i have managed to evolve just enough
that i am no longer bothered by you.
i have someone i can fake text
a badly designed little game
meant for six year olds
that i can play
or i can
scroll
scroll
scroll
and pretend that so many other two demensional people
want to get ahold of me
i can do all this
in the most superior manner
and never even look at you
because you are three dimensional
and you are too hard to figure out,
process
analyze
you are simply
too big
for my screen...
i must wait for another upgrade
before i can open you
you are too
real
i cannot sort you out
into little
megapixels....
you will
break
me

I was young
and you were old
you were shy
And I was bold

I stared at you
you smiled twice
I made my bet
you rolled the dice

I came to you
you felt my smell
I stole a kiss
You fell under my spell

I was a brat
You had no aim
I was an ace
You had no game

I had fun
You had too
I'm leaving soon
You're feeling blue

And so it ends
what never started
in the game of love
you've been out smarted

I've been drawing
A blank
Dwelling in this
So called
Conundrum

Only giving
Half hearted gestures,
Forsaking all others

I've deliberately
Out smarted
All the details
Lost in time

Jittery
On every
Steamy day

The remedy
Never lies
In the score book,
Or with
Criminal instincts,
Not even
The crooked
Cab drivers

So I'll wander
In these
Unvarnished
Chocolate covered
Nightmares

I'll hide
Under the
Stairs
Where spiritualistic,
Speakeasy
Behavior
Only leaves
You
Killed or injured

A whirl
Of such discovery
And you
Will finally
See

It's mostly people
Who cause
This kind of
Unease

with tobacco sitting open
in dusty papers on our kitchen table,
still warm from the glow
on your mint and cedar skin,
and with the sky cloudy and quiet in our window,
you kissed my crooked mouth
like the ghost hand that held the door open for you.

Heartache is an actor,
mumbling his soliloquy on the wide empty stage of my tongue
while the people in the back complain that they can't hear.
when people speak of a love not returned,
if you're lucky,
you can still hear a thin warm ribbon of blood
wrapping around teeth,
almost undetectable,
and the name hangs heavy in the room
like silver tinsel after christmas
if the  still oozes hot, black heartache
or else it is a wound that has scabbed over.
the lover is left lying like
a ribbed dog on a dry path,
summer's dust coating organs and throats
purple and bruised,
church bells ringing through tall grass.

but you heard every word that Heartache was saying.
you smarted away from me,
as if I had bitten you.
I think maybe
you could taste all of this war
waging among the rafters
in the high ceilings of my mouth.
and all I could taste was copper pennies
for months after you left.

As a young child I would
awaked from my mid-day nap
to the glorious smell of fresh
home-baked cookies, not the
premade out of the tube crap
... the real deal made by mom
Was I dreaming of her awesome
soft baked chocolate chips, the
classic sugar cookie or the
peanut butter thumb print
No matter... I was good with
anything produced by her hand
Sneaking down the stairs to the
kitchen I follow my nose to
discover nothing but aroma
Mixing bowls are all cleaned and
no sign of any used baking sheet
First instinct is to climb the cabinet
and search the old hiding spot
to no avail, she has out smarted
me yet again in concealing evidence
No jar is left probing by my best
Sherlock Holmes investigation
the HIDDEN COOKIE JAM will
not outwit me again and again
I will seek you until I find you
then I will lay waste to you like
Cookie Monster had his way on
Sesame Street.

Dear Andy, Thank you and Goodbye.

2/24/11

A deep tiresome passion has been building up inside me,
And it’s been two months and six days since I last saw you.
At the beach is where I’ll find you and is where I soon will be.
We’ll see each other and I’ll recover because you’ll be next to me.

Soft and smooth are your curly brown locks,
And sweet and luscious are your round small lips.
The scent of you with all your letters in my little green box,
Now I see your green eyes and feel your warm finger tips.

Slow and seductive are the long whispers I keep,
And it’s your voice I hear daily with little hope.
In my dreams is where I’ll find you as I fall into sleep,
And in the sunset we do paddle in the swan love boat.

2/27/11

The sand is in between the keyboard keys and caked onto my knees,
With a glass of wine at ten thirty in the morning I sit only broken hearted
A night together on the beach I had planned for two months, but you lied to me
All a lie, you scammed me how could I have been out smarted.

Lying together all day, and drinking late into night,
Only to crawl to the twin bed in the early hours of the morning.
You’d caress me as I sleep and hold me until awoken by sunlight.
Soon you must leave to go home, but I will visit soon and bring you loving.

Two months have passed and most days we’ve spoken,
But it seems now another girl found her way into the picture.
Without a word you have lured me here only to leave me broken.
You praise her and I watch just like a permanent wall fixture.

Thanks for the lies, and all the wasted time.
This is the end of the all the extra feelings.
My life is taking a rapid U-turn without you in line.
Please enjoy her company while I stand here dying.  

Sincerely,

Sofi Lilly

In Mrs. Schmutz’s first grade class
In nineteen sixty-two
I took a babe for show and tell
DelRae, that babe was you!

I held you up for all to see
Then passed you down the aisle
The little girls all ooh-ed and ah-ed
To see your toothless smile

The little boys were less impressed
Until you passed some gas
Then thought you were the coolest kid
In Mrs. Schmutz’s class!

You seemed to like the accolades
And shot a little spray
Mi amigos that ain’t nada
Is what you seemed to say!

The teacher ran to wipe it up
All frantic and befuddled
Then slipped and fell right in that spot
Where you, DelRae, had puddled!

The girls giggled girlishly
The boys let out a roar
The principal came striding in
Take that and raise you four!

You burped a *** of curdled milk
Torpedoed in his eye
I don’t recall another time
I’ve seen a grown man cry!

He banned you from that first grade class
I guess his pride was smarted
‘Cuz you were kicked out of that school
And hadn’t even started!

Some fifty years have come and gone
Since all that stuff you did
So Happy Birthday, DelRae Scott!
You’re still the coolest kid!

What they want us to do:
Be slimmer
Be smarted
Be self-confident
Be spiritual

What they ask:
"Why aren't you eating?"
"Why are you always studying?"
"Why do you dress like a "****"?"
"Why are you always in church?"

What I say:
...

What my mind says:
"I'm trying my hardest but none of you see it. Each word you dig into me drains me each day. I know I am fat, I know I am dumb. I am trying to be like you but..
I...
just...
don't...
fit...
in...

OK, I was upset - he said something
that stung
it smarted
ouch.

I wanted to run
but didn't
I felt my face change
my lips purse
my demeanor stiffen
did he notice?

He'd given me an orange earlier that day
now I wanted to stomp on it
crush it...
but what did that orange do to me?

I thought of giving it away
but did not
so it sat on my desk
until Friday.

When I finally looked at his picture and said
I'm not mad at you anymore
and meant it.

Later that afternoon in my office
I heard someone speak
but I was focused on helping someone at the time.

They spoke again, I turned around
and there he was.

We talked for a little while
and briefly I wondered if he noticed
the changes in my being that day
but then I thought of it no more.

He was here, I was not mad
and I realized
when I let go of feeling hurt
let go of being mad and decided to love him anyway.

God opened a window and it was my heart.

the first time i choked on tear-gas,
we were standing in the heart of the Empire.
the scent of capsaicin still smarted
as we fished our medic bags for water-bottles
to flush our comrades’ eyes. we did not weep
for the revolt. we were at peace even as we knew,
beyond a shadow of a doubt,
we were ******.

the black bloc, three thousand strong,
had raged through the streets of D.C.
overturning dumpsters, torching limos,
taking hammers and crowbars
to Bank of America windows
with gleeful abandon, a sense of endless,
militant joy. it would be
anarchy or annihilation.

the spontaneous insurrection
of the antifascist demonstration
was an inferno hotter than the dumpster-fires
we’d left like signal-flares in our wake.
for a moment, there, we could feel
the ******* quaking as our feet
shook the Earth, stepping
in-and-out of Lovecraftian shadows,
eldritch horrors of doom gloating over us.

but we’d been kettled,
cordoned by cops in riot gear,
cut-off from all possible routes of escape.
faceless phantoms clutching cudgels
to bludgeon our conflagration
into submission. and then
the call came. “this way! this way!
we found an exit!”

immediately, the cops swarmed in,
their momentarily vindictive arrogance
shattered by the freedom that rang
like church-bells in a half-a-hundred voices.
“this way! this way! we found an exit!”
motorcycles turned down the alleyway,
sirens screaming, echoing off the tenement halls
and only one of us possessed the sense to intervene.

for a moment, she stood alone.
a single figure, holding up her hands
and shaking her head, refusing to let
the ******* advance. but courage
is infectious. a moment later,
another joined her, then another,
until all of a sudden a half-a-dozen
of us stood shoulder-to-shoulder, shouting,

“no pasaran! you shall not pass!”
we waited for the billy-clubs to rain
hell upon our shoulders, but still
we remained steadfast, anchored
by the weight of our conviction
and the hope that even if we fell
the rest of the bloc would escape
to wreak havoc another day.

My patience is chipping
It falls to the ground leaving marks
I can't
You've out-smarted me
Im done
You win
Good job
Im broken
And can only be put back together
With the glue of your love

3 Dog's Fate
The dog hid in a doorway
But was spotted by the chef
Come on now boy
I won't hurt you
Such were the chef's evil lies
He would catch the dog
Finish the act and have his meal
The dog has out smarted him once
There would be no second time
Look there he is!
Come here boy it's ok
We won't hurt you
We just want to eat you
The dog saw his enemy
And bolted for freedom
Would he live or die?
If he escaped what of his injuries?
He'd been half cooked alive
The chef kept calling
And looking for him
Will he live or die?
He was one of many
Poor little doggy

If only I knew what would have happened if I never saw him…if I never laid eyes on him. Would I be trapped here in this windowless room, where there are bars all around me? I am doomed to live the rest of my life here. Never to experience what life is like beyond the ten-foot wall that encircles this place I call hell. Then I thought it’s better than being dead. There are others who live here, but not all are here for the same reason as I am. I want to take everything back! But I can’t. It happened and I can’t take it back. Not now. Not ever.
It started out like this: It was a sunny day as I walked out of the coffee shop drinking my favorite drink, a caramel latte, I saw him. He was on the other side of the street when he caught my gaze. It seemed like time stopped, and everything was quiet. The only thing that could be heard was my heart pounding rapidly. We held each other’s gaze for thirty seconds, but it felt more like thirty minutes to me. He was first to smile and look away. He continued walking. As he walked I watched him go in the opposite direction.
When I came back to the coffee shop the next day, he was there at a table staring at me with a knowing smile like he knew I would come. This shocked me. I had no idea of what to do. Whether or not to sit at his table, say hello, or ignore him completely. What would you do?
By the time I got my drink, I made my mind up. I was going to go over just to say hi but not sit unless he insisted on it. As I made my way over, I could feel my face going hot and my legs growing weak, as I got closer. When I finally arrived, it was the first time I got a clear glimpse of him: he had broad shoulders, brownish-blackish hair, watery blue eyes, and this smile of confidence. He was the first to speak.
“Hey, I was hoping I’d be right and you’d show up…guess I was.” He gestured to the empty seat across from him, and I took it without even thinking. There was a silence, and then he broke it with asking, “So, live around here?”
Almost instinctively I responded, “Ummmm yes… I have lived here all my life. I live right outside of town.” Then I couldn’t help but ask, “Are you new here?”
“Yes, I moved here three days ago, but I have family here so it’s not big adjustment for me.” He responded without any hesitation. “You might know who they are, their names are Jill and Tony and they have their own store here in town,” he pointed towards the other side of the street. “Yeah,” he continued, “they are my Aunt and Uncle.”
I knew whom he was talking about. They owned the local bakery. “Yes, I went to school with their son, Peter, I didn’t know you were related, but now that you mention it, you do look similar.” I laughed and so did he. It was soothing to hear him laugh…as if all the awkwardness just disappeared.
After that, we just talked and talked for what seemed like mere seconds quickly turning into minutes, which then became an hour. When I looked at my watch, I realized that I going to be late. I promised my mom’s friend that I would babysit her son so they could go out. He read my face perfectly.
“Do you need to be somewhere, because by the looks of things you going to be late,” He said smoothly.
“Yes, sorry, I need to go. Sorry.” I looked up, apologizing for leaving abruptly.
I move to go but he quickly added, “before you go will you tell me something first?” with pleading eyes. I turned to him, as if that was all he needed to go on “What is your name, in case we were to meet again?”
I looked at him puzzled, almost wondering if there would be a next time. I answered almost in a sing song way with, “Faith and yours is…”
“Brad. It was nice getting to know you. I hope we can do this again sometime,” he added swiftly.
Without hesitation I responded with, “Yes, I would like that.”  And with that, I left.
In the beginning, I had this feeling of wanting to get to know him better, and to see him more. There was something about him that made me want to be around him. You are probably thinking ‘what could have possibly go wrong…he seems like a decent guy’ right? Wrong.
After running into Brad off and on for weeks on end, it almost became routine. I would see him from across the street and smile back at him when he spotted me staring. Or just say hi to one another as we walked by, but nothing to intense. I was curious about Brad. To me, Brad has this charming aspect that was different from the rest of the other guys in town.
One day, out of nowhere, Brad was at the same place where he was in the coffee shop waiting for me but with two cups on the table. He motioned me over and told me to sit. Brad pushed the cup towards me. I stared the cup debating whether or not to drink it. “What did you get me?” I asked, not trying to reject the offer.
Brad answered, “What you always get. It’s a caramel latte, right?” When he finished, he smiled like he already knew all about me. So I took a sip and it was what he said it was. I was still taken aback by how he could have possibly known that kind of information about me. But I still drank it thinking it was harmless.
We talked, but it was mainly Brad doing the talking. But when I finally was able to speak, I asked, “How did you know the kind of coffee to get?”
Brad answered staring straight into my eyes saying in a low voice, “I like knowing people that interest me before having to ask them myself. I already know a lot about you. Where you live, where you went to school, how many siblings you have, your favorite movie, what you like to eat, where you like to hang out, and where you work. And there is more for me to learn.” At the end, he smiled crookedly.  
My eyes grew wide in alarm. True, I do live in a small town. I grew up here, but I just met Brad so how could he have possibly known all about me in a short amount of time? My mind was telling me to run but my legs didn’t move. My legs felt like they were cemented to the floor. Brad kept gazing at me and I couldn’t help but return his gaze. I couldn’t look away…like I was in some trance. When my mouth and throat began to work again, I could only manage to spit out a few words, “you couldn’t…possibly know all of that…no one could know all that information…without being a…a…”
“Stalker...?” he took the word right out of my mouth. I felt disorientated. I couldn’t breathe, and my mind could not grasp this as reality. I needed to leave now! By that point my legs were working again. I began to get up and reach the front door, but Brad cut me off. He was smiling this wicked smile that I have never seen on anyone’s face before. “No one will believe you if you tell anyone, so I suggest that you don’t, and if I hear a word about this I will be forced to **** you.”
I looked up at him so frighten I could hardly speak “Why me…why do you have to target me…what have I done that made you so interested in me?”
“I feel this…connection between us that is different from all of the others?”
Others? What others? Was what Brad telling me the truth? Were there other women? If so, how many and where were they now? In a low voice that is almost a hum, he said “Don’t you feel it, Faith? It is the way you looked at me on the day where we first saw each other. That one moment is what makes me resist the temptation of just killing you now. I feel more connected with you than I did with anyone else and I want to see where it may lead. Who knows? It could be for the better.” He reached over with the back of his hand and touched my cheek. I flinched at the coldness of his hand. Without even thinking, I somehow managed to stomp my foot on his with my heel. When Brad flinched, I bolted.
Now you see what I mean when I mentioned he was not who I thought he was. Brad was after me because of the way I looked at him that one time. I admit that I too once felt this attraction between us. If I hadn’t I noticed Brad in the first place…would I be already dead? It made my head spin; the only thing keeping me alive was the fact that I notice him and had this feeling of affection. This made me sick.
Brad threatened my life and no one could save me from him, not even the police. What would you do in my situation? Run to the police…did that…tell your parents…that too…confined to your friends…tried to, it didn’t work; they all thought that I was crazy! I didn’t know what to do. I felt hopeless, not knowing how to handle this situation.  
I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, I didn’t want to leave my home for the fear Brad might be around the corner, or nearby watching my every move. I felt trapped in my own home; I kept telling myself this isn’t right. I shouldn’t feel forced to stay in my home. No one should live like this. No one deserves this.  
My boss threatened to fire me if I did not start showing up for work. I was finally forced to leave the safety of my home. I was timid to leave. I was so cautious I looked under, around, and above anything that was a possible hiding spot. When I reached my car, I hopped in and I booked it to work. What would have usually been a thirty minutes, drive turned into fifteen minutes; it is amazing what fear can do to one’s mind.
When I made it into the building my boss called me into his office. It was small with lots of files stacked high on his desk and tons of books that he might have not read. I took my seat, and waited for him to start. “Is everything ok with you?” he asked
“Why do you ask?”  I didn’t really want to tell him that I met my stalker because I didn’t trust him like that. I didn’t need my boss thinking that I was crazy; then I would really start considering entering an insane asylum.    
“Well you haven’t shown up to work for a whole week. I’m just worried, that’s all. Is there anything I should be concerned about?”  My boss looked at me, as if worried for me. He was actually concerned about my wellbeing. This was refreshing in a way. I insisted that everything was fine; I was just taking a short break from life. He took that for an answer and went on to explain why he also called me into to see him. “I have an intern for you to work with and train. He is new here and actually requested you.”
An intern…maybe this will keep my mind off reality. And he requested me made me feel wanted, in a weird way. But when the intern appeared in the doorway, it was Brad, standing there smiling at me like he just out smarted me! No, no, noooooo this can’t be right, he can’t be here, I thought. My boss was somehow oblivious to my reaction to Brad being here. He introduced us and dismissed us. After that I tried to get away from him and out of this room. But Brad kept pace with me and I could not get rid of him.
When I had enough of speed walking and making a scene at the office, I made my way to a secluded part of the office. I turned to confront him. He was closer than I thought. All he did was smile at me like he was enjoying the chase. “You’re harder to keep up with than I thought.” Then lowered his voice “I hope that you didn’t tell anyone of my little secret, because you know what will have to happen if you did. In fact, that’s why I am here: to make sure that you keep your mouth shut until I am ready to put an end to your life.” Softening his voice in an almost an affectionate way, “I don’t want to do anything prematurely now.” He looked up and saw someone coming. “Smile and say nothing,” Brad said harshly, clenching my shoulder.
I looked to see who it was; it was my friend that works right across from me, Sue. She walked past me like she didn’t suspect anything was out of the ordinary. I wanted to cry for her, to get out of here and away from here but Brad had this firm grip on me. He was hurting me just to keep me quiet. I was so scared. Once she was out of earshot, he continued, “You’re going to act like everything is normal and pretend that you have no idea who I am.” His grip became stronger until I nodded yes he then let go of me. “Good, now that we understand each other, where’s your desk so we can get to work?”
As I started to walk, there was this anger and hate towards Brad that began to grow. My fears were slowly dissolving away. On my way to my desk, he was right behind me. I was looking for something to use as a possible weapon if need be. There was nothing I could see, until I spotted it at my own desk. My scissors! That could work, but I needed to wait till Brad was in the right position for me to strike. I took them before Brad saw them…hopefully.
My mind was racing. I knew that I needed to act soon before Brad suspected anything and when I did, I better not miss or that will be the end of me. “So…” the sound of his voice startled me “this is where you work?” I nodded not trusting myself to speak. “It’ll do, where is my section?” I pointed to an empty chair towards the back, which was set up when I came in this morning. He took it and sat down then looked at me. “Well, what should I do?  You’re supposed to tell me what to do remember?”
I nodded looked around my office to see what he could do. I saw a stack of papers that needed to be organized. I grabbed them with the scissors in hand. I walked over trying to tell myself what I was about to do was the right thing and it needed to be done in order to stay alive.
I dropped the files on his makeshift desk. He looked at them. He started to leaf through them when I lifted my arm with the scissors and quickly lodge it into his neck, pulled them out, and did it again, and again.
Screaming, “Die, die, you *******! You don’t deserve to live!” when he fell to the ground I jumped on top of him and stabbed him more and more in the chest until I knew he was dead for good and there was no way of reviving him.
When I got up, I saw everyone looking at me and staring like I was insane. Minutes later, I heard sirens and the police arrive. Once they saw me with Brad’s blood all over my clothes, they arrested me and took me into custody. I was screaming, “he was going to **** me…I had to, he made me **** him.” They had a firm grip on me like I was going to run but I stood there trying to convince them of what happened, but they didn’t believe me. No one did.
As they dragged me away from my office I saw them place a sheet over Brad’s face and I heard the police confirming that he was dead. I felt a relief rush over me like I was free from death. I began to laugh but then it turned into crying, knowing what I just did and the punishment that came with it.
During the trial it was quick. I was found guilty and sentenced life here in this prison. Since all the witness at my office claimed that it was an unlawful act of violence toward a person that I did not know, it was my word against a dead man and there was no evidence to support my claim that he was stalking me. How I wished there was.
In the end, I don’t blame the outcome; I accept it. I know what I have done was wrong. But no one seems to understand what he did was wrong too. And yet I am the one who gets punished because claiming to stalk someone is not illegal and killing someone is. I call myself a victim, but others call me a murderer.
Now I am here in this place of hell, doomed to live the rest of my life here in this godforsaken place. This enclosed room where there is barely enough room to breathe. I still think about that final day when I killed him. His evil grin telling me that I would never be free of him.  He was right; I’m not. He haunts me in my dreams telling me over and over, ‘you made a mistake you will pay for it when the time comes!’ what does that mean? Will I be condemned when I die here?
Somehow that idea doesn’t scare me anymore now knowing that I have nothing to live for. My family a banded me when I was arrested and now claim they don’t know me anymore that I have changed. In a way I have but not for the better. Since I have been living here I have been thinking about death what would happen if I were to die. Would anyone miss me? Would anyone care if I died here? That I will never find out.
Ever since Brad came into my life death has been lurking around me. Telling me that it’s my time to go, I have tried to ignore the voices but it’s been harder now that I am actually considering death is not all that bad. Have I become crazy like everyone thinks? I say yes. I have been thinking thoughts that I would never have thought of if I never had met Brad.
Faith puts her pen and notebook down; she is satisfied with what she wrote. Her story is now written and told for the final time. She looks around her cell and spots the sheets on her bed. She gets up from her desk grabs the sheets and begins to tie a loop around the top of the bed and ties a noose around her neck. Then Faith just sits down. She feels the constriction of the bed sheet around her neck slowly taking the air out of her. It becomes harder for Faith to breathe until she loses consciousness and falls asleep, than dies.

there might have been perhaps two other New Year's Eve
to match this years,
of these only one was actually magically youthful,
between 2004 coming to 2005 or perhaps it
was 2005 coming to the year 2006...
i was still studying at Edinburgh (Promis, Alicia),
that's when Promis lost her virginity
to me after Hogmanay, becoming irresistible...
seeing Fiona slobber me...
at the same time "drink me, eat me"...
**** drink to puncture her virginity while
Alicia was left cold, Lebanese reading that book:
The Hours... leftover in the communal room...

i didn't have any fun with these girls that time round...
what i had fun with was... my flatmate...

with Tristan from Bristol,
running around the streets breaking car side-mirrors
reenacting scenes fro Fight Club...
Bruce decided to become this middle-aged
man aged 18...
he bought a "bucket" of golf clubs...
one night we took them out...
we took out some golf clubs...
a few golf *****... and a few glasses...
we stood in the middle of the street...
pretending to... AIM... at... ha ha.. AIM...
we missed all the golf *****...
but! we managed to hit all the glasses!
it was... spectacular...
we were golfing in the proper Scottish sense
of the origin of golf...
       we had golf-clubs... we had golf-*****...
but we weren't hitting golf-***** with golf-clubs...
we were using golf-clubs... to... aim at imaginary
pint-glasses... sitting on top of...
shot-glasses... or... perhaps the reverse...

then that one terrible one circa 2003 or 2002...
going back to Poland, back then trying to romance
Katie (Kasie) - being invited to a house party...
being surrounded by teenagers hornier than me...
small-town mentality of getting hitched-early
and i was having trouble to breathe and find out
anything about whether i was already
the foreigner that still spoke his native tongue,
smoke, ****** music,
   the past part of the house party was helping with
the preparations with the host i only met that
evening...

this other New Year's Eve i was sitting alone
in my grandparent's house... alone in the kitchen...
both of my grandparents decided to go to bed early...
i watched the fireworks alone and felt
a solid stone of melancholy: a reflective sadness that
is not some reflex-depress or deflect-impress...

before today i promised myself change my habits,
how i would change everything,
quit smoking or at least cut down: i would most certainly
not smoke in the morning and on an empty stomach,
i would cut down on the heavy bourbon or whiskey
*****... why?
  heavy ***** has ****** up my digestive system a little...
irritable bowel movements and...
sometimes the inability to take a **** in one go...
rather... having in splintered...
   in sections... well... easily prone to sometimes vomiting
or rather: needing to ***** to feel at easy...
that was three days ago...

      i just wanted to stop feeling the also hightened
blood pressure...
             these "headaches" that weren't headaches but sort
of pulsations... as if my brain was dehydrated,
spinning, almost feeling death-tickling...
squeezing of the throat...
i told myself that i would stop drinking the heavy
duty liquids even if that meant i would have more sleepless
nights... well... new year's resolutions begin
two days before a new year's eve...
but the old ways have to come around for just one
last time on new year's eve and then:
with the intended plans...

    prior to the 30th... on the 29th i said to myself:
promise me this you-i, you will follow-through...
so i drank four ciders, took some generic painkillers
to ease me sleep and hey presto...
perhaps not a healthy 8 hour lapse into the Land
of Nod - but at least i woke up relaxed at 10am...
i had 5 hours spare until the shift would start
at the London Stadium...
                       i ate enough food smoked a cigarette
starting puking... right... you're not taking an cigarettes
to the shift... on my way there these
high-pressure "headaches" kicked in...
again i thought i was constipated but i had already
taken a shift before leaving...
no... these were not high-pressure "headaches"
anymore... excitement was kicking...
    i was again promoted to a supervisor: **** it...
here's me taking care of the east-wing with 15 stewards
under me...
i was excited... why? West Ham fans have the worst
reputation of all the clubs in the Premier League...
27 arrests in the season 2021/22...
i was excited... i was expecting something to happen...
i had 4 stewards on their ****** shifts...

in the middle of the match where West Ham was losing
to Brentford 2 - nil, Martin on gate 141 started gesticulating
with his hands in the middle of the second half...
i walk over... he tells me something is going on...
i look up... oh ****... about 12 guys, some of these guys
were fathers who brought their little boys along...
haggling with punches and grabbing and ferocious
tongues, children crying... a woman in the audience
starts glaring at me with hysteria and screaming
at me: do something! do something!
        calmly i turn on the radio and communicate
to Head Control: Control, this is Papa 2.3 -
i need a response team to be at gate 141 immediately!
the woman is still screaming,
the situation is escalating.... the children are even more
distraught, the blokes are more ferocious
(and the funny thing is, it's West Ham fans
fighting West Ham fans and not Brentford fans...
because the team is close to relegation
and i guess one fan knows better than another
fan about how to turn the situation can be
overturned) -
                           so as the pitch-side manager
Joe once said about contacting Head Control:
'i try getting through to them, they ignore me...'
well... i go at the radio again...
    'Control! this is Papa 2.3 - i need a response team
at gate 141 of the Billy Bonds stand! turn your cameras
onto what's happening! the situation is escalating!'
hey presto... persistence paid off...
    in about 20 seconds about 10 bouncers (SIA licensed)
rush in and break up the crowd... take some guys out,
comfort the children... i'm just happy the hysterical
woman is not looking at me eyes of scorn as if i'm
some impotent radio-holder...

the shift finishes at around 10:30pm...
   i still manage to catch the tube to Gants Hill and the 66 bus
to Romford, the petrol station near the police station
is still open so i buy three ciders...
    get home just after 12am, drink two ciders smoke two
cigarettes, take some painkillers and try to sleep...
oh ****... oh right... no chance of that happening...
i'm already sweating from alcohol withdraw...
cider can't replace bourbon or whiskey...
                   but excitement turns into post-panic control:
the situation was contained...
but that's not why i couldn't fall asleep...
i tried to... maybe i did for about 30 minutes in between
listening to Heilung's album Futha...
   i must have snoozed off for about 20 to 30 minutes
maybe less... turning side to side...
                                       but i knew that there wouldn't
be any point given i finished drinking the cider at
around 1:10am and i had to get up at 6am...
               to eat some porridge, shower, get dressed...
which i did... weird... ever see a fly casually flying
in a kitchen during December? heat makes flies crazy
during flight... in the "cold" of December (13 degrees Celsius
is cold for December... i experienced about
a week of promising,, authentic cold and snow
a week or two ago) - now this stinking damp and mediocre
cold... ate the porridge standing up contemplating
the lazy flight of the fly... so big... so juicy...
thank god it was one of those black ones and not
those green-belly that **** out dormant larva so quickly
the larva that turn to maggots so quickly...
black flies don't have that capacity...
because black flies... well... you associate black flies
with pestering cows... ergo? they feed off ****...
the blue-belly flies feed off dead meat... cat food...

6am wake up, wash, get dressed, and *******
to Putney Bridge for a 9am shift starts at Cavern Cottage:
Fulham vs. Southampton... New Year's Eve...
i have done a shift on Boxing Day last year...
double pay... but doing a Boxing Day shift is not the same
as... doing a New Year's Eve shift...
      it's like that W. H. Auden quote about
New Year's Eve:

the only way to spend New Year's Eve is
either quietly with friends or in a brothel.
otherwise when the evening ends and people pair off,
someone is bound to be left in tears.

ha! i have a third option!
    
so on my way to Putney Bridge, since the Elizabeth
Line is on strike until the 2nd of January...
****... this complicates my travel in London a little...
i can't take the simple option of taking the 103
bus to Romford Station and head to Paddington
and then a short walk from one Paddington (train)
station to the Paddington (tube) station and
like... 6 stations from Paddington to Putney Bridge
(Stamford Bridge, if you're interested?
that's at Fulham Common, or Broadway,
one of the two) - i could have complicated matters
by taking a longer walk from Hammersmith...
but i like walking through Bishop's Park...
as i was once reminded by one co-worker...
that's where Gregory Peck meets the priests
who gets killed in the film Omen...
it's a beautiful park: it's right next to the Thames...
so the route changes... i have to get the 103
bus to the A12 and then get on the 66 bus to
Newbury Park... then the central line to
Holborn, then the Piccadilly Line to Earl's
Court and then the District Line to Putney Bridge...
i truly tried all the alternatives...
e.g. central line to Oxford Circus -
Victoria line to Victoria and the district line
to Putney B.
     or... central line to Notting Hill Gate and
district line to ditto B....
     but i found that... there's too much walking
involved...
          the shortest route is the one i found out...
sure... it's a bit long changing at Holborn...
but changing at Earl's Court is the shortest...
plus Earl's Court is the interchange
between Edgware Rd, Richmond, Wimbledon,
Upminster and Ealing Broadway...
and the station is almost open air... so sickly sweet
underwear drying in the underground
during the Blitz sort of sensation association
with waiting...

                          ah... well... i managed to get in
to the sign in area for the shift early, i was probably the first,
said hello to the owner of the company,
who's name i always forget... an imposing figure...
former-military... but i still forget his name...
Scott... Scott... hello hello... i didn't shake his hand
this time round because i'm not left-handed
and i noticed he was holding a cigarette in his right...
signed in...
   ooh... the grand comedy of being early...
some perks come with that...
between Putney Green and Putney Bridge i realised
that my halting my drinking and elevation
of insomnia left me without any of those
high-blood pressure headaches... no excitement...
not this time round...
               i was cool as a cucumber...
i didn't feel any constipation... but then after signing
in... ooh... that porridge really helped...
as did that ****** chicken, sweetcorn mayo and
salad sandwich and Monster watermelon drink
did too... sign in at 9am... shift starts at 10am...
irritable bowel-movements...
    the staff toilets sub-standards... i tell someone:
if anyone asks... i'm going to the public toilets
in Bishop's Park... but there are toilets for staff?
you see the cubicles mate? cubicles without doors...
i'm not here to ****... i'm here to take a dump!

fidgety i'm walking back to Bishop's Park...
i enter the toilets... i enter the toilets... then the cubicle...
i peer in... wow! no animals were (yet) here!
the toilet seat is clean! it's left down!
there's toilet paper! there's a coat hanger!
wow! wow! am i just about to "******" as if seeing my
favourite ****-star from when i was 15?!
i take my coat off and all the elements of accreditation,
high-viz. and stadium passport...
undo my shirt a little at the collar and sleeves...
undo my zipper and clip pull down my trousers
down sit down and: PHOO! i **** out both
a gold nugget of firm shirt and a subsequent
waterfall of the looser stuff... my god...
i know that i'm supposed to find some sort of relief
in *******... this... this is better than *******...
ejaculations happen in private...
this is inverted *******: taking a **** in a public
toilet is more of a relief than ******* in private...
after all... it's pretty much the same, isn't?
i might not be looking someone in the eyes...
my member might not be in someone else's body...
but... Bishop's Park was organising their annual
run around the park for jogging enthusiasts...
i was already done when this one jogger ran
into a cubicle next to the one i was sitting in
finishing off my "taking a ****" counting time
solving a Mahjong... when i start to hear him puking...
i just took the most glorious Hiroshima ****
and here's next to me separated by a flimsy screen
that can't sort of discriminate the existence of sounds...

we waited for the shift to start for so long...
Stephanie pulled out... i saw her at West Ham and she asked me
whether i'd be with her in the Bishop's Park...
she turned in sick... so... i was back with Toni...
on the Hammersmith end of the stadium...
well... Thames-side and Hammersmith end...
i just implored her for a favour... i'm tired Toni...
can you put me on the outermost position...
last time i curated this position the weather was beautiful...
i spotted the bridge after Putney Bridge and
i thought: oh... the Kew Bridge...
what a glorious sight... but no...
the bridge that comes after Putney Bridge is
the Hammersmith Bridge... but that's when the weather
was good...
i just didn't want to work with Mark...
    citation needed: 'with my 12 years of experience
as a steward...'                      the ****-joke of the profession...
it was barely a year since i worked this job
and i was already supervising and yet he...
yeah...                               i can understand flies...
more than these busy-bodies of deluded semi-half A.I.
projects of hurt humans...
Francis Bacon paintings are grotesquely beautiful...
but this? this is reality-par-excellence...
interacting with it is: this incomplete human sort
of a joke... that can become a sly group-think of
being comfortable with a specified discomfort...

so i asked her... stand me there... next to ol' Father Thames
and let me admire that bridge i'm not sure about...
so she did...
     what i wasn't actually expecting was the weather...
i took the ******* position...
but as i soon learned... the best position...
the wind came with the rain and the rain came with
the wind...
                      there was this dog-walker with 4 dogs
with one being a terrier ADHD prone spaniel...
running rampage as if having seeing the godhead
of Anubis...
                      
          i was directing Southampton fans to the Putney
stand to avoid the Hammersmith stand...
just talking... hello, how are you, good afternoon...
smile... more smile... choke on a ******* biscuit
and a peppermint...
                   old men telling you: you're not getting paid
enough... lovely weather, oh... not as lovely as if...
it might be staged in the dark...

more about Mark with Lyndon and Toni...
pestering three women Chill (that middle-aged Turkish
woman... oh names... apples: Melanie... Nile? pears?
verbs?!) talk gets lost... on details...
joking about jumping the tide-out Thames...
i was just looking at how crows scared the seagulls...
one swan swimming alone...
metal-pickers in the mud...
                         i'm not myopic or the antagonism
of myopia... L.S. Lowry's stick-paintings...
                                 sure as **** metal-pickers...
in the mud i noticed what i first thought was a treasure
chest... turns out it was an old computer disk...
what was that even called if it wasn't a monitor?

oh and the weather truly broke me...
the rain came at an angle...
i smarted myself up by asking for a second... water resilient
jacket to put... i wasn't going to put on a flimsy potato-starch
pancho...
but that didn't stop my trousers getting soaked...
then once the rain stopped and the wind resumed:
getting dry... then once the rain came back getting soaked again...
but my socks were already soaked beyond getting dry...
walking the pavement in wet socks in leather shoes
is like... skinning an alive pig...

soaked feet.... although my upper body was kept warm...
talking with Toni about the proper attire for
winter... waterproof overalls... from Sports Direct...
and combat shoes: Magnums, used by police officers
and the army and all manner of security forces...
she asked for a cigarette, i gave her one,
she wasn't expecting a Camel... we walked...
looking each other in the eyes and subsequently
at each other's shoes...
in that instance she told me about her life...
she was living with her father and her stepmother...
how he biological mother kicked her out...
i just forgot which of her "mothers" was
the bipolar one... oh, right... her stepmother...
so i inquired about her stepmother's bipolar disorder...
so is that like manic depression?
no? split personality disorder? what's that like?
are all her personalities integrated or are they,
each to their own, loose canons?!

but there were these other two girls... Naomi...
who looked like a more pristine version of Will Smith's
wife... Jada Smith... i was... looking at Jada Smith...
with more hair... a nose piercing and a piercing
like a freckle where my moustache would cover it:
to the side... two kids... living in Richmond...
totally irresistible... this is how i always wanted
to spend my New Year's Eve... stoically...
at first in a gradation of pain...
pain from feat turning into the flayed beast
revealing nothing but bone, prone to accepting
the elements...

           this other girl... nice... cannibal looking teeth...
bound to braces... plump in the face... wearing a beany hat...
also mingling with Mark, the negate,
she touching him teasingly... once ***** was mentioned
i gave her some advice... oh... but you do know that
the only way to drink ***** is to drink it frozen, right?
so it resemble a sickly sick syrup... no ice, no mixer...
at best a chaser... she peered at me as if i belonged to
an ethnicity of a people that knew how to drink the ****
stuff... quizzical eyes... i forgot to tell her about
spending some time with the Russians:
being myself of a Slavic origin: ABSOLUT VANILLA...

i already knew it was the sort of New Year's Eve i was waiting
for when the shift was coming to a closure...
i was back in position admiring the Thames...
admiring the fading dark Green of Hammersmith Bridge
when the supporters were walking out...
one recognised me saying: so, you're been here,
all along? pretty much...
more passed and i just started spewing the casual:
have a good night, safe journey home,
and then the seemingly comical:
happy new year!

                 happy new year echo!
happy new year! happy new year!
            this precautionary tale of when Gandalf inquired of
poor Frodo: will it be?!
what? a happy new year?!
am i wishing a happy new year to you in advance
hoping, or perhaps wishing, or perhaps knowing:
that it might be... a happy new year?!
the phrase itself is about as meaningful or... meaningless
as licking a post-stamp and sticking it to
a postcard... wishing or not wishing: a "you"
to be "here"... no?!

                                   how about... happy new year
could be replaced with: MAYBE NEXT YEAR...
i.e. when i and you, are still alive...
we'll see each other again... i think that just might be
the summit of what happiness entices mortal creatures
such as ourselves to, from time to time: actually: believe!

the shift ended, i was soaked from feet down...
the trip back from Putney Bridge back to Romford was
sort of... giving CPR to octopi and walking on borrowed
legs... and less than sleepy eyes...
i got off at Gants Hill... ordered a spicy chicken burger
and three hot wings... gulped them down...
went into a Tesco Express... bought myself
a 70cl bottle of Jim Beam, a bottle of Pepsi...
3 cider bottles...
                     got home... said hello to my parents...
sorry... i'm ******* off... climbed into bed...
pretended to sleep, or rather, relaxed with naked feet
under the bed-sheets from them not being soaked...
"woke up" after about 2 fours... hours...
greeted them... sorry... i'm not into St. Sylvester's
celebration...
but i sat down with them...
as i have done for the past two or three years...

Jools Holland's Hootenanny has become sort of:
10pm ITV news in the household come this time of year...
what wouldn't i do without it...
Cat Burn's song Go... i never heard of it until then...
i ate some traditional tripe broth...
to warm the stomach up...
i hanged the bottle of Jim Beam and the bottles of cider
on the garden fence before coming home...
i was going to pick them up later...
to drink... well... at least half...
but it was so worthwhile to be so physically exhausted...
wow! these notes i wrote about that month
last year where i spent almost spent £1000 of prostitutes
and in the meantime lost two of my greatest
lovers... of 30 minutes' worth...
i.e. Khadra and Mona... who... the Madame of the brothel
told me would never return...

we watched the ******* spectacle of the fireworks...
wow! great! crowd!
i just retorted... if i were the people between
Westminster Bridge and the Embankment Bridge...
seeing the fireworks... i'd save up on t.v. memory...
i'd record the collective spectacle...
but got before the massive wheel
and stand there and stare... oh... but look...
who what or when Londoners? Chinese tourism...
the inescapable flu: chick or flex pork chop infections
but no rats and flies are the wholesome friends?!
standing there... with technology spread-out *******
third-eye non-experience...
the technology saw it first...
                                ugly humans non-humans
robots seem lovelier...
                    
                     that's how i learned about Cat Burn's song Go
thinking: didn't Ed Sheeran write this?!
doesn't matter...
once this supposedly spectacular night ended
when i heated up my feet and regained some flesh
in them...
                  i started drinking with my usual standard
of toxicity... looking through old notes...
ooh! an unfinished joint! wow! i had a premonition!
i will not want to go to a brothel i will not want
to go to a depressing house-party...
i will want to go inward...
into myself and starve anything already established...
i think i must have met about 3 girlfriends
tonight... possible...

now i'll finish a bottle of 70cl of bourbon by myself
while writing and smoke that joint...
finally! a new diet of music!

and the odl rekindling of an alliance....
perhaps placing conkers might put off spiders
from aligning a household with a disapproval for housing
spiders... but flies... that's a different matter;
i'm going to smoke this joint
and dream my hazardous of this years first and last
breaths.

where is that ******* fly...
i hope it's still alive while i'm alive... if i swallow it in
the night... i'll pretend to be a Pontus Pilate...

no other New Year's Eve has been so benevolent to me...
i was fudge packed between commuters not trying to
entertain the fireworks on the Thames...
me? go home...
       tired old young man....
                         why are there suspicions of me:
by simply being punctual as having any sort of association
with any nation's army?!
i like sunsets... i like sunrises... i adore the aloofness
of the aloneness that's: otherwise missing
in the claustrophobia of interaction with the other...
WOJSKO...
                        
            this has certainly been the best New Year's Eve
to meet all others...
before me stand's King Lear and Lot's Wife...
i wonder... who is... the Pillar of Sugar?!
Sugar = Salt + Water... no?!
so who is... the pillar of Sugar?!

   ah... ha: hermeneutics contra etymology!
          there's only one history for me...
   that being etymology: the origin of words from words:
to use words is not to use anything beyond words themselves...
which excludes my original assumptions that
letters or geometric shapes akin to letters or vice versa
could ever be utilised...
verba ex verba - non verba ex figura, numerus vel littera:
verba ex et enim verba!
meaning for meaning...
not meaning borrowed from either the associated
or dissociation...
or dissociation and a(n) association...

   well... it just so happens that i have... something of a...
half-wit... canvas of artificial-intelligence
to work with... it's basic intelligence...
                           just what i need.

Richard Simmons celebrated Disney "gay day" by eating tulip salad. "Sure, my penectomy smarted a bit. Whose wouldn't?" Said Richard just before he vomited  down Bruce Jenner's tube top.
   Queen Elizabeth shared her beauty secrets with Albanian news hounds: "I eat 17 meals a day when my kidneys aren't working."

I sweat when I’m nervous,
Its my trait,
Not by choice,
Anxious,
My fate.

When I’m first to show,
Last or out smarted,
Just the thought of being anxious,
Means that it’s started

Sweats come,
Mouth drys,
Run away,
Want to cry,

Mop my brow,
How,
No tissue,
Big issue,
Some one speaks so I have to react,
Retract,
Will they see me sweat,
Think I’m weird,
It’s everything I’ve ever feared.

Deep breaths,
Need to stop muttering,
Eyes wide,
Don’t start stuttering,
Sweaty pits,
Can you see,
Please no,
Why me,

Wrong colour shirt,
Feel hurt.
Make an excuse,
Need to leave,
Reprieve,
Could say somethings happened,
Terribly bad,
Play the  part,
Look sad.

Say I’m unwell,
They’ll think I’m mad,
They don’t know me,
My bad,
My life
My struggle
Too many feelings to juggle.

Moan,
Feel so alone -  in this crowd
Why am I here,
Fear
Maybe it’s too soon
Too loud.

Deep breath - stay calm,
Happy thoughts,
Sweaty palms,
Run away,
I must not,
...............
I’m only at the bus stop.

We the underscored
have come for our just desserts
meekly receiving our own rewards
It may not be pleasurable
what we receive
but with cuticled nails
and smarted suit,
let us wait profusely
for our undulations.
Our daily bread
this feeble feed.

A worst nightmare loomed large
notification courtesy Montgomery County
Assistance Office caseworker
implied medical coverage axed
I felt hammered, nailed, shingled out...
livid with rage
frenzied, harried, jarred...
railing away
fit tubby tied to train tracks
ready to **** myself,
but dang, I ain't got enough funds  
to cover funeral  
or preferably cremation costs.

Bajillion dollars for medications
yikes - anxiety/panic attacks
slated to return with vengeance,
no way to pay hearst driver/
nor burial services
grave diggers will mutiny
unable to calm down
a bottle of tranquilizers...
and/or sharp pointed objects
appeared very tempting
questions needed answering ASAP!

Telephone numbers yielded voice menu
dialed Consumer Service Center
for Health Coverage
at long last - a real person
thank dog.

Whew - informed of short checklist
checking account transactions
backdated to June 2023
until most recent activity
slight sigh of wry tears relief
grace period until August 2023
accessed Citizens account online
of course Login fraught
with problematic issues Yow.

Chose new password
finally accessed anemic
measly anorexic balance
scrolled mouse pointer
highlighted/copied designated dates
pasted said information
into Word document
ah...prints esse finally blessed me
folded half dozen plus pages
affixed three postage stamps
out apartment door
slipped material into onsight mailbox.

Breathed sigh of relief
agitation subsided within core
rage against human machine (me)
penuriousness smarted, vetted, yipped...
analogous to pet peeve
emotionally exhausted and spent
penniless poet plopped into bed
instant sleep refreshed
highly cooled figurative heels
subsequently resumed hashtagging
black and decker tooled mindset
concomitant with grievous bitterness

decried flagrantly mucking potential
squandered so many
prime vocational opportunities
severely compromised thank you;
loathsome debilitating panic attacks
years gone by;
voluntarily enrolled institutions,
albeit of higher learning
hopscotched from one college/
university after another
work history record scattershot
unable to sustain employment

intermittent jobs between
prolonged gaps, deemed
expendable, replaceable, unmarketable...
great boost to self esteem
qualified to receive
Social Security disability
predicated on serious
mental health issues
to recapitulate incapacitated
presumably congenital aberration
other than above internal melee...,
I feel Gr-r-reat!

(nevertheless ex post facto still flattered
genuine heartfelt kinship mattered,
hence the reasonable rhyme
across the webbed wide world
I subsequently scattered).

Linkedin to the previous poem,
(similarly written scant few years ago.

I also codified, glorified, and lamented
an unexpected cessation of communication
with he/him who affixed yours truly
appellation of wise man, which modesty
of mine gently downplays.

Bhutan names defy affiliating,
determining, identifying... gender,
and what a faux pas this dada admits,
when a blessed high school
student did league gully tender

benighted, gifted, ordained yours truly
with sobriquet "Guru"
alluded to in previous poem, render
ring this foolish hearty good fella (me)
falling prey to embarrassing situation,

(I did miss render
as would be expected
from this crash test dummy,
who dented his psychological fender),
vis virtual mind ******,

when an initial presumption
smarted Matthew Scott as offender,
asper online youth NO pretender
by him, aye mean the sender
communicated his admiration,

adoration, adulation for this big spender
of sincerity, viz singular poetic magi - (ha)
made presumption that
unknown messenger slender,
and female, and

upon enclosing appender
referencing person as "lovely princess"
did respondent clarify finding deface
of zee poet here -
logic chops went thru blender

as if slapped by a suspender
experiencing irrevocable shame
as though a contender
attempting to guide false supposition
playfully mistaking ******

identity of male sender,
he (young kneeler)
bowed as winning scoring goaltender
down as mine professed

metrical feet, he who acquiesced
non Asian minor, friender
NOT seeking moneylender,
nor mistook my heart of gold,
mine apology I did obligingly surrender

and possibly chuckled to himself,
asper an uproarious hellbender
whereat my countenance turned
sixty plus four shades of lavender.

when held spellbound courtesy grifter

Flim-flam man left lasting emotional whiplash
his derelict perfected artifice
to hijack every last cent
smarted me with indelible smash;
living daylight delivered I kidney you not
envious affliction affecting
last named member and founder of the Byrds
with crosby, stills, young and nash
entire corporeal being turned to hash
condemned state yours truly relegated,
cuz cremation unaffordable, though pulverized
and transformed into powdery ash;

Impossible mission to conceptualize
transmutation into cremains, the brain
lodged within me noggin
ill equipped to envision mine gray matter
even after asking mister Google to explain
that cremation takes place
in a specially designed furnace,
referred to as a cremation chamber or retort,
and exposed to extreme temperatures –
up to 1,800 degrees Fahrenheit–
leaving behind only ashes.

Following the procedure,
a cooling period required
before the remains can be handled.

Yours truly can best attest,
when succumbing as victim to virtual heist
I most likely flip flopped
into one percent atavistic Neanderthal state;
a surprising revelation
23andme genotyping results
yielded said presence of proto human
after analyzing DNA
courtesy saliva sample from eldest sister.

No other logical satisfactory explanation doth chime
lapsed consciousness, hence reasonable rhyme
whereat one twenty first century mortal man
virtually travelled in time
cast into nasty, shortish brute
obliging deft inducement
outsourcing valuable dough.

Though aforementioned far-fetched notion
smacks of high skepticism,
yet no more ridiculous than
hominids over bajillion years springing forth
from flotsam and jetsam in the ocean
I may as well broach another theory of creation
(just came to my mind),
that divine omnipotent wizard
sprinkled magic potion
across primordial sea
after watching an advertisement promotion
claiming said product
contained the seeds of life and white lily.

Convinced that snake oil salesman
wrought deleterious influence
triggering a debacle that rocked
the financial market,
(albeit constituting one singular naked ape),
an attorney general based in Philadelphia
believes I presented a convincing case,
which hopefully witnesses
recouping all or most of my funds.

Monday opened like a Union Closed Shop
Tuesday left a sparrow in the hunt
Wednesday we openly cried, he didn't like my dress
Thursday was like a cut onion, how we  smarted
Friday was a protein-free jello day
Saturday we didn't stop arguing
Sunday was a non start a pyjamas day

irksomely chafe and dig
(analogous to a bit size backhoe -
contracted courtesy local builders
Gambone Brothers) inside lip
on left side front of mouth
not surprisingly creating
quasi irritated sore welt
(as if I got smacked in the face

from out of the blue)
achingly painful dilemma
particularly whenever I bite and chew food,
which compromised mastication
seriously prompted eating soft
(goo goo gaga baby) with no pablum,
or yours truly switching
to a liquified diet of worms.

Aforementioned minor
physical oral ailment
reminiscent when yours truly
donned, sported, and touted braces
(on two separate occasions)
to double necessary rites of passage
since yours truly
glutton for punishment
while segueing from adolescence
into young adulthood

gifted with moderate sized overbite,
yet not full fledged
buck teeth the first go around,
where metal brackets
and/or little pins pierced, jabbed,
gouged, et cetera
into tender gummy flesh
generally unpleasant nasty encounter
super tramping as
cheaply tricked out human pin cushion
****** well right.

Methinks of the hours of veritable torture
spent seated in orthodontic chair,
where initial appointment
found me situated with maw opened
for stretches of time
that would be dwarfed
by subsequent pluperfect future hours
getting a numb bony ***
while veritably held hostage
courtesy the vise grips of dental technician.

I can never forget
experiencing preliminary step
into requisite initiation
getting an eventual smile
worth a million bucks
firstly to create gap (wide enough
to drive a mack truck thru),
which spacers essentially
little rubber squares
(at most an inch long)
to allow, enable
and provided leverage buyout
paid for by a pretty penny
prior to getting metal bands
bonded and insured to pearly whites.

Adjustment to being fitted
for dentures didst overly bite
recounted, recircled, and recapitulated
analogous when jaws underwent restructuring
where aforesaid maxillofacial territory
felt subjected to miniature
jackhammer and dynamite
forthwith adumbrated as memory takes flight
re-envisioning maximum headroom
affecting yours truly experiencing whiplash

as countless hands practically reached
into me ******* plunging
dentistry implements and gloved fingers
into buccal cavity
from soaring wuthering height
nearly choking yours truly
expediting at expense of mine cavum oris
carrying out veritable
fishing and hunting expedition
courtesy overhead jacklight

figuratively yanking tooth
and nail mustering might
allowing, enabling and providing opportunity
for tomorrow's dental practitioners
essentially dental students namely neophyte
took stab at a subjected human Guinea Pig -
as relegated to scientific experimentation
I tried to be agreeable and polite
at the mercy of said novitiate quite right,
now crafting epistle as a toothless troglodyte.

     Never during the story of my life asper present moment, whereby this body electric then witnessed LVIII celebrations of a womb dar full in utero gestation, and subsequent exit per birth canal in one direction ejected like some **** the torpedo or other lobbing hand grenade, or discharging any other type of ballistic military ordnance and after twice undergoing beautification of ma smile; first enduring gagging on quick hardening cement as benchmark impressions, spacers, thence soon followed by wearing braces.
     Membership to this adolescent rite of passage entailed requisite name calling as the victim remained mum imposed incommunicado what with wires that jabbed, pricked, and stuck every square inch of gums teasing the tillerman tongue felt furrowed plow as soft tissue became abundantly blistered chafed, and diced raw.
     Numerous teeth extractions later (which did smarted my wisdom), the drill mongering requisition team (incorporating a rooted right bitewing conspiracy), said prisoner interrogation attained the pinnacle of pain per practiced collaboration between vaunted, sainted long in the tooth professionally smocked specialists.
     These accredited, certified, and licensed torturers frenziedly insouciantly cackled with hair rising, maniacal, spine tingling pleasure while intermittently interrogating strait jacketed anesthetized subjected patient.
     Thee prisoner of Zenda implanted with gag reflex additionally besieged to a battery of expensive costly abuse.
     Such quaint ratified regular rigmarole included suctioning lips til dry as sawdust in preparation for (not to be mist witnessing open mouthed wide world) recalcitrant subject handily restrained as he/she barely weathered unpalatable quintessentially royally smitten to the nerve.
     This electric kool acid test basically pitched the heavily sedated sorely saddled seated subject into a novel threshold of oral suffering.
     The confederated legion of amalgam hated plaque attackers banded teeth forcing a tectonic shift of pearly whites to relocate closing gaps, where uber an crowdsource rank and file groupon identity guard did lyft suspected gumption, hence a healthy dose of x-rays served up to nip in the bud involving any tongue in cheek intervention, when perfectly viable molars thinned i.e. uprooted courtesy of orthodontic gang.
     Now incremental movement could be undertaken pursuant impressing well-brushed aides de camp.
     Thus temporarily crowns vis a vis provisional proviso practitioners of the villainous periodontal disease (qua gingivitis) stitching cavity where exposed synapses earned the chair rushed survivor of fiendish, ghoulish, and insidious enamel (tartar) scraping chieftains earning kudos sans at successfully foiling dental caries, plus serving as grandee enamel polisher.
   All that excruciating agony iterated above, now finds me shaking this mangy hirsute, (albeit thinning) head in consternation, frustration and induction, whereby microbial demons exercised, foisted and galvanized necessity to suffer.
     Interestingly enough, these choppers, dentures, false dentate much more pleasing that the real bone marrow wrought teeth courtesy of many a fraternal gauntlet hugger mugger.
     Maxillofacial surgery and wisdom teeth extraction plus abiding by the codas, edicts and general indemnity keeping American Dental Association in lockstep with noblesse oblige purveyors who tout regular dental hygiene.
     This new fangled cusp cutting prosthetic revolution per anatomical equipage that allows, enables and provides the means to return to masticating brought protracted hermetically sealed dissimulation within the noggin of this more tell male, who confesses to be a non student within the hierarchy of a bricks and mortar storied (perhaps ivy coated) institution of higher learning on account of rampant mental debility hashtagged diagnosis of Schizoid Personality Disorder cobbles, hobnails, and mangles any ability to function within the formal classroom. Case in point comprises the twelve years of veritable enslavement while barely getting promoted from one grade to the next.
     Even though handed a high school diploma XL (pipelined) traipsing orbitz ago around the sun, this contemplative, furtive, and intuitive lvii chap experienced horrendous difficulty ******* mine faux pas figurative heals up until the recent present. The acquiescence to relinquish the prospect to batten down anxiety and panic strewn hatches turned the tide, and found me giving up the good fight.
     A congenital biochemical mutation (I cannot expound on the minutiae of amino acid, enzymes, polymer, et cetera) that wrought havoc viz zit head upon thyself when in the throes of adolescence, despite thine late mum purportedly experiencing NO complication with me birth as a full term healthy baby boy.