some days, his eyes are full with angst
his arms down his sides, with his fists as closed as his ears
and all I want to say is I know how it is
to be so angry you don't know where to go
because the whole world lights you up like a dry stick of explosives,
how it is to have your feelings being so big they start to feel
like extensions of your limbs,
waving uncontrollably
and all you can do to avoid their friction from setting you on fire
is either to cut them off or keep your arms down your sides

but I step aside, because he can no longer take in my words
his six year old eyes are filled with the nothingness of
an anger so big and unlabeled
but someday, I will tell him and he will understand
I will tell him that even though my blood is not in his veins,
I will cleanse it from soot and silt,
I will be his human shield from this world
I will tear kingdoms apart and slay every last creeper
just to help him level up

and I will uncontrollably, explosively and unconditionally
love him

//

vissa dagar är hans ögon fyllda med ångest
hans armar längs sidorna, med nävar lika hårt stängda som hans öron

och allt jag vill säga är att jag vet hur det är
att vara så arg att du inte vet vars du ska ta vägen,
för hela världen får en att tända som en torr bunt sprängämnen,
hur det är att ha känslor så stora att de börjar kännas
som förlängningar av dina egna armar och ben,
okontrollerbart viftande
och allt du kan göra för att förhindra att deras friktion tänder eld på dig
är att antingen hugga av dem eller hålla armarna längs sidorna

men jag går undan, för han kan inte ta in mina ord längre
hans sexåriga ögon fyllda med ingentinget
av en ilska så stor och oettikerad ilska

men någon dag ska jag berätta för honom och han ska förstå
jag ska berätta för honom att även fast mitt blod inte flyter genom hans artärer,
ska jag rensa det från smuts och sot,
jag ska vara hans mänskliga sköld från den här världen
jag ska slita kungariken itu och döda varenda creeper
bara för att hjälpa honom att levla upp

och jag ska okontrollerbart, explosivt och villkorslöst
älska honom

my computer keeps freezing
the song keeps playing

living up to expectations already
don't be pressured baby, don't be pressured

only half of my fingers are cold
as I think of Brown-Eyed Ska girl

thankfully, she knows I exist
that's one part of the equation complete

daj, do wynagrodzenia: reszty.
daj: to niby: siebie;
a... dam... dam...
ale pierw: powiem:             to!
(ich) nicht werden
                  geben (ihr) das nacht!
first... i'll punch myself
hard enough to give myself
a plum-eye: ******* pacifists...
and then?
    then i'll strap a trouser belt
to protect my knuckles...
and then... then...
                    then: we'll "talk":
who might find a translator
ready...
   god...
i'm gagging for a
knuckle exchange...
        almost... itching!
like i might await
a shaving... from a Turkish
barber... in Essex...
of all Danish palaces;
and why would i want to allow
consort with these women?
considering the fact that
the russian ones believe in trans-national
grievance taxation:
of someone... who hasn't...
actually died...
              you know what?
*******...
suffer...
       watch me wipe my ***
with a satanic smile
ennobled
by a coulrophobia...
excesses of vogue
                      atypical models...
how is it... that...
coulrophobia doesn't translate
in reverse?
  and what's up
with the black privilege of
jass music, akin to white mozart...
as...  
  sure as ****, the drum would be
the first, and only thing,
prior to the people learning
the ******* clarinet!

oh drop me your ****** ***
holocaust dead bomb
on a polish ***...
     i triple, quadruple dare you!
you *******... ivory coast
   centipede!
               i'm *******...
as watts: wild-eyed...
       unstrap me from this
"unreality" of conversation...
then undo the internet banking...
and the rest of it...

             not adam watts!
    glitter & doom....
who?      tom waits...
oh **** me... blue valentine?
if that's not a **** with me
album... what is?
                 live circus?
        
do i look like a ******* ****-
(see the hyphen?
it's a prefix... the english are
lazy sometimes: couldn't,
i.e. could not,
remnants of shakespearean
english...

       i'll always cite macbeth...

  time, thou anticipat'st my dread
exploits: the flighty purpose never
is o'eertook, unless the deed go with it.
from this moment, the very firstlings
of my heart shall be
  the very firstlings of my heart.
   and even now, to crown my thoughts
with acts, be it thought and done.

it's hardly a racial slur, ergo...
why so ******* sensitive akin to a french
footballer or a ballerina?
   ****- (hyphen! hyphen!) ergo a prefix...
as already mention:
no, no...
   it's not: no iraqi ever called me a pa-ki
      (pákí)... yeah...
and you never called an afghanistani an
afghan, ever, no?
   pure camaraderie in that part of
the world... all the way... yeah yeah... yeah...
-stani (suffix) is sometimes missing
because... the english like to shorten words...
e.g. why is daniel: dan,
why is matthew: matt?
  why is muhammad: mo (farrah)?
                                    ******* pansies...
police your circumcised penises fiddling
english teenager girl, first,
come after my vocab. justifications: after;
savvy?

or a gypsy?
   by now...
     i'm looking like any
traveler...
and the world...
       forever resembled
a world,
  in the confines of
      a claustrophobia...

but... if there's a bigger concern for
a world...
  and a freedom...
i want a bare knuckle fight...
a black eye...
namely...
you bring  BOXING GLOVE...
and i'll bring...
     a LEATHER BELT...
wrapped around my knuckles,
and the wrist...
    like i might care to give
a second attempt to smile...

ah... the men... who care
about minding, if not in the least,
keeping women...
      bye bye, bye bye...
       and i've allowed myself
to know my grandfather...
as i did the slap in the face...
and...
the key question:
in the unfathomability of counting
the 32 / 4 ratio...
alas... one fist... one smile...

and countless... dentistry encounters...
because?
   because the rest?
the cultural artifacts of a today?
  lost to h'americana...
            as i might have wished...
for my prior genes
to make an autobiography
in **** germany...
  
   what?
  
      well... obviously: the oops.

no, for the crescendo...
you know...
           i'm getting this funny vibe...
gott ist tot... it's not really spectacular...
nietzsche really believed in eternity,
to the point where he pointed:
what does science offer, only old age...
what does religion provide? eternity...
oh nietzsche was big on eternity...
   gott ist tot is as unspectular as:
is it: how to do you pronounce x,
or is it: how do you pronunciate y?
debate:
              everyone says around here
the former... since no one wants to be a *****...
pro-nun-ci-ate (pro-nun-cíate)...
   might as well replenish the vocab. bank
and replace the word with:
how do you elocute z? / recite)....

gott ist tot / gott ist tod...
    "same ****, different cover"...
you know why i believe in god?
    not the christian reference points...
salvation blah blah, saviour and hide & seek blah blah...
n'ah... where would i derive all my vocab.
hunger if not from him?
   some men derive their vocab. from
women or gambling...
            i am not in the position of their
luxury... so god it is...

            primarily though?
               god is metaphysics...
             ergo? his judgement is not clouded
by metaphysical questioning...
it's impossible to receive a metaphysical
answer from a metaphysical question
when engaging with a metaphysical
ontological paraphrase of one's own search
for meaning in this mortal frame...

oh sure sure, my belief in god is as juvenille
as anyone else's belief in humanity's
clarity when it comes to jurisprudence
and its application...
    i've experience "jurisprudence" once...
drive-by phone theft...
me and three fwends...
   i catch the number plate...
i tell one of my fwends to note it down,
police station, report, culprit found,
a sit in at a barkingside police station
looking at mug images,
spot the ****** (it was dark when the mugging
took place, photographic memory, **** happens)...
a court session, australia is playing england
at the ashes (****, i missed it)...
in court the defence lawyer shows me
another picture of the culprit...
back then photogrpahs had dates
attached to them...
the photograph? over 4 years old...
i tell him: but this photograph is 4 years old!
how can i identify if this is the same
person: i, myself, will probably
don a beard in four years time!
      a simple slip-up...
        now that i have a beard:
it's so much more fun than growing your
hair long... i hated the nickname
chewbacca back in high school when i was
growing mine for a french braid...
i walk out of the court,
come to terms with the detective...
and i see the same hunger in him as i see in me...
will justice be served?
highly unlikely... since the victim
didn't recognize the *** in the mug-shots...
justice was probably not served...

   and this is how god plays into all of this,
hell or heaven, blah blah...
man created the figure of domina Iustitia
as blind... god created death to be blind...
justice was never supposed to be blind,
death was: the unfortunate deaths
of teenagers in car accidents,
among all the other freak accidents...

clouded with so many metaphysical questions
i don't appreciate man's ability to adhere
to jurisprudence without being
subjectively contaminated...
i have more belief in an "imaginary"
god than belief that strains me to belief
in man's sense of justice...
          the nuremberg trials are a rare exception...
but only when the culprits are
unabashed and fathomable by a collective
sense of pride... a blidness...
i believe in god, because i'd love to experience
the judgement of a post scriptum of
metaphysics...
  personally? i have been wronged...
heavily...
            i will not name names....
i know when and how i was wronged,
and by whom...
                2007... Canterbury...
      i won't name names: i'm not a rat...
man is too clouded with metaphysical questions
to begin with, god isn't,
he's a metaphysical ontology "bias"...
which is why, he is primarily a jurisprudent
answer...
   i'd love to experience divine jurisprudence,
hell or heaven are not of my concern...
and i don't imply divine jurisprudence
associated with the polytheistic take of
jurisprudence via a solipsistic mechanism
of a minor god and the person in question
without the hurt party...
in monotheism the god is solipsism personified...
these days: also the personna non grata...
so no... gott ist nicht tot...
            he's a personna non grata...
i just don't appreciate the human *******
of law, law governance...
   come on, in england you can receive
an a.s.b.o.s. for your cockerel being too loud
in the morning, your dog barking...
           would you trust man with
jurisprudence?
  a woman was cleared of the ******
of her husband
       when she hammered his head into a pancake:
over an abusive relationship...
police, weren't, "there"?!
sure sure... the hammer will do...
i believe in god without a sense of reward...
i just don't think man is capable of
passing justifiable laws...
no man could ever pass the eternal laws,
gravity... 100°C for the boiling of water...
i need a being  who has groundwork
in eternal laws, in unshakeable laws...
the ten commandments aren't:
you shall not...
   more... maybe, you shouldn't...
they are the most pristine jurisprudent
laws available... the: maybe you shouldn't,
eh, chappy?

       i just don't like playing the thesaurus game
on the more tight-knit game
of "passing" the wink-wink of Solomon's
judgement...
please, **** me please,
i'll eat 20 raw herrings in a cream sauce,
slurp 30 oysters,
eat 40 strawberries on a hangpverl
eat out about 50 harem virgins
like a castrato if you ask me, nicely,
**** camel cockey:
lucly i landed on a black gold slurp
with plenty of bangladeshi slaves:
******* of riyadh...
     what did muhammed tell you?
you camel jockeys / sand *******
have clearly forgotten...
******* arabs: short attention span...
you need to remind
the retards...
the dajjal would come from the east...
a palace of gardens...
well obviously the prophet wasn't
thinking about genghis khan...
            
  hmm barbarians...
vikings, arabs: yet so inclined to like poetics...
funny, that...
the civilized peoples banished
the poets...
            the ruling class and their cushioned
people: sacrosanct sycophants...
wankers, basically.

    the hajr? muhammad spoke of the dajjal
coming from the east,
and the east being a city of gardens...
where isn't riyadh and where is mecca?
isn't riyadh east of mecca?
was the dajjal to come from the outside
of islam, or from wtihin?
      last time i checked...
sh'ite islam isn't friendly to sunni islam...
if islam was the one true religion...
would have a shcism have occurred?
i don't think so...
   a persian would never bow before
an arab... that much os true...

oh i believe in god...
given how man practices jurisprudence...
is it some sort of, a, thesaurus game
i wasn't told about?
to me the human quest for jusctice is
a thesaurus game...
man is incapable to pass but one,
eternal, law...
he's great at nuanced laws...
laws allocated to sports...
i mean, **** me, cricket?
the best vocab. you'll ever pick up...

even god isn't as pertinent
in making the sort of music associated
with the limited alpha-to-beta
of A, B, C, D, E, F, and G...
wow! seven... seven?!
how many heads does the beast
of revelation have? oh... 7!

i'll stop tolerating islam, and start respecting it,
when it, acknowledges its presence
as a character study in the book of revelations...
then i'll just move on,
having made my point...

until that time comes...
    it's 600 years shy of becoming what
degenerate christianity has become,
oh and it's ripe...
it's gagging to implode!
600 years and wait for it to become
the next secular vasal conglomorate...

the warning muhammad gave
about "the best from the east"
was in point of question:
   a reference ti gneghis khan...
more like ibn saud:
  thst fat diabetic one eyed ogre...
and the legacy of decadence he left
behind...

saudi men with slavuc girlfriends,
buying up pink cushions and *******
chihuahuas...
**** after ****...
  you know the three slavic proverbs?
1. better a sparrow in your
hand, than a dove on your rooftop?
explanation?
better the small joys at-hand,
than impossible possibilities out of reach....
2. a drunk can spot east,
past mecca, whenever honing
the safety of his own bed... even at night...
not much of a proverb...
3. i don't care to rememeber...

once toleration comes into play,
i will, respect... just a waiting game...
i'm pretty sure no iranian will
bow down to a sunni camel jockey...
i like proud *******,
it implies: there are absolutes,
un-moveable goal posts...

                      if you are ever to bind yourself
in supporting a "side" outside a sports' dynamic,
always the outsider...
always the outsider... in this case?
the ****'ite islam brigade...
       the persians...
the sunnis can shove it...
   *****, bones, whatever....

                   ****'ite islam i can
fathom, even respect,
sunni islam i just tolerate...
  as much as iran takes claims for the
big satan in ref. to h'america...
well... if h'america supports the infantile
saudi arabia, who's to blame them?

you know that polonaise joke about
about the pacifism of jews in
2nd world world war poland?
the joke ran along the words:
weren't the jews shooting the nazis
using crooked elbows (rifles)?
they always seemed to miss them,
taunted into walking into gas chambers,
the ******* hobbits...

          what? some bolshevik Brooklynian
jewish rada is to spare me
                 the pay-up diffrential
telling me, i was wrong?

  as i said before: the nazis lamented
when the warsaw uprising happened...
no, st. paul's doesn't stand proud
because, because...
   even with the blitz...
                 the luftwaffe were told:
you drop a bomb on st. paul's: firing squad...
and when notre-dame de paris -
last time i checked...
   the nazis didn't luftwaffe the **** out
of paris... did they?!

                  the nazis weren't mongols;
no people so well versed in chanel in terms
of their military being so well
   suited & booted could ever make such a
                              architectural sacrilege...

what?! people under the silicon curtain
are gagging, begging even: for nazis!
can i be the first?!
i just want to please the hungry!
if not punk then moving swiftly into ska...
am i the first?
   siliziumvorhang...
well, **** me... from under the eisenvorhang...
what's with these neo-communist pseudos?

and the hebrew god?
a jealous god... so a god with the knowledge
of the existence of other gods...
why wouldn't a jealous god have
no knowledge of other ("imagianry") gods?
to be jealous of only one's own existence?!

3 / 1: that's the ratio....
that's the only ratio... 3 times i experienced
love at first sight:

when i fell in love at first sight...
malina, samantha, janina,
priya....

equal measure: isabella of grenoble...

in reverse:
magda, promis, ilona, kot (i forget her name,
7 years old, first kiss, you can be forgiven
to forget, she had two twin sisters
and she was the senior,
her fasther drove a distribution truck,
milk, i think)...

****, i actually mismanaged
that ratio...

i believe in "a" god...
since i find too much of human jurisprudence
to be riddle with the thesaurus...
i don't think man can pass
law, he can "suppose so"...
but he will never pass the sort of law,
made forbidden,
or absolutely allowed....
i don't believe in a god akin
to the sort of a pontous pilate god
where i'll always find myself
outside of punk evolving into ska...

         mind you...
i'd hate to be trapped within
the confines of an atheistic exclusion zone
of intellect,
      to be trapped in nothing is one
thing, but to be trapped inside
the confines of an atheist's "nothing"
is quiet another....
i don't like being a hamster inside
a cognitive wheel of another...
   god is the jurisprudence spirit,
man the metaphysical spirit...
and i would very much like to stand
in the light of divine law being passed
to finally feel my shadow...

kult: brooklyńska rada żydów...
  not familiar?
  i forgot punk a long time ago...
esp. when californians came up with their
version, ergo? ska...

i'm currently taping a film
about the silesian vampire...
how strange, that the prussians came
back into the ***** of the polonaise...

growing a beard is so much fun!
fiddle after fiddle: and no violin!
atheists bore me
as much as the theistic hags
who's only ambition are
the thrill associated with Sunday
h'america and cinema...
               i can imagine only one
heaven...
where i am blind and given
               a large library of music.

.like any western, but unlike every western... the true grit... one eyed... it's not called: i'm blinking... it's called... the blink. the English language can never have... what is it... gender neutrality? the words are already gender neutral! the words in the English are neither masculine, or feminine... it's ******* to ask for something that's already in place! you know what obstructs the gentrification of words in the English language? how the sun is not feminine and the moon is not masculine? the articles... the English orientated their language around a-the        slightly missing the -ism... the English didn't create their language with a gender orientation of nouns, but other European languages orientated their nouns around gender inclusiveness... but you can't just... change the ******* grammar... call a triangle a ******* rhombus on a whim that belongs in the asylum... blah blah do ****... is this how civilized language is supposed to disintegrate into?! this is not religion... you can't simply replace grammatical dogma with heretical "protestantism" to gain something counter to 1 + 1 = 2, or a + t + t + e + s +t = attest... yes, confirm... what with that the politicians are doing in Canada... post-nationalism? post-nationalism, ensured with a post-grammatical structure of what should be the post-nationalist playground of the use of language? the two... together?! so... no nationalism, and no grammar... seems about the right time to separate the state from the state... and call the following dynamic: juggle act: catch one if you can! how can you expect to change the grammatical sub-structure of English?! nouns are not gentrified in the equivalent ontology of other, European languages! how can you expect gender neutrality... when the nouns of said language... are already gender neutral!? and that's because English is particular in the definite (the) and the indefinite (a) article articulation... this is the crux... the pivot... as to why nouns are not associated with either femininity or masculinity... which is why i didn't learn French in high-school... i was taught French from the rubric of grammar... i was taught the rules, before i was being taught to speak, and break the rules of speaking English... who the **** requires to learn a language, having to learn the arithmetic of lettering in the encompassing genesis of staging a craft of the linguist with, said grammar?! language is not universal... noun is no surd... verb is no integer... je suis is no 1 + 1 = 2... but like i said before... you're talking about pandering to linguistic retards... they might not be mad enough to enjoy the rainbow plethora of pharmacology... but sure as ****... they're linguistic retards... sorry, the saddest truth is... somehow... the most fun to attest in concurrence; oh right... that western, true grit... well... whether you're John Wayne or Jeff Bridges... one eye still intact? it's not a blinking... it's called the blink... no, and it's not even a blink... see how English is fascinating when singularity and pluralism enters the arena of the direct / indirect articulation? and to think the English wanted to debate a non-existent gender association of nouns that the French, the Polaks can have... but you sorry *******... ain't getting it!

so...

    a juggling act...

(insert a snigger)

   lindsay shepherd's
video: exposing grad school
(my m. a. experience)

and...............

         bon jovi's
blaze of glory

       bon jovi! wooooooooooooo!

god, i'm so stereotypical.
i should have signed up
becoming a side-burner
for some ******* Kentucky
redneck.

p.s. is stereotypical
synonymous
with predictable?
that's actually a genuine question
of, rather than answering the question
itself, answering the per se
curiosity; savvy?

so what is it... Bub "the blue" Clí 'n' Son?
***** needin'
to ****?
watcha gonna do Bub?
               hold up the, "spanker"?!

---------------------------------------

and some days, in england, and it's june,
and 10pm feels like 7pm in some other season
and it reminds me of the white nights
of st. petersburg....
   insomnia and ******* a girl for seven hours...
oh the ******* bit was fun,
don't get me wrong,
   i had to wait 2 weeks before she let me
do it to her in the bath...
****** ready... she was on her period,
but misguided:
  last time i heard...
            ******* on a period eases
the period pains...
      eh... gritty flesh bits on the rubber...
problem? what problem?!

    no wonder then: i hate drinking buddies...
people dumb down upon ingesting
alcohol, i'm talking: 2D objects in 3D space
akin to fern bushes in the 1st tomb raider
(black holes - a paradox,
   a 2D object spinning really fast in
an infinite 3D space... copernican east?
copernican west? i hope the rabbi knows)...

days like this, oh all the days like this...
when you wake up,
jump out of bed... and dance naked in your
room listening to KULT's
          brooklyńska rada Żydów -
two music genres i never got into:
punk and rap...
   well... "mediocre" punk...
   californian, the offspring,
  the usual suspects of the ramones,
*** pistols, stiff little fingers, mainstream *******...
ska... now we're talking...
hip hop contra rap: now we're talking...

such a beautiful day...
    a chestnut mushroom cream sauce with
snippets of turkey, of course the fresh parsley...
bay leaf, one clove, two all-spice buds...

    and... i'm really tired of looking up
h'america's ***...
    i sometimes thank god that i'm not
english for the sole reason that i don't have
to mind the "special relationship",
like i'm being owed or owning someone
for the respects of sharing the same lingo...

you want the other "special relationship"?
it began with Casimir III...
east... well: central europe...
eastern europe without borders,
purely geographic: is situated somewhere
in russia...
          borders condense...
last time i visited the home away from home
i found new music...
pablopavo i ludziki...
             the polonaise and the jews...
how many terrorist attacks in poland
while the islamists were having a funfair
elsewhere? gullible schvabs and swedes...
  (swabians, that's a slang for the ol' deutsche
deutsche back east - kacap ('tss wet snare
on the c) for the russians)...
       0...
                  funny (even)...
the map of recent terrorist attacks...
     and... the map of the spread of the bubonic
plague... a certain region remains
immune...
       even i agreed with my uncle:
better the catholic ******* than islamic
propaganda... mind you...
        sh'ite islam: thumbs up!
always pay due dues to the underdogs...
and if islam truly was a religion
to gobble up all other religions...
      a schism over such a petty affair
including Ali - the son in law of Muhammad
and Muhammad breaking his promise...

    oy vey!
     how else was i going to get out of bed
to dance naked to anything
but the ska song: brooklyńska rada Żydów?
what other option?
      black ox orkestar's bukharian?
                                             oy vey!
funny story from amsterdam...
me and this egyptian were sharing a hostel
room with these two germans,
who wasted 'shrooms on sitting indoors
watching h'american dad...

   we took a different route...
   he smoked, i drank, he had a bottle of
***** with him,
architect, i can't remember his name,
a keen eye for grand doodles in a notebook...
but then i decided to take a ****
after a few beers while he put
headphones into my ears and played
me le trio joubran's - masar...
        i even managed to attract the attention
of a dutch girl who seemed...
rather gobsmacked...
   i literally went into the nod-state
associated with ****** junkies...
but with eyes closed and mouth agape...
feeding off the ****** of the void...
i.e. the ****** of the void?
    when you're not chained to thinking...
the self disintegrates,
              thinking disintegrates...
and with the music: the void became
pulverizing me with vibration after
vibration echoing a chanced comparison
to a heart-beat mingling with
the fuzzy rippling and vibrating effect of
   the eye-sight of some insect...

yes yes... blah blah...
    boasting... boasting my ***...
am i here to feel sorry for myself,
to drown in my take on some perfect love
i could offer?
      no really...
               i've always had the two best
companions to begin with...
my shadow and a blank piece of pixel
paper perfectly coupled to my idle /
itchy finger-tips...
   well, a third: ms. amber...
                         i learned over a year ago
that drinking with familiar people
****** me off... drinking with strangers?
oh sure, great time...
the best times when drinking in public
are with strangers...
"friends" (fwends) are just too nostalgic,
they want to remind you of something,
notably some micro-aggression nonsense
of a past grievance...
                   don't drink with "friends"...
every time i did: i would wake up
the next morning *******...
cursing them, putting on a mocking voice...

me me me... oh poow meeeeeeeeeeee...
   *******...
               so? i learned to adapt in
liking my own company...
it's not much, but sure as **** beats
listening to a bunch of drunken, nagging housewives;
i'm pretty sure a man should have been
in that slot of the space between my
3rd and 4th pint of guinness;
alas! not to be!

The flames be flyin' hot tonight,
so the horns be heatin' up just right!

Skeep-deep-do-bop-bee-bop-do-skeetle-****-woo-woo, hell-bop-ba-ska-da fra-la-la-la-la-la-la-foo-foo, yous,
look-see-dee-wee-boys doin' da voodoo,
look-see-dee-wee-girls playin' wid hoodoo.

Cuz, I'm a ****-man,
it's a fat fact ma'am!
Yeah, I'm a ****-man,
it's a fat fact ma'am.

And I dun gives a ****
if there's no reason to the ****-plan.

If you come across the fancy bowler hat,
dun be afraid to start stuttering the big skat:

Batta-tat-tat looksee-da-flat-uncool-rat
givin' his square-eyed-glare to-the-****-cats     ~meow~
skee-shee-flyin'-the-sillee like a banshee,
singin' sillee-skee-shee-all-fancee-free -

and we putssss on the br(e)ak(e)s

just            
like                                                  thisssssss­s (!)


      and
                in  h    a         l               e ....


Go! Go!              GO!

Skeep-deep-do-bop -bee- bop-do-skeetle-****-woo-woo,
hell-bop ba-ska-da fra-la-la-la-la-la-la-foo-foo,
look-see-dee-wee-boys doin' da voodoo,
look-see-dee-wee-girls playin' wid-hoodoo.

Yeah, I'm a ****-man,
it's a fact ma'am!                       x2
Yeah, I'm a ****-man,  
it's a fact ma'am.

love is so daunting
I just might not prevail
I'd rather divulge my passion in further prospects
Things I am assured of
My plans for the future, steady as bored
love is so fleeting it hurts
why am I falling for you
ska girl n o t  
                       a
                          g  r  r  r  l
let's be un-girls together
as always, I give in to *crushes

You’ve got your ragtime, got the blues
Got country, rock, dubstep, each a different hue
Hip-hop, rap, Americana, funk
Disco, electronica, they all go bump
Indie, groove, folk and heavy metal
Screamo, emo, punk, they’re for the rebels
Pop, classical, tribal, thrash
Dark wave, bluegrass, techno, acid
Garage, roots, acoustic, dance
Alternative, jazz, *******, trance
Afrobeat, christian, reggae, jam
******-tonk, surf, ska, big-band
Ambient, industrial, club, tin pan alley
But who’s ever heard of plow music?

play wild things
lie is waking
spirit is american
the book is beat
where is wonderland, Alice?
Jurassic period dinosaurs,
oven toasted humans,
plastic skeletons,
dancing to ska,
cupboards organize themselves,
toking indian hides
blaring chocolate chip trumpet solo
as the laughing sun, rises
pen stroke sun rays
into a rainbow bouquet

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

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

I'm working I tell my mom
staying up late at night as she thinks I'm doing homework
while I actually waste time on youtube and 9gag.com
search cultures, and histories, and groups
wanting to belong
and be a part of
a community, a group, find myself
and then I feel so selfish sitting in my room starting to pity those who don't have food
when the pity turns on my for having no sense of culture nor community
I go to school everyday wanting to learn about everything that I don't hear
about space and stars, histories, wars, and of people who belonged with friends in proximity
I can't work, I try to but I can't
I search up how to look more pretty and attract my crush
and then how we shouldn't care about looks from someone who loves to rant
I listen to punk rock, ska punk, celtic punk, and rock because I can't work
I play my trombone because I can't work but I can do music homework
I read books about history and stars because I can't work but I can learn
You can't go anywhere without good grades they say
so if only i was marked on things I wanted to learn
things I wanted to present for things I wanted to earn
I'm only 15 and don't know where this is going
and now I'm resisting the temptation to erase this whole non-poem that I'm to and froing
with info about my life that only I care about
while I procrastinate like most kids do my age
when I hear my mom shout
telling me to not stay up too late and that she's proud of me working
when I'm actually wasting my time and her dreams
so I'll get back to my can't working
ending this not-a-poem with something it's not doing- flowing

My room’s a disaster, and I am positive it is a reflection of the current state of my life.
But, I mean, what do I know?
My life is nothing short of scawompus.
And by golly, let the wild rumpus begin, I shout- to the heavens- instead of taking the time to clean a few things up. Instead I linger, just oh, so fed up.
What do I know?
I know for certain I am not the only one who would rather relinquish their life story to a stranger at coffee house than to their best pal on occasion. Truthfully, that’s probably a factor in humanity’s perpetually loneliness, makes me question the reality of godliness,
But that’s another talk for another day.
I know, oh boy, I know we’re all just lonely ******,
and darlin’ ain’t nobody's life more glamorous than yours,
just step out of your head for a moment.
Because it truly is gorgeous out here, there is every reason to fear, but also every reason to simply say **** it, and lie back and enjoy the view.
But what do I know?
I know it seems askew, but the beauty lies in the few who learn to appreciate the new.
Oh, what do I know?
Oh yes, I know I am **** crazy, and **** weird. I know this because I am reminded daily by my family, friends, and coworkers, but I am also **** happy for how depressed I am.
But then again, what do I know?
Let’s be honest,
I wear my whole life on my sleeve and still, nobody ******* knows me.
And I think I’m badass. Skanking at ska shows, waking with "oh no"s, what am I doing here?
In a strangers house after a night of fun and honest to god I am still bummed.
For whatever reason, whatever I may conjure up, and I am left here feeling like i’m still floating up,
Up, up I am drifting
I am a drifter
And I still don’t know what it feels like to feel
I am a ****** to life in so many senses
My senses are unfulfilled,
But I am scared senseless of what my future holds.
And what THE HELL do I know?
I am undeniably bewildered,
Nevertheless, aren’t we all?
In that, who really KNOWS anything these days…

We think we're so different.

because we have piercings
                                                  or an iphone/blackberry
wear jeans not skirts, skirts not jeans
only shop at local markets, only buy the brands
eat organic
                       or vegan
                                           or total junk
wash our hair with what's cheap
                                                           or environmentally friendly
                                                        ­                                                      or not at all
because we listen to folk, not rap
ska, not rock
                                                            ­          talk a certain way
                                                             ­         or partake in certain hobbies
have skin, instead of fur or bark
see more colourfully, but have **** nightvision

because we have warm blood
because we are human.




We think that this is individuality, but it's really all a lie.
A lie to keep us docile and passive..
                                                       ­                                                   To keep us buying **** we don't need,
                                                           ­                                                but making us believe
                                                         ­                                                  that we do
Guarding us from that destructive                unpredictable                       mother
of ours
until we don't even think of ourselves as animals anymore.
Until we think we're Kings.




To be you, you just have to be you.
Scratch that.
You just have to be
Because what is "you" anyway?
                                                         ­            A pronoun
                                                         ­            to keep you
                                                             ­        away from me
                                                              ­       and we
                                                              ­       and us
                                                              ­                                          together.

To force you into the lie of language,
because we all know that what truly speaks is our hearts
but we would never admit it
because then we would be too emotional
too sensitive
not cold or impersonal enough
to fit in.
                                                             ­                  And that's all we really want, right?
                                                          ­                     To belong?
Well, I'll tell you something:
there is a way to fit
to belong
to live.
And that is to not fit.

                                                           ­          Don't define yourself by these labels
                                                          ­           or this music
                                                           ­          or that boyfriend.

                                                     ­                Define yourself through your ideas
                                                           ­          your ambitions
                                                       ­              your immaterial desires.

Take out the you and become a we,
                                                             ­    and we will be,
                                                             ­                                      just be,
together.

I didn't eat for three days
so I could be lovely
like Yolandi Visser who's above me
if I don't eat meat
will there be extra room on my seat?
for adventures- oh
I wanna live like louis
cause you're so aw
and I'm so ew
should be the other way around
but I'm bowin on the ground
you a she-ra
he-ra
no ska
hip-hop double dutch
south paw
fighting like a gang from the hood
grew up on the rough streets
of GV
oh Jeez
so tough
smoke ****
post a pic of my blunt
love to hunt
'cause I'm so cool
be jealous of me
and my shirt that say skee
****** with the fuckbois
guys,
I think I need to grow up
haha
jk
messin with the sub
tellin my mom to shut up
I smell like shtub
ugh
I'm so oppressed right now
white privelage is hard
I'm a smart teen
marred
as an ignorant delinquent
teeth clinquant-
I can be eloquent
but I'm treated like an infant
so frequent
I act like a miscreant
nobody seems to understand
I don't even think I do
get that lotion 'way from me
gotta get tanned-
uh
dya see my abbs
dya see me ***
I'm a piece of meat
rare and raw
with seasoning
dress code
don't tell me otherwise
underneath american skies
it's all about your size
supersize the food
downsize your weight
keep it down
keep it low
till gravity
brings you crashing down
in a geneva gown
close-rubbin-
gap thighs
'cause it's
mcm
wcw
tbt
to when I did fbf
anacronyms
I don't even know how to spell it
what a ****
bathroom wall vandalism
"fat *****"
haha
so gangsta
so tough
I have it so rough
middle class white kid
you've got to be kidding me
praise cthulu
giant squid.
meme
2k15
ah

We meet by the lockers
at break
I'm still amazed
that this school
has Cheerleaders
that basketball
not rounders & netball
is the sport played
that we study
the Cold War
' Of Mice & Men'
& the War in Vietnam
that we have 'Hitzenfrei' days
that our German teacher
always forgives our mistakes
that boys & girls
hang out together
that we put on musicals
I've never heard of
That we celebrate the fall of the Wall
that we take school trips
to Concentration Camps
that there's no uniform
that the teachers
rarely explain anything
that the word ' rubber'
doesn't mean ' eraser'
here but something else
that there are stereotypes
like 'nerd' & ' prom queen'
that we welcome grafitti
that we believe in Love
above any kind of Study
that we have the freedom
to pick & choose our failiures
without being sent
to the Principal's office
that we read Kerouac
Carl Sandburg & Ginsberg
that nearly everyone
has lived in at least
two or three
different countries
that we rarely fight
that my crush
plays trumpet
in a ska band
that we go
to the nearby Lakes
on weekends
& the English language cinema
on Tuesdays
that we celebrate Halloween
bit by bit I nearly forget
my All Girls school days
in soggy Britain
where I had no friends
where we sang hymns
every single morning
where we didn't practice
the Love we preached
where our future
was crumbling old Oxbridge
where we had a coat of arms
where we had houses
named after the merchant ships
of our Founder  from the 1600ds
where we didn't dream
of becoming Presidents
or Astronauts but Academics
forever lost in musty books
the flower of our youth, wasted


Hitzenfrei days were days in summer when we were let off school because it was too hot.
Wall - Berlin Wall

Hej jag heter Kalle, jag är 17 vårar

och
jag är trött på att tårar faller ner från min kind.
Det hände senast i torsdags morgon i klassrummet när nina skapat ett
instagram konto
som hette kalle balle kalle balle är ful.

Jag tyckte det var töntigt för vi är sjutton år,
men alla andra skrattade så vad ska man göra då ?
Läraren sa inget fast han allting såg
han bara twittra på om något som jag ej kommer ihåg.

Även om dem flesta mobiler är på surr
så hör jag allt twitter som pågår i detta ***.
och jag vet att det mesta inte är om mig
och jag vet att man inte borde bry sig men
jag bryr mig.

och det känns så motsägelsefull
för jag har alltid hört att det är någonting fint i att bry sig
att bry sig,
men nu när jag är större är det som att världen har växt med mig
och nu finns det för mycket att bry sig,
att bry sig om.

Hej jag heter Kalle och jag mår inte bra,
jag får notiser om att det är så ungdomar ska ha det.
Jag sitter i min plats längst bak i klassrummet till vänster,
när jag plötsligt ser en bild,  
jag tror jag ser ett mönster.
här uppifrån som utanför vårt fönster.

för vi är ett *** fullt av instängda fåglar,

det finns svanar som alla anar kommer växa och bli kända som alla vill vara
det finns kråkor som är stolta över att ta andras lycka/ det andra har , och det finns hackspettar
och duvor
gökar
ugglor,
och jag

och jag är rädd att jag är en pingvin eller en struts
jag vet inte om ni vet men av alla 10000 fåglar är just dem de ända som inte kan flyga
och jag tror jag är en pingvin
men kanske är det bra för jag är jag.

Let me tell you about the time I got jumped,
my pumped up heart thumped me apart
it was around three AM
and we were drunk again
drinking flavored ***** in my apartment
somewhere in between boys and men
drinking to our heart's content
we head out and hit the cement
we were going to the Camel
where we thought time would unravel
It was a small venue on broad street
they did ska and jazz and other stuff
and it was never full, not by far
but we were in the mood for drunk ska
and we danced
or more so we thrashed
and kicked and punched and all kinds of other ****,
then the show was over
and we headed back
walking down broad street at 3 AM
can make you superstitious
can make you avoid every crack to avoid a broken back
we turned onto first street
and it was dark out
the sort of dark that is only viewed in a six year old's room
the sort of dark that breeds monsters in closets
or under beds, **** it, it's all in our heads,
but people are monsters that do exist
they kick and twist
vicious spirits of malice and ****
I heard the footsteps
clapclapclapclapclap
and just had time to think
"somebody is running awfully fas-"
blinding lights like fireworks
exploded in front of me
and I was on the pavement
about a  foot away from me
or where I was
what was the cause?
my face hurt, and why all this blood?
my friend Michael
he's a skinny art kid
was on the ground
getting what I can only call
the absolute **** kicked out of him
I mean he just couldn't win
they circled like vultures
these rejects of culture
"What you got? What you got?"
he got
a pair of tight skinny jeans
and a pocket full of artistic dreams
they couldn't squeeze past the seams
and they gave up
when somebody at the bus stop
yelled
"******* SOMEBODY CALL THE COPS!"
they were off
and I've never seen people run so fast
I mean seriously
these guys were hauling ***
these members of the criminal class
not bad
just desperate and lost
and sick of being **** on
so they ******* with us
they didn't even get any money
they just left behind a few bruises
and a cracked lens in Michael's glasses
We went up to my apartment
I knew I wouldn't be pressing charges
those men were indiscriminate targets
and actually finding them seemed far fetched
no instead I put some ***** on a paper towel
and put it on the **** on my arm
I then proceeded to run around the apartment
trying to articulate the burning pain of my arm
but instead it came out something like
"oh **** oh **** ohhh Jesus Christ this really ******* hurts!"
and then we drank more
and I passed out on my bed
fully clothed
my ****** arm exposed
and I fell asleep laughing
because ******* it
I was alive

Or nahi koi bus hum he do
kahani khatam shuru hui tw
mujhy dekho, batien karo kam
Main or tum, kehti thi woh
aankhon mein tum kho jao jo
nazar aye kuch, jo tm dekho
pehli mulaqat , tum dilchasp **
ankhon mein doob kar, kehti thi woh
main nahi dilchasp, bs  mukhtlif ***
mein jo bhe kahun bs chup chap sunti woh
hont khamosh, ankhon se ki sab baatien thi
raat wo ik jis se juri sab he yaadien thi
lagta hai ab tum se he karni faryadien thi
afsoos k tab kar na ska jo karni wazahtein thi
Khair teri meri thori c bhe ban na saki
kyunk waqt kam tha or bigri teri adatien thi
Main na bhool paoun teri jhooti hansee
naa he chor paoun mehsoos ** kami
ankhon me nami dil mein pyar bhe nahi
yadon mein jalan or aitbar bhe nahi
tum ik waqt ** jo beet geayaa
mera hasil nahi par bht kuch seekh gea
mere qabil nahi or mein khud ko jeet gea
meri manzil nahi ** tw q me kheencha gea
phir kyun kehti, mein or tum
shuru hote he kahani khatam

Let's stand around and talk about taxes and crime
Or watch it on t.v
Cool people only getting cooler
As alcohol leaks

I think I remeber leaving a party with you and falling asleep
on a dew covered hill

But I woke up in my bed

The shirt you had warn
Was pink and white through the haze
Remebering your face
But I still couldn't think your name
...I remember that you said you liked only
The old starwars
And your favorite Zelda
Ocorina of time
You got high with me and watched adventure time
And talked to me about the effects of ether on the human mind
You liked ska and doc martens
With only black laces
Japanese tea pots
BC ***
Black Jack Davey
Tattooed on your neck
You told me you were fourteen
When you last wore black lipstick.
"Far out"  
Yellow Submarine
Mushroom picker
The
Tingling of your spine
As it creeps up your neck
I was about to fall away to oblivion
Until I saw your smiling teeth




I got all the way to work without noticing
Jen
And your number on my wrist

If you ask me tomorrow,
how was the show?
I'm gonna say it was
ok, but I had to leave
too many people in that place
I couldn't handle them
walking by me constantly
bumping into me
all this motion in front of me
can't move at all
so I watched the game
at the bar instead
and I went home
and had my own dance party
it was fun to dance,
but kinda sad

There’s a group called “Madness”,
Play a thing called “Ska”.
Though their music’s jerky,
Suggsy is a star.
Started in the seventies,
Still are going strong.
Suggs is their lead singer,
They just can't go wrong.

Would you Adam and Eve it,
That they done so well.
If you do not like them,
You can go to Hell.

They had fifteen top tens,
In their fine career.
Cheer them on I tell you,
I’ll just have a beer.

This poem’s written in their style,
That you must have seen.
If you hadn’t noticed,
Just where have you been?

Saw them on the telly,
Just the other day.
Was a golden oldie,
Hip hip, hip, hurray!

Oh where is that policeman,
To make that cardiac arrest?
Oh I’d better not hurry,
Being peaceful is the best.

Paul Butters

I dreamt he sent
a care package
A shabby box
filled with
wall sconces
from his
******* apartment
half filled tablets
thoughts and doodles
with a note
to not abuse
substances
and a really nice
vinyl pressing of
some nineties
spoken word piece
with one or
another unknown
ska
alt rock
grunge
band
That sure was nice
of him
I must have
sent some good
psychic *****
Spirits
they call it

Na likh ska na bol ska ki mai tenu kinna chauhni,

Tuhadi bina adhura haigi tuhadi sajni.



Tuhade naal ek pal vi gaal jado ** jaandi,

Mai saare vele khushi khushi muskandi.



Jado tussi naraaz hunde,

Sannu ta saah vi ne aunde.



Tuhanu tuhade tou mai maang lawa,

Apni dil o jaan tuhanu de dawa.



Tussi jado hasde meri rooh khildi,

Maaf kari menu agar hoyi bhul kadi.



Tuhade baajo ek pal vi jee nahi sakdi,

Tuhanu vekh vekh hi mai mai hasdi.



Tuhani dil mandir ch basaya,

Tuhade naam da sindoor mathe sajaya.



Sansaar mai aapde dohan sa tuhade naina ch vekh leya,

Tuhade baigaar mai khakk di vi nahi mere mahiya.



Saari janama tuhadi, tuhade bina nahi jeona,

Ve main tuhadi je na hoyi hor kise de ni hona.



Sune meri rabb ek chah ve adhura,

Saddi har saah te ohda haqq hove poora.



Ohde baajo koi zindagi nahi chahidi,

Daaman failaye mai ohnu hi mangdi.

I always hear about the “one”
How amazing she is
How fantastic my life will become
I wonder what she will look like

I just wonder
If she really is the “one”
She will have lots of tattoos.
She will pretend she doesn’t care about me.
If she really is the “one”
She will have piercings
She will paint seascapes and listen to ska.

I will see her walking down the beach
She will be on the arm of another man
But if she really is the one,
Ill still make a move

Ill stop her as she walks by.
Ill comment on her beauty and ask her to coffee.
The guy she is with will knock me on my ***.
But she will be concerned for me and yell at her man.
She will bend down to make sure I’m all right,
But slip her number into my pocket.

If she is the one,
She will tell me what to wear.
If she is the one,
She’ll cook for me while I clean.
She’ll tell me what I’m doing wrong,
She’ll try to fix me and I will resist.

She will make me a better person,
Without changing me.
She won’t care when I forget her birthday,
Because she forgot it too.

She will want an elegant an expensive wedding,
But she will want to leave early.
She will be my world.

If she is the one,
We will grow old together but never stop being young.
We have two boys but still go to concerts.
We will cause havoc and toilet paper our friends.
If she is the one,
When I try to slow her down, she will just sped up.
She won’t listen to me even though I hang on her every word.

We when have gone gray, I will take her to the beach where we first meet.
The sun will be going down,
And another man will comment on her beauty and ask her out.
I have learned, so I say thank you and we will continue to walk.

This will all happen if I ever find the one.

"Make as many mistakes as you can as fast as possible"
-Doc

Some kids found their rooms:
Math room pizza parties for those held in place by statistics,
four mirrored walls where the strong bodied press iron into muscle,
a tiny box for the "Special" broken off, hidden from the general population.
Those who went to the art room followed the music:
Stacks of scratched mix cds labelled with magic marker,
curated directly from fresh teenage hearts
hearts learning to become sound and paint in Doc's Art II class,
They sketch, carve, snack and chat.
The only room where students are allowed
to talk all period and pencils work to produce souls
instead of information.
There, the ineffable takes shape, in papier-mache,
macaroni or glitter.

Here are the kids who know how
to make mistakes. Perched on stools,
napping on the couch in the back,
the duds, the nerds, building things, hanging out,
shaving sculptures into their scalps. Their minds escaping
in paint-smear, light and earth, generating amorphous blobs,
new species of globule bacteria squirming across a slide of canvas,
things laid under the microscope, not for interrogation,
but for companionship. Not for scrutiny,
but for curiosity.
They reach no understanding with the world through movement
or the way the colors talk
to each other, they only reanimate the confusion into something
they can be friendly with.
Visions surface from the blank stare
of a white page.
They know how to get rid of that white;
just start getting it *****.
Eventually it begins to look like something
clean.

Nate starts new genres every class
though he plays no instrument: oi-punk, ska-core, pinhead blues.
Corban and Chip engineer robots
from their dad's junked wiper blades and orphaned gadgetry.
Quiet Jennifer looks
into the peeled aperture of her camera.
Golden Nick sketches always,
scoring every conversation with his etching.
Eyes cast aloof
from what everyone else is trained to see,
they stare into the discouraged hallucinations.
Unable to convince themselves the visions aren't there,
they exorcise them through messes of paint, wavering clay,
kilns burning mud into permanent shape. Splotched
mistakes arch gracefully into unforeseen purposes, the erroneous made integral.
What is discarded or shamed in other rooms is here followed with curiosity,
rescued and incorporated into a perfectly rendered mess
of liquid. The rejected is what is, what becomes.
Here, kids let their hearts out, casually, without explanation,
like red paint from a shiny new tube.
My heart, can't everybody see it? It's up there on the wall, collaged out of glue-stick
and diced magazine scrap.
It doesn't have to be clarified in the desperate pomp
of a poem or the insipid glitz of jazz hands. Put on the run by the logical requests
of Spanish teachers, they can relax here,
and so they are real, and so they are different.

As adults, they still use what they learned there. I watch them. They are my friends;
bartenders or line cooks or nurses or clerks, their basements cluttered
with bric-a-brac, creative purchases, bought not out of necessity,
but because they explode the room into life:
A creek painting amended with a rhinestone deer cutout,
the orange booth of a defunct bowling alley,
Happy Meal mascots leftover from obsolete Saturday mornings.
Their dens are hung with 4th grade prize-winners, Governor's Show picks,
a woodcarving of an eagle so ugly only a Mom could keep it hung
on her bathroom wall for thirty years.
Exacto knives and staedtler erasers point
from Warhol coffee cups on drafting tables,
T-Squares and light boxes are dragged through a gamut of low-rent apartments.

Maybe in the cupboard, maybe out in the garage,
a box lies closed
but not empty,
filled with crinkled tubes
of hardened oil, a palette stained
with a multifarious rash of colors,
a forest of stiffened brushes growing
from a ceramic ashtray.
Every now and then they put a record on,
pull this box out, open it
and again, with a little insistence,
the colors come flowing.

Beat backthe back beat.
Drop right in.

Ska reggae. Blues . Groove metal. Old ragtime.

Trip but don't fall.

Stride piano. Jump.

At the savoy.

Tight rythmic confusion.live the illusion.

I walked past the Dunbar in days past.
The doors were shuttered.. I heard fats' ivory twinkle.
On central ave.

Synche up.
Or don't
Just drop in
Where you fit in.

In front.
In back.

Up high or to the side.
Groove. Baby.
Groove.

Frozen pizza & cheese,
ska, movie marathons
these foolish things they remind me
of you, as the song goes

remember that January night
when we lay down on the snow-covered grass
under the lights of Potzdamer Platz
to make snow angels

by the Brandenburger Gate
in a city no longer divided
or living on a tightrope
but living for each breath

In amidst the crisp coldness
we could smell spring
waiting patiently in the air
& it was almost time for our train

we talked of our M&Ms;
a code word just for them
two brothers we loved
bound by this crush

like sisters
not knowing we weren't
to be friends
for much longer

you counted the stars
the stars which were countless
like all the times
I've thought of you since

for a legendary 70s-80s Sydney nightclub


wearing those clothes
like we did
being there

back then
paying too much
for that shirt

those shoes
pointy & suede
buckled not laces

16 in nightclubs
being tall
an original sister

1959 sequins
sunglasses matching
there was no light

being afraid
of the men
metamorphosis

women used
those urinals
confusion reigned

in a young man
we danced
the music spoke

bartenders poured
all sorts of
concoctions

another track
began
& a floorshow

eyes wide open
miming & movements
others queued

we were hustled
inside
out come the

freaks & early on
we got it all
on studded sofas

on the dancefloor
the fresco was
roamin

we moved feet
to the rhythms
slaves

not knowing how
formative those days
were

never getting anything
but drinks
until later

legal with dollars
juiced up
better lights

victims resting
in seats people
occupied

when a visiting act
blew simpler minds
wallets

we thought that
record was good
then they played

B52s, Blondie, Numan
the floor caved in
from ska

pogo. bouncers
cleared the scene
original grace

as an ape
stomps
up a staircase

disappears into
lookalikes
then a spotlight

highlighted
the real thing
that was us