The serpent has mingled with my blood

As she devours me,

I become her lover

Half lidded eyes

closed with numbness

My body tingles

from her touch

She has me paralyzed

She has left me speechless

Her poison

runs through my veins

I can feel her all over my body

She has become I

And I she

I can feel myself

becoming dead

yet alive

Becoming, Soil, water and sky

All things and none

My soon to be widow

lays across my bed

And Weeping Mary, weeps

As I leave her

for another lover

I am afraid to close my eyes

The snake
N
E
V
E
R
  Bites
O
F
F
M
   O
     R
       E
T
H
En it
C
A n
Ch
Ew.

You are a repeat roller coaster.
On speed.
In a storm;
A hurricane, to be exact.

You are exactly what I want
And what I detest.

You twist and turn me,
Leaving snakebite scars around my heart

You disguise my devil decisions
And the halo you wear, so lovely,
Does it justify?

allowing for a two part volume
of Proust's À la recherche du temps perdu...
is unforgiving... it's asking a meat-head
to read such a body like exploring a woman's...
a gay-man's psyche is pretty much a woman...
or what a woman thinks in secret,
gay men merely vocalise what a woman does
not say... and yes, that a with a diacritical
mark... that grave above the a? the à?
it works like a comma... à! a surprise kindred
an eureka that's not really original,
an: ah! and then you say the rest of the title...
iconic pause: in search of lost time...
          it took me about five minutes to figure
that one out... lost time, but occupied a space...
  and so much political vanity is consecrated
upon the reverse.. ineffective space:
thus gained time... for all that protests are worth.

i know i go on about this a lot, surprise surprise,
i'm actually engaging in systematisation...
once you enjoy writing as much as walking
you get to reach a systematisation,
     it's a painful process, i'd never do the editing process
of a Hemingway... write something: shoot some
camels and reindeer and go back and revise a piece
of writing: drink a *death in the afternoon -
a shot of absinthe inside a champagne glug
or the modern: shot of Jägermeister inside a glass
of red bull... (yay-gay-mr.) -
                       or how do you make snakebite?
half a láger half a çíder - and a head of blackcurrant
squash... scoot meine good look.
  but diacritical marks are what punctuation marks
are... it's only that they've become elevated,
and unlike punctuation marks governing paragraphs
and sentences... they govern the words,
         they are syllable incision indicators...
  i mean: i don't revise something i've already written,
unless it's a spelling mistake... i just write
something new... it's sadistic in my mind's eye to
revise and revise a single effort of writing...
                i'd rather centralise a theme of the paradox
of re-, in the year 2018 i will still experience
the tetratempus - containing four seasons -
         and i will never return toward making a piece
of writing become a morbidly corrected statue...
     what's done is done, let us move toward another
circumstance of being able to acquire a new kind
of observation... i can't be a sadist in terms of also
being a perfectionist... i break a leg, i break a leg...
if i write a ****** poem, i'll write a ****** poem...
but i won't be bothered like human history has been
by preoccupying itself in forwarding the drama
on Golgotha Street...
    the newest addition to the vogue scene is a corset
paired with a waistcoat...
   the snooker championships are taking place,
and i says to my father: 'a bit like chess, ain't it?'
   'sure is', he replies, 'you have to think 3 moves ahead.'
and it is... a smart sport, actually the most intelligent
sport there is... ****** boring obviously,
unless you fake the boredom and think about angles
and triangles and Newton...
   and cover the game with such congestions of
pretending to hallucinate it all...
                or take to thinking about rebellious
Saturn spinning out of orbit and doing a Mike Tyson
to Jupiter...
          but it's very much like chess...
                   it's sporty chess... snooker is chess...
  and it definitely ain't pool...
         you could actually have a ******* on a snooker table...
while either doggy or missionary positioning on
the snooker table... so what are the odds?!
         but i'll tell you one thing... snooker beats golf...
i don't know why... but once colour televisions came into
existence: it made much more sense for both
spectator and commentator... and how dare you
not cling to the 20th century if you were born in it
to translate to the 21st androids how we experienced
an evolution of technology, that made much more sense
after what i just heard...
      so there's this woman in the U.S., and this is before
president-elect and whatnot...
  and she's 22, and it's all over vice news,
and she's scared, and she's a mother of a 1 year old...
    and then this picture emerges
(don't worry, it's not anything like playing the Sims
   and moving your Sim to play computer games
and seeing a wormhole, or the infinity mirror effect)...
and there's a scene when she's talking Donald Duck
to the child... there are no meaningful words being
said... merely sounds... onomatopoeias...
and yes... this makes perfectly good sense when
stressed as a cut-off capsule...
because Darwinism doesn't really provide much
history... Darwinism is a historical erasure:
the past 2000 years could have happened,
but not really...
  but it just fascinated me...
         when did we learn or who did we learn it from
given we were placed at so many different
plots of the globe and became convergent -
anyway - the woman is teaching the child
words via the onomatopoeia of a hoarse quacking
of a duck! i probably will not find an answer
(primarily because i'm not supposed to,
if i am to perpetuate what Aristotle taught, i.e.:
be wrong and continually circumstance being in awe,
given the mundanity that nonetheless
everything keeps repeating itself over and over again,
for sustenance, and you are not sustenance bound
as corrected by your language deficiency to
ever merge into an unconsciously organised module
that might also argue an ego) -
    but i wonder how difficult it must have been
to extract something beyond the minimalism of animals
that identifies a duck with a quack, a cow with a moo,
an serpent with a sss... a cat with a meow, a dog with a bark...
    i cannot conceive how difficult this explanation
will be... but given the timeframe, i'm more awe-stricken
by this than merely being awe-bound by the time-scale...
which becomes the least affordable option of being
struck by awe, because one becomes merely awe-bound
by it, and therefore apathetic towards such a time-scale.
       how did we suddenly extract an understanding
of an onomatopoeia to distinguish our own ontological
basis for making a sound by infusing a sound that
doesn't resemble us? when did the first ape bark like
a dog? but then again, looking at the canvas already
apparent to us... what was the point of such an adventure?
hippy culture says: monkey accidently ate a mushroom,
monkey suddenly was blown away and reasoned of
a higher purpose other than a tree and a coconut...
     mudvayne quotes the guy on l.d. 50...
what's the guys name... uggh! not Timothy Leary...
ah ****! Terence McKenna! that's it!
        am i high? nope... my respectability of argument
comes from the mystical properties of... whiskey.
hmm...      that rarely happens to people.
                   it's what's called being earthbound, or gravity
prone... sink like a skipping pebble across the lake...
          and like a tonne of lard.
             tomorrow i'll wake once more and still
think about how we encouraged the discovery of
onomatopoeia to teach our children the multiplicity of
sounds, and later deconstruct such a multiplicity to
create meaningful words that go beyond knock knock! jokes
and grunts and barking...
                     but i will never know the man who
created the fermentation process from potatoes to make
*****...
                or the guy who brewed the first pint...
or the guy that smoked the first marijuana bush ensemble
while clearing the land for a place to harvest wheat...
   all the fame that exists is simply scholastic...
  schoolboy fame... which is why so much attention
goes into becoming famous in school...
                        but still that woman teaching her child how
to speak by going down into the blobby-gurgling
  tongue of the toddler, stiffening it,
      and tightening the **** and bladder too...
  by talking Donald Duck to it...
                        i probably could have had a family myself...
but can you imagine someone writing this load of
******* and having a family? there wouldn't be any time!
           still (god, what a need to repeat!)
         how did we progress from saying ape-****?
surely if we started to imitate other animals they'd join us
in our need to usurp those ******* lions!
  lo and behold... we managed to pet dogs (so they were
in on it all along)... and cats (who came from Japan,
if **** sapiens came from Africa... cats came from Japan...
bonsai frocked and all) -
                            but you have to admit...
from what is written history, to what is history and
a gap in history going back to a similitude of form -
      you can write as much historical fiction as you want...
    and you'll never have to write a bestseller about
some centurion in the Roman Empire...
   or a quo vadis by Sienkiewicz (nobel prize winner)
for the depiction of emperor Nero...
                               ******* Sesame St. giggles...
still, the question beckons... if animals can behave in
an ultra-intuitive way as if fashioned by a telepathy...
then telepathy can only exist upon a very simple,
atomic, terse vocalisation of an identity...
   a dog barks... a man can bark too...
                                but we have completely lost our
intuitive talent (if it can be called that)...
          to have sacrificed intuition is to have created
cults or counter-intuitive hierarchies...
  so a 1000 blah blahs later i still prefer to write what
i like... than write what people "might" understand
and talk to a girl about...
                                     a bit like a woman discovering
you faked writing a poem 20 years into a marriage...
                  obviously the setbacks to boot...
                            dyslexia is an optical dimension...
no one dyslexic says a word they don't understand
a meaning of... dyslexia seemingly came from
finally having enshrined the "secret" to the monopoly
of writing sounds...
                          nonetheless... at the end of the day...
it's just too much history... there's too much of it...
            there was never going to be a world
where carpe diem ruled it...
                               it was a question how we clung to
certain things, within a framework of
                                             salmon dye omni:
sure sure... piglet pink and innocent for the rest
of our lives... once Darwinism pointed at the ape,
and once physicists dropped the bomb and the bang...
no day has had any significance at all...
   + the 24h news channels...           snuggle up to a hog
             and say: fog over Heathrow... all flights are grounded.

Japanese businessmen knocking back the whiskey
some solace in a truly alien land
there’s a meeting in the corner of fascists
skinheads denim jackets  snakebite pints
they gauge the bar wary
so insecure in their own land
someone saying it’s a crying shame a crying shame
a disconnected voice
and Chisel and Aldo are dealing in the toilets
Charlie K **** and E
complicated system of tariffs and loans and franchising
true capitalist skill at work
TV blur
body bags off the plane
totem to a pointless war people
lining a high street to remember those who have fallen
for the corporate cause
girl killed in the street for her iphone
forgotten
news as ***** linen
news readers as grinning cleaners of media
and Meat comes up to the bar and says
‘He’s a force of nature that bloke.’
Then just stands there.
I have no idea who or what he is talking about.
‘Quite’ I say.
And a young skinhead laughs nervously palming his scalp.
A lamb to the slaughter.
It’s a big club.

She wears strength and darkness equally well,
Like a sunflower who stands through dust to see the light,
Growing up she was always half goddess and half hell,
Wrapped around her finger like under they’re under a spell,
Every man she’s encountered truly smitten by her sight,
She wears strength and darkness equally well,
Foreign and intricate, “Bonjour mademoiselle”
Men; tons of them but none, fit her quite right,
Growing up she was always half goddess and half hell,
Unique and earthy like an iridescent seashell
But also prudent with a deadly snakebite,
She wears strength and darkness equally well,
With a blazing fire in her soul as pure Noël,
That will keep you warm through the night,
She wears strength and darkness equally well,
Growing up she was always half goddess and half hell.
~d.v

You can not see because of the light
It is way to bright
Let the darkness soothe your sight
Relaxe, stop your fight
Let the darkness end your blight
Welcome in the coming night
Make you forget the worlds snakebite
That left you feeling so contrite
In the darkness your fears you can smite
Let the darkness left you upright
Find your wings and take flight
Then you will be able to indite
And sing through the skys like a meteorite

She sits, and she’s pale and cadaverous,

her black hair, short to her chin, the dye in her skin,

the corpselike designs deify her to me,

and she is marvelous.

-

A snakebite in her voluptuous blackened painted lips

eagers me to receive a curious kiss

upon my own who so long for,

the taste of her, like nothing before.

-

The gorgeous permanent stains of ink

upon her *****, thighs, arms, and calves,

exemplify her smooth pearl-white skin

her delicate tattooed knuckles and hands,

could now easily tear me in half.

-

As i try to look away

from that teasing, black lingerie,

she turns and looks with pale blue eyes,

the most wonderful I have ever seen,

so far into my soul she delves that I admit,

I am but a lowly, mortal being.

-

This Goddess of death, this Massacre Angel

what some call not a treasure,

she is in all my nightmarish dreams,

and I always owe her the pleasure.

-

I am a slave to her eyes,

that so easily peer through me,

it is not that I tread not, or wear disguise,

but the answer always eludes me.

-

Though she is my unholy holiness that

grants me dark in wretched light,

one day I shall pass and our spirits

will lay together for an eternity of

a macabre romantic night.

*******... the russians would spell ł as ьл.. i.e. oselka, oselka (tak i ta pierdolona przez nożyce / nogi in mirage)... they soften it... why i have to borrow the equivalent of an anglo-saxon w to translate it... they just soften the letter... so yes: ł becomes ьл the further east you go.

to che /
                i /         chi
л        el
                         obviously bound
to become l/e
             ь.... this **** ought to be
equivalent to a diacritical representation...
it's a soft sign preceding
                                              a letter once it's stated...
or after... depending where you catch the syllable
                  "*******" of breath toward said word.
           ever read an organic chemistry
equation? e.g. C6H12O6 + 6O2 → 6CO2 + 6H2O (+ energy)?
      breathing...
dmitri mendeleev* would have approved
the ь notation to be written lower-case in russian...
chemically... like you'd lower case 6 12 6 2 2 and 2;
becomes a bit confusing if you just insert
it like it's an actual letter...
                    it's diacritical... please...
i'm not even going to read the next letter in
what i'm spelling to tell you:
     ь ought to be as properly managed and
concise as what the acute accent on the s
                is, when it's not sh(a, i, e, o, u)... i.e. ś
but hell... who the **** is perfect?
       oh here we go... so now we know... the next
letter is н... or en... and to soften it up
you need it to be acute...
so in russian: inserting a ь prior to the next
letter is like stating a western slavic acute symbol
above the letter, in this case: n... or ń (eńya...
celtic singer, women in their 50s will know).
        now i know this is written in ukranian...
   for example: камень = kameń
                       literally... the ь or "softening"
is actually an acute symbolism to a sound that's
stressed... by double standards... you write
the cryrillic                     нь = ń
                     and that doesn't mean soft... it means
sharp / acute version of n.
                        i actually can't believe i didn't
see that before!
     what was wrong with me? or... what was
wrong with them?
            well, there will always be variations,
we latins like to make things compact...
fiat 126p... fiat cinquecento...
                   they're the ones with siberia
and ******* cadillacs... i've got a thumb up
my *** that hasn't seen any **** prior
and i'm thinking about even tighter streets of
labyrinth venice... so... huh?!

what's the actualy "story" about?
   i've managed to grow a beard that has "side-burns"
a bit like uncle albert's in only fools & horses...
and i was giving it the trim, along with the moustache
that was also like a **** garden that got in
the way of sipping a sharpshooter (excess whiskey
minimum ms. pepsi, a bit like a shandy:
beer topped with a dash of lemonade...
oh **** snakebite... i had that once...
         beer and cider topped with ribena?! ugh)
      ****... lost the proper punctuation mark to continue:
so i had basically had to sharpen the scissors
i had to cut the excess hair off...
          and i sharpened my scissors on a sharpening
stone... an osełka... точил(ь)ньιй камен(ь)
                                tochilńji (ee) kameń...
                   i'm ****** sure that's ukranian...
                                    if i were russian i'd say:
that orthography is retarted... or it's only ******* when
you put on latin spectacles and go:
              how the **** am i going to translate that
and not give a **** about the linguistic alphabet
that's even more *******?
    ю (you) я (me) think ь ought to be hidden from
the linear progression of letters... like ' in acute n (ń)?
        or like that chemical example i gave
in terms of breathing and going H lower-case 2 O?

Hey Johnny where are you now?
You left, and never came back, just like you said you would.
And now i have heard that you died, my Darling.

You were always my Darling, and i was always your 'little bit of fluff'
And if what they say is true, i know you'd be ****** as all hell if you ended up in heaven, because hell was always more your style.

But i do hope, if you are in heaven, that it's a heaven made just for you.
I reckon they would have a jukebox that only played Kansas and the Eagles, beautiful women and had Stella and black on  tap.
Oh and a GPZ1100, with no speed limit..
And you know what i mean by that.. you little ****.
You'd be in heaven.. oh the irony

You were the first person i told that i like girls too.
I told you i love their softness, there beauty, their curves, their taste,
the way they taste like me, feel like me, are soft like me and that i had *** while watching a video on MTV with girls singing in the swimming pool.
You said you needed a minute to think about things...
for a very long time.. in the bathroom... on your own..

Your tattoos were beautiful, covering you from head to toe.
My favorite one was the pirate that your friend Pervy Pete did
while he was baked, it was meant to be Long John Silver, but it looked like your Nan.

You gave me my first snakebite and took me to my first gig.
Wembley... Metallica.. ****** out of my head..
Best night ever..
probably.

I taught you how to crochet and you let me paint your toenails..
only the once. And you taught me how to whistle with my fingers.
In the end you told me to shut the **** up, because any minute now a whole **** heard of sheep dogs are going to come running over the hill, and **** us both.

I held your spanners, sat on a crate and had fork oil, all over my summer dress. You said it was a good look on me and i told you that you were beautiful. You smelt of sweat and juniper oil and i could have *** from that smell alone.

Your eyes were the same brown as mine, you used to put your face so close to mine so i could see myself in your eyes. I only wish you could have seen yourself through mine.

If we had ever been together, i would have wanted to have saved you.
And i would have too.
But you didn't want to be saved.
I would have spent my whole life trying. You said you would have hated yourself, to have been the one to have killed me like that.

In my heart we will always be. I knew you loved me because, while i slept in your arms on the way back from the Bulldog Fest, you whispered it to me.

Good bye and sweet dreams my tattooed greasy biker.. my Darling.

I'm grateful you never found out about the life i had without you.
You would have killed him.

I.
when she saw the hazy picture on the screen,
dark grays, some blacks, a little white,
she didn't understand until the soft, chubby brown finger
pointed at a speck, a freckle.

how can I?

the soft worn leather seat whimpered
when the expanse of body gripping fabric
clung to the body they housed, and
the nurse reached for the girl's small sweaty hand.
they closed their eyes and prayed.

the adjacent room was a museum of curiously tiny things.
she slowly considered each item in her sojourn,
finally selecting delicate knit slippers, for little feet.
in this tired brick building reality seemed less real.

II.
back home, her mother threw a chair
when Mavel pointed at her stomach and smiled shyly.
when she presented the shoes with trembling hands,
hoping this small measure would appease the anger,
always worst at first--maternal snakebite,
mother glowered and showed her ****** fangs.

III.
the lights drew her, like fireflies twinkling moment to moment,
the icicle bulbs flashing as the wind blew strands wildly
on dark night trees, rooted firmly in familiar soil.

cotton candy clouds surrounded her small thin lips;
the lingering bits crystallized on a pale pointed chin.
as she discarded the unwanted cardboard stem,
its use immediately forgotten in a pile of related *******,
she saw him.

she saw him. and she ran. frayed tongues flapping on her sneakers.
breathless, heart pumping, he came into focus.

by the house of mirrors. reaching for her hand--
not my hand. her hand?

her fingers slipped from her mouth and found their home,
on her warm belly,
suddenly quiet.

blood trailing down her thighs,
a droplet stroking a pure white shoe:
welcomed refuse.

it's no lie when I said that I felt eternity
but I always did nothing but repeatedly make you sad.

please let me sleep with your name resounding in my head
the passing days
the weeks and months
they drew us apart
your name hurts my mouth when I speak it out loud
the name which i can not call out
it burns my lips when I whisper

we were  looking for the the others faults when
we should have looked at each other

my limbs are trembling to the sound of storm
hitting the glass of my window
the sound of it kills the silence
the tranquility I seek
the repose I need

I don't want you to fade
even though the last memories of you
envenom my insides
like a snakebite

my body is rotting away, returning me to earth
she embraces me like a mother

I want to hear, even a sigh
a small hearbeat that isn't and won't be there
that little rythm

my nightmares are unchanging
the drowning days
their weight piles up on me
a burden.

the spider lily is in bloom
the moon will fall
this second winter is standing still
spring will not come again

it's cold but I won't lock the door.
Maybe you'll come.
Maybe spring will be with you.

Part the flag wrapping around the mast

where sailors ship into waters

as jesus was the worker

the one who built their boat

to stay onward

north of the edge of the world

to explain to the empty arms that fear

and flying were forever the same

if you really found it false

or just never believed that one thing

so true

could be seen and shared

but only to those who do not need to remind each other

that they too were not alone

with where they began will never be

back running between their fingers

the sand where they waved their lovers last goodbye.

How easily the exploding heart forgets

to tell those eyes you carry

to keep looking

no

the back will never turn

as it isn’t proud

only strong to hide

that is what’s behind it.

Leather those faces boys

tan the hide pinched to the bone

and no knife will be amongst your hot blood

but that sand will make you smooth again

just cover your eyes

I’ll tell you when you can look

that trust you have better pay off

for that last sight to make you blind

and rather to wander in all that is black

my two kept eyes lead your way

and you will call me home

and you will call me king.

What we all expected was your colors

but found none.

Lust brought on of loves final echo

the deadly siren be it drowning at sea

taming that it is beneath

the hollow ground burst of dead feet

loose from the kick that fell short

by the snakebite ripening

the purple fangs to the blood drip wound.

Now you see real monsters

to the stare the sun blinds

the quiet who look on forever burning

to see bright through the eyes

not closed

to the sinking star far in the ocean

that your bones now wander alone.

Birds sharpening their talons

of way up high as the weak beware

they cry on three feet

with a dead child from the start

where they should’ve just stayed behind

in the magnificent grandeur that the blind race toward

and live old with missing friends.

How has the sun risen

for so many days without missing one?

I say thank you for being on time

your work has gotten better.

by Jedidiah Fleming

The World is my Kryptonite.
It was delivered by a Canaanite.
It is so very black and white.
Black as black midnight.
White as white starlight.
Hotter than a fist-fight.
Colder than a frostbite.
It tries to lure you to the fight.
Being naturally impolite.
Always swelling with pride and might.
Soaring like a meteorite.
Exploding like dynamite.

O, but it is a parasite!
Warping every human right.
Dealing every man-made fright.
Feeding like a scabie mite.
Destroying like a forest blight.

Yet it craves a ray of Light.

From it, I remain from sight.
It is worse than any stage fright.
A never-ending snakebite.
Seeing without sight.
Hearing without height.
Choking out the sunlight.

The world is my Kryptonite.
But parts of it may turn to Light.
So its pain I will carry on.

You can not see because of the light
It is way to bright
Let the darkness soothe your sight
Relaxe, stop your fight
Let the darkness end your blight
Welcome in the coming night
Make you forget the worlds snakebite
That left you feeling so contrite
In the darkness your fears you can smite
Let the darkness lift you upright
Find your wings and take flight
Then you will be able to indite
And sing through the skys like a meteorite

some claim it's an aesthetic, others claim it's the mystery of lawlessness, because in all honesty: upper-case Q could be written in lower-case as ǫ, rather than q, all too familiar is ρ (rho) - and there is no law suggesting any convention should be kept to a model of standardisation... hence the dichotomy experienced by dyslexics to the familiar argument: why the disparaging phoneticism from optical aesthetic, why write that and then only say 'y'? much of modern English borrows from the seemingly unnecessary h insertion borrowed from Hindu... dhal... the aesthetic insertion of a surd-letter into an otherwise convenient phonetic-encoding... although either an umlaut or a macron is missing above the a to prolong it; and depending on your aesthetic palette... i'm already advocating a change to sz & cz by stressing the replacement using the caron: š / č... in English the equivalent is bound to words like shrapnel and chatter.

as anyone would say *idiot, i'd say tuman,
that's because:
                          when syllables are inconvenient
i'd stress that, and write túman...
if i were saying swamp, i'd be right
in also saying bägno - obviously
there are distinctions, akin to punctuation
marks, diacritical marks are effectually
"punctuation" marks, well... inccissions
embedded in words;
these aren't rhetorical assertions, they're
biased on the basis of optometry.
then i might add: with a straw
                      alternatively słomką...
otherwise the noun słomka, i.e. straw,
wheat shaft... a shaft hollowed out
and as Polish girls know all too well:
snakebite (at English universities,
half beer, half cider, a head of
                            blackcurrant juice),
but back east it's just beer and raspberry juice
concentrate: funny... where's the rhapsody?
if the ą is used at the end of the word
then there's an intended action involving
the stated thing... but it's not a universal
statement, just this particular instance...
it's odd, i wake up from my Alaskan vigil
and realise i didn't take my sleep-synthetic
requirements to go to sleep during the night
and wake up during the night...
  that means i'm annoyed, putting it mildly.
words that shoot into my head like sunrise...
newspapers are the bearable versions of Proust,
   bypassing publishing houses can allow
for diarrhoea talent, and no to constipated
critically acclaimed blah blah...
    it's 8:36 in the morning and i don't know why
it's ****** beautiful... everyone's so content
with being busy, doing something, anything,
everything... it's that critical moment in autumn
when the leaves on trees have lost the stalemate
with ******-twisting winter frosts,
   and fall into the ***** of death and rot...
and then these random words enter my head,
words i either forgotten to use or are too obscure
to use in the first place, polish slang...
e.g. kumam, i understand -
     p'stro, a condescending consideration
     for explaining something worth contempt
to the other, but not the self, i.e. the magpie attitude.
   i can't help myself, seeing English *******
on by lazy ***** with :) and :( and acronym talk
i feel i have to provide an antidote...
  the ' in p'stro?         bulging / building up,
there's no p in any language with a syllable
distinction worth a diacritical mark...
   and now it's 8:42 in the morning, and i have half
a litre of whiskey to sniff... should i?
what's Copernican west to Copernican a.m.?
   gentlemen only drink in the afternoon...
yep, and Ben Hur drank in the morning for
the calories awaiting the chariot races...
ha ha... i'd love to see a drunk goldfish...
    but it's fun like that... so many serious people out
there who learned the Pink Floyd march of
the hammers... i don't think i can take a bishop
with a bishop's attire seriously...
                   or a skinhead Buddhist monk...
they're all baldy baldy vaseline hoping for the sheen...
can any authority be taken seriously?
       now i'm truly bullshiting...
i lost this one word in my head... sieve:
motyl, butterfly,
           ćmá, moth (that's a slingshot need
          for acuteness on the a, slingshot is the stress on
the c, and the stress on the a is the actual missile,
   oh, by no means is this orthodox),
  język, tongue / language,
  ozór, edible cow tongue: very tender
in creamy horseradish sauce accompanied with
Silesian gnocchi...
            Q is the acute version of K & C,
i.e. what would otherwise be deemed é to an e.
   wolny, a penalty kick / someone who's free,
  wapń, calcium...
                  what i'm basically saying is that we encounter
so much vocal poverty in this world,
so many words are disused or underused or simply
abandoned...
                        someone weeps over a disused building
weathered by the elements...
   i see an opportunity to engage squatters,
or in the case of words: poets.

A solar sunflower danced on her dashboard
and the lei on the rearview hit me like a snakebite.
Scented trees beneath my feet smelled like a flower shop
fire. Her seatbelt was knotted like her shoelaces
and her lemon lips kept me coming back.
Between us on the highway were CD cases and enough
loose change for a sweet tea. We turned off the radio
and listened to the roar of the wind through her cracked
windows. Her dress' hem flattened on her thighs
like the moon. Four hours to a truck stop with curios
and 75 cent ****** machines in the bathrooms.
Her doors creaked on their hinges as we danced
our way to the concrete.

I feel fine, and yeah,
I do that
thing, where I have caffeine
whether in this or in that, playing or staying stationary
the aesthetics, the relaxed argon oil
the moisturizer
cherry coke
cherry coke
yeah, today is just fine
made a reservation for tomorrow
and I'll go, and I'll go
boy I'm ready for something to eat, sweets
sweets
and *** comes so easy, on days like these
Today, the day, and
when my voice is gone
I will recite with a deep low hum
barely audible
and it will be fine
because I will have that
snakebite
venom
boot on top of the hollow stage
makes quite a noise
BOOM
so yeah, today is going okay
and now the poem is over

i hide behind not a single façade,
more on a particular in the word later,
i mean, lying becomes exhausting
after a while,
because it strains the memory,
and by straining the memory
it's a schoolboy's error of:
requiring arithmetic repetition -
and by this mode of repetition:
tell a lie once, tell the same lie
all the time.
truth? flimsy, once upon a time,
sometimes here, sometimes over
there, practically? nonchalance:
but much more audacity to boot.
me?
    oh, the glory of sitting on the throne
of thrones,
   and a tiled floor,
   and sticky sweat feet,
  and tapping along to i.n.x.s.'s
need you tonight, while wiping
my ***;
   i think i already said it once:
my life? party all the time:
i know, the dancefloor is kinda tiny,
and they only sell cheap *****,
cheaper still by making them
into sharpshooters (excess of alcohol,
very little mixer, practically
hard liquor shandies -
that's english for beer, topped with
some lemonade... students over here?
snakebite, half lagger, half
cider, topped with blackcurrant
concentrate: and then blagger your
way into comatose on the dancefloor) -
then english always were,
and always will be: the shy alcoholics
of the nations, the spinsters...
at least with a russian i know i'll be
drinking cold, rather than warm
yucky ***** inducing *****,
because? the english don't know
how to drink *****!
ah... i forgot to mention, the evolution
of letters... obviously the french ç
in the words garçon or façade was derived
from the greek sigma: ς;
well, ****** me all week with
a ***** dipped in boiling water...
i can appreciate this short hand form
of evolution...
   that's permitted, now it would seem
i have to inspect the rest of the
              etymology-grammatica,
i'll just put the zenith and nadir within
the greek through to latin dynamic.

and the difference between
a higher tier whiskey
and a lower tier whiskey?

higher tier: pale amber...
lower tier:
   tickling caramel bourbon...

and yes:
i like my alcohol with
a story of its own,
one of exploring
the palette...

yes... glen moray:
there's certainly
butter-scotch in it...
but the lemongrass?
not with every glass,
which is why
i find connoisseurs
suspect...

          not from one
glass,
and certainly not
from a sniffing around...

unlike *****
drank properly:
shoved into a freezer
and then drank
smoothly like
a gômme syrop...

whiskey:
the profanity of
sipping it straight...
or mixing it like
some British WWI
colonel
with some soda water...

on ice...
one minute delay...
culls the bite
of any excess Smokey
Fitzpaddy left...

neck on the guillotine!
oh but i have drank
to the brain-drain
body numbing
stages of youth's exploits...
famously
Edinburgh's snakebite:

half a cider, half a lagger
topped with blackcurrant
concentrate...

what?! not lagger?
what then... lager,
i.e. lay-ger?
          digger not dye-ger
of diger?
           no via
no why as to why:
        it's dein-ger
for danger
  and hop-hop for
the dagger of Brutus?

et tu: tutti ******* frutti...
hop-hop:
Easter bunny softy,
as i...
               et tu:
as an epitaph with
no grave...

         and however
many maxims...
said puppet in
the fiddly tongue-tied
aspect of death's
philosopher stone:
the Hindu wild-eyed
traffic of reincarnation...

epitaph contra
            maxims:
life's load
   and a foot dent
on the earth like:
the one that they won't
take a photograph
of: as they did
of the one on the moon...

pointless going
to Mars...
not taking random
earth objects
to the moon...
  to see:
funny-whacky
gravity do don't:
sample some
clock-ticking
on the father
to the daughters of
the tides,
the rains...
   and all:
   and they minded
the egoist...
while they shoved
the whole universe
in their minds with
cthulhu receptors:

             and...
well... it wasn't exactly
1990s television static...
or... what the sight
of Belzeebub looks like...

the whole lagger
not lager "debate"?
i don't even want to bring
diacritical marks into
this...
         and i won't!

first prize: silver sputnik
of brunswick...

               now all i'm missing
is a banjo... and a toothpick...
as ever this medium:

concentrates upon the motto:

          sequor lepus albus.

Between the hills,
were you ready for a
snakebite ritual?

What was the choice
between a triangle and
a silver dewdrop?

The birthmark swells
after taste of venom.
Silent prayer fails.

They are inadequate and insecure
Those poor lot who never got it right
Minds befuddled, no grace nor talent for sure
Want love but it's never real and day is always night
Superficialities and pretence is all there are on their shore

So these sad lots find pleasure in destroying things
Body full of drugs n sorrow, something's' always  wrong
Negativity their wont, misery and menace in their everything
All that is good is tarnished, strength and confidence are wrong
Their happiness eclipsed, mind diseased, knowing stained loving

See that precious diamond glittering sharply bright
No say our lots, that just a piece of old hard stone dug up
See that lovely rose in pristine bloom in lovely summer light
No that's just an ordinary dead flower with thorns in a big cup
Sick downers whose glass always half empty with sour snakebite

They own ignorance and bitterness in droves
Always envious and jealous the inherent bent of the warped
Intimidated by excellence, mired in dishonour like putrid cloves
These nonentities crave attention in ignominy like neurotic wasps
In enlightened riposte - class is permanent and crying is not for doves

I’m not the one who’s so far away
When I feel the snakebite enter my veins
Never did I wanna be here again
And I don’t remember why I came
Candles raise my desire
Why I’m so far away
No more meaning to my life
No more reason to stay
Freezing feeling
Breathe in
Breathing
I’m coming back again
Hazing clouds rain on my head
Empty thoughts fill my ears
Find my shade by the moonlight
Why my thoughts aren’t so clear
Demons dreaming
Breathe in
Breathing
I’m coming back again

American Exceptionalism has
been ****** by an Act of God
via the virU$ which bears their
own name and monetary unit,
plus their snakebite venom which
has poisoned the entire world.

              Meanwhile
Afghanistan, Syria, Iraq, Libya
are being saved by Allah Akbar.

     " God Less America "
       " Debt to America "

Bible thumping
Whipping black leather belts across tender, young skin
Snakebite flesh
One-touch you can’t forget
That’s gentle
Almost cautious
Testing your limits
How long you can go without flinching
Two men, two hells
Trust yourself enough to scream
Fall back and notice that everyone was watching
That you weren't stuck in an unchanging time capsule of pain
Where minutes seemed to last hours
Your hands and legs shook from fright
Shocked, blasted into an everlasting hell
Scream
Louder than him
Run, faster than the truck he uses to take you away
Because you are more worthy than every second he kept you from being happy

you have such a good mind
why waste it on the next ten minutes
in the grand tradition of spiritual vagrancy
OK then another merry Sterno Christmas
wedged under any freeway overpass
the drunker you get the better I look
some of my best friends are antonyms
granted my thoughts have been poisoned
but by my own semi-hinged family
the stars are bright out here
you can hold them in your palms
they can make you howl like a lobo
loping across the radio tracks
on the outskirts of Zenith Arizona
both ambidextrous and symmetrical
a well recognized dangerous combo
there were silver bullet gunshots that night
and he lay in a pool of moral stupor
wondering what could be better to desire
what might make us more intelligent
could only be answered adequately with
try to carry the weak until they are strong
and shape your clay to get us to the next step
on the desert paradise lecture circuit
ready to sermonize you purple
be sure to bring your snakebite knife
a lot of reptile men out there
and six inch long insects
never mind give me subway crime
it's not the ****** banality of evil
it's the functioning persistence of evil
being a ******* survival attribute
pressing in from all sides
rest your ******* easy lad
teach yourself sanity nobody else will
but at least he could divide
the ground from the sky
connect a few of the zillion dots
knew that death was inconceivable
cursed the day he was initiated
into prehensile Neanderthal wonderment
next I'll probably be hearing from
the Neanderthal Liberation Front
Godzilla stamped out 17 cities
before they invented the Z-Ray
turns every molecule in your body
into hypochondria and pop therapeutics
it was as deep as he got
into a most case scenario

From "Pageant of Naked Mischief" available on Amazon