People say I'm intense and aggressive
Not camping, just scampering, rampant
I'm too quick to take care and I'm helping
The message is hell bent on answering
All of your questions so let up the pressure!

Chat, chat, chat and you think you're all that
Talk some smack just so you can get back
Launch an attack on the boy in black
That boy so sad he makes me mad
That boy is trash have you seen his raps?
He's so **** suss I really wanna clap
Left right, goodnight, put him in the spotlight
And scrutinise like I have that right

Aye, I bet you think you know me
When all you've seen is nothing really
Yeah, bet it turns you green
To know that I'm better than what you carelessly,
Push away, in rage, that's cute, so sweet
When you stay, enraged, by your own heartbeat.
When you fake til you make and that's why you grin
Guess you don't know that to lie is to sin

Yeah I was the kid who got left out and yes I was the kid who'd always doubt
I was the kid who had no friends and I was the kid who'd get left til the end
Chosen for games as the last called name,
If I couldnt be avoided like I carried black plague,
But look at me now, I stand so proud, and if you try to take this from me I will knock you down!

I bring the rain and you brought pain
So I gave it back like, keep the change
Hate it when you take it
Hypocritically making
Bad choices lately, despise me for saying

So you sneak like a snake and talk behind my back
But it never really cut me so I wouldn't say backstabbed
You never really mattered so I'll be fine
You can drown in your ball pit of lies

While I raise the storm and I right the wrong
While I pave the way and still remain calm
The black dog follows and hounds at my feet
But I am electric you can't bite me!

Stormbringer,
Stormbringer

You could call me Zeus I'm lightning when I move

Stormbringer,
Stormbringer

I'm a Godlike youth that you dream to pursue

Bolt from the clouds comes crashing down
Charging the air like a love affair
Handle with care? I was kicked down the stairs
They called me Zaps so be aware!

That's spaz backwards! Ha! So funny
Now that I'm electric I guess it means something
Now that I write hectic I guess it means cunning
Yeah I'm spastic with my bars but I'm shocking and I'm stunning

You wish you had the talent to grasp words with magnets
And have the power to change the charge like its only magic
And link negative to its own, and vice versa
Take a slasher of a song and make verbal ******

Call out the curses, fill them with hurt and close all your curtains, the sunlight is burning

Go outside and raise your head to the sky
Dark clouds race to claim it all as mine!

Stormbringer,
Stormbringer

Was the reject now I'm relevant

Stormbringer,
Yeah, Stormbringer

It's no dead ringer I was always a winner

Call me a sinner, I eat y'all for dinner
Those who call me a quitter, make claims that I never
Will get any better, when I'm rising forever
When I'm using my head and I'm light as a feather

I told you my name, don't use it in vain,
I gave you my hand, you can't do the same
So trust is reversed and storms start to churn
When I raise my voice it's a third degree burn!

I gave it non-stop what more could you want
When voices persist I'm getting *******
Continual fights and TV highlights
It took me a while but now I realise

Now I realise,
Now I realise!

I'm the Stormbringer....

Stormbringer, your head's like a spinner
Gasping for air, I crushed your throat from a distance, so killer, killer, killer...

Killer, killer, killer...

I shout out and you twirl around
Rotating one-eighty like you're an owl
You look at me foul like a fowl out of bounds so
This is just something for which you're renowned
Back in the day when you used to clown
Now that I'm clowning you're the one running around
What have I done? This isn't fun!
Come at me strong, or come at me none

Back in your cage, the one that you made when you went insane and told me to stay,
Never have I ever followed in your ways
Never would I ever listen to you persuade

You'd need some skill, and not fumble your speech
I've seen examples, week after week
Calling me out saying that I'm a creep
When I used to feel to get by I must sneak

Now the tides turned, I'm friends with Poseidon
I'm a demigod and you're just a pirate
Plundering the ***** of your best mates
What? You don't like the **** I say?

Aww...

But I am no fraud
I am my own mob
I'm raising my head,
To inflict what I got!

Sweet lips encrusted in sugar from the hot doughnuts at the steam fair.
Baked in the dusty sunshine of an August afternoon in North London.
I would roam these streets from childhood into adulthood,
Drinking £2,50 wine at bus stops only to get thrown out of the pub for illusionary bathroom shots
Our real crime? Being too young.

Since then, i have drunk Spanish manzanilla in an old tobacco store room
Transformed into a house where wafts of old book smell mingling with the scent of baked terra cotta and lemon trees sweeps down dark corridors revealing hidden gems of traveled souls.
Where there are streets that belong to Phoenician women , Arab traders , Christian crusaders and now the Spanish folk
All these names we go by , yet still human we stand

Up on roof tops, smoking sneaky roll ups to the elegance of storks
Building nests on church domes and castle walls
Monuments to remind the future
Graffiti on the natural landscape , the ruins read " we waz ere"

From shores of the Atlantic to shores of the Atlantic
Brooklyn rises
The night bus to eat pizza alarmed me
How were the buses so different ?
London's told you where you were
New York's Made you suss it out for yourself
In the company of a Father i hardly knew and the Mother of my new sibling
Child ,
Who will you become ?
Shaped by the contrast of your parents skin , your curled hair yet to emerge from fresh formed follicles
Rest easy ,
This world Ain't so harsh

I found God at the bottom of a bowl of noodles
Simply sitting there , lazing about as i licked my lips of the residual chillies and sugar
I deal in the order of paradoxes
Born by the sea only to grow up in the 'so called' luxury of the cities jungle
Although, resting now in the moon soaked mountain air ,
no city can compare, to the fragrance of flowers that bloom and scent only for those who brave the night

I used to be afraid of the dark ,
Now i make love with it.

My next door neighbour
Is again kicking up a fuss,
So I creep up to the window
To see if I can suss,
I can't feel but upset
Is there something I dont get?

All the accolades up on the wall;
Fathers puffed out chest,
Misses in a fur shawl.
Memories framed everwhere
So many styles of hair!
Tickets to only the best shows
At front row yeah you dun kno!

I look away and with jealous dismay,
The latest car of this day you can finance with this pay unused on the drive way!

Suitcases packed, postcards sprawled on the wall,
Sun burnt in the chritmas islands
Been drenched from Niagara falls.

I look back in my window
Its all grey and dull.
There aint no one writing good times on my wall.
No happy birthdays, no pictures to share,
How can I prove that I existed?
Its like I wasn't even there.

Its bare because privacy is something that I care for,
Places I've been, therefore, I haven't captured those moments in time
Through components that engineer a digital eye.

But still, I can't help but wander into that snippet of their lives,
And wonder why it can't be mine.

But if only I could actually go through that door.
Living room on my right,
door locked tight,
The rest of the house is as grey and bleak as mine!?

Skeleton hands closing closet doors,
Not so distant relatives travelling alone in the halls.
The friendly ghosts of schools past,
Will tell you what they thought of them last; revealing why they no longer a part.

Neglected pets, ex's to forget, nasty little texts that capsized lives into wrecks.
Used baggies and tickets, earthy daggers and spigots that buried all the nasty and ***** secrets.
All the zits, the emptied makeup bags.
That was used as a mask to hide the upset and sad.

I peep in the living room (just one more time).
Yes, it's brighter than mine,
But I realise that I dont parade my life.

Peoples square or round window are always exciting but never do they let you look further in because it will unfurl their world and you might just start to realise they are just like everybody else!

Gosh, they are moddest when they are praised!
But no attention, well their wall will get another decorate until someone succumbs, ups a thumbs and shouts out 'you're great!'

My living room is better than yours!
There's these unwritten rules
Of the modern day society norms.

Get yourself into debt, when do you next jet set?
Aw your kid has taken their first step! What a pet!
Big bright signs signal the window display
"Look at my life, it's greater than great!"

Everyone, All role up this way
"I need you to see how my life is great.
Please don't go away"
Now their brain is racing, the fame needs chasing,
All for barren validation

Walking the dog
is more than a yo-yo trick-
More than a water-logged stick
thrown far into a steel colored lake
Watching as a circling hound
paddling *******, as it wakes
intent legs cycling beneath surface tensions
not far removed from floating penchant
tries to suss out submerged desires
jettison old interest in new branch
mesmerized by miraculous hand magic
amending a perplexed carte blanche
turning in furtive swim back to shore
and wringing out a backbone shake
honest eyed and loyal told
mute but for a movement's bent arch

-cec

Stinking Thieves and Degenerates thus proudly declared
We will drive you paranoid, give you ******* brain cancer
We will put hot things in your head, head lice they blared
We will plant dissenting seeds in your mind by our passers
Chatter and natter with toxic germination brain  furrowed

With poisons, fears and doubts we'll polluted your mind
We are the majority and we'll recruit followers in numbers
Build a pyramid of lies and hassles to hound and down grind
One tell ten and onwards, chinese whispers makes you to wonder
Peck like vultures at your life  with harassments that's unkind

In our putrid pond, caves and gutters a Grass is what you are
Goody shiny two shoes who stays aloof thinks he's better than us
Whistle clean, no crime or stains, how pompous, how you dare
Evil and destruction is our wont, purity is anathema go you suss
We'll sling mud, blacken you, weaken you and lay you bare

Go call your Jesus to save you, see if he dares tussle with the pack
The ******* cemetery is full of Saints who we've offered free rides
Showed them the Hell we make for good people before we wack
We'll get in your head and mind and trounce your soul with hide
We are knaves, criminals and reprobates and we have the knack

Yes, we burgled and stole from you, that's our trade, what we do
We are criminals not ******* Mother Teresa saving the poor
You work hard to acquire, we work hard to acquire, isn't it so
Then you chose to grass us up, ruin our trade and shut our doors
see what happens to upright and legit, jobless, lonely and broken too.


Hahaha....hahaha.....hahaha.....next!
Brother watch out, it could be you..............

Taking Care of Body Parts

Take care of the body parts.
All the same, remember that
Most of what is going on,
Is going on inside you.

Organs, blood, I don’t-know-what,
Brain, realms therein.
All in-, invisible.
Cause encased:
To be addressed.

Take care of the body parts.
They show.
It’s nice and comfortable to know
                                   they work,
And more than that:
A pointer signal to research
The itch that doesn’t cease,
The lump or bump, the crease
Here, there or anywhere.  

Of course take care,
But find what’s there -
And not.
Fix the flub on neck and throat.
Booboo unattractive,
But beware, take care and ‘suss it out’.

Remember,
No appendage or a member
Is the issue.
It’s what’s going on inside
That describes the living you.

Taking Care Of Body Parts 3.22.2017
Circling Round Yoga; Nature of & in Reality;
Arlene Corwin


Of course!

When it seems all the world wants to sell me on painkillers, you face the troubled of all sorts with a scalpel and a wink. Even when those stitches holding your own spitshined heart together are looking a little iffy.

Since childhood, we’ve floundered like fish out of water both longing for the sea, but with age, I think that you and I have come to view the ocean in very different ways.

What I see as an adventure, you’ve always seen as home.

The sea could never quite mystify someone who’s strived to be more siren than human. No, unlike the flower from which you were named, your real garden patch is present with the planets.

You make me want to be as stalwart as Stonewall, and save my wishing well quarters for the pigs who tried to suss out every non-straight playing broad through her suit clothes, so that on the days where the face of my best friend's assaulter bears down like the man in the moon, she’ll preserve her beautiful, blessed hands by halting her fist before it can hit any wall.

Apparently, you’ve been learning Russian on a whim since age eleven. You love tattoos and art in it's sometimes most tantric forms. The firm and sometimes too-firm handshake between aesthetic and soul, and what, дорогая сестра, is more human than that?

And you called yourself cynical.
Yet when the life of a honeybee means so much in your hands, I can’t understand how you tried to scorn the weight of the world. You found beauty in banana slugs, and I have to believe you do not know your own self.

Seeing you make sense of other people, I now believe that mermaids are incredibly self-conscious, so when we asail our Somali plundered doubloons, blood diamonds, pearls of tortured oysters, and other ill-gotten goods back into the sea, may we feel we’ve done our duty when they see their own reflections for the first time and become narcissists.

Because of you, I tried for the first time to love myself, because like it or not, this is what I’ve got. What we’ve got. The most detached tag team duo the world’s never seen.

But on the day that I finally throw the dragon’s den fortune of our mother back into the mariana trench from which she and the sessions family came, I’ll think back to the time where she said that, as siblings, we’d grow up to be best friends. But let’s face it, we have both lost a lot of best friends, though you are the only one of all those come and gone who’s yet to steer me wrong. Okay, that’s a fat lie, because for a second of my life you convinced me to believe that you are cynical.

Comparing your stride to the rest of the world’s, I will never again judge somebody for the way they walk. Even if they have to drag themselves, kicking and screaming from point A to point B, the last thing a person needs is another stranger stepping on their lifeline.

I hear of everything you're doing, day in and day out, think of all the times this world’s nearly lost you, and I remember the statue in our neighbor’s front lawn. A little girl-an angel- with butterflies landing atop her precious hands. Then I realized that to be an angel statue means you can never reach out for more, and suddenly, I know why you always preferred cyborgs.

it would seem,
   a maine **** cat, male, is best appeased
by a shoelace...
     hardly a comparison
aligned to the master mikhail bulgakov...
this cat doesn't drink *****,
or play chess...
nor does it drink wine...
      it prefers sushi shrimps and
       sushi trout eyes...
and... shoelaces... for a game...
as i too might, imagining being infested
by a tapeworm...
shoelaces: but no shoes
   do women really keep cats for
replacement company therapy sessions?
i just keep cats as the last
resort format of a curiosity
learning curvature... they're just weird,
or rather, of all the petted animal,
so subtly idiosyncratic...
  i have too many nicknames for them...
the male? quarus? osama bind laden:
the terrorist... the aria king...
   bodzio when he's wanting
to cling to head-butting you as a greeting...
   pavarotti...
          he meows to the point of howling
come 4am...
   the female? veroniya?
       ss-obersturmbannführer,
witch,
            tyson fury when she's trying
to hide her "oopsie" of a ****'s worth...
jaws... since her tail is always upright...
like a shark's fin when she's strutting...
oh but animals have their character...
   less visible in dogs...
    give it enough time:
you're bound to spot it among / in cats...
even a cow was a character dynamic
proding suss... however subtle...
most people don't encompass a capacity
to encompass this sort of
                    gift.  

.and some would claim that there exists, a contradictory-"******" related to the psyche of suicides... it would appear the mere thought of suicide is a "disgruntled" variation of arousal, nay, the mere thought is more potent than a ****** arousal... it's less the ultimate taboo, but the ultimate fetish... why blame those, who have managed to satisfy this urge? my father never complained about suicides, he had a story, where his friend committed suicide, becausde his father was ******* his girlfriend, and he, simply, reached the threshold of what was acceptable, for his psyche to manifest a will inclined to entertain life, rather than that omniscient lover, death... i've come to realise that death, is... as ****** as whatever harlequin / de sade ******* allows, nay, more... how mere thinking can create an arousal, of goosebump testicles, imitating a ***** dynamic, without really achieving a hard-on, rather, a protruding tongue, silenced, which gives the hands momentum, to doodle, something, akin to this; suicide is forever going to be, the exacted limit of passing a free will judgement, however wrong... if the argument goes: humans are without free will, a suicide will always provide the antithesis; i've had a fwend (" ") once, who wanted to shame michael hutchence for his suicide... one brave ******* in all honesty... to experience that sort of a metaphysical ******, well... don't know what it would feel like... any science is contrary to the details, given that... all your "proof" is ascribed to the dead... but at least a philosophical mind-set provides, some groundwork, for imagining a counter-argument, and... the justification for the most "abhorrent" expression of free will... it feels good, to be left without the shackles of the free will argument, that excludes the act of suicide; that's the 1st step: if someone can't commit themselves to suicide, then... man has no free will... there's nothing quiet like engaging with a conscious choice, freed from conscience, whatever post mortem arguments come after, don't even matter... flimsy ******* sparrows, scheming and fluttering of wings! fly! fly! be free! be free!

                           tim pool:
being gay is not a choice,
being religious is,

except the whole
bureucratic fiasco
of the catholic church

the whole pro-life
and pro-baptism...

   i made it blatantly clear
that i didn't want
to be baptißed,
when i dissented from
having to be
confirmed...

mind you:
one great aspect of a catholic
school?
   uniforms...

yeah... i guess you don't
get to create a group
dynamic borrowed
from clothing,
there's no high-school "culture"
that later translates itself
into a resentment culture
that lends the high-school
years as blueprint,
for "extracurricular" activities
of: the motivational life
(aspect)...

i can't remember being
asked whether
i wanted to be baptißed
or not...
i do remember being
asked to be confirmed...
i declined...

so... i am an apostate,
but for that to have any
clingy-meaning,
you'd need catholic
bureucracy to imply
"something"...
nothing protestant:
*****-nilly on the side...

   an uncircumcised man
succumbs to the allure
of hebrew mysticism
and (g)nosticism...
   namely the qabbalah...

oh sure, sure,
i was going to side with
the younger devil
(islam) on matters
of my, "christianity"...
i was going straight
to the jews to find
reasonable answers...

      oh ****...
    i should have done that
protestant "thing"
of borrowing from
either buddhist or hindu...
****...
must have slipped my
'ed.

i still don't understand how h'american
adult life translates itself from
a resentment of the h'american high-school,
if it does not lend itself to
the critique associated with faith schools,
and uniforms...
                 at least in english,
catholic high-schools...
everyone was made uniform,
akin to joining the army...
an army of jesuits...
         h'american public schools,
and their non-uniform policies...
bad idea...
       we had about 3 non-uniform days
in school, we were allowed to not wear uniforms,
as long as we gave money to a charity cause...

i hate the notion of the genesis
of culture, being excavated from h'american
public schools, where uniforms were deemed:
non-complicit...

i liked the uniform,
it's the closest i ever came to my father's
stint in the ****** army...
           being the most handsome,
recruited for the "royal guard" equivalent...
i.e. the republican guard...
pretending soldier status...
shooting blanks, at state funerals in
a "bargain" of the salvo...

thank god i never attended a public
school, i liked my catholic school uniform...
i never dressed to impress...
i never made a cultural backdrop out
of it... there was never a piggy-bank's
worth of a twilight saga to bank on...
     thank god not all of h'america
left the shores of america...
  thank god some of it: stayed in its place;

what?!
  
      i live in england...
  why wouldn't i whistle the le marseillaise
alongside the british grenadiers' fife and drum,
rather than... oh god... god save the queen / king?
the most ****** national anthem in
world history...

  sorry, i can't...
                it's a ****** anthem...
              at least the russians and the scots have
the grounds for an anthem covered...
****... beside vaughan williams...
    elgar?! that's it?! no wonder.

The public debate
a political *******
reminds me
why I hate.

But that's Eton and Harrow not
Toxteth or Jarrow.
I leave the politics to them,
the Southern gentlemen

Up in the shires where men walk on tight wires
and dance to a different song is
where I belong,
from the Midlands to the Tyne where
they drink beer and leave the wine is
another place in time
a place for me.

And while Atlanta burns the gentlemen shall all take turns to **** upon the fire.
but when the hands of 'Ben' unlock and count the votes there'll be a shock when some old lady gets the keys to number ten,
we all remember them old days, the three day week, the hide and seek, the suss', the stop and search, the powers that interrupt, corrupt and end in a debate,
a state of the nation more infiltration, less liberation, more *******,
the public schools have fooled us all,
we're *******, but we don't know it yet
we'll get the letter in the post,
the most that we can hope for.

what i would tell you about the posies
that gather around
when they overhear my voice
calling out your name,
none would say the same.

for them,
caroused near the streams
that few perennials are but discerned;
springtime only passes by,
and then they are gone.

but how are they able to suss as such?
when these rosebuds
unlatch themselves
only when you are here?

Do you really know who you're talking to?
When you chat on the internet
When you play some online games
It's like playing 'russian roulette’

You think you're talking to a youngster
But it could be a grown-up
Hoping for a pic of you
Taken in close-up

They'll chat to you and suss you out
They'll flatter and cajole
Even though your mum and dad
Have installed parental control

They may try to groom you
And arrange for you to meet
We need to teach our children
To be far more discreet

To never disclose where they're living
Or where they go to school
If they have serious misgivings
To tell a parent is not uncool

The internet can be great
Helpful information it can provide
Don't leave it too late
In an adult you must confide

Be vigilant, keep yourself safe
Don't keep suspicions inside
Report suspect net users
Don't give them time to hide

Pull* "The dog says: 'Bark'"
Pull "The cat says: 'Meow'"
Pull "The human says: 'The human says: 'The human says: 'The human says: 'The human says: 'The human says:......

The human says: 'I can understand that.'
                               Sternly command that.
                               shear and plow and smelt and can that
                            
                               I can make a plan
                               to catch and **** and roast and feast
                               on that hard quill and bristle beast

                               And I can stain his image on the living rock
                               no, not to mock
                               But to remember what feats we drew
                              up from ourselves
                               As the javelins flew
              
                              My hands are clever
              They chip the stone, and scrape the wood,
                      and wind the sinew

             My tongue is cleverer still
             My words are the creeping shadow of my  thoughts
             And just as a shadow is drawn along behind,
                     and stretches in the late dying sun
             And snaps to attention in the noonday swelter, to heel,                                                  obedient
­             My words precede me, and linger behind, and snap to my side to attack
             And defend
             And manipulate

             For well you know, dear reader
             That words move men to move mountains
             They can drive him to brave the tusks and teeth
              And reward him with praise, as the fire flickers against portraiture
             Of a hundred beasts
             Deadly, proud, roaring
             And in the end, delicious.

            How splendid am I
            To suss out basic truths
            From straight-line scratches
            In the dirt
            I can learn the rules
            of all that ever was
                            And to learn, is to understand,
            is to become unfettered
            
            I can cleave, dissect, *****, inject
            And figure it all out
            And learn from a loosing bout
            
             Every monster brought low
              will be investigated
              To see how we can end him easier

Until the last monster
Is man himself

you and i
we hate cliches
just another thing we have in common
another amongst the many, niche
shared interests that broaden
the connection
between us two

i fancy myself a writer
you used to teach english
so both of us cringe when hearing advice
like "love is blind" given to someone in relationship anguish
and that's why it pains me to be the inciter
asking for communication so precise
having to risk looking foolish
or even losing you completely
as i look in your eyes and say to you
"so... what are we?"

but as much as it pains me
uttering a phrase so trite
what would pain me moreso
would undoubtedly be suffering through another night
of trying to suss out what's going on in your head
or falling asleep alone, again, and thinking that i would be better off dead
set against the notion of losing sleep
over a heart that simply is not mine to keep
so i take a breath and i steel my nerves
to summon the courage to ask for the love i deserve

In the before, before we ever were
We were the primordial
Till our ascendant transitions
Overtook our **** poor positions
On the rearranging food chain

When we changed to five fingered beings
With high octane ape brains
Transcending our vocal limitations
With new sonic imitations

A long lineage lining up
For one improvement then the next
Rising with each step on the DNA stairway
Loosing and gaining, gaining and loosing
Till, organs become vestigial
And even we cannot suss out
Their original purpose

We barely know the steps
To this historic dance
Just taking each adaption
As a matter of chance

Till tired tangents separate
Grow and aggregate

A billion years finds us here
Stewing in fear of
Our own irrelevance
Not knowing that by growing
Such creative brilliance
We have discovered
Our own non-magical miracle

Twigs sprouting leaves
Protein powered trees
Our heritage ascending to the state of
Such a prodigious poetic primate

Wake up and smell the coffee, focus as the pan flips,
Time for the rat race and its monotonal semantics,
Suss out agendas - get ahead of the mind tricks,
Brush over simple truths with pointless lies and politics.

Another year gone - stale memories as the frost licks,
Dignity diminished, allegiance pledged to bosses,
Anticipating failure as you organise your post-its,
Institutionalising life, leaving no room for chances.

Clutching at a purpose yet defeated as the clock ticks,
Finding closeness in distance and solace as the storm hits.

(So few realize the power of words
or is it my ability with words that confounds?
I am a talented man
even so a Pretender
I'll bring you over to my side
until you suss it out for yourself
that my side
is the last place you want to be)

Seven short stanzas for you to get lost in
you could breeze through in two minutes
you could get lost in my thoughts, spend half the day
lofty as they are, I laid them out just for you
swinging the bulky mallet of my cynical opinions
I'm sure to thump your cranium at least once or twice
before you find that word that stands a fortress
between what you've read and who you've been
when you'll take your own ****** mallet
and tear it down

What will you find when the veil has been torn?
more sneaky words
misguided snarky sentiments
you're fascinated by my judgment of divinity
though those words are fragile, practically meaningless
you see something much more sinister
the Pretender cannot deal in sincerity
nets for brutal fishermen casting lines to men

The Pretender can't play by the rules
he doesn't have to
he notices the list of "weak" words is almost as long as the list of "strong" words
somehow he isn't bothered
knowing full well that his purpose has been accomplished

The abstraction is bad/cliche
the Pretender should be showing
as opposed to telling
I'm telling you
it's a lost cause

You saw 37 lines with only 5 stanzas
I'm *******

Scared?

schizophrenics? oh you mean the professors? the charles xaviers of this world? there's a few, statistics suggest about a 100 : 1 ratio... nothing special in terms of rarity... nonetheless, a telesensivitos acquired against all hopes, of turning it into a telepathy, or a telekinesis... i'd still prefer people think about their symptom, dreaded as it is, as a sensitivity which minds, regarding the existence of a soul, and experiences the materialistic "reality" of people, who give no foundation for exploring the theme of uprooting their body from the matter and the dead that binds the eyes to decay, and lifting it toward the status of the ethereal... it's plain and simple with me: sorry professors, you have to sense these materialistic endeavours in others, who'd lie that it's you.

is it just me?
  why do i find that the lack of medical
dualism, i.e. regarding depression
as the physical abnormality
of lethary,
i.e. a brain in a pickle-jar:
is emerging as the "hippocratic"
  dichotomy of the motto:
i will inflict no harm,
should i find no alleviation...
human rights my ***...
   spread of democracy my ***...
you group the mentally "ill"
with the retards...
you're breaking something
of worthwhile consideration...
for some reason
psychiatry exists within
the sphere of medicine:
but outside the sphere
of the hippocratic oath...
irony?
  i don't think so,
"mental illness" has more
of a political basis
than a medical term...
since few people find
interest in it...
   i can count england
as a proud violator of
psychiatric endeavour...
  and, in that anti-cartesian
narrative i have in my
head...
  most of the time it's
not cogito ergo sum that
pops into my head...
rather?
    3, tiny words, as follows:
go **** yourself,
and i stress the most hidden
of sarcasm's worth
ever expressed...
          again:
   psychiatry is in the sphere
of medicine, but it's
   outside the sphere
of the hippocratic oath...
i was talking to this one
schizophrenic in a dark alley
and he said be unfathomable
stories from an asylum,
he cited anti-psychotic
medication...
   you know he said?
'oh, those pills had the effect
on my friend in the asylum,
where he grew a pair of ****!'
my my... ain't that a truth
worth remembering...
   so what's supposed to be
anti-psychotic medication,
is akin to hormone pushers?
i bet the guy didn't want
to join the transgender community...
      then again,
what if you took that strait-jacket
off him, and sent him down
the track, competing with
castor... ****, sorry, caster semenya,
you think he'd... she'd, it'd win?
god knows i tried jerking off
to that 8th wonder of the world...
but that's what psychiatry is...
covert sadism,
     institutional sadism...
     psychiatry entertains the notion
of being medicine,
   while in fact remaining outside
the hippocratic dogma...
no dentists really wakes up one
day and say: time to pull out the wrong
teeth...
rarely a surgeon says to himself:
make sure you forget and leave
a surgical tool in the body after sewing
it up post-operation...
   well... given the "medical"
angle of philosophy and buddha's "wise"
sayings about the illusion
of the cognitive self...
       i'm pretty **** sure
a lot of psychiatrists wake up and say:
time, to, play, and **** around
       with this guy's or this gal's ego
matrix of thought.
   sure, the self, otherwise known in
existentialist texts as the "self" can be
illusionary, but sure as **** sherlock:
thinking ain't.
    i even managed to hear a confession
from one psychiatrists,
   he even brought a psychiatry student
to suss me out...
   all i did was take out my cognitive "mirror"
and hear him ramble out
   a sentence:
   he must have been abused, as a child.
me? abused?
    sure, i had an alcoholic grandfather...
   but it's also the same grandfather
that sometimes buys my cigarettes,
        and, fair to say:
bought me the philosophy library
  of the *gazeta wyborcza... 25 books...
the one i spent most of my summers with...
clearly this sinjit broopatal of a psychiatrist
(he was asian, sorry) was
talking about himself,
   slip of tongue, and i started thinking:
did he mean to think that,
or say it out-loud?
             psychiatry deems itself
a medical profession,
   yet its practice and ethical condunct
lies outside the hippocratic oath.

I am broken bruised used up body
You are an empty ruse
Used to suss me out
Fork in road tongued snake
Eating up all the leftover soul goodness

You can squeeze the life out of me
Smiling up at you grateful
My fallen angel Prometheus

DARK FOREST
I am the dusky woods.
Deep darkness is my core and zest.
Dark forest, someone's life is happening there.
To get themselves  lost is there only fear .
Everyday  i see huge fire flying in the air suss !! its the fancy imagination.
Carved is someone's own creation .
Hue winds are frilling around .
Neon is the world round .
S s s !!hey !! I m there in million colors , i m there in every imagination , i m there in deep sea , i m in you .
To get me there are only few.
If you get that dark, deep forest in your core Dancing is your inner being in me, its the addiction of nature trance.
As , THIS CREATURE'S SOUL IS ADDICT OF NATURE TRANCE .........

Rope to ***** the weather, sweet sixteen dreams
The mirror tells we can have some fun in teams
I can't find my reflection anymore, searching in eloped reconnaissance streams
Lassoes in the sky, stealing cars under the starlight standing in strong dreams
Another day in paradise, looking better in paraplegic purging preteens
The electric fuzz on your face touches my standing goosebumps gleam at the ****** seams
Bumblepuppy acolyte turning at the prongs of the tattered road, calling up your Hessian friend and making politics right at the sanguineous pea-brain lean veal after the mob gets out on Russian ruby streets running with honesty
On the other side of the world, where the sun sets and polite moonrock never survive on The Berlin Wall tonight abseiling away sealed away, waiting for the ballot or the ballet
Waiting for the limelight to subside, guts tellin' me to keep my self in lowly mad hatters tied to napes, hundreds hanging by weather reports claps in laughter, descending tents by the brook beaming at us in starry dynamo of the thousands
Losing himself in a lucid dream of what was once the world's reality now sleeping, dead presidents in stygian darkness
Hanging on to the word of the weatherman, crime is rising in Russian motherless children hung for misdemeanor looking for a metaphor, the nation understands and wants to know us
Ukraine leave us from the 1990s, too late the third stone from the sun has taken three turns, we are at the trapdoor
Resurrecting the insurrection, pejorative for misnomers and draconian dead beats sibilant suss
Too bad I see the whole earth, on my body stains on laconic red flags, still fly indeed
Flying in the wind, like idiots in the weatherman's underground cuss dirt into the report sowing dead seeds
Unable to see the sun behind cold clouds in stormy weather, battered suitcases breeze by murmurs talking by-lines and stolen **** in ****** underwear ****** unable to breed
Then, the bombs falling and shifting with changeling wind charred sun under the unbeing reading in the Aurelius light
Thousands in the starry dynamo might outshine us all and the nation can't hold us back and keep us far from the fault in stars
The silver lining in the cloud, puerile virile as lady lying Glasnost to the prognostic benzedrine patient
I've never seen a can in hang in stormy weather
Charting out the Chinaman on the hydrogen shore, communism is on the brink of helium war with itself, viscerally hanging from Tomorrow's daughter
Whipping up the foamy sea like cold ice nostrums thawed in search of the antidote to warm red planets named after Roman Gods
Looks like the sea lord created a thalassocracy for the sea cursed by memos and pastiche, droll parody in the mewling hall of the rebuke of free-prose poetry hanging on the tinkering lampshade
Touch me now, never or now bullish books read the list of people who were once on this winding road just like us shining crummy ******* now in a handful of stardust
Being is tougher than living, and the berserk wind keeps changing
Under forked lightning, it gets worse when the spoon picks me up
In my wet dreams, I'm killing myself hurting to find if you can put your mind to this cornish dream of Cavendish and hashish
Stuck in the stitches, and the ******* don't drip blood and sweat it
Ukraine leave us from the 1990s, too late the third stone from the sun has taken three turns already
Murders on the mystery train, never reach the orient station looking for a whimsical refill
Halting sloth the indolent, I remember redolently like moth attracting to the blazing coruscating gleam, that's when a screaming teen becomes an upstart or a fiend
With an iridescent grin, caviling on the shore asking more from jackknifed business kitsch photos of the crosses
Throwing them in the trash, just like that
Ire of the nation broken with the lugubrious sleep of dinners after the summer's madness, hurt by the locked hearts in an armed madhouse looking at everything like geniuses
Asking what does it mean? Motifs and everything, lintels on the fluorescent signs on numinous streets caressing our wires, hanging by the piano wire
Waning adolescence now has a name in Hades' beard made of fiery pubescence that doesn't wanna listen
Tantamount to the king's orders, ligature marks on the hands that only know cuffs
The que glibly glistens in the lively dungeon
Hosted by bacchanal and mistresses, Elizabeth Bathory in the company of friendly books full of picturesque pedestrians on the streets of angry murders with ****** sleeved shirts
Blackened lackeys looking for a toss of change or pederasty with Countess Dracula
Moloch, you have made my life changeable despite skiffs
Moloch, I hang in the balance of the skirmishes of scorching fire burning at the midriffs
Easter bloc, ropes hanging for whoever doesn't wanna burn in the witch fire, sold for 200 pounds in a dilapidated home, till the berserk wind blows the candle out, old under Tudors that say a lot in a few words about style in art as slavery is merrily rampant
Killing the people, in the name of the republic of 1968 reminiscent of Phoenician Lands, rueful murmurs arouse the twisted looks turning out the traitors
From the rapidly changing wind, that brushes our hair and kills the pain of hanging to our families in bunkers
From the road of hope, I find some affliction in the forgiveness
Of my lord in whom I find breadth, heareth, endeth the breath that lendeth thy will, in the lengths of my souls searching for horizons in Old Earth
I died with my elegy in 1968, the wind still hoists flags in my name in death three years in the latter

let's exchange mercy, and be done with these tiresome discords...
to better suss the remedy to our distemper, and quell the shrieking
mule of our workaday demise.
let's be more than friends
let us summon the quilt of all our charms
to feather our bed of nails... and together, lurch into breezy
aplomb. let's become one.

the kind of one that nothingness looks up too.

The ******* of plenty has time for romancing absurdities
Mother Parliament hugs and soothes and nannies don't rest
Mummy P has the wet rag and the dettol for glazed brusies
Off you run eternal kids to life playgrounds for there's no test

Look Free milk for you drink and grow like giraffes in zoos
Jason that's not your father he's just a man I met at the pub
Your dad's not working but he gets a free weekly cheque too
School is free but you really don't have to go just sit in a hub

Do whatever you like and listen to nobody cause you're free
Coppers are pounces so give them no respect pay them no mind
Shaun and Alan mugged a Pensioner now on a spending spree
No worries mate they'll just rob again to pay the Court's fine

Can't read and write properly so what's the effing bother man
You'll still get your check mate..haha after-all it's not your fault
Did you beg them you want to learn when it's better to get a tan
My mate's father JC can teach us how to pick and unlock a vault

There's chinese and Kebab, Pizza, Pies, Fried Chicken and Chips
Can never go hungry Parliament provides everything you need
Rent paid an Free Medical care when you fight and bust your lips
I reckon they should pay us when we poke ***** Joan and Coleed

We're bored, Nannies is too busy running around to play with us
Lets go rob some more and vandalize and get rat arsed and ******
We can commit crimes and give those Coppers some work to suss
Or look for a lone small Asian man and batter him with our fists

Poor Mother Parliament work day and night and blames herself
If only there's enough money all these bad attitudes will go away
My kidadults will be good model citizens with prizes on shelves
And immigrants can run the ****** country while I ******* !!

i'm in a bad way, in a really bad way -
i'm sleeping less, i'm eating less,
i'm not thinking about anything but her -
what she's feeling...
i already figured out something:
she's looking for an "engineer" of sorts,
her father was a ca-car mechanic...
my tongue is wondering into blah blah
my blood pressure is shooting
through the roof, i'm getting cramps
in my stomach: butterflies my ***...
well i wish it was a gentle ferris wheel
down there in my guts...
but it's more like a ******* zero gravity
ride... that mad one where if you had
big chunks of cheek on you they'd be
flapping like a bulldog's!
nervous, twitchy, i still have to complete
my qualifications for this job
but... no... oh come on... get out of my head!
i haven't felt this authentically sick
in a long time... i'm rattled... i'm a teenager
again... giddy loved-up fool! fool!
- and that's what i'm saying... i've just done
a Harry Windsor...
                                  what an irony: well no,
there's no ****** irony in any of this!
at 35 you'd think i'd be more sensible,
that i'd listen to advice...
                          but it's not like i was on
the dating market, that i ever dated...
we're just working together... but already
we've been on our first coffee "date"...
and yeah, i paid for it...
                            the kid will most certainly
hate me, parents are leaving
for Jamaica in a week for two weeks...
if she wants to be taken out i'd say:
want to come over? what would you like
to eat? gnocchi, some other pasta?
a steak... you like a curry? oh, you're into Chinese?
you want chairman Mao's red braised pork
belly? i can make that...
what movie you want to watch?
i have hundreds on DVD... what wine would
you like? you'd rather sip some wine
while i put on a vinyl... i have plenty of jazz vinyls...
you're not into jazz... i have some other crap...
scented candles? something stronger
than wine? absinthe, whiskey, cognac?
you want to bring a swimsuit so we can
jump into the jacuzzi.... yeah... it's in the garden...
in a "shed"...
              if i don't get slightly tipsy in the next
hour or so i'm going to be a right ol' wrecking ball...
better: i'll be a nervous wreck...
but at least that's the next few poems taken
care off... because i don't think i'll be writing anything
else about anything else...
oh for ****'s sake... i'm back to listening to some
Roxette and Bon Jovi... what's next?!
you give love a bad name, bad medicine,
watercolours in the rain... fading like a flower
(do you get) exited?
why did i ask for her number? oh, right, i wanted
clarification about how we were coming back
from Oxford and Dan's people-carrier
broke down by Potter's Bar - the clutch gave in,
he was unable to change gears and
the revs were spinning into the region of 4
while going at 20mph...
so she paid for the Uber... went down the most
picturesque windy avenues of the Essex
countryside, via Loughton - places i know from
having cycled down them...
god... i'd love to take her cycling in the summer...
if she would be up to it... have a picnic
in a field... **** in the shade of an oak...
oh: hello La La Land... if i was diagnosed
as a schizoid once before: now diagnose me...
loved up idiot... and it's not like she's some
stunning 20 year old and i'm gagging
to pass on my genes... like i already said...
pass my genes?
oh sure... that ends up well...
by the time i might have a child...
that's 1/2 of me... by the time there are grandchildren
there's only a 1/4 of me left... 1/8, 1/16, 1/32 etc.
as much as i am "love" with her...
infatuated? crazed? i'm also thinking about
the inverse ratios... a potential little Frankenstein
monster... my thinking could be passed
on... not the entire, whole narrative...
bits and scraps... well... that implies
a sort of cognitive cloning... there might be a 2/1
of me by the end of it...... then 4/1, 8/1, 16/1 of me...
i guess that's why i started writing...
- and i am so completely terrified imagining that
people might suss me out, figure out that
i have a crush... how much of theoretical
poker do i have to play to supress outright showcasing
my feelings while at the same time continually
making incursions on the charm-front?
- Matt! get your **** together, why are you
perched on the windowsill with your hand
over your mouth!
- conscience? ego? who are you, why such a silly
question?!
so i figured she has an archetypical figure in mind,
like her father, a car mechanic...
oh, sure, sure, i can add some spare parts
to a DIY problem... but i'm primarily a wordsmith...
most Slavs are...
i've already texted her some music recommendations,
"meditation" music... i'm already talking
to her about her son's name, the etymology
of Fredrick... very Germanic, like my second
name, Conrad... blah blah... no... of course
i wouldn't call him merely Fred... lazy-*** English
way of shortening names...
i woke up today and had a thought...
sky... tree... oak... red... sun...
those are absolute nouns...
everything that composes the natural world is
an absolute noun...
since it has no origin from man's creativity...
therefore? i cannot generalise an absolute
noun under the guise of: nothing...
something, anything, everything, or merely: thing...
the sun is not a "thing": it's the sun...
a tree is not a "thing": it's a tree...
the sea is not a "thing": it's the sea...
mountain, goat, dog, cat... rat...
   but... a bed is not an absolute noun...
a chair is not an absolute noun... hell... let's change
that... these are unconditional nouns...
everything born of man is a conditional noun...
why? look at the simple example
of a car mechanic asking an aid for specific tool...
most of the time he asks for the right tool...
but sometimes he's so involved by his work
that his verbal communication is misplaced
by what the eyes see... he might ask for
a thingymajig... he'll use a misnomer supplied
with the comforting words: you get the picture...
yeah... that THING...
socks are things... but dogs are dogs...
the latter are conditional nouns...
since they are not necessarily minded since
they are used... equipped...
i can't be equipped with a tree... or the sea
or the sky...
so she's looking for someone like her father...
well i know how language works...
i already introduced her to the idea of a prefix
and the suffix: omitting the R i asked:
you son's name is merely Fred? not Fredrick?
is it because of the suffix -****?
no, wait... that's actually an affix -ick (come to think
of it)...
so apart from me spamming her with
a playlist... we moved onto favourite people
in history... it was a challenge... Philip II Augustus...
of the Capetian dynasty...
Frederick II Hohenstaufen...
   that experiment he did with the nuns and
what would later become feral mute children...
because he wanted to find out what language
arrived on earth first... the croaking of the crow?
the growl of the tiger?
the snorting trumpet of the elephant?
i'm here... no... i don't recall how we arrived
of ever being reported...
perhaps that's how we keep going...
by a collective amnesia... we have to forget certain
things in order to pursue life per se,
well... at least writing this little "philosophical"
pieces has allowed me to return to some
balance... being loved up is not good to you:
it uses you up... and there are high chances of
being disillusioned... best prepare for the disillusionment...
- i have to calm down and think
about the world, or at least parts of it...
take for example the transgender phenomenon:
so there has been a backlog in metaphysical inquiry..
well, no surprises, the English speaking world
was always oh so, practical, ergonomic...
it's not like the Russian speaking world still
entombed in a Titanic battle with their prescribed
Greek orthodoxy... lunatics galore...
even this whole grammatical game that's currently
being played... sure... i'm game:
my preferred pronouns are... ONE / WE...
that's the royal approach...
as one might add: we greatly disapprove...
the end...
                   since with one, one presupposes
a potential entourage of we...
we implies a magnetism toward a shared
opinion - a quasi-self... while the plurality of a THEY
implies... oh... THOSE basket cases other "there"
in the corner... oddly enough: nothing,
yes... NOTHING is categorised as a pronoun...
since? well... how can it be anything except a noun?
it's not an adjective / quality... you can call something
attributing nothingness: but there are no attributes
of nothingness, thereby you can't treat
nothing as a noun... since... there's NO, THING,
to be allocated a noun-status...
weird... no? that nothing is a pronoun...
so is everything... anything, something, itself...
oh... but the game has already started...
there are so many audacious mouthpieces out there
doing the knitty-and-the-gritty work
with their hormone blockers that...
my two-cents are hardly important...
i guess i just came late to the party...
cool... now that i've ingested enough alcohol to
appear calm, i can go about my business...
now that i stopped feeling all loved up
i can find a chance to refocus my attention
on immediate concerns...
all the better... it's enough for one hurt creature to love
another hurt creature... it's another
to navigate this world...
the world i arrived at... given the current climate...
needs something equivalent to a magic compass...
i don't have that...
i'll scar myself less by not investing any
genes in the pool...
i don't appreciate family politics...
that cut-throat archetypical brother against brother...
no, thank you... these words ought
to be enough... and if they're not:
so be it...

from the mouth of giuseppe belli:
lei se tienghi li gatti a ccasa sua
(missus, keep your sodding cats inside)

Mandolin plinking from a tiny speaker,
McKnight doing his damndest to make my knee bounce,
Bringing tunes that remind me of Appalachian summers,
Transporting me to those mountains and hills.

Summer barbeques with Carolina gold slopped into mashed taters,
Sweet corn smothered in butter,
Gentle breezes and acoustic guitars,
Grilling meat and beer in ice-filled coolers,
Giggling young'uns and laughter of their parents,
Such vivid memories of the oldest generations,
Telling of the time their homesteads received electricity.

These wise elders regaled us with oddities and anecdotes,
Nuggets of delivered knowledge wrapped in allegory and stories,
Their amusement evident in their not-as-bright eyes,
As they watch us trying to suss out true blue kernels of wisdom from the tall tales.

Family friends that are loved just as strongly as my own parents,
Friends they grew up with,
From WAY back in the day,
Telling each other the same tale for the millionth time,
And yet laughing uproariously like it was the first time.

These are days that have been in the past,
And snapshots of days in the future,
When supper in summer Appalachia happens once again,
Great nostalgia and anticipation wrapped up in a great ball of joy,
South of the Ohio Border.

i can't exactly call myself a recovering alcoholic,
that would be too obvious,
too: well boxed...

                                 a recovery...
an alcoholism, what would that be?
would it look like something from
the movie la mécanique de l'ombre?

it could look like something of the sort,
at least: the less spicy parts of
the plot...

       what is missing is the pangs of
conscience, what remains?
       silly thinking: and apparently...
too many hours in a day.

a recovery...
              i've encountered these periods
of "recovery"
  before...
                   spending a month caring
for old people (family, sure,
but sometimes strangers would be
better)...

                      i'm still scattered brained
when it comes to writing
dialogue:
     short-attention span on my behalf?
count me as a monk
in a monestary of a novel if
you get a chance:

    i fooled myself in thinking that
i'd be able to appreciate a Dickensian
novel...

                - becauase there is always
something to add
- a persistent juxtaposition
of the narrative...

    - hence this; imitation of
telegraphic bro - k - en
      li- / -ne- / -s... <dash dash>...

the 13th rule for life:
to counter the 12th -
pet a cat when you encounter
one on the street...

ha!
             and does the doctor
think that's that easy?
     not all cats will want to be petted...
yes... it's possible...
but not all cats want to be petted...
unless the cat is very naive...
paradox:
    those posters on lamp-posts...
now: a missing dog?
  i can understand a missing
dog...
    but what cat can ever become:
"lost"?

             13th rule for life:
wear pajamas...
    to bed...

                          revolutionary....
for over 3 years i slept
****-naked...
   i woke up and...
i always missed the lazy-slot...
the lounge existentialist
hour or so...
with a coffee and a cigarette...

13th rule for life...
    wear pajamas to bed...

(i don't know... some people might
think to wear pajamas to
the shop...
          a very prominent pasttime
for english women
jumping to the shops
wearing onesies...)

that is: you can wake up
and take a snooze session from
bed and make it stand-up...
sleeping ****-naked?
you have to dress in day clothes...
and that's...
simply shocking...

          a recovering alcoholic...
it's not like going to an a.a.
meeting would do me any good...
group therapy is not for me:
taming my farcical ego
   requires me: working against
some third person puppeteering...

spot what?
   if i'll start drinking i'll be back
to base one, something equivalent
to today...
   i don't remember drinking
and throwing tantrums...
    i do remember being under
the delusion of:
   the general grandiosity of
writing anything under an influence...
which probably began
with reading some of
Bukowski's manuscripts...
  the pedant in me opened up:

  immaculate writing -
  typographic...
               i.e. very few typos:
if any...
  but sure...
                 i'll use the term: "recovering"...
what scares me now is:
there are so many hours in
a day, and there are so many times
you must turn in bed,
scratch yourself,
   get up and drink some water...
wrestle with yourself...
when it came to going to sleep
it came as easy as throwing
a sack of potatoes off
   a roof, or asking to sparr with
a prof. boxer:
                       one-hit knock-outs...

- mind you: the scent of the room
in the morning is less brewery and more...
warm...
   it's less choking...

now... about the weight-gain...
****... that's going to be a problem...
even i have to admit:
   2 meals during the day
can't exactly be 2000 calories...
but... having looked at the empty bottle
of whiskey...

   55kcal in 25ml of whiskey...
     so that's...
    55 x 4 = 200kcal x 10 = 2000kcal
per night, per bottle,
for roughly 3 years... **** me!

and what sort of kcal are we talking
about? well... sure as ****
it's not protein, it's not fat...
    carbohydrates?
   how do you burn off 2000kcal
                  of alcohol? buy a diesel hybrid?

group think in alcoholics anonymous:
concentrated with feelings
of shame...
                       i don't know,
         i'm guessing that's the scenario...

sure: sobering up
and i'll have to the reality of:
'you really did write some
mundane verses...
   no, they weren't that great...
   any drunk could think they were
great...
remember those pangs of
       fear when you woke up
the next afternoon after an all-night
session?
   yeah... that's called:
  a moral hangover: stemming from
a delusion of grandiosity...'

i don't do shame:
         self-critique is much better...
nonetheless:

there are so, so, so many hours in a day!
there are too many!
   what do people do with all
these hours?!
      i'm going to grow crazy just thinking:
was that hour wasted,
wasn't it?

/
              and in terms of finding
a "proper" job other than pursuing
   this... "hobby" of having scribbled for
the past 3 years...
  
   well... i like walking...
oh... right... the profession of being
a postman is about to fizzle out...
street-cleaner?
    they don't exactly advertise that
job for the "respectable" people:
not in a job-search-engine-website...
    i the odd occassion,
sure, i looked at these websites... /

 /     yeah: as many options out there
as there are hairs on my head...
hell... some people just stream themselves
playing video games...
what's a "proper" job what
isn't a "proper" job...
   just prior to the great technological
update...
             but i'm jumping ahead
of myself... /

  /                                    laboratory work...
well... that's a start...
sober thinking and no...
   crippling desperation and:
                        thinking oneself limbless... /

/ so i had to go and suss things out:
    the whole job market
on a level of the street...

      last time i heard: poetry is not exactly
an endeavor worthy of a competitive
streak of: employee of the month...

   and, mind you: always the spare parts,
missing nuts and bolts,
screws and sharpened hammers...

mantras like: self-worth and...
   a profession makes a man...
   yes: if he's good at it:
   no one exactly needs a ****** plumber
inspecting a burst pipe...
   unless: he be looking for
             a loch ness sized puddle... /

and no, it's not from a demaning
perspective:
   when i was a child i wanted to be
a bus driver at first...
                     so... something against
an administrator of a medical building
at the reception?
    no... nothing against that...

    a street-cleaner?
                     why would i have a problem
with that?
   so... why the hell is poetry such
                  a baggage of: inadequacies?
i'm no dog:
but i feel it like a collar
   with inverted spikes around my neck...

- but yes: some people do over-compensate
their job with an over-bearing balance
of self-worth...
                              didn't i sometime ago
(in this verse), not mentioned my own
claims of over-bloated grandeour?

          can't win...
                      either the egoistic route or...
the depressed: crushed by the mass
route...
                            or: some vague middle... /

my... any more of these sober afternoons
and i actually might do something
spectacular...
                           at the moment...
          one month, sober...
                a hiccup interlude...
a complete brain-drain of a day or two
returning to the same pattern of
                         getting ****-faced at night...
and then, now:                                            /

very much akin to no. 9
from cinema calendar of the abstract
heart (tristan tzara)...

              i.e. 'but the dance of round
tables shuts in the shock
                of the marble shudder

   new sober'.
                                                                     /

i wasn't going to make use of these
idle fingers, while returning to the old ways:
and the old ways are...
hardly a maturing tenure of:
never in my previous engagements
a worthwhile sober observation...
   but: as of today:

a sober observation -
i never thought i'd say this,
but on a double decker bus...
  listening to queen's of the stone age
album rated r...
         this sober "thing"?
it's not too bad...

                                           it's...
refreshing...
                           it's... well: there i was
thinking it would be mind-numbing...
                                                                             /

walked up to the bank machine
to check the balance...
                     well... isn't that something?
who would have thought...

   if having bought a gramaphone
and kind of blue vinyl is to "save me"...
might as well promise myself:
    hell, here's to my variety of AA...
using vinyls...
                        i need some sort of outlet...
conversations wouldn't have
solved the problem...

                               wooden shjips: V... /

well... better think i write unspectacular
verse: sober...
than think i write spectacular
verse: drunk...

                           there's nothing else to it...
- but there's something else to mind...
- Dickens...

            Dickens didn't write anything
spectacular: hear me out...
                       i mean like Beckett "spectacular"?
yes, like pretentious,
    difficult literature: to read...
                   but he did write with
a relish for a reader's sense of comfort...
   maybe that's possibly worth
                     imitating?

                                                                  /

/a view ascance: side notes of -
          how efficiency is lost
within the confines of prescribing a
burdensome effectiveness;
            like:
                being constapitated
in an elevator:
               and being claustrophobic.../

/alternatively: a hypothetical conveyor
belt...
                 archaic notice
  in the form of: arbeit macht frei...
                                    althought with
less sadistic irony of the SS
   completed upon finishing
harold norse's
  a memoir of a ******* angel:

seems that what one deems one's
own "poetry" is exactly that: "poetry"...
   and what becomes poetry
is equivalent to: giving a generous
portion of one's **** to a publisher:
in the literal sense...
    
                             but hell...
if Dada can see print...
                         oh... out of the blue:
for no other purpose other than
                a count of syllables,
                     from the count of words,
from the count of sentences,
from the count of punctuation marks
   (inter-syllables),
    and then back into:
   the count of vowels through
to the count of consonants...

                 to arrive at some meaningful:
v:c ratio... /

                             by god:
new sober is indeed spewing your mind
like placing imaginary accounts
of the number of matchsticks per tree:
in the rough estimate,
                             akin to:

brain damaged:
                       Σ: the involuntary compact
for the understudy of man...
      less: anima / soul
           and more: vox / voice -
  as ever: partially brain damanged...
yet still perusing the body and,
yes, the total (sum) -
                       where thought originates
and: with the duly departed /

                         x/σ (the algebra fraction of
a sore thumb of the sum of man)
                                                                         /
   y/σ (the algebra fraction
of a missing finger of the sum of man) / / / / /

it appears i can do much
more havoc being sober, than being drunk...
from this:
     what was once blanc is
    but an acne riddled crease in the fabric of:
till the next blanc becomes
more than such a creased indentation:
and more...
                 akin to the fields surrounding
Ypre - at that certain moment in whatever
time...

                           just let me absolve myself
from citing stereotypes.

I’ve got a ****** virus!
Corona? No, no - not that one!
That would be better; that might pass.
And I do emphasise ‘might’.
No! Some ****
has hacked my FaceBook Page!
now that is proper *****!

He…It must be a ‘he’,
He sent a message to me
pretending to be a friend.
And… that means that all my
real FaceAche pals, well,
the rest of us.
they will get it too…
unless, of course, they suss
that it wasn’t really me,
and ignore it! It’s a knock on…
this also travels round the world,
just like the real Covid thing…unfurled!

My apology is sincere and for the best…
Steer clear - stay safe - stay at home
and accept my brand new friend request.

Don’t worry about this hack - you’ll be pleased to know
that this particular one was over a year ago!