So often
Going through the day
Minding my own business
and people feel the need to intrude.

Smoking outside my building
Just want silence
One of the local talkies comes over
Going on and on
Sciatica pain he says
On and on
and on and on

“Probably emotional” I tell him
He did not like that
Most people don’t
When you suggest there is something
more going on
Than they are willing to face.

But I have decided
If they want to intrude
on my solitude
I don’t have to chew it.

Kevan Fuchs died today in his sleep
In a similar way as his father of one
And actually, also my father did too
Of those bitter, big cancer scourges
Which always come in unexpected
In this short enough life, a bit early

I've known him ever since first, when
We were knee high to Dad's shotgun
Throughout our small neighborhood
We would all roam to see and look
For ***** toads and such other fun
Without any known end in our sights

We often, came all together, at once
In his parent's, little Clovis back yard
In the under ground, in our deep dug
Wild little clubhouse of our new pride
Approved by our jealous Dad's stare
Made all by ourselves, with great care

Eight by eight, with three feet of deep
Shagged carpet floors, walls around
And places to hide stuff with those
**** magazines we wished to remain
Unseen by our parents, although they
Surely lived through similar wild times

Black lights , fluorescent mod posters
Fans to cool, while there in the deep
Kept the place comfy, from several
Hot summers in New Mexico's heat
Staying nights over, in conspiracy we
Came colluding, while hoping no fame

This place was our place, of known
Refuge from all of the big crazy, with
Frightening world still yet to come
Giving us our youngest freedoms
And also so much being in trouble
As kinda neighborhood hoodlums

Far up his Dad's, tall, two-way radio tower
One of us in care would climb
With binoculars to see the dark night
With our pair of walkie talkies held
Warn the others, carousing around
Of any plight, in appearing headlights

Kevan's brother, still alive,  Keith
My other brother by another,  Buddy
Also at first, a weird guy, named Chris
One other member, as second cousin
Who actually, was my very first kiss
When it was hard to aim, lips to miss

All bound as one, by made up signs
And part of something called PSO
Which, if you don't know well, what it
Truly means, then you were definitely
Not a part of the so very high bliss
Which we suffered through so often

Kevan's true nature is clearly proven
Finally, most completely, at his end
In the nature of his wonderful loving
All his family, who also so loved him
And all those other parties to trouble
Who also so loved, really all of him

©  2017 Jim Davis

He waits in the park for a date.
A bus full of los Angeles Models and photographers
talk through walkie talkies.
He walks around spying through his peripheral.
pretending he's James Bond trying to scope them out.
He wonders if he seems suspicious, or if he's going undetected.

A Beautiful girl passes briskly by, looking curiously around.
She long dark bangs, fall colored scarf, flirty skirt.
She sits on a nearby bench.
He no longer thinking of his date.

"oh my god."
"wait, no."
"what if she showed up right when you started flirting?"
"be respectful."

A vibration in his palm.
"I'm Here"
he looks around
the only woman to fit the profile is perched on the bench.
"no way."
He walks over to the girl.
"you walked right past me, beautiful."
on his face is a smolder
the gas mask used to hide all sorts of jumbled feelings in the past.
Today. it's hiding a tiny jumping boy. feeling like he just won the gorgeous girl lottery.
This is his Date.

They go to Dobra Tea,
She takes a sip.
"It tastes like peaches" she says.
"Peaches come, in a can." The boy starts.
"they were put their by a man" she adds.
they screamingly harmonize a bit too loudly for a tea shop
"In a factory downtown"
they shush each other.
giggles erupt out of them as they collapse into the tiny pillows.
they get quiet.

the girl explains she puts her "bad pictures" on tinder
so people are surprised to realize she's beautiful in person.
stricken by her brilliance.
He applauds the flawless strategy.
as it clearly worked on him.

They go on a few more dates.

First She takes him to a graveyard.
They talk about their Jiminy Cricket's
Shared demons, so familiar some
creep from behind gravestones.
push leaves from their path as they stroll along.

Then He bring her to lighthouse.
A thick cold fog.
they switch between belting 90's pop hits
and laying peacefully up at the sky holding hands.
Music.
sound of bleeding hearts rubbing against each other.
bow and violin.
how soon they flint and steel.
spark too hot, too real, too soon.

later, in bed.
His heart leaks something.
He wonders if he looks suspicious, or if he's going undetected.
when she pushes "did you just say you love me?
Tired, and teary eyed, He says:
"Peaches."
It was their safe word.

As she starts in, Clearly not satisfied,
"C'mon, I know I hear-" she interrupts herself.
"oh... you said peaches."

See, he could have said yes,
It would have been more honest.
but this was only their third morning waking up together.
even though his heart wanted to say it again.
his Jiminy Cricket doesn't care if he loves her.
it knows he can't take care of her.
Jiminy knows that when he goes home tomorrow, she's a poem.

So He says peaches.

i.
your teeth chatter and the wind hits your face.
you can no longer feel your hands or legs.
something about frostbite floats around your mind.
and while your head is screaming, go home
your legs are screaming, left, right, left, right.

you remember walking this way from school.
when your sister would pick you up and walk with you.
or when your "best friend" would make you take the long way
so you could walk her home.

you remember trying to climb that tree
to impress a couple of kids
in hopes that you would become friends.
you remember falling
and the shrill laughter of "never never friends"

you remember sitting in that field
and writing poetry
about the dogs that passed.

you remember playing in that park
with a girl you thought
you'd be friends with forever.
you remember sitting on the swings
while your mom talked to other moms
about what it was like to be a mother.
you remember sliding down the slide,
playing in the sand,
and the reluctance to go home.

ii.
you find yourself in His neighborhood.
you still remember the exact way to His house.
how could you not?
you are still smoking.
you imagine the smoke hitting His face.
He would be shocked, if only He could see you now.
what He made you.

you stop by His house.
you remember the path across His house that would lead you to school if you followed it.
you remember the tree next to His house where He poked a wasp's nest.
you remember His backyard, how you would build forts and He would always win.
you remember His living room, blanket forts where you would tease you until you cried.
you remember His mother and her patronizing smile.

there are christmas lights.
you wonder which room is His.
you wonder if His house still looks the same.
you wonder if He remembers what He did to you.

how He touched you
even though you said no.
how He told you that you wanted it
even though you said you didn't.
how He told you that you needed him
even though you knew you didn't.

He is a ghost now, just like the rest of this neighborhood.
and you know if you stay long enough
the ghosts will take it as an open invitation
and come out to play.

iii.
you keep walking.
you put the cigarette out.
you think you're lost until you find a familiar looking building.
you walk towards it.
you realize it's the church across from your elementary school.

ah, elementary school.
remember how they broke you?
remember how they called you names?
remember how you tried to **** yourself?
remember all the friends you didn't have?

you can see the ghosts, now.
the school is filled.
your legs are moving towards it.
you remember the nightmares you had about this exact place last week.
you take pictures.
you try to catch a demon on film.

you have lost all control of your legs.

this is where you told ghost stories about the old lady that lived in the forest behind the school.
this is where you made a pact that you would be friends for life.
this is where that kid told that teacher he was death when he meant to say deaf.
this is where you sat under the playground and laughed so hard you peed.
this is where you showed them the scars on your wrist.
this is where they rolled their eyes and called you "attention seeking".
this is where she told you every lie they'd ever said about you.
this is where you sat when you told them you were going to **** yourself tonight.
this is where you bled and everyone saw.
this is where you broke.

this is where you became who you are today.

iv.
the anxiety is killing you.
you light another cigarette.
you hear voices and a bark.
you make a left.

down the road is the fence you kicked your show over in the second grade.
you wonder if you should thank them for returning your shoe or not.
you don't.

you walk towards her house.
the last time you were here was halloween in grade nine.
you were dressed as the mad hatter.
being chased by some guy dressed as michael myers.
trying to figure out who you really are.

she became someone completely different less than a year later.
she had been telling people she wished your best friend would **** herself.
she got into drugs.
she was always too good for you, anyways.

you want to knock on her door and ask how she's doing.
you wonder if she remembers you.
you don't.

v.
you walk past His best friend's house.
he has bright, shining lights, too.
christmas spirit.

you wonder if he still lives there or not.
you remember the way you went to daycare together.
the three of you.

you were never close with him.
he was into hockey and more attractive girls.
by the time He transferred out of your school, he had no reason to talk to you anymore.
he forgot all about you.

he started dating girls in grade one.
he started cursing in grade five.
he had kissed a girl by grade eight.
she thought she was in love with him.
he had no idea what love meant.

he still plays lacrosse with Him.
he talked to you about Him, sometimes.
he told you how He was doing, how much he hated Him.

at least the two of you had that to talk about.

vi.
you are almost home.
you check your phone.
four missed calls.
three unanswered texts.
where r u?
you turn off your phone and put your hands in your pockets.

you're walking down the same path you would during school.
you remember the way the boy you had a crush on would tease you as you walked home.
he lived on your street.
he would call you names.
you told yourself it was only because he liked you.
he didn't.

the two of you used to be best friends.
you played in the park together.
you had matching walkie talkies.
he came to all your birthday parties
and you went to all of his.

until you weren't cool enough.
and that was that.

you still see him sometimes.
you don't exchange a hello or even a smile.
you act like he doesn't exist.
he does the same for you.

you wonder if he feels as guilty as you do.

vii.
you are home, but you are not alone.
you've returned with your own ghost.
she is whispering in your ear how you have become
everything she would be ashamed of.

she wanted to be a veterinarian.
she wanted to be thin.
she wanted to be pretty.
she wanted to be smart.
she wanted a boyfriend.

you are unemployed.
you are overweight.
you are ugly.
you are dumb.
you have a girlfriend.

she is dead and you are the only one to blame.
because you killed her.

What is artistic expression how do put my soul on a page
How do I stroke my aura’s color if I can’t see it  
How do paint my humor and intentions
How do I draw my unbalanced chakras back to balanced and write the energies surging through channels
How do I chalk out my thought process when I am reminded of you

Walkie talkies hidden ontop my chalkie chakra blocked like telephone lines hit by drunk drivers or blackouts during storms
Sunshine burning mustard seething weekend breeding burnouts coming out of retirement like

My soul color bleeding rainbows with big blocks of grey in between Needing the contrast Needing the depth and blurred complications the world is not black and white we all bleed the same rainbow sparks into the same riverbeds breathing and exhaling with the time ticks of our existence of light reflected on the glitter trickled surface of the vibrations of our soul speaks ricocheting through galaxies for eternity.

Can’t phrase anything right
In come spiraling thoughts stories of me stories of we can’t help but trip I fall into thee mother Luna romanticizing the waves of the sea you rub my jaw with your hipster b

Crown king we’re being free
We’re trying queen
Forgot the beauty in the cold
Blackened hearts should walk boldly
Frozen on mountaintops trying to keep our souls warm
Broken and torn plastic bag in the wind escaping entities that block their flow

Exhausted on faking
Keep breaking from trying to make it
Ain’t no fun to be around
I keep all my words in my mouth
The devils got my tongue
I’m feeling numb
All my existence is to ***
I can’t get up out of the ******* ground
Years go by
I’m not feeling myself
Tears come out of me like a leaking spout
No drugs can bother me
My head belongs in the clouds

Spy Kids (the original)
A 5 dollar matinee with your mom
A box of Bunch A Crunch
Or a plastic sack of
Dip N Dots

Ninja Turtle walkie talkies
Flare denim cargo pants
Bobby Jack zip up hoodies
With blue Fla-Vor-Ice stains
And hide and seek

Now That’s What I Call Music
Volume 17
Playing from a 10in x 10in
Silver box TV
And high frequency noise
To accompany
Akon’s latest bass line

A razor scooter
The foot powered kind
When the Preacher’s Daughter
Has a shiny blue one with a motor

Weeping to Secondhand Serenade
Because your mom won’t let you have
A Wii
And your crush checked “no” on the
Note you gave them last week

Detention after pre algebra
From shooting a girl two seats over
At “close range”
With a hornet
And she was unfamiliar with the school wide
NO SNITCHIN’
policy

The words
Beastly
And epic
Used to describe what your
8th grade field trip is gonna be like

A phone call from your best friend
About finally finding Ben Franklin
In Tony Hawk’s Underground 2

Now
The OK symbol is your most used emoji
There are too many guys with long hair
And beards
White girls all have a weird obsession
With house plants
We’re all at least 50 thousand dollars  in debt
And I think we all
Just really hope Donald Trump
Isn’t our next president

well the left is dead, and the left turned into tartan, i guess the islanders
are gearing up to a male patriarch where ***** go free with jealousy
rather than queened freely;
i know the left died, but to have it third day resurrect
in scotland, i'd never think the tories flavoured
outside of plum plucked blue;
only when a politics is unappealing to quote no vote,
is a change of monarch at hand,
and then why such the left disappear almost completely?
it's one thing for tyranny to leave a listening airy cleft
where once thought reigned tyrannically un-dialectical,
but it's another cased scenario to suddenly
lever a man to contort into a female face on either
photograph or coin, so we leave the wonders of chillingly
easy rhymes of song from the 1960s to the 21st complex,
and we leave the reign almost feeding a reprimand
for the multi-cultural having no artistic endeavour
in a counter. multi-cultural will not provide a counter-culture,
given the scenario of tyranny to aggregate all into taxable citizens,
perhaps that's rome shrunk into the vatican for the alphabet to survive,
perhaps why latin is "dead" and perhaps why poetry is dead,
because the only walky talkies are women in retirement;
forget dialectics even, remind yourself of dialogue first!
in the end, like the pre-socratics, i'll be a snippet of words
to bruise myself on fame post-mortem;
of course i live in readied tyranny, no one votes
and the left of politics was taken my northern nationalists...
in the end, thank **** at least that happened!
the king wears a kilt!
and? better my youth be a foolery in the realm of vocabulary
than prancing in tutu and bra on a table in ibiza;
yes, i'll be courteously french while i age in the silent winery:
that place where you won't even hear a corkscrew.*

the politics is long, i'd rather live on nn the faroe islands,
but it reminded me of a charles in henry's nursery rhyme:
charles the first survived, slow motion:
beheaded, in ****, later did some philanthropy;
conspiracy almost ******, gaffed choking on a peanut peel, never married -
entered the nunnery via public opinion that'd never allow a scandal or a ****** birth.

intelligence is uncomfortable,
let's leave it to the pigs
or play dead among the dogs,
or levy it with questions in gushing recurrence;
intelligence is uncomfortable,
let's utilise it with someone saying:
i rather speak to someone 100 prior or 100 years after.

or as later proved: among the citizens an uncomfortable censor
was a woman, that's the thing:
misogyny and homosexuality are almost alike:
gays love to talk to women but loath to butter up a sour bread dough,
misogynists loath to talk to women but love to **** 'em;
where's the middle way buddha? where's the middle way?
socrates turning into a misogynist disguised in homosexual accents
in old age? the old man got away with acceptable norms in old age,
almost, they figured out his **** pure and minded his cranium crucible divergence
from: young boys readied for pedophiles spoke more flowers
than my wife while cooking compost of fruits!

ah! i live in a spicy tomorrow, gearing up to charles the third's
reign with talk of the amputated left limp either side of the diaphragm
equator, hence the scot nationalists,
whereby we have beauty anorexic strutting eager for a faint in a cabbage patch,
and we best test tube in pigmenting alkali,
writing songs about life, not poetry of that ideal: "from the cosmos"
of autobiographic detail of metaphysics to exclude evil from a humming choir;
or as i took to my father in sepia:
beauty in anorexia, language in bad grammar and even more a terrible spelling
that never experienced the lines of detention to conform,
and then all the moral freedoms to not think about
and when thought about, quickly attached to **** smear
girly literature;
but do i go around talking of my easily-read literature?
so why this italian pole girl ruining my diary of saved orientated ordination?
she jealous or just illiterate the she-troll of all?

misogynists are like homosexuals, although the prior have no politico thumb,
we love ******* the brains out, we hate being boyfriends
from magazines or the psychology sections of saturday newspapers editions;
plus we like our own company, which is hard to grasp;
i mean, we love women within the membrane of ****** temperatures twinning,
but that's hardly the right temperature for conversation akin to vishnu and lakshmi.

Make me bleed,
dig in,
shards of ancient revenge,
words of Christmas mints,
eyes of cellophane.

If I scream,
tell me I'm the last of my kind.
Sympathy is a joke,
the fire is stoked,
my misery is going for broke.

Make me believe,
the love in your eyes is earnest,
stamp it out with your apocalyptic brows,
tell the four seasons
have not been cruel enough to me.

If I bite back,
muzzle me, baby.
Tell me I'm a silent movie lost in the era of talkies.
I'm in your woods, traveling with a broken walkie.
I'm the prey your hungry mind has been stalking.

If you don't destroy me,
how will I ever create?

as I come into someone else’s own, I agree to meet my brother at a clawfoot tub I hope is still there.  I fill a bucket with water and leave it with my wife for good luck.  I walk from the house in mild weather and become plain to you.  I pass the mud my father’s eye goes without.  I tire.  I come to in my brother’s arms and his badge has left a mark on my cheek.  sleep is like a slug I can’t overtake and then it is my tongue or in its privacy.  brother roughs me into the tub headfirst so I can hear the highway.  he preaches and they were followed by two sets of footprints until the footprints had to rest else they’d be too fat to die.  these parts you're money or hush money.

I don't know when it became
Such a game
To just communicate
With you
Some power play

But dang I'd choose
Cups and strings
And walkie talkies
Over this "thing"
Any day

“Can you hear me?”  “Can you hear me?”  …. “Come-in”
Boys with “walkie-talkies”, walking and talking, squealing and squawking
The girls were chalking – on the sidewalk
Range, one quarter mile.  More over water, the box said

If all you hear is static
Run some wire in your attic
Or tie it to your gutter
“Can you hear me?”  You may utter

Copper wire strung on a fence
For Russian signals the pretense
Every beep, buzz and whistle
Was that to do with someone’s missile?

A weather fax for steaming ships,  “doodle doodle” sound
Deadly tips!

Vacuum tubes soft-lit for me
RCA, Westinghouse, and GE
Their glow-warm magic casting a spell
A hook set lightly - I could not tell

Gizmos, and gadgets, in crate after crate
Rolled into the business - helped shape my fate
War surplus it was, "truck's in" they would holler
Purchased for two-bits on the dollar

So thank you Dad – the hook you set
grew into a job, my needs were met
A needed change, a needed change

Courtesy, Machinery Exchange

as ever, the English got something right! i adore sport... and what i adore most about these Commonwealth Games? the Olympians are competing at the same time with the Para-Olympians... that's brilliant! when the usual Olympics takes place... the abled bodied Olympians that have their games in the first two weeks... then there's a break... then the Para-Olympians have their games... ****'s sake! the two games should be coupled-up! what's that i hear? games for the "spezial kidz"?! what a load of *******... when i was completing my NVQ for crowd safety i was asked the question: what are British values? i replied... aren't they universal? i didn't even mention the details of the question: i thought the question was self-evident in that it was universal: British values are universal because they can be understood by anyone and anywhere... ergo? the Para-Olympics should take part at the same time as the able-bodied Olympics... why muddle-coddle these wheelchair bound ******* to a later date?! ****'s sake! they should compete at the same time... i'd probably run a slower time than some of these wheel-snuggling swimmers of the air... it's not fair that the Olympics is separate from the Para-Olympics... and the former Olympians turned media pundits wonder: why aren't the Para-Olympics getting the same coverage as the "original" Olympics... hell... if it would have to take 3 weeks rather than 2... so be it... these people should compete in the same time-frame! that's ******* discriminatory! what special status? no special status! they compete at the same time... they get to entertain the same crowd volume! i don't care! they should... how does it feel cycling past someone in a wheelchair? i forget to ask... i always forget to ask a question about the weather... or the taste of quails... silly me... well... it's slightly different when i see a: POKRAKA... "freak"... that's a result of the irresponsibility of a certain adults inter-breeding... cousin-*******... someone people should have learned a valuable lesson a long time, a long long time ago... i don't blame the half-witted eighth of a Forrest Gump... i just look at the "mother" and "brother" and think nothing but disgust... not even donkeys get their reproductive conduct so wrong... for a creature so highly evolved: we're stuck with cousin-******* and the "myth" of Oedipus... but at least Oedipus was an exception... i imagine that he didn't gauge his eyes out... instead became an ******... then again: what are myths? stories better than any journalistic affair... myths > history > journalism < fiction < poetry... but Para-Olympians should be competing on the same stage as the Olympians! take an extra week... but don't do what's already being done! done segregate the two camps of competitors! take an extra week! let both compete at the same time! it's not fair that once the original Olympics are finished: the crowd isn't there for the Para-Olympians! i know it will be harder to attract the same viewership for women's club football... female boxing... female rugby... i'm already baking my own cakes... cooking my own food... cleaning my own house... today i surprised myself... what herb is most abundant in my garden? beside rosemary? mint... i was cleaning the garden and i had to cut down an overgrowth of mint... well... how many ******* mojitos would i have to make? how much tzatziki? a lot... there's me: bloated... lying under a floating table: drunk but probably also hallucinating Aztecs ceremonies of human sacrifice... MINT ICE CREAM... wow... i'm getting good at this ice-cream business... i simply hate chocolate ice-cream... but mint ice cream? ooh... and chocolate chips... the crème anglaise is ready... just chilling overnight... i'll churn it tomorrow... by then the chocolate chips will be added... and i didn't even need to add any food flavourings... it's this pristine green... fit for ice... a bit like that Frank Zappa song: don't eat yellow snow... ha ha... because someone has ****** into it... i love green... pale green... then again... no wonder i dress up like a tree from time to time... my irises are green... gween boyo wonder(s)...

sometimes i have to admire thespians...
as much as i despise the whole lot of them:
esp. when they come together
and self-congratulate themselves...
mind you... there are actors and there are
"actors":
       most notably "actors" as depicted
in Singing in the Rain: prior to the talkies...
but at the same time...
actors like the fictional Gloria Swanson -
or i fail to tell her apart
from the very real Norma Desmond...
i can attest to two stand-out performances
in the past few years...
i wouldn't be wrong in calling them
their life-performances...
                     and it's not even in the medium
of movies...
movies have lost everything movies
once were...
i used to enjoy movies: i'm pretty sure
everyone used to enjoy movies...
in school we'd gather in packs of 7 guys
and sometimes 7 guys and 3 girls
and we'd go to the cinema to watch
a movie...
      then grab a bite to eat...
or we used to go on dates to the movies...
Troy... she wanted to see that...
because i guess she thought
i looked like Achilles or Brad Pitt...
but that wasn't a date: date...
it was an entire day... first to Tate Modern
for the Edward Hopper exhibition...
some minor strolling...
then back to Romford to see the movie...
and then some food at a sushi bar
and some sake...
but movies these days are unwatchable...
i'd rather watch the Godfather (no...
part II is not better than the original...
sure... Terminator II is better than
Terminator and the Empire Strikes
Back is better than New Hope...
no... not the Godfather)...
i'd rather re-watch that than any new movie...
i usually switch on for about
10 minutes before switching off...
i need a cigarette break... i need to water
the garden... i need to take a ****...
i need to scratch my *** in private...
- but that's how the story goes...
"back in the day": there was a profession
of a baby-sitter...
the parents would have a date-night...
they'd go to the cinema...
i once had a baby-sitter... i forget who...
it was probably a male if my memory
serves me correct... probably my now estranged uncle...
while my parents went to see the movie
SE7EN at the now "mythical" Odeon on
the Gants Hill roundabout...
these days? movies are comic books...
i prefer serious books...
          and in terms of comics...
oh man... the first time i had a *******
i think the two girls were having a *******
for the same time too...
threesomes are disappointingly
disorientating...
       they like the execution of Isaiah...
being cut in half... the upper body is twiddling
with ******* and lips...
the lower part of the body is being treated
along the lines of *******...
it being my first time: terribly disappointing...
i couldn't keep up...
we settled on the anti-pornographic
solution... hand-job and imitation ******
into the "other's" *****...
             i was limp on first take...
nicotine... better than caffeine and ******* combined
to give a man arousal...
i had to have a smoke...
               i was new to the arrangement:
they were new to the arrangement:
the three of us were N00BZ... literally...
it wasn't like in a pornographic flick...
hell! far from it!
   what put me off was the changing of condoms...
and... once knew what to do with the *******:
pull it back... while the other one
didn't know what to do with it:
i'd circumcise her... so she might get a better
picture...
hardly an ego boost...
she implored me to reply in the affirmative
when asking the question:
you must feel like a king...
eh... i'm not the one who suggested having
a *******...
i rejected you twice: *****! you butted in!
i never had a ******* on my palette...
i like the ******* where i'm
almost tentatively looking into the woman's eyes
while rubbing forehead against forehead
before quickly jumping down below
to perform the crab-bucket maestro tongue
twirl of imitating gulping oysters
and flowers of KAHUNT!
                ****... oral *** on a woman...
she's already readying her hands to pretend to rip
the hair on your hair out...
she does that specific roll of the eyes...
it's beautiful to watch...
peacocks courting is probably the nearest comparison...
thank the gods on my part for
reading Ovid... someone was necessarily
born to combat these exploits of *******...
of ugly ***...

i don't know when i'll have a ******* ever again:
i like the one on one intimacy...
threesomes feel so pedestrian...
there's always that unwanted third party...
i don't think i gained an ego-booster...
i think along the lines of "p.t.s.d."...
                              the unwanted girl orchestrated
the whole enterprise...
the girl i wanted was the one i was snuggling up
to trying to steal a kiss:
me: thief... trying to steal kisses from
prostitutes... the unwanted third-party...
fake milking cows
and duck lips... she was just a canvas
for my *******...
                    once is enough...
i don't care what ******* portrays...
they're a nuisance...
i like ******* while eating eyes... with eyes...
plus the hygienic approach doesn't help
for the fluidity of threesomes...
you can't be hygienic and irresponsible at the same
time...

stealing kisses from prostitutes is one thing...
but ******* them without any ****** protection...
come the zenith...
actually asking: can i?
   with agreement:
                    yes, you can...           oh wow...
well... i'm talking about Turkish women...
different culture, different tactic...
i live in England but by now:
i ****** well hope to never **** an English
girl...

girl, let me just water my garden...
admire the night for a while:
believe me... you can have your sway
in raising the next Oedipal myth in your
sisterhood motherhood of loneliness...
i'd love to teach the ******* some things...
the pleasures of the hammer...
the KANGO concrete drill...
the everywhere and everyone within
the confines of the loneliness
of walking in a forest...
         chemistry! English! i'd love to learn
vocal Deutsche with him!
but no... fair enough: no's a no...
back to the brothel i go...
               oh no no...
              
me and hook-up culture? nothing's for free!
- i sometimes wake up the next day:
mein gott! what damage i must have i cause:
it's a cruel addiction:
to drink and to write simultaneously:
Bukowski and Hemmingway
figured out this problem...
one in celebrating old age
the other in the shotgun...

                    tear skin, grow more skin...

mein gott! i became so carried away with myself
that i actually forgot my original theme
for this poo'em...
            literally: maybe that's why i inserted
the word BZDETA...
                 oh... it's an actual word... not in -ing-leash
of course... but i'm sure most English
speakers are familiar with African surnames:
M'Bepe Mgabe etc.
   that's hovering consonant...
        B'z'deta...
               i love how the English folk break their tongues
when speaking my mother's... tongue...
they would sooner learn Czech or Russian
than learn ******... such puritans of the tongue
we folk are... and now combine the fact
that i identify as an Anglo-Slav...
     listen: England or at least English is a playground
for me... i was implored by some deity
to come to these isles, given a ***** and bucket
and told: here! there's some wet sand over there...
go and play!

                 now: many a happy returns to the father
of the English tongue... i have to return and tease
at some Deutsche...
           Franz Friedrich: AHUND!

my original adoration for the Thespians... it... can...
happen... personally i'd rather not...
i don't see the point of these shadow-thieves...
these dopplegangers... yet artistically?
it's the most celebrated medium...
           sure... painters are celebrated... post-mortem...
poets had a weird spell of "conundrums"
in America in the the 1960s...
   but i'm not willing to write ******* for a "me"
that's either asthmatic or exasperated:
equally short on breath...

well: given the modern equivalent... everyone is going
to be the next Allen Ging-Sperg?
i don't think so... more of a composer: than an entertainer...

anyhoo...
  BZDETA... an actual word...
it's sort of in between the English equivalent of:
trivial (thing) and a pointless (thing) -
the actual "thing" is hidden within the pointlessness
of an implied "thing" / the triviality of
the implied "thing": ha! modern English grammaticians
and their hyped up focus on pronouns...
wait till they figure out that adjectives verbs
and nouns and conjunctions and adverbs and...
a- the-     -ism: the indefinite and the definite article...

- everything coming of America (culturally) is corrupt:
once the beacon for the world to admire...
i'm regressing to find alternatives...
i stopped listening to music with a tinge of
the English tongue... i've thrown my laurel wreath
toward German neo-folk...
**** it... i might be living, physically: in an anglo-sphere
but my mind is elsewhere...
i wouldn't go as far as Frank Zappa and adore
Bulgarian music... but certainly not anything
in the vein of modern-modern (post?) English...

- another word that's dear to me: akin to
   how Italians call a child a BAMBINO...
the Polacks call a child a BOBAS...
             English is so strict... rigid sometimes...
the mere fact that the ****** tongue employs
so much diminutive "accents" is amazing sometimes...
a mountain: (gurhau, no... sorry... guhrau!)
i.e. góra can become a little mountain
via incorporating the diminutive tense górka...

and although the word RZECZ denotes: things...
rzeka is river... while a small river?
rzeczka...
            i don't think there's the antonym for the diminutive
in ******... it's sort of boring in English:
there are only adjectives... actual nouns
do not incorporate a diminutive tense for something
being described:

KACZKA (duck) kaczuszka (small duck, duckling)
wow! that's actually a good example of
the English ZUNGE applying the diminutive
construct of a word...
young and youngling springs to mind...
but English is altogether a very rigid tongue...
so... i don't understand how these current
grammatical-magicians and their pronoun-hyper-focus
are trying: you can't trick an old dog
into learning new tricks... these aren't tricks:
this is equivalent to: a baboon...
smearing his naked plump pink *** with his
own ****... calling it woad...
raising it up in the air like a Muslim during prayer:
before battle... shaking it...
taunting the opponent... come fight me...
and then...
                       what? of the two kings of ancient
Israel... who would i like to be?
David or Solomon?    hmm... clueless question...
DAVID! he got to fight Goliath and enjoyed the lyre
and wrote pslams into ripe old age...
Solomon? who couldn't compete with
his father... resorted to "wisdom":
writing aphorisms / maxims is the worst genre of
literature... it's untested proofs...
just ask Srinivasa Ramanujan...
                                   he was always neglected by
the establishment for having no proofs...
great idea: 2 + 2 = 5... but how? where's your proof!
the same with Solomon's supposed wisdom:
no proof... the same with Nietzsche's aphorisms
or for that matter la Rochefoucauld...
it's all true... but it's most probably just perhaps true...
i've tasted a sample of both the lives
of Solomon and David...
            each time i return to David...
i just do what the Nazis did to the *******...
i turn it clockwise...
                 tilt it... what do i see?
i see a reading-mat and an open book...
              i peer in: i ignite out...

now i'm thinking: i still need to mop the floors of the house,
i need to shine my shoes and iron a white shirt...
and gear up to waking up at 6am...
as much as i love waking up at 11am
without needing to be awake any hour sooner...
i love waking up at 6am with a necessary:
i'm expected to be at X by the time Y...
algebra simplicity...

esp. since today i fell out of bed: too humid...
i fell out the bed at about 6:30am onto the floor...
how compact the floor feels...
i could feel my strained spine relax on the hard surface...
i even used my folded hand for a pillow
in and out of a coming day-dream...
what i wouldn't give to imitate David...
and scorn Solomon forever more...
no wisdom did i find...
   no man can speak wisdom to men when he has
an abundance of "thirst-quench" of ****...
          
              in a polygamous society... thank god i don't live
in one... but there have always been women that
aspired to the cult / altar of the phallus...
i'm content with the fact that i can bypass any thirst...
that i have hygienic standards in place
that make me disregard any satisfaction in the realm
of a *******... it's equivalent to:
running an 800m race... come the 400m mark...
you're told to change your socks and shoes...
and then run another lap...

                           it's nothing like in *******...
monkey-pox is a real thing...
you need standards... cleanliness is the greatest:
and only standard that must be constantly stressed
from one human to another...

only Michel de Montaigne can surpass both Nietzsche
and la Rochefoucauld:
well, at least by my "under-estimation"...

- now for the caveat... what i was originally to write
about...
two example where Thespians can be adored...

                                   Logan Roy i.e. Brian ***
Peter III i.e. Nicholas Hoult...

even they: themselves have figured out that films
are on the way out...
people have changed...
                               i know i have changed...
i don't have the mental capacity to watch movies:
and i'm not some senile old man...
strange... in ancient times old people
were never this senile...
   they still had intellectual rigour...
they accumulated "****": perhaps it wasn't intellectually
stimulating: but it was intellectually mesmerising...
it was called wisdom: once upon a time...

and when my father criticised me for
reading philosophy books in my youth...
expecting me to regress to the optometric notion
that only old people are wise:
no! nein! old people these days are like
children: there's nothing to learn from them!
that's why i'm thinking about going
into primary school teaching...
i can pour my ever more clear water into that pool...
of clear water...
i don't need to teach them chemistry...
i don't have to teach them the tongue:
i can watch ontology sprout out of seemingly "nothing"...
i adore children:
            like i could never adore women...
i adore children like i adore animals...
i don't know what sort of man one must become
to adore women in order to exploit them
in the way that they are exploited...

hypocrite? because i place my silver on the table
and expect what's expected by the meaning
of transaction, or...
rather... place the silver on the table...
receive a shared meal and then expect something
in return? such backward ways
of the American culture...
i hope that England will never become infested
with these practices... freakish: ghoulish...
of the four-eyed beast...
a desecration of Shiva: one winking eye on
the forehead... one blinking eye attached to the ****...
with the two eyes that are supposed to see:
stapled shut...

how marvelous to wake up...
with a want to make mint and dark-chocolate chip
ice-cream... surely the best ice-cream i have
ever made! to hell with chocolate ice-cream!
i hate chocolate... turning it into ice-cream is even worse!
mint! oh... that marvelous invention of
the gods... almost equivalent to ferns...
almost equivalent to nettles...
how the ancient Roman centurions used to cure
an itch... they would run and jump into
a bed of nettles ****-*******-naked...
i.e. fight fire with fire... fight an itch with an even
bigger itch... second to the nettle? the thistle...
i'd love to see those guys jump into a patch
of nettles...

Rome will never die... even with the crucifixion
of its supposed surrogate son of man...
nope...
    the alphabet it still here...
the coliseum has morphed into a raised
meteor crater of a football stadium...
               Rome is, Rome was, Rome will be...
even with the Arab "invasion" of Europe...;
Rome is, Rome was, Rome will be:
we'll just be soul-chasers... soul-thieves...
they'll enter the arena of this tongue...
neglect their heritage... and they will learn our ways...
somewhat... not always...
mind you: on a racial-bias...
skin-colouring dilutes during *******
with a 2nd generation...
  
you asked for a Latin man... a Latin man came...
what now?
you asked for a Latin man...
i'm forever employing myself to date a single
mom with a boy or a girl...
i'm not a Darwinist... genes are like atoms...
i don't care much for them...
but... i wouldn't date a single mother
for the ***... i'd be sneaking out
to the brothel on a whim...
i'd be there for the child...
                    i'd love to make him or her ingest
my psychology:
i'd make them ingest my soul...
i'd pass on my ontology...
     he or she would have to be bilingual
in the least... i'd learn Deutsche with him...
he would be a miracle of a Switzerland outside
of Switzerland!

i'm still bewildered why America is not a bilingual
quest (of a nation)...
  WASP pride? or ignorance?
the worst of the English went to America:
while the supposed "worst" of the English went
to Australia...
                 funny... really funny...

to wake up and have: i need to make mint &
chocolate ice-cream on one's mind...
that's how one wakes up to celebrate life!   LIFE!
LAíF!

If our love was like a movie
it will be a cheesy 80's flick
where we're at a party
and you make your way to me
from right across the room


It could set in a timeless 50's feature
where I  could be Audrey Hepburn
running around idyllic places
doing things I  pleasure
while being with you


Maybe we are like the 20's  
where we star in the talkies
A fascination, an innovation
a breakthrough, a classic
just like me and you

I've heard the creak of the stairs
as she passes over them
for the eleventh time today,
laundry basket wrapped around her hip,
its soft plastic shape
molded to the curve of her
from the number of times she's held it close.

I've heard the silence of a muted television
when he lets the flatscreen lives pass by
as my sister starts in on another story,
laughing about children he will never meet
and looking into her
to remember how much of him she is.

I've heard the warmth of two voices joined into one
from the telephone pressed closely to my ear
both of them sitting in separate rooms,
a different receiver in each of their hands,
as if our living room is the size of this whole country
and the arm chairs in it are rooms
in which we each sit,
the phones walkie-talkies we've made
a part of this game
of pretending that we are all together,
conversing across the fireplace
of New England autumn and
the blue carpet of Lake Erie.

The music was much more,
When you had nothing to say
So, whether I read or not,
I interpreted anyway,
Such a thrill it was,
Amazed I sat in the dark
So many shades of gray!
Then talkies broke our hearts

BLCostello©2021

Looking for a plan
to homestead with honey
You find the land
and I’ll bring the money.
Start with 8 hens and
then get a rooster.
Sunlight and dirt are
the best immune booster.
community grown
no, you won’t be alone
walkie talkies instead of upgraded iPhone.
remain lean and fit
use up every bit
for excellent compost mix in chickensh!t.
swale in the roots
of a filtering lily
irrigation to grow
what I’ll use in the chilli
weeds in the cracks
seeds in the snacks
a little help from the axe
and the *** makes us stacks.
And I’ll spin what I comb
from the fellows who roam
on the sod in the loam...
All we will need is
some land and some money,
a pocket of seed,
and true love for honey.

no, today it wasn't Danielle, it was... Denise... she's the cousin of Mona... Mona is away in Romania... this plump plum of a beauty... i've been with pretty much all of them... i'll be running out of girls to **** in this brothel... i'll need to find myself a new one... today it was Denise... my god... love at first sight... ol' raven hair very much in the vein of Khadra... eh... Turkish, Romanian, Turkish-Romanian, Romanian-Turkish... she told me she had gypsy blood in her... my god... i go: WILD when it comes to Roma girls... i don't understand ******... why he figured: only the steel-blue-eyed blondes are the best thing going... well... they are... if you start diluting black boy genes with white blonde girls... i look at black men and don't have to wonder why white girls might find them attractive... it's a bit of a shame that i don't find black women as attractive as white women finding black men attractive... call me crazy but it's nearly impossible for me to find an attractive black girl: attractive i.e. to my liking... but i understand the interracial aspect of white girls... i need some dilution... after a second generation of interracial breeding either white or black will pop out... but second generation? what neo-Egyptian copper-necks are... very curious... so it was Denise the Gypsy today... it was Marie the other day when i was underperforming... Louise, Sandra...**** knows: it might as well have been a Casandra... i don't care...

some men put forward the question: is the lemon worth
the squeeze?
oh my god... is it?! Denise was your typical woman...
some parts of her body better than the others...
just like your atypical man...
her ******* were sagging... tiny little creatures...
but her ***?
once a year i admire horses... the assess of horses:
just before the Grand National...
that *** turned me on like a blonde *******
a Hindu doing that: ******* in light-bulbs dance...
oh hell yes...
the lemon is definitely worth the squeeze...
any Roman ******* the "menu" is me being brain-frozen
or are least brain-fried...
there's nothing better than coming from a shift
having stopped over at a brothel for a good ****...
you relax... you: sigh you ah!
mind you... it was a stressful shift at the Wembley
stadium today...
i had to intervene with these 40+ year old "dudes"
picking a fight with these idiotic 16 years olds...
i was thrown in the middle of the confrontation...
the 40+ year olds were adamant: these 16 year old colts
should have been standing on the fifth level!
yeah: and they should be drinking when underage...
help us help us! they're putting us in choke-holds...
help help!
fear is wild-eyed... one of my fellow stewards almost
had his fingers dislocated trying to break
up one of these skins trying to choke a colt to death...
screaming: i'm going to ******* **** you...
technically i'm not supposed to touch anyone
but i had to step in and calm everyone the **** down...
it's hardly a massive hard-on on my behalf trying
to intervene... but when you have to...
you take the colts to one side... protect them by "hugging"
them to the side... while talking to the skins
making a big ******* fuss...
luckily no one was hurt...
well... to an extent...
but i don't need that sort of stress...
i knew i had to decompress...
i travelled home (well, to the brothel first) with a bunch
of fuckless and faceless men...
me? i have no moral obligations: what comes,
is the same as what goes...
but i was stressed out...
by A. today's shift and by
B. my previous performance at the brothel...
i hate under-performing...
i was missing at least one of my aphrodisiacs,
i.e. tiredness... i need that more than anything...
i was coming from home and i drank
a little bit too much cider...
that's another aphrodisiac of mine...
perhaps i don't know my self (reflective)
all too well but i do know myself (reflexive)...
i.e. my body... i know what turns me off and what turns
me off...
KLEKS-KAKASHKA... a **** that's also a little ****
that's stored in my **** for an entire day...
to have *** i need to be completely emptied...
i need to **** anything remnant,
i need to **** the last remaining ****-flinging ****
out of me...

oh but there's nothing better than finishing a shift...
stopping over at the brothel...
getting your brains minced and listening to
the echoes of your footsteps at 3am...
the foxes are roaming: you just ****** Gypsy queen
of the underworld...
i realised something...
upon encountering regular ***...
i really... i really just need to have a regular access
to food... drink... a shower....
so i can pamper myself...
hmm... seeing pointless male drama of emotion
surrounding sporting events: intervening in them...
and regular ***... oh... *** is part of a necessary
existential diet... you can't live without it...
maybe that's why i try to limit my interests...
there's one video game i play...
but it's an online multiplayer game so...
since i abandoned PS1 narrative games...
Tenchu... Final Fantasy VII... Metal Gear Solid...
i'm rather fond on this: waiting for an interaction
gaming dynamic... i wouldn't pick up chess
even if you asked me: pretty please...

but a great **** requires me to write this little snippet
and then roll myself a DOOBIE...
a spliff... after a great **** like that i "fear" it's necessary
to smoke some marijuana...
come on... a Roma girl?! ol' Raven hair?!
saggy ****... but an *** like a cross between
an orange and a plum...
love at first sight...
i like women who feel it necessary to moan while
performing oral ***...
and this one was different...
her cousin liked to perform with her eyes closed...
Khadra wanted to perform with her eyes open
and looking into mine...
Denise kept looking into the mirror...

i wasn't trying to perform... not after last time:
under-performing... my mind was swallowed up by
a giant squid of irritabilities...
i went limp... *** is complicated...
but imitation ******* allowed me to sweat ol' Marie out...
Gypsy love... Bizet...
i finished early because i ******* felt like it was
necessary and we just sort of lay there...
caressing each other before one of us pretended more
than the other to fall asleep...

what, a, beau! i seriously don't think there's anything
necessary for man to appreciate beside
good food, shelter, and a good *******...
ah... but this one didn't give up her lips up so easily:
she didn't! cheeks! jawbone... eyelids and ears...
but not her lips... well... some women just need more
convincing than others...
i'll steal her lips the next time i see her...
i don't need anything more!
i'm rather content...
as we parted two girls were already in bathrobes
saying: bye bye while i kissed Denise on the cheek...
well yeah: bye bye...

the lemon is most certainly worth the squeeze...
but... as a man...
you really have to have very limited interests to
have an interest in women...
you can't be a comic book guy...
you can't exactly enjoy movies... apart from
the Godfather Part I... you can't...

hmm... women....
  what a splinter sub-cell of curiosities...
esp. if she's the one initiating tenderness...
akin to: don't kiss me on my lips...
just my entire face...
i did that "little " quirk of pretending my
index finger were the holy trinity:
of: hour by the count of the father,
minute by the count of the son...
and holy spirit by the count of the second...

the pains and aches of a ginger...
not exactly a Roma gypsy "queen" of: pristine ***
and: hmm... um um ums' ...

over the years i've built a strange lactose intolerance...
yesterday was a pristine day:
a shift at Wembley getting into a scuffle
trying to break up these bulks of men
in their 40s trying to choke to death these group
of colts... i was in a sniffing's worth of distance
seeing it first hand: how football makes people
truly irrational... as he was choking the poor
boy he was screaming: i'm going to **** you...
obviously i had to intervene...
one of my colleagues also got involved...
almost had one of his fingers dislocated as
we tried to calm the situation down...
break up the feud...

technically i'm not licensed to touch members
of the public, to rough them up...
thankfully i have acquired pretty good talking skills
with a good enough language of the body...
i inserted my hand between the two feuding parties
and separated them: the older guys started talking
with excuses about how they brought their own
children: one was a football coach for the young
blah blah this... all because the younglings protested
when asked to sit down...
they were clearly obstructing the view of the game
of the people sitting behind them...
as young boys do... they started their hysterical fits
about how the world ought to be X
and how people : esp. in relation to older men
they ought to be treated in an Y sort of way...
i had a burning thought in my head:
pooh-bear... that's not how the world works...
i grabbed this other boy trying to get him to calm down...
i put my arm around him and led him away...
again: we were supposed to get some support
from licensed SIA security guards...
we didn't get the response team we need
but we managed to somehow calm everyone the **** down...
but... i felt stressed...

thankfully she was there to do just that...
prior to i hovered around the brothel...
tweaking my body for some casual *** with a stranger...
i know my body well enough to know what
makes me perform *** and what doesn't...
i need about three aphrodisiacs...
tiredness from working...
i need to smoke a few cigarettes...
and i need to drink at least 6 units of alcohol...
that's either one strong dry cider... 500ml at 8.2%
and then two sips of whiskey...
or 500ml of 4.5% of a sweeter cider and 4 glugs
of a whiskey...
and i need to clear my head...
anything more and i need to ****: i get a ****-block...
the last time i got a ****-block it was because
i didn't measure my chemistry tools properly and
Khadra was there and i didn't choose her
and i heard her walk into the next room with another
client and i didn't hear much pleasure exuding
from her *******... no wonder i switched off...
but nothing equivalent to anger could have gripped
me from under-performing...
i performed in a different way...
after all... i did manage to get her sweating all over
her body as i sat on the edge of the bed
and she sat on top of me and she enjoyed the music
of my choice: whirling her pelvis in what's
imitation ***...

i'm only writing this because i know what under-perfoming
during *** feels like...
it's a lot different when you don't over-think it...
i know how that too much exposure to *******
can create a sensation during *******
where you don't actually realise that you're
the protagonist and not a ******...
that much i know: you have to repeat to yourself:
this is me, having ***...
no... this is not me looking at someone having ***...
this is me, having ***...

and i have to admit... i landed my zenith of "fetishes":
a Romanian gypsy girl...
she said so herself...
                        maybe that's another thing...
whether looking at pornographic movie materials:
always with the sound off...
some of the classical Italian stuff is dubbed anyway
by voice actors... so it makes little difference...

its a bit like the reverse of what happened to
Vilma Banky, Mae Murray and Norma Talmadge,
i.e. the actresses who didn't make the transition
from the classic Hollywood silent movies
to talkies...
                    with ******* it was sort of reversed:
in classical ******* from Italy and France...
you had to have vocal actors impersonating
the onomatopoeias of moaning from the seen actors...
who continued their careers...

after all: i did start in the classical sense of buying
magazines of **** women at an early age...
most of the guys were already sifting through
free online material... i thought it would be necessary
to actually find that void of "shame"
and share the grey-area of sexuality of what's
a purchase of a magazine... no *******...
take any Walter Sickert ****, for example: as comparison...

only today i felt the consequence of such a fulfilling day,
whoever tells you that *** is not important
is lying... not when you have it on a regular basis...
you finish a shift from 2pm through to 11pm...
you buy your aphrodisiacs already carrying one
in the form of tiredness... you mentally prepare yourself
to not get a limp **** during the act...
you take to the back alleys and try to fuse yourself
with the shadow and the night...
you walk up to two chicken shop workers having
finished shift... one of them looks at you
and tries to appease you because you look intimidating
enough: while carrying two pizzas he turns
around startled and asks: would you like a slice of pizza?
and you, in your most friendly voice reply:
no, no thank you mate... but thank you...
why? you don't want to have a full stomach when
having ***... you want to be hungry...

something else was added to my ritual...
i told myself once that i would never go back to smoking
marijuana...
well... things changed when the Queen died
on the 8th of September when i went to the brothel
and met an Afghan "Jamie"... who gave me a decent worth
of bud... would it be the same quality as in
Amsterdam? i did wonder...
lucky for me i performed that night...
i was drinking on the way back...
then rolled myself a joint...

   i went to bed and in my mind: i was glowing...
my heart was something abstract with no relationship
to the science of cardio medicine...
i felt this emptiness of release in my chest...
there was no heartbeat... just a heart turned mouth agape:
sieving through stars and the death of stars...
i suspected this for some time:
black holes, i.e. dead stars...
are 2 dimensional objects in an otherwise 3 dimensional
space... but you can hardly call the universe
a 3 dimensional space...
i've seen it simulated: in the original Tomb Raider
game on PS1... i used to stop Lara at the ferns...
those two dimensional ferns... 2 dimensional in
a 3 dimensional labyrinth... as you walked up to them
and started twisting the view... the ferns would twist...
turn... i imagine black holes to be like those ferns...
but... spinning really quick...
almost imitating the grandiosity of what was once
present... they are black "holes" but at the same time
they are hyper-anti-gravity of spinning
i think they are black orbs... not holes...
i think the whole idea that they are holes is wrong...
i think they are holograms that spin very quickly
since... well... does anything orbit them?
hence: they have to orbit around themselves...

what the hell is happening... i've just put in a 12 hour shift...
well...
getting picked up at 9:45am at a Covid vaccination
centre... woke up at 7:30am... drank a coffee smoked two
cigarettes... brought in Saturday's newspaper...
****** off proper at around 9am for the meeting...
managed to get another coffee and a sausage egg muffin
from McDonald's, smoked another cigarette...
slightly hangover, but most certainly pampered myself
with some stuff... after having taken a shower...
bubble-gum on the ready after having brushed my teeth
like a dentist:
- garnier body intesive care cream on my face,
   hands, the nether-regions, feet...
- diesel, fuel for life, two hits of the spray
   on the area below my beard and smeared across my collar
   bone,
- avon skin so soft, airbrush spray on the face,
- nzuri argan oil on hair & beard...
- then some style expertise wax 04
(flexible hold) so your hair still looks naturally held
together.... you can actually put your hand through it
and you will not get any residue...
- MORFORE OSSION beard care balsam...
   turkish... all the best products for beard are
turkish... like the barbers: the best barbers are...
turkish!
- some deodorant under the armpits,
the ***-crack... the groin region and all over the torso...
shirt-ironed, trousers ironed, clip-on tie firm set...
shoes polished... thermal socks donned...
off to Oxford for Oxford United vs. Wigan Athletic...
first job... enter the turnstile cage... lock myself in...
the ticket reader wasn't working...
got a tally clicker...
supervisor came back with a working ticket reader...
but i still used the tally clicker...
managed to allow passage of 218 people into
the stadium... the children looked amazingly...
sincere with regards to authority of sorts...
caged man... some boy asked... why is that man
in that cage? has he been naughty?
so i endeared him... yeah... i've been a very naughty man...
i still find it weird when women tell their children:
give your ticket to the MAN...
mind what... the MAN is telling you to do...
in my 20s i never reached that level... i was still a boy then...
everything went smoothly...
the tickets i scanned went through...
the tickets the scanner wouldn't scan i just brush aside
with the clicker... most were season ticket holders...
10 minutes into the match, one or two late-comers
and then we shut the turnstile gates...
next? pitch-side duty... this time i got a seat...
watched the crowd... my god... the football crowd in
London... tame *******...
go anywhere outside of London and you're getting
fanatics! the Wigan Athletic crowd...
i mean: men in their 40s / 50s... on the face of it...
yet deep down... teenagers...
drunk, mad, chanting... by the end of the match
losing their voices...
one father was more of a kid than the kid he was
with: was... spotted this one guy smoking,
another jumped the barrier...
for once i didn't actually watch the match...
i had an eye on this one... classical English beauty...
i'm guessing a single mum who came with two of
her children, her father and mother...
the mother didn't look that bad either...
sometimes you can isolate a woman's face in a crowd
and... a war might be happening...
you sort of become oblivious to everything beside
the serenity such a face imbues and translates onto
you something... Sophia-esque... Athena...
she might not be... but... appearances are appearances...
12 hours from since i left the house to when
i returned... i tried to eat something...
first that chicken burger on my way home...
3 chips... i couldn't eat more...
my stomach had shrunk to the point that i might as well
have done a day of Ramadam...
bought some whiskey and pepsi on the way...
hanged it on the fence at the back of my garden:
i am only drinking... because i smuggle the alcohol in...
then tried to eat some rice & a chickpea / spinach curry
i made a day prior...
couldn't lodge that into my shrunk stomach...
i decided to get some calories
by drinking a glass of milk infused with
some Nesquik straberry powder...
worked a miracle...
then one cider & now some whiskey & pepsi...
i was falling asleep watching some
Masterchef professionals...
sorry... nothing can compare the Australian
amateurs...
they're such a new culture: and i look at them,
as a people: drawn into civilization building
from the ground-up, beginning with a cuisine
that's unique to them...
all the old European cuisines seem rather stale
by comparison...
i jolted myself: tired, restless...
******* i lay in my underwear on the floor
of my bedroom having placed my feet on
the radiator...
i don't care what anyone says...
you always feel cold from the feet up...
if your feet are cold... the rest of your body feels
cold... warmed my feet... still restless...
tired... really tired... but that's the problem with
my tiredness... i also somehow to feel... *****...
i had to do two no. 3s in a row...
tame *******... recently... what's her name...
that singer of BAD GUY was celebrated
by journalists for coming out against
******* apologists...
i'm sorry... what sort of ******* are, "you" watching?
the freakiest i ever allowed myself to become
was watching a ******* gloryhole compilation
of women jerking off a ***** that started shooting
custard... probably while listening to E Nomine's
song angst...
i'm tired but also too *****... i need to calm down
a little...
and perhaps the Hebrews have a fair point about
this "taboo"... of the solipsist Onan...
the Arabic religion isn't so strict... after all...
their mother was a concubine of Abraham...
   it's not like i 'm doing it in a ******* armchair,
with scented candles, with a ******...
or have a webcam active recording myself for a larger
public... or that i might have a ******* toy...
just this boney-**** of a hand...
yeah... it really does feel small...
that's perhaps why i have allowed myself to see
the female hand as the most ****** part of a woman's
body... i look at women's hands and think...
i'd need to sacrifice my pinky + knuckle...
if i can hold a basketball with one hand...
i don't think my phallus is small...
my hands are just big...
never in a million years would i want to watch
"sacrificial *******": the Italian classics...
sure... something classy... edgy...
not this ****** modern crap...
show me something that invokes latex... thrill!
thrill-e-he!
last time i heard women were into gang-bangs,
choking... ****...
come to think of it... paycheck is coming up...
i "wonder": how will i spend, that money?
new trousers, gamble with going on a date?
sure... a "date" in a brothel... where, EVERY-THING
is, transparent...
no one is there for milk & cookies...
i like to keep things transparent like that...
one hour of ******* and perhaps talking in between...
what's the Romanian word / Turkish word for eyes?
nose? lips? freckles?
**** a little, take a break, smoke a cigarette...
blah blah...
of course the Hebrews would think that *******
is a taboo on the male part, historically:
religiously... well i have a taboo for the Hebrews too:
circumcision...
  the act wouldn't really be a taboo is the Hebrews didn't
begin cutting off "excess" skin of the fore-,
if i keep a high hygienic standard: prior and after the act...
sometimes... it just eases taking a ****...
relaxes the **** muscles a little...
but i have no qualms, when it's done hygienically...
after all... "sword" & "sheath"...
for my boney elephant **** of a hand... skin on...
for actual *******... skin off...
it's not exactly rocket science...
but imagine the scenario when... i would be circumcised...
i'd be mad...
looking for that fleshy pouch of a woman's ******...
because my own protective layer would be
"missing"... sometimes i'm tired after a shift
in the cold & i still want to...
but my "would be" partner wouldn't be in the mood...
what then?
i'm tired, i'm *****... but she's not in the mood...
what do i do? think about, *******: carp fishing?!
no... since i have the "excess" i do two in a row over
really tame, wholesome *** and i'm ready to doodle
these words, drink... i concentrate my energy
on the mind having absolutely gotten rid of any remaining
****** impulses... the end...
oh... but that weak-spot of mine...
Asian models, notably the Japanese models...
there's a whole genre... GRAVURE...
*** is always insinuated... it's never explicit...
a photography of a girl showing her underwear...
the Eden of those inner-thighs...
the world is standing on its head:
with women thinking that men enjoy shaming ***,
violent ***... sorry, honey... those are
exclusively the pornographers: men who have
too much ***... most men don't get enough enough...
men might... have a fetish for...
say... a step-mother ******* her step-son...
obviously women will subsequently insinuate
their fantasy of: ******... ******!
ha! they should Marquis de Sade's masterpiece
of a novella... the one in which he's concise, genius...
hardly making waffles of speech...
i wish i was ****** more... but what's a boy to do
if not getting as much as his libido would allow
him to... men express... women explore...
i'd rather ******* to some Bronzino...
i'm thinking... a borderline taboo... she's 16... 18...
it's a momentary idea...
a momentary bulge... soon i digress toward thinking
about... fuller-forms... women in their 30s... 40s... 50s...
i think about... a well aired bottle of red wine...
fully-formed... none of this lazily available fetish
for matchstick, pseudo-anorexic:
under-developed... dolls...
i like to think of a woman like i might think
about sitting in a very comfortable leather arm-chair...
or... reading a very old... 19th century
hardback, leather-bound book...
the type of woman that might kiss her children
goodnight... but an hour later... do the complete opposite
with her lips...
it's a nice thought...
while men starve & women explore...
it's good to starve... somehow... so many less consequences...
but as long as you're hygienic about it...
all the better for the GRAVURE medium
from Japan... finally! *** can be insinuated...
it doesn't require for you to be "excited" over something:
so explicit that you get a LIMPY for simply not
being involved... *** as something "forbidden"...
since not readily available...
no longer the sort of *** of the western canon that
invokes... *** isn't to be "forbidden":
it ought to be shamed & "shamed"...
that's how schizophrenics are bred...
via a double-negation...
   via mis-wiring of messages, *** constructed from
a contradiction....
oh the English are the best at this...
they enjoy it so much that they have to lie about
enjoy it... they sort of flagellate themselves over
the whole affair... in the open they are:
such prim labourers of puritanism...
yet, give them the right sort of opportunity to
express their sexuality in private...
talkies... the ******* is rife with...
"too much talk during ***, too much: **** me daddy,
**** me mummy... oh yeah, you want it rough..."
the list is seemingly endless...
in the beginning there was the word,
and the word was (with) god...
yeah... so talking during *** is such a good idea?
i can boast about herr stumm...
i can boast about... an "alphabet" of onomatopoeias...
something akin to eating laughter with
sighs and oh: really?
talk ruins ***... a body ought to speak to body...
the tongue is reserved for something more
than being more than a vehicle for syllables...
words are best kept outside the medium of ***...
eyes ought to eat up the other's body;
mirror should most certainly be used.

Most stylish walk
Most effective way to talk
Knew it all
Even before the talkies were to start


Made The Big Trail
With Raoul Walsh
On 70 mm and the film flopped
Career took a drop


Waited for 9 years
To be cast by Papa Ford
Ringo Kid in Stagecoach with Claire Trevor
Was born the greatest International Superstar

Westerns  War Drama and Sports films
All genres suited him
Topped the box office 4 decades
23 times made the Quigley list

A record yet to be broken
It needs another Duke Wayne
Kept audiences happy
Quality films he delivered yearly

Every movie now a classic
Revisiting them makes one nostalgic
50 year career
Ended due to the villain called cancer

In our hearts forever
Immortal in his fame
The only and only
Marrion Morrison who became
Duke Wayne

Here in India
All his movies
Sold out at the Box office
In their hearts built his edifice

My father a huge fan
Didn't cry when his parents died
Shed tears when he read that John Wayne had died


A great Patriot
Proud to be an American
Loved the American way
Dreamt the American dream

Most enviable filmography
One Classic after another
Overflowing box office receipts
Dedicated fan following one of the causes

An idol for the common man
Always in tune with his fans
Three generations of a family
Liked the Duke for different reasons naturally

Decades at the top
Found a place
In millions of hearts
For life and beyond

Everyman' tries to copy
John Duke Wayne s personality
Impossible to mimic his life
You can try and stop with his walk

Won an Academy Award
Playing Marshall Rooster Cogburn
True Grit with an eye patch
One more of his conquests


Also turned Director
Westerns and War the genre
Wore many hats with dignity
In his dignity lies his beauty

Started his Banner
Every film a surefire winner
Called the company Batjac productions
Launched many newcomers giving them  a new direction

Default favorite of millions
Had fans across beyond definitions
Always a Republican
Controversial views never affected his reputation

The name John Wayne
Stood for Macho Integrity and honesty
Saddled up for a cause
Whatever the opposition he never paused

Ford Hawks Huston and counting
Auteurs at the top
Colloaborated with the Duke
Their vision in film manifested

Professional to the core
First to come and last to go
Passion for his profession of choice
Made him people s number 1 choice

Am a great fan too
Not his fan i haven't seen two
God bless him his fans and  family
With great reverence i write this solliloqy

hmm... come to think of it, is dyslexia a truly unique
phenomenon bound to the English language,
or could it be stretched toward the French tongue?
i don't know... but i've never heard of a dyslexic ******:
i have heard of a ****** with terrible orthography skills...

well i do speak a barbaric language, there is a clarity of
letters and syllables where i come from,
there's none of that sort of *******
that: is written THOUGHT but is said:
F... FOUT... that seems about right...
              it must be a French "thing"... maybe that's
why i never learned it... that phonetic dissonance
of writing one thing then speaking another...

sure, very barbaric of me for clarifying what's
written and what's being said...
French is bad, English is also bad...
German just compounds their words
to make them appear chemistry dictionaries...
maybe why English still retains the Pomeranian
aesthetic of compounded words,
akin to hydrochloric acid... oh! wait wait!
where's the hyphen?! ****! where's the hyphen?!
why isn't it hydro-chloric acid?!
Oxford, wake up... please do, when you do:
let me know...

oh but i'm writing this without expecting any change...
the people, so far, can, simply, *******...
i don't actually mind... all these "objections" are
for my own personal amusement...
i like minding these things without actually worrying
about them to the point of changing them...
like... i'm not going to read anything concerning
English thought... philosophy, etc.
beside Newton & Hume... no, not even Locke...
i don't know why... perhaps the roads are the best
in Europe... perhaps the English are a people that are
the most practical and don't necessarily have to think...
let them speak: ******* love to speak...
but thinking is not really their hard-on point
of concern...

the English are a practical people...
but it infuriates me... Charles Dickens... what orthography?
you're not using diacritical markers?!
that's just a nicer word: a misnomer of calling
a spelling mistake a: spelling mistake!
******... Charlie: yo! ******!
you have, your having paranormal, your metaphysics...
you don't have ORTHOGRAPHY if you don't don't
have diacritical markers...
for example, can you hide an H within the word:
SHARP? can you? let me help you out...
       ŠARP... see that?
see how i hid an already surd of a letter that's H?
ask a Heb... Hebrew... one arm of the tetragrammaton
is a surd: vowel receiver... the other hand
is the basis for the definite article and laughter: ha ha! ha!

but like i already commented to someone before:
living in England among English girls...
****** this that number and so many... none of them English...
well then... they must prefer their anti-racist preferences
of Pakistani men that might groom them...
Pontius Pilate pose... what?!
my hands are tied...
free will, no?!
                        and all i ever wanted was to be loved by
a woman... given the current climate...
can i get a cat instead?!
i'm not going for android ****-buddies...
down to the brothel... once every half a year...
or whenever i feel like it...
when, i, feel, like, it...
not when she's expecting me to be turned on...

that ship has sailed and the last time i heard:
it's sinking...
mein gott, these supposed alpha male **** boys...
you know how hierarchies work on the ape level...
right... on the human level a woman will walk
up to me and tell me: can you please take care of
"Andrew": he seems to be wandering off...
i don't need to earn an x amount of money to keep in
mind: we're here to prevent another Hillsborough
incident, aren't we? i usually receive glum looks
looks that read: i'm just here to get paid
i have no duty to uphold... well **** me...
alpha male... this Greek alphabet soup that became
doubly exemplified with the Covid delta...
omicron... what ******* letter are we on
in the hierarchy of men?
what letter are the women on?

             the way i see it: ensure everyone is included...
esp. the ******: fringe-bracket...
i'm not even a ******* supervisor but i'm asked
to be mindful of other people...
what the **** do we do, except, for the best part...
loiter? pretend that we're doing something...
8th February... Fulham FC vs. Millwall...
i'm gagging to be pitted against the Millwall fans...
i want to show my teeth and rolls my eyes back
to show nothing but the whiteness of my sclera...
hopes are high: expectations are low...]

NO, **** FOR  FREE?
NO! YOU IDIOT FUCKINBG...
WANKERs! *******..
****** CRAB CRAB SCRATCHERS...
alpha male **** boys... does *** have to be on
my mind so-much-so-frequently than is expected?
do i have to harbour this fluorescent
insomniac libido, do i have to play along
to the gimmick of a Duracell bunny?!
come, on! i've checked out modern ****...
it has gone so bad that i'm actually looking up
vintage 1970s Italian ****...
i don't watch the modern stuff... it's ugly... it's perverse...
once upon a time there was a feeling
of art around performing *** for an audience...
these days... ugh... all that gagging all that slobbering,
spit... *** has become: truly... unappealing...
what i do with prostitutes looks and sounds better
than the **** i sometimes encounter
then subsequently quickly turn off: because, it's,
a ******* TURN OFF...
the more liberated people became the ******* ***
they tend to perform...
and i implore my readers to transfer having
read some Marquis de Sade...
but this stuff... if women want to be ****** like they're
being ******... with no pseudo-Tantra escapades...
no... i'm not doing that...
give me a Turkish prostitutes that is still the only
woman in the vicinity who knows a little
about setting boundaries and i'll take that...

*******, once upon a time... had an allure...
these days it's just block-a-chop
see you at the butchers' market...
let's chop up some pork 'ops...
   it's ******* disgusting... no wonder i don't want
to watch it...

imagine getting your kicks off listening to
portrait of m.r boogie - christopher young -
from the movie sinister... imagine yourself being good...
seeking out... an archetypical role of / for evil,
because... the current state of affairs of "evil":
is... somewhat mediocre... tame...
tame by the comparison associated to the mid-20th century
Germans, or the isolated instances of Wankee
individualism stressed by that glorious bunch
of psychopaths...
    
modern *******... for, ****'s, sake...
i have to dig out old Italian ****** to get a thrill
of how ******* doesn't have to be all about
a teenage girl with down's syndrome slobbering
and crying out her mascara... or that everything
that's heterosexual is **** related...
can i please just ******* on my bicycle,
feel the cold wind, feel the cold?
can i please just do that?!
******* so old it sort of reminds you
of a period of cinema best associated with Singing in the Rain...
when the talkies first came in, the jazz singer
and what not... i sometimes watch *******
so old that they have "dubbing": voice-actors that
compliment the *** workers since
the *** workers have terrible sounding
onomatopoeias when they ******?!
that's how far back i'll go, because this modern crap...

sure... i do have a fetish for...
gloryhole bukkakke thrills: Robespierre would have been
so proud... less decapitated heads...
more de-membered phalluses...
squirting out yoghurt juice... anonymously...
i can't say i'm even into the lesbian ****...
modern ****... alias of too much blah blah...
mommy this, daddy that...
there is just a massive undercurrent of ****** running
through it... i feel sick...
talk during *** is already bad...
i was tested at work concerning this...
the women i work with asked me whether it was...
ahem... "polite" to refer to someone as "daddy" during
***... you're ******* kidding me,
was my reply... not the exact words but,
ergo implied... who talks during ***?

you want a slobbering ****** at the end of your
popsicle... drooling spit, gagging... crying mascara tears from
the ******* or do you want something sensual?
this modern crap is... i'd rather watch a horror movie...
at least seeing makeshift conjuring of a monster
would give me more... erm...
"whereabouts"? but people, do this ****, to themselves...
no one forced them to do this...
they do this of their own accord...
i'm happy that i'm not earning the sort of money
that might associated with being tempted by
gynocentric broads...

i'm free... i don't need a validation mechanism...
having enough *** is not a social status...
i frequent the brothels whenever i feel like it...
if having *** implores me to think that
i am living a completed life... seriously?!
   how much VIAGARA are you popping?!
how do you deal with the expectations...
i consider the concept of the Greek alphabet soup
according to... brotherhood...
these part "alpha" **** boys know ****...
can you be part of a group, including the ****** males...
can you keep them accommodated?!
no one is stepping out of line,
someone is in control: even though they are
hierarchically below some supposed said: "supervisor":
some senile ***-whip?
yes? no?!              well then...
are you talking with everyone on the ground...
everyone o.k.? it's all Indiana Jones happy for all?
yes?! no?!

alpha buck ****-boy deluxe...
if ******* women was my sole modus operandi...
why would i custard my head thinking about
Newton?!
that's all there is? *******... erm... would be nonces...
existence... can, be, orientated... around...
the... non-existence, of, women, should, such, demands...
be, made, necessary!
you know what it takes?
just look at an old woman...
a woman you could never, possibly,
be attracted to...

she most probably has her "****" sorted...
time, the balancing aspect of all things...
why the Greeks never associated some demigod
to time: perhaps they had... but i'm just too lazy to know of him,
her... it...
i do have a concept... the rich thinking that
they own everything...
there is a Hadean Debt...
you, do, know, that... this life is on loan?
right?! and the resources you're using...
you, didn't... generate, yourself?
so you do know, there's a Hadean Dept?!
the debt owned to Hades?
you do, know that, no?

you didn't create the coal...
you didn't create the atoms, nor the wind...
people have become as sloppy governing people
as they have become...
having... unaesthetic ***!
what am i even writing?
        bet keep this within the confines of having
written too much, i'd appreciate it immensely
that people do not reach this rambling episode...
of course i'm not going to delete it...
but it's hardly anything worse than tabloid journalism...
sure, i sometimes turn on the ramble-mode...
how would you feel...
being 35 and unloved?
           there would be some venom in your words...
Teutonic monk song can only get you
this far, after a while a sleeping beast comes
to the fore... wounded, proud -
i can see old age and it's not a pretty picture:
i'll sooner do off with myself than reach that
rubric... there's no competition when it comes to old
age... i'm not sticking around...
i've already located the crux points on my body
where the arteries are... a sharp stab of the knife...
in my right armpit... just above the right side
above the collar bone... i'll bleed out...
unless... drinking takes me sooner...
**** this *******...
    i'm done with playing nice: although i'll still
play the nice... but not being loved by a woman...
take me! mother, sea!
take me! in a storm!
               take me, the night! let me marry death!
fickle peasant girls that might subsequently
require a plumber...
in my age gap that's all that's left...
single mothers... who were the fathers?!
if there was... ha ha... one... i'd be surprised...
worthless alcoholics... maybe i should have taken
the approach i took to my maine *****...
two of them... i once found a hot **** in my bed...
o.k. changed the sheets... beat both of them:
who done it?! who done this loaf of scrappy peanuts
in my bed? meow! both received a beating...
second time... caught in the middle of the act...
ah... you little *******... you're going to ****
where you're later going to sleep?!
smack... smack... later washed him,
wrapped him up in a towel and mummified him...
"mummified": tied a bathrobe really tight around him
with clips... sat him on a table in the garden
while hanging up the washing...
maybe i should have slapped a woman once or twice...
maybe then they might have stayed...
i feel ill thinking that this might have been
the correct modus operandi...
even though i smacked my cats about for *******
in my bed... who's in my bed, right now?
the two cats i smacked about for ******* in my bed...
well... one of them did... now we're pals...
i sit on the windowsill, he sits on the windowsill...
we greet each other with a head-****...

it's sad, though... to keep a woman one might have
to resort to mild violence... slap her a little...
oh **** me, no... no...
   i'd rather be a monk...
i don't do well around fickle creatures...
you're either part of a legion, a cohort... or you're a *******
rebellious outlier that can be duly ignored
and disregarded...

esp. with the modern ****... i don't watch it...
i have to sieve through and find the classical
1970s Italian ****... when *** was a joy
and not an endurance test for gagging *******...
no... just... no...
            even with prostitutes i do my best
to be tender... this current bollocking works ill on
the eyes... right... so a Billie Eilish tells you that she's sick
of modern ****...
i'm a "nobody" and i can tell you the same...
so much heterosexual *** orientating itself around
****...
can't i just poke an oyster?!

then again: do i have to always be *****? do i need
a libido insomnia on top of an actual insomnia?!
what am i, a ******* Duracell bunny?!
jiggy-jiggy-jog-on-constant-hard-on-androidd?!
maybe the "alpha male" **** boys can play that role...
solipsistic vectors of this world: egoists...
make sure they get pampered first...
but try to get as many normal people and weirdos
on your side to satisfy a service...
      of sure... those **** boys will be right up there
in authoritative roles trying to make everyone inclusive:
never demeaning the presence of creature less than they...
yeah...

          they'll be up there... alpha male **** boys...
pistons... clogs in a vaginal machine...
   not much to go around being an artist,
or a plumber, let the dust settle... until it can be governed
by a next whirlwind.

What's a bird that doesn't have boots
Looks like a flamingo that flocks
And keeps it's feet up
What's a clock that doesn't tick
That radio can't relate too
That's we look for Radio Free Europe and daylight savings
What's the paper without a President
Counting days when he leaves, ticking time bombs
The bombs' without a clock
Hey Bob meet Charlie
Meet Tango and cash in your walkie-talkies
Cute meet between people who think, it takes two to tango
What's an avian bird that doesn't congregate
A gourmet meal
What's an eagle without the snake's shadow
A prey to the Sun and Moon, the nocturnal death
The snake sleeps with his head in the bagging
The sagging berry that doesn't taste sweet
What's a bird without wings
Is the imagination of the intelligent intellectuals
Looking for talent among ambitious, some have mirages of migration
What's the boot without the footer
A shorter foot, with a missing boot of homeless beggar
What's a barber without a cut
A devil's haircut for the witty purging fearful man
In loathful Vegas lost in its insipid disease
Trees and the malls, the Palio that looks the same as the Patio
Sounds like Caesar's Palace in a word salad
What's rubber with a tip
Some pocket full of things
A change of style, and wallet of wads of cash
Paying for the dinner and the present commitments with the lady in the bleeding ceiling
What about the lights, the gumboots shine in these muddy fishnets

Music is in the air
A few decided to share
The sounds they heard playing
Gave it a name called composing

They were magicians
Knew all about instruments
Instructing the instruments to play
Gave it a name called Music

Rhythm Melody and Harmony
Texture Timbre and Dynamic Aspects to create the basics
Scattered pieces put together Gave it a name called Musicians

Stirring the Souls
All they require is a note
Making our hearts to move
They do it with a tune

Orchestration to give form
Final music in their heads
Playing in order already
Sharing their inner beauty

Providing the Score
To our lives
Each unique to each person
Musician s original profession

Every form of emotion
Played in the device
Of their choice
Reflection of  our feelings captured with poise

They speak through their chords
Greatest linguist amongst all
Expression their art
The most gifted lot

Verses and refrains
Points and Counterpoints
Sections and Instruments
The Musical oxygen

Life has its music
Only that we don't hear it
Too busy looking good
Ignoring the music making us ignorant fools

Life without the music
Silence is a tune
Silent movies had music
Music came  before talkies

Speaks no language
Communicates  to the illeterate
Doesn't judge worthiness
Gives it as delivarance

Alone with the self
As 2 with another
The 3 paths to salvation
The 4 Noble truths
The 5 elements
The 6 senses
None exists without the musicians take on it

Doubts about creations
Theist Athiest or Darwinian
Questioning the limitations
These can be set to music
Says the all encompassing Musician

Lullaby or  Dirge
Every stage of life is forged
Open your hearts
Feel  the chorus in all

The only world without borders
No visa or passport required
Has already achieved the impossible
Making humanity as one with his Music

I admit, first night was hell...
and hell is not a place of screaming
and torture or fire
and crowd management panic
of a stampede...
it's a silence, a dealing eating silence
to suppose fish don't feel pain
with the exception of the fish
that are also mammals,
whales: who commit suicide by
beaching themselves...
that's not suicide Jonah?
When was the last time a whale
was invoked with such majesty-biblical
the former hellspawn of the depths
Yes what depths are to speak
of Mr. Psychologist if the whale
is a creature that requires a breath
it's not some lantershish
some abomination but a familiar beating
heart of mammalian unison...
hell is a silence... a deafening awe
that pairs scissors with knives...
mountains with former mountains
that are now deserts...
what used to be the great mountains
of Sahara... so much so that people
decided to revise what used to be
by spitting and ******* and *******
a birth of civilization via the concept
of life preserved eternal
in the great necropolis:
first night, just humming of the cctv
computer, that eight eyed ghoul...
i the ghost to boot...
impromptu: buy myself a radio....
patua spreschen...
in the 12h from 7pm to 7am
there is so much you can do...
with sugar and caffeine
and I started smoking again to double up
on what caffeine misses...
reading Dune with enough time
apart from seeing the movie
to appreciate the words...
backgammon and the banality of
games of fate, chance, imagine chess
being orientated around the luck, the draw,
die...
reaching out to loved ones, esp one,
magnetic girl: dried pasta muncher
as I wonder: pebble dust if she
switched to a diet of swallowing metal
knots...
I am mentally drained and finally
reaching a worker-ant crescendo
of being numbed into a dissociation
von-sein-da (from-being-there) or hier:
heir to "a" here: problem solving
Athens and the Germanic black root
of humor and full moons
Arbeit arbeit macht not so frail...
Tiredness and the contingency plan
of thinking about endurance sports...
like walking marathon lengths of distance
is easier than standing as pilgrim
in the fort of pillar for the same amount of time:
if not double that...
only today I wept at the sun
then talked
then laughed
then became mad spontaneously
and only for a short while...
besides the capacity to have
to eat for the reassurance of stamina...
there's only so much you can do
within the confines of the night on
a 12h ball breaker...
I get bouts of insatiable need to
******* to ease off the pressure
on my shoulders, Promethium Atlas
rereading of the vicinity...
but! if I treat writing this dribble-scribble
like others might relax when
solving a crossword puzzle...
8 cameras and I try to be professional
about it, namely: to be present
but also with the alias: invisible:
gently nudging reality into motion
beginning from the shadow-front...
then I wait for the hour of radio
transmission from 12am onwards
where advertisers give up churning
milk into the butter to dough of
attention spans willing to shpend
shpend shpend.... seriously?
Pedantic of me: if Liszt the Z is a surd
like in thought you can write
(th)ou(gh)t...
I ought I not note oughts and noughts...
primo: th is
what conjecture is relating
theta to eta...in Greek...
This third night and I'm in my element
I am finally orientated
to the compactness of scrutiny of space
and the hyperbolic concept of time-fluctuations:
minutes are meaningful...
hours are meaningless...
days are organic...
weeks and perhaps...
months don't exist...
years I pardon with the gravitas of
a meaning that's inorganic...
time is a special creature
while space with all the universe
so... oh so *******... un- -spec- -tac-
-ular! Ursuline girls would know...
Tis my first night of writing while
on the "job" and how gratifying
the similtude of being ambidextrous
schizoid bilingual of mind..
Schubert first... people should seriously
switch off their t.v. sets and get into
the kink of listening
to classical music radio station at night...
the **** and geese flying?
Solo goose... sorry missed that
Bad WiFi in Lebanon?
Walkie Talkies exploding because
Zee Chimney ChooChoos said so?
Mount my ******* Orion to Zion cannon
of trajectory?
This **** had been happening
since that eventful day I was flying
back from Kauai, last year, 7th October,
2000... 23...
wow... only 15 minutes past 11pm
And I have 8 hours to conjure up
a human with abrupt allowances
of deviating from the magic of:
making inanimate objects animate!

title: tacko
body: wacko 1 billionth
            mark  502 bypass

what a strange day...
i could almost think someone being ******* with me...
i took this 19 year old Romanian colt
under my wind...
managed to get him a free burger..
on our break she sat on a bench
with me in akimbo... very Turkish...
   i told him: i'm only doing this to get
the references...
no familial ties...
                i don't want to write...
i want to feel te pains of feeling...
little busy bodies everywhere...
i helped: volunteered the demands
of the Glaswegian... Bemo... or how the ******* call
him...
managing the coat hangers of late to the party:
stewards... started in November and there's
already talk about me being a supervisor...
since i've completed my NVQ level 2...
i''ll be jumping from earning £10 an hour
to £15 an hour...
               but the colt was taken care of...
he got a free burger...
while we we walking back... i was walking...
she was trotting, sort of skipping...
sort of pacing up and down...
you're cool, birdie... at 19... father a cabbie...
i don't really mind... what time is it?
12 past 10? we're supposed to work
up to a quarter past... you're witness...
no one messaged us...
you, me... we witnessed it together...
two elderly gentlemen making concerns
about one of the park gates not being fully opened...
security, safety... service... no?
so we fell back... and watched human traffic...
of course we signed out...
later than usual...
                    whatever...
i'm not going to hear this crap from women
who have been abused...
she can pet tarantulas... she can pet serpents...
i'm not going to sleep with her...

i tried it with Jeminah...
no... sorry... i'm not buying into this *******...
i'm not going to hear crap: period...
so what's the point of the walkie-talkies if
no one is going to message me?
i said, quiet clearly: two elder gentlemen
were concerned! we stood down later
than expected... but still in the confines of working
up to 10:15pm..          

my god... i was so tired...
i bought a bottle of Napoleon brandy... a bottle
of coca cola... and wandered the streets for
about an hour trying to relax...
at Goodmayes...
i was tired... limp **** and all...
but i still went to the brothel...

why wouldn't i? Jeminah sort of hurt me...
i knew that Khedra was waiting...
i didn't ******... i told her to: shut the **** up:
you don't need me to ******...
i'm o.k. not having done so...
mein gott... the beauty of a woman's naked
body...
and how easily you can touch it...
funny... most of the people i work with go back
to their ***-starved relationships... their... complications...
i simply got the the brothel...
i kneel before her...
i... finally! *******... her tongue turned into
a deep-fried oyster... flipping...

she even said the words: god willing...
inshallah!
      we exchanged numbers...
next time i'm around she asked me... text me...
so we can spend an hour with each other...
well.. thank god i managed to take a shower
in the brothel... oh my god...
my type of woman... she expressed a doubling
need to do it before the altar of the mirrors...
*******, *******... missionary doubled down on...
tongue's worth of an oyster...
a tongue that needed, implored to be ******...

also? the first time i tried *******...
she promised me... just a little bit of a sniff...
but like i told her: it had no effect on me...
i was expecting ******* to have more effect on me...
slobbering... i ****** at her tongue...
what a beautiful *****...
after ding a shift like i have done...
what better place to end up at than at a brothel?

**** me... i have her number... she sent me a selfie...
she complimented me on my way around the body...
evil eyes: killer eyes...
i want to eat her with with my eyes...
i have two mouths but only one eye...
and that's exactly what i wanted to spend money on...
on prostitites!
a kiss of the hand... a kiss on the forehead...
personally? i don't want to have money to spend...
i'd rather give it to someone who might spend it, more:
frivolously!

well... i got what i wanted......
******* in the mirrors... *******...
slapping her asss...
pinching her...
               these petty. coupled.... people...
this is what i worked for!