Sugar strikes us down
You see everyone will have so many spoonfuls of sugar in
Certain foods and drinks
Like Coke and donuts and tomato and BBQ sauce
And Mountain Dew is definately not dew of the mountains it has caffeine and sugar in it
And the brain says have sugar cause it gives us energy well it is just fake energy
I used to drink a big bottle of Coke doing a poetry concert on YouTube and despite I might have felt happy if was just fake happy
I like the colours of pizza and Coke and hamburgers and loliies and other soft drinks but the colours mean nothing
I developed obesity
Because the sugar in my diet was too much
I ate a big rolly poly cake
And every Easter I like the big chocolate bunny
In 2013 I was running to burn all the sugar but I ate more sugar to build up my weight when or if I stopped running
I didn't really feel good great
At the poetry Slam sure I read my poem and was cheered off the stage but I felt very itchy and tired and yes everyone liked me and they thought I was cool but I had cracked feet and tinnea on my feet and now I have exthma on my legs I was very unhealthy
My brain was telling me I need sugar it gives me energy and Coke adds life to your day
Well that is a bunch of crap
Especially when aborigines eat healthy food can give on to sucrose and fructose but then again I did and I got obesity
I have just made a choice to start working with a personal trainer who told me to watch a show called that sugar film teaching me that sugar can really dominate your life in foods you will never think had it but junk food is bad
I could relate to one boy who wanted to get dentures after having very unhealthy teeth
But the pain of the dentist drill
Forced him to rethink his decision still wanting to have soft drink
Even the party drink in alcohol would be bad for you because they can have sugar as well and you can party with water which might be better and you can also have a berry which makes things sweeter like a lemon and a chilli and apple cider vinegar
But sugar is in that berry
You can bet your ****** oath
You see sugar is the big bad wolf of the diet world

Hades escaping the first leaves of virginity
The realm of Io scattering molten silica
In degrees
Water drops from God’s shoulder burst and buried
Her eyes at my scar;  she stops the bleeding
Sucrose sun whetting the crest of a bee
The dutiful molecules of my shirt sleeves
Zaccheus in a sycamore tree
Her words on a southerly trajectory
Crawfish in my grandmother’s stream
The Battle of Moon Sound beaching infantry
A northern gannet nesting her babies
The decibels of smoldering wood beams
Flesh constructing hairs in the breeze
Molecules muddy as I try to breathe
Ghosts approaching the Andromeda galaxy
Stars floating to the top of the stream
I      N      F      I      N      I      T      Y

when you are young
your taste buds are
naïve and
the sweetest thing of all is
destruction.

as you age your tongue
grows wiser but
no matter how sour
revenge tastes now
it has saturated the roof of your mouth
and it stings your gums like
vinegar.

When we decided on ice cream
I suggested caramel
sticky sweet
dripping down the sides
I wanted to lick it up and
feel the sucrose explode on my tastebuds
a minefield of pleasure.

When we decided on ice cream
you promised whipped topping
and hot fudge
rich luscious chocolate
oozing toward the edges
swirls of dark intensity
intermixed with bouts of airy lightness
a most delightful contradiction.

With all the imagery that’s found in words
and pictures bound to play out in my head
It’s fair to say this sundae tempted me at waking hours
(and maybe even crept into my dreams)

… it’s quite a shame that in the end you settled for vanilla.

Singing honey    sucrose stream
Tidy shelving snug underneath
Nestled neatly inter-wing
Feather down cream

Mothers stroking cradle   rocks
A thousand balls of foam spill
Softly avalanche and bury
Pure angels in snow    hands

Petal sky smeared casual
Walks warmly sweetly
Silken fur raises brow
    At       the coming

Lily padded velvet pawed
Strong slender limbs graceful dancing
The Supple strength
Holds a breath for dawn

Long stalks arch backs
Purring release modesty
Pure unction weeps    complete
Smooth shell face washed in milk

A banner sail widened arms
Outstretched for breeze’s kiss
A wishing penny glides
Through water falling   leaf

Mallow clouds woolen sheep
Dandelion umbrellas    borne away
Slowly sinking Sun dyes autumn
Watercolour cascades melt

Thinly  delicately   imagined
Fragile world Mary’s peace
Doll dependent doting
Soul canopied sanctuary

Silence **speaks

I zip up my astronaut suit,
plop the cubed veil onto my head.

In my hat, I am the observer
Living behind the netted television.

Dressed for pain avoidance.  No tears.
(Perhaps I should wear this out on dates)

A tall metal teapot with its accordion attachment rests,
on guard, in my yellow stained gloves.

Together, we enter the boxed colony
The teapot’s steam spurts clusters of buzzers into the air—

I grab coarse honeycombs, drain the
visions of nectar.

When the day is over, I gather the jars,
amber sucrose, the ***-colored concoctions, to head inside.

In the kitchen, the timer aches to sing as the clouds
From the pumpkin loaves clog the room.

I hold my honey and I store my bread.

KNOW your fate
Don’t just ******* talk about it or think about it
Let the sucrose of the idea of that fate percolate your mind, know it and all of its idiosyncrasies, and then accept it and follow it
Hound it down and hunt it until you shoot it in the back of its **** head with a Tommy gun
Then grab that ******* by its hind lags, drag it down that dusty road and throw its *** into the arena
Hurtle it over all those wooden barricades and watch it convulse as his back strikes the dirt ground
Then stand over him with your spear
(you don’t know where the hell this spear came from, it spontaneously materialized in your hand, but its ******* fitting so you go with it)
and bellow “Holy, Holy everything!!! Victory is in my back pocket and all the dues in my wallet.”
The crowd in the ancient stadium cheers
You swing your red cape behind your shoulders
(this red cape is also a recent “randomly materialized” sartorial addition)
and grab a magnolia and bite down on it its succulent stem
Oh my, do you taste that?
How does it first settle on your tongue?
Does it fizzle like pop rocks?
Does it glide like milk?
Toe scrunching sweetness
How does it taste when it inundates your throat?
When it spreads in your chest and settles at the bottom of YOU?
Your fate
The stem
The spit
Your head

There is no misery
Quite like black coffee
Raised on the sugared ****
Of North America
A lack of sucrose
Indicates a failure of your lifestyle

Never mind the diabetes
And wasting diseases
That come later

We are new, now, blank
A flat white lying prone
Waiting on the fat black footprint
Or haphazard dog defecation
To sully our facade
We'll pretend we earned it

Just as long as you pass that sugar.

I trache myself to scream out blood,
To make sure you felt what i said and understood,
Cut open my throat so you can see my voice,
Through cords that shake your core,
Wanting vibration avoidance.

Desiccated hands try to grab your hair and break it,
Like brittle crystals of sucrose.
Each molecule overcame with freezing
From the spatial distance in each look

No matter how hard i try and comfort your heart
Malady wins.
It corrodes your engine and your metabolism begins to fade.

You're frozen in dying
For the rest of time
And I can do nothing to change it.
Its the roots in your heart that i just cant **** out
Heart worms in a dying dog.
Heaving each breath
This is the end of fondness
This is suicide of emotion
Killing echoes of every beautiful girl you gave a **** about.


My voice cant get through the air to you

My blood cant paint on your face

My hands fall apart before they caress and love just withers away like a dead, once verdant chrysanthemum.

you seen, once they found it, they "dittoed" it out, in english the " sign is not used accordingly to it's original and intended purpose,
e.g.     i said this would never work
           "   "       "        "      always   "                            
the structure of narration is different, the Irish are like the Polish, they write dialogues like this: and encounter with Jim and Paul
- so i says that pint of bitter is grapefruit grease.
- Jim, can't be right! it's sucrose!
- ah ******* Paul, it's grapefruit grease!
in the English speaking world the balance between ' and " signs is strange, i can't explain it at the moment, it's almost like the sign ' represent first person narration, while the sign " represents an internalised narration, even though English language books treat " not as an imaginary conversation, but an actual one, a simultaneous thinking and speaking realisation that's quiet impossible... a bit like breathing and swallowing at the same time - the pharynx suggestion.

i found it in philosophy books,
like Adam, **** naked in the garden of Eden
unaware of his genitalia pronounced
in the open like a dog's ******* bouncing
around while moving (****'s sensitive,
got to fasten it with some bay leaves,
Eve! strap those **** up, we're gonna be running
from sabertooths!)...
the practice of introversion, introspection,
inward Buddhist whatever...
people actually fear it... you know why
they fear it? they're scared of finding
the ego... honest to god, they're protected
by the banality of thinking, well...
"thinking" protects them, daily routines
and the thoughts ascribed to the routines,
it protects them from looking in and
finding the "holy grail"... you know why
they're scared of introversion, of this looking
in, apart from reminiscence, you know why?
they're scared to find their ego (their sigma
identity unit) to be a non-affirmative,
a thing that's not affirming but is de-affirming,
the daily tasks somehow do not affirm it
when the practice of introspection is imposed
since the routine of the daily does not require
any affirmation of the ego - on principle a *per se unit
that desires less and less disturbances and more coherence;
the once affirmative unit of encoded sound
is no longer (to their surprise) akin to
a sparrow's chirping, or a wood-pigeon's cooing...
it's submissive, a ******* is there in
leather and a gimp mask, hovering over them
with her legs spread open, a vaginal boa,
there ain't no halo... once they find their ego
they realise it's no longer a simple aye
but an even simpler nay... forget all the social
constructs... you don't want to end up
on a television game show, strutting in your
diapers telling everyone your false curriculum vitae
about helping old grannies (an example of
tautology, purposively at close approximate)
across the street or having an interest in sports
when in fact the foggiest... people fear this introverted
introspection, when they find their ego to be
non-affirmative, but submissive, "Islam" riddled
according to their daily routines... but that's
fine by me, it's when they write snippets called
"poetry" that it becomes all too apparent
that the desperation is there, and it's brimming
at a boiling point that consumes them,
and by consuming them, they realise that it's
actually more of a blockage, than an active volcano;
me? my familiar is rage - i have lost my prowess
at the cognitive narrative - all i have is a void
and a piece of paper where narration belongs,
cognitive narration used to be a blessing, indeed
a halo, but it's gone, lost to an archaeology of
some kind (perhaps medical) and never to return,
just sometimes the Hydra pops up again, like this.

Names of affection and endearment tenderize couples with their prophecy of a life so sweet  oozes crystals of sucrose. I hope you've all brought the quintessential insulin for this ****** malady.
Baby girl, sweetheart. Who can say that to you, honeydew? He lies next to you and into your ears at night, whispers spoken in the silence of thoughts in the gradient dark.
I was given a name. It's on a certificate. I can show you. "Babe, it's okay."
"Why didn't you answer me?"
"... Huh? What? Sorry, Mom, I haven't really heard that name lately."
I had to write every day. 12 years. More. Circumventing the pale blue dashes of thin elementary parchment.
My goal at the end of first grade was to "not have loops in my d's."
And how can that be, Dear?
Avoidance is the opposite of absence, in which the avoidness is attentive and absence not able to produce a **** to give, the tattered red rag persisting to grow fonder.
An 'S is the downfall of all. mine. Yours.
"I'm so glad your mine <3"
Why am I indentured to you, only when I walk through the kitchen, can't standing to be barefoot because then only one last peg of the possessed woman chain is needed.
Not that there aren't more levels. Danti mentors. Heat lightning, electrocution- are you feeling the chemistry?
I was given skin.
Porcelain. A marble counter top. Albino creatures suffer for their melanlin-less beauty.
Is pain.
Why are purple flowers blossoming on my body that was once a temple in a garden?
My body is Detroit. Spray paint in the form of a Kaleidescapic, mountainous macabre- knuckle
avalanche going down the 90 degree angle that just isn't right but I can't call it obtuse.
I have gang signs littered across the human vessel, spotty and an embarrased brown covered by a collar, and green, yellow and maroon covered by sunglasses.
Love is not possession in the way abuse is not love.
Both own you. Sailing, he's steering. my cruise is on the Slave Trade Triangle route.
You never asked me to get your name tattooed on the past 18 years of dermis cut, shaved, kissed, caressed, burnt and brown.
That didn't stop you from placing yourself all over me, every blooming tulip as a penny for my thoughts stored on your test's word bank.
"Good" is only "not good enough"
mint condition only makes me green.

2/19/2015

The hurt is not enough.
the Frost crawling on the window keeps me grounded
on this sickly saccharine reality,

i'd once described a bedroom in July as an example of
the sucrose candidity of the human condition,
sticking bobby pins in my hair i'd realise in January

that the Chelsea Hotel #2 scenes were as well,
sticking to a sort of geniune artistic integrity
come to bed, hey hello to my friend afterwards

and how was it's? with little no big toothy grins
but then I would remember
sitting under elm trees at Fitzrandolph drinking a cold

coffee, because it was hot then! and it was sunny then!
and the weather conjured sweet artificial caramel flavorings-
sitting under the tree and thinking about how good life is or

was. And when I realize that the forest is as dead as it ever was
and I look at pictures of trees with leaves fully on, maybe in the
forests of Alabama or Georgia,

I realize that I haven't seen a life in a long time- but
when i burn my hand with the lighter the butane glaze on my skin
i don't really mind it that much because i think of it and quite frankly

I like to say i'm as pure as I always was but,
what burns me now: Desire desire desire
and back then the museum was talking about Roethke

and it was all I needed I didn't mind the
idle cab drivers that would call me Angel by the gates.
and my Mennonite father said I need to

repent.  I don't even want to go to
church but that is all I end up doing nowadays anyways.
Thinking about the sun, and falling over a piece of ice and seeing the

red scarlet (connotation vs denotation?) on the
white of the ice i cannot help but think that once again *the
hurt is not enough.

we used to leave the extra Statistic lesson after 3.30pm, used to jump across the wall over the playground, catch the train home... we used to break fast with dates when Ramadan came along... then the hens came along... that sort of brotherly ******* doesn't really concern me these days... i'd gladly **** your mother these days... like you ***** my mother telling me whatever that ***** said you ought to believe... do i believe in God? do i have to? do i have to believe you said those words rather than a maggot? personally i think a maggot said them... on an existential inspection, you're just someone that goes into a charity shop and buys everything for under a quid - you're just a ******* gypsy to me; but believe me, i really want to be a gypsy, mortgage free, living like river-rat... i'm comparing your intelligence to a donkey when is shouldn't be insulting a donkey... i'd love the circus, the gypsy uncertainty... i can't believe your mother actually liked me... and that you have to lie about me as "non-engaging" schizoid... when i meet your mother in heaven i'll not fail to mention that detail.

it's a funny tale,
how they cite the words          the 21st century
and subsequently ditto them    "     "           "      ,
ever the airs, every the formality,
ever the should have been,
contrasting the ever would haves...
it's hardly a reason to be comparative
with the 17th century,
the 21st century isn't that much
of a surprise... it's not a surprise at all...
it's actually quiet mundane,
the quiet everyday... as said:
via articles definite, and via the charcoal churning:
iron maiden's *strange world
versus duran duran's ordinary world,
as i said: subhuman, cancerous laughs
and still the belittling you:
it was all a worthwhile care for calcium salts,
petroleum jelly and aliphatic acids - some said
sodium acids too...
some mentioned chemists as it was
an aquarium for choir encores to a deafening,
but it wasn't - i too would have learned
the plumber's jacking-off without
groupies... had you minded my intent
to leverage the safety as worth nothing
anything but the Selfie and the jelly-baby sucrose
glue.
i'd like to go back to the 17th century with
the musketeers... i'd be fed less jealous comparisons
with the reigning Louis XIV...
i'd be diverted by an adventure, laying siege to
Lyon, which would mean much more to me
than paying the taxes as a medical doctor....
i'd be agile on the musket, a musketeer,
shooting heads to later write a Don Quixote for
a ballet... but as 21st century's writing proves:
i only wrote because my life was truly banal...
i would't have written otherwise...
had my life the attributes of a Don Juan...
you think i'd have written anything?
only banality prompts you to write...
if you decide to write, and keep banality
as a saintly ordinance best kept unscathed,
well... then you better salt your eyes for an improvement
of the bitterness of shed tears awaiting the
once anthem-blessed glorification a nation likened to Iran
having a pointless streak of competition
sparked alive with a necessity of breathing being excused
so that the competitive acquirement is stocked
and compiled to an encyclopaedic assurance,
preference: A prior to Z.

you know that euphoria
misshapen twisted circumstances
my beloved aquatic relevance
drowning in remnants abandoned utopia

a dreamless state
unfurnished minds defined
those ******* their sickening sake
of whatever hell inclines

I sit in dread
glancing at rain gone sour
with paperweight for a head
death shall toll thy hour

I have lost my eyes
the sucrose in my hearth
an addict drink to realize
this infested dearth

12/15/2015

"You, doctor, go from breakfast
to madness."
Anne Sexton

The engine of my amygdala:
                   so burnt out
I needed coolant, I needed something to prevent my
   immolation
a sort of precautionary measure

***'s flammable
  I'd soon find out
In a crowd of hundred dark and
smoke crawled through my shoulders
    social little parasite
apologize for being an interruption to everyone

   "Wish I could've been there"
Sucrose altruism,
back at the mental hospital id relived
every single second with you

thinking of your anger I read Tennessee William's letters
I loved you

I even loved your hatred.
A girl across the hall screaming
about Jesus and her ****
shouting singing Shenandoah

"But I don't need to be here,"
   I turned to my roommate,
a strong figure I still admire,
"Everyone says that, even with a Thorazine needle halfway down their ***."

They'd had a name for it
Something about kisses, I don't remember

"Yeah, it leaves a huge bruise on
your ***," they laughed in the
tv parlor

there we were
The tristate area's teenage
girls too unstable for the world

a step above "oh, you know how
teenagers are"
A girl with grey eyes

Came in my last night there
"Is it normal to cry on your
first day?"

I wasn't allowed to
even touch her shoulder
and so

with the alcohol and the
Lamotrogine I tried to figure
out where it'd all gone wrong

but it'd been hiding in me
psychotic seed,
a virus carrier a patient zero of my own

tepid insanity!

I've been here before
I've already sang this song
However, I float
still
it drowns

In the absence of love
in the amidst of chaos
in the throes of the heart,
I turn to Amy.
I drown.

He came to my brain
and I felt a kiss that contained pain. Strain.
I've sweat this before.
Am I a truth seeker
or a ******* one?

I could feel the fear
my million thoughts telling me
twisting me
confusing me

Some spark took the wrong track.
I can't trace well what happened then.
Disorder, disorder, disorder everywhere.
Sped up feelings, thoughts uncontrolled...
but not like the quivering fountain of love
more like a car crash.
I can't help but look at
(I am naturally attracted to the dark)

Terror, terror, misled.
He's no sugar - he is sweet sucrose
I can't think about none of them.
I'm in a catch, because of men.
I can feel reality dissolving itself,
not a good thing
Everything loses sense.
How many signals you need for this?
The sky opened, but hell yesterday did.

Beware of epiphanies
Beware of certain tears
Most of all, beware of yourself
beware your fears
"beware your subconscious
playing you tricks"

Fight fire with fire,
magic with magic

The air is wool
It is the shavings of innocence
It is the blood of atomic love
It is a momentary transience

I am a ticketeer
I own nothing but slips of paper
popcorn between the seats
rotting into kernels of knowledge to sleep with

She was and is the secret sucrose
a mysterious chemical, dreaming of becoming
Something that means more than just syrup
or unappetizing things

The earth was a open casket, nothing to hide
the soils and dreams of a ancient soul that had nothing to abide
She and I, lost amidst the widows
holding onto a dream of new life

Coupling together, we sought the stars
We stared through mirrors at ourselves in rings
Saturn and Mars
They the abodes of future eyes and ours

Not ready to see these things, chosen by god the in-between
Lost in the leaves and the lungs of her tree
I spoke to her, asking her what was
She replied rather callous that there was no love

Let's go on and shear the stars
let's take of their light and share with what's ours
Alight the funeral pyres and bait
God to give us the gifts He had never taken

Darling, I know I'm not the most beautiful thing
but I have gifts to share that don't hold in skin
they are never wrinkled, never tired, never lost of their youth
They are sweet simple liquor that will intoxicate with truth

Enough!


I am a tired Deseret dreaming of a new faith
I seek a maiden in which to build the estate
We can make the paradise of Eden on this plane
We can touch the golden calf and make it obey

Give to me your love and trust
I will give my ****** lust
My eternal heart, my corpse of dust
And push towards the solemn Eden of husks

I wish I had some melancholy memory
Of a romance, long since passed
When a sad song comes on
Talking about the way things used to be
My brain goes blank

The memory of being madly in love
Should evoke something sweet like soda
Every particle, touched and tickled
Just cold enough
A bite, on the lip
Enticing the next sip
Feels like drugs, all the way down
Pulling away, pursed and sticky, you know youll remember
The way that pop popped you way back when
And a thirst for it started
Everything goes better with a cola
A cigarette, sickening and deep, made fresh by that sugar
Whisky, rusty and virile, turned young and naive with that fizz
A good meal, made decadent, with a lick and twist of bubbles

It should, but it doesnt
All I seem to recall
Is feeling as each and every bud on my tongue
Where the seed of your taste was firmly planted
Is scorched
Cindered
Conflagrated
Charred
So the only taste is ash

I remember distinctly the three times I was severely burned
One, I was making cup noodles
Two, I was making food for your trifflin ***
Three, when you made me tell myself that you dont love me anymore

So when a sad love song comes on
Instead of that sparky, stingy, sugary stuff
I get that fructose, sucrose, glucose, rhymes with gross, kinda ****
I learned all too late, that **** like that, is the single worst thing you can put in your body

So whenever I crave to recall
The taste of bittersweet memories
Whispered to me through the turn of a cap
I just think to myself
Soda is ****, water is bliss

the sleeper in the valley is haunting me,
what I should do I haven't.
I'm a junkyard full of false starts.

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the ***** streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,"

:Bought a book of Ginsberg:
:Thought it quite lonely:
:Found out socrates was a *******:

I fell asleep and was dreaming the subconscious dream,
The theorem was proven and I could breathe again.

I awoke to sirens,
nymphs,
and Orpheus standing over me.

I am a small bit of nothing, a Wes Anderson caricature,
a pre-printed, pre-made, pre-packaged archetype.

I bought guitar strings from a lovely woman,
I want everyone to hear me.
Hear me play Pitseleh.

I am quiet now,
I am soft and everyone hears me.
I don't want to say anything,
I want you to look at me and know.
I want you to see my eyes and know I am infinite.

I wake up again and I am sweating,
it was the night terror, the one I have

I was surrounded by intellectuals,
the poets and artists of our generation,
all second rate ******* doing it for the applause and their mommys, same **** that was always done, since ******* Homer, since ******* Shakespeare, since ******* Ruddy Rimbaud.

I keep shaking,

Something is coming after me and I know it.

Maybe it's all the women I looked at wrongly,
one's from the ***** pictures big brother sold me,

Maybe it's all the sucrose and caffeine i've been inserting.

Maybe it's the nothings that i forgot to do, and others did instead.

I am a ******.

I never ****** no one.

******* is stupid.

I am one of the ugliest men alive.

When the saint ended us I saw infinity.

Everything was you, in you, by you, for you, the ******* hours and hours of thought, the stupid lengthy and complicated memories where you were christmas and we were meeting the ocean, all pointless and lost to oblivion and I lost it right then and there in front of you, I sobbed and wanted to **** myself. Then you gave me a *******.

A deep pulse of spinning waltzers
burn electric thrills
while pre-teens buzzed on sucrose
and fried dough
scream hot: they want to go faster

back on the promenade
Renee and Don, eyes on a horizon,
warm themselves reminiscing in circles,
minds dancing under glitterball embers

further back, gapped tooth shop fronts
shelter ripped tents, cold on concrete,
meagre piles of trash bagged jetsam,
of those stopped here by memory’s
pernicious tides
and forgot

But what's the point?

Phospholipids, sucrose, phosphates
Biology feels like memorizing vocabulary.

Absquatulate, etymological, effluvium
English wants me to be a human glossary.

Axiom, cartesian, diophantine
Math is repeating the same problems in different ways.

Feudalism, hegemony, cartellino
History is staring at facts about dead people.

Humdrum, repetitiousness, homogeneity
Every second of monotony bores me.

Was it always like this?

My hellos echo inside this black hole,
My heart’s a no call no show, down-in-the-dumps hobo;
Haunted by the ghost of your sucrose coated love.
I’ve licked my fingers down to the bone trying to
Feel it just once on my tongue again.

My brain’s a necrophage, feeding on your face
Until I can’t recognize the taste- the shape,  
You’re just a skull in a grave, and I crave
To decompose alongside you in the bed you made.

My frame has been shoved down the **** drain
And the incessant drip drops sound just like your name.

I’m a repulsive cultist drowning my emotions in solvents,
Trying to deal with the loss of the most revolting poet.

-SLuR

I was wondering when
I would eat my own words
Now I need to count the carbs
In each syllable

Calculate just how much
Life juice to inject
Into my bruised abdomen
After milking the drops
From my tingling finger

I ask of you to see
And watch and listen to me
Because I am not a result
Of sucrose-inclined molars
Or an unlucky inheritance
I am all of my own

So when my jaw grew thin
I praised myself and thought how
I shed some "extra" fat
I thought perhaps
Maybe I had a tape worm
Or a hollow leg
That hid over 2500 calories
In a single day that still didn't feel
Like enough
With 126 oz of water
I was leaking every twenty minutes
I praised myself, but
I didnt feel like myself

I knew before I knew
Had that deep gut feel
Before it was real
It was so undeniably mine
Like a limb I forgot I had

But it was like that limb previously
Slapped me in the face,
Stole my fortune,
Ran off with my fiancé,
Then said I was bound for great things
As it slipped out the back

I was shredded into nothing
But handed something of promise

i can't say it isn't a learning curve, i.e.: how does it feel to pay
of a debt in... four installments? once £200... another time £250... another time at £600 and what's left-over is is? £277... and all of this? done by cash? well... it feels... a bit like giving £130 to a *******... wafer-think comparison... but it's almost on par... i'm just following up on the poems conundrum, autobiographical rigour & hotel reds.

i knew it wouldn't happen, it sounded too good to be true...
i knew she had a young daughter...
and like most prostitutes: she must have conspired
with her coworkers about the idea of... meeting a client...
outside of the hour-mark...
they must have said things like: what were you thinking?!
are you mad?
he propose the idea... no... i did...
                 i said maybe we can meet in a hotel room...
to which he replied... sure, we can go for dinner prior..
i'll bring some brandy...
i did the cost-analysis... she was obvious in a castle made
of clouds... because... isn't it obvious?
    why would i want to have any trouble in my life...
esp. if it's trouble with women?
      last one drew in into a student account overdraft
debt worth about £3000...
          tough times...
      the bank sent me a notice that my bank account
status of a student was about to expire...
  and that i couldn't have a interest-free overdraft
limit of £3000... that prior to going into the bank
and asking for the limit to be extended from £2500
because i had an emergency back "home" and i needed
to fly out for a funeral...

- - interlude - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - i was still close to lightning a cigarette right now...
i only stopped myself because i have some whiskey...
but... when i was painting the garden fence...
i was so ******* i started splashing the paint in rage..
no? mother dearests ask me because her neighbour
asked her to check if Bella the cat has clean water
and the frog's light is off... i hate being interrupted when
i write... i don't mind making concession when
speaking... but when i write and i'm interrupted...
it really is a peace pipe though... tobacco...
it's so much more soothing than outbursts of anger...
i guess marijuana is good for anger that builds
up... but when you need a quick fix... tobacco...
  maybe that's why i have almost have had this terrible
dry cough... my throat is irritated from the lack
of extra phlegm lining my throat... it's not a sore throat...
just sore when i cough... enough whiskey...
i'll be chirpy tomorrow... - - - - end of interlude - - - - - - - -

and i managed to wriggle out of that deficit...
by not exactly working: more suffering from lack of certain
pleasures... alcohol... tobacco...
although i did land that god-send of being paid out
about £3000 in damages for being a car-crash...
call it a fluke? i call it blood good luck...

tobacco: two occasions... to calm the nerves...
and to counter what otherwise caffeine does but caffeine
can't do with alcohol...
tobacco + alcohol...
    it's not caffeine + alcohol or for that matter ******* + alcohol...
sure... marijuana + alcohol used to work...
in my youth... if you were smart about it...
few were... tobacco + alcohol all the way...

i never enjoyed the credit system in capitalism...
i was very much always debit: el classico...
   sure... i have a student debt... "debt": the % on that
is so low and i need to be earning over £15,000 a year
to pay it off... but... here's the catch...
the debt gets written off after 30 years... or is it 25?
not for the quality of education they're selling people
right do i feel obliged to pay off this debt...
i've learned more once i left university
than i ever learned when i was inside it...

it's like that current job i'm doing...
sure... i might get paid peanuts compared to others...
but you know what some people
to have the sort of view i had
    at the Tyson Fury match? guess...
   oh man... the 25th of June and the 26th and i've
already pre-booked shifts for the Red Hot Chilly Peppers
performing at the London stadium...

i must have mentioned it... the people with S.I.A. training:
ex-military or ex-cons.... or ex-prison workers...
bouncers at doors... they did idiocy problem with
hierarchy... they love the rough and tumble...
so? they get paid more for a license...
oh man... so many of them have beautiful teeth...
smile that a Mongolian might only be envious of when
it comes to the English-man... it's that pretty...

me? i'm a crowd safety steward... ha ha...
or just someone who talks to people...
                       right... but these S.I.A. guys only get
£5 more hour... and where are they when an event takes place?!
outside...
stewards get paid... say... £10 an hour...
but that doe that entail? i get a free ticket...
i'm oh so tempted to change shifts from London Stadium
on the 12th to Wembley Stadium shift...
mammoth shift... starting at 7am finishing at 11pm...

eh.... but i haven't seen monster trucks in action...
and i'd like to see monster trucks in action...
it's almost as if: i'm going on dates with myself...
and i'm not paying for them: i'm getting ha ah ha *******
paid for them...

- knew it would have been good to be true...
i was already gearing up to disappoint from the myth
of a ******* ******* you in a hotel...
or rather... you know the story... stalemate...
but i'm no pompous Walt Whitman or for that
matter a tender Schwob...
              it is what it is... i won't bother her... until bother
her again... once i get paid at the end of June...
or maybe i should just move onto another woman...
i don't want to break her heart
as she said the unattainable words of reciprocating:
i love you....
    i *******...
        if she would have said: i need you...
i don't think i'd still say i love you...
                     of the things that man loves...
cycling... swimming... walking alone in the fields
or in the forests or among mountains...
i dread the idea that women are merely reciprocating
the hopes and ambitions of the most unimaginative men...

come Monday i was gearing up... "forgot" to buy supplies...
by Tuesday i was going full turkey
from a lack of alcohol stimulation and nicotine stimulation...
i was purging... i had the shivers in the night...
i was pretending to have dreams when it fact i was
just hallucinating with my eyes closed:
this one dream? my dead cat.... Oscar Darshan...
was walking in a host of sheep into my abode... to perfection...

i did have a cold... snotty nose... numbing aches
and pains all over my body from Teusday
night through to Wednesday morning... after ingesting
some cider... smoking that cigarette:
there was no fault with the paint! the fault was in:
my fence... to my left... the wood is of better quality...
precision marking: blindly even... to right?!
low quality timber! ******* ******* seagulls *******
while also taking a ****!

that being said: i have to toil by the sweat of
my brow tomorrow...
i have 1 tonne of rough sand to transfer from
the access road to my garden... no wheelbarrow...
old-school way... whichever way that is...
in buckets... shovel... good exercise...

but for someone who's been missing for the past two days...
not bad... i say no bad...
i started to binge watch some of: the good wife...
because... at least it's not drama set in a hospital
and you expect everyone to be sociopathic *******...
now...
    i'm going to have a second cigarette of today and
wonder why this isn't worth 3,000 words....
oh...but there are additions pointers to be made...

what is the usual knock-out blow of alcohol,
nicotine, 250mg of naproxen
500mg of paracetamolum
+ diphenhydramini hydrochloridu (25mg)...

exactly? what was my "detox list of suggestions"?
phenegran (25mg), 2-4-dichlorobenzyl alcohol,
amylmetacrescol,
paracetamol, promethazine, dextromethorphan,
pseudoepherdrine, pholcodine...
ethanol, sucrose, glucose, propylene glycol...

yeah... what a welcome change...
old habits die hard... mind you: i needed to reiterate
being rejected by a ******* from:
****...i wasn't rejected...
            i just felt like a tonne of bricks
at the donkey... sure... even i have dreams...
i'd love to spend the last years of my life
in some region of Russia or Norway...
              maybe that too will be soul crushing when
my time comes...
i've already had the heart of youth crushed by
not being able to find anyone outside the realm
of merely *******...
          "only child syndrome":
               or... simply... how i adapted to what was
to come... the rarity of a large family.

Oh, heavenly kingdom
Above their burning flesh
Above their screams,
Above the rivers weaned
On sentiment and sucrose laughter
The palace walls stretch to an infinity
The emblazoned ceilings of the ever after

The only scribes are the stars expanding
In their language of no understanding
They watch and we wonder, wet with earth
They are the forest of our birth

We know of Time;  we have met
It inspires our final sin, Regret
Still the stars they stare and never speak
In the heavenly kingdom... just out of reach

The following constitutes a rather
twisted as a pretzel SUBTITLE:

I dash with my jiggling ***** in an attempt to escape...
being overrun by teddy bears and beanie babies
while carrying out heavy duty spring cleaning.

Twas the bright idea of zee missus aye air
and dedicate this poem
(yes tis correct, if you bare
lee remember this mister
did formerly she push lee duck clear
addressed said spouse
"my little buttock blaster” endear
ring - for obvious reasons,
and before she begat two 'ere
rip press ably lovely daughters),

anyway thee wife I fear
to publicize contracted a benign
strain sans incurable glare
ring housecleaning malady;
thus far no unpronounceable hair
raising name affixed
to non contagious condition, nevertheless
accursed malady,
whereby to keep her
from auctioning me on eBay,
I squarely hide in root cellar.

She frenziedly scrubbing stubborn stains
from clothes, dishes,
and gamut of hibernating
Oryctolagus cuniculus domesticus
horde (nee motley crue)
entrapping scampering dust bunnies
that come breathing alive
nsync with beastie boy
city rollers culture clubbing babes
upon first spring day
engrossed in this, that,

or some other sweeping floor foray
(analogously to Velveteen Rabbit)
shedding fifty shades of gray
winter coat when warmer temperatures arrive,
where humongous fur clumps would lay
comprising sudden empty raft
of shelf space minus a may
zing globules, oh...lemme get on track,
whence frenzied fever
"cleaning bug" nee
major virus afflicting wife,  

would necessitate impossible task
strapping former feisty Norwegian farm gal
in straight jacket livingsocial every
would be no game to play
24/7 daily challenge devious skullduggery
Smokey and the Bandits
an imp posse sub bill
outlaw gang, who lived
like Aristo curr Rats along the quay,    
which unpredictable timeframe

boot tiring and cruel task
of her life Yukon say
thine remaining lifetime,
that's my wife oye vey
would frank lee zapping
every last oomph of mine
if able twin door remaining with spouse
meanwhile 'till she obviously
plucks persistent sprouting stranded follicle
tiller broad forehead resembles
a minuscule tarmac way.

Though far fetched, not impossible
for me and Joe Six
Pack to become one and the same
since a concerned counterpart
contributes to the mix
cuz, she waves a scolding gold finger
dying with craven craving for sweet licks
to grace tastebuds longing
to savor and dissolve sucrose
in any one of the natural
or synthesized combinations
in an effort whose memory
of a washboard tummy
doth hunger for youth afflicts

recent embarkation since maintaining a diet
of exercise no more pesky heeding "yo dude"  
(you look like a lady),
the inner fitness maven against
temptation of high caloric junk food
and nightly snack king
on a flexible fitness routine,
this lxiv aged body electric feels good
these myopic eyes and
well-calibrated hands measure less dense hood-

winking *****, that if I feigned being
a "bared naked lady" -
asper this chest lewd
city in reference to "man *****"
that seemed to materialize overnight
now appear to decrease as well
that unwanted "love handle,
this chap more inclined
tubby in a greater mood
to parade around

this non-crowded house shirtless
AND definitely NOT in public,
BUT no weigh Jose
would this generic guy go completely ****
cuz being self-consciousness of my physique
might prompt outsiders
to consider me a *****
and even during closed bedroom door
****** exploits deter me tibia rude
fellow (with average go daddy long legs)

and my dangling dipstick smallish
(concluding biology *******)
a chap worthy tube he more endowed,
though gratitude proffered
to same divine cosmic consciousness
but as the year's pile up appreciation
of functional faculties alter matts' at tee 'tude
accepting physical characteristics
more or less static
*** ping believe mass elf ya wood.

Tiny, almost minuscule. Hollow *****,
The weight of petite feathers, silken sinew,
Sown into tensile strength, beguiling.

Beauty in song. Greater than giants.
Chirping out lovely textiles of golds and silvers;
Strong enough to hold universes in place.

Sweet like sugar. Sweeter than honey, elixir
Of baby's breath.  It ***** in air, exhales
Through an ***** the size of a raindrop,

Pushes out sucrose-laden vibrations
Which pour into my ears, my brain, my heart,
Until we both pulsate in an oscillating Self.