now i know why i might engage with writing obscene
poems, chauvinism included, but still there
is no burning excuse in my mind with the way
western society actively desires censorship of certain
words, i already attributed censoring obscene
words as worse than what this tactic precipitates into:
the apathetic spread of *******, and violence
in general... it crosses my mind that sparring with violent
language cushions people from violet action...
to utilise violent language with that: pardon my French
attitude does more good than evil on the users...
how many road rage incidents could have been avoided
if people were unable to watch their tongue:
somehow we're making language sterile, by actively
pursuing this sort of censorship: which is not even
remotely politically related / motivated, we're bringing
an anaemic status quo in how fluidly we speak -
we desire to not hear the sometimes funny and the sometimes
awful... but we choose to see the god-fearing horrific...
ask any blind-man about music and he'd say:
well, i can dance to it in a nucleus position, centrally
gravitational pull - but ask the deaf man about
what he has to say when seeing **** written to counter
obscenity, as in cartoon-like: f&%£! it's just plain silly,
pocket-sized expression of psychotic behaviours,
rummaging through them i find only one source of inspiration:
the fact that we're in this blind-man's garden of innocence,
somehow dressed in the camouflage of censorship such
a tiny problem, that it does indeed require 23 mattresses
for the princess to not feel the frozen *** agitating her...
this sort of censorship in its application is under
a false sense of purpose, it really doesn't change people's
behaviour for the better, it doesn't pacify them, in does
the reverse: it infuriates, it makes violence more potent...
i'm still trying to figure out why such words
will make our perceptions saintly... unless of course
that's the reason behind them, as way of invoking an
anaesthetic placebo, a placebo that's actually active rather
than passive - presuming the anaesthetic placebo gives
way to an aesthetic active apathy-inducing ingredient...
meaning we can't bare to hear swear words, but we can
gladly watch 20 hours of 20 : 1 ****... censoring **** ****
**** **** will not escape Newtonian physics...
given our current scenario, Newtonian physics is far
more important than Einstein's relativity, i'd hate to be
in denial about cause & effect... as began with Socrates,
i too abhor moral relativism... of course Newton got
the gravity bit wrong, but i like the simpler version...
plus... there was no Romance with Einstein...
no apple, no tree, no Voltaire... meaning we don't necessarily
write history collectively, with all of us starting from
the big bang or the view from the Galapagos islands...
we don't... we continue writing history not from a
collective consciousness genesis... or from the collective
unconscious genesis - that's Jung with his archetypes
(devil, god, wise man, mother, father etc.) rather than
dreams (Freud) - we can chose were to write the future...
it's not so much ignorance as arm-chair intellectualism,
it's not about the safety of understanding something,
but the comfort of choosing to understand something...
which is pretty much to my excuse for my previous poems...
Heidegger... and that concept of Dasein -
i never bothered to understand it to the point of
reacting subjectively to it, by that i mean an interest
in writing about it, an interpolation of the subject with
alternative variations... i objectified it, i also countered it
when objectifying the concept turned out to be an
everyday object, shortening my quest.
the counter? hiersein, i.e. being here, here denoting a
solipsistic classification of awareness with / in the world -
which is basically me in my room, admiring my library,
my record collection, my torn sneakers, everything that
is classified exclusive to what dasein evolves into
when all its grammatical weaving only express a verb,
i.e. concern... so i thought, given this what can hiersein
(being here / nonchalance) actually show me as
my lack of interest in: "changing the world".
it became obvious yesterday, i had a hard time when i
didn't read the day's copy of the times (more on this later),
instead i had to suffice with construction site media,
you might have heard of this newspaper: the daily star,
at 20 pence a pop, you will see what £1.20 makes to
your psyche... but that's basically it, i objectified Heidegger's
concept and made it into an everyday object, in this
case and as the only case available: a newspaper -
and the trick is? well, with a newspaper like daily star
you don't actually experience dasein - it's completely
missing in this style of media, and that's worrying given
my barbaric poetry of yesterday... it's missing, not there,
such object-for-object chirality is what gives birth to
hiersein (being here); but today i returned to my usual
media diet, a flicked through the times and the natural
balance of personal objects and a fresh impersonal object
coexisted - the newspaper is truly the most adequate
compounded expression of Heidegger's dasein -
which i attribute to the constant need to emphasise an
empathy with others... empathising is a neutral form
of sympathising, since sympathy is sourced in shared
experiences: **** victims (e.g.) - therefore empathy is
something that in the ontological structuring of dasein,
which opposes the ontological structuring of hiersein,
which is structured by apathy; there is nothing else for
me to write, apart from the compendium proof
of the disparity of sources, i.e. headlines and subheadings:

- prior compendium -

i will never understand the point of autobiographies,
the majority of autobiographies are written
on a p.s. basis, after the facts / actions,
never immediately, concerning ideas /
solidified thoughts, thoughts condensed into idea
that allow thinking / cognitive narration to
continue regardless with what's being achieved...
i haven't anything autobiographical dissimilar
with something biographical...
Plato wrote that wonderful biography like
Shakespearean theatre, but i guess his critics felt
the claustrophobic tug & pull of mermaids...
still the problem ascends heights unparalleled -
even with ghost writers doing the leg-work...
cheap-buggers never learned to write, let alone read,
and here they are writing biographies...
ah, **** it... they're only sketches... whether biographic
or autobiographic... they're still mere sketches...
if this was the art world the revenue would come
posthumously, when it comes to literacy
nothing really distinguishes poets from
those prescribing pedestrian signs...
the Olympians can moan at the vacant stadium...
that there's a hierarchy in sports,
with the favoured monochrome idealisation
of where the bunny money is in the whirlpool
of the rabbit hole investment: football, volleyball...
but the literary events are the same...
people love to lie that they read the bestseller to
its full extent... but treat books like chairs and tables...
inertia prone half finished, sat on for 2 weeks of
the entire year... the Olympians are very much
like poets, and i care to distance myself from either
demand for more interest being invoked...
i like esoteric sports, i like esoteric writing...
but that's how it stand: poets are Olympians where
novelists are footballers, who retire at 30 and
then think about what to do with their wages
that are 10x higher than the everyday labourer...
start a restaurant, buy a strip of houses in Liverpool
like Michael Owen? good guess, here's to exploiting
youth disgracefully... that's what they're getting,
and these are the dilemma points to consider...
they're the equivalent gladiators of our time,
Rome was just a sleeper before it awoke once more...
but i'll never understand why these
people decided to exploit literature for gain...
all these academics with their pristine purity of discovery
are pacified when dictating print,
what poet, has a chance in hell, to appear gladly
excavated from Plato's cave of television?
about none.
i too was focusing on 20th century literature,
before 21st literature came about...
and i thought, oh god: they're really going to create
a totalitarian democracy, every artist will be
strip-searched for adding cinnamon and chilli to their
writing to bounce away from conformist
sober and sane extraction of alter wordings...
this 21st scene will become polarised...
we'll have the extinction of One Direction over a joint,
while the Rolling Stones drank a keg of whiskey
and pulled off a show... we'll have moralisation
of the fans to subdue the artists, which will mean
no artist will ably create a zeitgeist to rebel... everyone
will suddenly experience a weird sort of communism...
the worst kind... it will mean having
all the mental freedoms without the ability to
economise a coup... basically an inertia, an immediate
fatality... we can't economise a coup...
which boils down to why so many autobiographies
aren't really biographic, but rather consolidating,
by the meaning: autobiographic i intended to relate
the everyday... the most secretive account of life:
the everyday... this is stressing Proust,
even though i preferred Joyce over Proust i keep
the everyday the prime ideal: the only detail,
so that an autobiography can make sense,
automation of writing, like breathing or sneezing...
not some monetary-spinning device 20 years after
the facts... 20 years later you're pretty much writing
fiction... i am all for the biosphere of expanding
Alveoli... but when did you ever read an autobiography
that mentioned the taste of weak coffee
from the Friday of 20th of August 2016? never;
you read autobiographies
like you read self-help books...  waiting for
all that experience regurgitating motivational talk
about reaching a plateau of comparative success...
i can understand autobiographies written by the elders,
i understand biographies written about people
posthumously - but the tragedy is, given the spinning
wheel of money? we're getting "auto" biographies
written toward their 3rd volume renditions of
people aged 30... let alone 40... so much for
western society having the upper hand on political matters...
just saying: sort your own **** before trying
to sort other people's problems...
i could understand if these autobiographies were written
as described: automaton solo... but they're not...
before the compendium it's this everlasting presence
of a desired body of power being depicted:
prior the monopoly of knowledge, there was a monopoly
of literacy... given that 99% of us are literate, it
actually doesn't mean a third donkey's *******
whether we can read, or write, we got shelved in controlling
this once priestly vanity, we got taught bureaucracy alongside...
but the monopoly of literacy is way past us,
we're being convened in the ability to monopolise knowledge,
(oh please, don't let the paranoia seep in,
remember yourself when reading me, once in a while,
i don't drag you to phantasmagorical heights, even if i could,
i'd prefer you being agile in learning how to be bored
than letting your repel the same boredom i too share,
well... but **** me if you want to be the next Lenin) -
and the easiest way to monopolise knowledge? the media...
you basically need a lot of facts, and an evolved version
of dialectics, dialectics being the prime enemy of democracy
(it's not an alternative political model like despotism as
we are held to believe, it's actually dialectics,
suppressing other forms of collectivisation is the one
sure method of suppressing the attempt at dialectics
(individualism) - by making people overly opinionated,
ergo: the inability to engage with opinions, blind-alleys
throughout all plausible attempts to do so) -
so once you have enough facts to fiddle with the Rubik's cube
of juxtaposition, you end up with the ultra-scientific
form of dialectics... the matter of opinion in relation
to truth without a relative uniformity that prescribes
the status quo stasis is a debate about how accurate
we all are: i.e., is that true to the closest centimetre,
or the closest millimetre? it's a bit like watching a Zeno
paradox:
                 10.1                           and 10.01
      which one's tortoise and which is Achilles?
well, you know; ah ****! the compendium of the two
newspapers which got me slightly depressed...

- the compendium -

a. daily star

- B. BRO SAM'S SECRET 'NERVOUS BREAKDOWN'
- Laura & Jason's baby joy
- Robbie (Williams) £1.6M a night!
- BREXIT BOOST ON JOB FRONT
- ANGE DAD BACKS TRUMP
- JR'S wife Linda set to Holly
- Edd's no Beverly Hills flop
(Lana among cow *******)
- LAURA: OUR TINY TROTTS WILL BE WORLD-BEATERS
- FURY AT BAD LOSERS' SLURS
- 'Jealous sis' jibes
- MAKE YOUR KID AN OLYMPICS ACE
- Peaty: I want to be a rapper
- TV girl really ill
- **** SAM, 'ON THE BRINK OF BREAKDOWN'
- COSTA ***** HELL
- CAGING ANJEM WILL INSPIRE NEW JIHADIS
- POG'S LOADED AGENT BUYS CAPONE'S LAIR
- I'll make Kylie a pop star
- JEZ DOESN'T KNOW ANT FROM HIS DEC
- GUILTY OF DEMONIC SAVAGERY
- Great British Rake In
- Britain is *******
- BAYWATCH U.K.
- Va Va Vroom
- JUST JANE: My lover snubs plea to get wed
- HART: I'LL DECIDE WHEN TO GO.

b. the times

- Boy victim becomes a symbol of Assad's war
- US Olympics swimmers invented robbery tale, say Rio police
- Make us sell healthy food, supermarkets implore May (P.M.)
- Lost weekend of the lying best man
- fears over free speech delay law to silence hate preacher
- Met's 'commuter cops' live in France
- Husbands happiest when they earn half as much as wives
- Socialists plot to drive Britain left
- Fake human sacrifice filmed at European high altar of physics
- Officers investigated over ex-footballer's Taser death
- Number of pupils taking languages at record low
   (Mandarin @ 2,849 - % decrease of 8.1,
    alarmingly religious studies 27,032 up by 4.9%
    and psychology of status 59,469 up by 4.3%....
    meaning the mad will soon be diagnosing the sane
   as mad, just because the curriculum said so)
- Top grades add up to 100% at the school for maths prodigies
- Deprived sixth formers thrive on competition
- European students rush to get into British universities
- DVLA earns £10m selling driver's details
- Mystery over Kenyan death of aristocrat
- Journalist who voted twice reported to police for
  'fraud'
- Tomato tax threatens European trade war
- Love story of the Pantomime
- Homeless conmen fleeced widow, 81
- Brownlee brothers at the Olympics...
- Hopeful shoppers give sales a lift after Brexit vote
- MoD guard could be stood down despite terrot threat
- Owners spit mansion after failing to sell
- The job with international appeal: saving our hedgehogs
- Finch warns unborn chicks if weather gets warm
- Migrant violence rises after decline in policing around Jungle
- Longest road tunnel promises a relaxing ride under Pennines
- Mothers step up to drive Tube trains through night
(rowdy teens ageing exponentially on a Saturday night
when not getting a lift, ******...)
-MP's deal with bookmaker to be investigated
- Ebola nurse 'hid high temperature'
- Shoesmith's ex-huspand kept child *******
- Morpurgo war tale springs into life
- Supergran fights off teenage muggers
- IVF is more successful for white women
OPINION SECTION
- Great political fiction is good for democracy
- the BBC is leaving its audiences in the dark
- airline food? just pass me the gin and tonic
- Modern Olympics began on the fields of Rugby
/ greasy polls, holding firm, tongue tied,
  call for compulsory targets to tackle obesity,
second in line, mindfulness course, cost of planning,
puffins v. ship rats.... and all future letters to the editor /
- Moscow presses Turkey for access to US airbases
- Hundreds killed each month in Assad's jails
- Putin bans celebration of defeated KGB coup
(another James Bond movie on the cards,
i'm assured, and with a moral carte blanche) -
Hollande clams Carla Bruni spied concerning his
use of diapers...
- Euthanasia tourists flock Belgian A & E from France,
  where a revival of ****** made people dress shark-fin
  sharp on the catwalk...
- Mosquito pesticide linkage application = intersex /
   East German women
- Haiti cholera linked to Nepalese **** and ***** via
  the

Claw beneath your ribs
Hold down wild you
Just for a little while
Feel the anguished flutter
Begging these gruff hands . . .


1.
Fear takes commotive hold
Makes wooden legs
Delayed dance…..so delayed
Causing silent attendance of synchrony

No use stepping out for flight just yet, if alone
Will meantime practise wing-span
                           iron out brittle energy
                           attempt to fortify links
                           ..

2.
Careless snubs to fragile sapling
Did *absolutely nothing
To the course set out
Only hypocrites squander even half-truths
and wallow in obsequious words
rendering paralysis and decay

I will continue to claw beneath your ribs
Covert trove awaits us
In the tormented form of
Crashing waves on a broken coast
Hacked to near-distraction by potent searching


3.
Loss is not wasted
unseen by its absence:
evocative presence felt …with penniless eyes

I challenge you to visualise our melting:
                 perched on fate’s right shoulder
                 re-sent to this basic arena as buoyant token
                 summoned by that primordial, blue light
                 ..



the sun may well baulk and melt
at the ruddy sight of
such intense clawing beneath your ribs
(like your customary digging into my bristling blades)

To find my foetal place
within the calling drumbeats
of imperative you . . .




S T, sunsday . . . 21 July 2013

You who have done wrong, who thinks your right.
In subsequent to your anger towards me,
you have no [right].
Still i ignore your snubs
treated it as a bluffs.
Glad that you ignore me
at times, even if you bore a grudge on me.
I'll received it as a parting gift
to forget whatever causes of grief
you've done.

I know this words will never reach you,
cause in life i don't want to give birth
to more misunderstanding. I am already
misunderstood and mistreated at times.

I just want to live-up to the silence of my comfort.
My independence is enough
to have a strong mind
and a stable heart to withstand
all the backslash of tongues.

a quote says:
everybody needs somebody sometimes
well i don't need one when I'm still able.

Oh, sweet, sweet friend
How may I describe you?
The beauty of our friendship
Is of much more value
Than a baboon's ***.
This, I'm telling you,
Is that a baboon's ***
Isn't of much value.
You're like
Something I'd walk on the streets of New York
where many feet trample on the pavements
where spit hits ******* the ground
and dirt rubs and snug itself tight.

You're like
The sound of beautiful woman
Inviting me to a nice, fancy dinner
in her huge mansion
With her gorgeous husband
And laughs along to his lame jokes
and gives me a toast
under the lights
of the golden chandelier
as her precious goods bounce around
in that low-cut dress
so absolutely sweet you are,
how much I adore the love in your voice,
the gentle one that kisses me goodbye
If only it was real
and not as fake
as the eyes you bear
when you tell me
I'm amazing.

You're like
a sweet wrapper
I'd happily look at
feeling **** guilty inside
nevertheless.
That crunching sound it makes
As it opens to a beautiful sweet
Chocolate! I chew you up and
swallow you down.
I'd never think something
so delicious and innocent
would hurt me so bad, and give me
Black teeth. Or potentially diabetes.
Nothing so tasty would **** me
slowly inside
forget the temporary pleasure I had.

You're like
Fresh, long hair
and a pretty little face
which bears ugly lips
that shoot out ugly words
and claw people around their necks
and suffocate their freedom of speech
or their opinion
and snubs out their rainbow
like a cigarette
My dear, you’re a monster!
Have you no taste for uniqueness
and creativity, a knack
in weirdness, the love
of awkward hellos,
and a shy but determined being
in the making?
You press down the people you think you can ****.
You, with your sharp words
and condescending eyes,
scrutinize my every move
and throw snide remarks
behind my back,
Honey, don’t you realise
You’re not perfect?

So I've said, you're a sweet, sweet friend.
You are!
As sweet as the poison that kills me
before it reaches my heart.
It has already killed my ability
to lead, to be empowered,
to be free.

So, my sweet, sweet friend
feel free to lace up the shoe
and wear it if it fits.
One day, I'll step on you.

can't seem to put my finger on it, yet all eight tend to try,
there's no hidden agenda here, just my thumbs, me and i,
"your wild nights have done damage," they say,
white coats think i'll take that news sly.

can't seem to pull my digit, there's only one that tries,
spun the wheel, one through six, can't be denied,
my demise tastes like metal and was cold as ice,
so i ended it once, but decided it twice.

"pardon my late night knock,
so sorry to intrude,
i've been selected to be the bearer of bad news."

"what is it officer?
what are you trying to elude?
i didn't see this one coming, not one of the few. "

"i never like doing this, but it's apart of my job,
your son shot himself in the back of your saab.

slow your mind ma'am and remember the laughter,
slow your heart, as it will never beat faster,
i understand ma'am, these desperate measures,
you will fall apart, but he wrote you a letter."

"dear mamma, there's so much to say,
you've watched my path and it's visual fade,
do you remember that time on the promenade,
when we were laughing so hard and fell into the lake?
please dream about that and not your blood soaked babe,
it's not your fault, the knife was a present that day.
forgive my selfishness, don't waste a tear,
my wrath was overwhelming, even for me to bear.
by the way, if i wasn't man enough for the blade,
i loaded dad's little snub nosed 38."

Out in the woods I took a stroll
But the trial was getting mighty droll
So off into the thicket I dared go

The further I went the thicker it got
But I was determined to find what I sought
I was so tired of these overwhelming thoughts

The trorns stretched out and cut thin lines
My hands got entangled within the vines
This seems to be a constant thyme of mine

But I pushed on, pushed through Even though the pain grew
Had I bitten off more than I could chew

The brambles I was currently entangled in
Went on, and on much to my chagrin
I couldn't even tell where I had been

I sat right down there amongst the thorns
Why did I never listen to that voice that warns
But I never did, I always meet the bull by the horns

About to give up, about to coincide
But what happened next was hard to believe
A crimson red bird flew down and sat by me

He started to sing of better days of better ways
He sang of greener pastures in which to graze
Even if on my hands and knees a trail I must blaze

"So don't give up" he screeched as he flew
"Your trials will be a lot more than a few"
"But pushing on I know you can do"

So that I did, on my hands and my knees
I knew perseverance held the keys
I would be as brave as my ancestors, the Cherokees

When I finally broke through, dog tired and ******
Body covered in the thorny cuts, face muddy
I looked like a severely beaten puppy

But as I looked down on the valley below
I let all of that go
I was now within nature's wonderful flow

The smell of honeysuckle and lilacs did mingle
A scent so delectable it made my senses tingle
The dew on the vibrant green grass, like diamonds did twinkle

I'm so glad even though sorrow overflowed my cup
That I didn't give in to all of this world's snubs
I pushed on and didn't give up

Life is an oxymoron, on that you can depend
For now that I'm at the end
My life can truly begin

Snow,
deep and white
fell
sometime
in the night, but
I was alright
snug in bed.

Under the snow lies the world that I know,
the ***** and grubby
and yet it still snubs me,
I don't want the snow to go.

Under Waterloo Bridge,
another shelf in the fridge, a cruel World for some
where the Sun doesn't shine and it's cold all the time
designed to be beat
dead on their feet
a bed on cement
backs bent by the day
lay the broken and cracked.
A fact of society.

Snow came as a blessing,
one more white dressing for
the ulcerated trunks of
incapable drunks.
Do you see them?
the jetsam
do they worry you?
they will if you let them.

I bet some of them had lives
children and wives,
washed out in the flow now
thoughts  covered in snow now
and it's cold outside.

As I began to climb the campus stairs,
All alone with a numb ache-
A depression blocked those minute vessels,
That carries my vital fluid that frequently thins.
A kind of a genetic disorder that robs me off-
All of my terrible hormones that loses competition,
A competition so heroic called youth,
That settles the score of my ****** life.
A physical length that reduces me to a dwarf,
Almost an intelligent ape that snubs too-
And cannot have biology with another species,
That adores a disqualified creature of its size.

What can make me happy?
What do I want then?
Shall I need those beautiful preachers of opposite genes?
Shall I claim their eminence in my life?
Or leave them for those eligible bachelors?

As I landed my nose in the campus pillars,
And nobody cared but me-
A stimulus recoiled and resurrected those minute vessels,
That carries my vital fluid that became viscous again.

they say that god wants us to be dust
but i can’t believe that’s true
i’ve always thought of a cigarette as a bet
can you breathe in its dissolution
without becoming its demise?
on the sidewalk, cracking like
the bedraggled earth , where
all the gum becomes gray eventually
but the orange rims still shine
and remind you of the sunrise
you blocked out with your laughter

the sky on a ***** day in the city
that never sleeps or snubs
(or chokes on its own spit)
almost looks like a drag
from a set of charred lips
and your body, i’m sorry to say,
looked like an ashtray to me

Her stained thoughts manifest
as reckless voice that
critiques and confines.

Her words jars authenticity
and snubs their narrative,
cooked from their perspective,
and experience.

Flames of disapproval,
burn brighter with every beat
as incompetency bites
and acceptance withers.

She captures snapshots,
and confines them into
stereotyped framed
of idiosyncratic value.

But steadily,
as she delayers,
scrubs the scrutiny of judgements
of her thoughts, and emotions —
she steps off the battleground
of others skin
and becomes the change of creating
a embracing society.

They say jealousy turned her green,
Ugly and unusable,
She snubs her nose at the world,
Like the wicked witch she is,
I say jealousy only added fuel to the fire,
Of a young broken heart,
She caught her lover of four years cheating,
In bed with another dart,
Those sheets contaminated with the sins of her beloved, that room only echoes his desire for another,
Not she,
The house reflecting loneliness,
She wasn't good enough,
Jealousy didn't turn her green,
The world did,
The tiny world she called her own,
Thought her own,
Two green eyes,
Warm arms,
And a steadfast laugh,
He turned her green,
When she use to be red,
He died shortly after,
No one quite knows why ;)

I been at times struggling here.
I been able at times to overcome here.
Life is by far greater then your situation.
Love is by far, greater then any amount of money.
People are always more valuable then your checking account.
Never give up on those that you love dearly , just believe.
For Christ does answer prayers, and he loves them more.
Believe and the door to your prayers shall be open.
Just keep loving and let Christ worry about everything else.
Please whatever you do , do not snub anyone not matter what.
For Christ never snubs anyone, he loves everyone in the world.

Where the boulevard nears the bridge
Liesel stands with arms akimbo
Defiant posture deflecting whistles like bullets
And low ball offerings like marbles
  
She heard:
Toss her a nickel watch her shake like it's a dollar
In a pig's eye  
she roared
And spat hard for emphasis
  
Call her a *****
She might be persuaded  
If you smooth your tongue with velvet
And dip your fedora to hide it's fork
  
Her belly rumbles
It's hunger for a snack points peekaboo
Toes towards Harry's good time diner
10 cent burgers draw an unscrupulous crowd
  
Her pious snubs  
Of men who might fill her purse  
Have done little for a definite need of sustenance  
Though the fine slant of uppity *****  
Now lifting her little chin
Seems to have really brought out her aristocratic features
  
Buck whoops and haws
As she makes her appearace
He is a huge fan of Liesel' s posterior
And cannot wait for her stride past
  
A thought hits:
With her rumbling challenging haughty composure  
Feeling on the verge of fainted dead away
She snips:
  
Buck I'll let you pat me where I jiggle
For a five bag of burgers  
And a side of beans
  
Buck grinned ear to ear
And picking yellow feathers out of his teeth replied:
  
Liesel darlin
For that *** I should only buy you three

Oh tea
How you comfort me
I want you pipping hot
Curse the day if you're not

Oh tea
How you know me better than most
You're with me through biscuits, curry and toast
Through the sadness and the jokes

Oh tea
We're together when my slumber breaks
Before and after afternoon naps
The solid, the broken and the cracked
You're my constant, that's a fact

Oh tea
You put your trust in me
Making you is an art, you see
My colleagues didn't understand
The severity that was in their hands

Oh tea
I'm sorry for the disrespect
For the long life milk and unsealed tubs
For the dust and 2 second snubs
The stained mugs and shrugs

Oh tea
You're the perfect friend
When my social skills have come to an end
Whether out ‘n’ about
Or on the couch all cosy and slouched


Oh tea
I take you everywhere
Without you? imagine the despair!
I must declare, you make me feel like a millionaire
A cup of you is like a prayer, without you I'd likely swear (a lot)

Oh tea
In a teapot, mug or cup
The choice is lucious enough
When someone comes through the door, the kettle goes on for sure

Oh tea
Through joy, celebration or pain
Disaster, pandemics or vain
Through loneliness or togetherness
You've always been so generous

Yellow buddy Gunther meets
Ginger Fred the red

Nose touch and sniff
Yep. You. ‘K.

(He eschews those black cats—
Snubs uncomfortable loves)

But boys will be boys
Meeting nose to nose.

We just feed them.

A Blasphemous insult
to road rages
gutted pigs
and pixie tricks lying
on the headboard
over my too-small bed.

i am malicious
in the way that i am so far
but so very
in
and out
of my head.

dangerous foreplay
numbing cigarette snubs of kitten licks
i pull and tug
at the cancerous death
of Life.

wicked ends of
nights begins
and your lips all over mine.
on repeat.
like a broken cassette until i lay
vomiting over
this projectile mess.

and i search for
words that could
would
describe this
. . .
lingo of broken down
younglings
who for god sings,
and screams,
and do not know.

God, they do not know.

they who have screamed,
for Adam and Eve
and lay wrapped in each others tongues.
noses bleeding,
never-ending
eyes perceiving
what we all have been needing
darkness.

its shrieking
shivering
cries of madness toppled onto
eyes
you have been searching for your whole
Life.

and the mind-numbing
drugs
that you inflict upon yourself
digging your fingers into your skin
searching for flesh
and possibly a soul within.

we are the knocked out
lie living
generation of drunks

losing ourselves
in what we call
love.


n.b.

I am changing, not
fractious. This was a mystic feel
of talking with muted god.

The stealing power snubs.
Why the protester needs an ally to
unravel the unwritten prayers.

Ah the snobbish light
perceives the darkness to understand
socratic sermons. Why I will suffer?

Cigarettes and motorcycles,
Oh Mercy and Long Train Running
The art of snubbery, not an actual word
But you catch my drift, he snubs so good
Never anyone's pawn he wrote so much
He often forgot what he'd recorded.
The story of him hearing someone cover
Love Is Just A Four Letter Word and saying
That it was a good tune brought chuckles from
His travelling companion.
To call him luminary would be a shortfall.
Prolific, another stab in the dark,
Maybe Wizard would suit him, I don't know
Just play it loud Bob, play it loud.

the meaning of inferior
actually superior
Inferior snubs you
saying you are yet to master
Same time
the superior you are
actually
it is inferior to you Coz
you are above that..