It’s always Monday here with the hustle and bustle of the boisterous marketplace,
Negotiations carried out over loudspeakers and hailers,
It’s never without a fight.
It’s always Monday here with the cries of half-dead swans and suffocating dolphins,
Collateral damage is a word used loosely,
Now that the main guy is here.

Last night was a good night, befitting a Sunday’s catch,
Rest is only for the lost and lonely on a lovely Sunday night.
They brought them in, lined up in rows of ten,
Nothing on but a white singlet and pretty underpants.
They cowered in fright and tried to huddle,
The whips flew as freely as the flies that came to meddle.

It was not long till your turn came
Pretty as a rosebud
One man claimed
Smooth as a rose’s petal
Another one gleamed.

It was all too real for you and you fell dead, in silence
It’s always Monday here, someone said,
She was so pretty...
As they carried you on their back
to dump you in the truck
to throw away the body
just outside the city.

It’s always Monday here, said the man shaking his head,
as he went to the playground to fish
for another haul of fresh blood and good meat!

It’s always Monday here...
Someone said...

Presumably the next big thing will be soles — socks with holes. Or maybe zits — pants with zips.

It’s made me wonder what else is ahead for us this season, so I headed to the mall to find out.

Topshop proclaims the return of triple denim (noooo!), the corset and coats worn as dresses. The latter should be worn undone to the waist and half falling off in order to “create a cold-shoulder silhouette”. Doesn’t make such sense during a Melbourne winter, I must say.

Topshop also has a very worrying item called a “monochrome gingham flute tie sleeve top”, which looks to me very much like a chequered table napkin worn backwards with ribbons at the elbows keeping the sleeves on. I’ll pass on that one.

Over at H&M;, winter’s “new mood” is all about “sustainable style” containing recycled materials. That means a simple flannel top is reborn as “conscious fashion” and a blue worker-style singlet becomes a “lyocell vest top”.

What would they call hi-vis? Apparently, the fash pack call it “haute reflecture”. Yes, really.

Most concerning is a shirt with “trumpet sleeves” so wide they’d need a separate seat at a restaurant. Even then they would end up dipping into the dinner of the person sitting at the next table. It may help you work out what to order, but it’s not likely to win you any friends.

At Zara it’s all about a “limited edition ballet dress” that will look perfect under a “moto jacket” Did they forget the r? Or are they too cool for correct spelling?

There is also something very strange called “over-the-knee high-heel sock boots”, which are $100. Give them to someone you loathe this Easter.

Zara also wants us to wear “Mum-fit jeans with side stripes”, which will no doubt just draw more unwelcome attention to the dreaded maternal hips. Who needs that?

They also have a velvet sack-style dress with a drawstring at the mid-thigh. It’s the style that doesn’t discriminate — it’s guaranteed to look unflattering on everyone.

So what other trends should we be running away from this season? Fashion insiders tell me “street-chic utilitarianism” is all the rage. That seems to involve wearing a flak jacket 10 sizes too big in a rotting-flesh colour paired with floral leggings with built-in shoes.

There’s also “new shirting”, which looks to me like the same thing as “old shirting” but has the added disadvantage of being just about to fall off your shoulders at the most inopportune time.

Trust me, you don’t need that and you don’t need an ironic-slogan T-shirt that tells the world “This was not a gift” or “This is a white T-shirt”.

I am also quite interested to know that “bra out” is apparently a trend and I wonder if that means I should stop tucking my daggy mum-bra straps into my tops.

Now, as someone who spent most of Wednesday this week at work with a large shop store label hanging out of the back of my skirt, I’m obviously not a huge fashionista.

But even I can see that never before has there been such a gap between clothes the fashion-conscious labels are promoting and everyday pieces we actually want to wear. You know, clothes that are well priced, well made, last more than a few seasons and aren’t made by five-year-old Bangladeshi orphans.

THERE’S no doubt something very weird is going on when there’s a waiting list for Yves Saint Laurent’s $10,000 jewelled boots and jewellery made of real succulents is being tipped as the next big thing. But really, who wants to have to remember to water their earrings?

Wandering around Zara this week (from where I bought the $89 skirt I forgot to take the label off), I was interested to see sale racks packed with off-the-shoulder tops, summer denim and lots of body suits. When are they going to learn women don’t want press studs up their privates?

I know that in fashion everything new is old anyway and that’s what really concerns me.

I’ve been around long enough to remember all the best worst fashion disasters such as pooh-catcher pants, velour tracksuits, trucker hats and platform sneakers.

Frankly, there are some items that don’t deserve to be wheeled out again. They include leg warmers — because your ankles don’t get cold when you work out, do they? And let’s not revisit male crop tops, because a hairy muffin top is something we don’t need to see.

Back to jindows. Just because Topshop tells us they’re “globally trending in the denim space”, it doesn’t mean you need a pair.

Remember. You didn’t need jeggings, coatigans, skorts or flatforms. And you sure as hell don’t need jindows.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses

its true
smoking can shrink genitals

no bother to a committed
singlet


But if it can do that
what else is shrinking

I’m gonna jingle a single in my singlet
Juggle Bintang bubbles in my jocks
Run wild and free in the city
No trickery tickity tock
Just flippity flip in my flip flops
See me rickety rock off your socks
Dangle the bangle and I haggle
Cha-ching cha-ching on the rocks
One dolla two dolla or three
Join us for a beer at a party in Bali
By the bay with a babe by the sea
With Marley and Ali and me

While you were sleeping
the roses bloomed
I stood in my singlet
to serenade the moon

While you were hiding
I heard the noise
of the restless flutterings
of our lost joys

While you were drifting
I restored the sun
I looked for your shadow
But there wasn't one

You were drifting, through all the noon
Yeah you were hiding, you heard no tune
Once i wanted to show it all to you
And still you're sleeping, you'll never see the moon

It's 10 pm, Saturday night. I'm down in Jessie's place, just to join her in a lust filled night of sorts. Her blonde hair radiating from the lamp on the night stand. I carry her in my arms, both arms out resembling a father carrying a newborn baby except she wasn't my baby, not in that sense anyways. The tension in the air was so thick that even a butter knife couldn't spread the tension, but me and jessie had spread on our mind.

I could smell her alluring scent as I lay her down onto the bed, it must have been the thrill of daring to step into a boundary we had no knowledge existed. Love thy neighbour as heavenly quoted by men and women all around the world, I guess I was abiding by what I have been taught.

A little bit about Jessie, Jessie had these mesmerising blue eyes and had a husband, John,a fine husband, a brave husband who was filled with love.  John wasn't ever one to toot his own horns but he had the right to refer to himself in the third person, why wouldn't John be given the right? He's awesome and extremely brilliant at that. Nothing short of Superman or Einstein is what John has been told.

Jessie has been my neighbour for years, ever since I could remember. I drink a lot, so I haven't exactly the best memory of when or wheres. It was how we met, she was my neighbour and I was hers. Now we were closer, so close to the point that I could see her blue eyes staring into mine.

"Jess, I hope it's Ok, I wrote you ... a little poem. That's not...umm too weird right ?"

"Sure, as long as it's not something too eerie. Don't be too...what's that word?... Sappy" Jessie nodding in agreeance.

The words glided out of my lips like a gold medalist ice skater, with elegance and soft subtle seductive intentions.

'Love is like an ocean,
The sounds of crashing waves against rocks,
That mimic the sound of my heartbeat,
Love is more than an emotion,
Love is the echo of water dripping in a cave,
Love is a poison and a potion,
It is the pollen that fills the spring air,
Love can cause chaos and beauty
It holds onto your hearts and never lets go'.

I ended my recital by looking into Jessie's direction for affirmation of its quality, I couldn't actually pinpoint her ****** response but I'll try my best to capture it. Her eyes, rolled to one side in a condescending and demeaning manner but her smile was filled with some sort of ...actual craving for more.

My lips shot forward similar to the teens 'duck-face selfie poses', and I asked "So... do you ... like?".

Silence...

I waited for a little longer, or what felt like an eternity in my mind's timeframe.

Silence again...

I expressed my regret "Sorry, I'll recite another one?... Yes? "

"The sun and the moon,
You see they were friends,
But not everything twist and bends,
And even though the sun loved the moon,
He had loved her since yesterday's noon,
When she wasn't even around, he loved her.
Somewhere far away in the horizons,
It clearly never seemed to occur,
In her mind that he was thinking of her.
So every night, while birds and bees went to sleep
He died.
Just so her light could shine above his.
He died.
Just so her close friends, the stars could visit.
He died.
Just so the world appreciated her beauty,
Rather than his necessity."

Jessie still dressed in her singlet and underwear, quickly rose on two feet as a Chevrolet pulls up her driveway. A man with a neanderthal-like figure burst through the door yelling, ' I leave for business... and ya'll ******* in my house? ON MY ******* BED!!'

I tried my best to get past his door, because it was the only way I knew I would be able to keep my current state, the state of being still alive.
...

Jessie trying to explain everything with words, yes ...trying to use words with what clearly is a caveman.

'Darlin' we didn't do anything, he's just here yappin' on about something with moons and suns. I swear, I didn't do anything indecent'.

The caveman spoke again, in proper non-swearing, non-screaming English.
     'Sons? He was tryin' to put a baby in you? THAT'S IT!!.. Imma **** him!!'

That was the day I met John.

Variations on OK: “I'm ok... as in just okay :)“

ah, me making the global rounds,
with the poem interns in tow, observing poet patients,
me, the anti-troll meme, asking the lonely legions,
“what’s up, just checking in,”

responsa included the nuanced range of variations
of the simplest terms,

Variations on OK: “I'm ok... as in just okay :)“

the normal curve of emotional disturbances, falling mists,
category 5 storms and verbal cover-up girl makeup all represented by
OK

this, then, the OK stuff of human poetry, the plain, the innocuous, inadmissible guiltily non-confessions that are the infectious complexity of heartache, humongous jealousy of those surficially
just innocently happy, those who fear of failing,
longing for what was and can not be true once more,
so with not-even-a-serious-word a reminder of our masks when meeting Quo Vadis,
the replies come in summarizing shades of:

OK: “I'm ok... as in just okay :)“

a perfectly good response, shadings and gradations
that shout volumes deserving of interpretations, talmudical exegesis,
across continental contestation,^^^meaning obviously that the contra-opposite is likely what’s meant,
all indirect giving access when delving into their abyss,
as in the rock n’ roll verse states,

“just dropped in to see what condition your condition is in”^

okay.

yes, it’s true okay is better than not okay,
which is better than the catch all meaningless of the
OK....the one, that dribbles off into air hanging, silent albatross

but the insertion of the modifier

just

makes the meaning of the fully, half born, sentence summation diagrammable except
OK
is not valid in life size, grownup version game  of Scrabble(d) hearts

this is how I spend my everyday vacation days
exploring everything human

the graze of a hand, the longest slow journey of a singlet tear,
a child’s shrieking glee, the nightmares gasps
when they woke the awoken,
the intelligible whimpering vocabulary of the new born innocent,
the spackled, patching of the speckled cracking of the
semi-autonomous, wish-it-wasn’t human,
my, busted-heart

so when two lovers continental shelves do not meet,
but graze each other, altering the landscape of emotions,
OK, just, okay is
sedimentary weak but perfect

you are the interloper ghost,
who now asks “how ya doing,”
the famous just “checking in,”
and
in the sliding spaces where mountain ranges get created,^^^

the O in Okay is a black hole disguised

I'm ok... as in just okay :)”

though this is a Buffalo Springfield “ain’t exactly clear”
you accept and understand for aching hearts are the
specialty of the maison

and that is all I have to say on the matter.

OK?
<>

3:21am Monday September 30 ~ 10:38pm Friday October 4, 2019

becalm, bestill, bequiet…

yes, a singlet. a singular mannerism
the language permits to adjudicate
the required emphases of the
urgency of a command, plea, a begging
bequeathed bequest and a request in
combination, with one exhalation,
these portmanteau, allinone, smashgrab,
blending of two words, to advise herein,
that we bring our kitbagofwords of
poetry to ourselves in order to

becalm, bestill, bequiet our kindred souls…

Doing things for a friendship

You see I remember being in a room for 20 minutes as well as when I was in that room, I was threatened in there, I mean I was threatened with death threats, I was only 6, then my family wanted a better life for me and they took me to  the local showground for the annual show, and also we went on camping trips, not quite Brady bunch style, it was just family outings, learning about how to fend for ourselves, yes, life is so much better relaxing in a tent in the New South Wales bush, yes I say I was a real family person, yes, you can't keep me away oh no, but one dude was so jealous of our close Knit family we have, they want to crash right in, you see there was just one bloke, who had one mum two dads, but the dad he lived with was an old stick in the mud, yes, and he loved him to bits, but to me, you see, he was just a big brother to me, he was never a friend no more, in fact sometimes when I went through life, I felt there was a prowler after me, and he kept on being big brother, and said, you better not go out with those men, they're bad news, oh yes, they are, yes they are, when u heard that, I thought what a loser and I started to dress like them, with my motörhead singlet and my jeans with holes in the knees, yes, u felt really, really cool, this mate wasn't cool, no he wasn't cool at all, but he thought I didn't want the young dude look, but he didn't, I did, because I wanted to be a normal young dude, to have fun listening to heavy metal like alice cooper, poison, and AC/DC and even Twisted sister too, and that music was so cool, I wanted to be cool and have fun with my friends girlfriend and I had fun with her, and since then people asked me over to stay with them and I felt I was being kidnapped, because every time I wanted to leave, they said shut up little young dude as well as giving me **** in the pubs, but really, mate  at the time, I was unaware of what friends should do, you see all my life I am doing things for a friendship, oh well, it's all over now

THERE’S SOMETHING FISHY GOING ON AROUND HERE  
From the 5th diary entry of Stewy Lemmon's childhood adventures.  
  
One week, after our exciting trip to the seaside resort called, 'Slipslopslap Bay', Smoochy and I were keen to do some more fishing, at the small pond in our village. So, we got dressed, had some breakfast, brushed our teeth and headed off. We took along with us, a basket full of snacks, my Mum had prepared earlier, for us.  
   
We sat by the pond and cast our fishing rods out, to see what we could catch. We even saw, 'Buck the Duck' diving for lunch. While sitting on the deck chairs, with my socks and shoes off, relaxing and waiting for the fish to bite, I saw my fishing line, starting to bend.  
   
I jumped up and held on ever so tight. I think, I caught a big fish, and it was going to be a hard fight, indeed. I yelled out to my pet mouse named, Smoochy, 'Please help me pull the fish in'! Here it comes Smoochy, 'watch out for its fin'!We then put the fish into the bucket. Oh! What a good win.  
   
Then, another fish got snagged on the hook, one-two, then three more. I reeled them all in. After we had finally caught, seven very big fish and even a little one, off home we headed to show my family our slippery little surprises.  
   
Mum, counted them all, but to my surprise, there was only seven big fish, inside after all. The little one must have been left behind. Then my Mum, told me to go and clean myself up, and to go put my shoes and socks back on.  
   
That night, after dinner, we were all going to town. We were going to attend, the annual village dance competition at the,' Shiftnabout Dance & Music Hall'. My two, much older identical twin sisters, Emma and Jemma, had been practising all day, so they could have a good chance of winning the trophy for 1st prize.  
   
While all the contestants, were up on stage strutting their stuff, my mates and I, were at the back pretending to imitate them and doing some really cool Hip-Hop. Then, my mates said, 'Pooh-wee, did someone step on a duck'? The bad smell was all around us, but none of my mates, were willing confess up.  
   
While driving home in the family car the smell was still near us, and Mum and Dad yelled, 'who was the naughty one, who let one go'? Mum said, 'There was something fishy going on around here'! We all looked at Smoochy, waiting for an answer, but as you know, he couldn't tell.  
   
Nobody confessed up, just like my best mates wouldn't, so dad put the car windows down but the smell still hovered around us. My twin sisters said, 'It smelt like Fish 'n Chips'! My little brother Lemmy just blocked his nose.  
   
We arrived safely back home, after a rather smelly ride, Mum said, 'Okay, everyone put on your pyjamas, brush your teeth, put your clothes near the washing machine and Stewy don't forget your clothes, in the bag. Then off to bed, for it is getting very late'!  
   
Next morning Mum, started her day by placing all of our ***** clothes into the washing machine. There was Lemmy's pants and singlet; the girl's dance dresses; Dad's tie and trousers; and my fishing jacket, jocks and socks, to mention, just a few.  
   
Mum could still smell that unusual odour, with a bad, fish like smell. When Mum, had pushed the buttons, and had closed the lid, the washing machine started to rumble and wash, everything inside.  
   
But then, she heard a tapping noise, coming from under the lid. She, quickly turned the washing machine off and opened the lid. Then, we heard, an almighty loud scream, coming from the laundry.  
   
It was my Mum, yelling out, because she had just found that, little fish. The one that I thought, had been left behind. I said, 'He must have jumped out of the fishing bucket, into my bag, then right inside my clothes'! Maybe, he had been curled up inside my long socks and then popped into my jacket.  
   
We all laughed and thought of that dreadful smell the night before. So, it wasn't my mate's smell on the dance floor, it wasn't even my family's smell, whilst in the car driving home. It was the little fish's smell, that was accidentally, left inside my socks.T

The Eureka lemons were scattered on the floor
Dotting the hardwood like a painting by Seurat
And the dancers of Degas were nowhere to be found

But here at 10 Downing St.
Churchill’s predecessor knew what had to be done
He scurried about looking for the key to his mother’s boudoir

Alas! He cried
And with the speed of Yeager
He ascended the stairs, grazing the baluster

But at the top of the steps who awaited him?
The forbidden fruit, with leaves of the cross
The passion itself

And he burped as a result of the several White Russians
He drank with The Dude
And made his way to the place where Hooverball was being played

Because it is a drunk person’s game

We lay in the bed
My red singlet was all that was between the warmth of our skin
It had white polka dots on it
Do you remember?
The scent of you in the bedding was like heaven to my mind
I was in the place I had dreamt of being time and time again
This was it
This was real
We could finally be
I had began to doubt that love could ever be between two souls so incredibly lost
I felt the roughness of your hand slide over my abdomen
I so badly wanted to take that hand to places I'd never had hands before
We didn't know what love was
Having not been taught by those supposedly near
Confusion
****** anguish
Fear
I knew you were afraid
I could feel the fear you held
It was based around being afraid of hurting me
I only wonder now
Had you hurt someone before?
Or was it you who was hurt?
Within your soul the pain was evident
I didn't sleep a wink that night
I didn't want to miss a moment of your arms around me
Your warmth against me at last
The safety and security I had been without was finally within
It was love
My first love
I miss that
I know what I miss is more than an idea
More than a perception
I wonder if you miss that too.

a Hills Hoist
holds aloft
singlet's blue
and a small child's dreams
on a quarter acre in Preston

a popular song is out of my reach
lovers kissing or maybe lovers tragedy
I am a singlet, mind made up
to live the promise and gamble
that love incarnate will marry my soul.

We snapped memories into photobook
Watching the edges of songful hedges
Draw  a hopeful singlet of grace of
Testimonies conquered in neglected verses.
We played from the check of honoured
Dimples crossing routes of perfections.
Here are tunes playing from the photoshop
Of our hearts designing graphics cards
Filled with affections &bubbles of love.

Portrait of tomorrow carved an amazing
hours in the street decorated with colours.
these are colours depicting greatness
freshness &braveness of the voiceful heart
Kitchened through the celestial laughter
Of a slighting mother to her joyfulness.
We are similar, singular and opposite,
We are plural of everything humanity,
Sweetness of every singing lyrics & verses.

Let's this fondleness remain captivating
boys. Sweet. Bitter. Acidic. Sour. Raw.
Reflection of the World Series of smiles
Printing names on carved pumpkins leafs
Boys carrying themselves in their shadows
Carrying themselves in memories of their
Parents' pastoral culture and languages.
Boys spinning into crispy treats of white
dreams written on the stream of the skies.

We are fascinated about the rare cloud
journeying towards the stars of our souls
Harbouring our names in a bag of colours
Imagination are doubtful unperturbed pictures
Painted in the innocent face of boys of tomorrow
After the sun bent the tremour of our rushes
The rain came like a troubadour warrior
Between veteran lips of boys who went &never
returned memories of their family portraits.

We are boys carrying our family's loss
We are boys carrying our Father's legacy
Bearing the pursuit of our fathers yesterday
Look into our eyes & see our imaginations
those imaginations created by our ancestral
ancestors for tomorrow to hold our peace.
We may not know that these sands are made
of ridges of boys like us who went carrying
Pictures of dreams that we could not retrieve.


©John Chizoba Vincent
FromAPenRefusingFrustration

its great being a singlet
with only you to contend with
so do not be too ******* yourself
remember you are just a child
and the Universe was made for loving

A story concluded before it even began
An investment you wanted but could not plan
Pulling my guts, singlet inside out
Veins tainted blue, from what he did to whom
Centuries of tremors, convinced there’s no cure
If love can’t build bridges, what good is love for
You gave me the reasons, I begged for the cure
The next girl you date, a ring on her finger
But a perfect recipe from a faith filled member

being a cereal singlet
I will never suffer divorce

or have to play the fool
to some ones joke

Hidden within the Sacred Heart.
Hermit, anchorite, singlet,
the old, the sick, the dying
the martyr, those suffering
because of their art, the
misunderstood, the scapegoat,
the outcast, the downtrodden,
the sinner, the saints, the angels,
the ordinary everyday lives
of all Mankind, all creation,
all creatures, all life.

*** sells
As does blame.

What hope for
me?

Promises of
obscurity?

Consummation
of the singlet

with the known
unknown universe.

There is such a pleasant sweetness,
like melting honey and citrus juices,
in the balm of early summer’s midday.

Freshly cut lawns -
fragrant green, green, green -
and to sit on the back porch

in my socks, singlet, and jeans,
just scuffing my shoes
for the season

like countless others before me
in this timeless tradition.
I am alone - yet

none of this feels like
alone -
glimpse the shadows

of the people before me,
doing just this,
feeling just this

exact,
particular,
state of strange bliss.