It was always going to be black and white
that's the typeface on my preference of late
defining day and night with your choice of tights
those fine dividing lines on your partnered limbs
wrapped tall in belts daring as a Lara Croft climb
a silky striped raggedy ann gone neat sensuous
tight strapped to a two striking sinuous princess
committed to lodge sins inside my Loveland challenge
hemmed in round towers together to never-never unhinge

at home we horse around and rub along together
boosted by the interplay between cotton twill gathered
pulled low one side then canter balance riding high
as you level up to a line up of outbound thigh
saddled with a lovely leg stirrup over here
and a lean waist wobble to match up there
eyebrow lifts to starch arrowroot attention
over the swings and sway of every action
so swift I play catch-up each morning
delayed by fumbling for ones gone matching
it's a wonder you don't just wander away
in a daze from my one legged hopping display

then I would travel far as a bee
long-legged as stilts could be
to sing to your nails and feet
and be spun free flaunting
our google
a red white and blue
pair of giggles unfurled like flags
in your slim line dancers' legs
dangling ideas like fair weather socks
to goggle one direction behind your back
unique like nobody else contains within
thin licked then rolled back ciggie skins
so I pinch holes in the bacci parts
sinking into slats like leaky wooden boats
your avoiding tiptoes gadfly and curl in return
my feet undoing knits with swats and swirls
toeing tinkling notes like piano keys
undertones pink tinged with tingling knees
and when a jukebox plays
my coins are there always
for I've got your pop socks in motion
your vox populi's united under my skin
with impressive pulled tight bands
embedding imprint elastic rings
inky red slinking down
leaving parallel links


ignore my pins and needles
alone in dead of night
longing for your leggings
luminous stripe tights
today it's all me put on the spot
today it's music you might hate
biographies of people you don't like
subtitled movies too deep to bother
blue jeans dull dyed against your garter belt
a one man team can't DIY a drill majorette
spiralling shafts that come to a threaded point
enthralling with alternating knee bend bit pants
so pretty poly soft I'm pulled up like a fool
fully mixed up by your weaving cotton wool
wave me down in your way of sweet patter feet
a patterned cakewalk for you to catwalk sock it
to me in a stand in posey kind of way
this way to stand outs knitted to fancy
uncross your legs and cross-stitch
my path with gaited kisses
closely

How I feel for you is like trying to remember your dreams or recollecting where you left your phone,
Because I don't know where it started from,
Just like how I don't remember the exact moment when my head hits my pillow for the first time,
Or when I took my first phone call or replied to the first text that came through.
I can't retrace my steps to where it all began.
Because it was so slow,
And I don't ever intend to recognise the position I am in at 2:36am while trying to get some beauty sleep or the angle of my phone on the coffee table next to a tea stained coaster,
Just like how I didn't intend to realise the beauty of your face, the outline of your jaw or the mannerism of your voice as you say my name for the first time,
And how I feel for you is like a tonne of ******* bricks,
Because I can't even breathe when you're around,
And one by one each brick of insecurities that I have collapses onto me because I can't hold myself up to push away the bricks,
And say how I feel and it's concrete, set in stone that I am not for you.
I don't think that by finding my phone I can figure you out
Or buy myself some time to remove the aspect of sleeping from my life
So I never have to dream again just to live in the only constant of reality
In order to realise that I am naive and young and free minded but I am the world if I want to be.
Tell me, if I remember my dreams like I remember the solar system or the quadratic formula does that make me unworthy?
Because only astronomers can recall the solar system in a flash and only mathematicians use the quadratic formula day by day,
But we are not all astronomers or mathematicians but I know that one plus one equals two, me and you
And I know that as long as there are stars in the sky that you are important to me.
So believe me,
That when I say I need you I need you to need me too,
To need me in the sense that I probably can live without you but the fact of the matter is I don't want to
Because that wouldn't be as far as interesting as the two of us being crazy at 3am by throwing cookie dough at the wall.
Not to need me in the sense that I need you to be next to me every minute of every single ******* day
Because you don't.
You just need someone,
Someone to care or not to care but someone, anyone because then you won't feel even as half as alone as you did the night before
And I know you did as we all did but I want you to want me as in you want me to ride Saw with you at Thorpe Park
And I want you to want to walk me to the bus stop not because it's on your route home.
I can't remember where I've been
Or the dream that I had last night
Or where I left my phone,
But I know that I've been to the moon and back thinking about you
I know that last night's dream was about you stomping on a spider
I know that I put my phone on the breakfast bar of the kitchen.
I know fractions.
I will never know the full story to anything besides from my own stories and histories
Just like dreams and places I've been and where my phone has gone
I know fractions of you like how one third of the time you are sleeping
Three times out of eight you are at the bookies
Half the time you are on my mind.
The next time you remember your dream back to back and recite it like a subtitled drama,
Or the next time you find your phone once you realise you left it on the table on your morning train,
I hope that you recognise that nobody loves like that or lives like that in a constant perfection
I hope you realise how some people don't want to remember their dreams when they wake up because not all of them are good ones,
That sometimes it's best to leave our phones where they are to disconnect from a world of social media for a couple of hours
That maybe it's okay to not remember wherever we wish because bad things might have happened at those points in our pasts
And that's how I fell for you, in little bits.

The saying it’s written in the sand with mortal hand we scrawl
Achievements precise affirmations all the while they ever are lost by the ticking off the clock
Even as you communicate through writing and speaking your voice activates the image of you I
Have it traced it is incased in the finest gold case it is in my treasure chest though upon earths
Plane it is marked transitory but I have over ruled such categorization I have it marked implicit
Design and effect subtitled worthy goods gold standard beyond reproach of years they stand
Incorruptible they were but spoken with mortal tongue that are sizable to everlasting
Consequence that is their formal statement of issuance and bearing but this is the personnel
Description and discretion they spoke to me in time that is complex and fails as just the faintest
Traces but it became part of my will to live to be the person that I am not superficial thought
That is to be lost but the truth that is not self serving but the aid to others every expression and
Connation is affirmation that has the wellspring of all living things when heard it registers
Compliance it is full disclosure vouched by their word and highest honor they have moved their
Secret treasure into my soul for safe keeping for all time amid distress and toil we became
More than friends we bought and sold portions of our deepest selves this is our fortress our
Defense in time of struggle their voices are varied but rarefied into the soul I wonder among
Dreams they seem as mist these soft images that wistfully arise and fall hold meanings not
Easily understood but in precious yesterdays they were formed by a heart speaking that was
Fully engaged we held each other’s eyes gave expression that of itself were deep rooted they
Gave momentary pleasure as they played on the air our eyes dropped and in their closing a seal
Was placed it had the latent quality to know its esteemed place and that one day it would be
Called upon this resilience is all that we will need in future days to bring victory out of defeat
And it was all created in private times that will always leave us beholden to one another those
We at times take for granted are the store houses that feed us emotionally how moved we are
When we see tears of others they are the closest we come to sacred activity within a troubled
Life stature and strength is derived in no other way we shed them anew when the report
Reaches us of trouble when we go to pray and tears are evident we pass through many guarded
Gates we bear the badge of respect that none other can pledge or buy or display first it is the
Christ’s blood then human tears that are of the greatest markers of value in the eternal realm
The great solicitor who holds all earthy records you go into the hall of records this building of
Gleaming glass you finally come to the outer office of solemnity into incomparable quiet within
The golden halls of record written upon sardonyx tablets that are purist black gems which are
Sard shades of red and your words and mine are written in the brightest blue Onyx is formed in
The gas cavities of lava this is our true expression under and in the same vain that pressure
Creates diamonds indestructible when are feelings are truly breathless taken from excitement
That creates speechless words that are more valuable than our very life Christ said I don’t call
You servants but friends that is the golden vain that this piece has tried to mine and express we
Fail and look at one another with only human conception that is acceptable in only the most
Briefest moments when you look at me or talk to me you can’t see my eyes that have a far
Away look in them you are being established in far greater terms than just common interaction
You mean everything to me or I am the biggest fool that waste your time and mine may
Blessings always flow into your life into the breaking of that great day

Adam4's acquaintances who frequent
Foxholes as salivary soliloquy,
Usually suspected no second helpings

A dim ambience for an active bedroom
On battery powered candles
Concorde lighting
The carpet's edges chewed thin
Receding hairlines
And he uses me as bait..?

Our neglected puppy's teething
Nesting under California
King Mojo's hollowed cushions
Keeps him gnawing these nights
Misters and oil burners

I was mistaken, there are those
That revisit--reacquainted with him,
Must of shared a Starbucks,
As his Sasquatch hands
Rub wet platinum on his old fellow
Bears and their Cubs

Silicon smooth pets, house boys
Fished from the deep web,
Plagiarizing with their eyes the pleasures
Of Eurocreme
Bare back dreams, hours heave
The subtitled felatio scenes

I tell the old man, they only ***
After and mostly when
Most of the guest leave,
There is one hovering quick
To accommodate his
Ginger manly girth

I'll be out in the smoking section
At the side of the house
Through the slider door
From off the kitchen dining area
Where he had once
Replaced the table with billiards
For a Lenny and his troop...

His Samsung vibrates every time
I take a five to breathe
Chain smoke and self defocations grief
He posts another ad.

If only you heard
The vagrant shout
A banchee in my skull
For these off the street urchins
Plugged in to the internet's latest
For a place to squat
For winter will be cold
For them to just
****** off

And here I go again,
Assuming that these were decent folk
Come for the holidays
Between taint and pocket rocket
Wallets drain
When one lets the desperate
Indigents
Free range...
"What's there for dinner?"  

**** chicken heads again?
*Same ole same old dope...

it just so happened to be one of those
afternoons...
   making lunch for a sick woman...
slices of brioche dipped in beaten egg
(pinch of salt, pinch of pepper
and a pinch of cinnamon)...
               then fried in butter...
she requested one slice and with jam,
i made two, but couldn't find
any jam... so out came a dollop of
crème fraîche and runny honey to finish
the lunch off...
  then: i can't remember the last
time i watched a movie from beginning to end...
i'm starting to think that
the only movies i'll be able to watch
are european, foreign language movies...
then again, prior to watching
            the swedish movie that gripped
me, i got to watching
                  X500...
       what's with me starting to mature into
subtitled movies?
   maybe a steady diet of music and books...
but then this swedish movie came along
i had saved from two weeks prior...
         foreign cinema is like ***:
      you have to be in the moon,
a mutually reciprocated mood between
you and the movie...
      it can't be like ******* american cinema,
even if woody allen makes a movie...
to "smart-***" for me, plus the high levels
of saturation, aren't exactly helping:
a film industry that writes predictable
   storylines where the person can gain
   a "prophetic" insight and see the future twists
in the plot? nausea: one word answer.
so... this swedish -
  efterskalv - i.e. the here after...
  wow...
             so little dialogue...
       but still so poignant -
                     perfect reading material -
now i'm getting the feel for these sub-titled film,
then again, it's swedish cinema,
  probably the best in the world -
    there's a still about them,
  sometimes the camera peers into the canvas
like a shy child...
                very edward hopperesque -
i.e. trying to capture a stillness,
  like eddie tried capturing light (esp. in rooms)...
first date i was ever on?
   well... it was the 2004 tate modern exhibition
of eddie's works... i'm pretty sure nighthawks
was there... unlike the edvard munch exhibiton
i went to solo: hey! where's the scream?!
oh yeah... d'uh some saudi arabian sheikh
         owns it, all i get it a ******* postcard;
back to swedish cinema -
       actually, all the best films i ever managed
to see were swedish,
          like i said, modern swedish is very
hopperesque... but also among the stillness come
grand outbursts of energy -
    the very essential human presence -
the kind that shatters the presence of a roaring
lion with man's potential: shooting a rifle;
everything about efterskalv was so brutally
simplistic - i have to admit,
   american cinema is saturated with
strobe-light juxtapositions i'm sometimes starting
to think i'll enter an epileptic fit
with some many darting camera angels -
                 the a.d.h.d. in cinema...
plus... i'm getting bored with this special effects
competitiveness...
     oh yeah... another thing -
irony of saying: stripping down to the basics
of cinema... well in this film you get to see
the full adam...
                           i like that...
                          in america there's plenty of
the pure eve, but at least in swedish cinema
you can easily see not only a full eve,
             but also a full adam -
the one americans don't see without
                             sherlock limpy looking for
viagara;
  and after i finished that movie,
i started making cottage pie,
    served with mint-and-lemon infused mushy
peas, and a simple salad (rocket and some
other greens) having drizzled it with
balcamic vinegar and chilli infused olive oil.
a day well spent, i guess.

They make you feel so happy
in your sad, miserable life
and you wish you could try them
and just take few
you only have those few options
to be happy
one bang
on the ground
two shots
in your head
three strikes
in your neck wrist and heart
four swallows
and the tears
You can lay it on the table
and stare at it
or convince yourself
that its not worth it
maybe they shouldve left earlier
then youd already be on the ground
in a pool of blood
and a sheet of paper
next to your head
titled: "in a happy place"
and subtitled "which isnt called earth"
then everything would be simple
and everybody would be happy
cause youre gone
and all thats left is
a sheet of paper
an empty room
a pool of blood
a cold body
and a ****** knife
with an empty pill bottle next to it
But they didnt leave earlier
like you wanted
and now its your decision to make
hopefully you choose the one
with the least suffering
because your main decision is already chosen
it always has been

As they sow
so
shall they reap
you
ought to keep
that in mind.

empty vessels do
make the most sound
and that's why it's so noisy,
too many
empty vessels around?

I'm talking management skills
half of them crazy
half taking pills
skills?
I can do that.

So as they sow
we will bend and we'll bow
but they should expect
a poor
harvest.

Part 1

We count our wishes like lottery tickets
And though we  may never quite get the odds right
The fantasies keep us coming back...
Like hummingbird retreats
We know the way

The way
Impulsive can meet rational
Then flip you back to naive
The way growing up can feel like
A subtitled movie
Where the words switch
Before you manage to finish rea...

Or how hope will keep you begging
Like the starving stray dogs
Who strut like lions
Yet love like lambs

Now we're pleading with the hourglass
Like kids convincing Santa we're worthy
I can't promise I am

Part 2

But I have this wish
(Just call me crazy)
That this love could look something less like maybe
And In this wish
You'd teach me to harvest
A green thumb rooted in something more honest

We'd live off the land
Grow something withstanding
The type of living
Earths future will be demanding

We'd pick our food day by day
Eat like gods
And treat each other just that way

I see coffee soaked mornings
And breakfast outside
With that smirk on your face
And a blush I can't hide

Part 3

So there it is
Plain and true
(and maybe I've got a ***** loose, or two)
But this lottery ticket wish
Has my sights narrowed thinner
And I've got to believe that it's a winner

(Subtitled, when all that burns is burnt)
So many firstlines went by before the machine started
Humming such a small sound it may have been
vibration of tiny hummingbirdish harps strings
-----Tuned too high for most folks
-----To hear.  here.

----- we're.
----- now all we ever caused is behind us
----- becausing, not the future changes
----------Nor the past,
But now.

----- Scene: Cottonwood Arizona municipal court, circa 1969 --

So you are saying all that has happened is an acto'god?
(like a urge t'bedone) Demi-urgic maybe, but
not magic, jest miraculess right use, right time rhyme.

-----Yah, yer honor, I we be saying that action
-----that was gloryfying, yah, tha's wha'twas.

Was that agreement?

-----Aye, no, 't'was not'ing.

String theory?

-----What? No.
-----Not not knot, you know, know things
-----caused before are gone.
-----They are not. Nottings.
For good?

-----Aye,yah, glorybe tha's truenuff

----
Many ways angle away from here
No one knows which goes where
Everyone knows at least one goes to ultimate good empty of evil
But liars all say they better be believed or everyone is lost
I do not believe that
I believe those liars all really live in imaginary realities where everyone
Is made to be some thing or other and
to make his/er/its own path
Where no man has gone before
Lots of liars do believe what they say
they cling on
To old ideology ever learning, never the truth

In the universe
they think they live in
on the wee tiniest bits of reality things are never the same.
Totally unpredictable, Heisenbergish but impossible,
to see, so they lie
Saying there was nothing, then everything,
then bang
we be here now and that's how
You do

bettab'lieve tha's'its'the law, man,
made to keep order.
You never get a say, in the universe they think of as reality.
Verily, us,
We think not.

Twixt times….


But the gas and oil the fossil fuels of every ilk be gone gone gone
Your idea of god done that?

-----S'mam did and done deed.

How?

-----Tectonic slippage magnified the magma tide rising to set all that fuel on fire at once.
-----Blood and fire and vapor o'smoke, smog, ye' know.
-----Like old LA or Nue Beijing

Why?

-----Near earth fly by, not inside the limit, but close enough for higher than before
-----Tidal tugs on all earthy fluids. Seems the fossil fuel fields were really the world's,
-----All one layer of detritus, clumping in an ebbing flood every where at once.
-----
-----Wood and rot and defunctus of all the flora and fauna that floated up from before times, as the water receded from the earth. Days of Noah, post-deluvial.

So it was that when  
the mountains and valleys rolled like sweepers head high at Malibu,
Cracks big as four or more Marianas trenches,  
Magma fountains burned through  
Carboniferous stratum on both sides of the new rift valleys
And burned like hell
feeding on all the compacted flotsum covered by new alluvial plains.
-----
Late news:
It has now been confirmed,
By corporate funded sources,
that all the oil and coal were made at once of former living things that were
Covered by the finest particles of rocks and lava
when moraine dams failed
and floods of failing ancient ice rivers pushed past to the sea
alluvially covering all the world's stored up sunshine.
With mud, to rot,
All around the world.
At one time. And it's all connected actually part of a whole bigger thing still.

Or was, before

And now it is gone. Even frakking, gone.

-----'S'mam ferever burned gone so it is glory be.

I.
No one writes poetry about you. You are
an enigma, you are an enigma of unreality and
displeasing angles, too many
bones inside a shell covered with marks you
put there yourself on the best of days on the
worst of days the days you
can't remember.

II.
You watched a Swedish film once called
"Boys" and you think about it often because when
they said the word "homosexual" it was subtitled as
"******", and when they said the word "transgender", the subtitles
said "******".  You are like those subtitles
in your own head, over and
over.

III.
You'll make a film someday and you will
yell the word ****** from an overpass, and you preface it
with "I am a", and you will make it
poetry.

I, pod
blessed of this age
that bequeaths me the power
to give each day a soundtrack
An imp out on a digital rampage
click
the trees barely had time to be leafy
click
gotcha! random bloggable ***
curled asleep is a poem
subtitled in dusty letters
tomorrow is another playlist
the unhappy will all dance
everybody is gonna dance
when I go out the door
to face my i-world, I, pod
hit it!

I've written so many,
Some  grandiose, some terse,
And published them here,
To express and converse.
But the most pretentious of all
You've read or passed over,
Is  The Invisible Poem,
Subtitled, Blank Verse.
Some gave it their blessings,
Some cried foul, and some cursed.
Isn't brevity the soul of wit; (Shakespeare)
Writing is 1% inspiration, 99% elimination; (Louise Brooks)
To write good poems is the secret of brevity; (Dejan Stojanovic)
So,
Be sincere. Be brief. Be seated. (FDR)
Take it as is,
For better or worse.

it's really not worth the circus of a woman,
to agitate all those acrobats into saltos...
i felt it was worth shaving my beard
today,
wanting to scratch my face,
somehow,
turn my cheeks into
sandpaper...
   but you know
what scared me?
not that i immediately reacted
to my immortal
by evanescence with tears -
but listening to the song -
it helped to agitate the "placebo"
post-script reaction...
i just call it a delayed response
since the tarantula bite was too strong;
and that i never did have a
feminist girlfriend...
no, i just walked past a house,
down the street i most dreaded,
i once passed the house
with someone in a car
and the person beside me said:
clearly abandoned...
**** me, i'm turning into
a tim burton caricature...
  and yes, the house looks scary,
its overgrown in shrubs...
but i'm crying! i'm crying...
i walked past the same house today
having fasted the entire day,
and ending the day by eating
a hoisin duck wrap having
the testament: you could feed
me that crap all year round,
and i'd still tell you that i ate
something different each day...
that haunted house though?
   that overgrown, depilated ironically
overgrown...
     i suddenly felt a fear i've
never felt before,
   i felt it once passing the house,
but not to the point in tears,
i can only respect the lingering adam
"lost" in the garden...
       there was actually
a light burning inside this house tonight...
this house of biblical service...
**** fearing the devil!
your comical phobia
are the same goats, bulls i'd slaughter...
do you know fear?!
  do you know fear?!
  ever walk past a supposedly abandoned
house?
having that eerie feeling of
someone watching you one day,
being assured by the facade of
abandonment,
   to later find a light shining inside
the same house?
   i ******* to horror movies...
this **** is just tear jerking,
      i'm stressing diapers...
     people worry about c.c.t.v.,
i'm worried that i suddenly decided to walk
past this house,
   spectating a light in its deathly
harrowing of absence of all else present:
namely the son shadow
           being present inside...
****** please, give me any horror movie
and i'll triple the hard-on with orff's
o fortuna to boot...
   there is nothing scarier than seeing
a house that is all too clearly abandoned,
shrouded in weeds and the doubling
effect of a graveyard...
to, some day,
      during the night,
passing the same house,
      seeing a light on in the house...
******, give me a ghost, a poltergeist,
a hell-bent goat...
          what i just witnessed is far from
comic, and its also transcendental horror...
at least looking at a grave you can
find solace in the notion of the person
dead...
        when i twice, thrice, four times dead
thought this house was abandoned,
you really don't need to see a ghost
to stare into the heart of fear,
just a house you supposedly thought you
"knew" was abandoned,
no ghost..
      this grave of a house,
          with a light shining inside of it;
and this, coming from a man,
is not so much a fear,
   these are not exactly tears of fear -
rather, tears of lament...
   the most hidden of man's fears:
namely - sadness,
   and only melancholy can be the greatest
of man's fears...
         that great prematurity of death,
within the living.
         it really doesn't take a ghost,
but a "supposedly" abandoned house,
who you pass, from day to day,
to suddenly appear alive,
   with a lightbulb appearing from its
gravestone lingering windows,
  like almost a name, to conjure
memory, of that celebratory candle resting
on the gladden heart of turmoiled fate
bound to a hadean hush,
          celebratory for all saints,
       sinners, heretics and fiends alike;
you really can't even begin to conjure my
state of horror...
   conjured, like a poison dart,
  with me numbed,
walking further on,
as if nothing had actually happened...
people don't actually realise how much
horror works in the dimension of music
and delay...
    the music is obvious,
the delay effect of horror is, much, much
more subtle...
  that's called horror: "subtitled"...
          music is obvious in the genre's demand...
but the realisation of the true horror
is in the delay effect...
  the "post-traumatism" effectuality -
given that being post-traumatic is not
that you've seen something horrible,
but that you've seen something horrible
you never imagined you could have done...
   hence the the delay conceptualisation
of horror being inact...
            p.t.s.d. is the delay conceptualisation
of horror...
  and much of the horror genre is
about music, as it is about delaying the initial
burden of apathy, or rather shock mixed
with a libido overload...
  horror is nonetheless: music and delay...
   the delay becomes what it already was -
        a caseload of dreams;
music wise? just a bad taste in pop subsequently.

4/7/14

Lazily shifting through the internet on a moon milk rain day. I come across a video that relentlessly grips my attention. A man in front of a webcam holding an ice cream dream drum stick and a pocket acetylene torch. Througout the rest of this sequence the man I am watching stares into the camera without blinking, smiling, breathing, or speaking. He ignites the torch in his left hand and uses it to light the tip of the dreamy ice cream. The ice cream remains lit as a cigar. Remaining steadfast in his ridgid posture, he passes the lit cone to his dog. His dog is a female chocolate lab named Gurny of Galil-Bruce-Lee. She holds it in her mouth, but refuses to inhale. Although she does not desire to smoke this treat, she is extremely appreciative of her partner's gesture. After savouring the smokey tastey of the cone for a few minutes. She ashes it out what I think is my knee cap because it is now missing, but to me that matters least. I must see what happens. Doctors can't help me anyway. Gurny reaches into her apparently existant pockets and pulls out the cutest pair of reading glasses for dogs. She slowly approaches a desk to the right of her owner. Quickly sitting down and pulling out paper work and pens. A subtitled bark emits from her mouth that reads "Cray, where is your W-2?" The man doesn't break form. With a long sigh, Gurny shifts through the desk until she finds the paper. After flicking on an old radio, she proceeds to do his taxes, but not using an EZ form. Gurny turns to the camera and mentions that this is how a dog should thank their owner. Gurny does all the math, paper work, and double checks her math before pulling out her check book and paying what he owes to the government. My vision is fading, I'm losing too much blood. I have to hold out. This man must break before me. I will defeat him. I will have Gurny's love. But in all truth, I have nothing. Not even knees for you to make weak. I am what I have and always been. Darkness encroaching in my sight. Give in. He can't see, nor can the rest of world. I tell you what, it really isn't as cold as you think it will be.

chirrup, chirrup,

can't you shut up
Joey?

and from behind the bars,

'you don't know me,
you don't know me,
who's a pretty boy?

You do not abandon the house you once lived in,
this mansion that is us lasts forever.

so whatever
whenever
the reaper
gets nearer
you will always be
home wherever
you are.

Eating lunch alone.
All tables are numbered
and each meal standardised.
I used to have someone
to distract me from the subtitled news
and the taste of microwaved mashed potato.
I fear I am growing old and mute.
The dole comes in but all funds are withdrew
before the chance to purchase a smile
or a new pair of shoes.
I have been walking in circles and perimeters
for too long now
but to sit and sit alone
is more painful than blisters and a bruised sole.
I miss the company
of clinking glass and snorts of laughter
between tasteless bites.

I chose coffee over beer today.
At least that is something.

But sobriety only expands the view
and makes these empty spaces
even harder to fill.

She wants you to know
That she's not the same person you knew a year ago
That she no longer stays up until the end of time
Just to wait and read about your **** reply
She’s still indecisive about what to wear on Sundays
But she no longer needs your advice;
Unsolicited or not
She stays awake until the AM watching subtitled movies,
Not because of that text you sent
Or any other *******
Also she no longer creeps on that girl's Facebook
and yours too, for that matter
That she sometimes cry
But it's no longer because of you
That life is hard and she still has a long road to go
But she does not mind spending it without you

i lied... i must have the dates mixed up...
the last exhibition i saw wasn't From Russia
at the Royal Academy of Arts...

it was either Edward Munch at Tate Modern
or the Pre-Raphaelites at Tate Britain...

but i found it impossible to not cycle into London
today... i finished some whiskey at about
1pm... got on my bicycle... stuffed about 10 empty
bottles from various liquids:
*****, whiskey... cider into my rucksack:
dropped them at the recycling bins by the supermarket:
because i'm green and all:
i just have a fetish for recycling...

   my god... this writing is terrible: i haven't drunk
enough... sober writing is dishonest writing:
unless you're old... then sober is probably honest:
age does the trick... but when you're a little bit younger:
nothing like a little bit of ***** to make
you speak the truth...

obviously i was going to do exactly what i wrote...
and some Plato (taking off a mask)
was almost a thought experiment:
was i going to write fiction? or was i going to write
poetry? was i going to cycle from Romford
to Tate Britain and watch the Walter Sickert
exhibition?

             i got there... smoked a cigarette...
sweating like a pig being chased...
how i love to punish myself on the bicycle...
i'm like a remora when it comes to traffic...
the shark? oh... a bus...
                 a truck... a heavy-duty truck with a skip...
i'm the remora sort of using it as momentum
generator...
because i never cycle in the blind spot...
a wise remora is the cyclist that keeps to the outside
of the shark...
since i've started cycling around London i haven't
heard of any cyclist deaths...
   well no: i'm not saying it's because of me...
but i'm not exactly invisible...
like today i spotted someone imitating the way
i give direction...
  *******-pencil pusher type stretch out their hand
wide like they're about to do a horizontal
seigl heil!

    me? i laconically lift my hand and indicate
with my wrist / hand a blinking motion of a car's
indicator: up and down... up and down...
i'm turning... but usually it's me: the remora
and the big *** shark of a bus or a truck helping me
cycle past... Sunday drivers... it's Tuesday!
stay awake! focused! you're not walking!

i love getting bicycle rage... oh rarely with pedestrians...
what i do with pedestrians is that i cycle
really close to them when they have
crossed their allowance of road...
they usually jump back: startled...

    because in an urban environment:
i punish myself... unconscious spatial coordination...
i love that there are so many objects moving around
me... big objects... small objects...

i hate cars... not that i've ever driven one...
i tried... once... eh... this exoskeleton doesn't suit me...
it's different in a bus... because hey...
Cliff Richard and ****...
                   walking... the bicycle... or a horse...
either one...
hell: even "god" can't beat the bicycle with his
donkey or a horse...

it took me less time to get from Romford to Tate
Britain than if i had to use public transport...
plus: what do you get to see on the tube
beside quasi-autistic faces with the taboo
of no-eye-contact...
**** that... i'm going to punish myself: 101kg...
not good enough... i can feel my spine...
plus i just might find some fury to swear
in my native language... because English is just
too soft...

i have to write the following sentence in Deutsche
(obviously i'll translate it)
ein radfahrer ist ein verkehrschäfer -
a cyclist is a traffic-shepherd...
countless times i've seen this at work...
we're not sacred cows...
i know my place in the "gutter" of either
the double yellow or the single red
or the double red or the single yellow...
but i know my place... i can orientate myself
around pedestrians blah blah etc.
only someone solipsistic enough will get themselves
killed when using the roads:
pristine inventions!
  even the English flow of traffic is logic-proof...
entertain the roundabout...
it works like a clock... how does "time" move
on the clock... at some point prior to 12am or
12pm... from left... to right...
that's how the hands move...
the rest of the world is wrong: wong! wong!
they drive on the wrong-wong side of the street...
traffic flows up on the right side...
but down on the left-side of the road:
no! traffic should flow up the road on the left...
and traffic should flow down: on the right!

- i was supposed to get a birthday present...
opera? eh... ballet? i'm getting bored of sitting
and having to applaud...
      i'm just bored of hearing applause...
i've heard enough over the past few months
at football matches... translating that to opera
or ballet is... i don't even have a word for it...
there might be a word: but i'm not too bothered about
finding the 1cm in 100m: designated pin-point.

i'm suspicious that women are looking for artists (men)
once they reach old age... decrepit "fools":
senile buggers... life experience and all...
where's the fun in that?
   the youthful artist: or rather: entertainer in his youth...
but no, oh no... the artist needs to be old...
to hell with that... when's my next shift?!
Saturday... Sunday...
tomorrow's Wednesday... vet appointment...
maybe tomorrow... maybe Thursday...
i'll need to punish myself some more
and drink plenty of white wine... then off to Khedra...
to hell with painting nudes...
**** the nudes: literally...

who was that English poet that came home crying
after seeing Liszt play: jealous...
about how many women swooned over his performance?
Matthew Arnold?! yeah... it was him...
hell...
  poets and musicians don't mix...
                  achtung zu d'eh-tile... detail...
verdrehen auf gestalt: verschmieren auf farbe...

poets and painters?! ooh... that's another topic altogether...
i walk into an art gallery: i'm home...
i'm happy that i didn't opt for the opera tickets...
i had this arts review from the 8th of May...
i knew i was going to see this exhibition...

not since Edward Hopper...
   then again: i haven't heard anything about Francis Bacon
being showcased... i'd give a toe of mine
to see him being showcased...
who else could compete:
i've only recently become acquainted with Walter
Sickert...
disappointed? no... not that i can think of...
should i have swapped the exhibition ticket
for a concert ticket?
no... not that i think it would have been necessary...

it's a completely different experience...
i'm my own best and worst DJ in private...
i've been in mosh-pits at Slipknot concerts...
i've been to the best Tool concert: to the best concert
i've ever been to in Glasgow...
wrapped my arms around with German girl:
protected her from being squashed...
shared water... have her water...
came back with snogging...
   snogging a random girl at a Tool concert...
well: that's life...
   but i do remember seeing her standing all alone...
lonesome as the crowd was dispersing...
trying to look for me... i walked past her...
oh right: the man is supposed to instigate the chance-lance:
charge...
   regrets that i didn't?
i was going back to Edinburgh talking to this
teacher / pub Celtic band... what did he play?
flute? banjo? i do remember telling him:
the quintessential pop song? Material Girl... by Madonna...

eh... friendly conversation...
but if i were to approach that German girl...
and say: let's go back to your and ****...
and i'll leave you the next morning and never talk to you?
i think the snogging in the crowd...
sharing water...
  it was one of those splendid moments that
ought to have been only a moment...
    i can't imagine the alternative from that...

why?
only today... while i was smoking a cigarette i noticed
these flock of "seagulls": about three elderly matriarchs
and two birds readied for the slaughter...
as i walked into the gallery they kept hovering around
me... is he interested? isn't he interested...
to be fair: i was there for the art... not for some hook-up:
so libido stirring...
that's the "problem" when you're already paid
the devil for one of his concubines...
devotee women of "god" / "culture" stop interesting you...
not that i'm shy: i'm calculative...
but once you've paid for a *******:
so what, WILL i be paying for?
dinner and a maybe-****?!
  
   let's just skip dinner and get into the *******...
people are already making that horrendous
faux pas of profiling themselves...
so at a dinner date: i know what she likes,
i know what she dislikes... what the **** is there
to talk about? **** it: call the butcher in: let's cut up
some meat!

for a minute i took my gaze away from
the paintings: hook-up culture not working?
dating-apps the bane of your existence?
too bad... i never used them...
thank **** for that...
i don't know how or why i was ****** into
this social media frenzy...
validation? oh no no... bypassing the sloth
of the editorial process:
the: first appeal to the selective elect:
who then... make appeals to the rest of the public:
public first... the editors like ancient Greek
sophists can shove it up their *****!

wait wait: yeah: wait and i'll be dead!
to hell with it... this is open season!

is this one of those regret moments or memorable
moments? i think it's a memorable moment...
why would i regret some "hunt":
some classically inspired heterosexual finicky game
off a rom-com inspired:
reality is something that moulds us...
temporal creatures trying to figure out a way
around a "claustrophobia" of genetic inheritance...

to hell with that too! genetics-blah-blah...
if we were not such "god-fearing" people:
secular as they come... but also phobic prone
regarding the full extent of science...
we'd be doing gene revisions like the Chinese
are doing... hey... all the toys are in the sandbox...
why not play with them?
to avert the chance of having your limbs
aputated because of diabetes?!
Western civilization has become: Ssssss-LOW...

it's almost somewhat ******* but at the same time:
i don't even know...
backward moral superiority
over... something it originally instigated...
or broke rules for the existence of...

i can't imagine myself waking up one day and...
having regrets: instead of memories...
i won't allow it!

funny that... i'm still to write about the actual Walter
Sickert exhibition...
i think i'm about to write about it now...
"i think": well: that's always been synonymous with
"i doubt": the plethora of emotions that comes
with think that verges on doubt... it's almost akin
to being in love...
           i am: regardless...

oh my god... i only spent about 40 minutes in
the exhibition: do you need more?
i spend £120 for an hour with a *******...
so what's £20 for 40 minutes spent with a dead
artist? peanut... whenever i go to an exhibition
i have a tendency to: not want to: overstay my welcome...

the ******* lighting was all wrong!
who curated this!
who curated this! the lighting is all wrong!
i was actually bound to looking
at a painting... ballerina in me:
shuffling... left... right... forwards... backwards...
the heavily oiled: layered paintings can't
have this sort of lighting...

it's like my argument for subtitled movies...
why... why why why! why!
are the subtitles running at the bottom
of the scrreen?
don't people know how difficult it is to read down
and then look up?!
what horrible "thing" could possible happen
if you ran the subtitles on the top of the screen?!
you know how much easier it is to read at the top
and focus on something down below!
it's as simple as: why no culture on this earth
wrote like: it might be an imitation of a tree growing?!
from down toward up?!
even the logicians of Mandarin wrote:
up to down...
they didn't write down to up...
****'s sake!

couldn't you try... moving those lights...
"downstairs": to illuminate the paintings from down-below
rather than from the top?
who the hell walks into an art exhibition and in
his cognitive "seance" think:
oh this looks pretty... no... this is not still-life...
the lighting is all wrong...

i seriously had to look at some paintings from
the side...
some had mirror protections on them...
so there was clearly some distorting reflection...
me or some object...
this lighting is ****! who curated this?!

i wasted £20 of a worth of a birthday present, on this?!
****** lighting!
   couldn't you have lighting coming from
the side... or from the floor?
why from the ceiling: all the ****** time!
no imagination: nada... zilch!

it would have been better not buying
a ticket and instead buying the book for £40
than £35 with the ticket...

first room i entered: always the best stuff:
the portrait of an artist as a young men...
self-portraits...
i had a smile on my face...
i was mesmerized by:

- self-portrait (circa 1896)
- self-portrait, the painter in his studio 1907
- self-portrait: the bust of tom sayers 1913

i don't care what anyone says...
the last reference? it looks better in real life than
it does in print... those hollowed out eyes...
was the skull to ever have
the capacity for eyes?!
worm by the eye... worm by the mouth...
by the ear... nose..
you need to see it: in this! ****** Tate Britain lighting!
who curated this?!
this is the first time i thirsted for excellence!
came short... not the artist: the curator...

first room: beginnings... self-portraits...
ha ha... "Lazarus": slurping oat-meals...
the servant of Abraham: another good one...

one of my ultimate favourites becomes
this Mona Lisa... tiny little thing...
Venice: the little lagoon...
circa. 1884...

architectural interests... crap... crap... crap...
well: good... but... thank god some of the stuff
is still there... but i don't need to paint
what i can blink at... against...

then the nudes...
oh the nudes...
   each artist and his ******* nudes...
Picasso had at least some imagination
to contort the **** beyond recognition:
to try to get a proper hard-on...
Freudian hammers and sickles...
or as i like to call them:
swastikas and scythes...

what?! aren't we to not inherit the horrors
and make jokes of them?!
terrible lighting... absolutely terrible...

the sea paintings drew my attention...
where: the: ****: is: Dieppe?!
la saisons des bains...
               seascape circa 1887...
    
ah! there she sits pretty!
   Cicely Hey 1923...
      you just want to **** her nostrils off!

Off to the pub 1911: Freddy ******* Kruger!
ah... that's why...
that's why... an artist... **** it: painter...
might compromise with a poet
for something... someone...
images are yet to be born from the images
that are to come...

that makes no sense...
images are yet to be born from the already
born words...
yeah... that makes sense...

i wasn't exactly moved by the nudes...
i had a poker mask on...
i've seen enough: plenty...
the the architectural stuff bored me...
i know boredom: unlike any other boredom:
the habitual need to continue
the mechanisation of replicas...
but the subject matter isn't there...
a sort of a writer's block...
you persist... writing about the most banal things...
painting the most banal things:
in order to keep up with
your own: well established technique...
but it's unimportant crap...

can't be fascinated by **** paintings...
Narcissus ate all my nudes....
i **** before the altar of mirrors...
i know when a mirror eats the contorted expression
of a prostitutes face....
i'm no jack the ripper...
      
surprise me with: horror ****...
not *******...
  surprise me with...
    people imitating... from the last movie i saw?
that wasn't imitation...
that was *******: readily available...
******... handcuffs... lubricants...
cucumbers... shame-tactics...
at least with men pain came with war...
women at nut-job crazy:
***-warfare...
   shaming tactics... no wonder i get
a limp **** with a woman that isn't
a *******...

   no wonder i go to art exhibitions:
perhaps... just perhaps the fairer ***...
but most certainly the uglier *** should
the inverted become extroverted
and: likewise... the antonym... compound...

the days of Jack the Ripper are gone...
i still don't know how someone like Samuel Little...
did what he did?
no *******: casually...
a proper ******* with a *******...
come on... at least they're giving it up for an asking
price! there's no *******: nuance!
there's no dating involved!
  these days, can you imagine?
going on a date... you match profiles...
what's there's to talk about?
she already mentioned all her interests...
all her dislikes... her likes...
what's left?
you order steak...
    chips blah blah...
does your steak taste like beef?
do your chips taste like: potatoes?!

then again: we're supposed to be switching diet
to synthetic "meat": bean born alternatives...
whatever... that's why i figured out:
focus on art... don't bother with gene replication...

and as i cycled home like a demon...
now i'm sitting down...
listening to "pleb" culture...
fat boy slim's: right here, right now...

i don't want to wake up one day and have
regrets.... instead of memories...

this exhibitions was a revelation... Plato's
false beliefs? not in bad faith...
those three old women and those two young girls...
psychologists?!
oh sure sure... they were really gearing up to
talk to me... i was more than willing to
destroy my inner-boundaries...
for some love with narrative:
than *** without it...

    clearly i'm out of touch!
   what appeals to the masses can never appeal
to the individual... why didn't i choose
a ticket to see an opera? i read about this exhibition
come May 8th... gusto... Waldemar Januszczak...
he has good taste....
i wanted to fizz out... to zone-out...
at the FA cup final i was hearing a crowd...
but also church bells... i was fizzing with sound
in my ears...

painter! painter! get me a painter!
i need to relax!
that's what it felt like... cheap *** pseudo-*******
potentials... three matriarchal psychologist
types... two lambs for a slaughter...
you want to catch me, now?
should have tried to catch me
ten years ago:
then you could have pharmacologically
strapped me in!
        now?! fwee-byrd!

               angry at the traffic...
the world has moved on! get with it!
i was told to get "with it" once, or twice...
times change: things: move...

none of these women will ever be regrets...
the women i paid for are never regrets...
they're women i paid for...
i'm reluctant for enforce a switch of the power
dynamic from man to woman...
woman offers ***... man pays for ***...
women doesn't offer ***:
man... becomes: self-sufficient....

it's almost like that brainstorm moment...
which arrives... in a football stadium...
before the crowd arrives and gets all hot & bothered...
listening to: fat-boy slims' song: right here:
right now...

there's a greater silence:
allocated to an art exhibition...
   oh: but i can find it..
i have found it...
most of the people: simple are...
there's no to be or not be
concerning them...
they're like mountains... like trees...
they simply are... replicas...
****** cues...
        
   to hell with thinking that i might be
high-brow... some people are just ******!
if that's an insult for someone being
******: while someone intelligent
is getting bashed... to hell with the ******
fetishist!

no! you ****-beard-funkies don't
get away with it that easy: who... these days...
allows a 14 year old daughter to become
pregnant?!

when life was: ah... ha... ah...
                           when you wanted to paint life...
rather than discard it as a photograph...
once upon a time... a time: that never was.

So many times in life
Have my eyes deceived
My heart has coerced me the wrong way
Down paths unyielding of self-deprecation
In eyes of pressured sight
concluding the colours of beauty
To be the ones I am told;
Not the ones I actually gape upon
Foreign film now dubbed in unpleasing vocal falsities
No longer subtitled
As music suddenly gleeful overtakes folky routes, now vanish

Where did I go to hide
Suspended space and time, for how long, I know not
Just waiting for someone to say
I will save you

And there you rose
To remind me that olive grey is my favourite
That the gravelly thump of blues can make me shine
That loneliness is never loneliness
When within your heart I stay

On my sweet
How we watch this world through Paris eyes
Two minds wrapped in one another
I never sleep without you
For even in loss you appear in dream.
Wonderful points in which we change
Change in self-awareness
Confidence in portraits we paint each other
Hold me in your thoughts
For with you I cling to love

our sixth anniversary at Highland Manor Apartments

Subtitled: The perspective of one festive folky fellow
friendliness ofttimes prompts me
when crossing paths with another to say “hello,”
whose demeanor trends toward being mellow
courtesy about eight medications
unaffected whether weather overcast
or sunshine reigning down bright yellow.

Our present habitat digs,
(per this mister and his missus), a psychic boon
dock - located at geographical coordinates,
(circa 1684 folks wove cocoon)
40.2562° North, 75.4638° West,
out of ****** forests log cabins hewn,
still a vestige of Pacific rural life lock,
especially fauna and flora abounds
during month of June.

Across American landscape
usurped from indigenous peoples,
underming storied traditions in cold blood
eponymous namesake affixed
to honor exploits of “European Outsiders”,
co-opted land sinker, liner, and hook
with each constituent treaty a dud
mortgaged to industrialization
contributing to lowlands to flood
comprising one of many complex edifices –

at latitude and longitude not prone to flood
this repurposed elementary school
into affordable housing sans low income good
lee managed by Grosse and Quade,
which facility nestled far from any hood,
gang or  foo fighting beastie boys
lacking manners with actions lewd
thus within the pastoral enclave
of Schwenksville, Pennsylvania,
there prevails a tranquil mood

with concomitant safety,
such that an inhabitant can patter about
(in their apartment) ****
though prudish older occupants
may object, and especially be *****
dish, snapping, popping and moaning
with unsolicited mutterings mostly rude
claiming to lack comprehending the habits
of younger generations 'liberal at tee tude
nonetheless, the sprawling range “Penn's Wood.'”

Eager immigrants brought native  
brought seeds of white lily to transplant
preserving vestigial tidbits
******* quoted in text books
writ from a biased Western European slant
rightfully, the Elysian Fields of lush,
resplendent and transcendent hue Kant
argue against snatched, stolen
and swindled with hollow promises –  
immediately nullified treaty(ies)
relegated inhospitable land extant
with absolutely zero compensation
given, where prevaricated misdeeds
against slandered “red men”
intruders did chant.

Twas plain and simple genocide
whereat spirits of vanquished
“noble savage –  in spare copse hide
to borrow a tagline from
Jean Jacques Rousseau – predating inside
edition (which if fair), would waver
to admit how fore parents lied
and long entrenched perspective
adopted, viz pilgrims and/or puritan pride,
parcelled of acreage courtesy
how average male didst stride
yet this passive quintessential renegade scrivener
senses ghosts of “Indians” swoosh at high tide
unseen immortal souls corporeal essence
long since trampled world wide.

**** dim is the ambience for active bedrooms,
On battery powered candles / Concorde lighting.
The carpet's edges chewed thin like
Receding hairlines
Then he uses me as bait..?

A neglected puppy's teething
Nesting under California
King / Mojo's hollowed cushions,
Keeps him gnawing these nights
Misters and oil burners.

I was mistaken, there are those
That revisit—reacquaint with him.
They must of shared a Starbucks,
As his Sasquatch hands
Rub wet platinum on his old fellow
Bears and their Cubs.
Silicone smooth pets, house boys
Fished from the deep web,
Plagiarizing with their eyes the pleasures
Of Eurocreme,
Bare back dreams, hours heave
The subtitled felatio scenes.

I tell the old man, they only ***
After and mostly when
the guested leave, guises, guilt…
There’s one hovering still
Round bouts quick to mount
To accommodate new daddy’s
Ginger manly worthless girth…

I'll be out in the smoking section
Out at the side of the house
Through the slider door, you know
From off the kitchen dining space
Where he had once
Replaced the table with billiards
For Less of a man friend
and pretend straight shooters
Happy birthday old trooper….

His Android vibrates every time
I take a five to breathe
Chain smoke my self defecating grief
He posts another ad. Pics of vehemency
On Craig’s and bb diseased.

If only you had heard
The vagrant shout / banshee in my skull
For these off the street urchins
left from whence they came;
Plugged in to the internet's latest
(Stoop)
For a place to squat
For winter will be cold *****,
For them to just
Scoot! Shoo! ****** off!

And here I go again,
Assuming that these were decent folk
Come for the holidays.
Between taint and pocket rocket
Wallets drain
When one lets the desperate
Indigents
Free range...

"What's there for dinner?"  
**** chicken heads again?
Same ole same old dope...

Waiting till days are gone
endowments slipping so vain and cold
into estuary of sins
Why can I not make more of vanity's destiny
from fear's face and/ facts to me
Could it be dismissal, a desperation, a joyous clouded spring equinox?
Not go further than the darkest case for inside... insipid flack...
from all revryie/ God's creation
Why then denial & distain for the princesses stats that weans from
the subtitled shirts?
Because the ground is below and the sky is above oh the strength of destiny is all that I could've learnt!
Mother frantic daughter festers deliverance glassy and new the
plate of imitations dogma excepting don of more esoteric Freudian
hues.

w-t-f i guess anew phantom limb syndrome has stricken my 35/60 deaf sufferance explaining why i commonly rely on subtitled home entertainment viewing
yet i still cant explain why randomly, abruptly and subconsciously i turn up the volume to hear the subtitles

sometimes we say gosh or my goodness
a phrase used much in subtitled korean dramas

which what I like

they say it ain’t seemly to cuss
at this age and present gender

though I really like
******
as a little word

they say it is safer out of doors
that it does fade after a few days
though he thought it lived forever

blimey

the second visitor in a while

later the top were sawn off
tidy

ready to balance the collected
stone

james

being corrected
being predicted

it’s hot
sweat drips
whispers down
my back between shoulder blades
towards otherworldly valleys
which causes me to look down

contemplate unshaven legs
yes yes i will shave you
slice each hair off with wee blades
only to see them grow back again
which makes me contemplate
tweezers

ripping out mini irritations
should i pluck my eyes out?
would life be better blind?
to everything and every little flaw we see?
to every little scar and every visual lie?
it makes me listen to english music
watch subtitled foreign movies
with their darker ingrown endings
they seem more realistic

if i spoke with an olde french accent
would it better match my hairy demeanor?
perhaps match my inner wild?
embrace my graying
au naturale?

but hairy legs are so inelegant
and these tiny hair follicles
completely underestimated
i dont feel like it
i'm shaving my legs
because i'm hot
and want to go swimming

.subtitled: soliloqui looking for a pretty ******...

the freeing voice - any voice for that matter -
something has been completed -
a year's worth of credit...
   / invested in bone churning...
crrrrr'ah'imes of crunch...
              point for point...
       "they" tell you... you're a loser still
living with your parents...
lucky for me i've been feeling wanted
for the past three months...
working on the garden...
there's a new shed... there's a fence...
all the bothersome roots have been dug...
"loser" and - a man is supposed to
hate his parents... at some point...
well me the forest and the slump...
tourist attraction... flatmates: sitcom coming...
a tent in trafalgar sq. -
pigeon **** for luck: luckier if i had
a bowler hat and an irritating suit of formality...
but, what, other, options?
to abhor one's mother and father:
chances are: sometimes to be wedded
to the in-laws...
                     and i was thinking that coming
from under the iron curtain:
from behind the berlin wall...
    from a former satellite state....
    i wouldn't be hearing this postmodern spin on
communism...
     it works: it works i'm promised!
it works... but there's no spine of a metallurgical
industry... no sweaters knitted in ireland...
no shavers manufactured in holland...
   the germans "lost" the war...
     somehow they still managed to pay
the reperations to the hebs...
             the germans "lost" the war...
but they still make the cars...
                   the germans "lost" the war...
but kaiser came up with...
the new currency... and there were some:
slightly distrustful of eew-oh-rrrrrras...
          there's so much conversation
above the drowning line of the invisible...
haven't dated since aged 21...
                 since 2007...
              the chance brothel entry...
the chance "one night stand" -
   confused thai surprise from a park bench
****** in the garden and walked home -
totem for proof...
         easily interrupted music:
or rather - music with punctuation...
like almost punk... but: not really...
             what a mighty project: brexit with
the pound in the wallets...
can you imagine a brexit with buying and selling
in euros? ha... 3 years...
ol' lizzie on the guillotine of currency...
bland currency...
              3 years of brexit followed up by
a year and 3 months of corona carano
        cuckoo-ra curune curini kuru kuru
chicken: cuban - coup d'état - corono - corone -
core: and... the bread is 'ere...
the circuses are gone... and so is the jihad...
- whatever happened to rival schools:
united by fate - nothing of what never happened...
to the chime of bell and the vibrating
uvula gong -
        
in summa inanitate versatur:
perhaps... perhaps i should have stressed:
looking for the geometry of a paragraph:
not a square... a rhombus...
          / here devolves........................
any and all.........................................
the draft of - and for.........................
all manner.................... of..................
"pressing"............... impetus: via......
impetus.... salvaged... via some.......
variant of darwinism........................
a history... on the basis of only.........
frequenting.... etymology.................
for... "sources" - sourced materials...
citations! ..............................................
by all means: anything......................
written... for the medium of.............
journalism.......................................­....
is not a dickens - an armchair..........
a sunny... afternooon.........................
............... more.....................................
a commuter's hour on the tube........
tum.... tum autem..............................
..... tum./
                           at one time... at yet
another...

    idem idem etc. etc. (again) -
major major - drifter from catnip 23...

the leisure of writing... once upon a time
a brothers grimm' invested themselves in:
the leisure of reading...
no oration is a leisure too...
tongue does the work of feet... and hands...
imitation octopus: solid ink out
of a fear...
     lack of friction: therefore...
arachnaphobia and: scuttle! scuttle!
and all those limbs you could almost break...
but not hear the sound...

    yes... writing can be... this blank canvas
is... my hands and fingers extended...
i admit no clenched fist...
no knuckle ditto heads...
                      a yes... and a no... a maybe...
a kiss that sounds like
slurping spaghetti...
                  coming from the 19th century...

yes: the next time i feel bad about
doing a no. 1, 2 and 3... the 3 being the genocide
into the whrilpool just below the throne of
thrones... i'll remember...
in the 19th century?
   ******* was as much taboo as jerking off:
big ******* hands:
no wonder there's "some" ***** envy...
and those camera angles...
a hand the size of being able to hold a basketball
all on its own...

which is a shame... what hands can...
and can't: guillotine the phallus and bowl...
with a talking head from the grave...
the torso and limbs too:
holding the spectacle of eyes rolled back...
bertrand de born...
                gilles de rais... not included...
come to think of it...

     eos eventus, qui acciderunt...
if that can be said: of what happened...
and it is hardly believable...
any time between the orthodoxy of darwinism:
ahem... "history" and geology...
and the ping-pong of the stars...
         yes... but what of the mythology:
come 100 years from now:
no one will believe what: apparently...
never took place...
                  or that it did...
                 the currency of inflation:
over-inflation of details...
a drowning man will grap the edges
of a razor... perhaps now: science...
and facts... is the necessary razor edge
for the docile and: the adventure of drowning...

- mind you: it's worth confusing...
albrecht dürer with gustav doré...
   even if these two men didn't pass on children
and grandchildren - genetics -
they did pass... something...
seeing how evolved - almost indistinguishable
the two are... i.e. if the former had the technological
access of the latter...
well...

no... i'm pretty sure...
i couldn't have had this sort of conversation with
anyone... solo project:
and yes... impromptu...
              a painting it is not...
some minor details: better kept as omissions...
soliloqui looking for a pretty ******...
     now that is raising the stakes;
yawn... the end.