I hung the sunflower
from a piece of twine
in my wardrobe,
some months ago now.

Something once beautiful,
a gift from you to me,
a symbol of us,
together

and the happiness we found
in eachother
as we grew and bloomed
together.

So I hung it in the wardrobe
to preserve it.
To keep it. To admire it.
To cherish it for as long as we could.

And yet despite my attempts,
this sunflower’s petals
fell to the wardrobe floor,
it’s head shrivelling, wilting.

What could I do?
but leave it there
for days and weeks,
suspended amongst the clothes.

But the longer I left it,
unable to face
what I knew I had to do,
the worse this sunflower became.

We cannot restore
life into something
dead
and decayed.

I sharpened my shears and cut both
the thin twine of the sunflower,
and the thin twine holding us
together.

The dead sunflower hanging in my wardrobe
becomes the dead sunflower
lying amongst its own petals
on the wardrobe floor.

I am left to pick up the pieces
of what once was.
It was useless to try to preserve
when all flowers live, then die.

sat in your lap
jealousy builds
like pressure
once a fissure

it now inches
its way across
my soiled soul
lather it on my body
like blood -
thick and treacly
dark, sticky
ever so sickly

tell me your lies
tell me your truths
trace them into my flesh
mark me

cast the runes
now they have spoken
clatter on the rocks
like my pride has
broken

my rage glowing
all I can see
forever growing

I embody entropy
A rule of disorder

hatred rises
through the flames
let it burn me
to ashes
like your touch
sizzles my skins frame

it's a crime scene
of blood swirling like ink
pills scattered
around me
like a ritual
I wonder what
my mother would think

you're a dream thief
knife in my
heavy heart
you've stripped me bare
and I stand
as you depart
with nothing but
at your mercy

I'm you're experiment V
the looking glass shows me
what's left
a withered mess
existing
for you to thrive
tired pile of crumbly bones and
shrivelling rotting insides
tossed aside

burn me to
oblivion

I want the skin
to stop sticking to my bones
melt it off
let the blood pool onto stone
let the fat droop and distend
mocking me, me mocking
never ever stopping
wretch and stretch
till I break
rip my organs out
serenade my limp body
with the liquid lava that drips
as you extract
my black heart
take a sip of my sublimity

I am all you will never be
because I don't think I ever was
do what you will to my material
never to extinguish my fire
that does
never
cease
limitlessly
increase
the
entropy

KG

The fall will unwind
the shrivelling day,
the works of my mind
the fall will unwind,
the key left behind
and longing for May:
the fall will unwind
the shrivelling day.

I

1 Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knife us ...
2 Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent ...
3 Low drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient ...
4 Worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous,
5 But nothing happens.

6 Watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire.
7 Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles.
8 Northward incessantly, the flickering gunnery rumbles,
9 Far off, like a dull rumour of some other war.
10 What are we doing here?

11 The poignant misery of dawn begins to grow ...
12 We only know war lasts, rain soaks, and clouds sag stormy.
13 Dawn massing in the east her melancholy army
14 Attacks once more in ranks on shivering ranks of gray,
15 But nothing happens.

16 Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence.
17 Less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow,
18 With sidelong flowing flakes that flock, pause and renew,
19 We watch them wandering up and down the wind's nonchalance,
20 But nothing happens.

II

21 Pale flakes with lingering stealth come feeling for our faces--
22 We cringe in holes, back on forgotten dreams, and stare, snow-dazed,
23 Deep into grassier ditches. So we drowse, sun-dozed,
24 Littered with blossoms trickling where the blackbird fusses.
25 Is it that we are dying?

26 Slowly our ghosts drag home: glimpsing the sunk fires glozed
27 With crusted dark-red jewels; crickets jingle there;
28 For hours the innocent mice rejoice: the house is theirs;
29 Shutters and doors all closed: on us the doors are closed--
30 We turn back to our dying.

31 Since we believe not otherwise can kind fires burn;
32 Now ever suns smile true on child, or field, or fruit.
33 For God's invincible spring our love is made afraid;
34 Therefore, not loath, we lie out here; therefore were born,
35 For love of God seems dying.

36 To-night, His frost will fasten on this mud and us,
37 Shrivelling many hands and puckering foreheads crisp.
38 The burying-party, picks and shovels in their shaking grasp,
39 Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice,
40 But nothing happens.

In place of memories — embers.
Inextinguishable, yet untrue
to the fidelity of what was.
The smoky curlicues, too,
have been denied. That whiff
of the past. Smouldering,
it warms the prudent hand.
Sears the lingering one.

In place of you — embers.
Charcoal flake anklets at your feet.
Wrinkling, shrivelling.
Your impassive verse-marked
way of staying. But when asked
to disappear, become so
unwilling.

Sadie was a doubtful one
Her mind was tightly shut
When faced with the fantastical
She’d fold her arms and tut
She pranced around her garden
With an playful evil aura
And dealt a merry flattening
To all that passed before her
Their bodies lay around her
And an imp of mischief found her

She loved to trap and poison
And wished she’d been a spider
When a fizzing overtook her
When a rumble grew inside her
When a shrinking and a shrivelling
Across her form did tickle
And soon did Sadie realise
That wishes can be fickle
Her legs and arms divided
Her eyeballs multiply did

So sorry Sadie scuttled
Alternating creep and crawl
She tippy-toe’d across the grass
And past her victims all
And sadness was upon her
And with mourning in her eyes
Her grief compounded hunger
And an appetite for flies
Her lengthy limbs belied her
Sorry Sadie was a spider

She loped along a lily
And her sorrow turned to guilt
Her carapace was aching
For the blood which she had spilt
She wept a web of anguish
With her sticky little tears
She wound a downward spiral
Like the falling of the years
Her malice had been stunted
Her fangs were dull and blunted

Sadie gained existence
On a web of worldly woes
She fed her tiny tummy
Where the buzz and flutter goes
And she learned the price of living
So she killed just what she ate
And she knew why killing needlessly
Was such an ugly trait
And with a human soul inside her
She chose to be a spider

why do i have to be a dog for my cats?
the male one is teasing my
neighbour's dog...
the dog starts barking,
doesn't stop...
so i start barking...
a dismembered word
rough with a range of
neared onomatopoeias...
i hate barking, it never sounds
like a dog... more like a
dinosaur... Ra! (a name for a roar),
a tongue's trill at the ******'s in-between...
i hate barking...
or like at the chemists, an old man and me,
i had the seat, asked if he wanted it,
he said no,
we were both waiting for a prescription...
'well, if you're not taking it
i'll stand with you in show of solidarity'
my arms folded like a pigeon or a crow
strutting... well, if he ain't going to sit
i'm not going to sit either....
there you go, solidarity, **** Wałensa...
mushy mushy overgrown moustache nozzle...
brr brr... do the motorboat of oral ***
like you're expressing shrivelling watching
the northern lights! yep, got you...
selfie taken... now make a pose for
Lactose Falls of the waterfalls from your
eyeing *******... yep... that's a happy couple...
take two! no, you ******* go off and wait
in the tourists' queue
like the other 100 ******* did politely.

It all disappears
replaced by a phantom,
the flickering light of a coal miners lantern casts its shadow along the black halls and it all disappears.
Bevan would spin in his grave knowing his lads could not save what remained of his dream,
and in the lean light of lamplight the nightwatch calls midnight,
and it all disappears.

We were born into a world that exploded with light emitting diodes,and nuclear power,turbines that whine in constant revolution,
a green world, a clean world, a world fit for tomorrow where the future is born from the ashes of sorrow and these tears we would borrow from the seeds that we sow ,
and it all disappears in the fears of the many,of those, who if they had any hope,have it no more,where the door is locked and the bolt is drawn against this brave new dawn,and sometimes it feels like I never was born ,
but created from eggshells and no one tells me that I'm wrong.

Cracked open my breath breaks away, and the inside exposed,peeled like the petals that rose on some bloom,the shrivelling doom, a vast mushrooming cloud,
and it makes me feel proud,
as it all disappears and we all fade away.

you cracked stars
lavished me in  gloaming dust

beneath freckled lashes
through glimmering tips
I adored you
uncontrollably

pledged skies could not hide in your midnight eyes
still your somber head slowly shook

between powder keg’d echoes and dwindling flickers of twilight
I slashed clumsy neon scars
intoxicated

stabbed stars spat
stuttering sparks
searing gift-wrap skin
and shrivelling ribboned lust

so shamefully I cling
to your petrol soaked promises
with tinder ribs
awaiting combustion

but you always knew
I was too dewy
to ignite
and my lungs starve flames

as I gasp
knowing

only you can crack
my star shelled wish

O lioness,

your head swung low, stooped
on muscled haunches and still,
so still on arid reed -

is your mind swept clean, all sins
forgiven? That ravenous beast -
kingly and untouchable, like a god -

is joined by another,
and bearded like wizened lords,
both parade and bare pride

and teeth. As Jealousy and Lust devour
your scrubbed young, you resign -
fur blending and heart shrivelling

in heat - and perhaps
what frightens you most
is later giving love and life

to someone that has stolen it.

When Shrivelling Hands be too Far to Beg,
Those very Guardians point to Gauge your Fame
Stars as Frozen Mentors rely on Peg
That once Removed will never be the Same
Yet by Faith both Sires press your Engage
Merely your Gifts that for Greatness promote
Not by Profits; But the Lord's Hand arrange
Admit Recreation your Time devote
Though not all, bid some Temptation advise
On his Solicitor we Understand
Whose Faces will Sell; Or Rumours incite
To plomb most Well-Wishes on their Demand.
Be this Fourth Commandment: Well we take Heed
Such Wind we Ride on a Dangerous Steed.

‬

Crossing those boundaries of yesterday, step into unknown.
As today is your birthright, burn with fervour; consume and rise.
Repetition is forbidden, etch out your story; time flies.
Past is shrivelling rose, let go, so it may nourish its own.
Enraptured, relish each moment like a French delicacy.

Desire is destiny, fickle as change is constant. There's just
Indecency of death, after which comes the stygian dearth.
Embrace that permanence, and drain every day of all its worth.
M**an wasn't meant to be a slave of tomorrow, break free; you must!

and Cinderella danced to the music box seduction & pursuit song from the Hellraiser soundtrack.

no one really speaks about the aesthetic element
of darwinism, this strange godforsaken
we-ain't-got-no-fur-but-Chernobyl-happened
conundru­m d'uh... people never care for
aesthetic darwinism, as long as you appear
able bodied: you might as well be a romanian
donkey on a building site with the anglos
trying to save money on crane hire...
oh yes, the respectable english dudes
that got me reading *hazlitt - i'm backing
Britex! and you know why? i'd love to see
Brits on a building site! i really would!
i'd love to see them sweat like cow dung
on a donkey's head... rear those ******* in!
modern Britain was built on the sweat of
eastern Europe... exit! send the Romanians home!
bring in the Salvation State Civilians to sweat
it out! oh... but they won't! they won't!
hardly a crown among a 1000 men and they're
all second class colonising ******* colonising
their home turf! romanians are donkeys!
that's what they say, takes two to shift a tonne or
two of stones while saving on using a crane!
where's an Impaler when you need one?
the richest country in Europe making cutbacks,
what a paradoxical crescendo! you'd think
they'd be better at athletic sports having saved up
on construction work muscle... but no... oh no...
they're ******* anaemic in both departments!
shrivelling muscle athletes.
VOTE BRITEX! VOTE BRITEX! SEND BRITS
TO CONSTRUCTION SITES LIKE
****** SENDING JEWS TO THE GAS CHAMBERS!
VOTE BRITEX! VOTE BRITEX! I WANT TO SEE
THESE ******* SWEAT.

Bewitch me, Ayesha, in volcanic realms
to bathe in the flames of your pillar of light
Sorceress of beauty, your power overwhelms
your enchanted incarnate, returned from the night
Ageless and timeless, in Kor once revered
Lost in your eyes, in your spellbinding gaze
Two millennia existed, now cruel and feared
by the people you’ve ruled in formidable ways
Step into the blue flames, to melt and to burn?
To give reassurance you step in the blue
caressing your body, erotically turn
Eternal life beckons in harmony with you
We bathe in the light so forever exist
Ayesha, Kallikrates ever entwined
Then time to step out, but a terrible twist
Ayesha you whither likes grapes on a vine
Your body is shrivelling, you’re turning to dust
Before me my lover gone back to the earth
Now I reincarnate forever to lust
for you to come back to me, for your rebirth
I pine for you, grieve for you, calling your name
What you failed to know of the blue fire’s curse
is that once you may enter the magical flame
but the second time all of its powers reverse.

30.12.18 JG

Participate,
Don't stay in a slump!

Initiate,
Don't be down in the dumps!

The feelings won't stay if you won't let them!

It is not that you are being cruel or that you are shutting out your feelings!

So stop your shrivelling,
don't keep punishing yourself!

Fester in them too long,
you'll be
finished!

Red tongues lap at the black expanse above
With such a solemn viciousness the embers dance skyward
Tiny blazing bodies fleeing to the Heavens
From molten veins through charred crusts crumbling
Dark smoke glows before the sky stumbling plumes and intricate ballet spirals
Engulfing more and more the flames and smoke
Choking the blackened skeleton dancing through the beams like bones
The body of the house
The innards reduced to dust
The scene is captured in unblinking eyes, two great fire filled suns
A sombre popping sound emits past the roaring heat static
Expensive couch, cheap cushions, hours wasted choosing
Burning and shrivelling items that they had afforded so much time
Destroyed and gone forever
Singed leaves drift from their life giver’s arms and crackle into the inferno -
High above the scorched earth
A grassless ash pile growing slowly
The blaze radiates an orange glow over the surrounding domiciles
Visible from a far, the smoke more absolute than the night sky.

Without bricks, wood, plaster, concrete
Out alone – self ejected into the world
Heavy feet dragging across the street with light steps
Creaking beams collapsing behind the way wolves bay from the trees
And from the end of the street the flames appear blood red
As if terra firma had been lashed open
Arteries of molten fire
Festering scabs of ash
Torched from under the flesh of air casting coal colour veins
Further and further the slowly diminishing frame fades
And the streets open up to dark distant sentinels
Flanking the road and watching densely and unflinching  
There are flames in the night air
History burning with a bonfire smell
Sirens wailing a crescendo of blaring blue light to meet the hellish glow

i'm not what you might call a holocaust denier,
it happened, the end. what i am saying
is found on a song, slayer's angel of death
from the album reign in blood...
the modern media speak of the migrant crisis,
you see it on the news, leaving the Libyan
coast, in inflatable boats, a dead child on Greece's
coast... you can just sense the desperation,
but also the daring, and the ***-starved
European women who took less a chance
for *** holidays in Ivory Coast, or whereever
it is they do their ***** business...
i don't know how they did it, the Germans,
but they did, they were rearing cattle
into those gas chambers, it's not even funny,
i'm not laughing, i'm just astouded by
the comparison, this blind belief in a god
to bail them out, and then watching
the desperate *****-like daring of the modern-day
migrants from africa into europe...
ah, the funny bit... Brussels, chocolate,
magnets... choc from Africa, choc-talk from
Belgium... am i surprised?
   as said, according to the dodo project.

i too thought that when the band *reef
released their greatest hits album,
with a new song, give me your love,
that they could rekindle their long gone career...
i thought it was their mangum opus,
just over 3 minutes long, still... what a song...
it could do much better on the radio frequencies
than their standard place your hands,
give me your love is like a virus,
it's a contagious anthem to what could have
been, but never was,
i'm sure that, if the radio people appreciated it
as much as i did (when i still played the guitar,
but later smashed it for reason that are worth
noting my ex-girlfriend and how her dad
initially made it hardly dead, but slightly disabled,
let's just say he gave her an extra sound hole;
****** hollowed her out! completely!)...
   and yes, i want writing to be as fickle,
as painting an "abstract", so i'll adopt blitzkrieg
to writing, strobe lighting, quick change of pace,
the whole disco shabang...
       what, can't i imitate women by writing as
finicky as is humanely possible?
    let's do that... i have all day...
well... i can officially say it's the 20th of February
and winter has ended...
   it's getting warmer, yuck, and i'm getting more
daylight than i like to have had...
  speak to the scandinavians about winter
and misery, or the "blues", they'll tell you that
in winter, they couldn't be happier, or should i say:
cosy... cuddling pillows and lighting scented candles
in their wooden shacks...
for care of all that *******, that's true.
      i was thinking Alaska, or Siberia, somewhere
really really remote, so i can be like
that cat i own looking at my *******
so that i look away when it's taking a **** in the garden...
oh sorry, i'll just return to my cigarette and beer
breakfast... take your time...
         what an annoying little twit she can be...
and with "can be", is...
      just after philosophy attacked poetry,
suddenly someone said, enough! that's when poetry
attacked the medium of journalism...
   someone has to bully someone in the end,
   or as i like to call it: symbiosis vulgaris...
it usually takes the monday edition of a newspaper,
and then re-reading the magzines from the sunday
edition... how those ponces critique books,
but i like critics, they actually read books,
which makes less time to think about books and bricks
and vacuums... critic: mmm hastings...
book? reporting war, by rrrr mosely... (trill that,
trill that *****)...
    it's basically about Patton bitchslapping an exhausted
soldier... and how Montgomery and 1944 and
Arnhem, and how he should have been sacked for that...
but primarily about how journalists lied...
    some shot down fighter jets,
some even did a Hemingway and added a bit
of spice, a chilli romance or something of that sort...
i add more spices to my curry when i make one,
e.g. cardamom... try thinking i'm a ****-asian
and not blame me for ultimate war and commerce...
oh wait... Caucasian... the caucus...
or let's call her: Matka Caucasus...
modernity, see, you have to start looking for myths,
myth-making is the only worthy rebellion
  to be made when everything is speeding past you
at 100 miles per hour... and it's still only Monday...
by Friday we can say: conquered the moon
and killed of Brother Grimm...
      and yes, in ancient times,
i'd give 30 years of pure, pure, pure life for this
advanced modern ******* of shrivelling away
at 100... give me 30 years of pure, raw, oyster-slurping
life and i'm your man...
   give me a life, that's actually a library and
the next time i sit before a television, i'll turn into
a little ****** and start utilising a gun and shooting
a mountain... a bit like Xerxes
          and his army told to whip the seas
into submission... akin to any madman,
the comedy just never seems to end...
                   it just goes on and on and then, at some point
we reach the pinnacle, the everyday grey,
common people... and then it becomes truly sad,
the realisation that we're all apparently prisoners
entombed by cosmic forces... i'd like people to try
to laugh then...
     but we are living in times of relative peace, aren't we?
it's not like we decided to enforce an "article 50"
(more like article 22, catch)
and are sending men to war,
                only when the mechanisms of war have become
so advanced that the wars we currently see
are puny... they don't capture the imagination,
what with the nation being so abstract it's
only basis is for football supporters and nothing else...
not the type of man i could have been in 1939...
   even when my grandfather and father lived
in a nation that prescribed no university after
leaving school, but 3 years in the army...
   where my jealosy stems from...
   3 years comprehensive in the army...
     it's that lesson of teaching man: routine...
my routine went when i went to university,
even though i did have 9 am lectures, and it was chemistry
and in my third year i was doing over 30 hours
in lab and lecture hall...
          but when i look at my father's and my grandfather's
life, i'm just thinking about an england,
where army conscription was dogma...
                ****'s sake, ted berrigan did it!
and he was a poet!
               me? more or less a *****... a tier higher above
a gimp... but i'll just call myself chewing gum
and mule it over...
                  try not having a joke at the existential
lottery known as life...
                          but it's like: who to fight?
    we done fighting, we're faking fighting? we're
not really fighting, are we?
      so, about this book, and how journalists and with
due care for establishing that there were censors
in the interim years 1939 - 45...
             and how wars are waged as much with
guns and knives as with truths and lies...
      well... if at war... tell a load of lies...
if at peace?
                 you have to tell the most mundane truths
unimaginable... truths can't be imagined,
e.g. i wrote this quasi-constipated, that's quasi for:
i kept it in and made an effort, and had some *****...
of peace and for peace to endure:
you have to be blunt... you can't *******,
well, i call bullshiting a diarrhea of narrative,
in the meantime i'm also capturing the sunset,
i started this, whenever i did and now i'm desperate
for a lightbulb...
      but really, for truth and for peace,
for both these children to have a father,
          they need to hear the uttermost banal:
a banana is yellow, white is the refractor of light,
black is the insulator of light... goths and emos
wear black cloths but have an aristocratic complex
meaning they have a vitmanin d deficiency
and i could milk them with my pinky.

the virus is raging: or so we're told -
i don't really mind whether we're told anything
anymore - i can finally come to grips
with the male version of the niqab:
just fine...

                              but once the virus impregnated:
whether our actual bodies or...
whether this: that be the detached from the herd
mind - whatever cull word: or choice of....

but... islam stopped: doing its business of
a revival... a revival... mind you...
that only involved the sunnis...
  it's like: the ******* would rather sweep their
whole schism under the magic carpet...
no... they wouldn't: they: sunnis...
wouldn't attack the sh'ites... the persians:
yeah... good luck with that...
the persians would bow before...
a bunch of camel jockeys:
  the library of baghdad...
              and: a library with only one book...
quasi-poetry: that damns poetry...

but i guess a book that takes hold of the heart
is much more than a book
that agitates the mind...
the bible: agitates the mind...
**** knows what it does to the heart...
but i'm sure to know that...
a proper adhan...
   can leave me in tears...
like...

but when i hear: da pacem domine...
or anything! anything resembling teuotnic songs
of the conquest of the baltic states:
too bad for merry ol' german...
having converted the prussians...
the prussians...
well: the revenge of the pagans over
their christian overlords...
or some **** like that: otherwise a different cover...
so much so that...
the polacks stood a chance with the kashubians...
and the silesians...
mongrel tongue they are much at home
than if ruled over by prussians...

jihad: a war of reclaiming land...
never a war of intrusion...
you reclaim all you have lost:
but you do not claim new land...
it's not a holy war beside:
what has to occur naturally: the growth of
an idea: that the enzyme is a sword...
well: no one's perfect...

but given there's a break from
fetish fashisto islamism...
     turban afghan / saudi sunni **** flinging
pajamas... well...
what about the hugo boss uniforms you
promised with all that oil money you ******
away on yachts and ****** that:
those ****** were waiting for you in jannah?!

of course i'm teasing the mamluk and
the janissary...
if you fed me... adhans... poetry...
and then: speeding to modern times...
played me as this egyptian stranger...
in amsterdam: architecture student... genius doodler...
an afternoon with him... beers and some jojo-and-mary...
in amsterdam... or... the previous afternoon
and these two slobs: germans...
and he gave me a song to listen to...
how the world dwarfed...
le trio joubran - masar...

i have nothing in christianity: a headache...
i tried judaism: too complicated...
linguistic avenues: herr zensor ha-shem:
the name of: kether: keter -
crown... you can only be so smart...
before: ehyeh asher ehyeh just because the same
bogus "trip" of pickled intellect you
have with that trinity and: fraction...

da pacem domine...
            muhammad can start wearing a niqab
at this moment... i don't even know whether
a proselyte status is teasing me:
i can't tame a heart: esp. my own...
but seeing the clear reduction of islamic
intrusion into christian affairs of:
yawn... usury? iconoclasm?
                        contra: the former...

you sold me on the romance of mamluk and
jannisary... because i'm fat from being tired
from what christianity has to offer...
honestly... even if there was a nag hammadi
library revival of the gnostic section...
or... 100 years from now...
there was news about the fate of isaiah
and the dead-sea-scrolls...

                 the muslims are not attacking...
by the grace of god...
some authoritarian mouthpiece from their shitpile
of clueless stopped talking...
and the adhan could be listened to: again...
and rumi minimalism could be read:
sufism! could be digested...

my mind can wander calendars... days and decades...
dreams and deja vus...
it can cross boundaries inanimate object
territory and turn to all things fuzzy
in the realm of hallucinations:
denial, doubt, conviction
in one way or another...
fractions of synonyms...

i cherish the one libra... the heart's:
yes....           or...                      no...
then there's the christianity that borrows too much
from its: "cultured" / cultivated paganism...
whether greek or trojan (alias latin)...
i'm tired of these arguments...
they're either claustrophobic (without any
evidence of clarifying workable space)....
trash: recycling matter... per-haps...

                      hoarder peoples of the world
"unite"... no... i'm "bored" and just exhausted
by the secular arguments or how
the trinity fraction ingenuity should work...
when islam is stsarting to turn lazy...
i figured: the romance associated with
the mamluk and the janissary is open, yes?

sufism and the indivisible one?
the vector: the north: point north vector -
the frankenstein moster clue: that's still open?
will i meet the drawfish turks along the way...
and they'll come up with...
canons for ****-open the walls
of constantinople?

      ever convert someone by way of
shrivelling up their testicles or crucifying their
mind on the altar of phobias?
if you don't have the heart...
you might as well be gagging for an achilles' heel...
if that!
christianity and pop cult. secularism...
i'm bored of worshipping
a static demigod...

        how many demigods came...
preceding? but this demigod is the fraction
celebration: the intellectual *******
of people who: cared not for...
the ferris wheel, etc.
                    
         rome is no more!
holy rome is no more: the "*****" achieved its purpose...
citing Casimir III also helped...
the nomads moved: jumped over the pond...
spider patience as released into
the city-scape: well of course... well done!
applause!

the question "question" is never asked...
given... hasn't christianity become a quasi-polytheism?
how many denominations?
too little gods: and the one...
as a fraction... can just keep on giving:
yet another preceding 0 of: the divided fraction
booth...

         the schism within islam was hardly
an intellectual:
all these "byzantine" precursor details...
such a bothersome spectacle for all:
that mind the bureucratic shoo! shoo!
              an intellectual affair:
                       worldly affairs... Ali was promised x...
the caliphs decided on project y...
the integrity of "the prophets" word:
while aging... senile yet still *******
a fresh cherub-and-orange akin to...
                 Khadija **** Khuwaylid still on my mind...
in praise of older women...

according to malcolm X and: cassius clay...
islam knows no race...
since... christian fwench... catholic...
spaniard catholic: later christian...
german retro: swiss...
anglican fudge-packers...
             yes... islam is not a nationality:
nor is it a race...
then again: what is croat... former yuogoslav...
or greek...
when... ahem... all that matters is...
h'american patriotism?!
if only the h'americans can be patriotic...
only the 50 shingles and twin barons
of stripes is on the ready...
the h'americans are: patriotic!
the rest of us are being nationalistic:
cousin-******-******!
can't islam come via Sarajevo and...
become... an escape plan?

   Ezra Pound might have cited:
the former proud stance of christianity against
usury... and now...
loan-sharks...
   i could be a slave to islam because
i could finally escape the "lost" e in
a ethnic grouping that has me locked in with...
the st. petersburg crowd...
the slavs...         and the germans: are... germs...
east a vowel - prefix at the wrong moment...
thank god that islam is not a people
but an idea...
and i'm burning with it...
without need to make or meet
proper formalities of conversion...
by heart's analogy of the mind's banquet
of the thesaurus...
when will the simple yes...
or the simple no arrive?
i don't know...
                i don't want to know...

after all: will you frequently hear...
of a *** / 'ebrew convert?
no! of course not! it's a... v.i.p. club...
you being a jew is more than an "idea"...
yep... it's exactly "also" a race...
you don't get to bypass all the cousin *******
cousin inbreeding on a whim...
you don't get to be given a "choice"...
while islam readily converts...
new blood...
islam readily converts because...
you were never a chosen within the confines
of the distinct few:
which is nice...
islam readily converts: while christianity willingly
abandons...
why am i looking into a mamluk /
janissary romance novel genre?
will i write one?
do i look like someone to turn a silver
spoon into a ***** and fake
a sigh?

dare i: dare not i: "not i"...
back into the basic structure of words:
back into syllables...
words like: da-je (it's giving)
                           i forget all the other mamas' and
papas'... "lyrics"...
i'm just bored of the exclusivity and
inclusivity of peoples...
mind you: i mind more...
what's that: fidgeting me... irritating me...
such the atom: like the letter abounding
around them...
it's nothing special... it's just: fudge...
and a simple metaphor of concrete and
indigestion to have to... endure...
gorge... digest...

                i'm bored of christianity
because of the ruling "christianity" of h'america...
back to basics: son of sam...
thank god for the atlantic ocean...
some distance... some perspective...
evangelical: denominations of old world
protestantism...
no... all the basics of:
looking at women with "fun" prospects...
joy... what about the joy of a bicycle...
it's like ******* retards claiming:
casper the friendly ghosts and
spiderman were touch-up buddies to sooth...

thank you h'america... send me back
to afghanistan... and pashtun womens' poetry...
too many minutes spent on this insomnia footprint
of the web: i still believe a t.v. and a computer
and internet access should be akin
to resembling a fireplace... fixed locations...
no?
i don't actually mind:
eating a burger and getting a blockjob
like driving a car...
on a smooth motorway...
try the same... and giggling... on horseback...

if i could gonvern myself to establish a matrix
of prayer - rummagings of a lacklustre
of schiphrenia - perhaps...
for all the freedoms "imposed":
and not imposed - shimmy shimmy -
and all that isn't received as: to pass...
restrictions galore...
the smooth shake-me-up...
secular: testicular clean shaven *******
tip of luck when licked: etc.

           yeah... yeah: sign me up for that...
pedestrian safehaven!
the promises of science...
                  the christian day to day...
and the... straitjacket of islam...
or... or... prop-er... PWOPH-EER "judeo-christian":
and some salty Cicero...
and some pepper stiff 'istotle!
                  
   love is... love is: pseudo-echo: his eyes...
and all the little idiosyncracies still alive in me:
that makes me focus on me:
and not on... the expendable you...
     all i want is to focus on these details
without having to infringe on: detailing you...
to what...
                impaled... which has to be
more insufferable than a crucifixion...
but... let's not mind that...

              the detail comes around with:
the civic world is a world that the ancient
romans laid a claim on...
the rest? that the romans didn't lay...
a claim on? fifth partition of poland...
a ****** job over the "question" of iraq...
i'm not this "white" ****-boy's boor...
but that i am: since i'm not his baron.

- all that bob woodward & carl bernstein
achieved... deep-throat alias
of that ninja in m.g.s. PSI...
but what i included... but what jonathan landay
and warren strobel couldn't...
it breaks, the "heart"...
or at least the mind... capable of...

- honestly... i never much appreciated
rembrandt...
but... what wouldn't... otherwise...
a sobering-up sessions of sitting on the edge
of the bed do... otherwise:
better good... than the thus presented...
than... hang-over... looking at prints
of the aging rembrandt...
no... not the zenith... the impeding
nadir...

          would it still be necessary for me
to ingest from l.s.d.?
the lazy strokes of grace-
any other adjective of pompous
sycophancy is open: though... to be added...
no... not because his a well known name...
but because: i never found the sort of
raw beef: or the sort of stomach...

the question of the "question"...
within the realms of the diaspora...
that's a hard "question"...
given the diaspora is... a status quo that...
look at the orthodox yids / hebs
of brooklyn...
they're not leaving and brooklyn isn't...
either... the question of a people
without a diaspora...
is still only a "question"...
like that: MADE IN CHINA... "question"...
i still haved things in my possession that have...
MADE IN HOLLAND...
MADE IN INDIA... MADE IN IRELAND...
hell... even MADE IN BANGLADESH
makes you believe in a higher quality than...
all that CHeap CHequers ***** from
the land of BING JING... and the squirming
dwagon...

ask any thai or any... the chinese are not
the best parts of h'america...
and the worst parts of russia...
and... all the rest: reincarnated horde motto:
mongol...
joke... stinking camel jockeys will
not touch a squat of pork for fear
of the silk road mafia:
yow-eatz the stinking sheepz...
me eatz pork & leather
    me eatz pork & leather...
                                     shoe?! shoe?!

shrimp **** gets a hard-on and there's no
mushroom saxon esq. 1960s mantra...
of toll culture!
               well: shrimp **** is hardly:
a korean sand-bag or a piece of japanese
porcelain skin... whiter than porky-pink
gets handled by haggling over Libya...
and the Spanish... sun... tan!
- it's a good nuance though...
given that... all of the baltic sushi is
ascribed the status of: herring herring herring;
raw... yes... in a gherkin infused
cream... creamy dreams of a less robotic...
less stockholm syndrome... Stockholm...
the museum of the tomb of the Vasa ship...
and all those yachts...
seeing Stockholm... no need to see Oslo...
Helsinki... Copenhagen... seeing St. Petersburg...
i really... really need to see Istambul;
smoled salmon... rye bread...
mayonnaise... cucumber... dill...
rainbow trout caviar...
it would be a luxury... caviar...
if everyone was willing to eat it...
but... given the price... only a few could...
caviar would be a yacht symbol of richness...
no... you want a better summary?
caviar is... marmite...
you either love it... or hate it...
everyone almost everyone:
the greater majority... can stomach...
poultry abortions...
caviar is not a luxury... it's an idiosyncracy;
there's no "acquired" taste...
it's something akin to: the web architecture
a priori in the confines of
'ed... of the spider...
or how... the woodland pigeon builds
a nest... "from thin air"...

             learning to walk...
is so class-A drug... bourgeoisie...
                perhaps there was a russian revolution...
perhaps there was the industrial revolution...
all in all: there was only the french revolution.

I am once again silenced at the precipice of speech
On the verge of verbal expression I falter
Stutter, mutter, fumble, and tumble over words
As if they were more than just words
And really something physical
Something I could touch

Eyes converge on my lips like a lens
Focusing the rays of indignation so it burns
Charring and shrivelling, those black paper butterflies
Flutter in my chest and tear up my insides
Moving towards my head, stop my lungs
I can't breathe
My heart is a flooded
Watergate, a dam rushing
A machine out of control
I think
I think
I think
I think
I'm on the brink
My mind is a man
In danger
His out of breath lungs breathing acid
Pursued by a hooded knife
In the lonely dark he runs
But reaches a dead end
No way out
No where to run
He spots the shape, the only escape
A silhouette in his eye
He wishes he would collapse, so he could just
Relax
Retire with a sigh
The burden off his mind
Everything gone
He would finally die

woke this morning on the wrong side of bed
or was it somebody else's bed altogether
the birds were screaming and I felt like shrivelling
why is it that mornings either bring dread or fresh terror
I'm angry at more things yet again
I'm not sure I mean to slam these doors or glare
do I feel like stringing words or writing music
why is it that human speech sets me on edge
the heart is in actuality quite small
(the size of my clenched fist before I drive it into the wall)
we set up mirrors around the perimeters of its insides
to make it look larger, encompassing and more roomy
did you say symmetry or did you say cemetery
not sure if I wasn't listening, or you weren't clear
isn't speech meant to be understood

went to sleep on the wrong side of bed
or was it somebody else's bed altogether
you were humming and I was daydreaming, listening
the only thing in my head "what am I doing"
do you feel like sexting or do you feel like sleeping
I like it better when you call me "pretty" and not "beautiful"
I fail to comprehend strings of words flying out your lips
but when you touch me I understand
we hold our false large hearts in beaten chests
(the redness of skin tearing as I claw at flesh)
we play around with foolish words
and when dawn breaks we dress sore clawed backs
fading in, fading out
trying our hardest just to recall how to look clean
our sweetness lies only in the night
and steadily, bitterness comes every morning

My body trembles at the sight of shadows.
Fireflies flicker and flash above us.
Burning hands and hungry flesh.
A knocking begins.
My tongue pressed against my teeth.
"Why do we make things so complicated?"
Tangled and messy in the muscles of hearts.
I heave and hurt.
Early mornings. Little sleep.
Is this the purge?
I can’t remember the last time someone spoke to my skin.
Company is expensive. The price of a hot meal.
I ***** the faces of lovers on my wall with needles, and cover their mouths with tape.
Pressed up against isles of DVD’s.
Kiss me until you taste laughter.
I’ve never before felt so heavy.
Lungs shrinking, shrivelling.
Sockets are black holes now.
You never looked like just a man to me;
from the first time I looked at you
I saw poetry.

I abandon all tears;
My conscience seeks peace.
My wholeness has gone;
Gone like my faith, alone.

The youth and serendipity
The blood that breathed in me
Now turning into wrath;
My coined life is virile and mad.

What is around me;
All lost in promiscuity;
Here, there shall be no heaven
Here, love has no words—nor passion.

Who speaks about me,
To understand or see me;
All are sinking into shrapnels,
And the lonesome heat feels like hell.

All is part of dark tunnels,
Channeling out into brown seas,
Living by unseen funnels
Unfelt by the breeze.

All is not blind, but sad
Shrivelling in bold air,
Their youths, I cannot wed
But lonely nights are fair.

I withdraw all affairs;
That they shall subside
And blend into those lights,
Those I have never cheered.

I hold my breath anew
I have been here to the core,
The lenient feelings that knew;
I should not stay once more.

Have you ever found yourself
In a burning room
Walls marbled by the heat
Eyes stinging
Lungs shrivelling
Full of a fear
You never thought you’d know
And will you move
Crash out a window
Down onto
The dewy grass
Surrounded by shards
Of broken glass
Staring at the sky
With overcast eyes
As the sirens draw nearer
Until the police come
Or will you stay
Will they be too late
As flames lick up your skin
Will they find a body
The body you left behind
When you looked at all your choices
And decided to die

What happens to love that’s neglected,
What happens with absence of care,
When only the shrug of indifference
Is left for you both to share.
What happens when neither will reach on out
To touch, or caress or to hold,
Or eyes never meet when you pass in the street
There’s a shrivelling up of the soul.

And the taste of the past is like ashes,
While the memories gone are like dust,
Growing deeper with time as it passes
To bury attraction and lust.
And you wonder about the excitement
That you felt at the moment you met,
Was that a mirage, is the desert so large
That your heart remains lost in it yet?

When the days stretch ahead, and are endless
That you fear there will be no respite,
Are you under a curse, could it be any worse
With your tears on the pillow at night?
When you put a brave face on each morning,
And you nod to each other, then go,
But pray life will not be extended,
What happens? I think that you know!

David Lewis Paget

The winds of the west blow
from hallowed undying lands
to lands east,over the oceans flow
into mortal realms where darkness lies
They stem from His thoughts,who dwells on his lofted throne
and transcends the realms of every age
giving life to that gentle breeze,
that has the power to assuage,ills
begotten when the girdle was built
sundering one and one from the other
even so the west wind fills,the chasm so deep
that was bourn out of the wrath,that once was
but now gently sleeps,in the west
from where the wind blows.
They breathe life into shrivelling palms
hope into tired arms,and strength when all else fails
For the winds alone remain,in union with the sea,of those
who of yore roamed in fellowship where man was found
in the deeps of the elder days,before the ships were set to sail
by the same wind,that still returns,for it has neither forgotten
not forsaken those who it left,on shores hidden from light
that does not burn,yet smoulders still in the hearts
of those who looked upon it,when the world was young.
So the west winds blow,but also return to lands where
they were birthed,carrying tidings of all things
that come to be,dark or fair,to the lords
who set it to wandering go,beyond,where no duty calls
and so does it also bring,the weary fallen,
to return home and grandly dine, in the halls
where their fathers are,in the west
from where the winds blow.

Lay me down gently
Put me down to sleep
When the night-time draws near
Allow my conscious to slumber deep

You cared for me so gently
Your love so very steep
Hands cradling my body
Knew that I could trust you while I was weak

And that hand became firmer
Clutching my cheek
Your figure looming larger
Rib cage trembling, letting out a creak

My heart laid bare
My chest ripped open in a heap
Your voice like daggers
Into my blood, your words seep

And slowly, as you lay me down
Force me down to sleep
The shadows of my cot grows
And silence slowly reigns over the night bleak

Not a meek voice heard from the baby
As you stand over me in a silent vicious weep
Knife in hand, prepared to take the leap
Gaze flicking over to the baby's eyes that begin to peep

Staring, as the baby begins to smile
Smile eerie, teeth wicked and sharp
Eyes blinking slowly, its stare
An oath that your soul it will reap

You draw back your dagger
Driving your frozen feet forward with a shriek
Coming down with momentum
Moonlight glinting with the blade's sweep

Relief washing over you
The baby's forsaken body lying in death asleep
Eyes still open, unmoving as you heave
Deep breath in, as your heart beats

Until, motionless eyes slowly roll to the side
The blood on your knife, now on your skin creeps
Crawling and drawing its way up in streaks
Encircling your wrist, holding you in its keep

You struggle in its grasp, as with torment it wreaks
It's body shrivelling as its blood encompasses your physique
Meshing its blood with your blood, overpowering your every essence
Until your lips although moving, are no longer able to speak

And slowly, your body shrivels along with the form in the cot
Blood flowing, down your body it creeps
Returns down your arms, down the shining blood-red blade
and back into the empty skin

Figure transforming, as the baby reaches down and slowly
The handle it retrieves
Drawing out the weapon
No longer in blood is it steeped

The baby closes its eyes, as sleep clutches it's form
Breathing small breathes through its small nose
Figure of a mother barely holding on
Laying on the ground as her eyes leak

I much enjoyed the way
she did not look right through me
she did not pierce me with soul
******* ball shrivelling contempt

or grab my buddy's *** as soon
as I turned around or his girlfriend's, also
I liked how she drank as much as me
but didn't slam her drink on the bar

or challenge me to arm wrestle her
and spit her chaw right womanly like
on the floor, and how she braided her
underarm hairs

She walked gently like a model
in her pointy cowboy boots
and her big knife in a sheath along
her right hip complimented nicely

the 45 colt on her left.

This being the time of the shrivelling
colour change and discard
for trees bedding down for hibernation
and Man shedding and redressing in
thicker clothing. Spinning away
from the Sun in crazy abandon
like Whirling Dervishes lost in the dance.
The footfall of folk quickening as they walk
familiar pathways in ever dimming light.
We can smell the times are here for lighting
fires and for cold on the skin like plucked
chicken, to ***** us into acceptance of
the coming of Winter, once again arriving
on our doorsteps .

It's crazy how you were my entire world.
My entire universe.
And I was not even a speck of dust floating around the glorious stars in yours.
It's crazy how my world didn't revolve around the Sun, it revolved around knowing that somewhere out there, you were smiling your beautiful smile and with those captivating eyes of yours you admired the wonder around you in your world.
Your world.
The world in which the flowers blossomed, excited for the new adventure and every morning the birds sang their enchanting melody as the never ending forests rippled with vibrant shades of green.
And the dew drops sparkled on every blade of grass like the sparkling stars light years away from my universe.
My universe.
The universe where without you the sky became black as ash and the tiny embers forming constellations above me were glimmers of hope that one day you'd return and together we'd flourish in my world.
My world.
Where every day of the year it rained.
Not the soothing rain that brings nourishment to all nature as it trickles down the window on a warm summer evening.
But the persistently pounding, pouring rain that floods homes and shoots bolts of electricity across the sky like scratch marks etched into space as I frantically try to claw my way out of this universe.
It's crazy how some say the universe is expanding but mine was shrinking and shrivelling up without you.
For the mere thought of being without you exploded my stars and crushed my planets until my universe was a cold and empty hole.
Because you were the light that kept my universe whole.
That brought daisies to my gardens and songbirds to my trees but now they have left me.
Left me alone in my collapsing universe because while your world revolved around the Sun, mine revolved around the memory of feeling your strong, protective hands clutching my delicate fingers and telling me that the day you let go is the day the world stops spinning.
And when you let go,
My world stood still.
Still as the ocean resting after a storm,
Still as the tulips waking up in the morn,
Still as my body curled up on the floor.
Because it's crazy how heartbreak leaves you alone with your thoughts.
And I thought that it's time my world starting spinning.
It's crazy how you depend on your universe.
But I am letting mine go.

- p. winter

.you only need a few crux-words, to trigger, the adequate response narrative/diatribe reactions... the "unnatural" suspect, of the inhibited curse, of will, like suicide, people are afraid of the people who express either, an inhibited ("free") will, or, the uninhibited ("free") will... because that's not even worth the staging of an exhibition to begin with.

the thespian curtain:
wish the soviets were back?
wish the soviet were back?
wish the soviets...
never mind...

            in terms of life:
either hard-earned cash,
or just pure brute honesty
"pays"                  "conundrum"
      the,
   "adventures" of a mediocre
life...

       sure, i was 18,
she was 13...
i was dating her sister...
it was ****** up,
this, "love at first sight"...
but then i began to "reason"...
outright rage,
for ensuring a moral
plateau, "compass"?
feeding into these
apathy-zombies,
these moral police waiting
in line cashier wannabes?

fazed...

                there's nothing
alien to the human mind,
unless,
it's provided by a reciprocated
psyche of equal status....

it was, "wrong"
for a 18 year old, catching
a disney snippet,
of a beauty,
of a 13 year old
not acting upon it,
"circumcising"
himself to a reality
of, what later became,
his experiences in
visiting a brothel...

b'ah! b'ah! b'a'a'h b'a'a'h bad!

i began ******* aged
8...
find, me, the *******
******* who
encouraged me to
transcend age restrictions!
no priest:
no Guns of Navarone.

- but even to me,
it was ****** up...
    come one,
       liking my ex-girlfriend's
sister, 6 or so years my
junior...
  it's like...
experiencing my
first "thrill"
for liking black girls,
when integrating into,
this, "grand scheme of things",
of a multicultural society,/
project.

       we're talking transgender,
but can't allow ourselves
to m'eh fathom
the currency of
basic transcendence...

     teen love...
**** me...
   i never learned / experienced
*** until i was at university,
and even then,
it was b'aah b'aah b'aad
to glorify Napoleon...
unless...
taught by some surrogate
impregnated canadian
****...

         then napoleon was all cool!

it's not paedohpilia...
what i'm talking about is
platonic love...
         can it exist outside of the realm
of its original experience,
inter-******,
between an older man,
and a younger man?
   can...
   platonic love,
a variant of succumbing to
the experience of selflessness,
become exhibited in
an inter-****** encounter,
i.e. between a man,
and a woman?

       i'd love to see the count
of agreement,
to the counter of,
non-agreement...
      does it change,
once the years pass...
say...
   i'm 33, the girl is 23...
   is the state, still intact,
to make implementations
of power,
to have me to have to
cower in "fear" of repercussions?

if not? then we're clearly not
talking about anything specific,
are we?
       yes, yes,
tame the adults,
while the teenagers are riddle,
rife,
   with antics such as:
sending naked pictures of
their genitals,
because some *******-"riddled"
****** didn't have the *******
to walk into a newsagent,
and buy a pornographic magazine...
to make jerking off
regular, even by my standards:
that's a ******* ******...

what? no clue to the rose hue?
no, no shrivelling *******?!
no "hint" of suspence?
ha ha! gavin mcinnes, proud boys,
all inclusive,
once you tell 5 brands of
cereal brands,
while being punched...
'ere's one...
    buy a ******* pornographic
magazine! how's that?
deal?

           no? oh... too proud
to do it yourself...
i get it, i get it,
the "loss" of ******* doesn't help...
you know where
humbled jews come from?
where i come from...
there's no "loss"
of ******* audacity in the thinking,
i might not be german,
but i am also the one who
inherited
the "love", the, "love"
of russo-german expansions...
took two ******* ******
to **** around with
this one ***** of a nation...
third in the nostrils:
if i were to truly keep count.

now...
we settled?
no, of course we're not...
i'll just have to keep drilling
these words,
into all the available onlookers
and "ponder"
what will happen,
subsequently...

thank god i went to a brothel,
and thank god
i bought a pronographic magazine
before this **** became
prevalent, fwee...
on the internet.

my treat...
     but the litre of whiskey,
is on me,
  for me.

My heart’s gone weary
It’s shrivelling, it’s hiding
And it hurts like hell

When I unveiled you, lover,
Peeled these rented sheets sticking
Sweat to skin,
I half expected to find maggots kissing
Your flesh. And, yes, whilst I could still trace the wound on your shoulder I
Teethed into the night before -
Removing with it the sheath that hid your pink -
You still looked fresh.
There were no flies to lick the berry blood painting your pillow,
There were no bruises rotting your body,
No puckering, shrivelling, pruning.
I ran my hand across your chest and you felt taut
(Like rope),
Your peach fuzz tickled my fingertips.
How could I devour such a pretty thing?
Squeeze you in my stone fist until you exploded,
Leaving behind nothing but your pit and the juice
Dripping down my wrist -
A sweet trail of you.
So I draped the sheet back over your corpse and rinsed myself dry,
And when I checked again you still hadn't decayed.