IMMEDIATELY PLEASE REMOVE ALL OF MY INFORMATION FROM YOUR DATA BASE FORTHWITH.  ALSO,
ADVISE ANY AND ALL CONTRACTORS, SUB-CONTRACTORS, AGENTS, SUB-AGENTS, AFFILIATES, PARTNERS, COLLEAGUES, ASSOCIATES, CLIENTS, WEBMASTERS, WEB BASED LINKS, WINKS, TWINKS, COLONEL CLINCKS, BOSSES, CO-WORKERS, EMPLOYEES, VENDORS, SUPPLIERS, SALESMEN, ASCCOUNT REPS/EXCS, ACCOUNTANTS, BROKERS, CO-BROKERS, HACKERS, SLACKERS, WHACKERS, JERKS, PIMPS, HOES, HOBOS, BUMS, DERELICTS, DEGENERATES, DOPERS, DEALERS, TWEEKERS, GAMBLERS, RAMBLERS, SOLICITORS, SIDEKICKS, COHORTS, WINGMEN, WHEELMEN, LOOKOUTS, OUTLAWS, IN-LAWS, RELATIVES, FIANCES, GIRLFRIENDS, BOYFRIENDS, FAMILY, FRIENDS, ENEMIES, EVIL NEMISIS', CANVASSERS, INQUIRERS, QUEERS, QUEENS, COWBOYS, KINGS, ****, DRAGS, HAGS, HETEROS, HOMOS, TONY ROMOS, FEMALE IMPERSONATORS, (PRE OR POST) MALE IMPERSONATORS, *****, *****, VAN *****, **** VAN ****, LESBIANS, LIARS, BUYERS, CRYERS, CIGAR SMOKERS, CARPET MUNCHERS, RUG RATS, TODDLERS, TEENAGERS, YOUNGSTERS, SENIORS, SUCKERS, TRUCKERS, MOTHER shut yer mouth, LAW MAKERS, LAWYERS, ATTORNEYS, JUDGES, POLITICIANS, PECKERWOODS, LEADERS, FOLLOWERS, DISCIPLES, PROPHETS, EVANGELISTS, SAVIORS, SINNERS, SAINTS, SOOTHSAYERS, MEDICINE MEN, GYPSYS, TRAMPS, AND THIEVES, WITCHES, WARLOCKS, VAMPIRES, LYCANS, ZOMBIES, WAR MONGERS, PROTESTERS, SOLIDERS, GENERALS, GOVERNORS, PRESIDENTS, PATRIOTS, PACKERS, LIONS, BEARS, BROWNS, BLACKHAWKS, REDWINGS, RIGHT WING, LIBERALS, OR LAW BIDING CITIZENS, THEY ARE NOT TO CONTACT ME AND LOOSE MY NUMBER.
BUT IF YOU SEE MY MOM, TELL HER TO CALL ME.

............................................................­............BA-ZING..............................................­......................

The telephone is constantly ringing;
I’m on the verge of insanity.
It’s all I can do when answering calls
Not to break out in profanity.

It doesn’t help to block a number,
For callers will use another.
How many do they have access to?
Twenty? Forty? Brother!

The scammers are the worst, of course--
Each a conniving crook!
But telephone solicitors?
Also bad in my book!

If they would only take NO for an answer,
It wouldn’t be so bad.
But when they importune me for money,
That’s when I get mad.

Sometimes solicitors overstep
The bounds of familiarity;
If they do, I’ll flatly refuse
To donate to their charity.

I hate to be rude, but it’s hard not to
Say something mean.
As I said, I'm at the point
Of saying something obscene!

It MUST be self-defeating for them,
For I know I'm not alone
When I say they’re forcing me
To never answer my phone.

The “Do Not Call List”? What a joke!
Robocalls? A pain.
All of us in phone-call hell
Have the right to complain.

This phone-call madness will have its place
In the annals of demonology,
For we know one thing: it is one
Of the curses of modern technology.

-by Bob B (9-13-18)

No Values
just statues of accountants who could never learn to count
and mounted on the spikes,where business is displayed and laid out for the world to see in naked abject poverty
are chief executives and heads of lesser known departments who never meant to cook the books
but fell for fortune and her looks and took that chance to spread their wings
and now the wind that whistles sings
and passes through their empty eyes ,and flapping flesh drips off dry bones of arms that never meant to harm.

No charmed lives left in Holborn or in Chancery lane,where solicitors were in on the game of taking risks
and risks they took
another spike and one more hook for the fallen wig,who still seems regal but not as big as what he thought legal.

They bought but never owned the sky or stole it from the smaller fry who swam around the edges and the shadows in society
and we,
the ripped off,stripped off,sing dirges to their loss but me,I couldn't give a toss
let them burn and turn slowly on the spit
we'll roast and toast them,
let them boast then of fancy women,fancy cars and fancy meals in fancy bars.
These czars have gone the way of old
where bold men.bad men always fold in two
and the wind blew tears that fell to splash on piles of once extorted cash and though accountants cannot count
judges learn to mount the steps and put their heads in hangman's ropes and any hopes they entertain of clemency go down the drain along with
any gains they ever made.

Those who laid beside the wide boys of this world and opened eyes into another where they couldn't even bother to see just who they hurt
have lost their shirts,ripped off their backs,attacked by those that they attacked and now the axe is on the other foot where once a boot was kicked into my ****.

so good luck you *****
I hope your bodies fall to bits
and you end up burning in the pits
alongside the others that have sinned
in the end
no one wins
the voodoo dolls of life are stuck with pins
and the devil grins and hums his tune.

While the wine and cheese and skinny upturned mustaches
Were all there,
Wrapped in gold tissue paper and tied with white bows
The passion, desire, and spark
(which were promised by the $24.99 guidebook)
Were nowhere to be found,
Not even floating down a gondola on the Seine
(or am I thinking of Venice now?)

I wrote home in two postcards
(not because I had so much to say)
But because I thought my family should see the Eiffel Tower in both day and night
As plastered on the pair of plastic, flimsy cards I mailed away.
Being away from Mom and Dad, I thought I’d enjoy it
But after investing in a French-English Dictionary
I learned that the love letters I’d been receiving here
(voulez vous coucher avec moi?)
Weren’t so lovely after all.

I told them that I’d tried French Onion soup,
That I’d walked down that street featured in Midnight in Paris,
and that between the guns slung over shoulders
(worn like fake Louis Vuittons advertised by desperate venders)
and the solicitors outside the Moulin Rouge
the city of love
had shattered my unprotected heart.

An affair is brewing

Breaking up complicated
too much to arrange
solicitors, family, pain

I just need something
our sitting room (internet cáfe)
is stifling, smothering
communication, zilch
vacant stares
minds elsewhere

Don’t know what to do
but attention I need
before, incomprehensible
now, understandable

An affair is brewing

Be expedient
Be upbeat
Be upstanding
Watch your feet
Take your own medicine
Cure all ills
No solicitors
Post no bills
Keep your secrets
Tell no lies
Life's soon over
Time flies

"Pardon me, Sir..." -Marie Antoinette [to her executioner's foot]*

One day the overprivileged
will be trampled underfoot
by the downtrodden.

One day the poor
will have nothing left to eat,
but the rich.

One day the homeless
will have nowhere left to sleep,
but your new marble countertops.

One day malaria
will have nowhere left to spread,
but your country club pool.

One day wars
will have nowhere to be fought,
but your well-manicured lawns,

And there will be
no one left to fight them,
but your well-manicured daughters.

One day the Bourgeoisie
will awaken to find
the Workers scaling their wrought-iron gates,

And there will be no
turning us away
like petty solicitors-

For we have a debt
to collect,
and we will accept
nothing less
than The Merchant of Venice’s
request:
a pound of well-fed flesh…

And we will rejoice,
as we warm our frost-bitten fingertips,
on the smoldering remains of your estates.

And we will rejoice,
as we dance beneath your majestic maples,
composing eulogies for the Good Ole Days of the Good Ole Boys…

Some once called him a Grand Old Man,
Others called him a slime,
You couldn’t get a consensus that
Was even, all the time,
For some kow-towed to his money, while
Others fell by his sword,
His life was overall sunny, while
His victims quailed at his word.

He lorded it over his children,
He ruled their kids with ease,
A sullen look from beneath his brow
Would bring them to their knees,
His will was forever changing
As solicitors came and went,
One day he’d offer a mansion,
And another day, a tent.

When he finally died he was stony broke
And they wondered where it went,
He’d always been abstemious
But the money had been spent.
He left all their lives in ruins with
Their expectations gone,
A couple of ramshackle houses were
The only things they won.

There wasn’t the money to bury him
So they left him where he sat,
Up at the head of the table in
His black, beribboned hat,
He glared at them as he’d glared in life
One hand on the table-top,
Where he used to tap with his finger
As if it would never stop.

Tap-tap-tap on the table-top,
Tap-tap-tap it went,
His eyes bored into the back of your head
As if to say - Repent!
And people scurried, this way and that
To divine what the tartar meant,
The grim old man in his black top hat
Who ruled to their detriment.

They left him sat and they locked the door
Didn’t go back for a year,
Til the eldest, saying ‘let’s know for sure,’
Returned with a tinge of fear.
‘He might have stocks in his waistband there
Or shares hid under his shirt,
Or cash stuffed in his beribboned hat -
He treated us all like dirt!’

He ventured into the dining room
Where the grim old man still sat,
His eyes a-glare in the year long gloom
From under the brim of his hat.
But as the eldest approached him there
The finger began to tap,
A steady rap with a note of doom
That would curdle blood to sap.

So Toby dived to the tinder box
And he leapt up with the axe,
His face as pale as a ghostly tale
But determined to attack.
He raised the axe and he let it fall
Severed the finger there,
It skittered across the table top
As the old man fell from his chair.

The stocks were stuffed in the old man’s hat
The shares were stuffed in his sleeve,
And so much cash in his waistband that
They said, you wouldn’t believe.
But still he’s locked in that grey old house
For they found it wouldn’t stop,
That severed finger that skittered there
Still taps on the table-top!

David Lewis Paget

it was
                                                                ­                                                              Des­demona




                                                 deceiver of new Edens
                                                           ­ 
                                           left black fields        flooded
           by the sewage coming from the open wells cut into her skin.
I've been here before. A place where saints can be violent, and still   pleading
                                              for father, please, let me go?

he releases.

Desdemona follows,
dragging her corpse
through the minds
that unhinge
for the cold mechanics
of violence;

how the Savage
                            tick
                            and sputter
their jagged gears.        how the human bits,
human bang bang
counts to an unknown number,
waiting
for Desdemona to click her tongue

to spit out
to splatter
wingless
hysterical angels
across the walls of liberty

who with flaming swords
in their hands, slay
to the bellows
of a martyr's sweet rendition,
muttering
words of annihilation,
scavenging for faithful men

that
from the droning
of hissing solicitors
become fettered
to the yin
of fractured knowing
underneath skies
of starry nobility

                                                       ­                                                                 ­ Desdemona



sees this country
through a thimble

knows the name
of every state,
every citizen  that assumes
today, they will be protected
by glory
and that tomorrows
list will not get longer
with each new birth
stamped
American,
maybe It's American.?

this fleshy
and gentle
citizen soldier

quickly taught
to remember
their place
In this

grand Nation,

already paying
the tithing
of mind
and
body
cleaned
in a kitchen sink
       baptised

in the plasma of terror
with the wet
hands
of good hearted parents
commercially radicalized
by tv frenetic
freedom mobs,

fleshy

gentle

soldiers

remember to take
until swollen, because


there lives a longing,
and there lives
other monsters
caste in lighter
shades of violence.



                                             America. You eat your own children.
                                                America­, that dines more divine
                                                     when there is a different
                                                                ­    heathen
                                                     ­      at the dinner table,
                                          
                                                             Land of the brave,
                                                              yo­u worship fear.


                                                         ­                                               American Desdemona
does not know
of her own death song,
she leaves the grieving
alone to paint a tableau
of future Gods
to spring from barrels
sprouting
beheaded bouquets of metal
seen in the slow motion chaos
crawling in the gallery
of methadone media.

the harbinger of all things
seemingly unimportant,

who's orders
are definite



urging stillness.    



to sit with them in the   quiet   room
where lamenting will not be heard

told hush in the morning,

why the **** are you screaming.?
this is the ******   quiet     room

this is existence, this is what surrounds us.
                 "What did you see?"

said
the ones warned to behave
in the silence of tragedy,
But are still sent to the
purgatory
of tin rooftops
in the midwest
or a brick cloud by the shore

bouldering their fists
to beat bright punctures
into the sky
before the eleventh hour
pushes them down eternal twilight.

here again
are the bells that toll
with the kind sound of ammunition

with the voices of
all those disagreeable people
moaning
their grim
disenchantment
for yesterday's sorrows


who stay up late, dizzy
and red faced, shouting
about the guns
of politics,
shouting
about the guns
of politics,
vomiting guns guns guns
and political despair
throwing their voices
out of windows
broken
by
expletives
twisted in the
left over red lights
that bathe rallies
in mayhem
to be taken back
to small boxes
where
young
and numb lips
smoke turpentine
   after *******
to political ****

No longer shocked by politicians
who remind the masses about
9/11 jumpers
falling
to the concrete
in ten
second
intervals

they want you to
remember terror in the 10,000

Terror.

get down on your knees
and bow to obsession--


accept this
as indulgence

for what it is,

you live to be whole
but revoke
the thoughts
you inact in a soft blanket
of cerebral vices.

This is what purity
seeks in the wilds,    

bloodwood virginity
wet with the constitutional lust
of victimless moaning
victimless crimes

oh

holy holy
I arch my back for you
I bend for you
I writhe painlessly
with every moment that passes
your gun can lay at the alter of my temple,  surly
it will be an anointed dimming

a secret that is kept in the chest
of dual gatekeepers
who yearn for unison
and longs to tell the other,
     do not be afraid

Or,    Don't you dare
stand in front of
a podium, condemning
slaughter like a daily prayer
at the dinner table,      prayer

that sounds like faith
and God splitting in half, prayer
which has always been
a plea to change life
into what we think it should be

like the once happy

Elitists,
now soft belly sickened
by the obscured notion
of protecting
the people they
claim as their own, if only?

apostates
of folklore,
weren't so full
with grievances,
with their
own wars

brooding and
burdened by lax limitation,
seething angry
at
the great agenda

utterly raging

against the talking mouths
too loud with
freedoms thoughts,    swelling
with maddening repetition
and promptly ridiculed
into the execution
of sentimental insanity,

crazed

enough
to arm themselves with something
that does not feed the machine
in the pursuits of destroying it.




                                                         ­                                                                 ­  this is
                                                                ­                                                       Desdemona

that seeps into the burrow
of a throat

is the auditory creeping
that dredges a chemical longing

until everyone is gasping
at the horrid image of death,
or in the middle of a vitriolic
death cry

only accepting finality
if the afterlife
proved to be as infinite
as a blue sky slitting itself open
to let in the burnt offerings of the sun.

And no one will ask,

what have you taken to the inferno.?

flesh and blood,
That which is not yours.


bodies for the dead, you say.
well, how many?

not everyone
has a key
to the quiet room

away from the decidedly
unlucky,

we
Will be the ones
behind the locked door
pretending
she is not
on the other side,
unhindered by her cracked skull,
she is listlessly
heaving
dissected torso
through
junkyard corridors
collecting the dead
for tomorrow's congregation

who have become
sinfully reincarnated
by the flesh
of their own belief,
or fed into zombie culture
to sing and sway
in the pews, reciting

My people
I love you.

my God!
do I love you.
do I love you.

My God,
my Desdemona, I love you.

There’s a dream at night, of me floating up in thin heights
with clouds trying far too hard to catch up.  
This dream is sad, it hovers on horizons  
Because I’m grounded for now, my wings haven’t come yet.  
They’re lost in the mail, and I don’t have courage to hunt them.  

You see I’m scared of up there,
the density of air seems to fall short of supporting
my heavy disposition.  
My skin is fair and it may go right past crispy
with less atmosphere between me and the glowing bright.  

The twin orbs above my dream-self rotate in and out
but there’s a shared look of hate on their beautiful faces.  
They don’t want me here, this sky is their front yard.  
They’ve posted a sign “No Solicitors Allowed”
but I’m selling my dream, this heart to the highest bidder
to find my flight, my cowardly departure.  

The sun is mad, ******* at his potential neighbor, a smaller sort,
sun is tired of sister moon taking so much room.  
Perhaps life without the cold ashen face of her sibling would improve.  
This works for me, as I said at the beginning this is a dream at night,
one that just may be fulfilling if I decide to fly, if my wings arrive,
but I’m still so scared of the heights.

Love
Could be standing on your front step
But you're so use to
Solicitors handing you pamphlets
Full of false words and hope
That you never answer the door
Anymore

You use to sit and wait
For every knock
But now you peak through the blinds
Just to sit back down
And ignore the shuffle of shoes
Walking away

Even though
You don't know
Which shoes
Are being stepped in
By your soul mate

(20 minute poetry)

Stand clear Monday's here and no prisoners will be taken.

I'm running scared
in third class
because the system
Is still in place,

all along the platform lined up instead of in freeform
are today's commuters,
baristas, solicitors, chancers and sharp operators,
they wait the same as I
under the weeping willow sky.

If this is the 'last chance saloon'
and the tube train's arriving soon
I'll have a double.

Monday's still here or it was,
not sure now because my eyes
are shut
but I think that it might be
still
able to see me.

For a brief moment
I thought
the screeching I could hear was
my brain jumping a gear
but it's the brakes on the train,
listen,
it's doing it again.

and again it's almost done,
I've used up my tiny portion
if such fun is dealt that way

Darling, Monday
is still here like a
milk bottle on the window sill
dear,
waiting for my corn flakes.

Copperplate script ripped off from a Dickens pen.

When Toledo exploded and fhe land fell away and the storm clouds erupted and scattered the day
If only I'd read what he wrote, in each novel a note to be wary of ghosts and solicitors.

Point to point to each pole I anoint with the blood of the many of me.

Never free just a prism in a prison of  colours that number any number if I think of that number in me.

Eve
the madam and
Adam the gent wondering
what it all meant or if it meant
anything at all.

dead imagined by a dead imagination,
and god is my **** boii,
no relation,
it is a sin to cut the skin yourself,
so if you measure me,
please pleasure me,
i got ****
sincerely i was born from the rat ***** my daddy ******
pour me
like acid on me
dissolve my complexities,
AAHHH ,
i feel a feeling
free of feeling,
senseless being,
motionless state,
move out from under
be in inside of me
6 different paths,
6 different eyes,
and i am 6
i am the six i worship
the contorted
and twisted runner of
the keepers of insanity
lock away their sanity
lock away their witness
lock as an ability
to perceive a straight reality
induced by his lobotomy
remember me
dismember me
members of this are
sorry
if im lost
u wont come out to find me
if im out, when in doubt, ****** out, if im feigned for existence
to be man is suicide
solicitors expected to solicit me my fears
but now u know
i fear i have no fears
permanoid,
void is man
we must begin the countdown to madness
let me begin, let me begin, before these bleeders
eat my feet
i ate my liver
i ate my splean, and if u ask
i ate my stomach
cuz i still need lungs to smoke
cuz i still **** god
nonstop *** all night
still need lungs to smoke
after ***
coalescing within you
after all you are
worthless.

i cant get thoughts to leave my head when i want them to.
theyre like solicitors standing on my doorstep,
and they wont go away unless i give them what they want.
new scars, less food, my head bent over a toilet, retching.
too many drugs, not enough drugs,
sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep.

i wish they would go away.
i wish they didnt spin in my head
porpoising up and down
making me sick to my stomach,
sick to my head,
incapacitating me.

I want to escape,  
i just want them gone.
i dont want to die, i just dont want to feel this anymore

i would do anything.
i have done anything,
and none of it seems to do any good.
im just a mess of self destruction and self mutilation,
i know.
fundamentally unlovable?
maybe.
i just want them Gone. Away,
but i dont know how to do that in a healthy way.