Wash
         Away the memories of how
        We tangled together
        Like the perfect sailor’s knot
        An organized intricacy  
        Coalescing my jumpy nerves
        With your easy laughter
Rinse
        The weight of your fingers
         Imprinted on my scalp
         A heartbreaking muscle memory
        Fingers that once ran through my hair
        Run to another’s touch
Repeat
        *This sadistic cycle of erasure
         Hoping one day forgetting
         Won’t be a conscious thought
         That shower shall set me free.

Nuestras vidas son los ríos
que van a dar a la muerte
que es la vida
Tu muerte más bien divertida Merton
                            (¿o absurda como un koan?)
tu muerte marca General Electric
y el cadáver a USA en un avión del Army
          con el
humor tan tuyo te habrás reído
vos Merton ya sin cadáver muerto de risa
también yo
Los iniciados de Dionisos ponían hiedra...
            (yo no la conocía)
Hoy tecleo con alegría esta palabra muerte
Morir no es como el choque de un auto o
                                    como un cortocircuito
                      nos hemos ido muriendo toda la vida
Contenida en nuestra vida
              ¿como el gusano en la manzana? no
como el gusano sino
la madurez!
O como mangos en este verano de Solentiname
amarillando, esperando las
oropéndolas...
                  los hors d'oeuvres
nunca fueron en los restaurantes
como anunciados en las revistas
Ni el verso fue tan bueno como quisimos
o el beso.
Hemos deseado siempre más allá de lo deseado
Somos Somozas deseando más y más haciendas
              More More More
y no sólo más, también algo «diferente»
              Las bodas del deseo
el coito de la volición perfecta es el acto
de la muerte.
                    Andamos entre las cosas con el aire
de haber perdido un cartapacio
muy importante.

Subimos los ascensores y bajamos
Entramos a los supermercados, a las tiendas
como toda la gente, buscando un producto
trascendente.
                  Vivimos como en espera de una cita
Infinita. O
                que nos llame al teléfono
lo Inefable.
Y estamos solos
trigos inmortales que no mueren, estamos solos.
Soñamos en perezosas sobre cubierta
                  contemplando el mar color de daikirí
esperando que alguien pase y nos sonría
y diga Hello

No un sueño sino la lucidez.
          Vamos en medio del tráfico como sonámbulos
                          pasamos los semáforos
con los ojos abiertos y dormidos
paladeamos un manhattan como dormidos.
No el sueño
la lucidez es imagen de la muerte
                      de la iluminación, el resplandor
enceguecedor de la muerte.
Y no es el reino del Olvido. La memoria
              es secretaria del olvido.
                    Maneja en archivadoras el pasado.
Pero cuando no hay más futuro sino un presente fijo
todo lo vivido, revive, ya no como recuerdos
y se revela la realidad toda entera
en un flash.

La poesía era también un partir
como la muerte. Tenía
la tristeza de los trenes y los aviones que se van
                              Estacioncita de Brenes
                              en Cordobita la Llana
                                de noche pasan los trenes
el cante jondo al fondo de Granada
En toda belleza, una tristeza
y añoranza como en un país extraño
                        MAKE IT NEW
                                (un nuevo cielo y una nueva tierra)
pero después de esa lucidez
volvés otra vez a los clichés, los
slogans.
Sólo en los momentos en que no somos prácticos
concentrados en lo Inútil,                         Idos
se nos abre el mundo.
 La muerte es el acto de la distracción total
 también: Contemplación.

 El amor, el amor sobre todo, un anticipo
 de la muerte
          Había en los besos un sabor a muerte
                    ser
                          es ser
                                    en otro ser
          sólo somos al amar
Pero en esta vida sólo amamos unos ratos
 y débilmente
Sólo amamos o somos al dejar de ser
al morir
        desnudez de todo el ser para hacer el amor
                          make love not war
                que van a dar al amor
                que es la vida

la ciudad bajada del cielo que no es Atlantic City
      Y el Más Allá no es un American Way of Life
                    Jubilación en Flórida
o como un Week-end sin fin.
La muerte es una puerta abierta
al universo
              No hay letrero NO EXIT
y a nosotros mismos
                                  (viajar
        a nosotros mismos
                  no a Tokio, Bangkok
                                            es el appeal
                        stwardess en kimono, la cuisine
Continental
es el appeal de esos anuncios de Japan Air Lines)
Una Noche Nupcial, decía Novalis
No es una película de horror de Boris Karloff
Y natural, como la caída de las manzanas
por la ley que atrae a los astros y a los amantes
-No hay accidentes
        una más caída
del gran Árbol
sos una manza más
      Tom
                        Dejamos el cuerpo como se deja
                                        el cuarto de un hotel
pero no sos el Hombre Invisible de Wells
              O como fantasmas de chalet abandonado
                              No necesitamos mediums
Y los niños muy bien saben que NO existe
que somos inmortales.
¿Pues puede el ****** matar la vida?
                                        ¿De la cámara de gas a la nada?
                    ¿O son los evangelios ciencia-ficción?
Jesús entró en el cuarto y sacó las plañideras
              Por eso cantan los cisnes dijo Sócrates poco antes de morir
                            Ven, Caddo, todos vamos arriba
                                    a la gran Aldea (bis)
-Hacia donde van todos los buses y los aviones
Y no como a un fin
      sino al Infinito
      volamos a la vida con la velocidad de la luz
Y como el feto rompe la bolsa amniótica...
O como cosmonautas...
                      -la salida
                                          de la crisálida.
Y es un happening.
el ******
de la vida
                                          dies natalis
                      esta vida pre-natal...
Dejada la matriz de la materia
                                        Un absurdo no:
                                        sino un misterio
puerta abierta al universo
y no al vacío
                      (como la de un ascensor que no estaba)
Y ya definitivos.
                      ...igual que el despertar una mañana
                      a la voz de una enfermera en un hospital
Y ya nada tenemos sino sólo somos
            sino
que sólo somos y somos sólo ser
                                                              La voz del amado que habla
                                                      amada mía quítate este bra
La puerta abierta
que nadie podrá cerrar ya
                          -«Dios que nos mandó vivir»
aunque anhelamos el retorno a
                asociaciones atómicas, a
                        la inconsciencia.
                  Y las bombas cada vez más grandes.
Necrofilia: el flirteo con la muerte. La pasión por lo muerto
                                (cadáveres, máquinas, diner, heces)
y si sueñan con una mujer es la imagen
de un automóvil
          La irresistible fascinación de lo inorgánico
                        ****** fue visto en la I Guerra
                        arrobado ante un cadáver
                        sin quererse mover
(militares o máquinas, monedas, mierda)
cámaras de gas en el día y Wagner por la noche
«5 millones» dijo Eichmann (aunque tal vez 6)
O bien queremos maquillar la muerte
Los Seres Queridos (no diga muertos)
  maquillados, manicurados y sonrientes
 en el Jardín de Reposo de los Prados Susurrantes
                            cf. THE AMERICAN WAY OF DEATH
                1 martini o 2 para olvidar su rostro
relax & ver tv
                  el placer de manejar un Porsche
                  (any line you choose)
tal vez esperar la resurrección congelados
en nitrógeno líquido a 497°
(almacenados como el grano que no muere)
hasta el día en que la inmortalidad sea barata
después del café, Benedictine
un traje sport para ser jóvenes, para alejar la muerte
mientras nos inventan el suero de la juventud
                    el antídoto
para no morir.
Como el cow-boy bueno de las películas, que no muere.
Buscando en Miami la Fuente Florida.
Tras los placeres anunciados en las islas Vírgenes.
O en el yate de Onassis por el Leteo...

No quisiste ser de los hombres con un Nombre
y un rostro que todos reconocen en las fotos
de los tabloides
su desierto que floreció como el lirio no fue el
de Paradise Valley Hotel
                    con cocteles en la piscina
bajo las palmeras
ni fueron tus soledades las de Lost Island
los cocos curvados sobre el mar
LOVE? It's in the movies
                    las irrupciones de la eternidad
                                fueron breves
-los que no hemos creído los Advertisements de este mundo
          cena para 2, «je t'adore»
                          How to say love in Italian?
Me dijiste: el
      evangelio no menciona contemplación.
Sin LSD
sino el horror de Dios (o
            traducimos mejor por terror?)
Su amor como la radiación que mata sin
                                                              tocarnos
y un vacío mayor que el Macrocosmos!
En tu meditación no veías más visión
que el avión comercial de Miami a Chicago
        y el avión de la SAC con la Bomba dentro
                los días en que me escribías:
My life is one of deepening contradiction and
                                                  frequent darkness
Tu Trip? tan poco interesante
el viaje a vastas soledades y extensiones de nada
todo como de yeso
                      blanco y *****, with no color
y mirar la bola luminosa y rosa como ágata
con Navidad en Broadway y cópulas y canciones
rielando en las olas del polvoriento Mar de la Tranquilidad
o el Mar de la Crisis muerto hasta el horizonte. Y
como la bolita rutilante de un Christmas-tree...

              El Tiempo? is money
es Time, es pendejada, es nada
    es Time y una celebridad en la portada
Y aquel anuncio de leche Borden's bajo la lluvia
hace años en Columbia, encendiéndose
y apagándose, tan fugaces encendidas
            y los besos en el cine
Las películas y las estrellas de cine
tan fugaces

                GONE WITH THE WIND
aunque reían todavía bellas luminosas en la pantalla
las estrellas difuntas
el carro falla, la refrigeradora
va a ser reparada
                          Ella de amarillo mantequilla
                          anaranjado mermelada y rojo fresa
como en un anuncio del New Yorker en el recuerdo
y el lipstick ya borrado de unos besos
adioses a ventanillas de aviones que volaron
                                                        al olvido
shampoos de muchachas más lejanas que la Luna o que Venus
                      Unos ojos más valiosos que el Stock Exchange
El día de la Inauguración de Nixon ya pasó
  se disolvió la última imagen en la televisión
y barrieron Washington
El Tiempo Alfonso el Tiempo? Is Money, mierda, ****
el tiempo es New York Times y Time
-Y hallé todas las cosas como Coca-Colas...

                                          Proteínas y ácidos nucleicos
                                          «los hermosos mimeros de sus formas»
proteínas y ácidos nucleicos
                            los cuerpos son al tacto como gas
la belleza, como gas amargo
lacrimógeno
Porque pasa la película de este mundo...
                                               
Como coca-colas
                    o cópulas for
                    that matter
Las células son efímeras como flores
                                               
mas no la vida
              protoplasmas cromosomas mas
no la vida
Viviremos otra vez cantaban los comanches
                    nuestras vidas son los ríos
                    que van a dar a la vida
ahora sólo vemos como en tv
después veremos cara a cara
                  Toda percepción ensayo de la muerte
                                      amada es el tiempo de la poda
    Serán dados todos los besos que no pudiste dar
                    están en flor los granados
todo amor reharsal de la muerte
                          So we fear beauty
Cuando Li Chi fue raptada por el duque de Chin
lloró hasta empapar sus ropas
pero en el palacio se arrepintió
de haber llorado.
          Van doblando la ***** de San Juan de la +
                        pasan
                        unos patos
                                                      «las ínsulas extrañas»
o gana decía San Juan de la Cruz
infinita gana-
      rompe la tela de este dulce encuentro
y los tracios lloraban sus nacimientos cuenta Herodoto
y cantaban sus muertes
-Fue en Adviento cuando en Gethsemani los manzanos
junto al invernadero, están en esqueleto
con florescencia de hielos blancos como los
  de las congeladoras.
Yo no lo creo me dijo Alfonso en el Manicomio
cuando le conté que Pallais había muerto
Yo creo que es cuestión política o
Cosa así.
¿Entierran todavía con ellos un camello para el viaje?
•¿Y en las Fiji
las armas de dientes de ballena?
La risa de los hombres ante un chiste es prueba de que creenen
la resurrección
             
o cuando un niño llora en la noche extraña
y la mamá lo calma
La Evolución es hacia más vida
        y es irreversible
e incompatible con la hipótesis
de la nada
Yvy Mara ey
fueron en migraciones buscándola hasta el interior del Brasil
(«la tierra donde no se moría»)
Como mangos en este verano de Solentiname
madurando
mientras está allá encapuchado de nieve el noviciado
                  Pasan las oropéndolas
                  a la isla La Venada donde duermen
me decías
It is easy for us to approach Him
Estamos extraños en el cosmos como turistas
                    no tenemos casa aquí sólo hoteles.
Como turistas gringos
                                            everywhere
aprisa con su cámara apenas conociendo
                                    Y como se deja el cuarto de un motel
                                        YANKI GO HOME
Muere una tarde más sobre Solentiname
Tom
                                          resplandecen estas aguas sagradas
y poco a poco se apagan
es hora de encender la Coleman
                todo gozo es unión
                dolor estar sin los otros:
                                                                            Western Union
El cablegrama del Abad de Gethsemani era amarillo
                WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU etc
yo sólo dije
o. k.
                            Donde los muertos se unen y
                                              son con el cosmos
                                                                      uno
porque es «mucho mejor» (Fil. 1, 23)
Y como la luna muere y renace de nuevo...
            la muerte es unión y
                      Ya se es uno mismo
                                se une uno con el mundo
la muerte es mucho mejor
los malinches en flor esta noche, esparciendo su vida
          (su renuncia es flor roja)
la muerte es unión
                      1/2 luna sobre Solentiname
                      con 3 hombres
uno no muere solo
(Su Gran Choza de Reunión) los ojibwas
y el mundo es mucho más profundo
Donde los algonquinos espíritus con mocasines
espíritus
cazan castores espíritus sobre una nieve espíritu
creímos que la luna estaba lejos
morir no es salir del mundo es
    hundirse en él
estás en la clandestinidad del universo
                                        el underground
fuera del Establishment de este mundo, del espacio tiempo
sin Johnson ni Nixon
        allí no hay tigres
                              dicen los malayos
    (una Isla del oeste)
                                                    que van a dar a la mar
                                                    que es la vida
Donde los muertos se juntan oh Netzhualcoyotl
o 'Corazón del Mundo'
            Hemingway, Raissa, Barth, Alfonso Cortés
el mundo es mucho más profundo
                  Hades, donde Xto bajó
                                                  seno, vientre (Mt. 12, 40)
                                                        SIGN OF JONAS
las profundidades de la belleza visible
donde nada la gran ballena cósmica
llena de profetas
                      Todos los besos que no pudisteis dar
                                                                  serán dados
Se transforma
....«como uno estuvo enterrado en el seno de su madre...»

                          a Keeler un cacique cuna
La vida no termina se transforma
                          otro estado intra-uterino dicen los koguis
por eso los entierran en hamacas
en posición fetal
                   
una antigua doctrina, d

O Hair, o Hair, wherefore art thou dear Hair?
You stuck with me since I can remember
How come you’re leaving? Why do you not care?
Why haven’t you grown since last November?

What did I do to make you love me less?
I’ve always given you the best shampoos,
Conditioners, hair cream- why are you distressed?
I wish you could talk- for I have no clue.

‘Stress’- the doctor says that you can’t bear it
It hurts you, it makes you sad, angry, weak
How I miss your happy, active spirit
You lit up my days when the world was bleak

You were obedient, made me look good
Introduced styles of your own I didn’t know
Growing fast into a shiny mane you would
Falling tantalisingly to my brow.

You used to cooperate with the stylist
So I tried new things, innovatively
Fashionable styles I never could resist
But you danced brightly, never plaintively!

Alas! I can’t possibly understand
Why you fall away to the cold hard ground
As I brush you, in the shower, strand by strand
The sight just shocks me as you make no sound.

You don’t respond to new-fangled oils
Bought online for you in desperate attempts
To make you grow again, healthy, unspoiled
But you stare up at me with harsh contempt!

Do not desert me yet, my darling friend!
I will change myself for you, make it right
Ensuring your precious life doesn’t end
I will put up a victorious, mighty fight.

I’ll meditate to reduce stress on you
I’ll stop shampoos to use homemade products
I’ll take the required medicines, oils too
Baby, for me, increase your good conduct!

I’m so sorry for all that I did wrong
All the things that then made you want to die
I’ll take care of you now, you will be strong
Work with me now, sweetheart, don’t ever cry!

Missing the whistle of the teapot.
A big tin thing, dented, spouting
Warnings, careful baby, I am
Really hot.

The hum of the microwave,
The machine noises of coffee being made,
Them noises just ain't the same.
There is no poetry in
Whirring hum, beans bump 'n grinding.
They don't talk to me.

But in the middle of night,
When I rise, get dressed,
Still put on mismatched socks,
My t-shirts inside out,
The same jeans been wearing for weeks,
Cause they are right handy,
Lying on the floor, feeling so good,
Covering up my old fashioned
Keds.

Someday, I guess there will be
A machine that hoses us down,
Shampoos the mind while your fingers idle,
Then becomes a wind Chunnel to dry us up.
Will it have octopus arms
To dress us, having  looked at our daily schedule,
Taking into account the weather channel forecast,
Where n'  when we gotta be?

I suppose that if I ask nicely,
The replicator will make me perfect coffee,
And even whistle if that's what makes me happy.
But as long it don't try help me write,
That ****** function, that ****** need,
Human,
And only I can
Whistle while I write.

6:13 AM

another midnight I've seen this week:
bed times have gone from books and milk
and slightly ajar doors,
to long slogs far into the early morning hours-

-did I, did I try too hard to hold your hand?
If so I didn't mean to,
maybe the excitement of being held again
made my squeeze a little too much.

-

another morning afternoon I've seen this week:
primary education routines of get dressed
and ready for school have been lost to
fading light showers and foaming shampoos-

-did I, did I not follow the Curtis rules?
Should I run a bookshop? Be late time and time again?
Runaway to the continent and write a novel no one wants?
Lose a wife and fall for a model?

if so, I'm sorry I'm not that.

only today i felt this strange fear from boredom, i don't expect housewives to feel it, although i'm certain they do, brain-draining watching some Jurassic adaptation where man's imagination really did a runner - not into the fantastical but into the absurd - like in science fiction, did a runner, completely off the mark given chemists making shampoos and toothpastes and fertilisers... ethically-free science fiction - but this housebound fear from boredom, greater than a fear of death it seized me and rattled me, i had to go out to buy a few beers; just like it happens to really rich people, they make their homes into micro-units of what's out there, in society, a swimming pool when there's a communal one elsewhere, a massive library of unread books, when there are plenty of those elsewhere, home cinema, snooker table... it's the entire spectrum of social pastimes condensed into a single household... anyway, i got hot and bothered, i'm starting to think it was not a fear of boredom, but what to do with the piri-piri chicken i was marinating: tomato puree, 1tbsp balsamic vinegar, half a large lemon squeezed, 1sp sugar, 1tsp paprika, 1/2 tsp cajun pepper, 14g of parsley, mint, oil, 2 chillies, 2 tsp of garlic puree, salt to taste - whisked in a food processor; ~1kg of chicken - because i thought whether i should shove the chicken marinate in an oven bag and cook it for a while, or whether to take the chicken out from the marinate and place it on a baking tray... ****!

poems and book reviews these days, nothing more,
get someone else to do the legwork -
a thoroughly modern malaise -
social anthropology - titled *tribe -
the pros and cons of modern life and our
search for tribal mythology -
the 8x more chance of depression and
other mental deviations in wealthier
societies than poorer ones -
once it was called adventure, now
it's called tourism - after a while you sort
of get bored of the naked ego
and the clothing range your thought
provides you - unless you keep thinking
out the same thing, over and over again,
dressed like Armani, all black, nothing else -
odd, isn't it? they're playing the cat game,
cat wakes up, same ****, different cover,
well, the same cover - same fur - can't
change - the paradox or parody of
the fashion industry, i.e. that the designers
wear the same thing over and over again
and insist people require a spring collection,
the latest autumn trend.... parody.
so back to this piri-piri chicken      n'ah, not really,
i was thinking about what we already did,
this anti-tribalism, to have given ourselves
the opportunity to experience the least
amount of pain, the anaesthetic, sleep inducing
on the butcher's table more or less -
but we also created another anaesthetic,
this anaesthetic is not so subtle - it concerns beauty -
ever see it? ever walk into Tate Modern and
think about Raphael or Michelangelo?
you could tell me i'm overly nostalgic -
but what i see in plain sight is an anaesthetic in place,
against beauty, esp. in architecture -
who'd think of building a new Coliseum or
a St. Paul's - the Tate Modern (as you might
or might not know) is inside a power station,
big massive chimney - would have worked
better in the Battersea (Pink Floyd's Animals
album sleeve), but then St. Paul's is right opposite
and what a staggering dichotomy it is -
i'm sure that's what you call an anaesthetic in art,
the sort of art you have to get or not get
because, frankly, admiring a tin-can of tomato soup
even by Warhol's standards isn't exactly appetising -
i know, conveyor belt necessity and all, once
artists painted on commission for some duke or
duchess, or king to be adorning lavish palaces,
but as according to Walter Benjamin - the work
of art in the age of mechanical reproduction -
some could once claim the original to be worth
a stupendous amount of dosh, but with the above
mentioned essay, the original is worth diddly-squat,
because there is no actual original these days,
because artists don't necessarily have to invest
in raw materials - and the copying process is 100%
perfect, what with photocopying and all...
but **** me over once more, how am i going
to cook this piri-piri chicken?
the few beers took the problem off my hands,
i ended up marinating the chicken in a bag
but then shoved it into a baking tray
an covered with aluminium foil, forty odd
minutes and the chicken was tender - ~5 minutes
without the aluminium foil covering while
the oven was switched off and the temperature
was descending - the carbs? couscous -
alt. North African semolina - and extra cucumber
in tzatziki - a few hours later and i'm a little
buddha not thinking an ounce or a continent's worth
of suggestion... one of those rare albums
salmonella dub's  inside the dub plates,
i'm a real provincial with this album,
tumble **** here, tumble **** there,
never settling for a ****-garden -
i told you i'm just borrowing the language, in fact,
given my alcoholic and status as vermin among
the bulldog rigid British (Londoners can have
their little gay pride parade, whatever, they
better give me up for surgery to a veterinarian than
a human doctor, after all, i'm all ******* gerbil from
now on in, it doesn't take enough pacifists to turn
my attitude into a Neo-**** and bulldozer the Union
Jack into a shallow grave, i don't expect the Caribbeans
and the Pakistanis to usher words of: it's how it is,
a rite of passage, **** your cumin and your ****,
battle of Britain, who among the R.A.F. flew and spat fire?
us) i'm more Apache in a bigger zoo than the one in
Reagents Park, i'm in a conservation zoone -
i'm Aboriginal - shaman of the fire water -
i'll be as ******* ridiculous as i want - go chant
you little kirtan get together mantras going,
i'm sure you'll *****-fight-those-pigeons dead without
a single coo being ushered in - and your little yoga stints
asking questions about the flexibility of the skeleton
not pulverised by scientific eyes for a schematic and
a schooling rubric to domino up the cranium with mandible,
ulna and radius etc. -
but at least i know what sort of country i live in,
and what country is wandering into political apology that's
too late, in ratio 27:1, soon to be Turkey + the Yugoslavian
gape, Albanian and Macedonia by 2020 -
>30:1 - great Welsh ratio that is, oh ****, wait, Scotland too?
i never thought about it coming - there's my 2 cents
on the topic, and that England is becoming more American
by the day? that's good? really?! i thought the
aim of England was to inspire America rather than
vice versa... what a ****-storm these few days ended
up being; ol' McDonald didn't have a farm, but
had the slogan - *i'm lovin' it!

can there be no shampoos? no cakes?
no ales?
do you understand my
disdain for my own

self? i am alone in a room right now
it is a small room
on the eleventh floor
of a mediocre apartment
in a mediocre part of
the greater toronto area

i can hear bad music 

coming from the room 
above the one i
am currently in
i think it is some sort of dubstep
like, bon iver or something

it is the kind of music that
wins 17 daytime emmy awards
and a ******* from a
dead president of the artist's
choice (a lavish ceremony)

like a dairy queen in
late september, 
i weep creamy tears
that taste like creamy
frowny-faces

i weep creamy tears
over a non-existent
lover who is right now
dancing to bon iver ft. drake
whilst punching me in the face

my non-existent lover is
also a stalwart lover
and i resent that quality

i resent my non-existent lover's
stalwart twitter account, 
too because
it reminds me of myself

rows and rows of decadence
chocolate covered dreams

gold and purple velvet
exotic coffee steams

haute coutre on sterling racks
staffed by aphrodite

cherry blossoms in the air
art to serve the mighty

gilded goblets fat with rubies
thick potions to control

ivory pipes on opal stands
pink smoke from their bowls

mahogany and marble
amber glass aglow

tinkling diamond chandeliers
funiture art nouveau

elixirs and magic rings
magenta fire in a jar

thick and heavy gold
tiffany eggs for the czar

pastel parisian cakes
hand stitched italian shoes

hornback crocodile leather
master barbers fine shampoos

bespoke tailor in a corner
adonis with fine liqueur

any delicacy or art
for any type connoisseur

richly wrapped and waiting
your opulent desires

soak them drink them in
bask in their fires

all priceless things
based on human lies

worth less than dust
compared to love in
someone’s eyes

He runs out of the bathroom after a 20 minute shower
leaving puddles of warm water trailing through our home.
"Smell me!" he says as he pushes his head under my nose.
"Smell me. I smell great!" I do and he does.
"I used everything in the shower. EVERYTHING!" He is so proud.
Later that night, as I take my shower I find:
all 5 bars of soap still partially lathered,
every shampoo and conditioner bottle opened and askew,
and all of my sample envelopes ranging from Healthy HooHoo to acne cleansers,  botanical shampoos to magnetic hair rejuvenation creams,
all tore open and empty.
For this, I fall in love all over again with a 12 year old kid.
And he smells great!

Mamacita hold me dearly under folds
of black hair where light can't shine I
feel the warmest with my nose
pulling deep breaths of floral shampoos

and hot mesoamerican corn tortilla
from the oven with pepper carnitas drifting
through cracks under locked bedroom
doorhandles, in the bed and under

an azetec starred quilt duvet between sunshine
brown arms with tiny black feminine hairs,
I think about dinnertime at seven
with my warm Mamacita and her cousins
and of all the caring people
L.A shared with me.

free from the irishman's arbeit macht frei on the building site:
****** worked the tools for a few years, got promoted and started
to kiss pig snouts - thinks he's the god Merovingian,
people hallucinate a potato where
his head ought to be and laugh -
well, how the most of society is sheltered
from the construction site in the west:
foreigners out! willkommen... now you
get you spoofs to do the hardened labours -
see how they fair, poncy fairies couldn't
even lift a shitload of bricks: but there they
go into the temple of hamster wheels
and brass muscles and kissing bicep meat-heads...
they could be utilised to generate enough
power to provide energy for a corner shops -
so yeah, the Romanians were on holiday,
it took them 5 days to reach their village
flying from London to Bucharest -
the cultural improvement of the Kazakh nation
was filmed there, after 5 weeks free from
the shackles of the irishman's version of
Auschwitz: a regular staple around here,
i get the smuggled cigarettes -
but after smoking tobacco smuggled from
god knows where, these Benson & Hedges
feel like torpedoes between the index and middle...
odd what 3 packets of 50g tobacco does to
perception, for a while i was smoking chop-sticks,
next thing i'm smoking torpedoes thick bulging
sticks - the smoke v. drink dynamic changes...
is Mary Poppins about to teach me a lesson
in how the HM & Revenue is sacred?
i hated that nanny when she said: to preserve
the health of the public, and to invoke a need
for proper taxation... well... **** that...
ever smoke Беломорканал сигареты?
       (belomorkanal sigarety)?
i thought you haven't, i have, i wouldn't even know
where to begin if i had to lie and tell you
i visited the Lenin mausoleum -
Беломорканал сигареты though? see the neo-Greek
in Cyrillic, or as? talk about evolution, i'd talk
more about more recent events in linguistic,
how Greek evolved in Cyrillic and Latin into added
diacritical markings: English held onto puritan Latin
impression way too long, instead of diacritical markings
we have U.S.A. accents, Scottish Irish and Welsh accents,
regional accents in England, Australian and South African...
it's like this inverse sense of insomnia:
    the sun never, ever, ******* sets on English,
steroids and amphetamines, continually news -
must be hard to keep up, to keep the local reference
in a world adequately suited for the day-to-day
marching orders - but yeah, smoked those cigarettes -
they don't have filters, well, cardboard "filters" -
you squeezed the ends and smoked the workman's
tobacco - while you were digging that god awful trench:
the white sea-baltic canal - and she was the lovely
middle-class lady who introduced me into smoking
them, after she realised she had the poker hand -
it always happens when the middle-classes meddle
with someone originating in the working class
who wants to become a chemist... they say: work!
whip for a tongue... i swear you need shampoos and toothpaste...
oh right, i'm from the land of brick and mortar?
well, if you're going to maim me, damage me,
obviously i'll stage a rebellion utilising poetry...
should have left me after infringing the damage on me,
should have left me to do the work...
but no... she calls me up and exposes me to
a schizophrenic virus: i.e. the atypical symptom -
and i'm like: huh? voices? what are voices?
what do you meaning you're hearing voices?
i guess the conscience kicked in -
                         oh how angelic everyone thinks they are...
    i call these symptoms: a rotten conscience,
  the fact that anyone would appreciate having one
is already a miracle... but seeing it rotting
    is a bit like a Dorian Gray revelation -
shock! awe! but the picture is there!
                                               funny how people who
plan a baby sometimes never score,
              and funnier still how some people invoke
   getting impregnated without the state's laws
of matrimony to blackmail a man into matrimonial
laws, use the meanest, bleakest, bile-fuelled mechanism
to erase the person from all the pages of life,
   then spectacularly fail: a bit like Jesus on the third day,
and the person in question blahs his way into
   something resembling life -  the typical
Hollywood plot: they killed him, but he got away...
        now i'm just waiting for a Mr. Chapman to finish
the job properly - because he might say:
                                his talent started waning...
    oh sure... i'd love to reach threescore & ten -
  and wait for the gimmick post-: every year after that
   is god's blessing... can i speak to the god in Sudan?
   can i get an audience? no? ah ****.
better start planning early mortality plans
while others are thinking of retirement.
                **** me! i used to be so into life that i'd
probably have written a poem a month apart -
    and now i'm left with a ****** biography that
could be encompassed in a year...
   i'm not even obsessing about it, it's just an elephant
in a box room that started snorting ******* and
playing jazz real good -
                                 then they blamed me on marijuana,
   i'd be the laziest person alive if i overdid that drug...
and however much i tried to become a Catholic
apostate, not getting confirmed and what:
   i was forced into Christian lessons of forgiveness,
only because i didn't have enough money to
pursue an argument in court... grand... just pitch-***
perfect -              mind you, they are really ****** lessons,
    i wouldn't go banging them to anyone
  who hasn't experienced injustice in this world:
gravity is probably the only law we can all experience
with true justice... as you can see, gravity wasn't
man-made... so good luck arguing your cases
     with murderers not being punished
  thieves not having their hands cut off for stealing jewels...
   if anyone was god at the birth of Christianity,
it was only Pontius Pilate - he washed his hands clean
from the matter... to me that's who god was in that
story... i'm washing my hands of anything that
might come from this.

OK, I can no longer say
I’ve got a receding hairline
and sure everyone can see
the plain fact, the bald fact -
but there are pleasures, you know

I’ve saved heaps on hair gel
and shampoos and conditioners
(enough I think
to fund my retirement)
and I can actually feel the cool air
(no one can call me hot-headed)
and the great thing now
is everyone says with all honesty
I’m **** as Sean Connery
(what they actually think
or say behind my back
is none of my business)

but the best blessing of all
is I never need to look for my comb
(I confess I was always misplacing it)
and so I don’t need to reach for my wife’s comb
and so she lies as still as a cat
and she doesn’t need to roar
like a lioness
first thing in the morning:
Don’t you dare touch my comb!

Ah, the blessings that linger
like so many halos
in eminent baldness

Violets are red
Roses are blue
Gloves are for feet
Hands go in shoes
Pants hang on flagpoles
Flags hang out of pants
Water is for mopping
Save it on fake plants
Hungry people eat
Starving people starve
Recycled paper saved the forest
Just another product to be carved
Park benches are for bums
Parking lots are for the homeless
Raise taxes to give to the needy
Makes more people jobless
Live flowers to the die-ing
Dead flowers to the sewer
Ghosts are imaginary
Walk around the grave to be sure
Bomb at home injures just one
Mass riots ensues
Bomb at the neighbors kills hundreds
Lets review the latest shampoos
Rap is black
Country is red
The old live longer
But the schools are dead
Think outside the box
Draw inside the lines
I'll make my own indecisions
And let my own colors shine

The poison is in all of us:
Half-smoked cigarettes lay on the side of grainy gravel paths,
crinkly Dollarama bags and glass beer bottles.
We relax on trees
leaning
backs against the braille texture of bark
that tries to speak to us in a language we don’t understand.
We lean back and raise our faces
towards the sunlight dancing between
the leaves of the canopy,
listening to the tires
whizzing against concrete,
but think it similar to the smacking of waves against stones;
lean back and savour the syrupy smell of maple trees
against our tongues,
thinking to ourselves
how grateful we are for nature
as we sit in a paradise of tall trees
their branches intertwined in a space
smaller than bathroom stalls;
lean back and breathe in exhaust
and cigarette smoke masked
behind a layer of sweet antiperspirants
and coconut-scented shampoos
as the wind whips hair against your face.
We take peaceful naps against the undeciphered braille,
but the poison is in all of us
and one day this paradise will become
nothing.
A bed of dirt
blanketed by prickly store-bought
strips of grass.

I bring you pitiful news from home where
the large McDavitt family has  a strain of
lice that has become immune to all nit
killing  soaps  and  shampoos; joyous
information is, the clan moved from
the neighborhood.

Starving for your skin, thin straps on the shoulders, undone
Removed, one by one
Smooth and fresh, taste of a pineapple from the shower
Yet to be dried
Falling droplets, sound of an ocean, making waves
Creating a hurricane, unnamed
Unborn but sure to become
Crossing the sun for a rainbow, so colorful, so beautiful
Our *** of gold for both of us to hold, and cherish
Until old, and you wonder
Why you never sold it.

A woman sees her picture,
She can't resist a glance,
Passing a shop window,
Would she change,
Given the chance?

Big nose,
Small *******,
Short arms,
And the rest,

She looks over
She hates what she sees,
A beautiful woman,
'I can't eat what I please!'

Dye can only do so much,
Creams and shampoos,
Sport and diets,
You'll just gain the pounds you
Lose.

Size 14,
Once so huge, now the norm,
Clothes show buldges,
Body far from the perfect form

You stare into a mirror
and what you'd like to see
Is your teenage self
In all her skinny glory,

Yet for those you don't know
Strangers passing by,
Wouldn't stare and think
She's eaten all the pies,

Whilst your lying eyes,
Set out to hurt you,
People will see and think,
I wish I looked like that too.

rows and rows of decadence
chocolate covered dreams

gold and purple velvet
exotic coffee steams

haute coutre on sterling racks
staffed by aphrodite

cherry blossoms in the air
art to serve the mighty

gilded goblets fat with rubies
thick potions to control

ivory pipes on opal stands
pink smoke from their bowls

mahogany and marble
amber glass aglow

tinkling diamond chandeliers
furniture art nouveau

elixirs and magic rings
magenta fire in a jar

thick and heavy gold
tiffany eggs for a czar

pastel parisian cakes
hand-stitched italian shoes

hornback crocodile leather
master barber fine shampoos

bespoke tailor in a corner
adonis with fine liquor

any delicacy or art
for any type connoisseur

richly wrapped and waiting
your opulent desires

soak them drink them in
bask in their fires

all priceless things
based on human lies

worth less then dust
compared to love in
someone's eyes

Do you know what we men love, ladies?

We love the raisins in our apple pie
when we just want apple pie
We love the broccoli in every dish
how you beg 'just give it a try!'

We love the fortune in toiletries
so there's no room for our combs
perfumes, shampoos and body creams
blow dryers, curlers and foams

We love how you sneak to the bathroom
just prior to us awaking
we plea for you to hurry
as our bladders are sorely aching

We love to join you shopping
and discuss the cashier's hair
and if we happen to like it
do we tell you...do we dare?

but most of all we love you
for the biggest, most valuable perk
is the motivation you provide
to get our ***** off to work!

Even amongst the sorrow of life
Joy can be found-
Sometimes in big things,
But more often in the minuscule:
Like stickers from teachers-
"Good job!" "Well done!"
And you see you did just one thing
Right.
Finding a sweet mint
Tucked in the pocket of grandmas purse-
And knowing she wouldn't mind
If you took it.
Happiness lives in fuzzy socks-
When you feel like your feet
Are being given a long hug
By a teddy bear.
Travel size shampoos, too-
So small, yet yielding limitless
Wonderful and soapy scents.
Bouncy ***** for merely a quarter-
That seemed as though
They could bounce higher than the sun.
The pure euphoria of
A wall of scented candles-
Uncapping each and taking in the
Peach, caramel, linens, blueberry,
And countless other imaginative aromas.
Buttons and bubbles-
Such cute words
For such cute objects
Small and round and full of laughter.
Above all else,
Happiness is derived from the
People
That make you who you are,
And the simple smiles they give you
Day after day

So I cut my hair
And changed my barbells
Switched out my hoop
And bought new clothes
Rearranged my room
Changed shampoos
But still I feel the same

to me, it's very hard to explain something to a woman, without having to invoke the concept, prior, and subsequently dwindle in what's actually being explained; personally? i think that the grand genuis of woman conceptualised the idea of money, after all, if man is the tribal facet to the whole story, the inventive spirit of group-mentality, of ethnicity, of nationalism, of whatever propels the vector of history toward its never seemingly ending agitation, well... only a woman could have conjured the concept of money, what with prostitution being the base profession requiring money... if ever there be an alchemy of the transvaluation of "values", then the commoner's stone is the idea of money... why is it that in his living wake, van gogh was a pauper, but as history states, he's by now a ******* millionaire? money can even transcend death, and evaluate a second glance in its post-mortem stare: worthless as alive, glorified as dead; in times of war, money becomes rationing, in times of peace, an unfair dispensation of values / worth.

and is that not why there's this apparent
disgrace of woman
within the critique of feminism?
    it worked like magic,
the first original idea by a woman:
   money...
                    but how is modern woman
expecting an equally respectable idea
to be digested, when it stages
   itself via feminism -
              yes, woman conjured money,
man failed in his alchemy,
  so instead started pampering people
with shampoos, toothpaste and the likes...
it's enough that woman gave us
money, but it's another to congest
and sardine pack the philosophies ranging
from ancient greece to modern day,
in the sardine-can of feminism,
and every other -ism...
                          sure, aristotle was ******
when it came to arithmetic and ivory -
but then again: maybe that was just
a joke back in ancient greece,
                        regarding giving *******?
money i can understand, but feminism
and its attempt to allow itself a shortcut
into every aspect of masculine thinking?
ah! i heard this one before,
scientists call it: the theory of everything...
look! feminists already proprose that
feminism is: that grand theory of everything!

i can't stress it enough...
   how can you digest a book of philosophy?
i can't stress it enough:
   solve a sudoku while reading a book
of the apparent content...

and some do say, drifting between
the waking-hour, and the hours-of-nox -
well... if we call the former words,
we can call the latter numbers -
     and isn't that a great comparison -
it's like seeing colour in black & white -
what with how letters are arranged
and how numbers are arranged -

   we can even begin calling
equations                   words -
for example e = m c squared
           to imply arranging a, b, c, d, e, f...
   into the word relativity -
interchangeable properties of energy
and matter...

            while 0 - 9 stress an automaton
process of the body -
               the unconscious -
  letters a - z stress the sporadic eventualities
of speech mingling with thought -
      the conscious -
           and in between these two:
images, or the evolution of / disarming of
hieroglyphics - stripping said unsaid:
to mere bone...    to the skeletal now apparent.

how would one begin crafting an image
of thought?
            sooner than one might think to begin:
the soul is already portrayed as a breath
of etheral form, loosely matched to imply
a human body,
     as a monkey is: **** similis -
                          and sure enough:
   something out of disney tale -
   bound in the entranced eyes of hades,
          like blotches in a flux of a lava lamp.

i don't day dream,
           i hardly ever dream -
                       enough of the nonsense bound
to a single day, than to drag even more
nonsense into the depths of nox -
   ah, but the rivers of the underworld:
from the river of tongues,
   to the river of sleep -
     of the styx we known -
                   how the dead speak to the living
within the confines of sleep -
   how else? how else can we conjure light
in the cranium, where no light can enter?
   if dreams are not how the dead speak to
the living while asleep, how else the binding
contract of mourning, and the annual
celebration *in memorandum by the grave,
the laying of flowers, the candles that light
up the dark night of october eclipsed
that's all saint's day -
                  indeed, in memorandum
     of the stated born on & the died upon dates;
but the rivers of hades!
                    die zungefluss (the river of tongues) -
and indeed that mediating river
                        of nox -        die traumfluss...

ah, but if you want to see a literary bosphorus,
why didn't you ask?
                     you can see the hand of the west
(bertrand russell) shake hands with the east
     (władysław tatarkiewicz) -
   regarding the philosophy of history -
                    or interchanging: the history of -
probably the only pompous word in the english
language.

It’s unique to everyone.
Maybe it’s rain,
or the ocean.
Gasoline
or coffee.
How about fresh linens
or cinnamon apples?
You could smell new books
or old books,
fresh parchment,
cotton candy,
or bubble gum.
Maybe it’s chocolate,
or fruits,
or mint toothpaste for you.
How about flowers -
lavender
lilies
roses
daisies?
Carnival foods
like funnel cake,
and hot dogs.
Or air fresheners
that smell like erupting volcanoes.
New cars,
or ancient forests,
castles filled with only the finest
or abandoned ruins.
Things burning,
fresh-cut grass,
strong or subtle perfumes,
or maybe sterile hospital rooms.
If you’re into it, sweaty athletes,
or band kids,
or comic shops
where you can play your favorite card games.
Is it your room?
Your house?
Is it home?
Where you belong.
Curled up next to someone you love
on Halloween,
reading or watching a movie,
realizing this is what you were missing.
Is it makeup,
or hairspray?
Certain shampoos that trigger happiness?
Or candles with the best scent ever?
How about baking –
cookies
brownies
cakes?
Maybe it’s cologne,
or the smell of the air
as it changes from familiar to foreign.
It could be a theme park,
or the mountains.
How about old forts,
and rivers you grew up around?
You know these smells,
the ones you love.
Well, that’s my favorite.
It’s the smell of love.

ABSTRACT
The Malunggay leaves are popularly nutritious in places where there is tropical climate, mainly in the Philippines. Its leaves are used as spices in a lot of cuisines. It has Vitamin C, potassium, iron and protein.  Sometimes it is crushed, and the extracted nutrients will be boiled to make an ointment. As for this project, we made a shampoo out of these pounded leaves. We preserved it and let it cool. Organic shampoo can help in treating harm caused by the use of chemical products. Usually, the effect of these chemicals is the loss of hair.
We used Malunggay leaves as substitute for chemicals that could be harmful to us. The use of organic materials are healthier because it is purer and fresh, like these leaves.


RELATED LIT.
The Mount Sinai School of Medicine in New York, along with the Environmental Working Group & Commonwealth have released the results of an investigation that was conducted by several scientific communities. In this research, scientists discovered that the average person has 91 industrial chemicals in the body that cannot be gotten rid of.  Also, Kabuhayang Swak na Swak featured a procedure on how to make a malunggay shampoo. It was demonstrated by Dr. Alvin Matulac of A.R.M. Skin Essentials. The company now has 100 different kinds of shampoo according to him and also offer free seminar to those interested.
These people have proven  that it is more convenient to use shampoos bought in stores, but using organic chemicals in our daily activities are healthier and safer.

It wasn’t
all the popcorn, hotdogs, candy
eaten in the dark that killed her.
Those things just caught up with her.

It wasn’t
all the boxes piled high
and then tumbling on her that cracked
her head and made her a corpse.
All that junk just caught up with her.

It wasn’t
all those clothes hung up on clotheslines
strung through her small apartment
that garroted her red, white and blue.
All that designer stuff just caught up with her.

It wasn’t
all the pots, pans and dishes in the sink
that needed to be scrubbed squeaky clean
that drowned her in less than a foot of water.
All those cookbook recipes just caught up with her.

It wasn’t
all those mops, sponges, buckets and brooms,
the bleaches, ammonia and other chemical cleaners
that gouged her lady parts and asphyxiated her too.
It’s just all that housekeeping caught up with her.

It wasn’t
all those books in floor to ceiling IKEA cases
that bibliated, Dewey Decimated her away.
It’s just all that knowledge caught up with her.

It wasn’t
all those fine soaps, shampoos and conditioners
that shrunk, desiccated and dissolved her away.
It was all that cleanliness that wasn’t next to
godliness that caught up with her.

It wasn’t
all those un-filed files that shocked
her coworkers, just her decapitated
head rolling on the company floor.
All that work just caught up with her.

On her tombstone it was etched:
LIFE FINALLY CAUGHT UP WITH HER.

Sometimes, you gotta just sit
on the bathroom floor for a while.
Because,
that’s where you got ready for
sleepovers with the popular girls
and made “potions”
out of various lotions and shampoos;
tattooed your finger when you were 15,
started to give up on the world,
and started to believe in it again.

Those bumpy tiles beneath you,
leaving red imprints on your upper thighs,
they saw your manic impulses
and sluggish lows,
they saw your meltdowns
before dance class,
and your moments of privatized shame,
after knocking over a vase
at your own house party.

The walls have changed over the years,
the floors have been
tile and ceramic and hardwood,
but a bathroom is a bathroom -
your own personal echo chamber,
a makeshift confessional,
wherever and whenever it fits
to serve that purpose.

mmm-mmm-mmm-mmm-mm

in a swirl of

cards, spoons, cereals,
books, brooms, thermometers,
laundry, photos, flipflops,
knives, gifts, rollerblades,
dishes, yogurts, candy,
catfood, homework, pajamas,
cartons of milk, tickets,
money, toys, sweaters,
hats, bags, sandwiches,
phones, pants, messages,
icecreams, umbrellas, lunches,
handcrafts, letters, bottles,
breakfasts, shampoos, succus
and tattarrattat

this
little bitty pretty one
is lost

at dusk, blooms open
night-flying bugs pollinate
soap plant for shampoos

i know that some people might cringe at this,
but it has to be said, nonetheless,
nothing, and i mean nothing beats
this sort of cognitive massage -
                      i call it scatter brain,
and by that i mean: listening to psychedelic
trance, while solving a sudoku;
    don't know, it works for me -
       i don't even have a chance to think -
my brain becomes a pure optical chamber,
well yeah... ***** helps too...
i never understood why alcohol has such
a terrible reputation,
  i mean: if you know how to use it,
  like a surgeon might use pure ethanol
to clean his equipment...
       fun stories to boot: the chemists at
edinburgh university used to brag about
their ethanol "abuse": and i mean the lecturers;
and who were the most bonkers and fun
out of the three tiers of organic, inorganic
and physical chemists?
   the organic chemists...
the people who bring you perfumes and *****...
and shampoos, and what not...
but i still can't get over the fact,
that the most eye-absorbing experiment i ever
did was making polyethene...
and it was in a catholic high school...
under what teacher? ah... hmm... mrs. khan!
funny how a lot of pakistanis are descendents
from that ****** mongol...
           mongol mongrels, ha ha:
jiggy jiggy with genghis: either a mountain
of skulls, or a harem the size of a year
by the count of days.
polyethene? yeah, i can't remember it
exactly, but you put two layers in a glass
utensil, and then you had to pinch at
the event horizon where the two substance
met... and as you pinched, you extracted
the plastic thread... magic... well...
      a bit more entertaining than opening
a history book, to let the moths out;
even though, i have to admit, i was always better
at history, than chemistry.