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.

Hollywood is dead and gone
It died a lonely death
It's just too bad no one was there
When it took it's final breath
Forget the tales of yesteryear
Of junkies and of ******
The Hollywood I speak of
Is behind the golden doors
Warner Brothers and MGM
United Artists and 20th Century Fox
Are now owned by conglomertates
With more cash than Fort Knox
Film is just an extra
In a business it once ruled
With the advent of computers
The industry's re-tooled
CGI and Green Screen
Let them do more at great cost
But, without the use of actors
There is something that is lost
The tie in with it's history
We only see each year
When they memorialize those who passed
At the Oscars....shedding tears
There is now just two places
To process film itself
When, way back in it's heyday
Of these there was a wealth
No new ideas forthcoming
Movies get rebooted or remade
And the startlets in the pictures
They're the one's who're getting laid
Merchanidising movies
That is where the real cash lies
If you're not attached to a food chain
Your bottom line will die
Hollywood died in it's sleep
It died with dignity
The funeral will be shown though
On reality TV
It smothered in it's excess
A victim of it's greed
It gorged on people's wallets
Forgetting peoples needs
Old Hollywood is magic
It lives on in peoples hearts
Too bad the studio system
Was sold off in such small parts
The western died, musicals next
Then came the comedy
You can't see them in the theatre
But they're on your big tv
I stand here and salute her
She put pictures in our heads
But, now thanks to her avarice
Old Hollywood is dead...

remember your craft
diligently, passionately, curiously
remember your craft
without forgetting your past

apply your reason
without committing treason
to the values you hold true
never forget that which makes up You

self esteem reflects that which afflict
reminded again nothing is perfect
a blessing in dis-guide, one could say
confessing to the skies on a clear day

I talked to someone today who made me feel extremely self conscious about my writing so i decided to retool what i posted today. Let me know if you like this version better**

This is the last night I'll see you.
Soon i will miss you,
Rain be-speckled your tender cheeks.
Will you indulge a kiss,
To wash away our sorrows?

There is nothing beyond us tonight,
A feeling to halt the world.
Sickness, a near pox of the heart.

The distance will seem so great.
Do you think the sun  misses the moon,
As they sway from each others embrace?
Only to meet again as they eclipse,
As they collide together.

Into such tender eyes i confessed,
The smile i loved to bear witness too,
Roses adorning the tint of your cheeks.

I will miss you,
Melting under the touch of my lips.
You are perfection
I will never forget this night.
Am i to fade away. a ghost in the snow?

There are those down the bookies and them in the butchers and they're all a bit hooky, a right bunch of wrong 'uns,
young guns.
The police don't have a clue, but you know what?
they're all tooled up too, and what for?
for a war on the streets
blood down the drains,
making widows of wives who'll spent the rest of their lives looking through the curtains on lonely window panes watching blood down the drains.

Reminds me of what's behind me,
back in the days when crazy paving was the craze and the grass was covered in cartoon concrete,
I'd take a seat by the bow front and look out on the car, a Singer Chamois which was green, seen it parked in front of the house on crazy paving where there used to be grass through which no water was able to pass into the water table and so having to go somewhere it went down the drains, a waste of an element because we had no brains.

Hooky's not new it's what some people are and what some people do, we try and we die or we thirst for and win, but I always did think that to waste was a sin and now it is blood down the drains because we've all been trained, it's an army out there and they've got to go somewhere and the drains are open to all.

Deviant sublimations , the reprogrammed sociopath is now running downhill , faster by the hour , tripping over the final stone then falling
forever ...

The rainbow’s bright colors gazed out of their prism, speculatively, cautiously, almost contrarily, with no wall to paint their patterned pictures on, fading into irrelevance as they vanished into the void .

Time ; torturous and tyrannical, toyed with the torrential turbulence, as it’s transitive tenaciousness thoughtlessly, tactlessly, tooled through the torrid tempest .

The starry-eyed girl gazed glassily across the expanse as if in a quandary over the night sky .

A half human silhouette in a sky filled with thunder heads and birds of prey rooted in a tapestry of alien galaxies and blazing stars playing a melodian .

Water glistened on the skin of the naked woman and rainbows danced in the air before her as the waves crashed against the rocks .

A young man with a pony tail in the center of the back side of his head played his drum while he danced on the grass .

an eagle's eye
is one of precision
it observes well
all items
of near duplication
familiar in form
a matching
identic
yet there's a minute
disconnect
the incisive eye
is never totally fooled
the imitation
had not been well tooled
in detecting the flawed
item's sham  
the eagle's eye
noted well the scam

My Prospero, I admit
is, yea, badly drawn

& keeps falling off
his lollipop stick.

My Caliban, on the other hand
well drawn and forsooth...sticks to...his stick.

I wiggle each
character’s characteristic

and they come alive
speak the lines, I pray you,

trippingly upon my tongue
“Come to me with a thought!”

I command my paper people.

“Your thoughts I cleave to!”
they flash into my consciousness.

“Ariel, my Ariel...”
fine-tooled from foil

that comes from fabled Consulate
& Woodbine packets.

“Ah, my trusty sprite...”
dangles from a purple thread that

is borrowed from
me Mam’s sewing basket.

All is well
in this my make-shift

Shakespeare theatre
made from Kellogg’s

Cornflakes packets.

See the great **** crow
under the proscenium!

Weetabix boxexs
construct the wings.

Rows of Nite lights
serve as footlights.

And, so...let the Masque begin!

I hum bits of Adeste
Fideles....then sing

as Prospero & Ariel
do their thing.

“Solua domus dagus!”
my voice rings out

but see how
dangerous a nine year old knee

can be
to paper theatre.

The floodlights being knocked over
the stage flames in amazement.

My patchwork Globe
of Cornflake and Weetabix boxes

burns to the ground

only Ariel survives
in an all too blackened shrunken

crumpled piece of foil.

I exit
( pursued by a clip on the ear )

the profession of producer of
the plays thereof the only begetter of

this ensuing story
lost, alas my lack, to me!

But wait, is this a football I see
before me?

Then play on Dinger Dwyer!
And ****** be him who first cries hold!

We cry "*******!" and let slip
the dogs we are!

**

I was afraid that people might be offended by the word "*******!" so I pushed Prospero out onto the stage to apologise for such language but as usual he was completely off his stick. "Oh Puck..." I cried but Puck said: "No way am I going out there and apologising for your ***** work....no way" but anyway and anyhow push came to shove and he ended up on his rear on the boards and had to come up with something!

"If we shadows have offended...." he blurted out and me and all the other characters cheered him on. I gave him a big hug when he came off stage! Caliban just jeered and said: "What's wrong with rowlocks?" "*******!" we said and Caliban just scratched his head and went away singing "Ban Ban Caliban...got a new master...got a new man!"

Sometimes it's hard to keep the characters in check...don't know how old Shakey did it! "Where there's a Will...there's a way!" as he always said to me over a pint of Guinness.

proscribed extra-curious carnality be gone, begin, become the
exigent immersion of a prescribed insertion, deep genetics
within this drowning pool, drooled and tooled. now cruel
jewel, for this dowsing fool, offer up a different inheritance,
draw wider tracks of innate capture, let mortal culpability
sail white whaled, high tailed, to a communal land of
neutral precept not constrained by dictate neuter. one click,
**** temptation, flavoured Russian,  *** Asian. first though
herbal, fruitful,  extension. such friendship investment, one
****-k sensation, new phone, who phone, ***** moan,
iFone©, fear & gear. solutions are here, hear? with 1 or
more I full, sim-pull, sinful maybe? snout deep, cracked
badger’s honey kink, snake in ‘n’ baking ‘n’ shaken sac,
quick, whip crack a flay, today? the way you wear those
ankles so well that far back, a la mode, cherry high pie
and cream, no sweet reluctance of bristling itch, searching
eye ******* incontinent twitch from mondo trespassed
hush-pushed niche.

I've had a journey to Hell
And back
Yet.. The journey has had many lessons along
The way
The people good/bad
The traumas endured
YET
I stand proud
Proud as a King
Standing high on his throne
Pleased that he has reigned through hardship
He has now become a warrior
A tooled and skilled individual
Knowing that he is stronger now
Wiser and more precious to life
He has battled through wars and won
The most prolific war was that from within
To discover the peace that has been hiding for so long!
Now my queens ... I take this crown to place on my head
Knowing that I have battled to this point
The demons are now at rest
I breathe deeply
The journey continues ... Yet it's now with the Sun
Not a black cloud drowning my soul
Peace will prevail and all will be well!

I've fought this fight to enjoy NOT to endure
The beauty of life ... Now my demons have gone.

This day is a celebration to all
I love you so
My life line and foundation
That I'd have crumbled without

My heart is yours as you have given me life ❤️

a couple of words to convey ta
scurvy dictators
being, with their regimes, dirt on the face of
civilization; lyrics that may be referred to as hate speech
sorry, sans names since
you, hinderlings, tend to get sore 'kin/sim. to nates
of someone earned a good lacing (butthurt)
fO̲r misbehaving (just like y'all)
hopefully, y'all will end up burning in flames of
eternal damnation
for every singular person paraded
civilly through streets in support of good changes
and been delivered brute force in repayment
prisoners tortured, false statements
a sort of a lake of
disinformation, wars, liquidations
of those subverting a heinous
course undertaken
of course, fabrications
fO̲r legal cases (and elections, of course)
and nowadays, you've got Y̲O̲U̲r pesky agents
working on breaking
the web like Bourne which is Jason (Webb, David)
here come my warm salutations
to that stupid web regulator
that serves the dang Craymlin (got it?)
like your walking 𝓉ℴ𝒶𝓁ℯ𝓉ℯ brush, take a
[another sobriquet fitting the rhyme scheme: "toilet predator"]
hike; Y̲O̲U̲r limitations
hitting media being insubmissive ta
the sick regime which ya
sustain by dint of digital
censorship, to individuals
with views being similar
to mine, are like pork to unwave[–]ring
[the word's supposed to be read/pronounced as "unweyvring"]
Muslims; in other words, we evade 'em
(what are you gonna do about it?)
(back to dictators)
you're, like a vessel transporting blood, vain &
like someone implementing a mercy ask, craven
[vein; craving]
you're worthless like an ****** absorbed medication
to you procured a gunshot gorge perforation
as you may've gathered, as if you were **** plantation
employees, you, opportunists, sure irritate me
minus tooled up guys in uniforms & you're Swayze
some of those going politicians or power-wielders
are already bY̲ then vile people?
[Biden]
not the type to think so
that's humankind's horrible nature
highly evolved, still beasts, though
so Earth's, in a way, a
huge lair; got a shade sidetracked
like a train, my bad
I'ma explain, like that
Malaysian Boeing Ukraine skies'd had (ex-plane)
[had had]
before it got razed 'kin/sim.
to the outrage of folks storming a place which
a c#cks#cking usurper is based in
[raised]
the earlier stated
"BIFOED"; once you are no more animated
like a cartoon paused, the verdict is plain 'kin/sim.
to a suit that is mourning-related
a torrid vacation, metaphorically saying
yet no point in packing Y̲O̲U̲r freaking raiment
since Y̲O̲U̲r destination's
[sins]
nothing short of pure Hades (if there is)
though (unlike some of you) I'm irreligious, but
it doesn't mean I'm cold to medieval stuff
like a hedonistic brush
with a chick replete with lust
in this realm, there can be a really hot
time for you; akin to witches stuck
to those stakes, you can wi[ɪ]nd up lit as f#ck
like after a cig. with **** you are
in the garden of the post-en–
–lightenment time going
[thyme]
which, in fact, is the reason the
Earth territory's in need of getting rid of ya

Bottom of the stack,
first shall be last

each line has the potential to lead on, read on

confer, compare parallel ports pulsing in
synchronisity

goodness knows wrong ain't ever right,
nevermind whys and hows when
nows calling you by kind
ask attention
still

reader
read this, you are the few,
other than me, I know you allone,
Dear Reader, whose name you alone
may now know

in your one
integrated, tooled-up, read-up, curious
and curioser
self.
---
words hold whole thoughts in harness,
letters let them live,
writers make them work,

poets pay them mind to find reason and
metre in the spiral of knowing
growing steadily meeker
as peacemakers take

the call as op
portunate,
fortunate. Good for goodness sake and
no measurer yet devised,
no witty invention,

can make you listen to patterns
scattered in the noise,

still,
time keeps its steady pace, irreversible.

all parallel paths cross mine, eventual.

vente vide vince but (vente was the size
of my coffee, I think) I think,

history waves a banner, see

it says many wrongs
did not come
past last lie believer ceiving a source

of knowns unknown re

making, fect per effect ual, right,

the basic idea.
You have need of patience,

curios and kachina songs and liter
ary urges from words

once stuffed with meaning, right, like
each word is a clay jar,
a vessel for a thought spoken right,

as my servant, my re
feree confounding my accuser for ever,

in a word. Hide and watch, or sing and shout.

The basic idea claims any word may be redeemed,
but the utterer must give account for every idle word.

The house-dweller,
the non-nomad, who labors,
who efforts,
who sweats and frets and fusses over seed
sown in history
must first partake the fruit.
Not ever must an idle word be

let alone to fester in rot for lack of
a taster to test the truth,
a darer
of daemonic algorythms pulling

the very air, air, atmostfear away oh,

see,
the arctic ice is adapted to by the
basic idea that things survive
as life lives, within the
field named
HIggs,
worms hold out promises

see,
the arctic ice is the scab being
ingested slowww glacial slow, soon

weather will find the pattern.

All things work right,
nothing works wrong.

--
Lemme say,
for a while, as defined by mortals,

we taught. We words took no other pose,
played no role save to hold
ideas taken by men to serve a human plan.

'Sup.
That quest ion. How ahye? serves as well, but

Sup says more. What is up? op
positive to down, related to spins named
charming and strange for reason

known to a very few.

The sweet never grows old
Or so it has been said silently and fortold
But one never knows what fortune may hold

Fortune, the misguided traveler
Whom, winds wildy send
That,in dandy-lionic fashion is fortune's fend
All the troubles of tyrants have brought to bend
There you find him, dicingly deciding
Riguriously rolling away, not minding
This carousing of carelessness
Is what bought and sold him his business

And business is good
The lifestyle and the luxurious lude
All was pefect, even the mood
But that's the aroura allure
Falling into flooding failure

And business is too good
Lucious conditioning can have one fooled
Fortune is not to be mettled with or tooled
Now it is time for this traveler to be leaved
All the misspoiled one needs is his soul to be retrieved
Luckyliy the lucid fortune's duty has been relieved

A departure unforeseen , Father , gun in mouth , routine stop for policeman and paramedic , in bed  , at peace , thankfully not witnessed , trigger mechanism and human mind , complicated machinations and machinery , revolvers easily taken apart , analyzed , correction to design , re-tooled  unlike thought , perception , objectivity , inner workings of depressed , hopeless and panic stricken inner wounds not attended to or recognized .......

like lonely grass reduced to PGA lengths
hemmed in by white paving

like wild flowers in raised sleeper beds
out of reach of more fertile fields

like black-birds nesting in machined-tooled boxes
out of sight of the forest

like polar bears in a child-infested zoo
missing their glacial quiet

like a killer whale peering through glass
at knitting grandmothers

like a 58 year old man tethered to the white light of his next zoom call
while the sun breaks through a crack in his bedroom blinds

- we were made for more than this

impressionistic, dabs at life's canvas
trying  the light and dark,
usually  violating the rules,
freely expressing outside  the contours,
the boundaries no limit for me,
I am not tooled
or succinct in the palate
of medieval  details  limiting a
certain number of syllables,
I use adverbs and adjectives interchangeably
try though I may
my write hand  wobbles,
and veers of the course ,
and I see

I have a gold tooled chiseled mind of David marble;
pure white interior and a godly glow of smoothness;
that tumbles in lush lands of opulence, openness, and
awareness

Black steeds reveal their charged breath with splendid revelry
o'er the piedmont valley .. Green , gray facades sweep across a volley of cannon and tooled steel reflections as Plough hand , Artist and neighbor stand garrisoned before their final hours ..
Morning skies are a terrific blue in springs first fleeting gasp ..
Is Barabbas among these warriors ? If so , let him stand forward !

Trinkets on shelves of maple , hand sewn sturdy lumber
from a mountain in Georgia  . Foolish things brought great
memories , cheap truck stop bells and shells from
the Florida beaches .. Painted rocks brought indoors by grandchildren ,
old coloring books and matchstick houses , odd belongings ..
Carnival days have died , buried in some paupers grave .
She was a foolish Hen indeed , a ******* nellie that tooled
her marble headstone thirty years before it was needed ..
He died in his chair , long before anyone really took notice ,
adjusting his antenna with a remote control , refusing to budge , drowning in his own sputum ..

To the herdsman counting his flock in the moonlight
The plowman repairing his tractor by lantern- light
The wood splitter , the fence builder , framer and rail tender
Architects of frozen December morns
Unsung engineers , freight worker and brakemen
'Twould be a privilege indeed to sup cold beer with the countries heroes , privy to stories of hardship and raw weather days endured by these American patriots
Iron tooled with steel , the churning grist mill , diesel engine roar ,
black earth turned anew , billowing steam settled over valley floors
Masters of metal , brake and die , machine and anvil
The crack of the peen long before sunrise
'Tis the bailiwick of farmer and tradesman* ..

The velvet glove of treachery  .
The matriarchs have spoken .
The licenses are handed out .
Each confederate taken their token .

Got on their boots and knuckledusters .
All tooled up for the fight .
Not one of them can look at me .
Cause they attack in the dead of night .

Blindsided by a cowardly clan .
Of narcissistic rage .
All have been infantilised .
And remain that early age .

The women ruling at the top .
So bad they only worsen .
Clever , charming , well educated .
And they masters in coercion .

Hard . Not strong .
Dispassionate , cold and fully flawed.
Disdainful righteous  haughty .
Acting as one God .

But if they meet the real one .
They shall be shaking in their shoes .
Ten pounds in a Sunday plate .
And an hour in the pews .

Is not enough to save them .
And their narcissistic clan .
They have tried to ruin me .
A good and honest man .

I moved away . Said nothing .
And I never shall again .
They never did deserve  me .
In their demonic like domain .

Hide
me quick,
hide,
me fast,
not sure how much longer my freedom
                                                to write
                                                 will last,
they
are after,
my emotions,
they
are after,
my books,
they
are before
me waiting till I fall, tripping over my own feet as I watch out for them
or fall asleep, leaving my door, my mind, my words unlocked,
they will steal them all
if the have their way
they are the Chasers,
they are the (NSA),
they are 1984, 30 years late,
and I am old and slow, but I have 'em
fooled, for I have been
re-tooled...oh and, sorry about the rust.

MUCH ADO ABOUT SOMETHING

My Prospero, I admit
is, yea, badly drawn

& keeps falling off
his lollipop stick.

My Caliban, on the other hand
well drawn and forsooth...sticks to...his stick.

I wiggle each
character’s characteristic

and they come alive
speak the lines, I pray you,

trippingly upon my tongue
“Come to me with a thought!”

I command my paper people.

“Your thoughts I cleave to!”
they flash into my consciousness.

“Ariel, my Ariel...”
fine-tooled from foil

that comes from fabled Consulate
& Woodbine packets.

“Ah, my trusty sprite...”
dangles from a purple thread that

is borrowed from
me Mam’s sewing basket.

All is well
in this my make-shift

Shakespeare theatre
made from Kellogg’s

Cornflakes packets.

See the great **** crow
under the proscenium!

Weetabix boxexs
construct the wings.

Rows of Nite lights
serve as footlights.

And, so...let the Masque begin!

I hum bits of Adeste
Fideles....then sing

as Prospero & Ariel
do their thing.

“Solua domus dagus!”
my voice rings out

but see how
dangerous a nine year old knee

can be
to paper theatre.

The floodlights being knocked over
the stage flames in amazement.

My patchwork Globe
of Cornflake and Weetabix boxes

burns to the ground

only Ariel survives
in an all too blackened shrunken

crumpled piece of foil.

I exit
( pursued by a clip on the ear )

the profession of producer of
the plays thereof the only begetter of

this ensuing story
lost, alas my lack, to me!

But wait, is this a football I see
before me?

Then play on Dinger Dwyer!
And ****** be him who first cries hold!

We cry "*******!" and let slip
the dogs we are!

Perhaps you fell from quantum heights
To rest gentle by the brook
Chortling as she dashes past you
The rocks will cry out
Indeed!
You wait patiently
Warn smooth by wind and water
You cannot fathom
The way the dappled light
Refracted
Dances across your prism skin
Sets you sparkling
So brilliant I am blinded
Small stones unnoticed
Render treasure
At the touch of the Maker’s hand
Tooled, spun and refined
And set in metal
Precious
Tempered to reveal
The treasure of you
Lit within
042313
TL Boehm

This is poetry--
Unknown and discussed
In no particular matters
Until death
Doth part
the Poet from his art
And ought to be--

But the saddest lovers are the living--
Who weave dastard tragedies
In goldpence and fame
And in hope, break Foundations
on laureled mounts,
Calling desperate to empty crypts
Which once housed their Muses

Praise and please to you, Polyhymn
Us hominids speak so bold
In our kindness to you!

While this is computed
And tooled to the ringing of gold
Glass
And transitions--
Mere sparks
In the ember of forge

That these mint implements
Are the forgery of that art
Consumes Hephaestus in his doubts
Of a father's true fires
And the alchem of his own

Clio, remember thy crowning!
The doubts of this mournful sphere
And the pain of our pasts
Are yours to cast within the stele
And praise be, toward your simple carvings of man!

Doting and careful could I be,
Lashing my wrists with decay
Stash my words by the reeds
I could hold the world up to keep
Our own love of the earth
In the same way
she should be earned

There is a certainty of that
Loveless act, the plotting of land
To place corpses upon the earth
For circus and grandeur

This is ultimately
The fate of you poets,
Cast as stones amongst the stream
Blackened and cold

And you will not know but the soul of you in deed
And your words will fall Deaf
Upon these fears of the freed

When they devour themselves in the temples
And massacre the streets
Exhume worn roads
Which bridged their father's feats

And when it is done
And the words come to rest
In the ruins and the spires
All but symbols and jests

No more, no more!
For it is all in their speech
It is all in good kind
And all left to me.

Some wield their guns, all uniformed up
some a stun gun, a pistol on the hip, a truncheon like a symbol of their machismo sticking up out their shiny belt
a shiny peaked hat with shiny polished boots
a multi coloured car with flashing lights and sirens
this is the law all tooled up
and some of them can be so far from lawful, and so far from intelligence,
you never can tell what kind of lawman just pulled you over
but beware, they may well be having a bad day, and your innocence is the last thing on their mind, and they will fume that you may well be going to get away.... from them and yes, some of them do take it as very personal indeed.

we use these symbols,
                                         a              to             z
to either invite our lives
into the silent affairs
to conjure images lived out
and forever twirling
as ballerinas on the river
to no known circle,
overly sentimental i guess,
and if, as if a donkey
over-laden with technique
on the steppes on Mongolia
we can recognise no such
experience taking place,
and sometimes, tooled boring
like a hammer's menial utility,
when we don't overly use
technique -
                  a digressive first
sentence,
               a bit like beginning
a sentence with a conjunction
by way of misusing punctuation -
some of us enshrine reality
with the a                  and         the z -
it's almost a personal geography
rather than a history,
but maybe both -
these peeps never escape reality,
they build shrines, buddha statues
of salt -
               they utilise these shorthand
symbols where ******* mattered -
but others utilise these symbols
for, a, complete, and, utter, lack,
of, activity - we've seen half of what
we'd like, we've experienced a quarter
of it to care - a slack of imagining
a fulfilment and a will to do so missing.
the higher tier is there with technique -
doubly un-experienced will
uses technique for a passport to claim
that the country POETRY exists
and you're a citizen of:
        we begin encoding sounds
because we see ourselves in a reel of
unfathomable non-suckling images,
obviously certain things are purely
inert and given ourselves there's the
inertia - we move, they don't -
but still we escape reality by encoding
sounds, kindred we are to
stage a conversation with tonnes of stones -
painters can hardly confer on
a realistic escapism -
we escape encoding sounds because
we didn't see a wish-fulfilling sentence
of images -
                   all muscles on board -
we did see a word / an image -
but we saw it without a sentence:
an attractive woman became so isolated
that the sentence or relationship are
passed by... by now i lost the plot
of how to continue / innovate -
there's hardly a reason to brush-up /
polish the table, given this article that
undergraduates hardly read of or if are found
reading are bound to never finishing books
on the readers' schedule - cinematic
practices took over... no one would watch
a movie where the only action was staged
centred around a man alone
in a chair, in a room, reading a book -
action sequence: a page was turned,
silence ensued - as bird-man said:
people want action!, explosions!,
yeah man... people hit the rock bottom
with existentialism having escaped the zenith
of the coliseum... then faking out morals
exposed by isolated cases of the continual brute
mingling with repressed sadism at the Bastille
being written.

Stars fell upon the newborn world as hardwood behemoths arose to shed the colors of winter , under swaying motifs the cackle of morning crows grew from the center , her trestle -work cried frozen and archaic , forever unknown
She flourished beside the rails and died
And to her residents a crown of case hardened iron , tooled with misery and dubious history* ....