head to toe kissing


I   the mundane

moonlight madnesses, a possessive noun,
commissions gravitational pulls that disobey and obey
laws of interstellar loving. The antique modalities once and forever, forever laying still, stilled in places of antiquities and historical need, are thundershower and hail rudely reawakened, the undertow of
pull and push, the yanking hands  of need for others, for others,
it’s the explosive-knowledge, the opening of the old kitbag of perpetual principles, that crazy head to toe kissing is no less necessary, more so, than the computation of the total breaths mundane, unnoticed even now as I write of them, that we will count from that very first, in deed, they are one and the same, like the same
kisses given from head to toe

II   the profane

at the first, the body insists, I am but a long haul trailer, no taxi me,
cargo and passengers, are my quatrain accompaniments,
traveling companions boon, my own toons, too soon disembarked,
songs of parents and lovers, children and others, your visage passed
without your permission, but with your happy encouragement,
to generations that will see things that futurists dare not
even mention, but the profane urge to warn them all, kisses from head to toe, elevates, and overcomes...so when most of my names dusted with forgetfulness, lost in the waves, my scorching soft lips will be recalled just as an airy flight of light brushing upon a newborn’s eyelids just at the moment of birth.  A rustling more felt than heard, the ****** and bruised carrying body will sensate and instantly forget, but nonetheless transmit genetically, that the profane of birth and life renewing can be only washed away, when past and future, recalled and recreated, kisses from head to toes, dripping with softening saltwater tears, a chemical organic reagent of creation,
inside the histories of head to toe kissing

III  the insane

so when, somewhere, some place, a man’s body prepares  
tous ses adieux, his memory foolishly sane and strong,
his wasted paper bag container ship, rust bucketed,
crinkled and wrinkled, skin folding in on itself, hanging to bones
by stretched sinews and tendons that no longer tend to business,
loosened and gangly, they hang on barely to the bare nakedness of
evolutionary processes, mostly not, offset, by the tenderizing effects of kisses, from invisible attendees,  unconscious they,
willingly and unwillingly, offering farewells in actuality...
head to toes, noses to belly buttons, tatted, tattered, and still tasted by dying cells.  It’s insane to think it’s even possible  one retains each and all, but he does, those few given, those few  millions he gave away for cheap belly laughs and poems, decade upon decade accumulated are the totality of him, all of them free and sealed in kisses from head to toes

Gin and tonic please
Gin and tonic please
I just want to bathe in it

She gets hypnotic

At the bar


Away from the
Bar

Actually,
IN the bar,

Just mindlessly staring at
The shapes of a woman sitting on the wood

En

Stool



I can feel it now
like a ****** toons character,  getting hit really hard
The little stars circulating my head...
There’s stars in my eyes, a glow of the iris and a pupil that looks like a freshly polished shoe
I know how I look when I’m drunk okay?

Do you?

I know how I look when I’m drunk, okay?
Do you?

Do you ever look in the mirror?

Do you see your subconscious suddenly rise out of you?

Like a magic trick
Like a witch being summoned,
Accidentally
Because a naive ****** lit
The wrong candle

Sorry I’m off topic now, I can barely focus
But I love hocus pocus
The idea of three sisters being reunited
In the midst of a beautiful ,crisp, purple, nocturnal place
On Halloween....



Do you see your conscious slipping deeper into you though?
Do you?
So now your subconscious is your conscious
The thoughts we could control end up tying us up
Wrapping our mind around everything
A little too tight
Don’t you think?

And sometimes when your conscious is sleeping....
It’s the best feeling, yet at the same time so unnerving, just the worst.

Your sloppy, standing on a slippery *****
Sloppy *****
Lost in sudden, intoxicated hope
But your cheeks are burning
And your hearts on fire
Yearning
You have a sense of clarity
And freedom,
You think you do, at least.


Now I lose control, I knock over a shot glass
And it splashes on her lap
She licks her lips

I don’t like girls.


I start crying because I think of people and diseases.

I don’t like girls.

My eyes well up with tears and she says you look like a ******* baby.
You’re sad and your beautiful.
And your cheeks, so soft and full.

I don’t like girls.

Her lips lock mine
So lightly like a piece of pollen falling in your hair
I could barely feel it
Yet my body responded so swiftly

Gin and tonic
Gin and tonic
As she pours hypnotic

I don’t like girls

But what’s anyone going to do
Without the soft cradling touch of a lady
Who can hold you to her *****
Keep you close like Allie and Noah in the canoe
Let you rest like a cat cradled up unto a crescent moon

And give you the comfort and the freedom to feel peace
Like
A gin and tonic
Gin and tonic

Beautiful, strong women
So hypnotic.

Sindi Kafazi

never giving up
persistence personified
Wile E Coyote

I remember you taking me out for a BBQ,
God, I hated the heat, the smoke.
I just wanted to stay home and watch toons and not suffer through the heat.
But you were so proud, ever so proud,
Your amazing baby boy you said.

You went away working for me,
In search of that better life for me,
Then I grew up a little bit and started wondering. Was it my fault you weren’t
home so often? Did you miss me at all?

I didn’t understand your sacrifices,
How could I? You were my dad,
and you weren’t there when I wanted you
to be, that’s all that mattered at the time.
I didn’t see the larger picture, didn’t
know that you missed me because you
never showed me. I was too young.

Then you came back in my life, I was
angry, bitter that you missed the important
moments of my life. How could you be
my father if you weren’t there?
All I saw was mum hurting and lonely.

But a son wants a father, and boy did I
fall into the ****** cliché. A textbook
troubled, confused boy with daddy issues.
You came back and I loved you again.

You gave me the best holiday of my life,
The perfect dad, you were back.
You were home and I was at my happiest.
The perfect family.

Then you died and my heart bled,
All of our hearts did, you left me again,
You left us confused and broken.
Now I’m trying to please you and live up to your expectations,all the while not knowing what your expectations of me are.

I buried you and whatched as they lowered your body into the ground,
Red roses on your grave as the tears fell
On my face.

I love you till I die but I truly wish I’m
never like you, you shone brightly in my
life then you bowed out and left me to
deal with the massive void you left in my life, so I don’t want to be like you.

Every time She Goes Away

you know I could make up a story
I could spread the icing really thick
make it sound like I have a real clue
about where my head is it's so thick

my analyst has left me on my own
to deal with this world of loony toons
so I can pretend to anything I wish
go out drinking all nite with some other baboons

write a letter to the King of the world
let him know my displeasure with my life
this isn't new territory for me you know
she had no business leaving me like a wife

I could always speak to her the absolute
she would never judge me or show me a frown
what did she expect walking away like that
knowing that I am nothing but a circus clown

It has happened before with similar results
just what is it she wants me to say    
I rant and rave and shake the rafters
I get so lonely, every time she goes away

Gomer LePoet

buttressed by bisected nebulae
our galaxies coalesce.
soft-spoken Andromeda hurtling
towards a somber Milky Way.
a slow dance plays
to the crooning toons
of Brand New. am i experiencing Deja Entendu
or are the Devil and God
merely raging inside us?

Christmas lights, distant as parsecs,
twinkle every which way we look.
multicolor displays flash
in dizzying arrays, winking in and out,
drizzling like dripping icicles. sad songs
spill continuously from the stereo as we drive
through one neighborhood after the next,
aimless in our contentment.

it's half-past-2:00
in the morning and i'm singing Panic!
at the Disco with (and for) you. i write of sins
and hope this doesn't end in tragedy
as Trade Wind shifts and entreats us
to drift listless as asteroids
rocked to sleep in the arms
of an ambivalent cosmos.

we may all be made of star stuff,
but we both agree:
there's no god who could love this world.
so as we lift crude gestures
to an apathetic sky, we realize
the task falls to us. we must love,
for beauty persists
in spite of all the sorrow.

i am happy to spin perpetually,
elastic and ecstatic in your orbit.
for every now and then your beams of light
filter through my prism and provide
another connection along
our wavelength.

I only wanted a quiet life
Was the first thought that I had,
When the woman beat on my cedar door,
I thought that she must be mad.
She beat and beat, and would not retreat
Though I begged her just to go,
But she cried, ‘He’s going to ****** me,
You must let me in, I know!’

I peered out through a crack in the door
Just to see the woman’s face,
Her lips were ******, her eye was black
And the tears had left their trace,
I groaned I wouldn’t become involved
But knew in the end I would,
I opened the door and let her in,
Her hands were covered in blood.

‘Don’t drip that blood on the carpet!’
She just turned to me with a shrug,
‘I’ve taken the carpet cleaner back
I borrowed to clean the rug!’
Too late, too late, as she smeared the blood
All over my pristine wall,
‘Are you callous or just plain crazy?
He’ll be coming to **** us all!’

‘Then why did you come to me,’ I cried,
‘There’s a hundred doors out there,
Go pick on another married fool
With a life lived in despair.
I never fell for the gender trap
For it always ends like this,
A bottle of Jack with a drunken lout
Who had promised married bliss.’

I steered her into the bathroom, ran
The taps as I heard him roar,
‘Come out you blanketty wilful witch
Or I’ll have to beat down the door!’
My cedar door with the frosted glass
That I only installed in June,
I heard a splinter, and then a crash
As he burst on into the room.

I pointed the shaft of the toilet brush
At him, from under a towel,
‘I’ve got a gun and I’ll use it!’ But
All that he did was howl.
A bullet whistled on past my head
And shattered the shower screen,
‘I swear I’ll blow you to Kingdom Come
If you don’t come now, Doreen!’

‘For God’s sake, give it a rest,’ she said,
As she washed the blood away,
Wiped her hands on my nice clean towel
As I groaned in my dismay,
He put the gun in his pocket, dropped
His head and began to weep,
‘Is this the guy you’ve been seeing then?’
‘What him? The guy is a creep!’

‘He’s more concerned with his carpet
Than a lady in distress,
I’d rather you with your ****** Toons
Though you tend to make a mess.’
She walked on up and she kissed him
And they walked out hand in hand,
‘Who’s going to pay for the damage, then?’
I called, but they had gone.

I never answer a beating door
No matter how long they knock,
I call out, ‘Sorry, I’m not at home,’
As I click the fifteenth lock,
A beaten wife is a world of strife
For the man who intervenes,
The bodies may pile outside my door
But I keep my carpets clean.

David Lewis Paget

A boxcar towards Detroit

A cheap ticket and no work week

Train ride rhythm and we stack for nothing

A few hours until conclusion

So I might as well tinker with time

Pick apart these scenes so consumed and complicate nothing

Hear goes one more run for the cynical articulation

Some faces surround for common ground

Some minds scattered by seclusion

Some contraptions consolidate the wonders

Another nod for the distraction tube

No need for introspection
No need for eyes made astute

Cheeto dust and pocket lint for your friendship fund

Cracks complicate a ceilings resilience

Buckets like ****** Toons
Deafening roar of water on tin
A window frantically frosted

Makes blooms blink and breath contract

Casually heads cluster

Laugh inside the sick and gleam a new gold watch

Knock and smile for another soul suspended

Salted avenues crunch like brown bag bottles

Some homeless frozen into earth

Some malignant machinery shrouds the crossings

Air like an avalanche
Face feels like nothing

Solidified fragments for the descent

Ponder another pixel and they fall around this body

Water sticks like concrete poured

Heater heaven for a half price function

I've never felt so low than when the high is momentary

I've never known a God that needed so much reassurance

The sun shines but the cold is never controlled

I wish for Palm tree torture

So why do I head North?

What's up brother, how have you been feeling?

I know it's been a while since we shared our true feelings.

I know that problems can stack and smash into a glass ceiling

And when glass breaks it's never too appealing.

we have to pick up the pieces

**** feels like a fishing pole that keeps reeling

But on the real, if the damage was in a deck of cards would you keep dealing?

This is coming from a kid who barely speaks but keeps listening

******* doesn't shine when it walks it glistens

Then attracts people by the pieces it has missing

We fill in the gaps, by doing some of this, some of that.

Not because we want to, but because we want to adapt From the feelings that lack and haunt us from the past.

I'm truly sorry that your dad passed away, I'm sure things get harder every single day. But there's just one thing that I want to say, I know he wants to see you with a smile on your face, I know he loved you in every single way, I know this because people who love each other think the same.

And as long as you're here I will never stay away, always stay awake, our past will never fade away.

I remember when we use to play, games on the Nintendo, that controller was made of glue because we never let go. Bomber man, Mortal Kombat, Duck Hunter & all that! Always causing a commotion on the games we would focus...little kids watching toons watching moving a like hocus pocus.

Animorphs was the ****, so was tales of the crypt, I remember you did that move on my neck like the Xena chick. In 10 seconds I would be dead, then you turned It off like a switch.

Every move I would twitch, you were just well equipped with punches and super kicks, all your moves were simply ****, bomb-diggity-bomb I mean lethal. You were a ninja mastermind Who had killed million people.

Then you would sit back and act like you didn't do ****

But when mom and ***** came around that was it.

Super belts for the whoopin, rice & beans they were cookin, rice & beans in a napkin then pocket, when they weren't looking.

Not saying there cooking was bad.
That's all we every had.
And **** I'm really glad that's not all they every gave use

Good lessons were taught, we learned them a little later. And If I could go back in time, I wouldn't change our behavior, past moments or memories, because then we would never see that I'm a part of you and are a part me.

Not necessarily a picture perfect family but **** the picture if all it speaks vanity.

Where both in a family tree but your  branch to me is important.

You have been an inspiration for me to go forth with.

All this technology, honestly when I saw you working with computers I wanted to be. Apart from what you where doing even when we where doing different things and just moving.

Trying to find our identities, reckless teen, I can see that what you where doing was never seen. In trouble by seventeen. I thank you for keeping me away from the streets.

Always living inside a lesson learning from your mistakes will soon bring progression. I know I haven't been that expressive, but please take this a compliment not an insult to contend with. Even if we head off into our own directions I know that we will always be connected.

Why even consider this a poem?
Unwrite it.
Take it back,
but it's too late.

Ink scribbled on rustic pages,
or pages made to look rustic.
Let's face it: you bought this notebook at a bookstore.
It's got to look special for all your elaborate gifts to the world.

You're that special snowflake, yeah?
Your writing against the world of oppressive darkness
surrounding your poor brain, boy.

Write your way out.
****** Toons the wall, and make sure your escape.

Disney




Did you draw your life; or did life draw you?
Born in Chicago, in winter’s snow.
Was childhood cold, full of misery?
In Missouri, where you go on to grow.
West coast lights call, on the move again;
That lucky rabbit paths your way.
You put away your fear, Mickey comes alive,
Your destiny set, ‘toons start to allay
That innate fear inside from child until now
And beyond all you ever attain
All began with fear, but quelled with a smile,
Unless mice return to haunt you again.


https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walt_Disney

hey there little jimmy
how ya doin
watchin toons
n hear me out
are your parents awake?
i want to know
i need some cash
what do ya say
can ya help me out
and guess what else
i have this toy
that you can have
little jimmy
go ask your daddy
or your mommy
for some money
and if ya do
for only five easy payments
you, too, can be as happy as the child depicted on your screen!

to follow up on a citation from

art & fear by
david bales and ted orland:

/ it seems that while the “quantity” group
was busily churning out piles of work -
and learning from their mistakes —
 the “quality” group had sat theorizing
about perfection, and in the end had
little more to show for their efforts
than grandiose theories and a pile of dead clay. /

imagine asking a mozart to appeal
to both a quality and a quantity,
point being,
    quality will always remain
POP... while quantity will shut itself
off in  king crimson song,

    take what you're given
and stop acting like a pretentious
communist that even the Soviets would
have hated, as this overt censor
who censored so much,
   that he turned an ancient oak
into a toothpick, and not 10,000,000
packets if not more...

much easier to call in a
quality surveyor when it comes
to carpentry: you sit on a chair
and it doesn't break:
     give us 10,000 more replicas...
"apparently" rushed...

a mirage of qua (as being)
      and quo (where?)

        almost indistinguishable
after enough practice, and,
patience... but some much for these
little words...

             that sequence of a tree
made into a single toothpick?
     loony toons,  foghorn leghorn
episode...

  quality is a spare
   of what dedication to quantity
arrives at...
           quality is a byproduct
not the product itself...
        
don't ask me how capitalism rings
a bell, seeing how it's exhausted
       in pumping out quality,
and quantity simultaneously,
having to tap into a.i. & algorithms
because, apparently:
   human creativity is without
an imagination lax,
there are, apparently,  
   25,000 ways of reinventing
the hammer and the nail...
  given that the fear of the hammer
and the he sickle disappeared...
  Columbus discovering America
in a ******* can of sardines...
woo, hoo, honk honk.

sarcasm is not an easy humour,
witty people hardly notice
that wit and sarcasm are the Hanzel
und Gretyl of the comedy spree...
dry, martini, fixations on the image of:
getting away with easing out
a wet ****,  only because attired
in what Rene Magritte would wear
when painting.

oh wait... **** **** ****....

   both instances mind th3 qua-
prefix...
     mind you, etymology of suffixes
with a strong latin prefix?
not my strong point...
   -lity contra -ntity are not my strong...
     what point of intrest
and: the most certain points
worth debating over?

we are summoned by the fickle nature
of: whatever comes our way,
much easier had it been but
a crude snout of a dog
with only a howling or a barking
to emerge from within:
so curse the mind the tongue the thumb,
and the spine,
    or however else you might
want to evaporate expanding the senses
and not clinging to these pillars...

thing about quantity...
    beggars at the feet of spontaneity,
never for a minute in need of:
attempting to perfect a square...
beside a rhombus?
       a bonsai everest of cow dung,
towed by 12 horses and one donkey,
dubbed: Γołgoθa -
      seems Pythagoras was an Aussie...

what with the up-side down right angle
like a swallow nest on a barn...

******* yob mismatched: oi oi oi...

how else to end it if not
with John Frusciante?
        
                       it really takes but one song
to cite, warm tape...
           THAT CHORUS, IZ...
            how do I put it...
the point of helium trapped in a ******?
    the point of
   mixing the dentist high on helium
and the patient high off nitrous oxide?
I mean, **** me,
   is it to remain of matter of
hiding a higher realism in unachievable
cartoon sketches?
    
             a theological dull and grey,
any day, compared to
man's phantasmagorical taste of colour
to revitalise urbanity with
a Braille reading of Vivaldi scores...
no clichés at this point,
even with the behemoths,
given the already exhausted and fly-riddled
moonlight sonnata...

hell, red hot chilli peppers, ooh, pop,
john frusciante, not carvel...
warm tape chorus:
  remnants of...
     pierdolone, baz'groły...

           since how can the artist be
not deemed a pretentious ****,
if he perfects by sole theorising,
and not by making a *** note...
    take an artist and a carpenter...
    after a while the two concepts
are indistinguishable,
a bit like reading the tedium that
is the overburdened suicide explanation
lost in Zen and the art of motorcycle
maintanence...

   QUA, sure, but then what?
        10000000000 contra 1.0000000001?
numbing terminology,
contra: litany prospectus?
          
elsewhere in the discussion,
waiting rooms with jazz, rather than muzak
playing in the background,
qua-qua intersectionability...
     no categorical imperative,
or an imperative to build walls and learn
to juggle a a third entry,
a joker sly upper-hand...
    quality,  and quantity,
         are indistinguishable in jazz...
muchos gracias...
   and your, ******* gospel choir
dance moves and jazz and all
the other encyclopedia entries of
black...
    highschool,
         black girls inventing cat fights,
and when vaseline cream first came
in contact with, afro.

li-ttle    de-mons  
                   yell-ing inmy head.
sick-ly    voi-ces
                         humming allmy toons
love-sick     riff-raff
                                lap-ping upmy blood
fun-ny  sun-day
                     girl walks all-alone  
stop. her.
drop. her.

Death
       for-thee
  does
        Wait.

let's take a second to listen
written alphabetically
with a brand-new addition
spliffing delivering
heat, cat on a hot tin roof
sizzling, Messi, dribbling
spit ill sickening
guest visiting,
lend me your ear, listening
shimmering as he shines bright
twinkling, divide, partitioning
locked up, imprisoning
doodle, scribbling
SA drill
spicing  with flavor
seasoning, using my head
thinking of reasons
to justify reasoning
for dazzling,
as we settle in

round 2 smurfed but
not blue, more a colored
hue, repping cape town
awe bru, wake up
disabling snooze
jesters you fools
visionary when I see
first from the back
they all lose
not a masquerade it's all true
deadline my times due
ask mew 2, pokemon
index, it's perplex
get ash too, over
a cuckoos nest birds flew
seeking asylum hes crazy
still frosty so cool
yu gi it's time to
dddd duel


this the part where spazz out
remove doubt, running circles
on tracks, roundabout,
roundhouse kick to chin and mouth
no handout, grind out
red hot
circular rounded
noise drowned out, not shouting for clout
cant recognize skill,
take this pill, it will break
the spell my tracks stackable
not saying this sarcastical
sarcastically or sarcastic
not applicable, resolve soluble
doubt dissolve i'm liquid cyanide
every track i ****, surgeons
precision with a scalpel
so skilful, I sculpture
syllables in rhyme schemes
unseen to the naked ear
class dismissed school bell

so tell all its not all folks
not ****** toons no jokes
not ****** tunes, with lazy tones
I have lampoons, that ******
death squad platoon
you'll be history lying in ruins
surfing these dunes no fear
seeing things as the series turns
with unclear reasons I'm nuclear

Paint pictures with pre-fractured Phalanges
Sprint with a leg in a splint
Hold punches when you're used to throwing em
Just remember to protect that chin
Grin when bombing gnarly hills on a board
Even if that beautiful road leaves epidermis with wicked rash
Skydive even if you splatter
Plunge deep in waters knowing you have no gills
Dance wildly with no rhythm
Bang that drum even if no one feels the beat
Sing loudly even when alley cats wail like in the old toons

oh i remember it well,
                        since it was the last one i had,
at university
     this judo black-belt started
teasing me: wanna fight, wanna fight?
huh?
            you have a black-belt
in judo, and i have only the experience
of casual brawling? you think
   i'm stupid or somethin'?
anyway, this last fight i was in happened
outside a classroom,
    year 8, meaning both of us were
aged 11 / 12...
         ever see a guy get killed right
before your eye from a single punch
to the head?
                    and you're standing, like...
5 metres away from the incident?
    no?       you should check it out...
i remember seeing it, a crowd gathered,
and all i said when walking away:
       that guy isn't going to see another sunshine's
worth of day, he's going to be sniffing
        pansies from the root up...
anyway, this last fight...
       outside a classroom...
          i even remember the guy i was fighting...
kieran o'ma-ma-ma-**-**-née...
   but at that age, we knew our limits...
body punches, i distinctly remember
  punching him in the kidney area of his back...
the teacher seperated us,
     then he started crying in class...
i just told him to shut up...
and mr. morrison's grimace just stole the whole
show... what class was it?
  c.t.d.             ******* with wood, metal
hammers and whatever tools...
         what's up with kieran these days?
he's a bouncer... standing outside nightclubs;
so who the **** can say, that wasn't
the best lesson he ever learned at school?
but come on... barefist, in the face?
you don't do that! that's not cool!
        body-hits...
                     make it go on for a while...
but if you're going to hit the face...
do what boxers do... wear gloves... for ****'s sake!
            it's just not cool,
esp. if it's a scenario of walking outside
a romford nightclub, arguing about a girl...
****** lay there on the pavement...
          and he just had that sort of "body language"
of resembling a coffin...
that's all i could conjure... like in loony toons...
     where a character turns into a *******;
****** ain't moving... ******'s dead;
but i guess watching a suicide happen will
be more traumatißing.

He stumbles in last
with a black
cartoon cat
who is
pawing playfully at
Betty Boop's
big bouncing *****
while she tells him
to stop that.

Sitting somewhere to the side
a well centered sailor man,
Popeye pops a can,
so he can be
a stronger man.

The loony toons
sing merry melodies
while Hannah Barbara buddies
get groovy
with their sixties
styles.

In the rear
Disney friends
go on perpetuating
fake fairytale ends.

reading a rupi kaur poem is
probably the most heart-breaking
"thing" in the morning -
on the play store bestseller list:
because afterwards
a sylvia plath poem:
somehow isn't -

                       somehow she managed
to pluck at a geisha garden
and has become all porcelain all
             crystalline ivory & frailty...
but that's not about my reading
habits in the morning...            
   it's more... more about...
how "we" could get away with
writing all our onomatopoeias in
katakana:

                        unless of course
there's the "problem" of C, L, U, Q / CK...
that's hooves on cobweb streets
trotting...                                        
     ­                  nonetheless:
                        i give you
          マンナ              ダンナ
    (manna                    ­      danna)
            i guess: imitation
                          games of a madonna
in a brothel -
which is not a brothel...
and everyone's favourite
             Berlusconi's take on
                         castanets & maracas i.e.
                  ぼんご                 ボンゴ

otherwise a narrative in three parts:
a. my grandfather died
b. i stopped drinking
c1. and i started walking marathons
   c2. from 118kg
                down to 106.5kg
                  circa 2 months...

otherwise a further narrative of:
not because i'll gladly go into
the necropolis with a bouquet
of fake carnations / chamomiles...
  although "in manus tuas" i could
sit crow esque pensive,
hunched: a shadow for a globe of
atlas (etc.)
            and **** that fickle
creature that's memory in vain...
thereby making love
sound like a breaking
                           of an accordion...

or i could like i already have
"play a game" of       ここ / そこ
                                               ソコ / ココオ
no necropolis...
    just the remains of a forest...
bedfords park...
            a healthy stick for the purpose
of knocking on trees...
an dry-white skull-yellow-morbid
obelisk - i.e. a dead tree...
homage - three times:
           thunck-plonk-pluckpug
no echo...
      thung-plong-plugpuck...
a minute of silence...
                evidently...
                      in searching of meaning:
beyond in havering county park
horses grazing -
        "once upon a time"
they'd be work horses on the till
  of the land...
            now sometimes saddled...
not even bothered to gallop...
          while we're still...
                   under the tyranny of
the thumb...
                 or thereby some "relief"...

perhaps just walking through
east london toward st. paul's
seeing so many pilgrims (i.e.
that's what i'd call lunatics)
                        talking to pigeons
                                      at stratford in
                    the morning...
one might do what i do
teasing augury -
       notably because of the crows,
notably because of swallows;
at least for the former -
when hades stirs -
                 and a yawn breaks
rank from the pits of crunch &
                        harrowing tooth domino...
there's me procrastinating
before the altar of a name, date(s)
but no epitaph...
    or there's me making said
pilgrimage to a dead tree obelisk
  with a healthy stick in hand...
knocking three times...
            perhaps to let the forest know
i'm there, i.e. "here"...
alas... exasperation is not:
a need for "haiku"... it's also not
some snobbery when...
you're actually not given much to
"work" with e.g. -cemetery

       better a fascination with
                                  japanese text...
e.g. 緑 (green)
                         ミドリ
      / hiragana is probably a misnomer
                 みどり
  / why wouldn't green be in kanji?
               but how midori:
                       either squiggly or squint-
                                       -ting          
                                         squin'
                                                          ­T'ing
is not in either katana / hiragana
set up the following primer, braille:

                                    ⠛⠗⠑⠑⠝
       ⠍⠊
       ⠙⠕
       ⠗⠊   (hangeul esque)
                          
is probably the only latin equivalent
i'd ever make a comparison with;

   p.s. ⠝ braille's N
          ל - a hebrew L"ament"...

at least it's more than a bothersome
post-colonial rhyming ****** & scheme
or a wannabe haiku /
                        writing toward hiatus;
or a ******* ron padgett prose poem
                     about drinking coffee...
for that matter: any poem about
drinking coffee;
                                          sober *****
morning gits,
            insufferable loved up 'toons.

Red in my hand
Red of my own
Head in the drain
Head in the vain
Plastic bag on my head
Standing on the edge
It's not new to me
But still, it feels the same
Will I be able to stand again
My wings are what on the ground remains
My thoughts ate me up alive
If I could it's the death I'd bribe
Enjoy the show cause it's all live
Gave it a last chance
Dancing to life's rhythm
Expected it to be da-da-dee-dee-dum
But it turned out to howling silence pilgrim
Used to lock my self up alone
Now standing in between the million same feeling clone
No need to be alone
Cause it's my mind that's alone
Call me up, I'll never answer the phone
And all this **** penetrated through my bone
My life's no ****** toons
There are many missing moons
One day I'll be one of them
And that day will come soon.

As the school year begins to end again, I can't help but reflect on my choices and experiences.
I lost quite a bit of friend's this year, my mentality on the subject is that we are in high school now and we shouldn't have to deal with these childish things.
That earned me the satisfaction of strengthening the relationships that I currently have.
I have as grown as a person, whether that is good or bad is still yet to be seen.
The experiences I've had, from a past boyfriend I still can't forget, to the lingering presence of old friends.
I wear the same jacket every day.
Some will find it weird, but if I wash it with the same fabric softener, I can see my grandmother and feel her again.
I'm quite upset still, even though it's been almost 4 years now. And 3 since the other.
It makes me upset knowing they'll never ask about school again, and I won't have the lazy Sunday's watching ****** Toons and eating Cheerio's.
Which leads to something else.
I have become more girly and I do care about my looks now.
The eyeliner and mascara and concealer and eyeshadow and foundation and blush and highlighter and eyebrow pencil.
I feel like I can't get away with how I really look even though I wear the makeup.
I dress more feminine and I try to be kind, but I just really want my oversized t-shirts, knee-high sock, tiny shorts, and messy bun back.
God, if only I could wear pajamas.
I make myself seem like I don't care so I can have a bit of freedom at school.
I don't care for school, but I have to do good.
As I near the end, I reflect on music.
In the beginning, I listened to heavy metal all the way up, the emo quartet a favorite.
Now, I serenade my ears in the wonderful vocals of Freddy Mercury.
Among these include the following: The Beetles, Elton John, The Police, And The Romantics.
This calmer version helps me feel true serenity.
I love it.
I write poetry now,
at first I hated the whole genre, not giving it a chance.
Until I had to write a poetry anthology of my experiences.
Giving way to a whole new style.
Poetry doesn't have to be strict and make complete sense, it can be free-flowing and mad.
As I near the end, I think of the past beginnings and the new ones.
I am nearing the end of my yearly narrative.

I write about feeling empty a lot.
                  But I never write about happy days.

Days of depth-defying conversations trailing on the edges of unknown.
                  Days of wanderlust and the need to explore.
Days of beauty and grace and everything right with this industrialized world.
                  Days of all of these horrendous emotions cascaded into an oblivion so deep in my soul that I can no longer see nor feel it.
Days of happy tears and sad laughter.
                   The best days full of painting in the breeze with music floating endlessly above and around me.
My favorite lazy days bursting at the seams with ****** Toons re-runs, hot chocolate, comfy pants and soft light seeping through windows.
                    Those were the days.

Silly hearts
****** toons
and goofballs
make light of all that is heavy
for us
and won't leave
a bucket of tears
without a barrel full of laughs
for balance

A cartoon talent
that was unbalance
he guessed
they got dressed
and directed
themselves to
zany acrobatics.

The bad guy pathetic,
plebian, and antiseptic.
He should have suspected
they were heroes in disguise.

I used to love that show but
now I am a grown up,
so, though I like to look back,
smile, and really laugh
I guess I’ll have to pass
on that old loony toons
madness.