men are singing in my head singing lyrics of tim minchin with me

you see they will play this music singing with me saying it is my body

and i live in it, it’s 7 parts  skin and 13 parts water and the men are

laughing with me saying it’s my body and i live in it

you see despite us partying and vomiting blood yeah

you see it is my body and it’s fine, ya see i fill it completely with wine

and i live in the dark side and every man was saying yeah your cool

just like this singer tim minchin, he is so radical, dude

i can have a dark side i can have a dark side, i can have a dark side

2 poofs and 300 virgins, well the men are probably saying to me, tim minchin sux

but i think tim min chin rules, dudes

i think that tim minchin is radically awesome dude, you see the men are singing tim minchin

with me, because i am still a family person, and it’s true i am a family person

i wrote a letter to yin din olin and he told me i was the worst person i have ever met

then the men said, tim minchin is cool man and i said, yeah he is

and this is my earth and i am proud of it

i walk around the earth picking up ***** off shoes

and then i use turpentine to squeeze all the hooligan out of me

but i know it’s hard oh it can be mighty hard, dad never became involved with my sports when i was a kid

he made it up to me as an adult, but i was always a pure cool family person, he didn’t understand me

i liked playing basketball, i liked playing ten pin bowling, it made me feel like cool guy

you see i feel comfortable with the men who like heavy metal or tim minchin like when

i listen to him all the men say to me ummmmm you are cool, ummmmmm you are cool

you are going to live in paradise, with a 10 ft **** and a few hundred virgins

i hate people who don’t give money to the poor, but i don’t want to call them ***** because

i always believe in hard work, even if it is hard work cleaning my brain out

you see we are sticking a ***** up ya **** while tim min chin is singing it, and of course we feel cool

i tim minchin, he reminds me of fun and games with the young dudes

you see i was looking for a way to bring that atmosphere back, and tim brings it to me

my dad doesn’t understand what kind of cool kid i was trying to be like

tim is singing the good book, the good book is the best song, i like tim minchin

i am writing my old body out of me, but i am a person not a robot

a person who likes tim minchin

you see i liked daddy, he was a nice person on the couch, but dad to me in the 80s was a couch daddy

but i had to yell at him to get him to treat me like a family person, ya see i was teasing dad when

i was saying i was a hooligan, just a tease don’t ya know

i was teasing dad when i said, i wanna stab ya in the back

because i wanted heavy medallists to be men for me, NOT DAD, well, back then anyway

because, i believed in being cool, and i got vibes from dad, he didn’t wanna be cool

so i hear all the men singing with me, each song tim sang

ya know each song he sang,

dads wasn’t perfect, but buddha said love thy father

because you only get one and when he goes

i was going completely crazy, listening to tim minchin’s really cool music

and the men are laughing and joking with me, as i listen to the great tim minchin

ya see, there was so much i never told dad, and now it’s too late

because all the ladies in the house come on let me hear ya say ayoh ayoh

all the fellas in the house RAIDERS SUX, RAIDERS SUX

all the conservos in the house say MONEY MONEY MONEY

all the poor people in the house say WHERE IS OUR FUCKEN LOOT YA ******’ ******

i like the bearded men talking to me when i listen to tim, because he is totally radical dude

i am not discussed by the time in the 90s where all my personalities split out of my bodies

so i can choose what personality i take with me, i love heavy metal, so i sing heavy metal with those nice australian men

you see i hear voices of people saying i am someone people hate, but i want to be someone people like

i don’t want to sing heavy metal with dad, his next life betty campbell, will be in a different generation to me

the fad generation was dads, not mine, and i sang a song

not a dime, i cannot pay my rent

i can barely make it through the week

it’s saturday night, and it’s PARTY night

and i can meet a girl

but i struggle to make my ends meet

i am listening to tim minchin every day

he is totally radical dude

i feel i am in a cranky mood, but really i am in a happy mood yeah

happy like brian allan, and i am not a loser who takes drugs to get me by

i have no problem with people who take drugs, just respect my view that i don’t like taking drugs

the raiders sux, because the bulldogs beat them 41 to 34, and the swans beat the hawks

the men are singing tim minchin with me like they sang heavy metal music

i don’t wanna be someone people hate, i wanna be liked for being the person, i want to be

not the person that dad wanted me to be, not the person that hooligans wanted me to be

respect me, i want to be a cool party dude who LOVES TIM MINCHIN, radical STUFF

Liturgy in Time of War

I will go to the altar of God
To God who gives joy to my youth

ENTRANCE ANTIPHON

The dawn (evening) is coming, another hot, filthy, wet dawn (evening).  Let us arise, soaked in sweat, exhausted, to speak with sour, saliva-caked mouths, to meet the deaths of this day (night).

GREETING

In the name of Peace in Our Time,
For the Hearts and Minds of The People,
For the Land of the Big PX
For round eye and white (black) (brown) thigh,
I greet you, brothers.

PENITENTIAL RITE

All:

I confess to almighty God
And to you my brothers
That I have sinned through my fault
In my thoughts and in my words
In what I have done
And in what I have failed to do,
And I ask Blessed Mary…

But how can I ask Her anything now?

My brothers,
Pray for me to…

But how?
Priest: (But there is no priest)

KYRIE

Lord, have mercy
Christ, have mercy
Lord, Lord, have mercy on us now

Have mercy, Lord, on a generation
That sits smugly in college lecture halls
And protests endlessly in coffee shops
The war they hear, see, on T.V., for free
Justice and peace by the semester hour
Like, y’know, peace, love, Amerika sux
Play the guitar, ****, apply to law school

Have mercy on us
Who crouch behind sand bags
And clean our weapons
And protest nothing
And **** in the heat
And die in the hear
And throw ham and lima beans away

GLORIA

Glory to God in the highest
how many bodies yesterday?
And peace to His people on earth
Vietnamese? Or us?
Lord God, heavenly King, almighty God and Father
ham and lima beans?
We worship you, we give you thanks, we praise you for your glory
Doc, I can’t go home to my wife with this clap
Lord Jesus Christ, only Son of the Father
cigarette, canteen cup of instant coffee
Lord God, Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world
******* magazine
Have mercy on us
relief behind the sand bags
You are seated at the right hand of the Father
i rot
Receive our prayer
i want to be clean and dry
For You alone are the Holy One
clean and dry.  just once.
You alone are the Lord
why do they chew that?
You alone are the most high
you mean the betel nut?
Jesus Christ, with the Holy Spirit, in the glory of God the Father
incoming!
Amen


PRAYER

A

Father, you make this day holy.
Let us be thankful for
The many little joys of
This day, for life, for
The chance to worship
You.  In the end, bring
Us to you, so that we
May be cleansed of mud
And sweat and filth and
Guilt, and live with you
In peace forever.

B

Father, just get me through
Another day of this mess.

LITURGY OF THE WORD –

FIRST READING

From the Intensive Care Unit, NSA DaNang

A twilight world
Of neither peace nor battle
And of both

A man world
Embracing life and the grim death
Both

Peering into infected wounds
Night building shiver
Down from the black sky flares float

Broken bodies from the war somewhere
Eyes of a shattered nineteen-year-old Marine
Staring at the door to Yokosuka

PSALM

A Song of Descents

I cast down my eyes
Into the mud
Into the blood
It seems cleaner than death and drugs and casual ***
Drink Coca-Cola

I turned my eyes away from you, O Lord
And made this
Build this
Came to this
Samantha and Darren on Bewitched

Have mercy on…but how can we ask?  How dare we ask?

SECOND READING

Old Man, Viet Nam

Old man, a dog is barking at your heels
Old man, with the tired, weathered face
Are you afraid to turn around and deal
This dog a kick, to put him in his place?

Or is it, old man, that you’re just too tired?
Just too tired to turn and show anger
Just too tired to have your temper fired
Beaten by years of contempt and danger

Where are you going, trudging so slowly?
What are you thinking, behind those tired eyes?

Probably not about ham and lima beans

GOSPEL

In the Cold White Mist

After an all-night run on the river
Our boats arrive in the village at dawn
Dawn is never cold along that rive
Along that steaming, green, hell-hot river
But the mist is cold, the grey-green dawn mist
And after the engines are cut – stillness
Foul brown water laps at the mudding bank
Sloshing softly with fertile, smelly death

In the cold white mist

The boats are secured, and watches posted
We step off the boats and onto wet land
And follow the track into the deep mist
It becomes the street of a little town
A dairy lane along which cows slopped home
And where dogs and chickens and children
      played
Bounded by carefully swept little yards
And little wooden houses with tin roofs

In the cold white mist

But some of the houses are burnt.  The smoke
Still hangs heavily in the whitening mist
The lane is littered with debris.  A lump
Resolves itself into a torn, dead child
Across a smaller lump, a smaller child
Their pup has been flung against the fence, its
Guts early morning breakfast for the morning
      flies
We smoke cigarettes against the death-smells

In the cold white mist

Beneath a farm tractor rots a dead man.
When they – they – had come at sunset
He had hidden there.  And they shot him there
A man with bare feet and work-calloused
      hands
His hair is black; his teeth need cleaning
They shot him beneath the village tractor
His blackening blood clots into the mud
And our lungs choke in the white mist of death

In the cold white mist

White mist.  The path disappears into it
Smoky skeletons of little houses
In which there will be no tea this morning
No breakfasts of hot tea and steaming rice
No old widows to smile in betel-nut
No children to mock-march alongside us
Pointing at our ******* boots, and laughing
At us, for wearing shoes in the summer

In the cold white mist

They are dead and rotting in the white mist
On the edge of the jungle on the edge
Of the world, here along the Vam Co Tay
And the people pour out of their houses
To greet us on the fine summer morning
A corpse across a doorway, another
******-doubled across a window sill
Still another strewn down the garden path

In the cold white mist

The other patrol doubles back to us
And they tell us that the Ruff-Puff outpost
Must have been overrun the night before
He had heard their radioed pleas, and had
Run the river at night to get to them
And the ARVNs had fled through the village
And the VC had stormed in behind them
And it was knife-and-gun-club night in town

In the cold white mist

A little girl is the lone survivor
She looks may six.  Cute, except for the
Bubbling, *******, bayoneted chest wound
We patch her, and tube her, and use suction
Sort of like fixing a bicycle tire
And in the wet, gasping heat take her back
With us downriver, where a charity
Hospital leaves her on the steps to die

In the cold white mist

It will be our turn again tomorrow
Not a one of us died today.  Today.
But a village is gone, burnt and rotting,
Soon to disappear into the jungle
Along the green Cambodian border
Up some obscure river.  Up there.  Somewhere.
A few hundred people.  Their ancestors’ graves
Will fade with them untended, forgotten

In the cold white mist

Radio Hanoi might blame it on us.
But maybe not.  We made our report and
Nobody really noticed; no one cared
The talk is of the VC battalion
And where it has gone, and where it might go –
Maybe into death under an air strike
“And you guys better get in some sack time,”
Says the C.O. as he turns to his maps.

In the cold white mist

HOMILY

I’m scared, and I want to go home.  I don’t care any more about justice or fighting Communism or winning the hearts and minds of the people.  I can’t think about all that right now, because I’m scared, and I want to go home.
I don’t care about truth or loyalty or bravery or honor.  If Miss March were here she wouldn’t get cold, but she sure would get sunburnt.  And in a few days her skin would start rotting.  Then nobody would want to see her in the **** anymore.  
I’m scared, and I want to go home.
Up the Vam Co Tay, everyone is scared, everyone is tired, everyone is sick, everyone could die: sailor, soldier, officer, priest, farmer, fisherman.  Everyone rots in the wet heat.  The skin bubbles and flakes and peels, and is pink again, to bubble and flake and peel again.  
I’m scared, and I want to go home.
I’m Doc.  I’m a scared, stupid kid with an aid bag and a few months’ training.  But I’m Doc.  I’ve got to fake it.  I’ve got to be cool and calm because this other kid with his guts hanging out will probably make it if I don’t ***** up and if the dust-off from Saigon can get out here now.
I have an old dog at home, and my folks write and tell me she sleeps outside my window at night, waiting for me to come home.  Someday we’re going to run and play in the woods and fields again.  She’ll bark and run wide circles, and dare me to catch her.  I will laugh under the autumn leaves.  But now my nights are glaring darkness, fits of sweat-soaked half-sleep, then sirens and falling glares and falling mortars, and then the Godawful racket of all our engines of destruction.  There isn’t any use in all this.
I’m scared, and I want to go home.

And I don’t want any ham and lima beans.

CREED

We believe in the Land of the Big PX
In presidents in suits, and generals,
In makers of economic strategies
We believe in flak jackets and .45s and peace

We believe in swing ships and dust-offs, yes
In the dark, green omnipresent Huey
Eternally begotten of technology
Blades to rotor, windscreen to machine guns
Made, not begotten, one in being with us
Through it all things are transported to us
For us men and our hunger and our hope
It comes down from the skies
By the high power of technology
It was born of the long assembly line

For whose sake are we crucified today?
Who suffers, and who dies and is baggied?
And on the third will arrive back home
To be neatly packaged in stainless steel

But not in ham and lima beans

LITURGY OF THE EUCHARIST

Preparation of the Gifts

Celebrant:

Blessed are you, Lord, God of all creation.
Through your goodness we have this cheap Algerian wine to offer,
Fruit of the vine and work of human hands.
It will become anaesthesia for our souls.

People:

Blessed be…we just don’t know

Celebrant:

Pray, brothers, that our sacrifice may be acceptable to God, the almighty Father, to somebody.  Maybe.

People:

May the Lord, or the baggies, accept the sacrifice we offer with
our own burnt hands
For the praise and glory of…of what?
For our good, and the good of all His Church.

PRAYER OVER THE GITS

Little green cans, and I don’t care
Little green cans, and I don’t care
Little green cans, and I don’t care
Air cover’s gone away.

EUCHARISTIC PRAYER

Preface for the Monsoon Season:

Father, all-powerful
And ever-living God,
We do well always and everywhere
To give You thanks
Through Jesus God our Lord
Even with diarrhea
thanks
When the mail doesn’t come
thanks
When we rot
thanks
When the heat ***** at our brains
thanks
When the mud ***** at our boots
thanks
When the horror ***** at our souls
thanks
We’re alive
thanks

SANCTUS

Holy, holy, holy, Lord, God of power and might
The bunkers are full of blood and death.
Hosanna in the mud.  Blessed is he who comes with the mail.  Hosanna in the mud.

EUCHARISTIC PRAYER

The Kien Tuong Province Canon:

A sailor is silhouetted against the dawn
Along a steamy river
Mostly helmet and flak jacket
Above dark plastic gunwales

The sailor has lost his New Testament
But there’s a ******* around somewhere
Naked, willing women –
Miss March wants to be an actress

He also carries an old plastic Rosary
To touch occasionally
While whispering a hurried Hail Mary
He hopes She understands

Those who in bell-bottoms and head-bands
Fight Fascism
In Sociology 201
Will never forgive him

A sailor is silhouetted against the dawn
This day he is to be elevated
His body broken and his blood shed
For you and for all men

OUR FATHER

Our Father, who art in Heaven
this ain’t it
Hallowed be thy name
Thy kingdom come
this ain’t it
On earth as it is in Heaven.
Give us this day…
not ham and lima beans
And forgive us our trespasses
as we shoot them that trespass against us
And lead us not into ambush
But deliver us from evil

SIGN OF PEACE

Peace on you.

AGNUS DEI

Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world: have mercy on us.

Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world: have mercy….

Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world: grant us peace.

Priest:

(But there is no priest)

People:  

Lord, I am not worthy to receive you,
But only say the word and I shall be killed.

COMMUNION ANTIPHON

They ate, and were not satisfied
They killed, and were not without fear.

PRAYER AFTER COMMUNION

Lord,
If we do not get out of this
Make some sense of it to those who remain
May we go home.  Home.  Or if not,
Take us unto you, in mercy.
Home.  Where you reign, for you are Lord
Forever and ever.  Amen

BLESSING

May you walk on grass that does not explode
May you sleep without rot
Without fear
May you never see or smell ham and lima beans again.
May you live
May you play with puppies
May you find forgetfulness
May you find peace
In the Name of Him who took your death for you

DISMISSAL

This is to certify that____is Honorably Discharged from the____on theday of____.  This certificate is awarded as a testimonial of Honest and Faithful Service.

CLOSING HYMN

Old men, smoking in the sunshine
Exiled outside the doors of life
Old uniforms, old pajamas
The chrome of wheelchairs, shiny, bright

Inside, polished wooden handrails
Line the hot, polished passages
Something to cling to on the way
To the lab, to x-ray, to death

And more old men, shuffling along
In a querulous route-step march
From Normandy, from The Cho-sen,
From the Vam Co Tay, from the deserts,
Past the A.I.D.S. ward and the union signs
On waxed floors to eternity

Portions previous published:

“Closing Hymn” is from “Outpatient Surgery – Veterans’ Hospital,” Juried Award, Houston Poetry Fest 1993

“In the Cold White Mist” is a Juried Award, Houston Poetry Fest 1991

“Old Man, Viet-Nam,” was published in Pulse, Lamar University, 1982

i hate road rage in canberra because



i hate road rage in canberra because

mostly the road rager is at fault

i hate road rage in canberra because

because my mum was just turning and some dim wit sticks his finger up, how rude

i hate road rage in canberra because

it ****** me off immensely

road rage road rage i hate road rage

cause the road rage person doesn’t know what they are talking about

it’s not just road rage, ya see ya see, it’s everywhere

you say something or do something

and someone sticks their finger up at you

like a good little **** would actually do

road ragw road rage road rage sux

the only rage i like is partying late at night

you see i am a middle aged rager

i rage all day long but when it comes to road rage, na, not for me

i party better than any of these road rage people

the road ragers are just a pack of old stick in the muds

they think they are cool, sticking their fingers up

but in hindsight, they no nothing

you see i hear the loud hey, but that is from people who like road rage

which i ain’t, what is wrong with hating road rage

that is why i don’t drive, i am a kid and the road ragers are old fogie men or women

i have road rage in canberra because, nobody wins, it’s all just a waste of time

i am glad i don’t drive, i am a cool kid mate

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/759808/nat-lipstadts-mood-swings/


'ᏰέƦẙḽԃṏሁ's the most "unappreciated" poet on this site.
Being "misunderstood" is what gets him into a fight.
Now that I'm retired and free,
He's the new "King" of HP ~
Now I hate that Jew because he's better and right.
All words in quotes are Nat's. His changes his opinion of me every second like the eyes on a Felix the Cat clock.
I love him but I've given up on him.

-------------------
Poor man he believes his own totally manufactured press. Oy!

Why does he obsess over me?
Ask him, not me...

Why does write me in pvt messages to tell me I am "delusional" and he is by page view,  the Emperor(!) of HP and that
"you've become an embittered man and can counted yourself among the cursed.
And if you've chosen not to read this, it's because your blinders are still on.I wish you well as a fellow Jew; as a poet I welcome you're  extinction for your inability to adapt."

Whoa! Is he worse than Ormond, who only wanted to "burn" us together!  Extinction now that is  a code word makes  every Jewish person's hair curly,

The humorous answer would have the
Lew I like laughingly say "***** envy!"

adapt to his standards, of ******* up and publishing outrageously bad poems sux times a day - no babe, those things are not standards


instead he is he is committing a error of sinat chinam, empty hatred...

"Sinat chinam means groundless hatred. (The verb soneh means to hate, as in the command lo tisnah at ahicha blevavecha, do not hate your brother in your heart, Leviticus19:17)

Chinam comes from chen, grace. Sinat chinam is therefore hatred that is gratis. It refers to the internecine strife which is unfortunately too common in Jewish communities, whether between Reform and Orthodox, Ashkenazim and Sephardim, the rabbi and the chazan, the president of the shul and the board.

You could charitably ascribe its existence to the high-stakes decisions that Jewish communities have had to make, or to a persecuted people internalising the hatred directed at them, and then projecting it against other groups of Jews. (emphasis mine).  Either way, there is clearly too much of it about.

The Talmud already knew of the phenomenon and its destructive effect on Jewish life. Yoma 9b records that the First Temple was burned down because of idol worship, ****** immorality and bloodshed. At the time of the Second Temples destruction, the Jews were, on the other hand, pious but the Temple was lost because sinat chinam, groundless hatred, was endemic to Jewish national life."

But since he is self acclaimed Shakespeare expert,
I'm sure  he is familiar with this riposte:

The quality of mercy is not strained;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
‘T is mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown:
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthronèd in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God’s
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much
To mitigate the justice of thy plea;
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
Must needs give sentence ‘gainst the merchant there.

Merchant of Venice

More would be superfluous...sure glad he loves me, imagine if he didn't!

what waste of a good poetry skills... this is getting snoring,
boring... So let's bring some appropriate lyrics with which to conclude:

"You're so vain, you probably think this song is about you
You're so vain, I'll bet you think this song is about you
Don't you? don't you?"

Carly Simon - You're So Vain Lyrics

He was a West Virginia farm boy.
His name was Walton, Cpl. John.
I **** thee not; we called him John Boy.

Two bunks down from me
in a barracks at Fort sux Dix, NJ,
he would write poetry after lights out
by penlight. Drill Sergeants called him a *****
when one of the recruits hung a poem in the chow hall
that Boy had written about missing his little sister.

Boy could weave a line from Whitman
or Frost or Byron, even Emily
flawlessly into a conversation.
I would try hard as hell to keep a straight face.
Boy never cracked a smile. No one else ever caught on.
Funny as hell. And pretty **** cool.

Like during the class on E and E
when asked to summarize lessons learned.
"Resist much. Obey little, Drill Sergeant".
He earned a smoke break for that.

When asked where his home was during an inspection
by the company commander, Boy replied
"Perhaps it is everywhere-on water and land" or
"under the soles of your boots, Captain".  
That one got him two days KP.

Most famously, when asked how battles are lost he replied
"Battles are lost in the same spirit as which they are won, Drill Sergeant".
That one got a big Ooorah and earned him his corporal stripe.
Drill Sergeant wasn't sure what he meant, but liked the sound of it.

We were stationed together for almost two years, Boy and I.
We deployed together. He would scribble by penlight in the bunker,
then scramble across the sand and call in close-air, then back to the poem
while the ground was still shaking, constantly blowing sand off of his journal.

Boy was hit in the left femur by a ****** round one night
while calling artillery coordinates down range.
He always left his field book in his sleeping bag.
I looked through it before it was gathered up
with the rest of his gear for shipping over to Ramstein.

Eighty-three pages of ******* awesome poetry about his daddy's farm,
his grandfather's mountain home, the snowy woods during deer season,
the first girl he loved, dogwoods in bloom, his mother's death in an auto accident.
A beagle pup that he once had.

Boy went home to West Virginia with one less leg.
I called him one Christmas a few years ago
after finding his phone number through a mutual friend.
We shot the usual ****. We were both a little drunk.
I asked Boy if he still wrote poetry. He said no,
he didn't have time with all the ***** that needed drinking.
Not much left to write about, he said. Anyway, poetry's for sissies.

r ~ 5/17/14

The stars have talked to me........and said that you and I were meant to be
The sun has been shining on me more ever since the moon has shifted.....and I know it's because our love has been gifted
Time has been letting me down......but for some reason I have been able to turn around this frown
This alignment of these stars.......has made me beleive we can erase all these scars
When the sun goes down and the sky grows dark I will follow the light......because the moon and the stars will guide my way for they shine so bright
Time is just a number so I will not let it get me sad......even though being away from her sux so bad
So as I sit here and think of her....I know inside that in just a few some beautiful things will occur
Right now I will send her my love....and let her know that our love was created by the lord above
She is my shining star........and I will be where ever you are
I will watch over you.......until our love is joined together....and this time it will be forever.

this party sux.
the boy who invited me was my first boyfriend
in ninth grade and i still want to make-out on his parents water bed.

i shuffle out into the cold air, carbon-dioxide puffs visible as i exhale.

i make my way to the apartment complex where i used to *** cigarettes from Jeff
- floor 3, room 57, shaggy, enjoys Jose Gonzalez tunage.

laying on my favorite bench,
with my hair falling over the sides to the sidewalk covered in gum
that now looks as black as the cement roads,
i take a visual photograph
~ aesthetical phenomenon.

i save this stargaze.jpg into my file entitled,
‘show me something memorable when i get Aspergers’.

inside i hear shrill cheering and glasses clinking. it must be midnight, already.
a tingle of relief runs down my spine. i’d rather spend my first few minutes of the New Year focused on the one thing i put above most.


the universe and i have developed
interpersonal secrets, theories, stories, feelings, et cetera.

he knows everything about me. i know nothing of   him.

at times I lust at Bukowski's rambling,
others, I see him as a drunk got lucky
Stammering
lost his feelings of poorness
and suffering when he made it big.
I promise to always be
a fine cultured nice laughing
drunk poet whatever what.
Never to put down poetry readings
like I am some God or better
than anyone.

Dizzy luvs Lauren
                                     woz ere 2001
This is a pile of –
Who sits here?
                                           me
Chaz 4ever
                             woz ere 2002
English sux
                                            Love you too babe

“I’m pretty sure this isn’t the function of a table.”

(A found poem using the graffiti found on an exam table)

I've been fairly great, comfortable. I've been thinking of this as just another day for weeks. But it's here. Being a alone is no fun. I went to my brothers. Lots of people there. Even had I known them, I'd still feel alone. I have this place in my mind that rationalizes the excuses I've heard and even given myself. Everyone is justified. The excuses, I had every reason; all others as equal. But it doesn't pour into the emptiness. It doesn't patch the holes; the gaps that keep everyone who has held our heart, now cold; a little glow hiding deep that we can't extinguish or lose ourselves, our sanity, our control if we ever took that one step that'd warm us enough to restart a fire that we know would burn our soul, not sure in which way. I'd die; I'd finally live. Idk. I've no idea. Can't truly give anything a chance, certainly not a second or more times. Not sure I mean someone, though Carly crosses my mind. But you, the better, and then the rest that poured a cup or two in this gallon hole. I miss you all. I miss you. I miss not fake smiling, inwardly fighting crying all the time. Which way care and love, dreaming of the same, we all ****** up.  *****, too much to know we have anything of value, narcissistic just the same. Negatives we'd love if we knew the why. There part of the very essence of, hidden, the very reason we love. Do they answer a question we have asked for years about who we are?  But the vision not clear enough; frustrations abound, expanding the expanse, "it's their fault, my fault, doesn't matter...loneliness just ******* sux."
I miss....
Not that it matters; just another day.
I'll be just fine tomorrow

Sux
Being a thorn
When I could have been

The 🌹 Rose

Adorned
  Adored

                    I guess
I'll have to protect it

               From what
               ..The world

                       The 🌹 Rose
Such a beautiful red dress
Of petals

Fragrantly spread
Across feminine
Tones

     The scent
Makes a man
Moan

Sux being a thorn
      We get cut off

Before a woman
    Ever holds us

But the Rose
Gets her hold

I was supposed to protect
But no one protected me
From the humans

You know what they're doin'
They'll cut you off
For their own good

Sux being a thorn

When I could have been
The Rose

Adorned
  Adored

I WANNA SAY SORRY AHEAD OF TIME FOR THIS POORLY WRITTEN POEM. Lol

Hey steph wats up
I was gonna jot something down that would make u tear.
But i dicided to spare you, but let me make one thing clear.
since ur moving away and trust me that sux.
im gonna make u feel sad cuz I GIVES NO ***. (lol)

Big deal ur moving its not like i care.
But some things ill miss are ur eyes and that STARE.
Ur smile is ok, i guess thats cool too.
And THAT *** OH! THAT ***, girl wat that *** do?. (****)

GOOGZ!
YOUR FACE, I LIKE THAT ****!

Your as cool as they come steph, what else do i say
I wish for you all the best,    EVERYDAY!!!!!
Keep urself focused on what u wanna do
I know ull help alot of people problems even the KOOKOOS!

"I admire the strength u have and the courage u have shown"
"In facing all your hardships and troubles that youve known"

I stole that one.

Love ya googz its not goodbye cuz goodbye insinuates "forgetting"
Its SEE YOU LATER.         XOXOXO MUAH

I hate this,
this hate I feel.
Is it simply imagined or is it really real?
It didnt set out to be this way, this thing inside where I hold no say.
This cant be how I feel, so I know this isnt ******* real.

  It was fine till it got broken, now I cant fix this treasured token.
Doesnt matter what I do, and no this sadness is not from you.
It started before all of that, now the pain becomes a bat.
Crashing hard across my skull, all the feeling void and null.
Wake up screaming in the night, memories dreamed a dreadful fright.

  Thankfully a slight reprieve, nothing doing I didnt leave.
Now however here I am, someone I hope will give a ****.
Something inside I want pushed out, I hardly know who I scream about.
I cant undo what has been done, but **** you anyway oh the fun.

  I hate this,
this hate I feel.
Is it imagined or is it real.
I didnt put it there so I need to put it out
  I hate this,
this hate I feel. THIS ******* SUX,  IT CANT BE REAL!!!

I've had a bad day

like that gay song announces
every time it plays
and the words have never cut into my soul
like today-
the knives breaking every last bit
of flesh I've ever birthed
how do you stray from these bad days?
sing a sad song
just to turn it around?
evidently-
it wont work
sad songs bring me down
sometimes I'm okay with that.
but not today
not today am I okay with the fact
that my life completely and utterly
SUX!

Tears in a shot glass
fix Nobody can see that
I'm self destructing,
and the erupting is interrupting

My functioning junction
between Ration and action
And ur participation
is more than a fraction

as ur playin games
but We said  we hate the way
games are played cuz being played sux
but one of us still plays

and I ain't sayin names
but they are impervious to chjnge
So tears rain on your train of thought
while I'm takin planes

So our loves suicidal
and the razors breakin veins
Putting us both through heartaches
of pain that stains the brain

We gotta break the chain
so maybe its best for goodbye to estrange
cuz the mental damage is hurting to the point
it makes a **** look tame

is it time to erase the strain?
And replace ur name
And chase a new face in place
inducing hate or go insane

Cuz we use to save our tears
inside a shot glasses
but as time has passed
These days it needs
to be replaced For an extra large wine glass

I need more than just a fine ***
I need a girl who isn't creatively disruptive,
That's why I cut u off And need to talk ......
now ur girl interrupted

U know wut???!!! just *** it!!
I can't take it no more
So I don't care if u leave or stay
And I don't care
if u use the door

Or the window on the second floor
I will no longer second the war
I will no longer accept the horror
i will not fight for a second more ...

Sit.
Sit with me.
I do not want to talk.

Just, sit.

Everything's ******,
Everyone sux.

I too am fluent,
In silence.

See you tomorrow,
In reality or memory,
It doesn't really matter,

I'll still be here.

What am I supposed to do with all these numbers?

Calculate them, master them, learn to divide them?

Because god knows when I'm older, I'll need to factor 555.

2b or not 2b
what f'ing apartment am i in anyway




she sits with the blade at her wrist
to slice or not to slice
that is the question
            the decision

lives hang in the balance
hers first and foremost
others on the periphery
but only just barely

they die if she dies
just slower
they bleed out thru empty eyes
just takes longer

the razors edge is ambivalent
it cares not what it cuts
i've never known if the blood feels the same
does it wish to remain from whence it came

dead eyes are just that
   dead
extinguished light
  never to be relit
the color is still there
  but dimmed
        dulled
    empty
     eons of empty
      eternities of empty
   do not look overly long into the depths of that well
      Lassie shall not arrive to rescue you
        you and Timmy are just ******
           buh bye *******

the noose is the razor's soul sister
  the missus to an evil mister
we need both blood and breath
  evicting either is equal parts death

the wind is always cold
  when a life's final tale is told
like there's a hole in the river
  when there can't even be a hole in a river
but somewhere in the almost back of your mind
  you remember sensing that sliver
and trying for a moment to focus on it
  but it was gone in an instant

she's not coming back
nobody returns from that hole in the river
not once
not ever

you want to go there yourself
  scream your soul into the face of that hell
explain exactly how it should go **** itself
  in ways they don't even allow in hell

there are memories running rampant in my mind today
  borne of both blood and beauty
all those things which made me me
every single ******* one

very much not okay

eidetic sux when it rears it's ******* head
that's why i tried to make it dead

beyond any ability of mine to control
some of them are hateful hurtful
some are almost okay
  
****

Edie, i failed miserably... thinking that ms amber and mr hector whiskers would get something profound out of me... no returns policy here... on writing like i used to (that is)

waking up to a choking sensation of hanging over
the gloom of societal ergonomics:

    even the historiological miasma
in the cinematic chain of the story of the Israelites
in Egypt:

   i worked in the construction industry
and i can vouch that: there was no clear, generational
misery attached to building towers:

i can't imagine the same attachment of grief
correlating to pyramids, although this is well
documented in movies...

zdrowie na budowie: health in a construction site...
no immediate misery from the strands
of sayings: more misery in the gym on a treadmill
than laying brick on brick...
a monstrous adventure of standing still
and erecting a noon shadow
upon time (of the desert)
          only to wait until the Eiffel tower to topple
such heights...

just like Big Ben (named after Benjamin Disraeli
i presume) was renamed the Elizabeth tower,
not Pugin's tower (the old ***** dragged everyone
into her gloriously inglorious age
of dismantling an empire)
the Eiffel tower should be renamed:
Napoleon's Giraffe!

the pale shade on the face of Oppenheimer's guilt,
rereading gregory corso like it's nothing...

at least the bomb H and bomb N (hiroshima, nagasaki)
dropped on a people with fathers mothers
children and the elders...

what pale comparison is the fear of the bomb
when, as they said about the Holocaust,
the terrible has already happened...

drop another! drop another!
what does it mean to the atomised recluse
and the crab bucket,

what is the Manhattan project Oppenheimer
et al
when simultaneously there was also
Goodwin Pincus!

the bomb the pill the bomb the pill the bomb the pill
the clown the mime the clown the mime
the wolf the wolf in sheeps' wool the wolf
the carcass - the mountains of carcasses:
a hubballoo of crustaceans on a beach

this bittersweet hangover of history and
the present day

the fear of touch instigated from grandmother
to a granddaughter when
a non-biological male has carousel fun ***
with the mother -
dearest of touches, through simply wearing
a gifted t-shirt

37 and childless is also like saying:
jeez... i'm surprised "we" shot ourselves in the foot
and there are no surprises that we're limping
with dyslexic pastors in new advent churches
prior to highly literate priests
with dyslexic pastors where once stood
proud literate priests
gatekeeping what, i ask? being persuaded
doubly dutch-blind?

reimagining a church where the pastors know
the 2nd literacy of coding in html,
>give /i
                  >>?/;?        $ banner
                                               like a melting igloo...
later... no rudeness implied by the native english
native european - i wonder what nickname they
have for us... if aboriginal and indian were
nicknames for the indigenous peoples of a people
in a land before and after no exodus...

Joropes - maybe i'll think of a nickname for
us ******* Yobropes who did some touristy stuff
in the 16th through to the 19th century
like the Silk Road was not an asiatic "thing"
like the white self-loathing is not something
born out of the pill rather than the bomb...

i need to salvage this energy of a hangover -
like i might care to not care or
to not care about caring...

a month spent on Kauai in what i dreamed of
ages ago with my mother's pedicurist
whenever she would come over with her toddler
and i would babysit for an hour or two...
but this was a month's worth of fatherhood
simulation with a 12 soon to be a 13 year old...

the joy i had from baking a cake with her mother
(my hot tub lover)
and all the tantrums and all the confusion
and all the arguments a teenager might have
with a mother and grandmother
and i was the one who somehow managed
to get the teen to sleep in her own bedroom
and not in her mother's bed...
i would too craving touch...
    
                     my ego should be my anchor
my thoughts: shoulders to lean on, no!
my thinking or unthinking should be a ship
the id the sea
and who said that creating the superego
would be a better cage to god
in the secular trinity

to write truths in science is one thing
but to write uncomfortable truths on matters
of being human
is another
theological crevices and humanistic escapades
to doodle over and dive into

a game in a swimming pool
playing dive and seek underwater
with a 13 year old girl,
this the least, no biological attachment,
no "self investment" in perpetuity, continuity,
no eyes of my own
no ears of my own
no nose of my own

but...

          the way i speak, my mannerisms,
my behaviour trans-translatable,
everywhere i go this trans- prefix...
trans-racial, trans-gender... trannies
and mommies and somewhat-daddies...
metaphysics should become meta-reality...
there is a meta-reality, given so many people
chose exodus from... reality...
in the trans-dimension...
creating a rift in reality
to create a meta-reality...
a metamorphosis of demonic smiles-allure...
Dante's Elysium or at least the telekinetic
spasm of thoughts-uplifting yet
words like blunder.... bubble blunder
with a pop... carousel...

daft grey... humpty dumpty on a fence
with a white sun and a black sky,
basically the night...
and come day... fake yellow fading white
if peered into, not at, the sun
is a vibration of ultra-violet dynamic
in my eye... a pulsating eye
compared to the stone-eye of moon...
a monstrous soul eating and illuminating
fascination...

we are heaving a woman a heaven in pregnancy,
Napoleon! Napoleon!
calls out Homer, anewed,
a time when tyrants didn't have telecommunication
and from bottom to top to bottom
like Napoleon, rising up,
rather than like ******: levelling:
from bottom to top to bottom to middle...
grey monsters grey hollow cause
hallow cause, holocaust,

building the pyramids like a dream-memory
compared to the concentration camp
conscious-reality... a pinch-thought...
because only Yids... Hebs... affected?
the nth, only people in existence...
you'd think Poland would be
the 2nd America... German genius spirited
on to the lazy *** Hebs?

ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha

probably...

new to making movies, hell is with me: i laughed
postmen brawling outside my window
how manic and evil
a laugh is without concept of body
in an empty hoѦ
   ** ** Halloween and Satan's Clause...
from the decrepit Mediterranean (my dyslexia too,
some words are an arithmetic impasse)

not to say the Ummah is 100 % sure..
0 topple 0 and how A gave birth to B
or E...
   how 0 came last
but was born first with the wheel,
the moon... no... the sun....
0 was the last number written down
wheel to 0
wheel to 0       Texan minus...
I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
where is the zero?

        billions of souls resisting the waves of
death, but relentless..
death like was and earth like life
crumbing morphic, yet sea de-morphic,
neutrality of a loaf of a deity in
the dynamic of space, vacuum...
time... immemory-demented-dyslexia
and self-closure discovered in old age
proof in protein, cannibalistic protein:
self-deletion... for a people
of mediocre morals and lived experiences...

people who invested in short term rewards
supposed extrovert opportunists...
Edie: me to you... depth of a craving
soul, FBI, CGSIE... those sounds of individual
letters comfort me, CGSIE...
I O         I O

       ю

    ya U
      Y Δ

branches of a tree, the tongue of a serpent,
twins on a Siamese road,
apart yet together bound-       +      -less
like nothing with a cushion
a bubble and a tongue twist
and a marrow afternoon of grey and
England is this bearable...
ugly colour disruptor until
summer and cricket in rugby in football
base bull...        ****...
oh my gloom in the chaos
of a sea of id with a thinking rattled by thought
and not thinking
and ego an anchor in shrapnel
like vikings and the crows they brought
with their ships because crows
used to be petted like dogs and cats

borrowing from myths...
a cat and dog fight
islam the cat heb-dogs...
not my world... not a world on Kauai...
volcano riffs in drum          kit
ODETARI SUX
                       depeche mode groove... growl, even...

barricades of secular pop, clown bars,
prosecco gluttons
and journalistic amputees of the guillotine...
humanism at the highest...
newspapers like what is a rock
to barricade the tides... of passing...
happening... DASEIN...
newspapers became worse than bibles...
violation of animalistic privacy...
auto-suggestive insomnia

best lost in the mundane labour and the spontaneity
of thinking about thinking
pixy... thinking about thought... pin-point... exit...
exit... samuel beckett...
******* Irish literati.....

         funny... i want to be a father more than
i want to be a lover...
but i also want to be a lover...
fatherhood and the crucifix...
but i'm also a son... and that's ample
detail to remain a lover...
i... the birthday massacre - under your spell...
her freezing up in McDonald's more
aware to interacting with a computer
than an actual person...

it's cold... very cold...
the sun dies in winter... a seasaw...
the concrete of underground stations of Warsaw...
the house is a mess by my mother's
constraining standards...
i watched the Whale on my flights
from LAX to LHR...
i loved los angeles... at the airport...
funny... though... on the way to see you...
Seattle was... ha ha... indigenous...
i saw the wolves of the Twilight Saga...

i liked Seattle Airport... so welcoming...
day dream day out fly by...
Los Angeles was... Los Angeles...
i want to touch you like i touched you...
forgot to wander by myself, since now there's also you,
and your daughter and my sexuality
paradigm... paradox... a fatherhood-sexuality...
that's relieved released from the ****** TABOO!
which was once very French...
there's no incestual taboo in me!
thank 14 year old finding out about the Marquis...
sure... well... to be frank...
*******-accusation is a novelty....

what if i were to add that your mother is fuackble to?   O
forgot: too...            ?

zombie glutton... necrophilia to boot?
but there's no ******...
the fear of me waiting and somehow
outliving the present you and mother
and what? getting it on with Reyla?
what if i was simply conjuring a father-sexuality?
born of *** and not creation
or imagination: christ was imagined...
he wasn't ever born...
lived, experienced... sensed...
muhammad thought he would end
Chinese whispers... story-telling fallacies...
dream-fusions...
which is why i don't dream with images...
i can't allow any cinema in...
why i talk in my sleep...

jeez... Edie... i talk in my sleep!

not my life but the collective unconscious
flashed before my eyes
history
i'm not dead yet
but this is what it feels like having a daughter
feels like... a son would be easy,
that's what i meant by:
if you had a son... i wouldn't be talking to you...
i see my mother in your daughter
i apologised to the plumber
he's not coming today,
don't earn money at Caesar's
earn peanuts under God's roof with family,


i have cats,i don't have children,
but we both share having elders,
elf you
knew...
                       ᛖᛚᚠ:

elf... Miranda, Myrian, mirage,
     malicious, malevolent, sea born
not mountain or quake born
primo madonna... artifact of Samoan Siamese
          Conquistador
replenished "conqueror"

       better toys, better boys....
like you said... about not being attracted to island boys
and like me treating all girls on the island
like Filipino *****...

started eating chocolate, once bitter,
like onion and coriander,
then sweet.... like the potatoe vine that's a tomato....
knives and fingernails in the same
frying pan
added to the spices toasted... cumin seeds....
fennel... finicky inglorious she... thir-      + -teen

mother dearest, what are your concerns?
the clouds becoming foggiest?

i loved her belly funnily filled...
that steak sandwich with her yummy mummy
finger licking... ******..
i know she's asexual... but i've had *** with you...
that's a Chimpanzee crazy...
i tried to have *** in the Pacific...
pacific... pacifier
i forgot you don't have seas...
you have an ocean...

Edie... smooches....
i want to feel like this, open,
as if you're in public, on a train with me
for Agatha Christie to listen in on....
i forgot about writing...
i know i am, still....
but right now, i'm trying to recreate your smile
snapped for detail...
then made dynamic in agitated circumstances:

of circas... the measurement of life...
of approximations,
6ft2 vs 6ft3
             6ft2 vs 6ft3

perfect example... relativity...
   1h 1sex
    = half and approx
         a crc: circa... which is a new unit... of...
non-measurement... i'm painting... *******
not Beckett but the butler... holmes....
no Sherlock... Dionysus of watercolour...
the frustrations of lacklustre...
all **** and all that khaki diarrhoea
mustard acid spread
additionally meat-sour spread of
not-aging beef... cowering death chicken typos...
          
it was fleeting, yet i want the stones
and gravity to return...

              i love you Edie, Reyla, Lydia...
        i'm sort of... calling out McFardy
             and you snooze 3pm.......
          McReady... target autistic snub
of a health prof
     my McSure theatre of hips
and wild tight ***....

YUCK 5-24-19


Doth it cometh again?
  sure, why not
   whatever
     guess i forget what i got

cancer never forgets
  and it can't wait to remember
suicide is anti-pride
  and its devour is also forever

those two evils
  are most of the kills
eliminatingmost of the lifes
  missing from my life

Sister not here to Noe i miss Her
  tell me how to tell tat girl i loved her
4 yrs older twin inside the same brain-skin
  never read my poet words she'd always heard
    tell me how to tell my myself better

my 1st LOVE was no different than yours
  except her inside & outside were more exquisite
wouldn't work out cuz i was too unpure
  always thought one day we'd laugh about it
    but did I mention how much I hate cancer

Carla was simply put a pure soul
  the kindest person I've ever met
she went one adventure too far
  and became a novae star
broke her beautiful whole
  and kissed the *** of Kismet

did any of you have that sister?
  the one who taught you everything and protected you and carried you and challenged you and
explained the exploration of the world and was the only other genius who understood the terrifying
bits at the back of the mind which were sometimes in the front and is the light EVERYone orbits and
then self-destructs and is an obit?

i am told i'm vibrant...i have a glow...i don't noe...tho it is true that very few who meet me forget me
  be that good ot bad
     but i'm a pale facsimile of my former self
        let alone her

Kristy Marie Dubbs
  Kirby
was the teacher we both wanted to be
  but much much better and more brilliant than me
I was actually kind of a natural
  but she had a whole nother level
our hero who made us love discussing
                                             discovering
                                                       every "becuz"
is the hero that to her students she was
   i miss her
       Foogie
           I Miss You

did any of you ever have that teacher?
  The one from whom it wasn't merely information but inspiration...this magical being who merged
    learning & joy, who opened the door to the world of knowledge and encouraged you to explore
    within...the wardrobe door is open boy, the adventure is yours...  For us it was Mr. Kurt Kasner, our
    5th grade teacher and ever after somewhat our muse, who taught me I should hone my natural
    instinct to think critically, analyze EVERYthing and state my case...hmmm, prob some folks who
    would wanna slap him....lol....

did any of you also have a they're both dead?
I hope not
cuz it sux

i'm an *******
i've held hate in my heart
unleashed it to take someone apart

i'm a sweet sensitive soul
take your pain as my own
sob yet stay strong as i groan

          i miss you Kirby
          i'm not okay
          it should have been me
          please un-die
          
i miss you Carla
i'm not okay
you killed me when you killed you
please un-die

they're dead decades before their time...
   the rhyme to that reason????