Farewell Govan -
bathed in a baking sun
littered with betting shops
and no win/no fee criminal lawyers
and a myriad of pubs caked in years of libation
steeped in history of industry and shipbuilding
blackened smoked walls etched with gangland symbols:
tooled-up local carnivores who ride shotgun on a BMX
swapping discrete envelopes for indiscreet wads of cash.

Farewell Govan -
you fractured my ribs once in a moment of mistaken identity
I didn't heed the advice to not walk through the park at night
I didn't hear the pitter-patter of adolescent feet
speeding my way in brand new trainers across the grass
but I did feel the clunk of something solid on my head
as the ground rushed up to meet me in a concrete embrace
and watched as 4 bags of overladen shopping spewed out
lying face up spread-eagle in Lilliput fashion
and a mobile torch-app in my face with the repeating words
“Ima tellin’ you man its naw him, its naw him”
I reassured them frantically that I was definitely not him!
as the hooded troupe picked up what was left of my shopping
and even gifted me a couple of cans of super strength lager,
a cube of dubious council estate hash
and an usher to leave immediately
(and think myself lucky).

Farewell Govan -
you got me blazing on cheap beer at the local pub
which had recreated a holiday beach scene
with a hand-written sign that read: Better than Ibiza!
awash with carefree children
and pit-bull terriers wearing bespoke Barbour dog jackets
and brand spanking new Adidas white trainers
purchased from Tam out of a nondescript blue plastic bag
who always passes the day's pleasantries
while topping up his pension
chatting with auld Billy who was in the war (don’t you know)
via the Merchant Navy
and the version of how he was gunner on an oil boat in Vietnam
via the umpteenth pint that afternoon.

Farewell Govan -
your late night shadows harbour an underlying tension
masked with comic humour only if you can understand the lingo
words that are distasteful anywhere else are in fact a term of endearment here
I shall miss the odious vernacular and doth my cap to your spirit
the Salt of the Earth and the Lifeblood of the Community
with at least 40% proof liquids mixed with Irn Bru
purchased at the 24/7 corner store along with a can of processed peas;
one of your five a day.

Farewell Govan -
I go to the sunny side of the Clyde
where it rains just as much
but you don’t get mugged for carrying an umbrella
or asked for the time from a watch-wearing tattooed sailor
and joy-of-joys there will be actual fruit & veg shops
where I don’t have to explain what fresh coriander is
and what you use it for, other than on a pizza;
I was offered dried bottled parsley instead.

Farewell Govan.

As I was saying . . . (No, thank you; I never take cream with my tea;
Cows weren't allowed in the trenches -- got out of the habit, y'see.)
As I was saying, our Colonel leaped up like a youngster of ten:
"Come on, lads!" he shouts, "and we'll show 'em," and he sprang to the head of the men.
Then some bally thing seemed to trip him, and he fell on his face with a slam. . . .
Oh, he died like a true British soldier, and the last word he uttered was "****!"
And hang it! I loved the old fellow, and something just burst in my brain,
And I cared no more for the bullets than I would for a shower of rain.
'Twas an awf'ly funny sensation (I say, this is jolly nice tea);
I felt as if something had broken; by gad! I was suddenly free.
Free for a glorified moment, beyond regulations and laws,
Free just to wallow in slaughter, as the chap of the Stone Age was.

So on I went joyously nursing a Berserker rage of my own,
And though all my chaps were behind me, feeling most frightf'ly alone;
With the bullets and shells ding-donging, and the "krock" and the swish of the shrap;
And I found myself humming "Ben Bolt" . . . (Will you pass me the sugar, old chap?
Two lumps, please). . . . What was I saying? Oh yes, the jolly old dash;
We simply ripped through the barrage, and on with a roar and a crash.
My fellows -- Old Nick couldn't stop 'em. On, on they went with a yell,
Till they tripped on the Boches' sand-bags, -- nothing much left to tell:
A trench so tattered and battered that even a rat couldn't live;
Some corpses tangled and mangled, wire you could pass through a sieve.

The jolly old guns had bilked us, cheated us out of our show,
And my fellows were simply yearning for a red mix-up with the foe.
So I shouted to them to follow, and on we went roaring again,
Battle-tuned and exultant, on in the leaden rain.
Then all at once a machine gun barks from a bit of a bank,
And our Major roars in a fury: "We've got to take it on flank."
He was running like fire to lead us, when down like a stone he comes,
As full of "typewriter" bullets as a pudding is full of plums.
So I took his job and we got 'em. . . . By gad! we got 'em like rats;
Down in a deep shell-crater we fought like Kilkenny cats.
'Twas pleasant just for a moment to be sheltered and out of range,
With someone you saw to go for -- it made an agreeable change.

And the Boches that missed my bullets, my chaps gave a bayonet jolt,
And all the time, I remember, I whistled and hummed "Ben Bolt".
Well, that little job was over, so hell for leather we ran,
On to the second line trenches, -- that's where the fun began.
For though we had strafed 'em like fury, there still were some Boches about,
And my fellows, teeth set and eyes glaring, like terriers routed 'em out.
Then I stumbled on one of their dug-outs, and I shouted: "Is anyone there?"
And a voice, "Yes, one; but I'm wounded," came faint up the narrow stair;
And my man was descending before me, when sudden a cry! a shot!
(I say, this cake is delicious. You make it yourself, do you not?)
My man? Oh, they killed the poor devil; for if there was one there was ten;
So after I'd bombed 'em sufficient I went down at the head of my men,
And four tried to sneak from a bunk-hole, but we cornered the rotters all right;
I'd rather not go into details, 'twas messy that bit of the fight.

But all of it's beastly messy; let's talk of pleasanter things:
The skirts that the girls are wearing, ridiculous fluffy things,
So short that they show. . . . Oh, hang it! Well, if I must, I must.
We cleaned out the second trench line, bomb and bayonet ******;
And on we went to the third one, quite calloused to crumping by now;
And some of our fellows who'd passed us were making a deuce of a row;
And my chaps -- well, I just couldn't hold 'em; (It's strange how it is with gore;
In some ways it's just like whiskey: if you taste it you must have more.)
Their eyes were like beacons of battle; by gad, sir! they COULDN'T be calmed,
So I headed 'em bang for the bomb-belt, racing like billy-be-******.
Oh, it didn't take long to arrive there, those who arrived at all;
The machine guns were certainly chronic, the shindy enough to appal.
Oh yes, I omitted to tell you, I'd wounds on the chest and the head,
And my shirt was torn to a gun-rag, and my face blood-gummy and red.

I'm thinking I looked like a madman; I fancy I felt one too,
Half naked and swinging a rifle. . . . God! what a glorious "do".
As I sit here in old Piccadilly, sipping my afternoon tea,
I see a blind, bullet-chipped devil, and it's hard to believe that it's me;
I see a wild, war-damaged demon, smashing out left and right,
And humming "Ben Bolt" rather loudly, and hugely enjoying the fight.
And as for my men, may God bless 'em! I've loved 'em ever since then:
They fought like the shining angels; they're the pick o' the land, my men.
And the trench was a reeking shambles, not a Boche to be seen alive --
So I thought; but on rounding a traverse I came on a covey of five;
And four of 'em threw up their flippers, but the fifth chap, a sergeant, was game,
And though I'd a bomb and revolver he came at me just the same.
A sporty thing that, I tell you; I just couldn't blow him to hell,
So I swung to the point of his jaw-bone, and down like a ninepin he fell.
And then when I'd brought him to reason, he wasn't half bad, that ***;
He bandaged my head and my short-rib as well as the Doc could have done.
So back I went with my Boches, as gay as a two-year-old colt,
And it suddenly struck me as rummy, I still was a-humming "Ben Bolt".
And now, by Jove! how I've bored you. You've just let me babble away;
Let's talk of the things that matter -- your car or the newest play. . . .

It is winter, icy night outside the ancient terraced house, crisp
and creeping-cold, the road fleeting and the boisterous,
rejoicing revelers invading my room unseen but well heard,
silky-blacked, silk-backed, slick-backed, on the loudbusybarstriken front street.
The houses are sleeping like the dead (though the dead shan’t wake the morrow, in the deep, frosted earth) or sleeping like snoring Grandma
Passed the creaking stairs, behind the thick wooden door.
The chimneys enjoy a smoke, and the street watching in lazy light.
And the people of the long and aging road are lying, dormant, on hold now.

Be still, the birds are in wait, the office-workers, the budget-blunderers, the dole-wallers and money-splashers, equestrians, assistants, cricketers and coppers, the seller and the sold to, convicts, clergy, scrap-men, soldiers, the wary eyed whistleblowers and bleak spinsters. The elderly lie alone, cold and widowed, falling in love in dreams of those long passed, gramophones serenading them with swinging sounds since forgotten. The bachelors lie not alone but feel it, aside women they met but a moment prior. And the sloothing silhouettes of foxes stalk in the brush, and the fallen leaves clump prickled by the spiking spines of a slumbering hedgehog, and the hens in the clucking coops; and the mice creep across grassy planes playing hide and go seek, darting and ducking, amidst the quiet nightly warzone.

You can hear the frost amassing, and the old homes groaning.
Only your eyes are alive to see the bellowing chimney pots washing the black sky with grey, consuming and spreading, smoke. And you stand alone in hearing the working dogs retort with the sky, the primal yowl, where Jack Russell’s, Bull Terriers, Whippets and Grey Hounds, Fox hounds, Patterdales, Lakelands and Border Terriers take wolven shape and warrant the moon and stars to adjourn.

Heed. It is much too late, or early, the day-break behemoth’s begin to crawl blind through dawn, slumped uniform and jangling key and toast crumbed stubble, golden tie pin and tracksuit top, parted as the red sea, racing rats, inhaling bus fare; openmouthed in Citrone’s, rattled morning news; in Pickwick’s cafe shutters exhale the bleak dark and swallow first light. It is genesis in Chester-Le-Street, coagulating evermore, with breakfast offers stuffed down its throat, passed my frosted window pane, sleet and rain, headphones, lit cigarette, black brew two sugars, lichened grave stones and flashing blue lights. It is break of day amongst the pushers of pencils.

Watch. It is discontent, dragging, alone coursing through a bacon stottie; clinging to a dead end rock, aside the cockles and mussels, to be exhumed by an uncomfortable chair and the computer on the blink.

Is this it. Ask. Is this it.

She kissed your cheek and smiled widely,
the corners of her mouth almost touching her
impeccably tattooed eyebrows.
She was not what you had pictured
from the back and forth email conversations
on quotes and designs and sizes.

She asked you to take a seat as she went to
smoke a cigarette outside the shop with a coworker;
Anna was her name...with two jack russel terriers -
one of them is like a honey badger apparently.

It's funny how the mind remembers certain things...
the way the smoke on her tongue smelled as she leaned in
adding ink to her needle,
or the song she kept humming while you
bit your tongue and stared at the decorated ceiling.

But the pain of the needle depositing the
ink
into your skin was welcome...
It was nothing compared to the internal turmoil you were
experiencing the past seven days.
It almost felt good...
Not adrenaline good, but like good that you were capable of
feeling
something besides sadness and anger.

In the Barcelona airport two days earlier, you made your appointment.
One on your hip, one on your foot
100 pound deposit. No problem.
You needed something to occupy your
mind
from the pain it endured over your "holiday."

So much for a holiday...
Surprise! Your friend is a backstabbing *****
who "secretly" hates you and tried to
ditch you repeatedly.

The needle grazes your hipbone and you wince.
"You okay?" Tota coos in her Italian accent.
You nod, but you know you're not really okay...
You never were...probably never will be OKAY.

Your mind wanders...wishing you were home
and not in London, three thousand miles away from
the only people who seem to care.

"Done!" Tota exclaims.
You examine her work, smiling.
The first time you have smiled in days.
"Get ready...this one is gona hurt!" she says, half excited.
You don't care...nothing can hurt more than your heart...
Too bad that can't be tattooed...

Does anyone here know of a canine murderer?
As I urgently need someone to bash the living **** out of
My fat ugly neighbour's disgusting Yorkshire terrier.
Oh Holy God, How I want the little ******* mutt to suffer.
I’d love to see it choking and coughing its head off;
Yorkshire terriers are the most repulsive things since sliced bread,
Yappy, repellent smelly little ***** of malevolent fur.
They only appeal when wriggling feebly at a rope’s end.
Woof! Woof! Woof! Gurgle! Gurgle!
Silence.

DEDICATED TO THE FAT HIDEOUS BETTY, MY NEIGHBOUR

*Does anyone here know of a good mohel?
As I urgently need someone to circumcise
My neighbour's Yorkshire terrier, canine boil
Needing lancing, joybringing to my eyes.
A kindly mohel simply will not do;
He must lack scruple and human pity;
That hound’s not been bathed for a year or two
So th'event might turn out a bit ******.
Yorkshire terriers are of two classes:
The insistent yapping ones we all hate
And the ***** ones with hairy arses;
But both look good nailed to your garden gate.
And he needn't be a mohel either,
Merely someone with a willing cleaver.

HAVE I told any man to be a liar for my sake?
Have I sold ice to the poor in summer and coal to the poor in winter for the sake of daughters who nursed brindle bull terriers and led with a leash their dogs clothed in plaid wool jackets?
Have I given any man an earful too much of my talk-or asked any man to take a snootful of ***** on my account?
Have I put wool in my own ears when men tried to tell me what was good for me? Have I been a *** listener?
Have I taken dollars from the living and the unborn while I made speeches on the retributions that shadow the heels of the dishonest?
Have I done any good under cover? Or have I always put it in the show windows and the newspapers?

DREAMS

I was an ice baby.
I turned to sky blue.
My tears became two glass beads.
My mouth stiffened into a dumb howl.
They say it was a dream
but I remember that hardening.

My sister at six
dreamt nightly of my death:
"The baby turned to ice.
Someone put her in the refrigerator
and she turned as hard as a Popsicle."

I remember the stink of the liverwurst.
How I was put on a platter and laid
between the mayonnaise and the bacon.
The rhythm of the refrigerator
had been disturbed.
The milk bottle hissed like a snake.
The tomatoes vomited up their stomachs.
The caviar turned to lave.
The pimentos kissed like cupids.
I moved like a lobster,
slower and slower.
The air was tiny.
The air would not do.
*
I was at the dogs' party.
I was their bone.
I had been laid out in their kennel
like a fresh turkey.

This was my sister's dream
but I remember that quartering;
I remember the sickbed smell
of the sawdust floor, the pink eyes,
the pink tongues and the teeth, those nails.
I had been carried out like Moses
and hidden by the paws
of ten Boston bull terriers,
ten angry bulls
jumping like enormous roaches.
At first I was lapped,
rough as sandpaper.
I became very clean.
Then my arm was missing.
I was coming apart.
They loved me until
I was gone.



2. THE DY-DEE DOLL

My Dy-dee doll
died twice.
Once when I snapped
her head off
and let if float in the toilet
and once under the sun lamp
trying to get warm
she melted.
She was a gloom,
her face embracing
her little bent arms.
She died in all her rubber wisdom.



3. SEVEN TIMES

I died seven times
in seven ways
letting death give me a sign,
letting death place his mark on my forehead,
crossed over, crossed over

And death took root in that sleep.
In that sleep I held an ice baby
and I rocked it
and was rocked by it.
Oh Madonna, hold me.
I am a small handful.



4.MADONNA

My mother died
unrocked, unrocked.
Weeks at her deathbed
seeing her ****** herself against the metal bars,
thrashing like a fish on the hook
and me low at her high stage,
letting the priestess dance alone,
wanting to place my head in her lap
or even take her in my arms somehow
and ****** her twisted gray hair.
But her rocking horse was pain
with ***** steaming from her mouth.
Her belly was big with another child,
cancer's baby, big as a football.
I could not soothe.
With every **** and crack
there was less Madonna
until that strange labor took her.
Then the room was bankrupt.
That was the end of her paying.



5. MAX

Max and I
two immoderate sisters,
two immoderate writers,
two burdeners,
made a pact.
To beat death down with a stick.
To take over.
To build our death like carpenters.
When she had a broken back,
each night we built her sleep.
Talking on the hot line
until her eyes pulled down like shades.
And we agreed in those long hushed phone calls
that when the moment comes
we'll talk turkey,
we'll shoot words straight from the hip,
we'll play it as it lays.
Yes,
when death comes with its hood
we won't be polite.



6. BABY

Death,
you lie in my arms like a cherub,
as heavy as bread dough.
Your milky wings are as still as plastic.
Hair soft as music.
Hair the color of a harp.
And eyes made of glass,
as brittle as crystal.
Each time I rock you
I think you will break.
I rock. I rock.
Glass eye, ice eye,
primordial eye,
lava eye,
pin eye,
break eye,
how you stare back!

Like the gaze if small children
you know all about me.
You have worn my underwear.
You have read my newspaper.
You have seen my father whip me.
You have seen my stroke my father's whip.

I rock. I rock.
We plunge back and forth
comforting each other.
We are stone.
We are carved, a pieta
that swings.
Outside, the world is a chilly army.
Outside, the sea is brought to its knees.
Outside, Pakistan is swallowed in a mouthful.

I rock. I rock.
You are my stone child
with still eyes like marbles.
There is a death baby
for each of us.
We own him.
His smell is our smell.
Beware. Beware.
There is a tenderness.
There is a love
for this dumb traveler
waiting in his pink covers.
Someday,
heavy with cancer or disaster
I will look up at Max
and say: It is time.
Hand me the death baby
and there will be
that final rocking.

he said he loved me,
he said he cared,
he said he wouldn't break me,
he said he understood,
he said he loved me,
he said he would protect me,
he said he would help me,
he said he loved me ,
he said he cared,
he said a lot of things that i would die to hear once more.
his lips were addictive just like air,
he said he would stay with me,
he said he would be there,
he said he loved me,
he said he cared.
he told me he loved me.
he told me he'd be there.
he left me to hang.
left me to bleed.
left me to die.
left me to be broken one more time.
he snapped me in half again.
he lead me on.
he took what was mine,
and ran away.
he told me he loved me.
he said that he cared.
he said that he promised he’d always be there.
he lied like all the others.
i thought he cared.
i thought that he loved me.
i thought that he was different from the others but he was just a spare.
a fool to be so cruel.
a fool to sweep me off my feet,
then let me weep in a pool of my own blood.
i told him everything all my secrets and fears
he knew i feared to lose him
and he knew the game very well..
the game of love and the game of loss.
he knew i couldn't lose another soul
he knew id beg and plead for him to run on back to me
but instead he led me to my death
my heartbreak once more.
he told me that he loved me
he told me that he cared.
he told me that he loved me
he told me that he cared
he told me that he’d be there
he told me that he cared he told me things
ive never heard before.
he told me wild things that made my heart glow even more
he told things that i fell for
he told me that he loved me
he told me that he’d save me
he told me that he would protect me
he told me that he loved me once more
he’s just like the rest
they destroy
and ****
they only want one thing
they pretend to fall in love with you.
they tell you they love you.
they tell you they care.
they tell you they’ll be there
they tell you they’ll save you from your demons and terriers
you believe them
sometimes give in
you believe them
they kiss you,
cuddle you.
make you feel love.
you believe you can feel the warmth
but there is none
just cold
they take what they want
then they tell you basically that you're not enough.
that you can't give them what they want.
what they dream of.
they want perfection.
seeking for innocent blood
then they let you down easy
they turn mean and start to destroy you.
just remember they're just out for one thing
and don't let your guard down baby because if you do they won't stay long

There was this garden where I looked for breaths every morning.These cool and pine slapped winds gave me reason to live as I fought hard to ward frustrations of life.So many of them clouded me that they could have outnumbered the grass blades that stood proudly in the trimmed lawn. There was this lone Oak that stood tall and alone just like me in this mountain ***** retreat.A peculiarity of this land was that it was not amenable to growth of any flowers. I had none of them whatsoever in any 12 months year after year. The flower rows had turned **** pots for two terriers and three cats that romped the greens almost whole day.Despite their efforts at fertilizing nothing happened.It was accidental that I discovered a puny rose bush,almost stunted, at the end of one row when I was asking my housekeeper to clear the row of dirt. My delight knew no bounds as I saw the little survivor. It may have been little but it was old and had strong sharp thorns and drew blood from me as I tried caressing it. Its first regular watering was that very drop of blood.Determined to let it live and grow I became a care giver instantly.



Fertilizers,gardening manuals later I drew up a watering plan that kept me busy day after day.To my delightful amazement the plant took to shoots and little greens. Soon it had its first bud then another and then another.The first flower that beamed at me one morning was a green rose. It was smiling and thanking me for letting it grow and live.I caressed its silken petals like a Romeo who caressed the skin of his Juliet. The flower bloomed and became so brightly colored and big that passersby stopped to glare at it in awe.Its siblings too started showing up. Soon the bush became a show case of that garden and my life. One cold night I drank a bit too much and slept like a horse only to wake to a white sheet of snow. Green had gone and the white ruled. I panicked to the rose bush and almost screamed. The snow had made a grave over it. Lacking oxygen and sunlight its leaves and petals were ready to turn brown. There was nothing I could do to save it. In two days time it had reverted to the stunt that it was. Yet I smiled ! Why?



The flowering had left me a lesson after its demise.



Careful tending and hard work can lead to success even when everything seems impossible.Carelessness can lead to losses which can be total.



and then...



The life events are seasonal and cyclical...time and circumstances combine to make for fruition.



Medicine or human care can only prolong but not obviate natural decay.



There are always spoilsports for your 'victory party'.



Success cannot last forever.



You need to sow it with blood to make it work.



These were precious. All flower on a robust bush in my maturity that will never wilt inspite of all storms or snows.

Stanley belaban was a happy boy who lived in New York and born in New York in 1936
He played little league baseball for his local school and he enjoyed swimming in the local Bronx swimming pool, and Stanley was a very popular kid in his school where he had 5 main best mates who were really good for him and every thanksgiving Stanley would walk down to the Macy's thanksgiving day parade
As well as really enjoying trick or treating at Halloween where he got bullied a bit by the rougher kids who were mucking around and Stanley really enjoyed being in his baseball team where he had a dream to play for the New York Yankees
Which is parents were very sure that it would be nice if he does
And Stanley also walked around the streets looking at all the sites of Broadway and Stanley really enjoyed doing that especially with his parents
And the bronx swimming pool
Was his favourite summer spot
You see Stanley won a lot of swimming medals in various swimming carnivals and Stanley
Participated in 20 different swimming carnivals where he won many medals and this made Stanley very happy
Stanley sang away in a manger at the bronx's carols by candlelight as well as being santa's little helper in santa's arrival where he helped sing jingle bells and Santa Claus is coming to town and after that
Stanley said merry Christmas everybody you see very much like me Stanley baraban really loved the holiday season and sports and as Stanley was staring at all of his baseball trophies saying I am popular
But then came one day in 1947
A pack of bull terriers were let loose in the Bronx and Stanley was very excited about appearing in his 3rd ever teams event where he was destined to win a medal but then Stanley's parents went into the swimming pool unaware of what happens next and suddenly the pack of bull terriers mauled young Stanley leaving him when he was dead and then the dogs went over to attack the police officer who was there to make the day safe and this was a sad day for the Barabans as Stanley was mauled by this pack of dogs and each dog was put down but still Stanley was missed by family and friends
And that is why I am scared of dogs in this life because I was Stanley baraban way back then
Well, there could be many reasons like the liking of parades and the holiday season
Everyone in the Bronx missed stanleys lovely smile at every holiday event and he was very sadly missed and now I live in Canberra remembering all my previous lives like this one
I still jump when I see a dog

my happiness looks like this:

three staffordshire bull terriers that keep stealing all the blankets on the bed,
and a fourth back at my mother’s home who cannot contain his excitement when i visit

grey winter morning light leaking in from behind the blinds—
i hate winter and i should be asleep,
but still my happiness includes this:

the hours i lie awake,
still insomnia ridden as i was when i used to write the nights away in sorrow,
but now

i watch videos of people who like the same pretty colours and the same pretty furniture as i do,
decorating their houses and building
useful things

i put a little more spare cash into my savings each week
and squirm impatiently for our first home together

ours. mine and his.

the main picture in my montage of happiness
is the man lying next to me, sound asleep
an arm cuddled around our oldest girl,
both of them snoring and snuffling in their slumber

sounds i loathed from other people
are sounds i cherish from him.
i kiss the tip of his nose,
each cheek,
the curve of his forehead,
the point of his chin
and settle one more on soft, lax lips

my words don’t feel so beautiful
because all life’s beauty, i find in him.
i don’t have poeticism to spare for writing
when all my love letters are spoken to him
and he embodies everything beautiful
from eyes to smile to skin
down to the soul within

Walking under an indigo sky
With a cream colored moon shining in her eyes
Sniffing at the ground instead of looking up
Is my little mixed breed pup

Running under a blanket of blue
Chasing squirrels like terriers do
After the chase, sleeping like a log
Is my little puppy dog

Woofing quietly at my feet
Acting like it's time to eat
Staring up hopefully, looking so cute
Is my sixty pound little pooch

sloppy joe, why do you keep
yelling when you cross the road? your
meat keeps falling from your
sides and i swear you are beginning

to scare the neighbors. the dogs keep
chasing you, yet you never seem to care
about those hounds and terriers. self-
preservation (though you are a sandwich,

and a quite enjoyable one at that) seems like it
should be an instinct which someone as
tasty as yourself should have. you never seem
to worry about those massive hands reaching

out to bite into you and taste your
guts and innards, and all the sauce in between
them; but for some reason, i'm beginning to think
we should all be as relaxed as you,

sloppy joe. even though maybe we should
be more cautious about how our grease
gets all over everywhere. however other than
the grease we should still be like sloppy joe.

Nuit noire mais belle de Malaga
Empoisonne-moi
De tes hamecons et de tes leurres
Envenime-moi
De tes vers luisants et polissons
Qui gigotent dans le vin du clair de lune
Instille-moi de tes piqûres,  de tes ourlets
Des criquets qui chantent au fond de tes criques
Innocule-moi
Tes vaccins, tes rappels et tes antidotes
Cachés au creux des terriers
Des mangues et des câpres qui mûrissent
Sous tes obscènes caresses.
Obsède-moi
De la froidure romantique de tes rhums capiteux
Muselle-moi dans  la cannelle de ta souricière
Bâillonne-moi de tes eaux de Styx
Engloutis
Capture
Relâche
Aspire-moi de tes yeux de khôl
Je ne suis qu'étincelle
Infime brindille incandescente d'amour
Dans l'attente fébrile du point du jour.

The Beggar at Canterbury Gate

The beggar sits at Canterbury Gate,
Thin, pale, unshaven, sad.  His little dog
Sits patiently as a Benedictine
At Vespers, pondering eternity.
Not that rat terriers are permitted
To make solemn vows.  Still, the pup appears
To take his own vocation seriously,
As so few humans do.  For, after all,
Dogs demonstrate for us the duties of
Poverty, stability, obedience,
In choir, perhaps; among the garbage, yes,
So that perhaps we too might live aright.

The good dog’s human plays his tin whistle
Beneath usurper Henry’s1 offering-arch
For Kings, as beggars do, must drag their sins
And lay them before the Altar of God:
The beggar drinks and drugs and smokes, and so
His penance is to sit and suffer shame;
The King’s foul murders stain his honorable soul;
His penance is a stone-carved famous name
Our beggar, then, is a happier man,
Begging for bread at Canterbury Gate;
Tho’ stones are scripted not with his poor fame,
His little dog will plead his cause to God.

1Henry VII, who built the Cathedral Gate in 1517, long after the time of Henry II and St. Thomas Becket

Spoiled
West Highland Terriers
Man, they're everywhere
Pulling back on leashes
giving us humans
that look
as if we've mistook
what time is and
the value of the smell
that is right now

it's kinda funny, but all i keep thinking about is the clipped tooth and the 3 pancakes awaiting me gnashing the smoothness into poached pear baby goo; i will not allow language to subordinate me... i, will, subordinate language! language will be my clothes, and not, my, tailor!

i abhor people owned by language,
it's a bit like debate
between portishead vs. poliça...
          love a *****-fight...
              scratching, itching,
hair-tugging,
my type of replacement when it
comes to being entertained by
cockerels or bulls (terriers) -
got i love petting those beastly boy
pig snouts!
the problem with me?
            i love drinking more than
conversations with people -
synonymous with:
animals make more sense to me
that humans...
                             oops;
i gather.
                  i have a 10kg / 20+ pound maine
**** that i bite for fun...
              bite a maine ****
get an apache headgear...
     ****** kicks like a kangaroo
when i tickler his hind paws...
               sings the **** out
of a reincarnation of Pavarotti...
either that or it's ***** 'arry,
or simply *rudy (ginger) -
              i love cats for their
autism...
                   it will never end up
being a death-stare match:
there's always "something" to
be preoccupied with cats...
usually? nothing,
                 the anti-thesis of
narcissus was a cat.
                people never have stories
about dogs,
other than: lick my *****, take a nap...
i hate the cat i own...
                  man originated
with a heart,
while woman originated with a mind...
notably the grand-schemer
locusta  -
hell knows no fury for a woman scorned,
as,
           heaven knows no peace
                              for a man: pardoned.
since we're on equal terms,
  we can only politicise language,
rather than the, infantile,
politicising of language...
               i always wonder how
an exhausted meow exhausts the mind
of a cat, with no cognitive notion
of a a meow...
     how does a cat meow...
when there's no thought of meow...
in the same exhaustion...
           how does man speak of god,
when he think nothing of god?
    if god is a beyond word,
yet trapped in (moral) action,
can we discuss the case by merely
using onomatopoeia?
               i.e. onomatopoeia,
an etymological return to the prime
of syllables?
    prior to letters having names
akin to A - alpha -
                                  or O - omicron?
cut short pretty jesus?
                     oh, what, a, shame!

p.s. sure, he can be the alpha and the omega,
but i'm the omicron in between.

Unis dès leurs jeunes ans
D'une amitié fraternelle,
Un lapin, une sarcelle,
Vivaient heureux et contents.
Le terrier du lapin était sur la lisière
D'un parc bordé d'une rivière.
Soir et matin nos bons amis,
Profitant de ce voisinage,
Tantôt au bord de l'eau, tantôt sous le feuillage,
L'un chez l'autre étaient réunis.
Là, prenant leurs repas, se contant des nouvelles,
Ils n'en trouvaient point de si belles
Que de se répéter qu'ils s'aimeraient toujours.
Ce sujet revenait sans cesse en leurs discours.
Tout était en commun, plaisir, chagrin, souffrance ;
Ce qui manquait à l'un, l'autre le regrettait ;
Si l'un avait du mal, son ami le sentait ;
Si d'un bien au contraire il goûtait l'espérance,
Tous deux en jouissaient d'avance.
Tel était leur destin, lorsqu'un jour, jour affreux !
Le lapin, pour dîner venant chez la sarcelle,
Ne la retrouve plus : inquiet, il l'appelle ;
Personne ne répond à ses cris douloureux.
Le lapin, de frayeur l'âme toute saisie,
Va, vient, fait mille tours, cherche dans les roseaux,
S'incline par-dessus les flots,
Et voudrait s'y plonger pour trouver son amie.
Hélas ! S'écriait-il, m'entends-tu ? Réponds-moi,
Ma sœur, ma compagne chérie ;
Ne prolonge pas mon effroi :
Encor quelques moments, c'en est fait de ma vie ;
J'aime mieux expirer que de trembler pour toi.
Disant ces mots, il court, il pleure,
Et, s'avançant le long de l'eau,
Arrive enfin près du château
Où le seigneur du lieu demeure.
Là, notre désolé lapin
Se trouve au milieu d'un parterre,
Et voit une grande volière
Où mille oiseaux divers volaient sur un bassin.
L'amitié donne du courage.
Notre ami, sans rien craindre, approche du grillage,
Regarde et reconnaît... ô tendresse ! ô bonheur !
La sarcelle : aussitôt il pousse un cri de joie ;
Et, sans perdre de temps à consoler sa sœur,
De ses quatre pieds il s'emploie
À creuser un secret chemin
Pour joindre son amie, et par ce souterrain
Le lapin tout-à-coup entre dans la volière,
Comme un mineur qui prend une place de guerre.
Les oiseaux effrayés se pressent en fuyant.
Lui court à la sarcelle ; il l'entraîne à l'instant
Dans son obscur sentier, la conduit sous la terre ;
Et, la rendant au jour, il est prêt à mourir
De plaisir.
Quel moment pour tous deux ! Que ne sais-je le peindre
Comme je saurais le sentir !
Nos bons amis croyaient n'avoir plus rien à craindre ;
Ils n'étaient pas au bout. Le maître du jardin,
En voyant le dégât commis dans sa volière,
Jure d'exterminer jusqu'au dernier lapin :
Mes fusils ! Mes furets ! Criait-il en colère.
Aussitôt fusils et furets
Sont tout prêts.
Les gardes et les chiens vont dans les jeunes tailles,
Fouillant les terriers, les broussailles ;
Tout lapin qui paraît trouve un affreux trépas :
Les rivages du Styx sont bordés de leurs mânes ;
Dans le funeste jour de Cannes
On mit moins de romains à bas.
La nuit vient ; tant de sang n'a point éteint la rage
Du seigneur, qui remet au lendemain matin
La fin de l'horrible carnage.
Pendant ce temps, notre lapin,
Tapi sous des roseaux auprès de la sarcelle,
Attendait en tremblant la mort,
Mais conjurait sa sœur de fuir à l'autre bord
Pour ne pas mourir devant elle.
Je ne te quitte point, lui répondait l'oiseau ;
Nous séparer serait la mort la plus cruelle.
Ah ! Si tu pouvais passer l'eau !
Pourquoi pas ? Attends-moi... la sarcelle le quitte,
Et revient traînant un vieux nid
Laissé par des canards : elle l'emplit bien vite
De feuilles de roseau, les presse, les unit
Des pieds, du bec, en forme un batelet capable
De supporter un lourd fardeau ;
Puis elle attache à ce vaisseau
Un brin de jonc qui servira de câble.
Cela fait, et le bâtiment
Mis à l'eau, le lapin entre tout doucement
Dans le léger esquif, s'assied sur son derrière,
Tandis que devant lui la sarcelle nageant
Tire le brin de jonc, et s'en va dirigeant
Cette nef à son cœur si chère.
On aborde, on débarque ; et jugez du plaisir !
Non **** du port on va choisir
Un asile où, coulant des jours dignes d'envie,
Nos bons amis, libres, heureux,
Aimèrent d'autant plus la vie
Qu'ils se la devaient tous les deux.

The Beggar at Canterbury Gate

The beggar sits at Canterbury Gate,
Thin, pale, unshaven, sad.  His little dog
Sits patiently as a Benedictine
At Vespers, pondering eternity.
Not that rat terriers are permitted
To make solemn vows.  Still, the pup appears
To take his own vocation seriously,
As so few humans do.  For, after all,
Dogs demonstrate for us the duties of
Poverty, stability, obedience,
In choir, perhaps; among the garbage, yes,
So that perhaps we too might live aright.

The good dog’s human plays his tin whistle
Beneath usurper Henry’s1 offering-arch
For Kings, as beggars do, must drag their sins
And lay them before the Altar of God:
The beggar drinks and drugs and smokes, and so
His penance is to sit and suffer shame;
The King’s foul murders stain his honorable soul;
His penance is a stone-carved famous name
Our beggar, then, is a happier man,
Begging for bread at Canterbury Gate;
Tho’ stones are scripted not with his poor fame,
His little dog will plead his cause to God.

1 *Henry VII, who built the Cathedral Gate in 1517, long after the time of Henry II and St. Thomas Becket

Maître de boucan
Je construis mon ajoupa à flanc de montagne.
Il n 'y a cette nuit ni vent ni pluie
Dans ce pays en suspension
Entre bois, montagnes et précipices.

J'ai franchi avec toi sept rivières à gué
Escaladé les parois abruptes
Tandis que les diables faisaient grand bruit
Sortaient en miaulant et piaillant de leurs repaires
Pour aller voleter au-dessus de la mer.

Malgré leur chant d'effroi je ne désarmais pas, au contraire
C'était pour leur chair noire, douce et exquise
Que j'étais là en plein Carème
Dans cette montagne aux Diables.
Ni grives ni perroquets ni perdriques ni perdrix
Ne m'auraient fait dévier de ma chasse
Sans chiens et sans bâtons
A ce mets délicieux que sont les diablotins.

Je me voyais déjà les déloger de leurs terriers dans les falaises
Et les manger de broche en bouche
Selon les règles boucanières d'antan
Ou dans une feuille de cachibou ou de balisier
Quand tu m'as soufflé en me mordillant l'oreille
Ton envie urgente de pastrama fumé aux sarments de vigne.
Tes désirs sont des ordres
Mais comment trouver en pleine montagne aux Diables
A trois heures et quelques du matin un mouton sauvage,
Un agneau de pré-salé,
Un bélier broutant dans les vignes
Qui accepte de gaîté de coeur d'être sacrifié en holocauste
En pleine période de jeûne ?

Je me mis à prier le Révérend Père et la Vieille Dame
A qui je promis l'abstinence perpétuelle
De ces diablotins et autres cottous
Au goût de poisson
Pourvu qu'ils me fassent tomber du ciel
La divine pitance de tes ovins délicieux .

J'ai commencé à ramasser les herbes et les brindilles
Les branches de cannes sèches et les écorces de coco,
Les branches sèches de manguiers et de citronniers
Le chiendent, le *****-contra pour parfumer.
Et le silex et l'amadou pour mettre le feu.
Un peu d'alizé pour la fumée.
Et de la patience pour que le feu prenne.

Mais en lieu et place des moutons
Il se mit à pleuvoir sur notre bivouac
Une volée de cent un de ces volatiles blancs et noirs
Daciens comme Dalmatiens
Frais, séchés puis marinés aux rayons de lune
Tous volontaires et consentant à la dégustation magique
Du pastrama fumé de diablotins

Goûte-moi donc à ce vin de madère
De derrière les ******
Sans lequel je ne pars jamais en excursion
Et pardonne-moi pour le mouton
Si tu veux demain je te ferai un pastrama d'oies traditionnel
Voire un pastrama de voyelles
Marinées dans le miel, le thym, le sel
Le romarin, le laurier, le poivre et le piment
Le sel, l'ail et l'huile d'olive
La menthe, l 'oignon et le vin rouge à volonté
Ce que tu voudras, tant que tu voudras...

Mais goûte-moi ce matin avant que le jour ne se lève
Ce pastrama de diablotin fumé
Essaie et dis-moi !

Tout est affaire de goût et d'accoutumance !

Savourons ensemble le panorama et le pastrama
Savourons l'altitude de ces diablotins rôtis à la broche
Et fumés aux sarments de chiendent et *****-contra
Savourons la manne et l 'abstinence
De cette nuit étale de printemps-hiver
Au sommet de la Souphrière
Avant que conformément à ma parole
Je n'entre dans les Ordres.

Hey, he's gotta buck up
that hombre's bucking the trend
ain't got no dime just a buck to my name
so buck down hombre, mosey on down to the OK corral
you ain't going buck naked, but dude, don't buck the system

Ain't horsing around old timer
don't look a gift horse in the mouth
saddle up and forget that **** ***** fit
time for some horse trading, gotta play it smart
and that's straight from the horse's mouth, hear me dudes

Oh doggone it, it's a dog's life
but the hombre ain't dog tired just yet
just barking up those **** huskies, time for feeds
before the English Terriers start howling in pain
already as sick as dog, animal farm, animal crackers

Hey, he's gotta buck up
straight on down to the Bucking Bronco
See that black Stallion chilling with a buck fizz
word is, he comes from Buck House with some big bucks
look closely, you'll see he's laughing at us
So buck up your ideas, Red ***, save a buck or two
or its bang for your buck

Hahaha.....hahaha.....haha
hombre stirs the vipers in their nest
pokes the rattlesnakes, wants them to shake their rattles
cobras must hiss and spit, rearing up aggressively on cue
for life in the wild west must not be dull
The lions shakes their full red manes and roars
   'The buck doesn't stop here'

decided to drive to town while the sun was out



feels a long winter



pass the mountain

snow topped



thought on a challenge

how the cairns are made

one stone upon another



parked the car tidy

down the high street



noted the man with two terriers

his hair the colour of theirs

his coat camouflage

i could hardly see him



later i find the factory shop

allows dogs shopping

another cairn



a better day

one stone upon another



ˈkaməflɑːʒ/