The prussian stache, on the wafty pine,
sticky black *****, on your stache has dried,
I excuse your tobacco dipping while I climb,
just to sway with the wind,
in your many tiered mustache ride.

As I reach the zenith of my ascent,
a small french stache of upward bent,
offered no more for me to climb,
so downward tickle of the mustache pine.

I laid there staring
at the insanely
bright and rude
fluorescent light
that
mocked my suffering.
The cold concrete
floor felt
good against
my screaming aches.

My body was
pleading with the
Gods for just a
taste of what
had been taken
away.

My bowels were as
controllable as
a teen aged
beauty.

With a ****
I brought my
burning face
toward the cool
silent cold metal
toilet.
Ugly yellow bile
that only a tired
and tortured
body could
produce
spewed forth.

A moan and a wipe
then a hollow knock
on the graffiti
covered cell door.
"You made bail"
an almost robotic
sounding voice
says.

With a thousand tiny
swordsman stabbing
at my face I
managed to smile
into my own bile.
I looked at the
mustached uncaring
face in the
small window.
"You look like Death Pal"
The mustache says to me.

I spit the acrid taste
of day old *****
and ****** resin.
Then rise and run my
sweaty palm through
my hair in an
attempt at looking
presentable.

The mustache opens
the door and
as I walk out
I look directly at the
rogue hairs
protruding from
the mustaches nostrils
and say.
"Death Is Beautiful"

The mustache holds
the door as I walk out.
I'm feeling better already

"Oh Yea well so was my Xwife
look at how much trouble
she still causes me".
The mustache says

Every step
I take down
the institutional colored,
masonic checkered floored
hallway causes
my body
to scream with hope.

I can feel the sweat
roll down my face
but I refuse to let
this mustache
see my suffering.

We stop at the
property window,
I sign a half
of an X where it
says signature.

Then before
I gather up
my belongs
and head
back out into the
night I looked
over at the
mustache and said
"You had a Wife?"

It takes me back
It pulls me close
To itself, I cannot leave
ln my dreams
While I dose
The summer scent of mango tree

I remember well
When we were young
My friend and I hung on its arms,
Cuddling the leaves.
Now remain
Just memories, echoes of a simpler past

The flowers promised
June was close
Summer's sins would be redeemed
By the childhood paradise
Salted raw mango slice

Overarching newborn smiles
Yellow sun on green leaves
Greenish-yellow chrysoberyl
Oasis of the summertime

I remember picking them up
From the rooftop of boyhood-life
Our winged friends came, bees, monkeys too
Attempting another bite

Fond, fond memories
Mother used to cut and bring us mangoes
While I tasted the golden slice
My granny told me stories of
The tree, it stood there when they built this house
When she was eight or nine

This fruit, this taste
Connects this land
Magnifera indica
The secular deity of the mango nation
You cannot begin to understand

The gift of Indian summer
My childhood wrapped in emerald leaves
The whiff, the scent, I transcend
Time;go to an age when all was well
Or at the least, to me it seemed

As I'm taking a bite of this season's last mango
As the golden drops stick to my pubescent stache
I remember a conversation I had

The mango tree
It talked to me
No, I'm not crazy
It was the mango tree

Little things in life
Leave something
Oh!so many memories

i was in a terrible accident
one of those classic floor waxing accidents
scarred my face
FOR LIFE
i cant fill out my mustache anymore
my right side
near the corner of my mouth
BARREN

then there was that other one
terrible accident
folding clothes this time
SCARRED FOR LIFE
standing over a table
repetitive motions
each and every arch absent
DEFLATED

oh god remember that one
scarred for life
accident etched in
ORGANIZING RECORDS
the shelf collapsed
the knick knacks from the top shelf
cracked Funkadelic
NO MORE FUNK

and while i lament
****** stache
flat feet
broken record
real things happen

like that zit between my eyes
overgrown shrubs
1080p overheated

i mean things REAL people care about

Stan Stan Stan,
Pack up the moving van
From St Lou to L.A.
Always with your **** in your hand
Shave that ***** stache
You unkept goofy chap
Oh and give yourself a flush
You giant piece of crap
Lies a flying out your mouth like a nasty shart
The only time you're speaking truth is when you rip a ****
I will hold no grudge, when I'm in L.A. I'll buy you a Coke
Unless of course you pass away from Goodells *** you've choked

It bothers me the way she looks at you
The way she makes you laugh
The way you ignore me when I walk by
And that you never called me back

It bothers me you don’t like my pictures anymore
Or that you know her fathers name
It bothers me you don’t shave your stache
Because she’ll love you just the same

It bothers me that I kept your number
After you obviously deleted mine
It bothers me I still wear your shirt to sleep
Or that you never asked if I was fine

It bothers me we don’t hang out
Or that I didn’t see us through
But what bothers me the most
Is that it doesn’t bother you

What does it mean to be a modern man?
In the way in the Renaissance
you were a renaissance man?
What is the condition?
Let's check in.
Because you see,
I think it's the condition
of a reservist in waiting
waiting and waiting
to be necessary.
For a wolf to chase off,
or a meal to catch.
But instead,
we're opening jars.
We're reaching high shelves.
We're changing light bulbs,
and plunging *******.
We're taking out the trash.
We're battling for our right
to grow 'stache.
We're getting **** on at work.
And when we get home,
you won't let us **** on you.
I mean literally,
I saw it on the internet.
There's girls out there that will let you **** on them.
Maybe even, for free.
But we go to sleep unhappy.
We go to a *******.
We fantasize about that chick in the yoga pants.
We get drunk and wish we could club baby seals
and burn down churches
because we have a rage that can't be contained in a fist.
We **** if we think we can get away with it.
We still cringe when we hear our mother.

Some of us hang ourselves in attics, in barns, in public.
Or gas ourselves in cars in the garage
we never took full advantage of.
Some of us drive cars into trains, off bridges,
into crowds of screaming people.
Some of us still cut ourselves like teenage girls.
Although it does sound nice sometimes.
Just.. BLAU
**** it.
Yea, I'll have another Hoss.

i believe in summer days.
i believe in the ever-changing seasons.
i believe in the fact that hot chocolate is always better with whipped cream
and that you are not drinking it correctly if you do not have a milk-stache.

i believe that your fingers will intermingle with mine again.
i believe that i will feel my heart race in my chest,
just one last time,
before you leave me
to go on your next adventure.
i may be a fool for continuously loving
a man that is never there
a man that is a shadow
only in a solid form in my dreams.
but.
i would rather love this shadow
knowing that he will always return to me
than to never love
at
all.

Adam Zambataro
carving arrow heads of bedrock
wearing red socks and a red hat to match
a thin stache above his lip
he sips his beer
staying clear of any wack conversation
says "it lacks demonstration of good character"
doesn't care her **** are big
or that she digs similar tunes
50's crooners. He lights a 27
parties are fun and all, but bed will be heaven
a tired face, and a spent look in his eyes
he makes his decision without compromise
he puts on his jacket and makes his way home
a quiet cold walk where he can finally be alone

I look small without a wee
'stache below my nose,
grey and black it never grows.
I feel so small, like it, my nose,
on the other hand,
out of it grows ferns and forests,
white, green and charcoal.
tickling, most, memorable.
I am remembering,
at nineteen I tried to grow sideburns.
They came in *****.
Soft and sultry, I shaved them off, well,
just the tops. In the mirror, I still,
look small.

Dear Sarla
people look at me
and all they see is you
I hate that
and it makes me hate myself
you make me want to die
and hell if my pain tolerance
were higher I swear that I
would cut them off myself
because all they see is my
outsides and my double D *******
and even if I carved the word
boy in all caps
into the soft plush of my ******
a little lump that is always too small
to be seen as an ***** *****
they would still only see the
******* shoved away in the back
of my dresser drawer
cuddled up next to my sports bras
that does nothing to hide my *******
and I have been living inside you
for ten long years
my ***** are ready to drop
I even started shaving the little
peach fuzz stache your father shamed
you into bleaching
I let my leg hair grow out
and willed the chest hair to grow
around my navel and then into
the fleshy V
that my hips create
all of my body hair grows freely now
to keep me warm
but mainly to spite you
and ****** what they see
when they look at me
eyes coming up from my crotch
to my chest
is the shadow of a girl
they see a beautiful blossoming
young woman
and yeah okay
I can see that too
you would have been beautiful
but I cut and snuffed out
your life in the middle of the
prime of your youth
I killed you
and have been in the hospital
three times because of this
because of you
and when my first hospital doctor
told me that my coming out was
just a diversion tactic
it felt like the week old cuts
on my wrist
opened up and all of you that
was left inside of me
bled out at his fancy shoed feet
you were pepto-bismol pink
and my empty husk filled up
with the blues of a thousand
unshed tears
I was a raging ocean of boy
my waves crashed onto your body
until you were drowned in it
and then you were gone
but when people look at me
all they see is you
and my blood is blue on the inside
but when they cut me open
they didn’t see the blues
they saw my ******
and my tubes
and the folds of my womanhood
hell yeah though
they still saw my fat
fat thighs
fat stomach
fat arms
fat fat fat
they still see my scars
and my crooked glasses
and my *******
people still ask if I have
a ****
as if my genitals are any of
their ******* business
and probably if I did
get surgery
my cosmetic scars would still
label me as a freak
I still wouldn’t be enough of a
man for them
my ***** would never be big enough
no man or woman would ever be
able to love me with the lights on
because hell
I’m still not able to pleasure myself
your body is a landscape
albeit a barren one
filled with mines
and I am too clumsy to
traverse it
your ******* only become ***** from
the cold and the only wetness in
your boxers is blood
and I am afraid to look at you
in the mirror
because even I can’t will something
to grow that wasn’t programmed
from the start
and even the friends that never
even knew you
they hold you over me
I’m not a boy because I haven’t
had The Surgery yet
what bathroom do I use
I don’t count as a boy because
of my huge ****
I can’t be a boy because
I like pink shorts
and the only things that have
change are my name
and my hair
I am a *****
a girly boy
but ****
I’m enough of a man for myself
I will never be a mother
and I will only let them ****
me like a man
the swaying of my *******
as I bend over a constant
reminder that I am wrong
but the only boyfriend
I’ve had since sixth grade
only asked me out because
he had a crush on you
I have to tell people that I am
a boy and remind them of the pronouns
that I use
over and over again
but technically I’m still a girl
well technically *******
honestly though Sarla
I wish people would be able to
see through to me
because when my light does
distinguish I don’t want to
be buried in a dress
don’t want my mother to cry
over her little girl
I think my sister would cry
for me though
she calls me her older brother
and once called my ****** a peen
she has come around
with flying colors
and she really gets it
I know that when it seems
like the world is against me
I will always have her
she sees through you
to me Priestly underneath
and Sarla
as long as I have her
I know I’ll be okay
it makes the wait for people
to come around a lot easier
I love my sister so
and someday you really will be gone
***** and period and all
I’m going to have a proper burial
for you when I get home
but until then
I’ll take good care of your body
and I know you’ll be watching over us
Love Priestly

A man could either fear or obsess,

To the strength that knowledge posses,

When one wanders in the pursuit of truth,

Power dawns at the focal of its horizon.

One bright mind once bookishly inquired:

'How Much Land Does A Man Need?'

Which tells of a parable of a dead man

Who's fixated to 'what it is' than 'what it means'

The ouroboros of life is a deed of self-knowing

If you live your life eternally exactly as it is

Over and over again as punishment or bliss

Would you be afraid, or push forth knowing?

I didn't grow
A beard and stache:
I'm replacing hair.

it would appear, that i can keep my mouth shut,
for a prolonged period of time,
as i can forget to write;
frame of reference:
   23rd November (departure) -
hiatus interlude (that is, today,
  27th December) -
9th January (arrival /
            end of hiatus) -
   also known as...
only yesterday i was watching t.v.
and an advert for I.P.A.
                        came on...
   a hallucination in the mouth ensued
with a burp...
              god... what wouldn't i do
for a bottle of ice cold Indian Pale Ale...
what has it been,
  5 weeks in this self-imposed
"rehab"?
                     sure all hell,
it wasn't a Gehenna -
               albeit the first two nights...
3 or so hours sleep between the two,
cold & hot sweats...
                         and then into
reading the second vol. of Sienkiewicz's
trilogy... potop (the deluge)...
   and so the past weeks...
mornings spent drinking strong coffee
with 32% cream and sugar,
smoking cigarettes,
solving crossword puzzles with my
grandmother...
- but you: prior to this:
  three "poems" entitled
boxing day I, II, III...
       but in each no conversational
overtones or, telegram scatter -
so?                        well...
                  me and sober,
me and sober and a blank page...
me and sober and a blank page
and a "poem"?
                        it's not going to happen...
unless...
  a moment of reflection:

(a) and there i was thinking that
the youtube jukebox was broken...
but... apparently you can "fix"...
you can change your location
to the United States,
and turn OFF the restricted mode...
so all the old new suggestions
pop up

(b) boxing day...
was basically a list of all the new
music that i began to forage...
thinking, having succumbed
to listening to the local
95.2 / 100.9FM in Poland...
- had a thought...
   am i really that far behind in
new music?
am i out of touch?
a list of bands with viewing
in the range of x,000, **,000, ***,000...
give or take...

e.g.: beehover, nord skin,
black elephant, swamp sessions, 1000mods,
ruby the hatchet, greenleaf, the silver seas,
sleep, spaceslug, witch, elder,
red scalp, castle, broken bells,
place of skulls, naxatras, UNV nation,
the heavy minds, RAMA,
fabricantes, savanah, dune pilot,
freedom hawk, king buffalo, kurse,
the machine, astrodome, sleeping widow,
colour haze, magic pie, kalamata,
witchhelm, ingrina, sandrider,
fuzzcrafter, black tremor, wolve,
promethean misery, mother engine,
monocle stache, lee van cleef,
welcome the howling tones,
somali yacht club, silent monolith,
the blue sunshine family band,
REZN, the devil & the almighty blues,
kitchen witch, 88 mile trip,
****** praxis, electric zoo,
the sixth chamber, mythic sunship,
whoopie cat, dog days the horned god,
IAH, kosmodrom, deaf radio,
camel driver, mystic sons, weird owl,
sun of man, elbrus, stonehenge,
mudfinger, gin lady, hey satan,
dd blood, bees made honey in the vein tree,
sonora ritual, gnome, godsleep,
ordos, mountainwolf, buffalo fuzz,
black dust, may the fuzz be with you,
transpanda, RHUS, breath after coma,
electric octopus... the white flies...

but that's not the end of it...
basically... a year's worth of... material...
democracy in the arts...
well... if we're all going to attempt
to be pretentious...
i can't digest all of this, either...

(c) listening to socio-political
commentators... the whole Patreon
this, censorship that...
decent weeks sober...
   and... why did i listen to these people
while drinking?
  legacy media this, legacy media that...
interlude, 5 weeks break...
no wonder i'm moving on...

mind you... two words have been
encircling my head for
the past 3...
               if this neo-right is throwing
about terms like
cultural marxism...
what with Zizek, the Frankfurt school...
the whole nine yards...

  not that this could be anything
new...

  whatever happened to
the critique of the predominant
culture of the neo-right?
surely there is an immediate answer
to what is cultural marxism...
there has to be...

  what else?
what else if not cultural darwinism?
i was wondering for a long time now,
why is it that Darwinism is
so predominant in the anglophonic
world? it seeps into every nook
and cranny of "life"...
     it has become so entrenched,
so dogmatic...
that it just had to argue with
the low hanging fruit of biblical
study... we already know that
poetry died prior to any death
of god with that book...
_________
  
   well, that was, the draft,
turns out, i can unearth plenty of drafts
i never published,
given the suspension...
such petty narratives are left
for people who almost always
desire a "freedom" to speak,
rather than a freedom to think...

only yesterday, an argument in the garden,
next to a cherry tree i planted...
people your age travel!
they go to places!
they live!
          a constant reminder:
you need to be honest about
your alcoholism...
   sure... i'll be honest,
they other become honest,
   and i don't have to play into
this solipsistic mea culpa *******
as if: i'm not taking responsibility,
as if i am always to blame,
like... my translation of childhood
naivety is not a curse...
because: if i wouldn't trust people,
and make friends,
well, then,
would i just be your atypical psychopath?!
what were the choices:
either wrong, or not good...
wow!
      a grand assumption:
to be governed by laws that only
favor the rich, but slander
the poor...
            victim-who-whom-hood?
did i name, anyone?
am i rat?
       that's what it boiled down to,
that i behaved like a rat,
i said: more like a fox...
no, more like a rat...
   because i like to walk at night,
when i see women
faking conversation
         over their mobile phones...
to feel, secure?
i stalk the predatory mind-set...
    a woman pretends, or doesn't pretend,
to talk over the phone,
while walking home, alone,
at night, as a deterrent...
        i know how this works...
she'll scream into the phone her location...
i'm not interested,
i passed a woman once,
who just, had to, make it,
adamant, i was not to "****" with her...
ever see a running geisha?
i have...
        i mean: a horse needs a whip,
stirrups, reins,
  a woman like that?
who forces you to react,
to give her a reaction against
the canvas of intimidation?
laugh...
       then you'll see a spriting geisha.

and as i write this?
     in the middle of three candles...
my power-saving bulb went out,
i had to resort to igniting three candles
and sit in the middle of the nocturnal
                    Δ(ηλτα)
        or             Δ(ελτα) of "occult" illumination?
i never know which is which...
sure as **** (c)at
                 is nowhere near to (k)aleidoscope
but, hey, it's greek...
         you have eta (η) and epsilon (ε),
you have omega (ω) and omicron (o)
         you have Φought,
                       and you have ΘilosoΦy...
the stories they tell,
  about languages, that do not employ
diacritical markers,
     but insteal have to balance an orthography...
based upon the "quadratic" system,
for the aesthetic to appease "the gods"...
                EE, OO, FF, foe?
unless you spreschen ***-
           -dish, or high hebrew...
          but still... even there...
               א (alef) and ע (ayin)...
          eh, but the hebrews get away with
the fact that they hide their vowels,
in imaginary niqabs...
                akin to diacritical markers...
the hebrews treat their vowels,
like a people, who would apply diacritical
marks to either vowels or consonants:
plainly in the open.
        so some people have gone places,
Egypt, Thailand...
  i've also been to places...
kant's critique of pure reason,
heidegger's being and time...
russell's history of western philosophy...
i've been to place,
   this world cannot offer me,
a source for solace, or for envy,
    i've transcended the globalist
frenzy of people moving aimlessly...
     i went back, to the beginning of the 20th
century, nay, even further...
sure, let people travel,
       i don't mind:
  but as long as they don't come between
me (fox) and the chicken-shack (books),
we'll be just fine...

      mind you, this question opened my
narrative...
   who makes a better ms. amber (whiskey)?
the scottish, or the irish?
i can tell you, even if it's in a ginger ale
mixer...
         jameson and...
    what am i drinking right now?
                 tullamore dew...
   i mean mainstream whiskey...
              these two specimens?
  competing with, what?
          whyte & mackay... as i'm pretty sure
they can...
   but... bell's? the famous grouse?
the whiskeys that are like laphroaig
and smoked salmon?
         the irish are definitely better
at their brewing than the McDoogles...
ol' paddy McGuire figured it out,
amber, looks like diluted honey...
so it must appeal to the sweet-tooth palette!
well... if beer is the gods' ****...
then whiskey... is the gods' blood...
    have i ****** my life away?
sure... i have...
                  but i've also acquired
a capacity to see more in my mind,
than others have seen with their eyes...

You make me laugh
We crack ourselves up
Over the silly things we say

It’s so much more than a smile
It’s so much more than a touch
You need me and I need you

Rewind 28 years plus:

You were so serious I thought
When I used to look at your picture
How old is this guy anyway?

Your serious ‘stache,  your serious poems
I saw those books at your grandmas home
They seemed so deep to me

Little did I know
You had lots more to show
First thing you said to me “read this poem”

Is this the guy with the blue notebooks?
The guy who seems too old for me
He seems very genuine, guess we will see.

You wanted to know what I thought
No one cared before
I was too quiet for my own good

Flattered you asked
It was a subject I knew
It let me know you were deep as a welllll... let’s see were this goes

Fast forward 28 years plus:

I sit here laughing
Because you made me
I know what your thinking

You sit there laughing
Because I made you
You know what I’m thinking

Me and you, you and me
Who knew from day one
You hooked me with a read

Deep down I think you knew
I was the girl for you
You needed me to hear you

Deep down I think I knew
You were the boy for me
I needed to hear you too

It’s almost unspoken
To know someone this way
You needed me and I needed you