Listen

I know I'm not
What most would see to be sane

But you see
I don't see
How faking a love of romance and passion
And beautiful things

Can truly be so bad
If it's the only way he'll stay

Best Friend of my universe
The only person
I couldn't imagine a world without

When he laughed
And then nearly cried

"I don't love you anymore"

I saw the pools of hurt arise
I knew right then his words, all lies
And knew that this was my last

Chance

To keep him in my life
And as I'm selfishly afraid
Of being alone again
I took it

"I was afraid"
I swallow my self loathing away
"Because I love you"

The hope swells, he smiles wide
Laughing, he grabs my hands

"I knew you loved me"

Pang, I shut off my emotions
As he grasps my *******
And slobbers his lips on my own

Boom, my head beats in disgust
Goosebumps rising in panic
My every nerve ending wanting to run
I smile at him when he says

"Tell me you love me"

I feel bile rise, why do I do this?
Is flinging my clothes to the floor
As he leads me to my bed
The necessity to keep my last Friend?

****, why do I do this
Again and again?
Self destruction behavior, big surprise

Right?

But I swear I've never stooped so low
But I've never felt so alone
But I can't recall loving a man
But I've never rejected lust
But with him the touch is rough
But now I'm 3 months pregnant
But it's with a person I choose
But he thinks all this touching is normal
But I can't seem to ever say no

"I love you too"

I refuse to loose you my friend
Not ever again
No matter the cost

That instinct
You have
When you're this depressed
And
Every time
You're in the
Stainless Steel kitchen
And your mom
Is stirring soup at the stove,
And a dribble of
Tomato basil
Slobbers down the side
Of the black pan.

And there's still
A knife out
From when
Tomato intestines
Sprawled across a cutting board,
Which is now in the
Soap-water sink.

You feel it,
In that second.
Instinct.
Need, really.
To take it
And slice open your wrists,
Or maybe just one,
If you're having a good day.

You seriously consider it.
It isn't just a thought.
It can
Scare you, really.

You want-
And one day, might need-
To pick up that knife
And do bad things.
Things that good girls
Wouldn't dream of.

But you don't do it,
And you won't do it,
Because your mom is right there
Stirring soup
And ignoring tomato drool.

And it's such short notice,
You haven't written your note yet.

You come along... tearing your shirt... yelling about Jesus.
     Where do you get that stuff?
     What do you know about Jesus?
Jesus had a way of talking soft and outside of a few
     bankers and higher-ups among the con men of Jerusalem
     everybody liked to have this Jesus around because
     he never made any fake passes and everything
     he said went and he helped the sick and gave the
     people hope.

You come along squirting words at us, shaking your fist
     and calling us all **** fools so fierce the froth slobbers
     over your lips... always blabbing we're all
     going to hell straight off and you know all about it.

I've read Jesus' words. I know what he said. You don't
     throw any scare into me. I've got your number. I
     know how much you know about Jesus.
He never came near clean people or ***** people but
     they felt cleaner because he came along. It was your
     crowd of bankers and business men and lawyers
     hired the sluggers and murderers who put Jesus out
     of the running.

I say the same bunch backing you nailed the nails into
     the hands of this Jesus of Nazareth. He had lined
     up against him the same crooks and strong-arm men
     now lined up with you paying your way.

This Jesus was good to look at, smelled good, listened
     good. He threw out something fresh and beautiful
     from the skin of his body and the touch of his hands
     wherever he passed along.
You slimy bunkshooter, you put a **** on every human
     blossom in reach of your rotten breath belching
     about hell-fire and hiccupping about this Man who
     lived a clean life in Galilee.

When are you going to quit making the carpenters build
     emergency hospitals for women and girls driven
     crazy with wrecked nerves from your gibberish about
     Jesus--I put it to you again: Where do you get that
     stuff; what do you know about Jesus?

Go ahead and bust all the chairs you want to. Smash
     a whole wagon load of furniture at every performance.
     Turn sixty somersaults and stand on your
     nutty head. If it wasn't for the way you scare the
     women and kids I'd feel sorry for you and pass the hat.
I like to watch a good four-flusher work, but not when
     he starts people puking and calling for the doctors.
I like a man that's got nerve and can pull off a great
     original performance, but you--you're only a bug-
     house peddler of second-hand gospel--you're only
     shoving out a phoney imitation of the goods this
     Jesus wanted free as air and sunlight.

You tell people living in shanties Jesus is going to fix it
     up all right with them by giving them mansions in
     the skies after they're dead and the worms have
     eaten 'em.
You tell $6 a week department store girls all they need
     is Jesus; you take a steel trust ***, dead without
     having lived, gray and shrunken at forty years of
     age, and you tell him to look at Jesus on the cross
     and he'll be all right.
You tell poor people they don't need any more money
     on pay day and even if it's fierce to be out of a job,
     Jesus'll fix that up all right, all right--all they gotta
     do is take Jesus the way you say.
I'm telling you Jesus wouldn't stand for the stuff you're
     handing out. Jesus played it different. The bankers
     and lawyers of Jerusalem got their sluggers and
     murderers to go after Jesus just because Jesus
     wouldn't play their game. He didn't sit in with
     the big thieves.

I don't want a lot of gab from a bunkshooter in my religion.
I won't take my religion from any man who never works
     except with his mouth and never cherishes any memory
     except the face of the woman on the American
     silver dollar.

I ask you to come through and show me where you're
     pouring out the blood of your life.

I've been to this suburb of Jerusalem they call Golgotha,
     where they nailed Him, and I know if the story is
     straight it was real blood ran from His hands and
     the nail-holes, and it was real blood spurted in red
     drops where the spear of the Roman soldier rammed
     in between the ribs of this Jesus of Nazareth.

Baby-hood is sunflowers, water-painted,
because Daddys love yellow.
Big Eyes never stop staring,
when they see you miss your father.

Baby-hood is candy in a pocket.
Big teeth have a soft voice,
when they kiss your cheek gently,
and beg you to stop crying.

Baby-hood is a rocking chair,
and you feel the to, and fro.
Big hands fit in the smallest places,
when the wolf slobbers over your baby-hood.

The Slobber Mouth lives deep down south,
hunting the Ner' do wells.
with candy canes and wooden trains,
with buzzers and with bells.

With fur of green, that's never clean,
and eyes so big and red.
Four filthy paws with unclipped claws,
he fills the woods with dread.

Spiked tail and horns and teeth like thorns,
fixed in a scarey smile.
A ******* nose and ragged clothes,
make up his unique style.

Baiting his traps with midday naps,
false promises and lies.
with wasted hours and April showers,
and soft spoke lullabyes.

Dust bunnies hop but never stop,
and never are they caught.
For they are wise to slobbers lies,
and all the gifts he's brought.
 
The Mites and Motes in winter coats,
so quickly scurry by.
for they too know never to go,
where Slobbers presents lie.

The feather bed floats over head,
the carpet thick with fluff.
He stamps his feet knowing he's beat
and screams enoughs enough.

He packs his sock and checks the clock,
so soon the house will rise.
Stomping away to sleep all day,
and hide from prying eyes.

Beneath your bed this sleepy head,
sits down to scheme and plan.
Tomorrow night if all goes right,
I'll catch the Bogeyman.

On tippy toes in bedtime clothes,
his teddy in his hand.
He waves goodnight to all in sight,
and leaves for faery lands.

I have this dog, a huge great pooch,
Just like the one, on Turner and *****,
He really is a big orange lump,
Dare I say how much he dumps,
He shreds and ruins my favourite stuff,
Covering the floor, in loads of fluff,
TV remotes, he's chewed them up,
He costs a bomb, my naughty pup,
His snoring rattles the gates of hell,
And when he farts, my gawd, the smell!,
Don't let's forget, he loves his food,
Face in your cup, slurp slurp, how rude,
What's yours is his, he takes the ****,
I dare you say the word, "biscuit"
He slobbers shoestrings, from his chops,
Each room has a rag, for him to mop,
But that aside, he has my heart,
His crinkly face, and stinky farts,
Rolling in fox mess on his daily stroll,
Sniffing crotches, of those who call,
I kiss his face off every day,
I could never love a man this way,
He has a face you want to snog,
I really, really love this dog :)

In my youth I'd often slip
and milk or juice would slop and drip.
"You're all thumbs" my Mother'd quip.
And I'd be sent right back to bed.

Little would stay in my cup.
I spent my days just wiping up
The slobbers that I'd often make.
"You're all thumbs" my Mom'd berate.

One dark morn my mother said
You're all thumbs!  Go back to bed!
(I dropped a rock right on her head.)

Sammy wants to brush my
hair, but it's an excuse to eat
it. Hands surprisingly large for
his age, he leans fully into me, puts
his entire face into my hair, breathes deeply and takes it into his mouth. "Eeew," the other children squeal. "He's eating your hair! He's leaving slobbers!" I remind him not to eat
my hair.  "But it tastes so good!" he says as he takes in another mouthful. He eats only peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cookies, Cheerios, and drinks milk or apple juice. His new friend, who goes to the same school
in the morning but is brought on a different bus to my house at noon, is more limited in his food choices. Brian only eats dry Cheerios and plain flour tortillas. I remind myself to buy a family size box of Cheerios the next time I go to the store. Brian always holds two rocks in his hands, doesn't speak, but does scream loud frequently. When I wash his hands, I wash the rocks lovingly before I give them back to him. Sammy stops running through the yard, tapping everything with the yellow Little Tykes hammer I've been meaning to throw away daily, long enough to put his
arm around Brian, says, "What's wrong, little buddy?" before he begins tapping wildly again with the hammer. He taps the 14 year old Persian cat, who looks more than irritated as he moves quickly through the yard. He taps my arm, heads in the direction of my car, I steer him in a different direction. His father arrives to pick him up, asks, "Did he have a good day?" I lie, say, "Yes!" Brian screams more loudly when he sees Sammy is leaving. I remind him he still has his rocks in his hands. I pick up the Little Tykes hammer, make my way around the yard tapping on everything, listening to the different sounds it makes, so new to my ears.

Maria
kisses
like she wants
to take your head off.

The top lip
is an umbrella
all the way to the bridge of the nose.

The bottom
slobbers
the
cleft-chin.

When I kiss her,
I want to push her away
and
tell her
"quit that ****."

but she's green.

she's never been with a dude
the way that I want
to be with her.

And so,
the kissing
I tolerate.

The way she takes her tongue
to every black surface
that the shadow of her mouth
creates.

I shake it off.

Or
how sugary my mouth gets
with all the extra saliva
she wets my teeth
with.

I'm cool with it.

But one night,
she gets down
on all fours on her
sofa-bed.

Her skin:

patchy black
and white
from the moon coming in
and scattering
against the leaves
of an oak
outside the window.

Her jaw
working
in square motions
as she swallows
down
all that extra
saliva,
from all that
extra kissing.

And she said to me,
her eyes
placid,
glassy
and black
as leather,
"**** me like those **** girls."

Ever have one of those moments,
where nothing is beautiful
about anything you're looking at?

A taste in your mouth,
gets sour
like you've been chewing copper
and
nothing is beautiful.

I don't want to be a writer.
I would like to be a book.
I want to sit on a shelf in a library,
and be plucked by a loving hand,
and held by a window as the rain slips down it, nuzzled in blankets
and dripped on by apple juice that has run down the chin of
some scabby-kneed kid, perched on the arm of a tree
and I want to be dog-eared and remembered
and I want to be the place to turn to, the only one to turn to
where someone whispers, "how did you know? how did you know just how I felt?"
and I want to have been gone through once, passionately quickly,
so quick I gave you a paper cut and you get a little blood on my page, but I don't mind so much, because you love me,
and then
lingered on, and re-read because maybe there was something
that you missed before
and I want to have seen so many things,
probably the best things,
and meet absolutely fascinating people
because it is only the most interesting people
who read
and I want someone to bury their nose in my pages as they morph from shadowed white to afternoon wheat,
and I want to be covered in words, and coffee, and saliva from the finger of the teacher who slobbers on every corner, and grime, and salty tears and jasmine bath soaps and ink that has leaked from your favorite pen in your bag
and I want to be ***** and held and tossed and spilled on and marked up and I want my binding to be loose, but still intact,
and I want the professors to speak about me
and I want the youth to think about me
and I don't even really care what anyone thinks I'm saying,
so long as they listen to me speak
and pluck me off the shelf.

My mom warned me
About the ****** man.
I feared he would come
And find out who I am
And stick his fingers
Right up my own nose
But daddy quickly told me
That’s not the way it goes.

He said your mama has
A kind of impediment
That makes her talk funny
Not say what she meant.
And we were all accustomed
To words mom got wrong.
We seldom made a comment
We’d just nod and go along.

So, I grew up with stories
Of a guy called the Boogerman.
That was the way of childhood
In the neighborhood where I ran.
He was scary and if you failed
To watch out very carefully
He’d sneak up in the night
And grab you quite suddenly.

Some said he would eat you
Like the wolf in fairy stories.
All of the tales were scary
And none of them were glories.
But I never saw or met anyone
Who seemed to fit the description
Until I was grown, recently, and
That was the obvious definition.

He seems to hate everybody
And lives up high behind guards.
He growls and spits and shouts
And uses ugly nasty words.
Boogerman is the only thing
That fits the creep he seems;
The kind of creature found
In ‘wake up screaming’ dreams.

I’m sure when he bakes and eats
The people too dumb to run away
He gobbles and gulps and slobbers
In the most disgusting of ways.
And though some just nod and say
Well, that’s how stuff with him goes,
I am sure that he does it all the while
With his finger up his nose.

Take your spot on the car lot
Vehicles shiny, polished, pressed, and folded
Folded into an ideal
Of how the family of four is transported
Of how the newlyweds expand their space
For her belly will expand
And the mister better break Miss Piggy
But the new cars don't know what's coming

War veterans, most certainly mini-vans
Can attest to the inevitable stink stains
Dog slobbers
Dirt
Or maybe that's a big pile of no. 02
Praying it's not baby Jack's (he may eat it)
Soccer practice transport
School bus escort
Spy mobile on baby's first date

Finally, the key and fob is passed
Passed ceremonially to the firstborn
Slayed the piggy again
This time for "I got a driving teen" insurance
Enough to save the firstborn in her new (to her) ride
Not enough to save the stop sign
Or the tree
Or poor Miss Jones's cat

But through some elbow grease
Quality marketing
And precious time
She's back on the lot in the "used" section
"But don't worry folks she is only lightly used"
Coos the dealer
One thing for sure
This van isn't miniature anymore

© 2018
Brandi Keaton

so, he's there whistling through
his missing front teeth,
he slobbers and pretends to stutter,
but he still manages to call
me papa smurf...
why the **** am i papa smurf?
so i ask him...
he replies saying,
you seen yourself in the mirror lately?
why aren't you shaving
that ****** off?
   oh right... the ****...
can't be bothered,
saving up on razors and what not...
conversation soon changes
and i'm out of the picture of
interest...
    papa smurf... **** me...
next time he'll be brining
the grizzly bear metaphor:
to be honest, kids below
the benchmark of 1m tall
find bearded men fascinating,
they shy away hiding behind
their parents' legs,
but they still peer at the *****
phenomenon: yeah, i know,
my face doesn't exactly look
like a ****, good luck
trying to sort out your puberty
conondrum years later
having tested this ugly mug.
well, last time i was buying beer
i was winking
and making 4 ****** expression
per second while suggesting
i was hallucinating looking
at this blonde haired boy...
wh'ah? wh'ah?
you heard me! he kept looking
at me!
   so i kept flicking the switch
and asking for the nervous
eyelid twitch to match
a donkey he might recognise...
i guess it worked,
minus the lightbulb moment:
either side of the equation;
guess that means:
                win                  win;
ah, the magnetism of
the correlated both of: young, & old;
i sometimes wish
i impregnated a *****
that could have appreciated me
as fulfilling the role of daddy...
oh well...
     better laugh, better cry,
than finding the everyday mundane
reality of the thought
of: what could have been.

Fad leis seo a thagadh cairde agus lucht gaoil an té a bhí ag imeacht chun na coigrithe. B'anseo an scaradh. Seo Droichead na nDeor

Family and friends of the person leaving for foreign lands would come this far. Here was the separation. This is the Bridge of Tears

so let us go to Falcarragh
where I kiss you by the corner
with salt on the lips
and a mouthful of chips

where my ma wants me home
by eleven at the latest
and the neighbour’s dog slobbers
its love against our cheeks

where we meet on the beach
with braids of seaweed by our feet
and the wind begins to jive
through the tangles of your hair

where we share a drink (or three)
and *sláinte (more than once)
on the crossroads of yesterday
and the rest to come

say goodbye by the bridge
with my hands in your pockets
our tears specks of memories
we scrunch hard to keep in

The country is a vicious dog
So feed it what it wants
De Pfeffel looks on gleefully
The mongrel slobbers as it chomps

The mutts were not to know
As they proudly wolfed It down
The chocolate lies now sickly
The dog has been put down

Everyone's good
Everybody cares
When they show you the face
Upon which
they want
You to stare
Everyone's nice
Everyone's sweet
Everyone's gentle
Most of all me.

Nobody's bad
No one is evil
Everyone's regal
nobody slobbers
Nobody lusts
No one is greedy
Nobody is needy
Nobody slaughters
Least of all, me.

a raw challenge of words - not some tartar genius -
it's a "question" or not - and it's a roulette -
it's a gamble -
it's: words not roasted -
words not roasted in an oven of academia -
esp. oven roasted via a masters in arts:
english lit. or jane austen studies - majors -

i can't exfoliate just yet -
i have to catch the midnight train into tomorrow...
because - "something" needs to be tended
to - and i'm about to become
a very responsible nouveau adulte...
i have no time to talk about philosophy -
how i found the time to read it
is another matter -
but talking about it...
seems pointless if... not also weilding
a hammer - heidegger's:
can we talk while doing something else,
menial - and escape the banality of breathing
by on the side - supposing thought?

the crux of the hammer and the nail...
and this talk - or no talk - escapism of sorts...
the isolated words to be "thought" about...
"representation content" and...
what... "what": "reality" is made of...
a speaking that has to return back
into the yoke of thinking -
and not something as practical as...
hammering nails in... ad infinitum...

knock knock... who's there?
Descartes who? Descartes i doubt the table
but not the chair i'm sitting in;
ever knock knock on a leather chair?
there's no superstition of "jinx" associated...
or i could just as well be drinking...
my "thinking" is already
on the train about to leave: come midnight...

raw tartar steak of genius -
words not baked via an oven of an academic
degree in the direction of... modern linguo?
my way all the way back from:
esters RCOOR'
aldehydes RCHO...
carboxylic acid(s) R-COOH...
all that but above all this...

the austrians really do know how to
make the best coffee...
something a christoph waltz would say...
the austrians are (a)
the germans are (b) - high, low - whatever
floats your boat of comparison -
and i do only have an address and a name...

Der-Franz (Vienna since 1929)
A-2512 Oeynhausen
Sachers Strese 7...
hazelnut flavour... coffee...

hans landa eating a strudel -
is probably the best strudel in the world...
and on all days...
but this... it's also a hugo boss uniform...
it's crisp cut... and...
say all you will...
when a girl might wish for a cindarella dress...
any boy would wish for a hugo boss
that clean cut and readied
for: being ironed twice daily...

as of yet: i'm yet to expect a darwinistic
furore - fever - of the coming of
the close of the 19th century and
the opening of the gates for the 20th century...
second coming of darwinism leaves
me hardly convinced -
oh but it's true - oh but yes yes -
some of us are working in the knitting
of the kingdom of the Brine -

this so-called culture war:
words make bad bullets and sentences
are hardly rifles to shoot them with...
paragraphs like bombs: would do...
if congested into... non-paragraphs...
end of james joyce's ulysses or...
jean-paul sartre's iron in the soul...

the rare events of a postcard being sent by
a philatelist...
or a lepidopterist coming clean
on the metaphor of: the most forbidden fruit...
of which king john of england
would never find out about:
sooner the magna carta...

i'm tired of and i have always never tired of...
byzantine chants...
what can anyone actually remember
of the remains - apart from the chants...
or the bureucracy?
the youth that riddled them with canons
and a library that contained only one
book...

i can't even bother to stomach the correct
grammar -
unless it's a translation...
english: red herring...
french: hareng rouge
german: regenbogenforelle
you wouldn't expect me to succumb to
Ablenkungsmanöver / heimlich maneuver
of a spin-doctor, truly!
english: rainbow trout,
french: truite arc-en-ciel...
german is already given...
polish: pstrąg tęczowy...

nietzsche was right... we are the slavic
equivalent of the french...
we share most of their grammar 1-2 1-2...
why i didn't learn it proper?
they write one thing -
then say another -
i can only see excesses of letters
in written french... once they start
talking... all those letters come
and disappear under the suffix- umbrellas...

otherwise... i'm tired of having the need
to sharpen words -
words: would be bullets -
are not pencils -
sticks and stones and all things
associated with infering information:

otherwise just as last night - attempting to fall
to sleep: giggling and imagining myself...
having walked into the north sea off
the coast of norwich...
shouting: i'm a whale! i'm the beast from
the sea! i'm a whale my primordial
mammalian ancestor! i will swim to Denmark!

talk about living through a drought of:
where the english seems to be the dream-a-lots
having never felt a leash of metaphysics
around their necks tighten and give themselves
unto catholic mantras of central europe -
or how the italians are still christian in name only...
otherwise the go to:
aestheticians and romantics of the fig...

these words are not...
how did i perfect cooking chicken ******* without
the torso or the limbs -
the torso and at least half of the limbs
went into a most perfect chicken soup...
the remains and some frozen goods
went into a **** chicken marinade...
thyme... thyme... check y'er dubliners'
on the surd of H in that one...
it's θyme... otherwise's it's t'inking: time...
not so, paddy o'brian? patrick?

snail-paced grammar:
2 steps forward... 1 step back...
at least in the confines of this leftover:
catacombs of Latin...
we are all the children of Rome -
the hebrew were wrong about two alphabets...
the greek and the latin...
spot on! spot on when it came to...
persian cuneiform and egyptian hieroglyphs!

back-up... the glagolitic and the rune scripts...
somehow accomodating the overlords
of judea... otherwise: really stretching
the history for a personal experience...
what alphabet is this?!

- concept of beauty in the 1950s:
none other than the bleach mingling with amber
that was marylin monroe - the blood of which:
and the modern "beauty?
ava lauren - otherwise i call it:
the mandible jaw of ***-appeal gymnastics -
leather beauty - some worn, torn and -
the jigsaw puzzle that comes naked and
there hardly a kennedy romance at stake...
because even in her mature years -
it's "something" that would appeal
to Rodin's hands...
it's already... it leaves me at ease to ****
like a shotgun into my one "crooked" leg folded
and hunched like a crow perched on a windowsill
of the new-born Papillon -
marylin the icon? untouchable...
ava lauren the limbo montage and:

even this poo'em is proof:
why lament the crux of a would-be Liszt performance?
"views"... if that's anything to go by:
i have an *** and a ****** -
implies... i have more than a head a spine to prop
it on and a tongue's worth of an oyster
dissected between the 32 shells...

that views should count: a fountain of youth!
of a body i am certain...
of a soul: i know what i have -
only after i have lost it -
shared company - rejoice soul! hell doesn't exist!
as they call say: via their slavic proverbs:
the devil is without a soul...

perhaps i'm asking:
are not some of my words infantile?
d(evil) and go(o)d?
do or do not...
come to think of it... what makes people
invite the ****** eye into their ****** *******?
to boast or gloat?
i hardly think so...
from the times i watched...
and from the times i was the protagonist 1st person...
sometimes the third person attitude
is... well... imagine being in a 69 position
of reciprocating each other ******* & "*******"...
faber & faber...

if you have a ******* **** in your face...
and you're slurping and slurping...
what out of body experience can you expect
to have... to really and you really
want to appreciate the face of a woman
pleasuring herself and somehow you
on the side...

bogus and boring the same old
*******...
in that cocoon of: under the bed-sheets...
like two foetuses *******
amphibian bode -
placenta erections and:
the place where no two mouths meet!
otherwise:
she rodeod to the point
of a complete tail turned coccyx erosion!

*** is ***... no need to bring grammar
into this "debate" with a bilingual "schizoid"...
otherwise: hello Chloe...
is Chloe ready for a circus?

for all the *** in the world...
it's never something appealing for the eyes...
it's numbing for the parts that
imitate ******* snipping...
and otherwise... it's always more fun
casually: in third-person...
very much akin to reading a book...

because this piece of writing will not topple
your below average amateur post
from the free-range harvest of:
and this one tested this *****...
and this one was showing off: how she can
still get frisky when pregnant...
and... this sore loser is hardly going to...
because...
the greater pleasure comes from music...
to me *** is a most:
dyssynchronyous act...

how some people still manage to focus on saying
something is beyond me...
i'm left with onomatopoeias...
half-wit compositions of somewhat consonant
leverages - somewhat vowel expansions
of breath...

never does god even into this brothel...
i show him the "niqab" and all that's visible
is either silence of the hebrew definite article: ha...
why would i somehow
fathom a god in forms? not words?
with a c.c.t.v. focus etc?

- ******* on the roses, eating the roots
and sniffing the ashes -
variations of the modern: fine and lean
cannibal... because none of this invokes
the mandarin: specialz elephant ivory
"herbalism"...
cos if beijing don't sniff it...
we'ez knot snifz it... woz!
n00b wording and "get some"...

ל... find me a F(ucking) in 'ebrew, levite!
kametz = no aleph or ayin...
chirek? "i"?
well... it's и in cyrillic... א in 'ebrew...
but the latter is: an A...
the other gay Adam to Ayin...
and: whenever jeffrey "napoleon dynomite" dahmer
went along...
hiding vowels... and two vowels
treated as consonants...
you'd have to be born in London,
Golders Green to keep up with
the Hasidi...
because wherever they go...
the quarter is followed up with a ghetto...
like a bayz payot caduceus... listening: sparrows
chirping!

would a myth of Eve the prozzie Lilith
even matter at this point?

it only comes down to: integrating
or keeping with the purity of the forbidden fruit
that isn't *******...
but... cousin *******!
i've seen how this old forbidden fruit looks like...
it slobbers... it doesn't speak...
it's wheeled around: it doesn't walk...
the old fruit of eden: ******* your mother,
******* your cousin...
because i know what the next forbidden fruit is...
the circa 16 year old...
but that doesn't invite genetic: non-chernobyll
"status teases"...

inbreed far enough so that no outsider
will ever want to meddle with the ****** politics
of: the first ever niqab ultra...
because the muslims were never:
but really were about... the power dynamic
played out in rumi's *******: sufism...
a tier up from: gentlemen! let's broaden our minds!
Lawrence! ***** in the air! adhan!
compensated by the christian *******
at the altar...
religious gesticulation toward proving
the existence of incubuses: a very feminine affair...
when the broomstick stops "working"...
and there's no sabbath to attend...
and high-tier french socialite society
moves to London...
and the Viennese patisserie was always better
than the Parisian yoke-riddled flat and custard
agitation prone...

i poke my head out of my whittle
hermit cave...
and oops is supposed to happen...

or... drink enough cider and a shot of whiskey
at the same time... and...
it's almost like you're part of
the baltic culture of eating... kashubian herrings...
or generally pickled herrings...

why the **** did Amon Goeth say...
casimir the great - so called -
told the jews they could come to Krakow -
well, even history says:
first they were jews...
later they were polaks...
or: no... they weren't polaks to begin with:
not with that history allows us to entertain...
likewise...
"they're" not h'americans...
israel seems to be...
somewhat of a safebet gamble...

if i heard that one palestinian had roots
in saudi arabia...
like all those "pakistanis" circa 2001 that
had roots in saudi arabia...

the subject - the **** -
the tender geopolitics in between -
the 7 year madness of nebuchadnezzar
that never made it into a ben-hur esque movie
****...
shame i say...

of course this will not reach a far greater audience...
ah... what am i missing?
a ****** - a plump *** - a decapitated madame tussauds
monsier de sade *** toy / would be barbie or
an otherwise ripe cucumber...

my agony: extending the *******
into a cusp of a bone hard hand...
rather natural -
not unless - the proper deal is associated...
me and my ******* and
the girls being circumcised...
well then...
that would almost be like me...
being james cook having just visited
the Easter Islands!

Sundays, after beatings
He ignites the torrid grill
Browns the butter
Smacks and beats the eggs,
Ick! the shrill of boils in the scramble
Spattering at every turn
When he macerates those yolks;
Chunky bangers begin to scorch
And the tawny smoke that rises from the fry
Sheaths his face.
Greasy sweat drops begin to strain from his enlarged
and scowled pores;
A gooey film of grime and slime
Skims down and plunks into his fry,
Froth around the mouth
He slobbers more and primes his grub one final time.
He crams a pile on to his fork
Without inhaling he swallows and
He gobbles
His jowls are brimming
Will he choke?

and i would have to find myself
a heaving...
a heave... best equipped
to acquire... all that was to become
a conjure for the welcome
parade of the grand eloquence:
democracy of man...
        this dying of god...
    this birth of man...
               this lost feud of the first breath...
this last loot of a same burden:
that same...
                squandering fool!
           my attire! squire! squire!
lacklustre: doubly heave a riddling
of crown:
anything with a tow:
of this looting goth...
                  if only... elizabeth was
given the youth of the shakespeare
counterpart...
and i were given the chance
to make similar odes...
make my sins a litany of:
tax revenue... squandering: feats...
the rich are: roach...
probably worse than then poor...
come being vexed...
and what the notable reason for
taxes invites...
yes... then the rich are...
            bruised...
                      borrowed...
b­reathing: half-murdered...
                     itching and burrowing
this... crease in...
               forgotting how to...
"leisure"...
        
   i tend to... listen to horror movie
soundtracks... to fall asleep...
and... to be honest...
to... ******... gilles de rais...
no... spaghetti atheist credo:
work-up loitering feud...

              as many as the people
have had a voice...
there have always been
so few: to strive for the accomplished...
purpose of... furthering...
the narrative...
          an ugly affair to mind...
first and last: beginnings...

what if... i owed the reigning party...
a painting... rather than...
this... antithesis of rhyme?

i'd own... a closure of...
the lesser geoetry...
and the heightened enclosure of...
rhyme...
of that: i have nothing...
to rhyme... with...

and that my lesser...
my leveraged... of any sort:
all to be borrowed...
excess of neck:
in length...

there is no culture war to
be currently excavated...
what there is?
what there is... is...
culture sparring...
one feeds...
auxiliary... culture is 2nd...
within the confines of what
begins its life as iron ore...
and... behaves as arrived at:
silver schpoon!

         dexter-safe-havens...
because... anything...
anywhere... and... anyhow...
only and would only ever...
happen... to h'americans...
the little people such as us...
would and could only...
beg... for... the lesser horror...
in terms of...
      the adequate entertaining
extreme: loss of east-berlin...
the knee came: withered!

         i somehow forgot...
pearl harbor... it happened between
service-men...
nagasaki = auschwitz...
       but... less... cinema... less...
judeo-trait: loitering *******...
      
  nagasaki = auschwitz...
paying the price for... soothing
with bacon-stripping the bavarians
of... pennsylvania:

   loiter lost bwo: of... fowm'eh:
bwo'tin'tin... pause: please...
slobbers: interlude: 3rd persons...

nagasaki = auschwitz...
blink blink... "something new"??
     a death of a people in a blink of an eye...
pearl harbor:
you mean: when...
army contra army...
            counter to... when...
the infidel... civilians are at stake...

       nagasaki hiroshima = auschwitz...
care to concern oneself with what
did happen: in a blink of an eye...
**** your grammar no best or better grammar...

pearl harbour: samurai mentality:
war items... contra war items...
but... eugenics u.s.a. -
          etc.
                 to attack... the civil pop.
it's not like the atom bomb was dropped
on an area the same worth of pearl harbour...
******* savours of the world:
the soviet union the warsaw pact....
already left you: undermined...
this... pristine... ****-show!
who am i... not think...
that... the chernboyll...
disaster... wasn't... instigasted...
by the overtly-hard-on-hormone
working of the h'american egoism?!

oh... truth... "truth"?! yeah...
hiroshima... nagasaki...
        auschwitz...
                      same ****... different cover...
but the japanese had a concept of
both shame and pride...
which... the jews of auschwitz... didn't...
it's not like... the jews of...
the death-camps were prone to....
suicide... were... they?

the same problem concerning
the h'americans...
plaing war games...
pearl harbor...
any civilians?
             yes... shield: the civil population:
entry level... palestine!

drop a nuke: give auschwitz 4 years...
einstein claimed:
it's all relative!

                     well...
problem... what "problem"?
no problem! godzilla on the fiddle!
casimir! amon goeth...

     are the jews supposed to play...
the lesser minding...
the lesser: this... lesser god...
of a people who suppose themselves
vermin... and this god:
the rat-god...

                              it's not a question...
esp. when noting...
this... it's already dwindling...
h'american
cultural superiority...
it's gone... it's dead...
it's a ******* whim and a wish...
and a... regurgitated...
constipation!