sister, your mother...
this **** is going to boil...
you tell me that ****, one, more,
******* time... i'm going to 'ed in yurr
******* grandm'ah...!
i know these *****... women are playing
a tight game...

esp. when you... ***** yourselves......
Rotherham didn't ******* help...
you ******* cheap **** ******...
i keep tight, silent, because...
i've been to brothels... but this ****...
i'm not even English... this... sort of hurts...
it, can't be, allowed, an outlet,
via... football, matches...
no, mate, no!

   your sister has been suckered into *******
this... sickle- cell anemia sort of *****
from Pakistan...
oh don't worry about theit race...
they don't have a skin tone...
their skin tone... if any:
cant's miss 'em... slimey *****...
olive oil slimey...
in-bred looking *****... *****-eyeds...
sorry... some people just look
******* clueless! period!
like they're out of "the game"...
they're gone... they're meat for the machinery!
the end! sorry... stop sopping:
no one's special!
weird like... Frankenstein looking
at the monster he created... seriously?!
i, made... that? oh, **** me...
better **** it... but wait...
oh... a chance he might transcendent me...
no... not with these kiddy-fidddling Pakistanis...
chances are... the ******* 4 seasons on
the continent of Antacrtica!

treble toned voice
inching closer as black-and-white men delve into mysterious plots
a paint-stained flannel rests easy on the cold floor
there's only time now for cheap beer and jutting eye contact
hair shampooed so freshly and genuine laughter
so familiar and so brand new

Slowsong
turns on and it's jazzy and reluctant
and her hips belong where my rough palms sweat.
A graceful ****** of the evening's closest
company and sparkling stars
and her and I pull deep into each other.

Swaying to and back and Coltrane and an ashtray of sadness
when I get back to the room. Zipper down the waist
while her leisure stagnantly becomes mine.
Covers are her cold guide and tepid flesh is mine.  
Sincere nakedness and hospitable skin
and the hotel has a damp aroma,
we embraced with the room
and the sheets
and slept.

Shampooed hair with floral trace
but I can't keep the lids of my eyes down
a white ceiling and the draw of a life
so immediate whispers for me to stay present.

Don't escape by giving in
or to be a guide to a girl
and road and route that has the
same signs as a love past. The dotted dome
of the plaster Holiday Inn roof
beckons and urges
and leaks into a bygone brunette
and I wish that one, Sarah,
was as present,
awake.

Though we look the same,
we are torn
by miles of ocean,
more of pain.

In a rare respite from terror,
my dreams escape
this squalor,
this harsh reality,
and I ...

become you,
clean, clothed, cool;
shampooed head asleep
on plush cotton pillows;

charcoal skin caressed
by pajamas silky smooth.

Come dawn…

‘Which suit to wear?'
becomes my worst worry;

‘Being late for work,'
my worst fear.

O, to be free!

Perhaps someday
you'll think of me,
or send me a note
to spark a smile of hope
on my pubescent face,
two decades aged by hunger and disease.

Though we look the same,
we are torn
by miles of ocean,
more of pain.

~ P

“Please…P-Please.”
She whimpered against my neck
as I pressed it against her lips.
“What my love, what is it I can give you?”
My control was waning
as I unbuttoned her shirt,
exposing her ******* to the chill air.
They were ripe for me
I could almost feel them
grow under my hands.

“Please…”

she stammered again.

“Don’t do this, you don’t have to.”

These pleas were only superficial
I knew,
but I understood that she accepted
her fate.
The look was one of surprise
on my face
as I slid my hands slowly down to her jeans.
I let the question go unanswered
as I unbuttoned them.
I pulled the zip down.

“PLEASE!”

she screamed,
the saliva choking
as she pleaded.
The tears ran heavy
down her cheeks.

I couldn’t help but kiss her trembling mouth,
or to taste to salt of her tears.
A low laugh escaped from me
as I buried my face in her curls.
I inhaled deeply
letting the scent of her
shampooed hair overwhelm me.
“I can’t stop my love.
I’ve been waiting so long.
You’re my chosen one.”

Her whimpering became sobs,
uneven and lovely,
as I pulled down her jeans
leaving only her nakedness
between
her and I.

Then it was my turn.
Her eyes never left me
as I pulled my woolen sweater
over my head,
or even when I let my own jeans fall
to the carpeted floor.
Again I sat atop her,
hovering
for a moment
looking in her fear stricken eyes.

Those dark inhuman eyes.

First I let my lips enclose hers.
And though they were unwilling,
I could sense a trace of resignation
in her rebellion.

She was breaking.

“No, no my love.”
I grasped her in the palm of my hand
and her gasp, her open mouth;

I took slowly,

gently tasting still that cigarette
on her tongue.

“Please.”

she muttered.*
But again a stronger sense of her resignation
sounded
and when I let my fingers slide
in her
I knew she had given up.

She was mine, utterly.

I slid in her then,
knowing that she would be fully ready to submit to me.

I was never rough;
I was as death was intended to be,
natural and peaceful.
In and out,
in and out,
like breathing,
until her muffled sobs became sinuous
against my ear.
In and out,
slow and never rushed.
Her arched back
her fluttered eyes
all signs that it was almost time.

The waiting was almost painful
as I burst within her
sending death throughout her limbs,

watching the life escape
and rise slowly from her
until she lay limp on the bed.

Her soul,
her life,
lingered a moment longer
before I reached out
and sent it up towards what lay beyond.

“My love.”

I whispered against her deaf ears.

“My sweet love.”

I dressed her again
and left her outside with the other bodies.
Yet she I left farther apart.
Watching as the snow covered her
until she was only a mound of white.
Already buried in a grave
by nature.

You taste like miscarriage
Back pain is free hugging
It's never been so clear how the walls are white
This room has two mirrors
None of them talks about medications

Your nose seems to know how kindle to the eyes the air is
It tastes like green chili
Or an itch on the back of your neck
You haven't shampooed in months
Stirred stomach

Maybe that is how she talks about the abortion
You hand me two roses
They have never had thorns
Last night I was throwing up tulips
Throat sour like some smile

Your tongue tastes like daddy
Lifted from chest
It was a surgery
You wish it had failed
They found Jesus instead

It is not chest pain
It is just enough that it tastes like pickled her
Bring the jar to you
I'll bring the jar to you
It is blended with your scalp and last Saturday's meal

It has never been so clear why the floor is white
This room has two lamps
None of them knows who Maryjane is
As we are so white as the pipes
I am going to the bathroom

Tomorrow you'll be fine
Just not today
Just keep holding on for tonight
Just repeat this day after day
Tomorrow you'll be fine

Bathroom in the dark
Reading the news of the day
Wife comes to shower

Begins to undress
Shirt, pajamas, ******* off
I love her **** form

Hot  water on, steam
Mirror fogs, bath gel applied
Tan long legs shaved smooth

I love to watch her
Armpits done, hair shampooed  clean
Conditioner on

Hand her a towel
Naked body so close by
You know I will try

My hand slides under
Towel, hand brushes ******
Naughty smile, later

Walks away with grin
Cute round cheeks, cannot pass up
Quick squeeze more ahead

Frustrated, for now
Watch, *******, socks, pants,bra, shirt
Put on despite me

Beautiful package
Wrapped up for later on tonight
Promises of bliss

In localized settlements
All things are free
From sunrise to sunset
I'll only be me
I can only react
At the level I'm at
I can only unfurl
One world, inside

It died. I'm sorry I've been such a wreck
It's different colors--
What a mess
It's dissonance, it's beautiful
But no it's not,
It's selfish.

There were things I did the whole time
I was alive, I'm sorry I'm
Alive. I thought I said the whole time
That I'm a ray of sunshine.
No shadow swallowed me up,
But I think I may have caused some.
I'll be here waiting when you're done.
I know I'm not the only one.

In each of our corners
Nothing is fair
She conditions the layers
Of her hair
Sordid and ***** for the sad ones,
Shampooed and clean,
I guess it's love

There were things I did, yeah sometimes, I'm sorry I'm
Alive. Just figure it out in real time
Stuck between rays of sunshine
And shadows, they'll swallow you up
And no one's home was ever enough
To blot out the truth
Like we all try to do
By holding out our thumbs.

There are times when I hate my whole vibe.
I'll Just figure it out for next time
But the doors might be closing
And I think I might
Just sputter out...

Living social amidst
crime infested urban jungle
bumping uglies cheek to jowl
analogous fate being housed in jail
escape room of great outdoors
spurred subject matter in question
to journey to hinterlands
far from madding crowd
of Fort Lauderdale
woodsman ever watchful for Centaur

the body and legs of a horse
and with the head,
arms, and torso of a male
equipped with crossbow as scare tactic
shaft piercing flesh
no worse than nine inch nail
vehemently decried nasty,
short and brutish beastie boys
Greek mythological character
come to earth as animal savior
considered louts unfairly advantageous

killing wildlife as deal breaker
for uber twittering overscale
trespassers slaying innocent creature
no matter game good n plenti
eco consciousness mindedness
prompted inner conflict to prevail
as ace archer held taut
likened to nock fletched arrow in quiver
or shaking dandering quail
caught in carnivorous crosshairs,

where hunter doth regale
and remember to embellish maxim
one bird in the hand
worth two in the bush
opportunistically praises quarry
as divine intervention
after heavens he did intently surveil
Brief Mane n' Tail
shampoo tall (tell) tale
as Jonah felt when he got
swallowed by a whale.

Once upon a time
in a previous life of course,
anonymous wordsmith tour de force
yours truly (me)
remembers being a horse,
the handsome fine companion
of one Norwegian bachelor farmer,
who lived near Lake Wobegon,
which Minnesota enclave
analogous to Old Norse

country, anyway while
subsequently reincarnated
as beast of burden animal
(said steed synonyms
courtesy Roget's Thesaurus),
with flowing and glistening mane
and tail cuz lovely and neighborly lass
regularly shampooed former and latter,
nevertheless, I escaped captivity
and found myself in a fate far worse.

In present incarnation
shackled (née yoked
like an oxen to a plow)
manned courtesy Piers Plowman
to husbandry duties
after pledging troth and wed
as generic bipedal hominid thoroughbred
**** sapiens punk rocker,
I plod and tread
along boulevard of broken dreams,

fast as greased lightning, I sped
but these spindleshanks
ain't quick enough,
now as an old enfeebled
gentleman well read
luscious brown locks
adorn noggin of me Mister Ned
existential crisis offset
washing hair (applying
Mane n' Tail shampoo

the only pride and joy)
a wishy washy talking head
until these lovely bones become dead,
which cremains of min
slated to get dispersed and scattered
to the four winds
where ashes will be absorbed
buzzfeeding courtesy Horse Chestnut
purpose driven life
covering, functioning, and incorporating
self analogous to bedspread.

I would rather
Stay indoors
Than get to know more people
Unless I could help
If they could help themselves
Stay outdoors
People know more
When they ask for the Earth
If we could lessen our usurious nature
We could take a lesson from nature
Nurture each other
Save others
While others
Rescue
Some squander
Once we plundered
Old men who shampooed their dogs
All they had was their daily routine
And so should we
I don't want any more than a normal life