Momma gave birth to a dark skinned baby girl,
She said go out there baby and conquer the world…
With that in mind, little Suzie went off to school,
She paid attention and learned the golden rule…

At 9 years old, teacher asked Suzie what she'd like to be,
Oh that's easy miss, I will work in the bank on Market Street
Child please! With that tar skin and ***** hair?
Ha! You just might give the customers a scare!

Heart broken Suzie went home and told her mom,
She had many questions about where she came from…
Is something wrong with the colour of my skin?
Why is it so hard for me to fit in?

At 18 years old Suzie went out to see the world,
Wow! You're pretty! For a little black girl…
Enough is enough! I am proud of the colour of my skin,
It's obvious that you want to go where I have been…

Don't say my black isn't beautiful, when you spend hours in a tanning booth,
Don't say my black isn't beautiful, when you know I speak the truth…
The curl of my lips, and the curve of my hips, many of you desire,
So with many surgeries, and doctor visits, my image you try to acquire...  

Afraid to see and admit how beautiful my chocolate skin is,
they try to brainwash me into believing that I am not His…
You're too dark, or she's too light,
Just look at her! Her complexion isn't right…

Now my brothers and sisters are trying to look like you,
Using chemicals and creams to lighten their colour that's true…
What more do you want of us?
About our thick curly hair you make a fuss…

Making relaxers and extensions for us to use,
Who can I call because this is abuse!
You seem to be very insecure,
That is why my chocolate skin you cannot ignore…

Tired seeing us on the cover of Vogue?
I bet you'd prefer if I were a rogue…
Stop beating down on the colour of my skin,
And try to know the person that is within…

Black, white, pink or blue,
My colour should not matter to you…
My black is beautiful and of it I am proud,
So I will stand tall with my head up and declare it loud…

My black is beautiful and I love every part,
And whether you agree or not, I am a work of art…
My black is beautiful, I just want you to know,
That I will wear it proudly wherever I go!

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQAYXfrmbeJ0ye7COd8WY2-bFymOeNAXWsDnh5MAS-15B­CCW0vw

Oh I adore Black Eyed Suzie so much
How she climbs aver my backyard fence
So beautiful she is when shes on display
With her audacity my fence has no defence

And when she not as lovely as she can be
Others make good use of her being there
So many others climbing all over her
Total beauty beyong all others to be fair

She loves Honey Suckles for company
When its as well in fullest bloom down back
Just give her half a  chance all she needs
She never will ever be found looking slack

terrence michael sutton
copyright  2018

Back to my land of verdant green
To feel the bite of winter chill
To know that while all this is so
That far off land enthralls me still.

That far off land of granite peaks
Of crystalline white massif high,
Of conifer which scale the *****
Of rocky outcrop to the sky.
The baking heat of desert mesa
Spread as far as eye can see
Sage bush in its fragrant aura
Tumble **** soon rolling free.
Squirrel dart on shale cascade
Of green grey slate on alpine flank
Bright blue birds in curious hover
...For this, my reeling senses thank.

Fishing boats in bright array
Adorn the West coast sheltered lee,
Crab and mackerel brim the bin
Of bearded fishermen with glee.
Pounding surf of North Pacific
Carves the rock of bastioned coast
Embryonic currents cold
Do modify the climate most.
Redwoods huge clad coastal ranges,
Bright geraniums do sing
From earthen pots outside the cafe
Hot coffee fragrant from within.

Hilarity as laughing people gather
Watch as yelling Serbs do sling
Huge silver fish across the stall
Amid Seattle's Pike's Place din.
Colour paints this market place
Flowers stacked in every hue
Noisy vendors bawl their product
Creamy ice cream cone for you.

Streaming dust in streaming hair
Scree slopes avalanche past for thrill
Mountain crevasse yawns aloof
As ATV's roar up the hill.
Wild terrain of wilderness
On mountaintop of forest fir,
Cougar, grizzly bear and wolf
In pack are found herein astir.
Atop the very precipice
We view the everlasting peaks
Magnificent in summer sun
Embalmed in snow when Winter speaks.

Freeways snake from coast to mountain
Clover leaf in junctions pile,
Forty ton trucks pull big trailers
Endless day for endless mile.
Barrel straight these concrete tarmacs
Stretching far as eye can see,
Headlong surge huge pickup trucks
But cautious eye for Sheriff be.
Roadside diners loud and raucous
Selling burgers, selling beer
Neon flashing through the night
Old ***** waitress' toothless cheer.

The years have clad our friendships well
Familiarity's warming hand
Allows resumption of our words
Despite the 40 year gap spanned.
Houseboat floats in crowded wharfage
Swimming through a clear cool lake,
Californian wine with friends
Hot chilli food and fresh bread bake.
Eye fillets grill on barbecue
See the distant mountain peaks
Summer snow endures aloft
Glows indigo as sunset speaks.

Endless skies of cobalt blue
Cloudless in the summer sun
Gracious denizens do offer
Generosity unsung.
Graciousness across the land
Across these people so diverse,
The wondrous gift of ready smile
Friendly hand and open purse.

History tells these people spoke
Electing leaders for their time
When sanity's quiet need arose
It was promulgated on the line.
With Washington and Lincoln
Through FDR to JFK,
The Presidents who bed-rocked
This Foundation for the nation's day.
Astounding, that exceptional men
Have carved this face from stone,
Have caste the global presence
That Americans call home.

I understand the feeling now,
Of pride and patriotic stance.
I understand the inner strength
Of America's great, true romance.

This poem bequeathed to our good friends who inhabit this land... Big Rich, Suzie and Mike, Our mate Stevo and Ian, Heidi, Wyatt and Cooper, Dear old Greg and his elegant lady, Holly.
But most of all, with gratitude and love, to our marvelous son Boaz and his lovely lady, Angela.

Marshalg & Janet
At "Foxglove", Taranaki... In the Southern hemisphere's mid winter.
2 August 2013

The professor said
"Family therapy is like a Pie Graph
Everyone in the family contributes their own piece of pie.
When people leave
there's a chunk of pie missing
and the other members of the family
have to take on some of those roles to fill the pie."

Here's my theory:
Everyone in the family has their own whole pie.
Categorizes each housemate as a piece of it.
how they view them in their family.
how they relate to them,

Imagine a home
Mom and her four daughters.
Step dad, his daughter and son.
imagine three bedrooms.
The adults taking up one of them.

let's look at the Mother,
Her four daughters
all with different fathers
she knows how to raise children.

The daughters all know how to
Be
Children, be
Sisters, be
older or younger than each other.
The step-father knows how to have
A Wife,
One Daughter,
A Son.

Well Step-brother leaves the house.

Susie has a child at fifteen.
what does
her pie look like now?

She used to have a boyfriend,
four sisters,
a mother, father.
Now lost a brother
gained a baby.
She only knows how to be a child.

let's look at the mother.
She hasn't learned: Grandchild
but she knows how to raise a baby.

lets look at the step-father, lost his son, gained four daughters,
what's another one?

The sisters, lost their brother, a role model.
Exchanged for this this new baby.
another sister?

everyone's pie is empty in some parts.
judging by some other
dead white guys theory
when who you are doesn't line up
with who you see yourself as,
that's when people develop
Mental illness

Well I wouldn't call it ill, but let's count the bruises.
That baby is going to grow up as her mother's sister.
Suzie is going to seek the comfort of men.
Her sisters are going to constantly fight between calling themselves auntie
and Big Sis.
like tossing themselves on either side of the barbed wire fence is cause for death.

The farther we go back in each family member's backstory
the more slivers of pie we find
Georgia has autism,
Carley diagnosed depression,
Rosie an abusive relationship of 10 years.
Clover is quiet.
The Brother, schizophrenic, autistic, bipolar.
Any number of names they can slap on him.
He doesn't live there anyhow.
isn't human.

Muffle the sister that says she miss him.
hit her, cut her, lock her up.

This was a case study.
I lived with this family for four years.
unintentionally filled up parts of their pie.
I was Son.
Older brother.
Boyfriend.
Father.

When I stopped being a fly on the wall
Stopped seeing how their story was developing.

I didn't have any pie left.

Another shift, another day, Another buck to spend or save
A million riders, maybe more, delivered to their office door
Or maybe warehouse maybe store.
Or church or shul or city school, right on time as a rule.

Clickety, clackety, clickety, clee,
I am New York, the City’s me
Come let me ride you on my knee
From Coney Isle to Pelham Bay
From Bronx to Queens eight times a day.

Ride my trains, New Yorkers do
And you’ll learn a thing or two
About the City up above, the one some hate, the one some love.
On the street they work like elves
Down below they’re just themselves.

Through summer’s heat they still submerge,
Tempers held (though always on the verge),
They push, they shove – just like above –
The crowds will jostle, then finally merge.

Downtown to work and then back to sleep
They travel just like farm-herded sheep.
In through this gate and out the other,
Give up a seat to a child and mother,
Just don’t sit too close to that unruly creep!

With these crowds huddled near
Just ride my trains with open ear,
There’s lots of tales for you to hear.


Dis stop is 86th Street, change for da numbah 4 and 5 trains.  Dis is a Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.   77th Street is next.  Watch out da closin dowahs.


     I’m Doctor Z, Doctor Z are me
     I’ll fix your face or the visit’s free.
     Plastic surgery, nips and tucks
     You’ll be looking like a million bucks.

     Looka those pitchas, ain’t they hot?
     You’ll look good, too, like as not!
     Just call my numbah, free of toll
     Why should you look like an ugly troll?

     You’ll be lookin good like a rapster
     Folks start stealing your tunes on Napster
     Guys’ll love ya, dig your face
     Why keep lookin like sucha disgrace?

     Call me up, you’re glad you did
     Ugly skin you’ll soon be rid.
     Amex, Visa, Mastercard,
     Payment plans that ain’t so hard.

     So don’t forget, pick up that phone
     Soon’s you get yourself back home.
     I’ll have you looking good, one, two three
     Or else my name ain’t Doctor Z.


Dis stop is 77th Street, 68th Street Huntah College is next. Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin dowahs.


     It was a limo, now it’s the train;
     Tomorrow’s sunshine, but now it’s rain.
     The market’s mine, for taking and giving
     It’s the way I earn my living.

     Today’s losses, last week’s gain.
     A day of pleasure, months of pain.
     We sold the puts and bought the calls;
     We loaded up on each and all.

     I’ve seen it all, from Fear to Greed,
     Good motivators, they are, both.
     The fundamentals I try to heed
     Run your gains and avoid big loss.

     Rates are down, I bought the banks
     For easy credit, they should give thanks.
     Goldman, Citi, even Chase
     Why are they still in their malaise?

     “The techs are drek,” I heard him say
     But bought more of them, anyway.
     I rode the bull, I’ll tame the bear
     I’ll scream and curse and pull my hair.

     So why continue though I’m such a ****?
     I’ll cut my loss if I find honest work.



Dis is 68th Street Huntah College, 59th Street is next. Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin dowahs.


     He rides the train from near to far,
     In and out of every car.
     “Batchries, batchries, tres por un dolar!”
     Some folks buy them, most do not,
     Are they stolen, are they hot?
     “Batchries, batchries, tres por un dolar!”

     Who would by them, even a buck?
     What’re the odds they’re dead as a duck?
     “Batchries, batchries, tres por un dolar!”
     Why not the Lotto, try your luck,
     Or are you gonna be this guy’s schmuck?
     “Batchries, batchries, tres por un dolar!”


Dis is 59th Street, change for de 4 and 5 Express and for de N and de R, use yer Metrocard at sixty toid street for da F train.  51st Street is next. Dis is a Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin dowahs.


     “Dat guy kips ****** wit me, Wass he
     tink, I got time for dat ****?  Man, I
     got my wuk to do, I ain gona put
     up with him
     no more.”

          “I don’t know what to tell this dude. Like,
          I really dig him but
          ***?  No way.  And
          He’s getting all too smoochie face.”

     “Right on, bro, slap dat fool up
     side his head, he leave you lone.”

          “Whoa, send him my way.  When’s the last
          time I got laid?  I’m way ready.”

          “Oh, Suzie,..”


Dis is fifty foist Street, 42nd Street Grand Central is next. Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin doors.



     Abogados es su amigos, do you believe the sign?
     Are they really a friend of mine?
     Find your lawyer on the train
     He’ll sue if the docs ***** up your brain.

     Pick a lawyer from this ad
     (I’m sure that you’ll be really glad)
     You’ll get a lawyer for your suit,
     Mean and nasty, not so cute.

     Call to live in this great nation
     1-800-IMMIGRATION.
     Or if your bills got you in a rut
     1-800-BANK-RUPT.

     We’re just three guys from Flatbush, Queens
     Who’ll sue that ******* out of his jeans.
     Mama’s proud when she rides this train
     To see my sign making so much rain.

     No SEC no corporations
     We can’t find the United Nations.
     Just give us torts and auto wrecks
     And clients with braces on their necks.

     Hurting when you do your chores?
     There’s money in that back of yours.
     Let us be your friend in courts
     Call 1-800-SUE 4 TORTS.


Dis is 42nd Street, Grand Central, change for the 4, 5 and 7 trains. Dis is a Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Toity toid is next.  Watch out da closin doors.


They say there’s sev’ral million a day
From out in the ‘burbs, they pass this way.
Most come to work, some for to play
They all want to talk, with little to say.

Bumping and shoving, knocking folks down
A million people running around.
The hustle, the bustle the noise that’s so loud
Get me far from this madding crowd.

“We can be shopping instead of just stopping
And onto the next outbound train we go hopping.
Hey, it’s a feel that that guy’s a-copping!”

They want gourmet food, from steaks down to greens
Or neckties and suits, or casual jeans,
It’s not simply newspapers and magazines
For old people, young people, even for teens.


Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Dis is Thoidy toid Street, twenty eight is next.  Watch out da closin doors.


     “So what’s the backup plan if
     He doesn’t get into Trevor Day?
     I know your
     heart’s set on it, but we’ve only
     got so many strings we
     can pull, and we can’t donate a
     ******* building.”

           “Hooda believed me if I tolja the Mets
          would sail tru and the Yanks get dere
          by da skinna dere nuts?
          I doan believe it myself.  Allya
          Gotta do is keep O’Neil playin hoit
          And keep Jeter off his game an
          We’ll killum.

               “My sistah tell me she be yo *****.  I tellya I cut you up if you
                ****** wid her, I be yo ***** and donchu fuggedit.”

     “I wish you wouldn’t talk like that.
     And we can just **** good and
     Well find some more strings to pull!”

          “Big fuggin chance.  Wadder ya’ smokin?”

               “Yo sitah she ain my *****, you be my *****.  I doan be ******
                wid yo sistah.  You tell her she doan be goin round tellin folks
                dat ****.”


Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Dis is Twenty eight Street, twenty toid is next.  Watch out da closin dowahs.


     Do you speak Russian, French or Greek,
     We’ll assimilate you in a week.
     If Chinese is your native tongue
     You’ll speak good English from day one.

     Morning, noon, evening classes
     Part or full time, lads and lasses.
     You’ll be sounding like the masses
     With word and phrase that won’t abash us.

     Language is our stock in trade
     For us it’s how our living’s made.
     We’ll put you in a class tonight
     Soon your English’ll be out of sight.

     If you’re from Japan or Spain
     Basque or Polish, even Dane,
     Our courses put you in the main
     Stream without any need for pain.

     We’ll teach you all the latest idioms
     You’ll be speaking with perfidium.
     We’ll give you lots of proper grammar
     Traded for that sickle and hammer.

     Are you Italian, Deutsch or Swiss?
     With our classes you can’t miss
     The homogeneous amalgamation
     Of this sanitized Starbucks nation.


Dis is Twenty toid Street, 14th Street Union Square is next. Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin doors.


     “Ladies and Gentlemen, I hate to bother you
     But things are bleak of late.
     I had a job and housing, too
     Before my little quirk of fate.”

     “There came a day, not long ago,
     When to my job I came.
     They handed me a pink slip, though,
     And ev’n misspelled my name.”

     “We’ve got three kids, my wife and me.
     We’re bringing them up right.
     They’re still in school from eight to three
     With homework every night.”

     “I won’t let them see me begging here,
     They think I go to work.
     Still to that job I held so dear
     Until fate’s awful quirk.”

     “So help us now, a little, please
     A quarter, dime (or dollar still better),
     It’ll go so far to help to ease
     The chill of this cold winter weather.”

     “I’ll walk the car now, hat in hand
     I do so hope you understand
     I’m really a proud, hard working man
     Whose life just slipped out of its plan.”

     “I thank you, you’ve all been oh so grand.”


Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Dis is 14th Street, Union Square, change for da 4 and 5 Express, the N and the R.   Astor Place is next.  Watch out da closin doors.


     The hours are long, the pay’s no good
     I’m far from home and neighborhood.
     All day I work at Astor Place
     With sunshine never on my face.
     Candy bar a dollar, a soda more
     A magazine’s a decent score.
     Selling papers was the game
     But at two bits the Post’s to blame
     For adding hours to my long day.
     All the more work to save
     Tuition for that son of mine: that tall,
     Strong, handsome, American son


Dis is a Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Yer at Astah Place, Bleekah Street is next.  Watch out da closin doors.


     Summer subway’s always hot, AC’s busted, like as not
     Tracks are bumpy, springs are shot ‘tween the cars they’re smoking
     ***.

     To catch the car you gotta run they squeeze you in with everyone
     Just hope no body’s got a gun 'cause getting there is half the fun.

     Packed in this car we’re awful tight seems this way both day and
     night.
     And then some guys will start a fight.  Subway ride’s a real delight.

     Danger! Keep out! Rodenticide! I read while waiting for a ride.
     This is a warning I have to chide:  
     I’m very likely to walk downtown, but I’d never do it Underground.

     Took the Downtown by mistake.  Please, conductor, hit the brake!
     Got an uptown date to make, God only knows how long I’ll take.


Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Dis is Bleekah Street, Spring Street is next.  Watch out da closin doors.


     The trains come through the station here,
     The racket’s music to my ear.
  &nbs

starting with periwinkle,
when they say I'm colorblind
I cough a bit;
tarred-up heart, doncha
know, bless your little heart then.
I could run wild, given highs
that rare to lull;
now, a call to cull. I willing,
force the slaved ego.
I said never to capitulate;
how obstinate,      I;
swearing prostrate.
I, crying why?
"To live of metre,
  for to die in metre,   of course."
pretty cold-blooded, a moment
for I when I needs an eye;
prostrate, perfect,
composing ****** structure
in order for I to redeem
a gaze from hand
[when clock tick-tocks]
through wound of perfect grace.
feel all awkward, shut
the door right quick;
"Who the **** was that?"
               Suzie Black,
why you sulking around this I?;
why you balking around some lie?

Barefoot dreaming
Dandelion graveyard
Wrapped in yesterday's wishes
Drowning in a Bluegrass sea

Raven black shadows
Sweet tea lips
Cast upon a field of has been
Porch of hiatus

Rooted rocking chair
Song of tomorrow
A promise that cannot be kept
Tune of a heritage soul

Black eyed susan cries
Aerial view from a robin's eye
Golden rod sunrise
Bourbon moon

Deep fried soul
Bonfire lullaby
Love song melody
Deeply rooted

no suzie, you can't sit next to Thumper.
you're my dolly. You sit where I want you to.

look at those fluffy ears
I don't trust 'em suzie.
he's a creep

Thumper stop looking at her like that.

Thumper, let me sing you a song
so you understand.

This is my dolly
You can't have it
This is my dolly
And *******

this is my dolly
You can't have it
This is my dolly and
*******

this is my dolly
you can't have it
this is my dolly and
*******.

*Stomp stomp stomp *
"What are you singing?"

Nothing Daddy!

"If that is what Nothing sounds like.
You will sing for the rest of your life loudly,
Do you understand me?"

yes daddy.

"I don't wanna hear nothin' ever again.
where did you learn that song?"

Mommy sang it
last night
turned the shower on
she thinks I can't hear
if the waters running
it doesn't work though,
the way her voice cracks
when she sings
I can tell shes crying.

"Oh...
princess...

you misheard...

last night,
mommy sang:

This is my body
You can't have it
This is my body and

Well that last line...

...that wasn't singing

Daddy just desereved that.

You know, it's funny.

you and I...

...we got the same word wrong."

Well my old Mate,
The sands of time have slipped between our fingers, you and I are not the spry young things we used to be. Gone are the expansive days of limitless horizons, gone are the great aspirations.
We live now in a time of quiet satisfaction. We have lived our lives as best we can. We have our achievements and our failures, our moments of despair and delight, the highs and the lows of a lifetime well spent.
What magnificent moments we have had... both of us! Moments of love and triumph, moments of roaring laughter, occasions where we have both felt... that our cup does indeed.. overfloweth.
We have watched our children grow from helpless little bubbles to striving creative people with urgencies and points of view and imperitives.
We have both found partners who have shared the pain and the hardship, the joys and the agonies. We are the lucky ones friend.. these women are the rock of our lives without them we would be substantially less.
Despite the fact that we have rarely seen each other since the ****** days, I want you to know that I have always regarded you as a brother.  Something quite indefinable there, but special.. you will always be my brother.

Speaking of brothers.. ****** old Johnson has married himself a young Chinese lady, they are living quite happily in southern China, used to be Changsha but I think now elsewhere..
He is coming back to New Zealand next year.. about March.. which is very timely because then we will be able to accommodate them in our new rural retreat in Taranaki.
Janet and I have built a lovely little donga atop a high hill overlooking the magnificent green, South Taranaki foothills and the wide blue Tasman sea.
The place is about 50% built right now. In a few days Janet & I will travel down with a truckload of stuff and spend the summer break and Christmas working our bums off on the property.
We camp out under a sky full of the most brilliant stars.. more than I have ever seen before. Every morning we awake to the glorious dawn chorus of the native birds in the forest around us.
We have two particularly curious, enormous wood pigeons who follow us around all day from job to job and a chorus of beautiful, irridescent tuis who entertain us with their song and antics flitting between the flowering tree fuschias.
This place is paradise.
We will have two guest bedrooms... so sometime, in the not too distant future, I want you and Suze to take a little break.

Boaz is returning from New Mexico for Christmas, Solomon is driving him down country on Christmas eve so we will all be together with Grandpa Bell, Janet’s dad, for the festivities. I can’t wait!
Have bought Janet a beautiful oil painting by a local artist.. Of geraniums in a rust red ***.. and a glorious light emanates from it. Will be just the thing for the wall in the new kitchen.
That’s it!

Love to you and Suzie and all the tribe.
Have one hellava good Christmas mate
Luv M

Hold your hand aloft in light
Feel the blood run through your veins,
Know that you have lived a life
Loved a love and held the reigns
Of something..so worthwhile and good
That friends will well have understood,
When you have long passed from this land,
...Your Cup hath Overfloweth.

MERRY CHRISTMAS

Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
18 December 2010

Such a beautiful friend I am blessed to have in my life
Ups and downs, you’re always there.
Zerella, Suzie, I’m glad our paths have crossed, when we met.
I am always thinking of you
Each time we catch up, it’s always a great memory

© By HF-Whisper
19/3/2021-13:16PM

Amidst rain, storm roars
I see no castrated boars
Boat's offshore no oars

Suzie's lips gape wide
She mounts upon  me astride
But I'm no horse ride

Her skin's like fresh meat
I can smell her desert heat
Kissing two hearts beat

Sadistic nails jooked
Parachute bra flies unhooked
Sweet pain overlooked

Obey and poised steely
Or miss chance to taste freely
Tongue's out slink deely

Coitus should be fun
Wheely as a circus bun
Sways no childish pun

Letting her take lead
As I sprout thoughts from charred ****
With one closed eyelid

She grabs the viper
Moods daren't swing like jeep's wiper
"Roger that, ******!"

Now let’s see what I can make of the chronology of Chase.
Some thick wet messy bird *****
missing its mark, a drop, browning vent
feathers, another drop
oozing perfectly in, to the oviduct, where
minerals and fetus and pre feathers formed.  

And now a slanted eye, lid half closed
after the fashion of a laying chicken hen,
a hen in its own right, Suzie Susan the bird,
sunflower seeds and malnutrition gracing her final
August days,
sits atop what can only be called a
cardboard cruelty to squeeze out the
rock and continue his

cycle
backward.

But: before.

The same lidded look, a male somewhere gesticulating
split rock shale hued feathers and
pink scaled lizard feet,
gripping,
as the unbelievable ordeal of egglaying begets
what will become a creature
((Chase))

and then warmth, a spot of raw pink
skin, so much like a goose bumped wet frozen bird
in the *** a day before supper,
warms the egg to a precise temperature
((Wikipedia knows what))
not to cook, but to love.

So many cages.  Straight up and down
black white silver metal plastic
bars, maybe a metal floor and maybe
unbreathable glass,
maybe even pine.  

How he made his way into a
rabbit’s cage much too sideways for
any bird, losing feathers from
eating buggy dry dusty seed which he loved
almost as much as procreating,
I wish to Hell I knew,
so I could ***** about it too
and hate not only myself, my parents,
the wooden door that ended him,
but their rotted brains as well.

Made perches.  Not safe, but sound.  
Wood, sycamore, not disinfected, but worn
down to a point of home decor.  
Birdshit everywhere, which was lovely
but I didn’t remember to clean it because
I was too young to know about anything
but Phantom of the Opera, dragons that have wings
and front arms always, don’t you dare ******* say different
because I will end you,
and the occasional long thin scab on the arm.

But, living.
Sitting by me -- hating me in a way that spoke
of kindred love and bond --
and nothing at all of the $3 diet that he somehow subsisted
on for possibly four years,
possibly thirteen,
or the improper bars slanted with thick white and gray urate and feces
paste uncleaned unchecked and untouched.

Or even the of the hard saved handful of cash earmarked for a
slightly less inadequate cage (but a cage nonetheless)
traded instead for a Nightmare on Elm Street box set containing
movies 1-6, plus 7, and Freddy vs Jason as well but not the remake,

but definitely of how someone, maybe me, taught you how to
whistle the Andy Griffith theme song even though I never watched
the dumb old show, and how to whistle
like a construction worker with a mild *******
after an unintended female, with the “best ***
I ever ******* saw,”

and of strict bedtimes always met with a decent blanket,
and maybe even of the bird-like night frights in which
I felt my heart leap, and I turned on music for you with the
useless old sixty pound boxy computer that happened to still have
a working copy of windows media player installed

and singing Billy Joel’s Lullaby which had nothing to do with you
or I and everything to do with divorce and dying
but which was perfect,
and put you back to sleep without a broken neck or wing,
yet.

Does it matter if he’s a bird or man?
I tell you that he’s both.
He ate and shat and ****** and loved
and sang and slept and had grumpy days
and happy days
and ****** people off and was too loud
and was startled by screams
had to face the still silent unmoving sickening pregnant heat wave of grief
had favorite foods and songs and tv shows,
lived in boxes and only wanted out.  

Greedy how he chirped so high on top of his lover
doing the tail spinny grindey dance against her pulsating *******
center, and squirting
secretly much like the **** before him, whatever
and whoever he was, his eyes
wide and mouth open slightly.  

And then her fat cinnamon body lay so many
thick shelled deadly pearls,
which were empty but never cold.
They loved their empty stale stagnant infertile eggs, by God,
these two perfect doomed parents given
not nearly enough to survive the
war of childbirth and rearing,
which they only tried out but were not privileged to suffer.  

I would’ve named his sons Columbo after some name
I read in a book or maybe an online forum, that is
supposedly Italiano and supposedly means “dove,”
the fat birds of varying white and gray hues with the occasional
dazzle of blue or brown or black
that embody all the soft qualities of Chase, and Suzy

and I would attempt to end the misbegotten trend
that started when I named Chase after the gorgeous golden Aussie
character from House (which someone of my age probably
shouldn’t have watched)
and add some little Renatos and Ninfas and little
Agapetos or maybe even Uccellos or Ucellas.  

But what would have been a family of tiny winged storm - skies
brought instead a slowish painful death, that could have been
oh so easily prevented and fixed with a little bit of love,
some mercy, some money, a vet, and possibly a fingertip amount of
dollar store canola cooking oil.

And Chase, what can I say of how you screamed an elegy, a dirge
more harrowing than Percy Shelley’s or Rilke’s or that poem Billy Collins
wrote about nine eleven, more true than the entire ludicrous book of Lamentations,
simply by screaming extreme, shrill and for so long, so long,
so through that the house shook with it and I cried too?

You wailed with a small dry wordless tongue
that shot into my ears and to my skull, brain, gray and white matter,
that absolutely trembled with the familiar horrific confusion
of suddenly waking to find that someone is gone and you
don’t know how but you know you’ll
never
see them again

you’d never stroke the smooth laughter of
her cheeks, you’d never press your small warm chest
against her wide brown wing again, my love,
and I
would never remember
where the hell I laid her body,
lost the grave that you needed to touch and
maybe walk on and sing to,
once more.

But this wasn’t your life.
That instead was summed up,
concentrated into the small pregnant moment when
It Happened,
the flash and squeal of your body being
broken, crushed smashed practically severed,
dazed and shaken and slowly shut down
over the span of a weekend,
again
and again as it
replayed in my mind --
again, again,
again, again.

But these are only words and you can’t
exist in them except as a small sliver,
a fragment of soul, a quick whiff of heartbeat --

but I didn’t lose your grave.
There’s a soggy ground where you were lain, and a small wooden
plaque over your bones which painted with the words:
in pace requiescat,
which I admit I only know from Amontillado,
and the day and month and the year that you died
because you, the great mystery, have no birth date.

And I would proceed to cry and hate so many people,
myself, and you, and firstly my lovely parents,
who allowed you to die and pretended to apologize,
but most of all I would hate the world,
for swallowing up and making me think
that a part of your flesh, sloshy like the soil,

was absorbed and embodied as fresh growth on your
large drooping willow tree

and that if I stroke it,
when I touch it with these fat white fingers and let
the bark pierce my skin roughly,
rub it red and ****** dry,
that I am touching you

and letting you know
I remember and that Chase -- you spilling of bird
***** and calcified ****
that somehow became a grayish soul that God hardly
gave enough moons --

I’m sorry
I hit you with a door
trying to close it,

but less sorry that I killed you and more sorry
that it was because, out of grandmotherly fear,
I never let you learn how to fly,

I clipped your wings and you, and we were so clumsy

that you ambled head first into its already severing crack

I hope wherever the hell you might be --
birdy paradise, Dante’s hell where lovers fly and that is torment --
that you have wings,
and they aren’t clipped,
and someone cleans up your ****.

50’s beach party
complete with twitchy go-go dancers
leather jackets
and old Plymouths
sand kicked in the faces of squares
as little Suzie Goodtime roller skates across the parking lot
picket fences shift from white to orange and pink
as they capture the sunset on a perfect American day –
free lovers swing signs
written in crayon
attempting to challenge the establishment
create world peace
through **** abuse and music in the park
subjugated and relegated to building a retirement platform
aged hipsters look at faded photographs
imagining a time they changed the all –
blown out coke head
bent on disco ***** and easy living
watches as Miami explodes
CIA operatives feeding high grade dope
to low rent projects
in an effort to funnel money and guns
into the Middle East –
gas wars and brokers as billionaires
death to glam rock and hairspray
the rise of bling and swag
selfies take center stage
unabashed introversion
as the skies are geometric grids
and the crops **** pollinators –
looking over a lifetime
of altering perception
and changing habits
the habitual nature of humanity
shines as a solid base from which all else stems
forced to recognize my own place in the septic tank
I stand as an observer and documenter
cleverly bending the woes
of the world
into words
for the lost –

. . .WHILE THE MUSIC LASTS. . .



"Music heard so deeply
That is not heard at all, but you are
The music While the music lasts."

T. S. Eliot: The Dry Salvages - V






The door appears
before her

as if hey presto
out of thin air.

I have to sing it to her for her
to know it is there....is a door.

"Open the door Suzie!"

The Dylan and her name
activates its fact and function.

She is always amazed that
the world waits outside.

" A little bit of magic!"
she always coos.

"It's like the sky...the bird and trees
have been made...just for me!"

And each time she
carelessly loses the world

it is made anew
shiny as the first Creation.

She basks in the sheer
pleasure of me

brushing brushing
her hair her hair.

But seeing how much
comes off on the brush

she panics:
"I'm losing me!"

As if she were shedding
her self.

"You're losing it...you're losing it!"
I sing with great gusto.

She laughs and joyfully
joins in

with the corruption of
Blake.

Out on the street she
starts to take off her clothes

thinking she is
at home.

"Oh oh Suzie we
don't do that  'round here!"

But now it's time for
biscuits and tea.

She knows it because
I whistle some Capriccio

of Zelenka's
whatever comes to mind.

She admits that I music her
back into being but

"...you can't whistle for toffee
or sing for nuts and your voice

is a bit too harsh and Irish!"

I do my best to
sing her through

the day's comings and goings
music taking her by the hand

leading her back
into a world

she no longer lives in
most of the time.

"Open the door Suzie!
But I ain't gonna hear it said no more."

She knows one day
*** will be a memory,
A nightly séance with
Her dead self. Hardwick
Will still be just one of
Her many lovers, *******
His pants in some old folks
Home, dribbling over his
Shirt, forgetting her as he
Turns to go numbly to sleep.

She inhales her cigarette,
Watches the smoke rise,
Sees in the corner of her
Room, a spider hanging.

Hardwick is due at seven.

He will bring white wine,
Foreign food, the hot ****
Movie they both want to
See, then to bed, ***, sleep.

She exhales the smoke, holds
The cigarette to one side, her
Naked body sensing warm
The sheets. Suzie he’ll say,
Putting the wine and food in
The fridge, placing the movie
On, can we try that position on
Page 35? Last time it was page
32, the position not much fun,
Too much work, quite hard to do.

Mother’d turn in her grave to
See her thus. Naked at four in
The afternoon, smoking French
Cigarettes, thinking of hot ***,
Wanting old age to stay away.

She sits up, stubs out the cigarette.

Mother died of cancer, too soon,
Too much, no answer. Hardwick
Will bring and expect the same:
The wine, the food, the *** after
The movie, the sleep after in her
Double bed, and all the time that
Humming of her mother in her head.

you will only convert them by desecrating their alphabets, you will only convert them by plucking out their eyes, and inserting arabic Braille to touch... but given their alphabet created computerised encoding, programming, due to the many holes in their phonetic optometry recognition; you will only convert them by desecrating their alphabets - teaching them the odd protruding arabic word will not due... even those who claim the faith do not speak arabic fluently: thus endorse reaching to those who have protruding arabic in them, but speak with an east london bad boy boy'o wannabe gansta' style - recruit here your obedient servants.

only among the many can a real chance, chance fleeting
become noted to a lake turning into mirror for
Narcissus at night by the gleering bluish moon of winter -
as if my heart, a heart of a poet was to be entombed in Iran -
and indeed i ran and ran to that tomb of poets -
hence their protest at the Surah damning the poets
(ash-shu'ara),
a proud ***** of the poets that
Iran is... well... it says the many -
and indeed with the many
the few can truly protest for the many,
for the few must accept the
protest of the many as a sign
that there's a different route to be taken,
not the whimsical route of undoing
any chance practice of the skeleton
and the tendon strings attaching it
to godly muscular - a funnel of activity -
indeed the damnation of the poets
therein, and my identification as one,
brings the weight upon me as if
were to identify with all and defend all
who profess such an occupation -
minding that the profession bring
the rewards akin to banking, or cheap
smear novel writing - who would not
dare to think, in abode of their
comforts that - *one day poverty -
over the past year or so, i have not received
a single letter being pushed through my
door - it's as if already the ridiculing
violins are playing - and as of this being
a 2nd critique of the western practice of
writing haiku - they're too enshrined in
the everyday - no chance - no drunk chinese
sage receiving a haiku with tear or
laughter - and here the sense of impeding
criticism, as Ezra warned at the end of
LXXXI
            'what thou lov'st well is thy true heritage
             first came the seen, then thus the palpable
             the ant's a centaur in his dragon world.
             pull down thy vanity, it is not man made courage,
             or made order, or made grace, pull down thy vanity!'
and indeed, what of Iblees? is that not god in reverse?
who made the previous world, known to us now,
this quote in the Surah al-hijr, about a fire which
wished not to become prostrated before the new creation,
after having suddenly revolved around not crafting
an asteroid belt to prevent future mishaps -
that this quote in al-hijr is the intelligence of the elders,
the former inhabitants - who's descendent remnants
still haunt our world - the slithering abstract of limbs,
the lizard spine - the i remember when rock was young,
me and suzie had so much fun, holding hands and
skimming stones, had an old gold chevy and a place
of my own but the biggest kick i ever got
was doing a thing called the crocodile rock -
well at least he didn't do the blatant Liberace to elder
gems for a fur coat & chandelier - social mobility of
third party parenting laws came in - in france a law was
passed criminalising pundits of prostitutes...
the prostitutes came out in protest...
while the upper tier 9 month surrogate prostitutes
just laughed - so yeah... the inversion of some sort -
with that quote about the dinosaurs being the highest
creative product of god, the universe, whatever...
after all, life's just: one bunch of *******, telling another
bunch of ******* - 'we've got all the ***** and had
threesomes and ******' - my my, let's applaud
for our mutual embarrassment of the 2:1 ratio
of women to men living out a life of grizzly bear mothers
in little ****-holes on the English Riviera, like Clacton,
or Southend.

So here I am, not sure what to write
The words are eluding me

Thought about a love song
But surely I would get that one wrong

Prehaps I should write about Suzie
And how she has broken my heart

Prehaps I should write about Society
With all its ills and wrongs

Prehaps I should write about my sad, sad life
But then I wouldn't know where to start

Prehaps I should write about my addictions
But then I would just want to get high

I am not sure what to do now
As the words are eluding me..

Suzie, Suzie, Suzie
She stole my man
Even though she had him
Years before I knew he existed
Give it up
I am the one for him
Give her up
I am the one for you

When you were old enough to walk, you were either given a Barbie doll or a Tea Set. Because you were a little girl, and apparently, since you are a girl who has just been given life herself, you should be in charge of a life. From the time we were able to run, you were given tutus and ballet shoes. Because a girl should be graceful and quiet, poised and elegant. "Look at this pretty doll, Suzie!" and "Why are you always getting into such messes!" are things that should never coexist in a little girl's life.

What happened to being who you want to be? I want to mosh to Green Day, not learn how to play Clair de Lune on a piano. What happened to those days when you could run around and not care who saw you?

Because now your life revolves around: "Does this shirt match these jeans?" and "I wonder if he'll look at me if I wear more make-up?" I long for a life where I was never raised to believe that being a little girl meant looking beautiful for someone else. I want to live a life where I can look stunning in a band tee and skinnys, and not give a **** what anyone thinks.

Because what happened? You grew up and met the world. And the world ate you and spit you back out.

uk raf highest level

dra (comander in chief)

tree, doe, sta, daffodil
ma da la dee so wa.

highest level command all countries sea of china.

highest level artillary china

sea, say say, atata,
suzie, nightbird
tra, so, summer, mon,
toto, motto, qui, ta.

china temples motto
china building straw
all systems a a

". . .WHILE THE MUSIC LASTS. . ."

"Music heard so deeply
That is not heard at all, but you are
The music While the music lasts."

T. S. Eliot: The Dry Salvages - V


*



The door appears
before her

as if hey presto
out of thin air.

I have to sing it to her for her
to know it is there....is a door.

"Open the door Suzie!"

The Dylan and her name
activates its fact and function.

She is always amazed that
the world waits outside.

" A little bit of magic!"
she always coos.

"It's like the sky...the bird and trees
have been made...just for me!"

And each time she
carelessly loses the world

it is made anew
shiny as the first Creation.

She basks in the sheer
pleasure of me

brushing brushing
her hair her hair.

But seeing how much
comes off on the brush

she panics:
"I'm losing me!"

As if she were shedding
her self.

"You're losing it...you're losing it!"
I sing with great gusto.

She laughs and joyfully
joins in

with the corruption of
Blake.

Out on the street she
starts to take off her clothes

thinking she is
at home.

"Oh oh Suzie we
don't do that  'round here!"

But now it's time for
biscuits and tea.

She knows it because
I whistle some capriccio

of Zelenka's
whatever comes to mind.

She admits that I music her
back into being but

"...you can't whistle for toffee
or sing for nuts and your voice

is a bit too harsh and Irish!"

I do my best to
sing her through

the day's comings and goings
music taking her by the hand

leading her back
into a world

she no longer lives in
most of the time.

"Open the door Suzie!
But I ain't gonna hear it said no more."

take an itch, wait
scratch it,
did the itch ax fo d scritch or was that

you

voice in the head of the ehearer

radio, maybe so
maybe so
Frank Zappa, or
Emily Dickenson
or Suzie Creamcheese,

only her words reamain, yet
remain
mainly in my head a phrase

it seems, a phase shift
maybe so

electric trickery, I don't know

can you hear me now, is there reason?
is reason being
reasoned with?

Are we, reasoning together,
and you know not
is it me, it is

maybe so. May is thy word,
in this phase of
your moon

fuzzy light croissant logo,
Batman or is that a cross, and a rho?
Chi Rho praxis nexus Latin lying
demnation time wastin'

funny books, retelling stories
as if it's true, as if
I heard it, I told it, as I read it,
believing every word.

Classic Illustrated.

What good does that do you?
I confess,
Professor, I don't know

if, right or wrong, ification is
done by me or mere
fictional
May, the power, given a go.
I could say. May is my word, now.

May my best wish be,
the quest is,
good beyond reason,
doing that phase shift

electional trick to May,
seasonal reason
for unbridled joy.

Tending, pretending, trending
means more to AI than I.
May I make the difference?
Say I may.
May is your word now.

at the outdoor bar on the beach
And all the golf carts gather around.
Some Elvis and a few more beers
No millennials until sundown.

In that little deuce coupe,
the Beach Boys run around,
Surfer girl's a Pasadena lady,
And surf boards are all aground.

Now I long for yesterday
When oldies were the craze.
There goes the sun and I say,
Hey Jude, here's to better days.

I ride back to the boonies,
thinking when oldies were newsies.
Wake up little Suzie,
we gotta go home

is...
your work...
the basis stratum
dynamic of...
infantilißing
poetry?   (debate... basic or basis?)

hell, if you don't like
the cure,
or depeche mode...
you sieve through
and furrage
for something, belgian...
like... the klinik...

no, i don't like being
made infantile...
like: i kept playing
with LEGO into my 30s...
just, just because i never
made use of
the claustrophobic-myopia
dynamic
of the prose strict,
utility of the paragraph...

maybe poetry is akin
to the sort of freedom
akin to breathing...
maybe: the child could
tell you:
what you're engrossed in?
your little, ****-fest
of adulthood?

     i can show you
the ******-taqiyya
with 3 minutes borrowed
from the film
  the sixth sense...
concerning the "magic" trick
of shaking your hands
and "supernaturally"
moving a penny from
one hand to the other...

i get it...
the poets are children
for authors,
since they cannot break
from the shackles of not
writing in descriptive
paragraphs
and having no imagination
for dialogue...

yeah... the sort of "dialogue"
that's really a monologue
of what poets do...
play into their late
pre-teen years with figurines...
no...
they're right...
i can't write a "dialogue"...
because i have "monologues"
in real life
that perplex me...
but, then again,
all the dialogues authors have...
would never fat-***-lodge
themselves into their own
heads to begin with,
they found it necessary
to invent a sort of
Pennywise escorts of
patience to wipe the blank
slate clear of written
exhibitionism...

     writing?
professional author style?
more like *******
for god....
unless god and the poets
is a close resemblance for
kiddy-fiddlers...
i am... suspect... hands up!

i'll ******* eat you
alive, and call it
a harvest of wheat!
not here, not on this "blank"
chessboard...
i know where the black
squares go...
i.e. where the letters in
black appear...

poetry is a variant of
infantalism...
hmm...

      MAYBE....

B                                         I






                                 G

space...
    you see any "clearer"?

hell... writing in vivo is:
"serious" writing,
fiction, author status,
paragraph sensible...

   maybe that's what heavy-heaving
literature always was,
words: in vivo...

poetry... sure... why shouldn't
any child attempt it?
  
  but money... is not part of this...
endeavor... is, it?

         if serious literature
can only claim stature
of in vivo...

  sure... the childish approach
to poetry begins with treating
poetry as: genesis in infans...

      my, genesis in infans?
painting...
             does anyone care i had
to fall into the educational
rubric of crafting spell-bound
examples of spelling?

serious literature:
big, biG, bIG, BIG people tongue...
a life as the many
trivialities
of making the myth
throwing a penny into
a fountain a...
        revision of reliving
the last moments of Pompeii!

doberman jaw...
******, please! feed me another
bone!

they're right though...
i am infantile in my "attempts"
at literature...
   i forgot to keep myself
schoolboy in schoolyard
uniform attire rigid,
for whatever,
is the worth of rhyme...
  hence they keep poetry
a medium on tight check...
over-ladden with...
  "technique"...
but... serious authors...
   labour in the paragraph
domain...
       like Descartes "mind"
connecting with the chair,
and table...

i'm still waiting for an answer...
i'm infanitle, becauase...
all my dialogues exist
outside my writing,
i abhor the claustrophobia
of the paragraph,
and the myopia
predictability of a narrative...
and i hold
the narrator:
pristine, unfathomable,
almost like a god?

  this is me... not becoming
a man?
oh...................
            so you want
that ******* song playing
in the background?
- what song?
depeche mode, martyr,
yes, no, maybe?

i have no...
          umbilical cord for
the furthering of "my" existence
on the tip of my tongue
to mind...
    yes... the ****** thing
attaches itself to either my
tongue or my metaphysical
tongue (ego) for all the worth
of second chapter of my time
here, being made aware...
what? you
    want the auguste rodin
   Le Penseur suddenly become
Le Fœtus.... to not apprehend
the synonym
      biology-burqa-blocked-toilet
reinterpretation?

at this point?
i have to scratch my head,
like chimpy-adam-and-suzie...

    you know...
by the time you'd read that sort
of **** from a serious author...
you'd be half-way from finding
a full-stop and a new sentence...
serious people over-load
their, original, poetic intentions,
with... serious...
monarchies of narrative...
hiding really decent sentences...
in heaps of descriptive
auxiliary props of
"never become Beckett-esque
theatre"...

     so yeah... poetry is infantile...
the only nuance:
i felt through
enough poignancy to make
a mistake,
and the mistake i made,
is... nuance...

                have you heard?
people take "serious" literature
compositions to bed...
       and they read them...
in order to fall to sleep...
meaning...
           i'm no nursery rhyme
genius...
                 but i also much
prefer to care for people
who are not subjected
to straining their eyes
lost in the myopia
labyrinth-paragraphs
of... 'and i saw!
the face! of Poseidon!'

blurry *******-boo-hoo,
i too...
          poetry is hardly infantile...
unless!
you have the sort of
ambitions to treat the paragraph
seriously!
and "dialogue" / i.e. a monologue
you will always have /
never have...
   and have children
to mind...

        then of course!
this medium of writing...
forever: hide & seek...
yet stating the painfully obvious...
tic-tac-toe...
and... hopefully:
very little rhyme.

Dead or alive?
Can I choose both sides, or sway
The fences darkened edge.
Do I have to be living
To end up dead
Or am I already a beat up ripe
Corpse?

Do I have to
Have my heart burst into pain
To be alive again?
No need to be alive when I'm already dead with my sweet
Though my sweet is a treat of the utmost beauty
Shes my captivator my Suzie.
My honey buns and cutie.
Rock and rolling I will jam for her
Because it's moving.
And a fine wine to end up the last part of the night
As we caress eachother off
To the room.
Door's shut!
No knocking please.

Quiet, or you miss the promise kept
by we, the people who hold the yesmen in chains egon-wize

Cuomo Opens Poetic Door Looses Zeitgeistical Cult of QAnon

everybody wants your vote, nobody wants to read my ****

so if you do you could be like so
this is easy,
we have taken every test,

passed all the rituals, learned the steps to the rose dance
morphing from the lilac dance which is longer

in the years when the manzinita shed
more bark to make the fiber for the best baskets ever tested
best
being relative you perceive in as, as in may be the global brain is
friendlier than the kids in the 1950's happy days,
could imagine after they wore the tie

yeah we just missed that, my generation,
barely missed disco, too.

beat the rap, survived the crap, got old on rumors of war.

Huawei, wu wu wu wei we go,
peace versus war...

who one last time? What are the odds?
There is a flood in Bangladesh,
Warholian fame,
back up to 3 centuries
must be the melting of the ice. Who is making this
seem life-like,
as real as any vision in any kiva, vista vision, without which

internet of things

my people perish, and I am at the white page, once more
turning to the business page
three of the world's biggest banks set aside, as in, did not count
as profit,
just in case. Eh. We qui quinonaqanonic grain eaters,
we set a scene, the stage
observed off stage, obscene as you know,

when you see it it is as if you are here, in the book of life
where you witnessed all the evil any one like you could do

if you had your own way, you coulda been Besosaurus, or Sam,
but you went walkabout
and now you say

you learned how peace is made, while being good for nothing.

Ironmanmeyes yesyses I said, while being, actually being virtually
real
as any deed you wisht you did, but did ent, earily close
but
missed still counts, you fired,
you pulled the trigger on the trap you set and Broncos are back,

life goes on, the richer are as rich as ever and the hermits
are as happy as they ever wished to be

Cuomo is a graphic artist, a meme maker,
who new a lysurgic imitation
of
what? HELLOHNOMYGAAAACH-you

deny my power? Fool. Raca-ist, too. Dimensional missed shifter

making some old lies do double time,
the center cannot hold,
Cuomo is a zeitgeistic antenae in radiolandmentis psiscience-osis.

Any idea can be a plague these days. Give 'er a go.

Antediluvian condition, sayzz the New York Times, cut the drip
drip drip
bene fits as we approach 6% solution,

with full disnification in the internet of things allowed.

Tinker bell may be the voice in your GPS if you can imagine
Suzie Creamcheese dating me and being
the operator who once connected me to you

we were walking to chicago, remember?

"On the far end of the trail of tears." today, a native son
sang of a promise kept,

and here we sang along, before we knew he sang, we knew the song.

I want to slide into the plumbing of your heat
Strapped to a bed
Hole in your chest
I still can't get in

The distance between us is like time
Infinite and infinitesimal
Inches to kilometers
Miles to centimeters

I can feel your warmth from Pluto
Like a silver ribbon tethered to an outter rim space cadet
Lost in space
Swimming through the ylem to get to your divide
When i find you and feel your gravity
I worry that atrophy will fill my knees
Collapsing from the weariness of my quest

El Dorado's Golden Road
Ponce de Leon's Fountain of Youth
Suzie's Fourth Floor Room

LISTEN TO THE SILENCE

The sirens
had hit rock bottom.

Leaving the land of Myth
for the lure of Hollywood

"One very big myth-take!"
as they youngest siren lisped.

"Mortals have lost
all belief in us!"

the sirens whined
in unison.

"Men no longer jump
into the sea on hearing us!"

they all opined
as one.

"How has it
come to this?"

Now as the Siren Sisters
reduced to playing

support for ****** Bananarama!
Zeus wept!

Even Jason and the Argonauts
and that stupid boy band Oh Oh Odysseus

billed above them
- mere mortals!

Their greatest hit
Love on the Rocks

a badly recorded memory
on an ancient TOTP!

Where had it all gone
not right?

Here now in a jazz club
in a run down Soho dive

nobody paying a blind bit of notice
to their shimmering act.

"Can you believe we are
thousands of years old?

And still seem so...
this fresh?"

They can't hear themselves
above the clatter of chats and plates.

Even Suzie Siren's sax solo
lost amongst the smoke and jeers.

"Ya gotta lose the bird costumes girls
show some more flesh...get with the ****!"

their dodgy manger attempts to bring them
into the naughty Noughties.

"And whose gonna follow a band they
can't pronounce - Thelxinoe, Molpe, and Aglaophonos!"

A siren steps up to the spotlight
blinded by her tears.

"Ok...this is a song by our friend
Bobbie Zimmerman...aOneaTwoaThree!

"Ahhhhh it's all over now
baby blue!"